Her agitation was so extreme that she hardly noticed my reply.
“Mademoiselle—no one who has had the privilege of knowing you—of listening to you—can ever believe that you were brought up to be a governess. And if you had been,” I added hastily, “that would not make the slightest difference. You are you, and that is sufficient. I think, Mademoiselle, I never wanted anything more in the world than to be your friend.”
She shook her head again at this, but the agitation passed and her voice was soft with pleading as she answered me:
“Monsieur Littledale, you will forgive me? From the heart? I did not know what I was saying. I should always trust you—in everything—without a doubt.”
“Thank you,” I said, all choked up.
“Your friendship? Yes. But, friends? No. To-morrow, it is to be good-by,” she said, more gently than I had heard her. “Is it not better to say now what we must say to each other?”
“No, no—to-morrow.”
“To-morrow, then. Since you asked it and because I did hurt you,” she answered. “Only, make no mistake. You have seen me, Monsieur, in moments of weakness. Why I have been so I do not know: I am not like that. I can do what has to be done.” The locket was in her hands; she held it before her. “It is the last thing that remains of all my past life. I had no right to keep it; I have been wrong. Monsieur Littledale, I think you will understand now how immovable my resolution is, when I know what must be done!”
She opened her hand, and the locket, a tiny streak of gold, vanished into the sea.
“It was my baby pin, and the name was in the handwriting of my father.”