Christie felt this to her heart’s core, and
for a moment longed to end the struggle, say, “Take
me,” and accept the shadow for the substance.
But those last words of his vividly recalled the compact
made with David that happy birthday night. How
could she be his friend if she was Mr. Fletcher’s
wife? She knew she could not be true to both,
while her heart reversed the sentiment she then would
owe them: David’s friendship was dearer
than Philip’s love, and she would keep it at
all costs. These thoughts flashed through her
mind in the drawing of a breath, and she looked up,
saying steadily in spite of wet eyes and still burning
cheeks:
“Hope nothing; wait for nothing from me.
I will have no more delusions for either of us:
it is weak and wicked, for I know I shall not change.
Some time we may venture to be friends perhaps, but
not now. Forgive me, and be sure I shall suffer
more than you for this mistake of mine.”
When she had denied his suit before he had been ungenerous
and angry; for his pride was hurt and his will thwarted:
now his heart bled and hope died hard; but all that
was manliest in him rose to help him bear the loss,
for this love was genuine, and made him both just
and kind. His face was pale with the pain of that
fruitless passion, and his voice betrayed how hard
he strove for self-control, as he said hurriedly:
“You need not suffer: this mistake has
given me the happiest hours of my life, and I am better
for having known so sweet and true a woman. God
bless you, Christie!” and with a quick embrace
that startled her by its suddenness and strength he
left her, standing there alone before the three grim
Fates.
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
