“Is she happier than she was?”
“She is content.”
“Has she friends about her? Kind, good people; any persons of her own sex, whom she can love?”
“She is among people she takes for angels, at present. She will find them to be petty, mean, malicious devils. She is in a Protestant convent.”
“In a convent? Where?”
“Where? Where neither the fool nor the villain, who have wrecked her happiness between them, and robbed me of her, will ever find her. I expected this visit, sir; the only thing I doubted was which would come first, the villain or the fool. The fool has come first, and being a fool, expects ME to tell him where to find his victim, and torture her again. Begone, fool, from the house you have made desolate by your execrable folly in slipping away by night like a thief, or rather like that far more dangerous animal, a fool.”
The old man delivered these insults with a purple face, and a loud fury, that in former days would have awakened corresponding rage in the fiery young fellow. But affliction had tempered him, and his insulter's hairs were gray.
He said, quietly, “You are her father. I forgive you these cruel words.” Then he took his hat and went away.
Mr. Carden followed him to the passage, and cried after him, “The villain will meet a worse reception than the fool. I promise you that much.”
Little went home despondent, and found a long letter from his mother, telling him he must dine and sleep at Raby Hall that day.