But sometimes, in the still watches of the
night, when the faint lamplight on the shadowy wall was more gloomy than
darkness, when the nurse, hired to assist his own man in these last days,
dozed in her comfortable chair, the truth came hope to his shallow soul,
and Horatio Paget knew that he had been indeed a sinner, and very vile
among sinners. Then, for a moment, the veil of self-deception was lifted,
and he saw his past life as it had really been,--selfish, dishonourable,
cruel beyond measure in reckless injury of others. For a moment the awful
book was opened, and the sinner saw the fearful sum set against his name.
"What can wipe out the dread account?" he asked himself. "Is there such a
thing as forgiveness for a selfish useless life--a life which is one long
offence against God and man?"
In these long wakeful nights the dying man thought much of his wife. The
sweet tender face came back to him, with its mournful wondering look. He
knew, now, how his falsehoods and dishonours had wounded and oppressed
that gentle soul. He remembered how often she had pleaded for the right,
and how he had ridiculed her arguments, and set at naught her tender
pleadings. He had fancied her in a manner inimical to himself when she
urged the cause of some angry creditor or meek deluded landlady. Now,
with the light that is not upon earth or sea shining on the picture of
his past career, he could see and understand things as he had never seen
or understood them before.
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