Mabel's life moved slowly
along. From the shy child she grew into a shy young girl with hazel
eyes that Miss Pratt still called “deep and unnerving, enough to
unnerve a blessed saint.” When Mabel was thirteen, Miss Pratt
married a gentleman. How the match came about was completely owing to
hypocrisy, but, nevertheless, they were married and there was no
going back. It all started when Miss Pratt found an address in the
mud on one of their town trips. Discontented and lonely, she wrote
without expectation of reply to the address, and received a reply
from a man of fifty who was equally as dissatisfied and, if possible,
even more unused to happiness than Miss Pratt. One letter turned
into a hundred, and, the day before Mabel's fourteenth birthday, they
were married, the most suitable match in the world. Whether their
discontent was united to form contentment must be decided by the
reader. And so, as a matter of course, Miss Pratt and the gentleman,
a Mr. Bridges of four thousand pounds a year, lived in his large
house, with Mabel. The arrangement was, in fact, a very agreeable one
to Mabel. The large brick house of her father's held nothing but the
darkness of his death and the unkindness of Miss Pratt. The memory of
Ernest was just that, a memory, and though still Mabel was comforted
by the thought of his kindness, the memory was so dim that eventually
she ceased to remember the flower, and where she had put it, in a
book of her father's.
But, as life had
destined it, Mr. Bridges had one especial redeeming quality. That is,
he had other qualities, but not to be compared with this: his love of
books. And so Mr. Nabor's books were all transferred to the already
ample library at Dillt Abbey.
Now, I am sure there
must be a question that my readers are asking. Did he, or did he not,
know that he was marrying a governess? No, not until...but wait, I am
getting ahead of myself. You must be satisfied with “no” for now.
Among his redeeming qualities was not listed knowledge, and though he
read a great deal, he did not understand what he read.
Dillt Abbey itself was
much more agreeable than her former home. For one thing, the servants
were kind, and, unlike their master, knowledgeable, and they took
Mabel under their wing. Miss Cobb especially, was interested in
Mabel, and the gardener, Mr. Hopper. Thus passed Mabel's fourteenth,
fifteenth, and sixteenth year.
~ ~ ~
One morning, in the pale
month of April, Mabel awoke early and slipped outside. The sun was
just coming up as she paused outside the steps of a large house
painted a deep green. The early hours seemed to welcome these people
with more than usual cheerfulness. The clatter of dishes and the
sound of light laughter made Mabel want to join them inside. The
front door was partly open, and the conversation clear, though the
people inside were not visible.
“Mmm, pass the tea
please, Aunty.”
“Of course, my boy.”
A gasp and an “oops”
were the only signs that evidenced the arrival of the now empty
teapot. A chair scraped back, a manly voice saying, “No worries,”
and a light girlish laughter. Mabel smiled impulsively, and the aunt
spoke again.
“So, my dear nephew,
when are you going to bring a young girl to dinner? She might be able
to teach you some manners, you know.”
“Ah, Auntie. I'm only
eighteen you know.”
“La,” replied his
aunt cheerfully. “And your father married my sister at nineteen.”
There was a contemplative silence, then a light, “Well, I guess I
have a year then.” The conversation moved to comments of the
breakfast. At last Mabel heard the chair scrape again and the Aunt's
voice.
“Come see the new sun.”
Mabel realized her
position and hurried quickly out of sight towards the town. She
turned at the corner, and looked back. A young gentleman stood with a
lady, and an older man stood behind them. As she watched, the lady
slipped a slim arm around her nephew's waist, and looked up at him
lovingly. The boy smiled and pointed to a dove cooing in the tree
above them.
For the rest of the day,
Mabel thought about the little family. What she would give to see
someone look at her the way they looked at one another, the way they
had confidence in the others' affection!
The next morning, she
again found herself below their porch, listening and smiling to
herself. When she went the third morning, she found the three sitting
on the porch, and walked quickly past in order to not appear rude.
And, as the weather got warmer, they sat outside more and more. Mabel
still walked by every morning, and the aunt would wave kindly and go
on talking to her nephew.
In August Mr. Bridges
found that his health required Mabel to read to him for several hours
a day. Mabel kindly agreed.
“Mabel.” Mr. Bridges
always said her name as a statement, requiring her to meet his eye
before going on. “I think that early morning would be the best time
to read.”
“Oh, sir, yes. I
wonder, perhaps, though, if I might be able to read later in the
morning?” Mabel bit her lip and breathed a silent prayer. Miss
Pratt slurped her tea and snickered.
“Don't you know, dear,
that Mabel (she still said her name “Mibble”) likes an early
morning walk? If I didn't know her to be the kind of girl that no man
would want, I would say she had an admirer.”
“An admirer!” said
Mr. Bridges, as if he had never thought Mabel capable of receiving
attention from the opposite sex.
“Yes, dear,” said his
wife.
“Do you know, dear, I
once took Mabel walking, and I caught her staring, yes, actually
staring, into a boy's eyes. I tell you, she was pretending to be
shy...”
Mr. Bridges laughed.
“Mabel? When was this?”
Miss Pratt bit her tongue
and reluctantly answered. “She was seven. But I tell you, my dear.
Those eyes. Very deep. Enough to unnerve a saint.”
Mabel was not listening.
She had not thought about Ernest for so long. The mention of him
brought her back to the past with a jerk. She was reliving it, the
way he had stepped close to her, the way...her memory strained. He
had...stooped....yes....what was it....? The flower....Mabel suddenly
snapped to the present. The flower. The book. She must find it.
