The inner worth outshone the glitter of riches
Mabel stood before the giltframed mirror in the grand townhouse on KensingtonGrove, smoothing a silk gown that had cost her three months wages. Though the dress fell to her like a second skin, she felt more a cardboard mannequin than a lady. Tonight marked her first public outing with Edward Whitaker.
Edward was the very picture of a successful man. His name flickered in the financial pages, he cruised a silver AstonMartin, and he boasted of deals that ran into sixzero figures. Mabel, a talented yet uncommissioned painter, could not fathom what he had seen in her. The question gnawed at her like a poisonous worm. Hes mistaken, a quiet voice whispered. Soon hell realise youre nothing and walk away.
The party unfolded like a glossy magazine spread: diamonds glinting, watches ticking, chatter about exchange rates and island purchases. Mabel made no effort to blend in; her jokes felt too plain, her anecdotes too modest. She sensed the glances, reading in them a single thought: Who is she? What is she doing here?
At that moment a silverhaired woman with a foxlike stare seized Mabels hand and, in a garish yet bright shawl, tugged her away. It was Aunt Maud, a distant relative of the houses owner, famed for her eccentricities.
Youre curled up like a chick before a storm, love, she said bluntly, guiding Mabel toward the winter garden. You think you belong in the gutter just because you dont earn millions?
Mabel flushed at the candour, then nodded.
Aunt Maud laughed, a sound like the chime of ancient church bells. Nonsense! Look there, she pointed at the cluster surrounding Edward. See those successful folk? Half of them are teetering on divorce because they treat family as a business asset. The other halfs children live in fear. Theyve bought everything except a quiet nights sleep. And now see him. She gestured to Edward. He relaxes with you. You bring sunshine into his world, not another quarterly report. Can money measure that?
Mauds words echoed in Mabels mind. She recalled the night before, when a weary Edward had listened to her recount a ridiculous incident in a café and had laughed, genuinely, for the first time in ages. He had said, With you I feel Im merely me, not a moneymaking machine.
Her eyes then fell on an odd painting hanging amid the polished décor.
Whos that? Mabel asked.
The original owner of this villa, twenty years ago, Maud replied with a smile. He was a broke artist, living in a shed, surviving on a single potato a day. Do you know who bought his first work? The richest man in town. He claimed the picture gave him something his bank accounts could not hope.
Just then Edward approached, accompanied by a silverhaired gentleman in a flawless suit the very owner of the villa, billionaire Sir Reginald Harrington.
Mabel, Ive been looking for you! Edward exclaimed, his eyes bright. Show Sir Reginald your sketches on the phone.
Mabels hands trembled as she scrolled through the folder of her drawings: skyscrapers sprouting wings, trees bearing beadlike eyes, whole worlds spun from imagination.
Sir Reginald regarded the images in silence for a long while, then lifted his gaze. There was no condescension, no judgment, only respect.
You possess a gift, miss, he said at last. You see the soul of things. I have lost and gained much in my life, but the pure joy in your work cannot be bought with any sum. It is priceless.
That night, as she drove home through the citys amber glow, Mabel no longer felt like a poor friend of a rich man. She felt like the captain of her own ship, laden with treasures she had never before noticed kindness, delight in small wonders, the talent to create whole universes on a sheet of paper.
She took Edwards hand.
You know, she said, Ive realised something. We all come into this world emptyhanded and leave it the same. What matters is what we fill those hands with while were here. Money that slips through our fingers, or love, light, and the things that linger in others hearts after were gone?
Edward smiled and squeezed her tighter.
I choose the light, he answered.
And Mabel understood that her inner value was not something a bank could store. It was something she could give away, and in that lay her true, undeniable wealth.
Morning light timidly slipped through the curtains, illuminating Edwards relaxed face. For the first time she saw him without his usual mask of composure and control. In her modest flat, he was simply a man.
She rose quietly and stepped onto the balcony. The city was waking, and the slow rhythm of dawn brought a calming peace. Mabel realised she had been measuring herself against Edward by the wrong yardstick, admiring only his outward signs of success and forgetting her own strengths.
After all, I can see beauty in ordinary things, she whispered, watching the play of light on the rainslick roof of the neighbours house. That ability seemed so natural she had never once regarded it as valuable.
An hour later Edward stumbled into the kitchen, hair rumpled, wearing an oversized sweater, a kettle in hand.
Guess what I thought of? he said, wrapping an arm around her waist. Yesterday Sir Reginald didnt just praise your work. He asked me to give you his card. He wants a series of paintings for his new charitable foundation.
Mabel froze, kettle balanced in her grip. But this is
Its your chance, Edward finished. And it isnt about the money though theyll pay you well. Its that your vision, your ability to create beauty, is exactly what people who have lost faith in goodness need.
In the weeks that followed, something shifted deep within Mabel. She no longer felt like a failed artist when she stood in Edwards office or attended his business dinners. She was simply Mabel a person bearing something unique and important to the world.
While sorting old trunks in the attic, she uncovered her grandmothers diary a plain notebook penned in tidy script. Today the neighbour brought medicine for my grandson. In gratitude I knitted him socks. She says no one knits like I do. I think how odd it is: the world rushes about, hoards money, while true happiness lies in simple things.
Mabel read those lines several times. It became clear that her inner worth was not only her personal treasure but also a family legacy, handed down through generations.
When she began the commission for Sir Reginalds foundation, a new understanding arrived. Her art was a bridge between two worlds the realm of material success and the sphere of spiritual values. Her drawings spoke a universal language of the soul, understood equally by a billionaire and a child from a struggling neighbourhood.
One evening Edward confessed, You know whats changed? I used to come home and check stock tickers first. Now I look at what youve painted next. Your creativity is what makes my work worth doing.
Mabel smiled, knowing a simple truth: their values did not compete, they complemented each other, and in that union of different yet equally vital qualities blossomed the fullness of life that no sum of money could ever purchase.
Later, as she laid the final brushstroke on the painting for the foundation, she felt truly rich not because the piece would bring a hefty cheque, but because she could share her gift with the world. That, she realised, was the most precious treasure she had ever owned.
