Cold Spring winds were now blowing. Juliana had resided no less than two months with the Cogglesbys. She was entreated still to remain, and she did. From Lady Jocelyn she heard not a word of remonstrance; but from Miss Carrington and Mrs. Shorne she received admonishing letters. Finally, Mr. Harry Jocelyn presented himself. In London, and without any of that needful subsistence which a young gentleman feels the want of in London more than elsewhere, Harry began to have thoughts of his own, without any instigation from his aunts, about devoting himself to business. So he sent his card up to his cousin, and was graciously met in the drawing-room by the Countess, who ruffled him and smoothed him, and would possibly have distracted his soul from business had his circumstances been less straitened. Juliana was declared to be too unwell to see him that day. He called a second time, and enjoyed a similar greeting. His third visit procured him an audience alone with Juliana, when, at once, despite the warnings of his aunts, the frank fellow plunged, “medias res”. Mrs. Bonner had left him totally dependent on his parents and his chances.
“A desperate state of things, isn’t it, Juley? I think I shall go for a soldier—common, you know.”
Instead of shrieking out against such a debasement of his worth and gentility, as was to be expected, Juliana said:
“That’s what Mr. Harrington thought of doing.”
“He! If he’d had the pluck he would.”
“His duty forbade it, and he did not.”
“Duty! a confounded tailor! What fools we were to have him at Beckley!”
“Has the Countess been unkind to you Harry?”
“I haven’t seen her to-day, and don’t want to. It’s my little dear old Juley I came for.”
“Dear Harry!” she thanked him with eyes and hands. “Come often, won’t you?”