CHAPTER XI.
|
Oh, human hearts are strangely cast, Time softens grief and pain; Like reeds that shiver in the blast, They bend to rise again.—S.M. |
"Come, Miss Whitmore, you must rouse yourself from this unwomanly grief. It is quite improper for a young lady of your rank and fortune to be shedding tears for the immoral conduct of a worthless young profligate."
"Peace, Dorothy; don't scold the poor child. You see her heart is nearly broken. It will do her good to cry. Come, my own darling, come to your old father's arms, and never mind what your aunt says to you."
"Really, Captain Whitmore, if you mean to encourage your daughter's disrespectful conduct to me, the sooner we part the better."
"Dolly, Dolly, have you no feeling for the poor child? Do hold that cruel tongue of yours. It never sounded so harsh and disagreeable to me before. Look up, my Julee, and kiss your old father."
And Juliet made an effort to raise her head from her father's bosom, and look in his face. The big tears weighed down her eyelids, and she sank back upon his shoulder, faintly murmuring, "And I thought him so good."
"Yes," said Miss Dorothy, whose temper was not at all softened by her brother's reproof; "you never would believe me. You would follow your own headstrong fancy; and now you see the result of your folly. I often wondered to see you reading and flirting with that silent, down looking young man, while his frank, good-natured cousin was treated with contempt. I hope you will trust to my judgment another time."
"Aunt, spare me these reproaches. If I have acted imprudently I am severely punished."
"I am sure the poor child was not worse deceived than I have been," said the Captain; "but the lad's to be pitied; he comes of a bad breed. But rouse up, my Julee—show yourself a girl of spirit. Go to your own room; a little sleep will do you a world of good. To-morrow you will forget it all."