It was after eight o'clock when Mollie finally awoke again, and feeling, somewhat to her surprise, not one whit the worse for her exciting adventure during the small hours of the morning.
After making her toilet she sought Nannette, who was dressing Lucille, and they both agreed not to speak of what had occurred before the servant—at any rate, until after Monsieur Lamonti's return.
Lucille was better, and, after they had had their breakfast, Mollie thought, as the day was very fine, it would do her good to go for a drive.
The carriage was accordingly ordered, and the three—for Lucille never went anywhere without her maid, except on rare occasions with her grandfather—were soon rolling down Pennsylvania Avenue, thence to Mollie's home to ascertain how Mr. Heatherford had passed the night, after which the coachman was told to drive out toward Arlington Heights.
They rested a while in the venerable mansion, and then started on their homeward way. They were just passing the boundary of what was once known as the "old Lee estate," when they met another carriage entering the beautiful grounds.
This vehicle contained four persons, and they were none other than Mr. and Mrs. William Temple, with their daughter Minnie, and Philip Wentworth. This quartet manifested no little astonishment upon beholding Mollie, sitting like a fair young princess in her fine equipage, and she experienced a little secret amusement as she encountered their wondering gaze.
Mr. and Mrs. Temple bowed politely, but with marked formality. Minnie waved her hand, with a smile of pleasure, at her old friend, of whom she had been very fond, while Philip removed his hat with elaborate courtesy, his eyes beaming with admiration as he looked into Mollie's fair face and realized that she was even lovelier than when he had seen her last in Boston, a year and a half previous, and instantly all his old-time passion for her revived.
Mollie returned these greetings courteously and with the utmost self-possession; but her eyes were very bright and the color in her cheeks gleamed like scarlet poppies for a moment.
Then the carriages passed and were parted without a word having been spoken, although Minnie had been upon the point of bursting out in her childish eagerness with some expression of greeting; but her mother hushed her with a single low-spoken word.
Mollie's heart burned within her with mingled scorn and indignation, in view of this coldness, for she well remembered the days when the whole family had been most gracious in their manner toward her—had even fawned upon her and spared no effort to cultivate her society.
She was stung anew, too, with the memory of the unpardonable outrage perpetrated against her father during their last visit with the Temples; while, even though she had long known that she had never loved and could never love and would never marry him under any circumstances, Philip's peculiar attitude toward her filled her with a secret contempt for him.
"Why! how strange that we should have met Mollie Heatherford, and what an elegant turnout that is in which she is riding!" Mrs. Temple observed to her husband after the encounter, while she turned and peered out of the rear window of their own carriage for another glimpse of Monsieur Lamonti's fine victoria with its liveried coachman and footman.
"It certainly is," Mr. Temple replied. "Those were magnificent horses, and everything about the affair indicated lavish expenditure. I don't quite understand the condition of things," he concluded reflectively.
"Mollie was richly dressed, too, and looked, as she always had a way of looking, like a queen—she has grown handsomer than ever," his wife pursued. "Did you notice the child and its nurse who were with her?" she went on, as if some startling thought had occurred to her. "Do you suppose the girl has married some rich widower and is queening it here in Washington society?"
Philip gave a violent start as his mother propounded this solution to the problem that was puzzling them all, and jealously regretting—as fickle human nature is prone to do when another shows appreciation of a discarded favorite—what he fondly imagined might have been his if he had chosen to press his suit.
"I have heard nothing of it if she has," said Mr. Temple, and looking not altogether comfortable in view of finding the Heatherfords again on an equal footing with himself. "The last I knew, Mr. Heatherford had secured a position here with a fair salary, and they were living comfortably, but in a very humble way compared with their former circumstances. I will make some inquires to-morrow and ascertain, if possible, just how they are situated."
Philip did not join in the conversation, but he secretly resolved that he would himself ascertain the truth about Mollie that very day. He would seek her in the location to which he had always addressed his letters, as long as he had written her, and if he failed to find her there he would search the city over for her.
Neither Mr. Temple nor his mother had known of his correspondence with her, and the latter had flattered herself that she had been very tactful in managing to break up certain "foolish" relations between the two that were liable to prove very awkward.
The family had been in Washington only a few days, and, although Philip had thought of Mollie in an indifferent kind of way, he had not felt any special interest to look her up. Now, however, the sight of her radiant beauty, together with her cool and dignified bearing and the fear that possibly she had dared to marry another, while he assumed to have a claim—however indefinite—upon her, fired anew his old-time love for her and aroused a fierce jealousy within him.
Accordingly, after he had lunched, he immediately set forth upon his quest for her, going directly to the address where his letters had been sent.
Eliza, of course, answered his ring, but informed him that her young mistress was not at home—that, however, she would probably return that evening. He then inquired for Mr. Heatherford, and was told, with a non-committal air, that he was "comfortable."
"Has he been ill?" questioned Philip, with some surprise.
"Yes, sah; Marsa Heatherford have been very ill." Eliza quietly returned, but without volunteering any information regarding the nature of that gentleman's malady, while she eyed Philip curiously, not half-liking his looks nor his arrogant bearing.
The young man, however, went away, smoothing his ruffled plumage with no little satisfaction. Mollie was not married; probably, he assumed, she was simply a day governess in some wealthy family, and that would account for her being out for a drive with the child and its nurse in the elegant carriage he had seen that morning.
He returned to his hotel quite elated and promising himself that he would resume his old relations—to a certain extent—with Mollie, and thus help to pass some otherwise dull hours during his sojourn in the city.
In spite of the secrecy which Mollie had desired to preserve regarding her exciting adventure of the previous night, the evening papers contained a thrilling account of a bold attempt at robbery, and how it had been thwarted by the remarkable heroism of a young lady, who had held the would-be burglar paralyzed at the muzzle of a revolver until the police were summoned to her aid and captured the criminal.
The name of the gentleman whose residence had been entered was given; but Mollie's name was considerately withheld. She was simply designated as Monsieur Lamonti's private secretary, who had been spending a couple of days in the house as chaperon for the gentleman's little granddaughter during his absence on a business trip to New York.
Monsieur Lamonti returned, as he had planned, that same evening, and was greatly exercised in view of what had occurred.
"Mademoiselle has shown herself very brave," he said, after having freely discussed the matter and regarding her admiringly, "but I tremble when I think of the danger that threatened her. And there was much of value in the safe, too—a large sum of money, besides many valuable jewels. Ah! but you have been my good angel many times, mademoiselle," he concluded in a grateful tone.
He opened the safe and showed her the jewels, and, though she had seen many costly articles of jewelry, she was almost dazzled by the beauty and value of the collection before her.
"We will not keep them here any longer," said Monsieur Lamonti, as he returned them to their places. "I could not bear to send them away because my dear ones had worn them," he added with a regretful sigh, "but no one must ever be subjected again to such peril as threatened you last night."
And the following morning he deposited his treasure in a safety-vault, where no burglar would attempt to seek them.
Shortly after Monsieur Lamonti's arrival Mollie was sent home in his carriage, that gentleman slipping into her hands a box containing a dozen pairs of elegant kid gloves, as she left.
"It is nothing," he said with a deprecatory shrug in reply to her thanks; "it was only to give myself the pleasure of buying something for some one."
Eliza welcomed her young mistress with a beaming face when she appeared, and she found that her father had received excellent care during her absence; but she had not been in the house half an hour, when Philip Wentworth again made his appearance.
Mollie received him courteously, though somewhat coldly; but he ignored her lack of cordiality, and, catching both her hands in his, fervently exclaimed:
"At last! Mollie, we meet again! It has seemed an age since I saw you in Boston. Did your servant tell you of my call directly after lunch?"
"Yes; Eliza gave me your card on my return. I have been away spending a couple of days with some friends," Mollie quietly explained, as she released her hands and indicated a chair for him, then seated herself upon a small sofa near him.
"Perhaps you will think me very persistent and impatient to make two calls in one day," Philip observed apologetically, and feeling a trifle disconcerted by the girl's perfect composure; "but I have been wild to learn why you ceased writing to me so suddenly—I have not heard from you for the longest while!"
Mollie lifted a look of surprise to him.
"I think you have transposed the situation," she said, a faint smile curving her lips. "I have answered every letter that I have received from you."
"Ah! then I have wronged you; forgive me! And my last letter must have miscarried, for when I did not hear from you I began to wonder if it could have contained anything to offend you," Philip returned, but he flushed beneath the clear, searching eyes looking steadily into his, as he uttered the lie. Then unceremoniously waiving the uncomfortable topic, he added with animation:
"But tell me something about yourself now, Mollie. I do not need to ask if you are well; for your blooming appearance speaks for itself; but how is your father, and what have you been doing to amuse yourself during all these long months?"
Again that faint smile wreathed Mollie's lips, and there was a suspicion of irony in it, for his question was suggestive of the tenor of his own way of passing his time.
"'To amuse myself'," she repeated in a peculiar tone. "I really have had very little time to devote to amusement of any kind during the last year and a half. For the first few months I was busy keeping house for papa, for we were trying to be economical and kept no servant. Then he was taken ill."
"Yes, I remember you wrote me at one time that he was ill," Philip interposed, "but I supposed that he had recovered long ago."
"My father is a hopeless invalid—the physicians tell me that he will never be any better," said Mollie sadly.
"Can that be possible?" queried her companion, and trying to throw a proper amount of sympathy into his tone, but secretly wondering how they managed to keep the wolf from the door.
"Of course, when his health gave out he lost his situation, and his income stopped," Mollie gravely resumed, "and I was obliged to seek some employment. I have a position as private secretary to Monsieur Lamonti, a French gentleman of some prominence here in Washington—possibly you may have heard of him."
"Ah! yes, I have," said Philip with elevated eyebrows, for the wealthy Frenchman had been pointed out to him, and now he understood how Mollie had happened to be riding in that elegant turnout that morning. Then he added: "I am sorry to learn that Mr. Heatherford's case is so serious."
"Yes; papa has failed sadly; he seldom recognizes even me, now, while his hands have become so useless that he has to be fed like a child," Mollie returned with starting tears.
"That must make it very hard for you, dear," Philip responded with a tender inflection; "you must find it very irksome, reared as you have been, to confine yourself to a position and the care of an invalid."
"I do not," she returned brightly, though she straightened herself a trifle and flushed at his term of endearment. "I thoroughly enjoy my position, and if papa could only be well once more, I should feel perfectly happy with my work and the consciousness that I am really of some practical use in the world."
She looked so proud and animated and bore herself with such an air of dignity and self-reliance that the young man told himself she was a hundredfold more lovely and attractive than she had ever been.
But, at the same time, there was an unmistakable atmosphere about her that held him at arm's length and made him feel as if she had drifted so far apart from him as to have put him entirely out of her life.
The very thought enraged him, and an insatiate desire to conquer these conditions and make himself necessary to her happiness took possession of him. He flushed hotly as he suddenly bent nearer to her.
"Mollie, I cannot bear to know that you are working for wages," he said passionately.
Mollie laughed out musically, although she drew herself away from him with an unmistakable chill in her manner.
"Pray, do not be disturbed," she said lightly, "for I assure you that I enjoy my 'wages,' as you term them, immensely."
"But the humiliation of it," he persisted hotly; "to think of it!—you, who are fit to queen it anywhere, becoming the servant of any one!"
"I have no sense of humiliation, Philip. I frankly protest that I never in my life experienced a more comforting sense of self-respect than at the present time," Mollie spiritedly rejoined, and with a warning sparkle in her eyes.
"But there is no need of it," he insisted.
"There is every need," she briefly, but gravely, replied.
"No, no, Mollie; surely you have not forgotten the old days," he broke forth vehemently; "you cannot have forgotten the question which I asked you a year and a half ago, and which you have never answered. Need I tell you that I still love you with all my heart?—that I yearn for you, in spite of the little misunderstanding and interruption to our correspondence? Mollie, dearest, give up this position; let me provide for you hereafter—let me stand between you and the necessity for toil; give yourself to me—you shall have every wish gratified, and I will become your protector and—your slave."
Mollie grew first red, then white, at this unexpected renewal of Philip's suit. At the same time, she was conscious that it did not ring quite true, in spite of his passionate avowal of love and eagerness of manner; there was an indefinable undercurrent of reservation—a lack of sincerity in it that impressed her unpleasantly.
For one thing, she felt that if he had been a true lover, he never would have allowed their correspondence to cease, simply because a single letter had gone astray; he would never have been content to let a year and a half pass without making an attempt to see her and learn how she was living and how her father was prospering, after having been robbed of his last dollar by the treachery of his pretended friend.
She began to recover from her confusion almost immediately, however, and lifting her eyes, earnestly searched her companion's face. Somehow, it had never appeared so unattractive to her before; it was weak and showed in the lowering brow, in the habitual expression of discontent, in the sensuous mouth and irresolute chin, a lack of that true nobility and strength of character which she knew she must find in the man whom she married, and even while she looked his eyes wavered and fell before her, while he shifted uneasily upon his chair.
"Mollie, why do you not answer me?" he demanded, to cover his embarrassment, and bending toward her tried to capture one of the small, perfect hands which lay on her lap. "It cannot be possible that you have forgotten the past or lost all the old love for me. Ah! come to me, dearest, let me take care of you, and you never need toil another day; you shall have every luxury which money can buy."
"Phil," Mollie began gently, for she did not wish to wound him, even though not one chord of her heart thrilled responsive to his ardent appeal, while at the same time she quietly, but resolutely, released her hand from his grasp, "I certainly have not forgotten the old days nor the many good times which we enjoyed during our childhood. But when you speak of 'the old love,' that is another thing, and I know now that I never loved you; that is, in the way which you speak of now. When you asked me before, I told you I was not prepared to say just what my feelings toward you were, as you will remember. I felt very friendly, as I said then, 'I liked you right well,' and, as you seemed to be so fond of me and so anxious that our boy-and-girl play should become a reality, I thought I would wait a little, and, perchance, as I came to like you better, the 'like' might grow into love. I could have told you this some time ago if you had renewed the subject, but you never did; your letters ceased coming and I supposed you had thought better of the matter and changed your mind. No, Phil, I do not love you as a woman should love the man she expects to marry; so let us drop the subject here and now and agree to be simply good friends for the future."
But her refusal aroused all Philip's antagonism. He was one who could never bear to be balked in anything, and her statement that she knew 'now' that she did not love him stirred him to fiercest jealousy. What had led her to such a conclusion? he asked himself. Perhaps she had met some one else who had awakened the affection which he so coveted, and this possible solution of the problem made him furious.
For the moment he forgot her poverty; forgot that he had vowed he would never marry any girl who did not possess an ample fortune. He only remembered that he loved her—had always loved her, and rich or poor he was determined to carry his point, if by any possible means he could achieve it, even though he should rudely trample upon her heart after he had won it.
"Mollie!" he cried appealingly, "you do not mean it—you cannot be so cruel as to blight all my hopes, after so many years of devotion to you. You know that I have loved you ever since we were children; you know that I have always expected that you would give yourself to me, and do you think that I can easily surrender you now?"
Mollie wondered what made her shrink involuntarily every time he mentioned his love for her. There was something that grated harshly upon her in his every tone, and she experienced a singular distrust of him.
"I am truly sorry, Phil, if you have really been cherishing this hope for so long," she returned after a moment of thoughtful silence, "for, to be perfectly frank with you, I have believed everything to be at an end between us ever since I left Boston. I am very quick to feel any change in my friends, and I was sure, when the financial crash came to my father, that a union between you and me would be regarded as a great misfortune for you. I inferred this both from your own manner and your mother's when you made your farewell call upon me at the Adams House. I also observed it in the tone of your letters afterward, and when they finally ceased altogether, as I have already said, I regarded the matter as finally settled, as far as you were concerned, and, as I had arrived at a knowledge of my own attitude toward you, I was perfectly content. You perceive that I am very plain with you, and now let me add, Phil, that you will yet make the discovery that some other woman will make you happier than I ever could have done."
"I shall not!" Philip retorted vehemently. "I love you, and you alone. Mollie, you shall not send me away like this—I cannot bear it. Give me at least a little more time in which to try to make you love me; do not throw me over utterly, for you will ruin my life if you do."
And he began to believe what he was saying. The more he realized that she was dropping out of his life altogether, the more he coveted her love. In the rashness of the moment, in the heat of his anger at being opposed in his purpose, he might even have gone to the length of marrying her on the spot, if the conditions had been propitious.
"No, I can give you no more 'time,' Phil, for the matter is irrevocably settled, as far as I am concerned," Mollie responded kindly, but firmly, "and I should only be doing you a great wrong if I should encourage you to believe otherwise. Now, please let us dismiss the subject, once for all, and agree to be only the best of friends in the future."
"Mollie, I won't!" Philip exclaimed with mingled anger and wounded pride. "There must be some reason for this unaccountable change in you—more than appears on the surface. Perhaps you have met some one else whom you have learned to love—tell me, is it so?"
Two scarlet spots leaped into Mollie's cheeks at this excited and imperative demand. They were called there by a shock of mingled indignation and conscious guilt. She felt that, even though Phil had been a lifelong friend, he had no right to try to extort the secrets of her heart in any such high-handed manner.
Yet, at the same instant, when he had accused her of loving another, Clifford Faxon's face, with its expression of high resolve and noble purposes, its clear, honest eyes, its frank and genial smile, arose before her, causing a sudden, conscious heart-thrill, which also brought with it a sense of dismay.
Could it be possible, came the simultaneous thought, that she had bestowed her affections upon a man whom she did not know—with whom she had never exchanged half a dozen sentences—who had flashed like a meteor, once or twice, across her path and was gone, perhaps never to appear again?
Ah! but it was true, nevertheless. Soul meets soul in the flash of an eye, through the tones of the voice, and the touch of a hand, and, like a revelation, there came to her the consciousness of the fact that when she had stood before Clifford Faxon, more than six years previous, she had recognized in him—even though he had spoken no word in response to her impulsive outburst of gratitude—a nature the counterpart and, therefore, the companion of her own, and with this unveiling of the holy of holies within her soul came the realization that no other would satisfy the cravings of her heart.
At the same time, she was under no obligation to make Philip Wentworth her father confessor, and she resented his imperative demand that she do so. She drew herself up with quiet dignity as she coldly replied:
"Excuse me, Phil, but I think you are overstepping the bounds of both courtesy and friendship in asking me such questions."
Philip sprang to his feet, his face a sheet of flame.
"You do not deny it," he cried angrily.
"I neither admit nor deny," said Mollie, as she also arose and stood before him with a regal air. "I simply say that you have—as indeed no one else has—the right to question me in the way you have done. Whatever concerns you personally, you, of course, have a right to know about. I have answered you frankly and as kindly as I knew how, and that must settle it. Now"—her manner suddenly changing to her old-time graciousness, and holding out her hand, with a charming smile—"shall we drop it and still be the best of friends?"
He regarded her in silence for a moment. She was inexpressibly lovely, and would have disarmed a savage; but his pride was wounded, and his heart was filled with rage at the thought of being balked in his determination to subjugate her to his will.
"No!" he said shortly, "there is no meaning for me in the word 'friend' where you are concerned."
He turned abruptly from her as he ceased and walked from the room and the house, taking no pains to close the door after him.
Mollie stood where he had left her for a full minute, a grave expression on her fair face. Then she drew a long, deep breath, and her lips curled with contempt:
"He could not stand the test—he is not worthy to be my friend, even," she murmured; "he is selfish to the core, for, since he cannot have just what he wants, he repudiates all, turns and cruelly wounds the one he has pretended to love. It is himself he loves—not me; and I am glad that everything is finally settled between us. Still, I am sadly disappointed in my old-time friend."
She sighed regretfully as she thought of the failure he was making of life, for he had had every advantage, and had he appreciated and improved his opportunities a brilliant career might have been his, while now he was only an idle seeker after pleasure.
Then, in striking contrast to this pampered young man of fortune, there arose before her the sunburned, bareheaded, coarsely clad lad to whom she owed her life, and who, by his own efforts, had overcome every obstacle and distanced Philip Wentworth at college.
Clifford Faxon might never rise socially to the position that was accorded Philip in the fashionable world—he might never acquire great wealth, but she felt that he had already attained that which was far more grand and desirable than fame or fortune—a noble manhood and the pursuit of some worthy object in life. In the midst of these reflections Mollie blushed rosy red.
"Why do I allow my thoughts to dwell upon him?" she exclaimed, with a shrug of her shoulders and a pretty assumption of impatience; "he is the same as a stranger to me, and I may never see him again. How foolish I am!"
Nevertheless, Clifford Faxon's strong, handsome face haunted her continually, and even in her dreams that night she saw a shapely hand outstretched to her; in its palm there lay a heart pierced with an arrow, its feather the shade of her own bright hair, and on the hand there gleamed a well-remembered cameo ring.
The following morning brought another trial to Mollie, and one which she had never dreamed of being subjected to. When she entered Monsieur Lamonti's office at the usual hour, she found him already there, but looking unusually grave and preoccupied. She bade him a cheerful "bon jour," to which he courteously but, to her sensitive ear, rather coldly responded.
"Yes," he briefly replied, "Lucille is well."
Mollie began to wonder if anything had gone wrong in connection with his business; or if, by any possibility she had made a mistake that required a reproof, which he might be very loath to administer; or perhaps he might not be feeling well, and did not realize how constrained his manner was.
However, she slipped quietly into the chair before her desk and began her work, but with a strange feeling of sadness and embarrassment oppressing her. She wrote steadily for more than an hour, during which time not a word was spoken by either occupant of the room.
Then, all at once, Monsieur Lamonti laid down his pen and, wheeling around in his chair, faced her.
"Will mademoiselle be kind enough to give me her attention for a few moments?" he gravely questioned. "I have something of importance to communicate to her."
Mollie grew suddenly pale with apprehension. Oh! could it be possible that Monsieur Lamonti was contemplating some change that would deprive her of her position? Maybe he was on the point of returning to France, or had been assigned to some other station in the United States to continue his public duties. What could she do—where turn for employment in such an emergency?
"Certainly, monsieur," she managed to falter, as she mechanically placed a paper-weight upon the sheet before her; then tried to smile bravely as she turned her colorless face to him to await her sentence, whatever it might be.
The man started violently as he bent his searching glance upon her.
"Ah mademoiselle, you are surely ill!" he exclaimed in a voice of alarm. "Pardon me that I have not before observed the fact. Why—why have you come to work if you are not well?"
Something in his look and tone brought the truant color back to her face in a crimson flood.
"Thank you, monsieur, but I am perfectly well."
Then, with a smile and her habitual frankness, she explained:
"I am only in suspense since, from monsieur's manner, I have inferred that something is wrong; that perhaps you may have disagreeable tidings for me."
It was now the gentleman's turn to change color and to look disturbed. Then he broke forth with characteristic impetuosity:
"Pardon—a thousand pardons, mademoiselle, if I have caused you one moment of anxiety or suffering! Yes, I have been thoughtless—I have been distrait, but not because I have any ill news to impart; but because I had decided to ask mademoiselle an important question this morning. Mademoiselle Heatherford, will you do me the honor—the supreme happiness—to become my wife?"
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.
The night was so dark, the mist so heavy and the street so illy lighted that Mollie could not clearly see either of her companions; but as she turned to the stranger who had appeared upon the scene so opportunely, a feeling of perfect confidence took possession of her, for his dignified and self-assured bearing inspired her with a sense of absolute security.
"Oh, thank you! thank you!" she breathed gratefully though tremulously, as she involuntarily drew nearer to him.
"I am very glad that I happened to be near," the gentleman replied in a rich, deep but pleasantly modulated voice. "I was just passing out of a gate opposite when I heard you call. The wretch was very bold to assail you on the street at this hour of the evening! Is he intoxicated?"
"I think so," said Mollie, and speaking more calmly now, for she was fast recovering her self-possession, "and I am very thankful to you for your timely assistance, I——"
A groan from the prostrate man interrupted her at this point, and both she and her companion turned at the sound.
"Well, sir, what is it?" curtly demanded the stranger, as he bent over him and tried to get a view of his face.
"You've given me a nasty blow, whoever you are; curse you!" he growled, as he made an effort to regain his feet.
But he seemed to find it a difficult achievement, and the stranger grasped him by the arm and assisted him to rise.
"There you are," he said, "now can you walk?"
Again his victim groaned as he attempted to take a step or two, and almost fell a second time.
"Well you are a trifle the worse for your fall, that is a fact," his companion observed. "I will help you to the corner, where you can get either a carriage or a car to take you home; and, now, if you will accept a bit of friendly advice, I will suggest that you keep your brain clearer in the future, when perhaps you will not be tempted to assault unprotected women in the street and get yourself into trouble again."
Mollie's recent assailant wrenched his arm from the other's grasp with another oath, and, bending forward, tried to peer into the face before him. His fall evidently had not disabled him so seriously as he had at first feared, while the shock had served to sober him somewhat.
"Look here!" he exclaimed in a supercilious tone; "I've a notion that I know who you are, and this isn't the first time, either, that you have interfered with me in what was none of your business. I know you, Faxon, and I swear I'll make you sweat for this!"
Clifford Faxon—for it was he—now bent forward and peered into the face of the speaker, even though he had already recognized the speaker.
"Great heavens!" he exclaimed in a voice resonant with mingled disgust and indignation, "have you descended so low as this, Wentworth?"
A startled cry broke from Mollie at this point, and she swept close to the young man's side.
"Philip Wentworth!" she gasped, and now she knew why his voice had sounded familiar to her, although, having been under the influence of liquor, his utterance had been very indistinct, while fear had so changed hers that, in his drunken condition, he had failed to recognize it. But as she now spoke his name a terrible shock went through him, sobering him completely.
"Mollie! Good God!" he cried in a tone of mingled mortification and dismay, while Clifford's heart leaped with joy as he caught the name. The fair girl haughtily drew herself erect and away from him.
"Let this be the last time, Mr. Wentworth, that you ever address me so familiarly; indeed, from this moment we are strangers."
"By all that is sacred, Mollie, I never dreamed that it was you."
Philip faltered with abject humility. "I swear——"
"Silence!" she commanded imperatively. "Never presume to call me 'Mollie' again. Of course I understand that you did not know me—neither did I recognize you under existing conditions. But you did know that you were insulting a woman, and the fact that you had no more respect for my sex, whoever the individual might be, I regard as direct an outrage as if you had known me."
"Come, now," said Philip appealingly, and his voice was husky with shame and grief, "you are downright hard on a fellow. I was not quite myself, I am bound to confess, and so not responsible——"
"Not responsible!" repeated Mollie with grave reproof. "Yes, you are responsible; for you have no moral right to put yourself in a condition that renders it unsafe for people to come in contact with you upon the street, or elsewhere.
"Let me say one word more," she added more gently, yet not less impressively, "for your mother's and sister's sake and for your own good, I beg that you will forsake your cups and the aimless life you are leading and try to live to some purpose in the future."
She stepped aside to allow him to pass, whereupon Clifford Faxon considerately inquired:
"Shall I lend you an arm to the corner, Wentworth?"
"No!—you!" was the passionate response, as Philip angrily struck aside the proffered support, almost beside himself with mingled shame and rage, "and, let me repeat, that I will yet make you sorry for this night's work." He turned his back upon them both and strode away limping, but not nearly so badly crippled as his companions had feared he might be.
Then Mollie stepped forward to Clifford.
"Mr. Faxon," she said, and extending her hand to him, "this is the third time that we have met under peculiar circumstances, all of which have made me greatly your debtor. I am Miss Heatherford, and I have never forgotten the hero of that exciting New Haven incident."
"Thank you, Miss Heatherford," Faxon returned, and tingling to his finger-tips with rapture as he clasped the hand so cordially offered him, "and let me assure you that I am very much pleased to meet you again, and, at last, learn the name of one to whom I am also indebted. I refer to the beautiful souvenir of the event of which you have spoken, and which I have always treasured most sacredly. I am very glad I was at hand to rescue you from your recent unpleasant experience. Now, may I have the additional pleasure of attending you to your home? I should feel very uncomfortable to allow you to go alone after the shock you have received."
"Thank you; it is very kind of you to offer to attend me," Mollie replied, and feeling much relieved in view of having a protector, for she had been badly frightened. "But, Mr. Faxon, I am afraid it will seem almost an imposition, for I have quite a walk yet," she added doubtfully.
"That will not disturb me in the least," Clifford returned eagerly, "though it is very damp, and perhaps you would prefer to take a car; in either event, however, I shall not leave you until I see you safely housed."
"Taking a car would not save me very much, as I must go back to Pennsylvania Avenue to get one, and I would have just about the same distance at the other end," said Mollie reflectively. "On the whole, I believe I will take you at your word and we will walk."
"Thank you," Clifford responded so earnestly that Mollie smiled involuntarily, while she experienced a peculiar exhilaration in his companionship.
She unhesitatingly accepted the arm he offered her, and they fell into a social chat which grew so absorbing to both that distance became of no account, and Faxon was conscious of a sense of keen disappointment when his companion finally paused before her own door.
"Why, Miss Heatherford, you told me it was a long walk; I did not suppose we were half-way there yet!" he exclaimed in a tone that plainly betrayed his regret.
"I think you must be a practised pedestrian, for it is very nearly a mile," said Mollie with a silvery little laugh, "and, now, won't you come in for a little rest before you make the return trip?"
Clifford would gladly have accepted the invitation and prolonged his enjoyment of her society for another half-hour, but he did not feel quite justified in doing so upon so short an acquaintance, and so politely excused himself.
"Then some other evening, Mr. Faxon, I shall be happy to have you call if you should feel inclined," Mollie cordially observed greatly to his delight.
"Thank you, Miss Heatherford; it certainly will give me great pleasure to do so, and I shall avail myself of the privilege at an early date," the young man responded, and he was on the point of bidding her good evening when Mollie lifted a shy glance to him and said:
"I feel that I owe you an apology, Mr. Faxon, for not recognizing you a few days ago when you saved me from having a fall from the car, but I was so surprised at the unexpected meeting that I was momentarily embarrassed, and so failed to do my duty."
"Pray do not be disturbed," Faxon returned with a heart-throb of gladness. "I saw you were somewhat overcome, and the omission was not to be wondered at under the circumstances."
"I knew you at once," Mollie continued naively and with charming frankness, "and I feared afterward that you might attribute my seeming neglect to an unworthy motive."
"Indeed, no—I hope I could not so wrong you, although you will allow me to say that I was somewhat disappointed," Clifford replied in the same spirit.
He then bade her a reluctant "good evening," lifted his hat, and went away. It seemed to him that he was walking on air as he retraced his steps up-town.
At last he had met and learned the name of the divinity who for years had been his inspiration, whose fair face and deep blue eyes had haunted both his waking and sleeping hours; whose sweet girlish tones and thrilling words had rung like a melodious refrain in his ears for nearly six long years.
It had been a great trial to him not to know who she was, and he had been more irritated over the fact that Philip Wentworth had refused to give him any information regarding her than he usually allowed himself to become over anything. It had been like a poisoned dagger in his heart when that young man had arrogantly boasted of his engagement to the girl who had given him the cameo, which was the choicest treasure he possessed.
But now he knew that Philip had lied—the occurrence of that evening had proved to him that no such tie had ever existed between the two. To be sure, Wentworth had addressed her by the familiar name "Mollie," but her manner toward him had plainly indicated that, although she might previously have regarded him as a friend, she had never surrendered her heart into his keeping.
This assurance set every pulse bounding with a feeling of exultation, and a vague, sweet hope that possibly he might yet awaken some responsive chord in her nature that as yet had been untouched began to take root in his heart.
He blessed the fates that had sent him upon an errand that night into the locality where he had found her in trouble, and thus enabled him to go to her rescue. Then that never-to-be-forgotten walk had seemed leading him straight toward Paradise, the door of which Mollie had opened to him by her invitation to call—a privilege of which he resolved to avail himself at a very early day.
And three evenings later found him standing at her door, seeking admittance.
Eliza answered his ring and showed him into the cosy homelike parlor, and five minutes later Mollie appeared, looking charming in a dainty house-gown of some soft, white material without an atom of color save her blue eyes and glorious hair to mar its chaste simplicity.
She almost always wore white at home—it had been her custom since childhood, for her father loved to see her in it.
She greeted Faxon with a cordiality which assured him that he was most welcome, and his heart thrilled with joy unspeakable as he observed the lovely color that suffused her face as he clasped her hand and responded to her salutation. She put him at his ease at once by seating herself near him and beginning to chat freely of Washington and its society; of politics and politicians and various current topics. Then she gradually drifted to other things, and finally to their first meeting, after which she adroitly led him to speak of his college life, struggles, and experiences.
He was surprised to find how freely and almost involuntarily he opened his heart to her of those things which he had seldom mentioned to others, and when he concluded he held up and showed her the cameo ring upon his hand.
"It has been my mascot," he said, smiling, "and I can never make you understand how much it has meant to me. But I never presumed to wear it in public until the day I took my degree and only occasionally since."
"I am afraid you have prized my simple souvenir far beyond its worth," said Mollie, flushing. "It was really intended for a good-luck ring, however. I purchased it, and had it marked for a cousin who was going West to live, but as some one else had already given him a ring I kept it and sent him something else. Have you discovered its little secret, Mr. Faxon?"
"Yes," said Clifford, as he touched the spring and the stone lifted from its place; but he did not tell her then how he had learned it, "and I have wondered during all these years until I met you the other night what these tiny initials stood for."
"Marie Norton Heatherford," Mollie repeated with a flush as she observed the look with which he was regarding the letters.
Then to dispel the feeling of embarrassment she smilingly added:
"But, Mr. Faxon, I am afraid I should have felt that I was doing rather a bold thing to offer a gentleman a ring marked with initials if I had stopped to think about it that day—not that I regretted the ring, believe me," she interposed, as he glanced up at her quickly, "it was a very little thing to express all that I felt, but the letters rather troubled me. I—I almost hoped you would not find them."
"Ah! but the initials and the horseshoe have been its chief charm to me," Clifford returned earnestly; "somehow they seemed to be a link between the giver and myself, although, of course, I did not know what they stood for. And, now that I have met you again, may I have your permission to wear it constantly?"
"By all means, if you wish—I am sure you will honor my little souvenir by doing so," Mollie responded with downcast eyes and bounding pulses.
She began to tell him something of her own life since that day; how a few days later she and her parents had sailed for Europe to remain for several years; how she had lost her mother during her sojourn abroad, and one misfortune followed another until just after her return to this country the grand crash had come that had made her father penniless.
"Yes," she said, with a little regretful sigh at an exclamation of sympathy from Faxon, "papa met with loss after loss, until a year and a half ago we found that we were literally homeless and almost penniless. A friend helped him to a position here in Washington, and for a while we were very comfortable and happy; but papa lost his health, and for several months past has been very ill—is, in fact, a hopeless invalid."
"That is very sad," Clifford gravely observed, "and the change in your life must have seemed hard—even cruel."
"I don't know as I can say that," said Mollie reflectively; "I believe I have rather enjoyed the change in some respects."
"Enjoyed it!" repeated her companion astonished.
"Yes," Mollie brightly affirmed, "for I then began to feel that I was really of some use in the world. After papa gave up business I secured a position, and I am now working regular hours every day; were it not for my father's pitiable condition, I believe I should be perfectly happy. I think it is grand to feel that one has the power to win one's own way in the world."
Faxon regarded her with mingled admiration and sympathy. He knew just the feeling she described, for he had experienced the same thrill of proud independence while working his way through college and also since he had begun to know something of the real business of life, in spite of the many crosses and hardships that he had endured.
Then a wild, sweet hope took possession of his heart as he realized that she no longer inhabited a sphere so far above him socially that she was, as he had always believed her to be, utterly beyond his reach.
She was every whit as poor as himself, according to her own frank acknowledgment—there was now no golden barrier between them. Why, then, might he not hope to win her—this fair, brave, sweet girl who had been the star and the inspiration of his life during the last six years?