I replied not: how could one answer such words?—calmly uttered, though each syllable must have been torn out like a piece of his heart.
"Did she say anything to you? Did she ask why I left her so abruptly this morning?"
"She did; I said you would probably tell her the reason yourself."
"I will. She must no longer be kept in ignorance about me or my position. I shall tell her the whole truth—save one thing. She need never know that."
I guessed by his broken voice what the "one thing" was;—which he counted as nothing; but which, I think, any true woman would have counted worth everything—the priceless gift of a good man's love. Love, that in such a nature as his, if once conceived, would last a lifetime. And she was not to know it! I felt sorry—ay, even sorry for Ursula March.
"Do you not think I am right, Phineas?"
"Perhaps. I cannot say. You are the best judge."
"It is right," said he, firmly. "There can be no possible hope for me; nothing remains but silence."
I did not quite agree with him. I could not see that to any young man, only twenty years old, with the world all before him, any love could be absolutely hopeless; especially to a young man like John Halifax. But as things now stood I deemed it best to leave him altogether to himself, offering neither advice nor opinion. What Providence willed, through HIS will, would happen: for me to interfere either way would be at once idle and perilous; nay, in some sense, exceedingly wrong.
So I kept my thoughts to myself, and preserved a total silence.