She spoke with so much real earnestness, that Philip was greatly touched. It needed not the mention of Patricia's name to make plain to him who was the object of Esther's solicitude, and he could not but smile sadly as he thought how little worthy was she of Esther's tears and regrets. He bent towards her and took her hand in his.
"My dear little friend," he said, "the truest friend ever granted to an undeserving man, I beg you not to trouble yourself about me or my unfortunate affairs. Let me assure you that I am truly grateful to you for the opportunity you provided me with in which once more to seek and learn my fate. If the result, and my answer, has been but a double repetition of that of ten years ago, is that your fault? My dear Esther, I have looked upon my old love without prejudice or bias, and I have seen her stripped of all the thousand and one artifices that go to make up the woman of the world; we have stood face to face with nothing between us save the memory of the past, and I can say to you with all truth and earnestness, that I am not only glad, but thankful, that her answer to my appeal was what it was. Believe me, there could never be any solid happiness for us so long as the ten years of our separation lies between us like a gulf, dividing our past from our present. It is better as it is, dear Esther, it is better as it is."
He unloosed her hand, and, rising, walked hastily up and down the room. Mrs. Newbold was crying openly, scarcely wiping away the tears as they fell.
"Oh, Philip!" she pleaded, her voice pitiful and broken, "indeed, indeed, you judge her too harshly. Oh, can you not read her heart; are you so blind, so very blind, as not to see it is for you she cares, and you only? It is because she loves you that she strives to hide it all; that she laughs and jests, and is bitter, and mocking, and gay, and frivolous by turns, and never, never once reveals the real, passionate, throbbing woman's heart beneath these artifices. Oh, what can I say to open your eyes?"
"Say nothing," he replied, sternly, "it is best as it is. I am not one, Esther, as you know, to come lightly to a decision, especially one of such grave importance to me; but in this you cannot change me; nothing can alter my decision. You are blinded by your loyalty, you see her as you fain would see her, with the glamour of her beauty and her fascination surrounding her so closely you cannot perceive the real woman beneath. But I have beheld her as she is, cold, hard, brilliant, illusive, heartless; she is but the mocking personation of her old self; the outside tenement, beautiful, bewitching, but soulless and insincere. I told you when we spoke of this before that I would not willingly again become the plaything of a woman's vanity, and yet, so frail are man's resolves, I did again put my fate to the touch, and have again failed and lost. I am not likely to repeat my folly, Esther, when I can still hear the words of scorn with which she repudiated me, and flung back my love as not worthy her consideration."
"It is hopeless, then," cried Esther, imploringly.
"Yes," he replied, shortly, "it is hopeless, and I am glad that it is so."
When next he spoke, it was upon indifferent topics, and there was that in his face and voice which warned Esther against reopening the former subject. Before he left her he stood a moment, holding her hand, and looking down into her flushed and earnest face.
"Do not think me ungrateful," he said, with one of his rare, sweet smiles; "I have had my opportunity, it is my fault that I failed to utilise it to my advantage. After all, these things are arranged for us by a higher power than our own wills. To you, Esther, I can never feel aught but grateful, and you know whenever you need my poor services, they are yours without the asking."
"And hers, Philip, hers also," she pleaded, "you would not refuse your help to her, should she ever require it?"