" No
longer fair, no longer fair--except to Nevile, who craved it--and to a Mr.
Worthington.
The bravest gentleman, a poet, a thinker, a man like a beacon-fire, had
loved her and cried her aloud as a goddess out of his reach. "Farewell,
Sanchia, too dear for my possessing!" She had the words. And she had
passed him by for Nevile, who made her a housekeeper, and loved her when
he wanted solace. What more had Jack said? What, indeed, had he not said?
That her life was like the scent of bean-flowers over a hedgerow--a
fragrance caught in passing by wayfarers, whereby men and women might
thank God for a fair sight who had chanced upon her in the street. Praise
indeed! But he had loved her, and saw her so--and all that was gone for
ever. He had left her because he dared not do otherwise, and now he was
happy without her. Her new-found elation was like to die in self-pity. It
required more than the complacency inspired by Mr. Worthington to clear
her eyes.
Thus were the flowers laid up for her by an honest merchant changed for a
wreath of rue as he was reminded of his better--his better and (she
thought) hers, alas! A wave of desire to catch back at far-off things
played her a trick.
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