So begun, so ended the honest man's wooing. Did he suffer disappointment as Miss Dexter's contemptuous eye and her irritated tone showed him--ah!

how plainly--she was forever out of his reach? Was an idol broken, a dream dissolved, a blossom nipped, or hope murdered, just as much, in the case of this comfortable placid unimaginative elderly farmer as in the case of younger, warmer, more impetuous, more idealistic men? If so, Farmer Wise was as self-contained as the best actor among them and handed Miss Dexter out at the Albion with as gallant, though cautious politeness and sat as far away from her at the hotel tea table and met her in the hall afterwards with as severe an air, as if the situation were perfectly pleasant and completely ordinary. He asked her when she would be going back, and learnt that she would pa.s.s the night at the Albion, returning to the village by the Sat.u.r.day's stage.

"Then shall I take a seat for ye?" asked the willing farmer.

"No" said Miss Dexter, who appeared to be in a great hurry, "I can arrange in the morning, thank you."

"In any case, ye're sure ye won't want a 'lift' again, Miss Dexter,"

said the farmer respectfully, though there might have been the least tinge of irony in the tone. "I'm not goin' back myself till to morrow."

"No, thank you," returned Miss Dexter for the last time.

The Albion was a small hotel or tavern situated just on the outskirts of the town, which did a flourishing business with the country people. Two roads, the Ipswich and the Richmond, formed a sort of junction before its door, one leading into the fine agricultural district or valley of Richmond, Guernsey and Trenton, and the other following, the dreary Plains through Ipswich to Orangetown, a thriving little community of mills and saws and booms and planks picturesquely situated on the Upper Orange River.

There was always a knot of farmers round the Albion, all of them English or Scotch or native Canadians born of British parents. A French-Canadian would have been hoisted on a table and examined minutely all over, hair, eye, skin and costume, had one been present. But though the men were respectable and decent and hard-working and most of them earned a good income and few of them drank or gambled it away, they were noisy, smoky, staring fellows for companions and Miss Dexter, having walked some distance to a shop, made a purchase, and returned to the parlor of the hotel while it was yet light, uncertain what to do with herself or where to go to escape the bustle and clatter of tongues. Farmer Wise was smoking in the bar, she had seen him as she pa.s.sed in, and the mere sight of him, with his head up against the counter, and his legs out on a chair made her shudder. She sat in the parlor listening to the intolerable noise, heavy delf and cutlery being momentarily banged down on tables and chairs, an occasional broken plate and whirling pewter mug or kitchen spoon reaching her ear with more than usual reverberation.

Then would come a volley of laughter, oaths, and bets on next week's races from the bar, then more breaking of china from the scullery, the stamping of horses in the stable, then the bar door would be closed and comparative silence ensue. In one of these intervals, the girl who had waited at the tea-table appeared in the parlor and inquired of Miss Dexter if she would like a fire put in the wood stove that stood on a square of zinc in the middle of the room. It came as a relief from the nervous broodings that were settling down on her mind occupied in introspection neither healthy nor cheerful, and she eagerly a.s.sented.

When the fire burned up, she opened the door that she might see the blaze and spread out her thin hands to it and put her cold feet to its warmth. Then for the first time she unclasped her bag and taking out her purchase, looked at it. The shop she had gone into was a druggist's, and her purchase had been a small bottle of a bluish fluid that she now held up to the light and looked at long and steadily but with no change in her countenance. The bar-door opened with a creak and closed with a bang. She started and replaced the bottle in the bag and put the bag over her arm as before. For a long time she sat before the fire warming first one foot, then the other and never looking away from the blaze.

When half-past ten came, so did the girl with a lamp and two damp towels for Miss Dexter who took them without opening her mouth much to the astonishment of the girl, who though taciturn herself was well used to speech and "language" from all she came in contact with, and who was also struck with the fact that the strange lady had never removed her bonnet or jacket "since she come in the house."

She would have had additional ground for surprise had she known that the strange lady did not remove them even upon reaching her own room, but lowering the lamp, lay down fully dressed upon the bed still clasping her small travelling bag in her hands, and slept until seven o'clock in the morning. She then rose and hastily straightening her attire, descended to the dining-room, partook of ham and eggs. Upon the close of this meal, she went up again to the parlor and sat slightly back from the window that overlooked the main road until twelve o'clock, when she partook of the dinner served to the travellers at the Albion, including Farmer Wise who had sold his apples and soon after dinner hitched up ready to go homewards. After dinner she went up as before to the parlor and sat there again. Two o'clock came, half past two, three o'clock, and Miss Dexter began to look along the road in the direction of the town.

Half-past three found her, still looking along the road. Four o'clock came, half-past four, then five. She grew visibly uneasy, walked to and fro in the little parlor, sat down again. Half-past five, the clatter in the kitchen which had been silent for a little while renewed itself.

Six!! The men stumped into their tea, and the girl ascending asked Miss Dexter if she was coming down to hers.

"No," said Miss Dexter, "I expect to have a late tea at home, thank you.

And I am just going in a moment or two."

Ten minutes past six. The late November afternoon had almost entirely faded, it would soon be dark. A quarter past six and Miss Dexter, looking continuously out of her window perceived the figure she had waited for so long at length approaching. Gay, Mr. Joseph, you have thrown off the fetters of town and work and dull care and responsibility, and here you are free and untrammelled as the air, good humored, cheerful, humming your Old Country tunes as usual, brisk, _debonnair_, untouched by thought of present trouble or evil, unthinking and unsuspecting! Gay Mr. Joseph, urbane Mr. Joseph, what have you got in your hand this time? Last time it was a bunch of the red field lily.

Now it is, or it looks like--yes, it is--a genuine florist's bouquet.

Something to open the eyes of the Ipswich villagers. A gorgeous wired platoon of roses, and smilax tuberose and mignonette--Mr. Joseph, Mr.

Joseph, what does this mean, who is this for? On he came, brisker, more _debonnair_, more smiling than Miss Dexter had ever seen him in her life. Her breath came fast as he neared the window. Exchanging a word with the hostler and a couple of laboring men who stood almost in the centre of the road Mr. Joseph pa.s.sed on, looking down with a smile at the bouquet in his hand. Miss Dexter then arose and quietly settling her bonnet at a gla.s.s walked out of the hotel having paid her small bill at dinner-time.

She walked steadily on in the direction of Ipswich in the wake of Mr.

Joseph who did not appear to be walking as fast as usual himself. So by straining every nerve as we say--in reality, walking as she had never attempted to and dreamt of walking in her life--she slowly but surely gained upon the unconscious Mr. Joseph. They were about in the middle of the plains, that dreary bit of road bordered by pine forests on either side when Miss Dexter found she could distinguish the _clink, clink_ or jingle of his watch-chain, a thing of steel links which she knew well by sight as well as by sound as it struck against the b.u.t.tons of his coat.

Slowly Miss Dexter gained on him, until it was necessary either to accost him or pa.s.s him. Which did she mean to do? Dark as it was rapidly growing, Mr. Joseph, in half turning his head to observe something in the trees or sky, became conscious of a figure close behind him. The path was narrow, for he had left the middle of the road since pa.s.sing the Albion, and he stepped aside with his usual ready politeness to allow the lady room to go on before him. But in a moment he recognized Miss Dexter. She waited for him to speak.

"I--really, why--is it possible it is you, my dear Miss Dexter? I never knew you took such lonely walks so far from home. You don't mean to say you've walked out from town?"

For an answer, Miss Dexter, who had previously unclasped her bag and taken out the bottle, lifted her right hand and threw the contents over Mr. Joseph.

"In the name of G.o.d!" shrieked the unfortunate man, warding off as he imagined a second attack. But Miss Dexter had done her work and stood rigid, unmovable, stony as marble, the bag fallen at her feet, her hands fallen straight down at her sides. Mr. Joseph had sunk upon the ground moaning and writhing, but through all the torture of the terrible pain he was suffering, he thought of nothing but the inconceivable brutality of the act itself. Why had she done it?

"I suppose it is vitriol," he gasped. "Was it an accident--or--did you--mean--to--do it? How have--I--injured--you? Oh--say--say--"

He could get no further for a few moments in the appalling consciousness of that living fire which had burnt into his poor eyes and played round his poor temples. Otherwise he was not injured, for Miss Dexter's aim had been a faulty one and nearly all the contents of the bottle had in reality descended on the ground.

"Say--say" he went on. "Which it is? My--dear--Miss Dexter--I am--sorrier for you--than--for--myself, and cannot imagine--oh! Good G.o.d, I shall be blind, blind--ah!!--"

Charlotte Dexter still stood in the rapidly darkening air, a stem, rigid, immovable figure. It was too soon for remorse. That would come in good time. But a certain pity stole over her as she gazed at the huddled ma.s.s on the ground before her, which a short time ago, had been the gay, laughing, upright Mr. Joseph.

"Are you suffering very much?" She said at length in her ordinary voice.

"Good G.o.d! How--how--can you ask? Again--tell me--was it--an accident?"

"No," she replied still in her most ordinary voice. "No. It was no accident. It _is_ vitriol, and I _did_ mean to throw it."

"It is horrible," groaned Mr. Joseph, still in agony on the ground where he had sunk at first. "And you will not--fiend that you appear now to be--though Heaven knows--I thought you sweet and womanly enough once--you will not--tell me why! It is infamous!"

"Yes, it _is_ infamous," returned Charlotte Dexter. "It _is_ horrible, and I am a fiend. I am not a woman any longer. I once was, as you say, sweet and womanly enough for--for what? Joseph Foxley. For you to come to any house and my sister's house, and blast _her_ life and strike _her_ down as you thought you would strike me, for this and that and for much more, but not enough for truth and honesty and an offer of marriage in fair form, not enough for common respect and decent friendship."

"My dear lady," said Mr. Joseph with great difficulty, "there was no one I--"

"And all that time, when I thought you at least free, at least your own master, at least unbiased and unbound, for unlike a gentleman you never hinted to me of these--other ties--you were engaged to this miserable girl, this common drudge, the scullery-maid of a country inn. You, you, you!"

"My dear lady," said Mr. Joseph again with greater difficulty than before, "I--upon my word--I have--I--"

Charlotte Dexter, suddenly regaining the use of her limbs, bent down quickly and peered into the poor sightless face. Mr. Joseph had fainted.

She owned no fear yet however, though it was now quite dark, and five miles lay between them and her own door. Pity was just giving away to remorse. What if she had killed him? She bent down again but found that there was no fear of that and even consciousness appeared to be returning. At this moment the sound of wheels struck her ear. Nearer and nearer it came and she soon descried a waggon coming along the road sharply in which sat one man. The rest of the waggon was empty and as it was proceeding in the direction of the village, into that, she made up her mind, should Mr. Joseph be put. As it drew near, she stepped out of the dark shade of the pines and bade the man stop.

"Whose there!" said he, "What's here? What's the matter? Why, if it ain't Miss Dexter!"

"Yes," said she, stooping to a.s.sist her unfortunate companion. "How do you do, Farmer Wise! I--do you know Mr. Foxley--Mr. Joseph Foxley--is here--can you just see him--if you have a lantern, or, will you help me to get him into the waggon?"

Farmer Wise forgot Miss Dexter and her family pride in an instant, though at first sight the feeling of injury had somewhat revived, and he made haste to come to her relief. He found Mr. Joseph just coming to himself.

"Why, why, what's the matter?" said the Farmer. "It minds me of old times, this, when highway-men and tramps were a-infestin' the road and a-lyin' in wait for honest travellers--in the Old Country of course, Miss Dexter, not here, not here. Yet somethin's been at work here, eh!

Mr. Joseph, or else I'm much mistaken. Here, lend an 'and, Miss Dexter; now, sir, can you see me?"

"Not very well," gasped poor Mr. Joseph. "It's dark, I know," said the farmer, "and I hadn't begun carrying my lantern yet. Never mind Here, now, place your foot there--are ye hurt anywhere that I may touch ye--tell me where I hurt ye, if I do--now then, the other foot--

"There, now it's done! Miss Dexter, ma'am there's an old blanket at the back there, lie him on that. Put his head down and let him look straight up at them stars and he'll soon get himself, I warrant. If I knew where ye were hurt, perhaps I could bind ye up. There's no wound," anxiously.

"No," said Mr. Joseph. "Thank you, Farmer Wise. I am--much--better--really.

I was unconscious!"

"Ay," said the farmer, "A little, and can you stand the joltin' now, are ye sure? For if ye are, we'll drive on."

"Stay a moment," said Mr. Joseph. "I had some flowers--a bouquet--in my hands when I--fell. I can't see--very well--in this light--look for me, will you!"

"I do spy somethin' white on yonder ground where you was when I came up.

Maybe it's a pocket-handkerchief, may be it's the flowers you dropped."

The former sprang down and returned with two articles one of which--the bouquet he gave to Mr. Joseph, the other, a small bottle--he put in his own pocket The bouquet was as fresh and untumbled as when it emerged from the careful florist who had prepared it. Not a single drop of the fiery liquid had fallen upon it nor scorched its fragrant beauty and it presently lay upon the face of the suffering man, healing with its cool moist sweet leaves and petals his poor scarred skin.

"I won't ask him," thought the farmer, "I won't ask him. But what are they doin' here together? Well, I won't ask that neither. And why did not she came out by the stage as she said? I won't ask that neither.

There's three things I needn't go for to enquire into. But a little general conversation in a nice kind of way, neither spyin' nor lyin' may do him good and not be altogether despised by the--the other party." He looked back and could dimly see Mr. Joseph sitting up on the blanket. He had removed his hat, and his hands were pressed to his head. Charlotte Dexter was in the furthest corner of the waggon, a dark, stern, ominous figure.

"Strange that you and me _are_ goin' home together, Miss Dexter, after all," said the farmer.