“Live till God send for you,” persisted Helen, heedless of his words. “You can give your life to make up for the wrong you have done in a thousand better ways: that would be but to throw it in the dirt. There is so much good waiting to be done!” Leopold sank on the couch. “I am sitting down again, Helen, only because I am not able to stand,” he said. “I WILL go. Don’t talk to me about doing good! Whatever I touched I should but smear with blood. I want the responsibility of my own life taken off me. I am like the horrible creature Frankenstein made--one that has no right to existence--and at the same time like the maker of it, who is accountable for that existence. I am a blot on God’s creation that must be wiped off. For this my strength is given back to me, and I am once more able to will and resolve. You will find I can act too. Helen, if you will indeed be my sister, you must NOT prevent me now. I know it is hard upon you, awfully hard. I know I am dragging your life down with mine, but I cannot help it. If I don’t do it, I shall but go out of one madness into another, ever a deeper, until the devils can’t hold me. Mr. Polwarth, is it not my duty to give myself up? Ought not the evil thing to be made manifest and swept out of the earth? Most people grant it a man’s first duty to take care of his life: that is the only thing I can do for mine. It is now a filthy pool with a corpse in it:--I would clean it out--have the thing buried at least, though never forgotten--never, never forgotten. Then I shall die and go to God and see what he can do for me.” “Why should you put it off till then?” said Polwarth. “Why not go to him at once and tell him all?” As if it had been Samuel at the command of Eli, Leopold rose and crept feebly across the floor to the dressing-room, entered it, and closed the door. Then Helen turned upon Wingfold with a face white as linen, and eyes flashing with troubled wrath. The tigress-mother swelled in her heart, and she looked like a Maenad indeed. “Is this then your religion?” she cried with quivering nostril. “Would he you dare to call your master have stolen into the house of a neighbour to play upon the weakness of a poor lad suffering from brain-fever? A fine trophy of your persuasive power and priestly craft you would make of him! What is it to you whether he confesses his sins or not? If he confesses them to him you say is your God, is not that enough? For shame, gentlemen!” She ceased, and stood trembling and flashing--a human thunder-cloud. Neither of the men cared to assert innocence, because, although they had not advised the step, they entirely approved of it. A moment more, and her anger suddenly went out. She burst into tears, and falling on her knees before the curate, begged and prayed like a child condemned to some frightful punishment. It was terrible to Wingfold to see a woman in such an agony of prayer--to one who would not grant it--and that one himself. In vain he sought to raise her.