Upon reaching Philadelphia, the form of marriage was gone through with by a convenient priest, and the sacrifice of innocence completed. For some months, but for the memory of the aged couple, in the silent shades of her native valley, she was as happy as a young confiding wife could be in the love, nay, adoration of her husband. The lodgings Crayford rented were in an obscure part of the city, and furnished most meagerly for the taste of one accustomed to fashionable display, yet Effie, who had never seen any thing more grand than the parson’s parlor at home, thought even a queen could not be more sumptuously lodged, and she was very sure could not be more happy.
Poor, poor Effie!
This devotion on the part of Crayford continued while his humor lasted—no longer; nor did one gleam of pity for the unfortunate girl lead him to wear the mask only as long as suited his own pleasure. The heart sickens to dwell upon the anguish of poor Effie, thus abandoned by one for whom she had sacrificed all—one so friendless, so forlorn, so young and so beautiful.
The woman with whom she lodged allowed her to remain under her roof until she had stripped her of the little she possessed—of her clothing, and the few ornaments Crayford had given her; then, when no more was to be gained, she thrust her forth into the streets to die, or live by a fate worse than death!
Alas! that in a world so fair as this, such things really are, needing no aid from fancy to portray their atrociousness.
All day did the poor girl wander through the busy crowd, gazing piteously into the faces of the multitude, and if by chance one more kindly than others bent an eye upon her, she would ask them for Belmont. But no one could tell her aught. And then night came—dark, desolate night. On, from street to street passed the unfortunate, shrinking from the rude stare, and still ruder speech of brutes calling themselves men; no one offering a shelter to the houseless wanderer, and even her own sex meeting her appeals with coarse, unfeeling laughter.
Blame her not, that suddenly yielding to the despair of her young heart, she sought in death relief.
It was near the hour of midnight when she found herself upon one of the wharves. Dark and cold stretched the river before her; dark and cold was to her the world she was leaving. For a moment she paused, and gazed despairingly around her; tears trickled down her pallid cheeks, for she felt she was young to die; and she wept still more when she thought upon her aged grandparents, who would never know her sad fate. Then arose before her, floating as it were upon the heaving mass of waters, on which her eyes were fixed, that peaceful valley, with the green hills sweeping around it, and the rustic dwellings of her playmates and friends looking out upon her beseechingly from their pleasant shades as she stood there in her loneliness; and as a far-off symphony of sweet sounds came floating by, the glad voices which Nature had sang to her in childhood. Poor Effie Day! what pleasant memories were crowded into those few brief moments.
“Belmont!” she shrieked, suddenly starting from that far-off dream, “Belmont, may God forgive you the deed I am about to do!”
Then falling on her knees, she clasped her trembling hands, murmuring a prayer for pardon and mercy. Now casting one long, shuddering look upon the cold, dark river, she was about to plunge therein, when a strong arm was thrown around her, and she was forcibly drawn back several feet from the verge on which she had stood poised.