He and one other. And that
other was dead--was dead.
Hope came next, shyly, silently, still pale from the embrace of her
sister Despair, trimming anew her little lamp, which the laboring breath
of Despair had wellnigh blown out. She held the light before Hugh,
shading it with her veil, for his eyes were dazed with long gazing into
darkness. She turned it faintly upon the future, and he looked where the
light fell. And the light grew.
He had a future once more. He had been given that second chance for
which he had so yearned. His life was his own once more: not the shamed
life in death--worse than death of the last two days--but his own to
take up again, to keep, to enjoy, best of all, to use worthily. No
horrible constraint was upon him to lay it down, or to live in torment
because he still held it. He was free, free to marry Rachel whom he
loved, and who loved him. He saw his life with her. Hope smiled, and
turned up her light. It was too bright. Hugh hid his face in his hands.
And, last of all, dwarfing Hope, came a divine constraining presence who
ever stretches out strong hands to them that fall, who alone sets the
stumbling feet upon the upward path. Repentance came to Hugh at last. In
all this long time she had not come while he was suffering, while
smouldering Remorse had darkened his soul with smoke.
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