There was an indecision in this letter, which made Helen unwilling to show it to her brother immediately. She was very far from imagining how completely all its intentions were already superseded. She now anxiously awaited an explanation of the grave expression of Randolph's countenance.
"Sister," he said, "my own sister, it is all over. The bubble has burst. We return immediately to Trevethlan."
"Home!" Helen exclaimed, displaying, both in voice and mien, the most lively astonishment, "What change is this, Randolph?"
"You remember the lady we saw at the opera," the brother said rapidly. "The miniature—the wife of Philip Pendarrel. I encountered her last night, heard her desire her husband to learn who I was, saved him the trouble, confronting her, and announcing my name—Randolph Trevethlan."
There was a short silence. Then the speaker resumed.
"Thank Heaven! I am free. Free from that double-faced servitude. I can look men in the face without fear or shame. I am firm on my feet, let the tempest howl round me as it will. Dearest," he continued folding his sister to his bosom, "pardon me for thus sudden rupture of all our hopes. We will forget them, or think of them as a chapter of romance."
"Is it inevitable?" Helen asked in a low tone.
"Ay," Randolph answered. "The disguise has led me to the brink of an abyss. Even now I know not whether I have recoiled in time. Forgive me, I am scarcely calm. One day I may tell you more. But let us for ever shake off this degrading masquerade. We will go home to Trevethlan. Will you not like to see the sea beating at our feet? It is vain to regret. Ah, me! It is hopeless to forget."
Peremptoriness and fondness mingled both in his word and manner. He kissed his sister's cheek.