He put his hand to his head in a dazed way for a second. Then, with a sort of shake, he aroused himself to every-day life again.
"Norine," he said, "is it indeed you? Little Norine! They told me it was Mrs. Liston-Darcy."
"It is Mrs. Darcy. I am Hugh Darcy's adopted daughter."
He stared at her bewildered.
"You! Her name was Jane Liston."
"Her name was Norine Bourdon. There was no Jane Liston. That was the name under which I was first introduced into Mr. Darcy's house, by which I had been known to the few of Mr. Darcy's friends whom I met, and, to save endless inquiries, it was the name published from first to last. Mr. Darcy knew all my story, knew all about me. But you, Mr. Gilbert—it is very late in the day to ask your forgiveness for the great wrong I did you four years ago, but from my heart I do ask it."
She clasped her hands together with the old gesture—the dusky eyes filled and brimmed over. But if the familiar gesture moved him, if the tears touched him, Richard Gilbert did not show it.
"I forgave you long ago, Mrs. Darcy," he said, very coldly: "pray do not think of me at all, and accept my congratulations upon your great accession of fortune."
Her head dropped, her cheeks flushed. Those three years had changed her into a beautiful, self-possessed, calm-eyed woman; but her faltering voice, her drooping head, her downcast eyes were very humble now.
"I did wrong—wrong too great for forgiveness; but if suffering can atone for sin, then surely I have atoned. Let me tell you the story of that bitter time. It is your due, and mine."