Helen sighed as she took her brother's arm for the walk he proposed. The conflict which restored his spirit, saddened hers. It seemed a presage of evil, that the first step of the orphans should involve them in a quarrel with their nearest relations. The rowan bends wailing under the breeze which the oak defies. Several times had the length of the gallery been traversed in silence, when Randolph produced a small miniature, and showed it to his sister.
"See, Helen," he said: "they found this upon him. I imagine it is her likeness—Mrs. Pendarrel's."
"It is very beautiful," Helen remarked.
"Very beautiful," repeated her brother, "at first sight. But is it not a beauty rather to fear than to love? There is strong expression in the face—but of what? Is hatred or affection most apparent in those inscrutable dark eyes? Is it good-humour or disdain that curls those lips?"
"And why," Helen asked, "do you think it is a portrait of Mrs. Pendarrel?"
"Because, my dear sister, our poor father told me she was once very dear to him: she encouraged him, he said, and refused him. When they brought me this picture, it recalled his words. There is a key to the history which we have dimly heard."
Again the orphans made several turns in the gallery, musing in silence. Then Randolph spoke:—
"Yes, Helen!—that was the beauty destined to be the ruin of our house. In each successive crash that broke upon his head, our father hoped to find forgetfulness of the past. But it was too deeply written on his heart. And when the desolation was complete, he came back here to hide anguish under pride, to cover tenderness with stern reserve. Hence that cold demeanour which kept even his children at a distance, and, seeming to reject their affection, checked, but did not stifle, its growth. The story has made him more dear to me than ever before. And now she, who broke his heart and drove him to ruin, insults us with her sympathy and her wealth."
"She must herself be old," said Helen. "Perhaps she, too, has had sorrows. I would fain believe you misinterpret that letter."
"Your wish is what it should be," observed Randolph: "I should be glad to think it well founded. Forgive me, dear sister, if, for once, I differ from you. We must not see Mrs. Pendarrel."