CHAPTER XXII.
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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. Answer me truly—do you love the lad?"
"Father, I do love him. I feel that my happiness is inseparably connected with his." This was said with that charming candor which was the most attractive feature in Juliet Whitmore's character. It had its effect upon the old man's generous nature. He could no longer chide, however repugnant to his feelings the confession she had just made. He drew her gently to his manly breast, and kissed away the tears that still lingered on her cheeks.