CHAPTER XXII.
The lyre is hush'd, for ever hush'd the hand,
That woke to ecstacy its thrilling chords;
And that sweet voice, with music eloquent,
Sleeps with the silent lyre and broken heart.--S.M.
"Why do you look so sad, Juliet," said Captain Whitmore to his daughter,
as they stood together at the open window, the morning after her
perilous meeting with Mary Mathews in the park. "Have _I_ said anything
to wound your feelings?"
"I thought that you would have been so glad to find him innocent, papa,"
said Juliet, the tears again stealing down her cheeks, "and I am
disappointed--bitterly disappointed."
"Well, my girl. I am glad that the lad is not guilty of so heinous an
offence. But I can't help feeling a strong prejudice against the whole
breed. These Hurdlestones are a bad set--a bad set. I have seen enough
of them. And, for your own happiness, I advise you, my dear Juliet, to
banish this young man for ever from your thoughts. With my consent you
never shall be his wife."
"Without it I certainly never shall." And Juliet folded her hands
together, and turned away to hide the fresh gush of tears that blinded
her eyes. "At the same time, papa, I must think that the ill-will you
bear to an innocent person is both cruel and unjust."
"Juliet," said the Captain, very gravely, "from the earnestness of your
manner, I fear that you feel a deeper interest in this young Hurdlestone
than I am willing to believe.
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