“Well, well, that surpasses my comprehension—surpasses my comprehension,” he cried. “I should like to know what you fancy in him—yes, fancy in him. Ernest is worth a thousand such cinnamon-scented popinjays—yes, cinnamon-scented popinjays.”
“Mr. Comston does not use cinnamon,” Clara ventured to say apologetically.
“If he don’t,” exclaimed the irritated parent, “he uses musk which is worse, and bear’s oil, and such other tomfoolery—other tomfoolery.”
Clara blushed, but said nothing more, wisely allowing her provoked progenitor to give vent to his indignation till the storm of wrath should subside. Resistance would only increase its fury.
But she married, and Ernest saw her become the bride of his rival; for she had sent him a card to her wedding, and Ernest went, to show her how little he cared.
All this now appeared like some dim dream that flitted through his mind years ago. How thankful he now felt that Comston had removed to the town of —— in time to prevent a complicated involution of the threads of destiny. If that young man had made his advent a few weeks later, the conjugal infelicity of Ernest would have been an assured fact—at least he felt so now. What an insignificant being Clara now appeared when put in contrast with the intelligent, accomplished and pious Mildred Arrington. He almost shuddered as he thought of the narrow escape he had made. And the question came up in his mind, did God have nothing to do with this? If the sparrow does not escape the beneficent observation of the Supreme Being, surely His intelligent creatures will receive a due share of the divine watchfulness and loving care.
Again, while the train was thundering along its iron track, sad and gloomy thoughts and doubts, calculated to banish all cheerfulness, would suddenly spring up in his mind, and the trembling light of hope would almost disappear in the darkness. He recalled the old adage, “Man proposes, God disposes.” Suppose his intended union, after all, with Mildred should not be in accord with the Divine purpose? Could he give her up? Would he not rebel, and murmur against God’s will? Alas! how hard it is for a human being to tread the appointed path of destiny with his will in complete subjection to that of the Heavenly Father! At times, man cannot but think that his own chosen way is best. The retrospective view convinces him of his folly and infirmity.
“While I mused, the fire burned,” said the Psalmist. While the train rattled along, Ernest thought and mused. Presently a brakesman cried out, “—— Station.” Ernest gathered up his baggage, and in a short time was shaking hands with his comrades-in-arms.