“Upon my word, Joan Haste, fond as I am of you, had I known half the trouble and insult that I must suffer on your account, I would have chosen to go blind before ever I set eyes upon your face.” Within a week of this agreeable interview with Samuel Rock, Henry set out to pay his long-promised visit to Monk’s Lodge. This time he drove thither, and no further accident befell him. But as he passed by Ramborough Abbey he reflected sadly enough on the strange imbroglio in which he had become involved since the day when he attempted to climb its ruined tower. At present things seemed to be straightening themselves out somewhat, it was true; but a warning sense told him that there were worse troubles to come than any which had gone before. The woman who was at the root of these evils had vanished, indeed; but he knew well that all which is hidden is not necessarily lost, and absence did not avail to cure him of his longing for the sight of her dear face. He might wish that he had been stricken blind before his eyes beheld it; but he had looked upon it, alas! too long, nor could he blot out its memory. He tried to persuade himself that he did not care; he tried to believe that his sensations were merely the outcome of flattered vanity; he tried, even, to forbid his mind to think of her,—only to experience the futility of one and all of these endeavours. Whether or no he was “in love” with Joan, he did not know, since, never having fallen into that condition, he had no standard by which to measure his feelings. What he had good cause to know, however, was that she had taken possession of his waking thoughts in a way that annoyed and bewildered him—yes, and even of his dreams. The vision of her was all about him; most things recalled her to him, directly or indirectly, and he could scarcely listen to a casual conversation, or mix in the society of other women, without being reminded—by inference, contrast, or example—of something that she had said or done. His case was by no means hopeless; for even now he knew that time would cure the trouble, or at least draw its sting. He was not a lad, to be carried away by the wild passion which is one of the insane privileges of youth; and he had many interests, ambitions, hopes and fears with which this woman was not connected, though, as it chanced at present, her subtle influence seemed to pervade them all. Meanwhile his position towards her was most painful. She had gone, leaving him absolutely in the dark as to her wishes, motives, or whereabouts; leaving him also to suffer many things on her account, not the least of them being the haunting knowledge of what, in her silence and solitude, she must be suffering upon his. Well, he had debated the matter till his mind grew weary, chiefly with the object of discovering which among so many conflicting duties were specious and which were sacred, and now he was inclined to give up the problem as insoluble, and to allow things to take their chance.