It was well into the heart of the afternoon when I discovered her, at her old post on the upper deck.
“Mademoiselle, please do not think that I mean to intrude,” I said diffidently, when I had come to her side.
“You are not intruding, and I had hoped that you would come,” she said, without evasion. “For, Monsieur, I feel that I ought to say something to you very seriously.”
Her manner, in its decision and thoughtfulness, alarmed me.
“I have things, too, which I wish to talk over with you, in the uttermost seriousness. I am a little afraid of that conversation,” I said, looking down, “because we are going to disagree. My mind is made up to certain things, Mademoiselle, and I do not think you can change it.” I added, looking up into the sadness of her eyes, “Will you grant me a favor—a last favor. There is so little time that is left us. Wait until to-morrow.”
She shook her head.
“My conscience reproaches me for putting it off as I have done. Do not make it any harder.”
“If it is to be only a memory,” I said, “let the memory be complete. It is something even to have had a memory of you. Please grant my request.”
I doubt whether she would have yielded even then, though I saw her breast rise and her eyes close at my voice, had I not brought forward the locket, saying:
“Mademoiselle, I came to bring you this. I found it on your chair.”
Her hand went to her dress spasmodically, and the color left her face with the violence of her emotion.
“I must tell you. I did not realize what I was doing, but I saw the name on the back.”
“You did not open the locket?” she said, in terror.
“Mademoiselle, I am sorry that you asked that question.”
“Forgive me—I—forgive me.” She put her hand to her eyes, and stood trembling from head to foot. God knows it was hard not to take her in my arms. But I stood there, gritting my teeth, waiting until she grew quiet once more.
“Bernoline—so that is your name?” I said softly.
“Yes, that is my name.”
“I have known, from the first. Bernoline—I am glad I saw it, for the other name I could not associate with you.”
“Monsieur.” She turned, and this time her eyes looked me through and through. “You are a man of honor? Give me your word of honor never to mention that name to a human being. Oh, I do not mean to hurt you—I do trust you. But—I must have your word!”
“You have hurt me,” I said. “It was not necessary, but—you have my word.”
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.”
It was done without a tremor and the chill of the waters, into which the locket had passed, possessed me.
*****
Instinctively we avoided the danger of personal references. For the rest of the afternoon we sat there together, talking eagerly, unconscious as two children of the shortening day. I do not remember ever to have known such an exquisite and eager pleasure as in this impulsive searching of our minds. It was the delight in meeting in intimate conversation some one who woke in me all my dormant imagination and led me along suddenly opening galleries, into unsuspected worlds. As we rambled on, touching lightly or profoundly twenty changing ideas, a deep tranquillity came to my restless spirit, not simply from the contemplation of the serenity that lay on her open forehead and deep in her clear, untroubled eyes, nor the charm of listening to the melody of her voice, but in the calm certitude of coming happiness. I was happy; yes, for that one all too brief afternoon. I was happy as I never realized happiness could come to me. For I saw such happiness in her face that at times she seemed no more than a girl of sixteen, artlessly spreading before me her imagination and her treasured thoughts. She was happy. I knew what that meant. I was content to go no further, sure that on the morrow, when we came to serious discussion, I could turn all her objections, based, as I believed them to be, on a sentiment of too scrupulous pride.
We were in the midst of a gay debate on the upbringing of the young girl in France, when the sound of the dinner gong broke in on our illusions.
“What, so soon!”
“It is not possible!”
The two cries came simultaneously. We stood up, suddenly sobered. I saw her face change.
“And, to-morrow afternoon—here,” I said confidently.
“It were better to say good-by now,” she said wearily.
“It will not be good-by, Mademoiselle.”
She shook her head and gave me her hand, and I remember now how heavily it lay for that short second in mine.
“Monsieur, I repeat, you make me do things I do not mean to do, that I have no right to do.”
“Wait until to-morrow,” I said, so completely happy that I tried to laugh her out of her mood and refused to perceive the solemnity and sadness that settled over her face.
*****
I am glad now, as I look back, for that one hour of absolute faith in the future. Life was a certainty; I was filled with an eagerness to begin and in the knowledge of the rare and beautiful realization of happiness, I had not the slightest fear of the test of the morrow.