He was aghast at himself and too full of self-abhorrence to do more than fight blindly away from what he could not but see.

He would fain have lost his senses if only to buy the boon of ignorance.

Then this mood passed.

The long habit of his heart asserted itself, and he fell on his knees, no longer in horror, but in abasement and penitence.
Now all his thought was for the sin he had done to Heaven and to his vow; but had he not learnt and taught, and re-learnt in teaching, that there was no sin without pardon, if pardon were sought?
And for a moment, not peace, but the far-off possible hope and prospect of peace regained comforted his spirit.

It might be yet that he would come through the dark valley, and gaze with his old eyes on the light of his life set in the sky.
But was his sin only against Heaven and his vow and himself?
Is sin so confined?
If Morewood had seen, had not others?
Had not she seen?
Would not the discovery he had made come to her also?
Nay, had it not come?
He had been blind; but had she?
Was it not far more likely that she had not deceived herself as to the tendency of their friendship, nor dreamt that he meant anything except what his acts, words, and looks had so plainly--yes, to his own eyes now, so plainly declared?
He looked back on her graciousness, her delight in his society, her unconcealed admiration for him.