“Why, so am I,” quickly rejoined his companion. “Let us go together, a woman has a better chance there than in England. Take me with you.”
Gatliffe made no reply, but appeared to be lost in thought.
“You do not answer,” said she. “I’ll work and slave for you, and be your faithful friend and companion. Oh, what happiness it would give me, for I love you—and none other but you!”
She placed her arm round his shoulders, drew him towards her, and embraced him fondly. She was like the syrens of old—false and seductive.
“We will talk about this on some future occasion,” observed he, for he had not altogether the faith in the woman by his side as he had during the first few years of their acquaintance.
Nevertheless he was in some measure attached to her, and found it difficult to shake her off. She was his evil genius.
At one time he had, like many others, been infatuated with her, but this infatuation had in a great measure passed away. Still, even at this time, she exercised considerable power over him, and most unquestionably she had to a great extent lowered his moral tone.
It has been said, and there is no denying the fact, that we are all creatures of circumstances. Poor Gatliffe had been the victim of untoward events which were far beyond his own control.
There were times when he thought of the woman whom he in the earlier years of his life indulged and almost worshipped, but she had left him for rank and power.
He did not blame—on the contrary, he made every possible excuse for her desertion of him.