At least he would not deceive himself again.

If he sinned, he would sin openly to his own heart.

There should be no compact: nothing but defeat or victory! And yet, was he right?
It would be pitiful if for pride's sake, if for fear of the sneers of men, he were to kill her joy and defile his own soul with her heart's blood.
People would laugh at the converted celibate--was it that he feared?
Had he fallen so low as that?
or was the shrinking he felt not rather the dread that his fall would be a stone of stumbling to others?
for in his infatuation he had assumed to be an example.

Was there no distinguishing good and evil?
Could every motive and every act change form and color as you looked at it, and be now the counsel of Heaven, and now the prompting of Satan?
How, then, could a man choose his path?
In his bewilderment the darkness closed round him, and he groaned aloud.
It was late now, nearly midnight, and the house was quiet.

Stafford walked to the open window and leant out, bending his tired head upon his hand.