'You here—in Southampton!' added Dalton, in a voice tremulous with bewilderment.
'Yes. Can it be that you have yet to learn that I am that Laura Dorillion to whom you gave this opal and diamond ring, with whom you spent so many a sweet hour, by Fairlight Glen, the East Cliffs that overhang the sea, by the Dripping Well, and amid the old castle walls at Hastings—the Laura whom you married, and from whom you so coldly fled?'
Dalton tried to speak, but his voice was gone; he could but stretch his hand towards her, without advancing, while regarding her with growing bewilderment; so she spoke again, with tears in her voice.
'You ought to have forgiven me the humility of my origin, for that I could not help—ay, forgiven me long ago, Anthony. Remember that "he who cannot forgive breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself," for "every man hath need of forgiveness," we are told.'
'My wife—you?' exclaimed Dalton.
'Laura—your own wife, whom you married in St. Clement's Church on the tenth of August. You remember the day?'
The words were simple, but spoken with great pathos, and all her sparkling manner seemed to have left her as she seated herself, and he hung over her.
'Do you forgive me, Laura, and pardon me—pardon me, and love me?'
'You know that I love you.'
He was about to put an arm round her, when he paused, and said,