“He won’t do him any harm--at least I do not think you need fear it.” “Why not? No one in your profession can think his opinions harmless, and certainly he will not suppress them.” “A man with such a weight on his soul as your brother carries, will not be ready to fancy it lightened by having lumps of lead thrown upon it. An easy mind may take a shroud on its shoulders for wings, but when trouble comes and it wants to fly, then it knows the difference. Leopold will not be misled by Mr. Bascombe.” Helen grew paler. She would have him misled--so far as not to betray himself. “I am far more afraid of your influence than of his,” added the curate. “What bad influence do you suppose me likely to exercise?” asked Helen, with a cold smile. “The bad influence of wishing him to act upon your conscience instead of his own.” “Is my conscience then a worse one than Leopold’s?” she asked, but as if she felt no interest in the answer. “It is not his, and that is enough. His own and no other can tell him what he ought to do.” “Why not leave him to it, then?” she said bitterly. “That is what I want of you, Miss Lingard. I would have you fear to touch the life of the poor youth.” “Touch his life! I would give him mine to save it. YOU counsel him to throw it away.” “Alas, what different meanings we put on the word! You call the few years he may have to live in this world his life; while I--” “While you count it the millions of which you know nothing,--somewhere whence no one has ever returned to bring any news!--a wretched life at best if it be such as you represent it.” “Pardon me, that is merely what you suppose I mean by the word. I do not mean that; I mean something altogether different. When I spoke of his life, I thought nothing about here or there, now or then. You will see what I mean if you think how the light came back to his eye and the colour to his cheek the moment he had made up his mind to do what had long seemed his duty. When I saw him again that light was still in his eyes, and a feeble hope looked out of every feature. Existence, from a demon-haunted vapor, had begun to change to a morning of spring; life, the life of conscious well-being, of law and order and peace, had begun to dawn in obedience and self-renunciation; his resurrection was at hand. But you then, and now you and Mr. Bascombe, would stop this resurrection; you would seat yourselves upon his gravestone to keep him down!--And why?--Lest he, lest you, lest your family should be disgraced by letting him out of his grave to tell the truth.” “Sir!” cried Helen, indignantly drawing herself to her full height and something more. Wingfold took one step nearer to her. “My calling is to speak the truth,” he said: “and I am bound to warn you that you will never be at peace in your own soul until you love your brother aright.” “Love my brother!” Helen almost screamed. “I would die for him.”