And for the first time, George Bascombe’s teachings were a comfort to her. It was all nonsense about a God. As to her brother’s misery, it had no source but that to which Shakespeare attributed the misery of Macbeth--and who should know better than Shakespeare?--the fear, namely, of people doing the like to himself! But straightway thereupon--horrible thought!--she found herself--yes! it was in her--call it thought, or call it feeling, it was hers!--she found herself despising her poor crushed brother! disgusted with him! turning from him, not even in scorn of his weakness, but in anger at what he had brought upon her! It was but a flash of the lightning of hell: one glance of his great, troubled, appealing, yet hopeless eyes, vague with the fogs that steamed up from the Phlegethon within him, was enough to turn her anger at him into hate of herself who had stabbed his angel in her heart. Then in herself she knew that all murderers are not of Macbeth’s order, and that all remorse is not for oneself. But where was the God to be found who could and MIGHT help in the wretched case? How were they to approach him? Or what could he do for them? Were such a being to assure Leopold that no hurt should come to him--even that he thought little of the wrong that he had done--would that make his crushed heart begin to swell again with fresh life? would that bring back Emmeline from the dark grave and the worms to the sunny earth and the speech of men? And whither, yet farther, he might have sent her, she dared not think. And Leopold was not merely at strife with himself, but condemned to dwell with a self that was loathsome to him. She no longer saw any glimmer of hope but such as lay in George’s doctrine of death. If there was no helper who could clean hearts and revive the light of life, then welcome gaunt death! let the grim-mouthed skeleton be crowned at every feast! CHAPTER XVII. LET US PRAY! That was the sole chink in the prison where these two sat immured alone from their kind--unless, indeed, the curate might know of another. One thing Helen had ground for being certain of--that the curate would tell them no more than he knew. Even George Bascombe, who did not believe one thing he said, counted him an honest man! Might she venture to consult him, putting the case as of a person who had done very wrong--say stolen money or committed forgery or something? Might she not thus gather a little honey of comfort and bring it home to Leopold? Thinking thus and thus she sat silent; and all the time the suffering eyes were fixed upon her face, looking for no comfort, but finding there all they ever had of rest. “Are you thinking about the sermon, Helen?” he asked. “What was it you were telling me about it just now? Who preached it?” “Mr. Wingfold,” she answered listlessly. “Who is Mr. Wingfold?” “Our curate at the Abbey.” “What sort of man is he?” “Oh, a man somewhere about thirty--a straightforward, ordinary kind of man.”