We never spoke of it, but it was a
secret we had in common. She loved him as though he had been your very
self; I am sure of that."
"And she knew _me_ too, Harry."
"Impossible! She could never have concealed that knowledge--with you
before her; for you were her idol, Richard."
"It was afterward," murmured the dying man. "When I had left the house
Charley told her something I had related to him, which convinced her of
my identity. I see it all now. She felt that I was bent on vengeance,
and sent you after me to use that weapon of which she knew you were
possessed. If we once came face to face, and you reproached me, my
secret was certain to come out--just as it did, Harry--and then you had
but to say, 'Charley is your son.'"
"But why did she not tell me who you were?"
"Because, if you were too late--if the mischief had been done on which
she deemed me bent--if your--if Solomon had come to harm, she would not
have had you know that Richard Yorke--the father of your child--had
blood upon his hands. Oh, mother, mother, your last thought was to keep
my memory free from stain!"
He spoke no more for full a minute; no sound was heard except the
distant murmur of the sea, for the day was fine and windless. The April
sun shone brightly in upon the pair, as if to bless their parting.
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