“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 God, 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 mass 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 God! 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—”