"
There was a long silence. Then Harry, in submissive tones, inquired what
Mrs. Yorke would have her do.
"Bring your husband hither," returned she. "Take the rooms up stairs,
and leave the task of telling him his peril to me: the sooner it is done
the better. There is but a year at most--not much too long to sell his
goods, and get him away across the world, erasing every footstep behind
him. If he leave one--no matter how slight the clew--Richard will track
him like a blood-hound."
"We will come here at once--to-morrow," cried Harry, eagerly.
"Good. My name is Basil now, remember; not that it is likely," she
added, bitterly, "that you will call me Yorke from habit; it is not a
household word with you, I reckon."
"It is never breathed," said Harry, simply; "but, oh, madam, I _think_
of him, indeed I do! He was my first love, and my last; and though he
should kill me for the crime, of which I have shown myself guiltless, I
should pray God bless him with my latest breath. Yet he must curse _me_
forever! He must never know but that I was the willing agent of his
ruin!"
"'Tis true, I dare not mention your name, Harry," said Mrs. Yorke,
sadly; "and, if I told him, all the knowledge of the deception practiced
on you would only make him the more bitter against your husband--the man
who, by connivance in your father's cruel falsehood, obtained you for
his wife, while his rival pined in prison.
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