“I want to defend him,” sighed Gertrude to herself, “but she masters me—she masters me.”
“Then listen to me, my dear, before it is too late. Do one of two things—come to us, where you shall be as our child, or, if you prefer it, set up a little simple home of your own, with poor old Denton, who would gladly accept this plan; you will not be well off, but you will be happy—yes, I say happy,” cried the old lady, looking up defiantly at the portrait, which had caught her eye, and seemed to be gazing searchingly at her. “Ah, you may look, but you are only canvas and paint; and if you were alive you would not throw this poor child into the arms of a drunken man.”
“Mrs Hampton, what are you saying?” cried Gertrude, looking up and shivering, as she realised that the old lady was addressing the picture on the wall.
“The plain, honest, simple truth, my dear. Come, come, be advised by me.”
“No, no; it is impossible,” murmured Gertrude.
“Not a bit of it, my child. Think of your future. He will not reform.”
“He will—he will.”
“He will not. He can’t. He hasn’t it in him. Gertie, my dear, you may fight for him, but he is a shifty bad man, and I don’t believe in him a bit.”
“This is too cruel.”
“It is kindness though it gives you pain, my dear. Some men might repent and alter, but I have studied George Harrington from the day he came to the house, and I cannot find the stuff in him to make a better man.”