“Ay, as he would set his heel upon his father—­the viper and his brood.  It is no idle menace he has breathed so cautiously that the whisper might well escape even another ear than mine, in every letter for these many years.  He thirsts for liberty, not for his own sake, but for the slow-ripening vengeance it shall bear.  He will have it, unless we save him from himself by saving them from him, as sure as yonder inky cloud will fall in storm.  The thought of it was full grown in his mind when he wrote from Cross Key:  ‘They are dead to me, those three, at present,’ and forbade me ever to mention them by name; and since then he has thought of nothing else.  The day of retribution is about to dawn.  I say again, beware of him.”

“But he must be mad to cherish—­”

“Perhaps he is,” interrupted the old woman, coldly; “he will not be less dangerous on that account to those who made him mad.”

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.  I do not blame you for your marriage—­I know the force of stern necessity too well.  But do not imagine that Richard could forgive you:  he never, never could.”

“I know it, I know it,” sighed Harry, shuddering, “and yet he would pity me if he did but know what my life has been—­almost as much as I have pitied him.  But you, madam, you at least have forgiven me; you believe me; you will not refuse to bless me, as his mother, before I go.”

“I believe you, and therefore I forgive you,” answered Mrs. Yorke, with tenderness; “and if I believed in blessings, and had the power of bestowing them, you should have your wish.  From henceforth we two are friends—­though I never thought to kiss your cheek again, Harry—­and must work together for the good of him we love in common.  You will be here to-morrow for certain, then?”