Ch. 15 - Midsummer

"NOW it is all over. I shall never have another chance like that,
and must make up my mind to be a lonely and laborious spinster all
my life. Youth is going fast, and I have little in myself to attract
or win, though David did call me 'good and lovely.' Ah, well, I'll
try to deserve his praise, and not let disappointment sour or sadden
me. Better to hope and wait all my life than marry without love."

Christie often said this to herself during the hard days that
followed Mr. Fletcher's disappearance; a disappearance, by the way,
which caused Mr. Power much satisfaction, though he only betrayed it
by added kindness to Christie, and in his manner an increased
respect very comforting to her.

But she missed her lover, for nothing now broke up the monotony of a
useful life. She had enjoyed that little episode; for it had lent
romance to every thing while it lasted, even the charity basket with
which she went her rounds; for Mr. Fletcher often met her by
accident apparently, and carried it as if to prove the sincerity of
his devotion. No bouquets came now; no graceful little notes with
books or invitations to some coveted pleasure; no dangerously
delightful evenings in the recess, where, for a time, she felt and
used the power which to a woman is so full of subtle satisfaction;
no bitter-sweet hopes; no exciting dreams of what might be with the
utterance of a word; no soft uncertainty to give a charm to every
hour that passed. Nothing but daily duties, a little leisure that
hung heavy on her hands with no hope to stimulate, no lover to
lighten it, and a sore, sad heart that would clamor for its right;
and even when pride silenced it ached on with the dull pain which
only time and patience have the power to heal.

But as those weeks went slowly by, she began to discover some of the
miracles true love can work. She thought she had laid it in its
grave; but an angel rolled the stone away, and the lost passion rose
stronger, purer, and more beautiful than when she buried it with
bitter tears. A spirit now, fed by no hope, warmed by no tenderness,
clothed in no fond delusion; the vital soul of love which outlives
the fairest, noblest form humanity can give it, and sits among the
ruins singing the immortal hymn of consolation the Great Musician
taught.

Christie felt this strange comfort resting like a baby in her lonely
bosom, cherished and blessed it; wondering while she rejoiced, and
soon perceiving with the swift instinct of a woman, that this was a
lesson, hard to learn, but infinitely precious, helpful, and
sustaining when once gained. She was not happy, only patient; not
hopeful, but trusting; and when life looked dark and barren without,
she went away into that inner world of