A CRITICAL SITUATION.
Mollie was stunned by this wholly unexpected contretemps, and she lifted
to Monsieur Lamonti a face expressive of the blankest astonishment.
"Ah! I have taken mademoiselle entirely by surprise! I see--I
understand!" he said, apologetically, though a faint smile flitted
across his lips. "Pray forgive me, mon ami; but let me explain, and then
I am sure you will not wonder so much. You have seen that I am a very
lonely man, without kith or kin. I have nothing in life to comfort me or
to throw one ray of sunshine along my path but the little Lucille. This
has been so for years, but since mademoiselle came to me I have known
more of enjoyment, I have had more pleasure in her society than I have
experienced since I lost my dear children--Lucille's father and mother.
Mademoiselle is beautiful, accomplished; she was reared for something
far better than to work out a weary life at a desk. She has earned my
profoundest respect, my gratitude and admiration by her many rare
qualities of heart and mind, her amiable and sunny temperament and her
faithfulness in my service.
"My home is very lonely, mademoiselle; my little Lucille needs the
tender care, the gentle restraining hand, and the cultivated presence of
something better than a nursemaid or governess; she requires some one
who would exercise the wise guidance and authority of a mother, and she
has become very fond of you, mon ami. I do not ask--I do not expect
mademoiselle to bestow upon me the affection which she might perhaps
accord to a younger man; and yet----" he faltered slightly and flushed;
"such regard would make me supremely happy, for I have grown to love her
most tenderly. Mademoiselle is leading a life of toil--she has
perplexing home cares and sorrows, but these can all be mitigated to a
great extent; for her father shall become my care also, and her future
shall not have a single cloud to mar it, if it is in the power of man
and money to prevent it. Mademoiselle, will you honor me by accepting my
hand, my heart and my fortune?--become the mistress of my home, and take
your rightful position in society, where you are so well fitted to
shine.
"If----" he added, after a moment of awkward silence, for Mollie was
still too astonished and overcome to utter a word; "if I have been too
abrupt, mon ami, and you do not feel prepared to answer me at present,
pray take time--as long as you wish--to consider the matter, and I will
patiently await your decision."
Mollie was not only astonished, she was also deeply touched by this
unlooked-for proposal, which seemed to her a most pathetic appeal from
this distinguished gentleman, whose history had been so sad and whose
life had been so lonely. She knew that there was very little in it, even
now, to make it enjoyable, notwithstanding his great wealth and the
enviable position that he occupied.
Of course, he loved his little granddaughter with all his heart; indeed,
his every hope hitherto had been centered upon her; but she could
readily understand that it would be utterly impossible for a child like
Lucille to satisfy the requirements of a nature like that of Monsieur
Lamonti.
He was cultured and intellectual, and, naturally, he desired congenial
companionship. In his magnificent home there was not one with whom he
could converse upon terms of equality, either mentally or socially, or
who could sympathize with him in any of the affairs or interests of his
life.
He had been into society but little during his residence in Washington,
for, as he had told her, he had no heart for the gaieties of the world,
since he was doomed to go alone wherever he was invited, while, too,
with no mistress at the head of his own establishment he could not
entertain in return for such courtesies.
Surely, Mollie told herself, it was a desolate existence for one like
him to lead, for he was a polished gentleman, of high attainments,
brilliant in conversation, and well calculated to shine among the many
noted and distinguished people in the nation's capital. But, in spite of
her genuine respect and admiration, together with her deepest sympathy;
in spite of his wealth and position and the tempting future which he had
offered her, she could not become his wife.
Mollie was too true, too conscientious a woman to marry any man whom
she could not love with all her heart, even though she would have
enjoyed the luxuries to which, nearly all of her life, she had been
accustomed, and with which she would have so liked to surround her
father; while she did sometimes yearn in secret for the old-time
gaieties and society from which she now seemed to be entirely shut out.
All these things had flashed through her brain while Monsieur Lamonti
was talking, but never for an instant did she waver from what she knew
was right and just to herself and to him. As he concluded she lifted her
grave, sweet eyes to his face.
"Monsieur Lamonti," she began, and her voice was husky from repressed
feeling; "you have indeed surprised me beyond measure, for I certainly
never dreamed that you entertained for me the feelings you have
expressed--although I have congratulated myself that I possessed your
esteem and friendly interest. It grieves me that I am obliged to
disappoint you; but, monsieur, I must be true to myself and to you. I
could not become the wife of any man unless I had first given him the
deepest affection of my heart. While I have, during our relations as
employer and employee, learned to regard you as a true friend--my best
and almost my only one, I may say, since nearly all who knew me in more
prosperous days have deserted me--still, such a regard would satisfy
neither you nor me if we should assume closer ties. Believe me, dear
Monsieur Lamonti, I feel greatly honored by your preference, and am also
deeply grateful to you for your many kindnesses to both my father and
myself. Forgive me if there has ever been the slightest indication in
my manner to encourage you to infer----"
"There has not, mademoiselle, I assure you," Monsieur Lamonti
interposed, as she flushed and faltered; "there has been nothing in your
manner at any time to show me that you regarded me other than as a
friend. It was alone my affection for you--my intense yearning for the
presence of a charming woman in my home, to be a companion to and in
sympathy with me and to help me to rear Lucille, which emboldened me to
ask you to be my wife. Ah! mademoiselle, you do not know the grief, the
sorrow I feel! If you would but reconsider--take time to try to--to grow
fond of me; if I could but have a little hope," he concluded in a voice
so eager, yet, withal, so sad and tremulous that tears sprang
involuntarily to Mollie's eyes.
"Monsieur, it would not be right; I--I could not bid you hope; my answer
must be final," she almost sobbed, for his pathetic appeal had very
nearly unnerved her. Monsieur Lamonti was very pale; but after a moment
of silence he pulled himself together bravely.
"Pardon--pardon, mademoiselle; the sorrow--the annoyance I have
occasioned you," he said, with grave courtesy. "I bow to the inevitable;
you have been most kind, and we will regard the matter as if it had
never been. But, mon ami," and now he turned to her with his old kindly
smile, "leaving all that forever, may I now presume to ask a great favor
of you?"
"Certainly, monsieur; you must know that anything in my power I would
gladly do for you," Mollie cordially, even eagerly, returned.
"Many thanks; but perhaps I am a trifle premature. I should first have
told you what I desire before asking your promise. However, you are free
to refuse if you find the matter not one to your taste. I have told you
that I have no kith or kin--that aside from Lucille, I am absolutely
alone in the world. You can readily perceive that, should anything
happen to--to remove me, the child would be left without a
protector--without a soul to feel the slightest interest in her. Now,
mademoiselle, the favor I wish to crave is a great one--will you, in the
event of which I have spoken, assume the guardianship of my little
girl?"
Mollie's breath was almost taken away again, and she regarded her
companion in grave wonderment.
"I, monsieur! Could you trust me with so sacred a charge?" she
questioned in a voice of awe. "I am very young; I have never had any
experience with children, and it seems a grave responsibility!"
"Mademoiselle, I could trust you with--ah! have I not asked you to care
for the greatest treasure the world holds for me, and could I manifest
greater confidence in you?" responded Monsieur Lamonti, while he
regarded the girl with a look that betrayed far more than his words.
"I have seen," he went on, "that you are fond of Lucille--she adores
you. You have been carefully reared; you are a gentlewoman in every
sense of the word, and if my little one could become like you--could be
shielded in the future by your love and guidance, and grow up pure and
good and noble, I could ask nothing better for her on earth. You
understand, mademoiselle, this arrangement is to be contingent only upon
my demise, and I may live many years yet. I simply wish to make sure
that she will not be left to the care and cupidity of strangers, and
there will be ample remuneration for you, to enable you to live even
more comfortably than at present. Also I should leave all financial
matters so compactly arranged that you would have very little care in
the management of them. I would not like to burden you in any way except
to make sure that Lucille will be wisely and kindly nurtured. May I
depend upon you, mon ami?"
Mollie did not reply immediately. To grant Monsieur Lamonti's request
seemed like assuming a very grave responsibility, and she was wondering
within herself if she dare attempt it.
"Yes, I love dear little Lucille, and I believe she loves me," she
finally murmured, more to herself than in reply to her companion. "I am
sure it would be a pleasure to me to have the child with me; she would
be like a young sister, and to guard and watch her development would be
a very interesting and a great delight--if I were sure that I am equal
to the task----"
"But the trust must be confided to some one," Monsieur Lamonti here
interposed, "and will mademoiselle kindly allow me to be the judge of
what is best for my darling?"
Mollie was deeply touched by this evidence of his confidence in her, and
she felt that he was paying her the highest tribute which it was
possible for one human being to confer upon another. She looked up at
him with a tremulous smile and eyes full of tears.
"Yes," she said, with evident emotion, "and I solemnly assure you that I
will do the very best that I am capable of, for her."
"Mademoiselle does not need to promise me that; it is her nature to do
her best under all circumstances," replied the gentleman heartily, "and
she has my everlasting gratitude."
"Thank you, my friend, for your kindly praise, and believe me, I
sincerely appreciate the trust you repose in me; let us hope that for
many years you two may be spared to each other--until, perhaps, Lucille
will be old enough and wise enough to choose a protector for life, and
you will give her away with your blessing."
Monsieur Lamonti smiled in sympathy with her mood, then reaching out his
hand he clasped hers as if to ratify the compact they had made and
observed.
"Thank you, mademoiselle; you always comfort and cheer me. May the good
God bless you."
Both resumed their work, and nothing save business was mentioned during
the remainder of the morning, while Monsieur Lamonti's manner was the
same as usual, courteous and kind, and without a vestige of
disappointment or chagrin to betray how sorely he had been smitten by
Mollie's rejection of his suit.
After partaking of her lunch that afternoon Mollie could not seem to
settle down to either reading or work. Her thoughts were full of the
events of the morning, and the grave responsibility she had assumed, and
she finally became so nervous that she resumed her street costume and
started out again to visit the Corcoran Art Gallery, hoping to forget
her anxiety.
It was between three and four when she reached the gallery, and she soon
became so absorbed in the treasures of art all about her, she did not
observe the flight of time, especially as the various rooms were
artificially lighted, until notice was given that it was time to close
the building.
As she stepped out upon the street she was surprised to find how dark it
had grown. Heavy clouds had covered the sky, a fine mist was falling,
and the short winter's day, dawning to its close, seemed exceedingly
gloomy and depressing.
Drawing her coat-collar up about her throat and face, for the air was
keen, she hurried on her way toward home, deciding that walking would be
preferable to standing upon a corner to wait for a trolley in the rain.
When she finally turned off the avenue into a side street, where the
residences were some distance apart, and which was not particularly well
lighted, she suddenly become conscious some one was following her.
With a heart-throb of fear, she quickened her steps. The figure behind
her did the same. Then she walked more slowly in order to allow the man
to pass her. In another moment he was beside her, when, with all her
pulses throbbing like trip-hammers, she realized that he was
intoxicated.
"Fine evening, miss," he remarked in a voice which, although rather
thick and unsteady, seemed strangely familiar.
Her assailant was quite tall, but it was too dark to see his figure
distinctly, while a slouch-hat was drawn so far down over his face that
his features were almost entirely concealed. But Mollie was too
frightened to observe him closely, and vouchsafing no reply to his
remark, quickened her steps again.
The man reached out his hand and laid hold upon her arm, exclaiming:
"Hold on, now--hic--my pretty one. I'sn't--ah--dignified to run. Just
le' me--hic--see you home; then I'll take a--hic--kiss and we'll call
it--hic--square."
Mollie stopped short, her ears actually ringing from the rapid beating
of her heart, while her blood was boiling with mingled disgust and
indignation. She swept his hand from her arm with a force that made him
stagger. But he was too quick for her, and clutched it again instantly.
"Don't dare to touch me! Do not presume to detain me!" she cried
authoritatively.
But his fingers only closed more roughly over her wrist.
"Come, come, pretty one, don't be--hic--offish; or If you're in
such--hic--a deuced hurry I'll take the--hic--kiss now and let
you--hic--go."
He drew her toward him as if to put his threat into execution, but
before Mollie's frightened cry for help had barely escaped her lips, the
hand was stricken from her arm and her assailant lay sprawling upon the
ground at her feet, while she turned with a long breath of relief to
find another stalwart figure close beside her.