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."
"Then at least let your pride die for him," said Wingfold, not
without indignation.
Helen left the room, and Wingfold the house.
She had hardly shut the door, and fallen again upon the bed, when
she began to know in her heart that the curate was right. But the
more she knew it, the less would she confess it even to herself: it
was unendurable.
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