 | Chapter 8 A Fancy of Hers |  |
Chapter 8
Granville was not on the great highway of travel. It was off the track of the ordinary tourist. Yet now and then a pilgrim in search of a quiet nook, where there was nothing to suggest the great Babel of fashion, came to anchor in its modest hostelry, and dreamed away tranquil hours under the shadow of its leafy elms. Occasionally, in her walks to and from school, Mabel noticed a face which seemed less at home in village lanes than in city streets, but none that she had seen before.
"I shall finish my summer experiment without recognition," she said to herself in a tone of gratulation. But she was mistaken.
Within a few rods from the school house, one afternoon, she met a young man armed with a fishing rod. He was of medium height, broad shouldered, wore a brown beard, and had a pleasant, manly face lighted up by clear and expressive eyes. To Mabel's casual glance his features looked strangely familiar, but she could not recall the circumstances under which they had met.
The stranger looked doubtfully in her face for an instant, then his countenance brightened up.
"If I am not mistaken," he said eagerly, "it is Miss Mabel Fairfax."
Mabel, at the sound of her real name, looked around uneasily, but luckily none of her scholars was within hearing,
"Mabel Frost," she said hurriedly.
"I beg pardon," replied the young man, puzzled; "but can I be mistaken?"
"No, you are right; but please forget the name you have called me by. Here I am Mabel Frost, and I teach the village school."
There was a look of wonder, mingled with sympathy, in the young man's face.
"I understand," he said gently. "You have been unfortunate; you have lost your fortune, and you have buried yourself in this out of the way village."
Mabel preferred that he should accept the explanation that he himself had suggested.
"Do not pity me," she said. "I have no cause to complain. I am happy here."
"How well you bear your reverses!" he replied admiringly.
Mabel felt like a humbug; but it was a necessary consequence of the false position in which she had placed herself.
"I do not deserve your praise," she said honestly. "I am sure I ought to know you," she added. "Your face is familiar, but I cannot recall where we have met."
"That is not surprising," he returned. "I am a painter, and you met me at the artists' reception. My name is Allan Thorpe."
"Allan Thorpe!" repeated Mabel with a glow of pleasure. "Yes, I remember, you painted that beautiful 'Sunset in Bethlehem.'"
"Do you remember it?" asked the artist in gratified surprise.
"It was one of the pictures I liked best. I remember you too, Mr. Thorpe."
"I am very glad to her it, Miss — "
"Frost," prompted Mabel, holding up her finger.
"I will try to remember."
"Are you spending the summer in Granville, Mr. Thorpe?"
"Yes," replied Allan unhesitatingly. He had just made up his mind.
"Are you engaged upon any new work?"
"Not yet. I have been painting busily during the spring, and am idling for a time. You see how profitably I have been employed today," and he pointed to his fishing rod. "I hope to get at something by and by. May I ask where you are boarding?"
"At Mrs. Kent's."
"I congratulate you, for I know her. I am at the hotel and am sometimes
"If you call upon your friend, Mrs. Kent, you will probably see me," said Mabel, smiling.
"Then I shall certainly call upon Mrs. Kent," said the young man, lifting his hat respectfully.
"Please bear in mind my change of name, Mr. Thorpe."
"You shall be obeyed."
"How much she is improved by adversity," thought the young man, as he sauntered towards the hotel. "I can hardly realize the change. The society belle has become a staid — no, not staid, but hard working country school mistress, and takes' the change gayly and cheerfully. I thought her beautiful when I saw her in New York. Now she is charming."
What were Mabel's reflections?
"He is certainly very handsome and very manly," she said to herself. "He has genius, too. I remember that painting of his. He thinks me poor, and I felt like a humbug when he was admiring me for my resignation to circumstances. If it were as he thinks, I think I might find a friend in him."
"I just met an old acquaintance, Mrs. Kent," she said on entering the house.
"Is he staying here?" asked the widow.
"Yes, for a time. He tells me he knows you."
"Who can it be?" asked Mrs. Kent with interest.
"A young artist — Allan Thorpe," replied Mabel.
"He is a fine young man," said Mrs. Kent warmly.
"His appearance is in his favor."
"You know, I suppose, that he is Mrs. Wilson's nephew?"
"No," said Mabel with surprise.
"His mother, who died last year, was Mrs. Wilson's sister. He was a good son to her. A year before her death a wealthy friend offered to defray his expenses for twelve months in Italy, but he refused for her sake, though it has always been his dearest wish to go."
"No wonder you praise him. He deserves it," said Mabel warmly.
| Chapter 8 A Fancy of Hers | |