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.