“The young Rascal!” exclaimed my Father very passionately; “what does he mean by this outrageous Conduct? I’ve a great Mind to lock the Door against him when he comes back!”
“Father, he will never come back!—He is married! ... married to Mistress Glossop.”
And, trying to speak composedly, all would not do; the Tears rained from my Eyes.
My Father remained perfectly mute. I could understand his Amazement, his Vexation, by my own; accompanied, as I knew it must be in his Case, by great Anger. I expected every Moment to hear some violent Expression of Indignation: he had been so unusually displeased with him already for what was comparatively a Trifle.
All at once, I found myself folded in his Arms. He did not say a Word; but the longer he held me, the more and more I felt that his Hopes for me had been ruined as well as mine, that his Schemes and Visions of the Future were all dispersed and overclouded, that he knew Something of what was passing within me, and felt Sympathy without having the Power of expressing it.
“Well,—” said he, releasing me at last,—and I saw that his Eyes were wet,—“Man proposes, but God disposes. We’ve had an Escape from this young Man. Ungrateful young Fellow! And blind to his own Interest, too, for I could have done better for him, Cherry, than he knows of. But—he deserves his Fate. A miserable one it will be! He’ll never prosper!”
“Oh, Father! don’t prophesy against him! We need not wish him ill.”
“I don’t wish him ill,” returned he, “but he’ll come to no Good. He has done for himself in this Marriage. And so, Cherry, you’ll see!”
