"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?"

CHAPTER VII.

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 grat.i.tude 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 a.s.sume 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 a.s.sure 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, a.s.sume 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 n.o.ble, 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 a.s.suming 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 a.s.sure 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 circ.u.mstances," replied the gentleman heartily, "and she has my everlasting grat.i.tude."

"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 G.o.d 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 a.s.sumed, 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.