MOLLIE MEETS HER HERO.
The gentleman who had attracted Mollie's attention was above the medium
height, broad-shouldered, erect, and with a fine, well-poised head which
was covered with dark-brown hair. He was nicely, though not richly clad,
although he looked the gentleman, every inch, while his bearing was as
quietly dignified and self-possessed as if he had been the possessor of
millions.
He was standing with his back toward Mollie, and she could not see his
face, thus he was utterly unconscious of the beautiful eyes that were
resting upon him and also of the commotion which he had roused in the
heart of the possessor of those same lovely eyes.
It was not the stalwart figure, nor the proud, nobly formed head, which
had especially attracted her attention. It was the strong and shapely
hand that was firmly grasping the strap above him and upon the little
finger of which he wore an exquisitely cut cameo ring.
Mollie had recognized it instantly--she would have known it anywhere,
for it was the ring which she had given to Clifford Faxon, six years
previous, when, acting upon the impulse of the moment, she had sought
him out at New Haven to thank him, individually, for the lives he had
saved when, though only a farmer's bound boy, he had prevented a
terrible railroad wreck.
Again, as on that occasion, she was strangely thrilled by his presence,
even though he was unconscious of her own.
How she wished that he would turn his head so that she could obtain a
view of his face! She knew, well enough, that it was in keeping with the
splendid form before her and with what she knew of the character of the
man, but she wanted to see if she could trace familiar lines in it; if
it still wore the same frank, honest expression of six years ago; if the
magnificent brown eyes still retained their clear, earnest,
straightforward glance; if the lips wore the same genial smile. Then she
found herself wondering if he would remember her, or whether she had
changed so much that he would merely glance indifferently at her and
then pass her like any stranger. What right had she to think he would
recognize her? she mentally questioned with an impatient shrug of her
shoulders, the flush deepening again upon her cheeks.
She had been only a miss in short dresses and one among the hundreds who
had been eager to honor him upon that occasion--to grasp him by the hand
and shower grateful thanks upon him. True she had given him the ring as
a souvenir, and told him she should love him all her life for what he
had done--how her face burned as she recalled those impulsive words--but
he had received from others what had doubtless proved to be a far more
useful and practical gift--the generous purse of money.
But why did he wear the ring if he treasured no pleasant memory of the
giver? This thought set her heart to fluttering again in a way that was
highly foreign to the usual self-possession of the recent society belle,
but it was quickly followed by the somewhat mortifying reflection that
the cameo was a valuable and unique affair and quite a treasure of art
to possess.
Every pulse thrilled anew when, as she signaled the conductor to stop,
she observed the young man preceding her, as if he also was about to
alight. Mollie followed closely, hoping that she might be fortunate
enough to get a view of his face.
He stepped off the car, and paused to wait for it to pass on, before
crossing the street, as was evidently his intention.
Mollie, with her thoughts full of the past, in which he had figured so
conspicuously, was a little heedless as she alighted, her foot turning
awkwardly, and she would have fallen if her "hero" had not sprung to her
side, and, with a courteous, "allow me," grasped her arm and saved her
from what might have been a painful accident.
"Thank you very much," she said with a brilliant smile and blush, as she
recovered herself, and lifted her gleaming eyes to the handsome face
which she had so longed to see.
The young man started at the sound of her voice, and then bent an
earnest look upon her, an expression of perplexity sweeping over his
features. Then, almost instantly, his countenance cleared, a glad, eager
light leaped into his eyes, which Mollie saw were unchanged, and there
was a repressed thrill of triumph in his tones as he earnestly observed:
"I hope you are not hurt."
"Not in the least, I assure you, and I owe it to your timely aid,"
Mollie returned, an answering ring of joy in her own voice, as she saw
that he remembered her, in spite of the changes time had made in her.
But, even though she realized that he was lingering with the hope that
she would make the first advances and reference to their former meeting,
as certainly belonged to her to do, a sudden and unaccountable shyness
seized her. She stooped to brush some dust that had adhered to her
skirt, then, with another smile and bow, she entered Monsieur Lamonti's
office. A moment later she bitterly repented having allowed the precious
opportunity to pass unimproved.
"Why," she mentally exclaimed, with a sense of scorn for herself. "I
acted just like a bashful schoolgirl, and ought to be ashamed of myself.
It was my place, when I saw that he knew me, to recognize him. How
unappreciative and indifferent he must think me--how ill-mannered, when
I told him that day that I should never forget him. I am more sorry than
I can express, for perhaps he is in Washington only for a few days, and
I may never meet him again. How utterly stupid of me!"
But in spite of these keen regrets, the girl's heart was unusually light
all day, for the "hero" of her girlhood had more than fulfilled her
anticipations; she had realized, during those few months, when they had
stood face to face, that he was strong and true and manly in the
highest acceptation of the terms; she believed that he was destined to
distinguish himself in the future, but what made her especially happy
was the fact that he had not forgotten her--that he had been glad to
meet her again, as both his look and tone had testified.
With these reflections came the sudden revelation of her exact attitude
toward Philip Wentworth. The contrast between the two young men was
marked and suggestive. Phil was the pleasure-loving man of the world,
living only for what entertainment he could extract from life and
society. Clifford Faxon was the thoughtful, conscientious worker, with
some high and earnest purpose in view that would not only promote his
own individual interests, but also advance the standard of men and
methods in general, and Mollie now saw that she had never even been in
danger of loving Phil--that he was hardly worthy of even her respect,
and she almost scorned herself for having hesitated an instant when he
had declared his love for her, a little more than a year ago, during her
visit in Brookline.
She had never seen him since leaving Boston, although he had often
asserted that he was "coming to Washington." His letters had been
growing few and far between, each one colder and more formal in its
tone. Not once had he renewed his protestations of love for her,
although there was a vein of assumption--a kind of taken-for-granted
style in his epistles which might be interpreted to mean much or
nothing; there certainly had been nothing tangible in them, and it had
been several months now since she last heard from him. But had he
remained as true as the needle to the pole, she knew now that she never
could have married him after this meeting with Clifford Faxon.
"Oh, any one can see that he is head and shoulders above Phil, mentally,
morally, and, almost that, physically," she mused, as she recalled
Cliff's splendid physique, his thoughtful face and earnest eyes. "I hope
I shall meet him again some day," and the sigh that supplemented this
reflection told how deeply she regretted the lost opportunity of the
morning.
Clifford Faxon himself was fully as much exercised in view of the
unexpected meeting and its unsatisfactory results. He had not observed
Mollie particularly at first, except that he had realized that some one
had made a misstep, and almost involuntarily he had tried to avert an
accident; but the instant she spoke, her tones had betrayed her to
him--he had never forgotten them. Many and many a time in his dreams,
both waking and sleeping, he had seemed to hear her silvery voice
vibrating with its thrill of fervent gratitude in those words so
indelibly stamped upon his heart: "You have saved my life--you have
saved all our lives, and it is such a wonderful--such a grand thing to
have done! I am very grateful to you, for my life is very bright. I love
to live. Oh, I cannot say half there is in my heart; but I shall never
forget you--I shall love you for your heroism of this day always."
Then, as he had studied the lovely face, he had traced the
well-remembered features, even though she had changed and bloomed from
the slip of a girl in short dresses and with that shining braid of hair
hanging between her shoulders, into this beautiful and stylish young
woman, with her perfect form, her queenly carriage and elegant apparel.
He saw that she had recognized him, for he had been quick to note the
light that had leaped into her eyes and the conscious flush that had
suffused her face, and, though he was disappointed, he was half-inclined
to believe what was really the truth, that a sudden shyness, produced by
the unexpected encounter, had alone caused her to refrain from referring
to their former meeting, and yet, believing her to be still the petted
child of fortune and far above him, socially, his sensitiveness
suggested that she might not now care to renew their acquaintance--if
such it could be called--in spite of her assurance that she should
"never forget him."
He also had been in Washington for more than a year. He had come, as he
had told Maria Kimberly he contemplated doing, with Mr. Hamilton, who
had opened the ---- House the first of that season. He had served him
for nearly a year, and then, through the influence of some gentlemen who
were guests in the hotel, he had secured a government position, and was
proving himself so efficient he bade fair to rise still higher in the
service of the nation.
It is rather remarkable that he and Mollie should never have met before
during all this time; but it was one of those happenings which can never
be accounted for.
And even though they had at last encountered each other, he experienced
the same perplexity that Mollie had felt, not knowing whether she was
there merely for a few days, as a sightseer, and would immediately float
away again beyond his reach, or whether her father had some official
position and was residing in the city. It was all very tantalizing,
especially the fact that he did not even know her name. He had often
heard Mrs. Temple call her Mollie, and Philip Wentworth had refused to
tell him anything about her, except to boast that she was his fiancée.
Then, as these memories crowded upon him, he caught his breath sharply
as a sudden, terrible fear took possession of him. Possibly this fair
Mollie, this gloriously beautiful girl, who was his ideal of all that
was perfect in womanhood, might already be Philip's wife, for only a day
or two previous the Temples had passed him on the street in their
carriage, and his former classmate was with them.
When Mollie entered the office that morning she found it empty, Monsieur
Lamonti not having arrived, although he was almost invariably there
before her. He came a few moments later, however, but appeared sad and
preoccupied, and upon Mollie inquiring if he were ill he said no, but
that Lucille was far from well. She had been feverish and restless all
night. He had called a physician that morning, but he spoke lightly,
saying that her indisposition was only the effect of a slight cold, and
she would be all right in a day or two.
But the gentleman was evidently very much disturbed, and finally
confessed to Mollie that he would be obliged to go to New York that
afternoon, and could not return until the next evening. The approaching
separation and suspense, he said, seemed almost unbearable, particularly
as Lucille was ill.
"I know that Nannette is, as a rule, careful and faithful," he observed,
"but somehow I feel very reluctant to leave the child alone with her."
Mollie turned to him eagerly.
"Monsieur, would you feel more comfortable if I should go and remain
with Lucille and Nannette until you return?" she inquired.
The man's face cleared instantly at the suggestion.
"Would you be so good, mademoiselle?" he asked in a relieved tone.
"Could you be spared from your father?"
"Oh, yes; Eliza can do everything necessary for papa, and I will gladly
stay with Lucille," Mollie replied.
Monsieur Lamonti accepted her offer most gratefully, upon this
assurance, and when his carriage came to him he drove home with her to
tell Eliza what her plans were, after which they repaired to his
residence.
They found Lucille much better than she had been in the morning, and
Monsieur Lamonti prepared for his journey with restored cheerfulness,
and finally took his departure, feeling quite content.
Mollie took Lucille wholly in charge for the remainder of the day, and
allowed Nannette, who had been closely confined within doors, to have a
little time to herself, and she went out to visit and take tea with a
friend.
She returned about nine in the evening to find her charge sleeping
quietly and restfully, and Mollie reading a new book in the library.
They soon retired, Mollie occupying Monsieur Lamonti's room, which
adjoined, although it did not connect with the one where Lucille and
Nannette slept. Mollie said she preferred this arrangement to being put
off in the guest chamber, as she would feel less lonely.
After shutting herself into the room for the night--although she did not
lock the door--not feeling sleepy, she began to look about the
apartment, which, like the rest of the house, was full of beautiful and
interesting things--fine paintings on the walls, choice books and
bric-a-brac on tables and mantle, and in one corner a cabinet of curios,
rare and costly.
Mollie spent a long time looking these latter over and reading from the
"key" their history and the names of the far-off places whence they had
come. But she grew weary of this occupation after a while and finally
began to prepare for bed.
While thus engaged she observed on a stand behind the bed what appeared
to be a book having a curious cover. She attempted to take it up when
the top came off, and she was startled to find it was a box containing a
small, but beautiful silver-mounted revolver.
Her start, however, was only momentary, for Mollie knew something about
firearms, having had some practise at shooting at a target while she was
abroad. She lifted the weapon and examined it carefully, noting the
curious chasing on the silver, the number of chambers, and also that it
was loaded.
She finally laid it back in its place, replacing the cover, and had
scarcely done so when, for the first time, she noticed upon the opposite
side of the room a small safe. For a moment an uncomfortable sensation
began to creep over her, for the safe and the loaded revolver suggested
that there might be valuables to be defended in the former--possibly,
she thought, costly jewels, which might have belonged to Lucille's
mother and grandmother.
But she put away the feeling with a little shrug and smile, resolutely
put out the electric lights, then crept into bed and was soon dreaming,
as on two previous nights since her meeting with him, of the hero of her
girlhood--Clifford Faxon.
The next she knew she was vaguely conscious of hearing the cathedral
clock in the hall strike two; then she was suddenly broad awake, every
sense painfully on the alert, although she could not, for the moment,
move a muscle, as the conviction was forced upon her that some one was
moving stealthily about the room.