“Directly. I will write to her Aunt Seaford by tonight’s post. She will be delighted to have Juliet with her. The little sly puss is the old lady’s heir; but she is quite indifferent to her good fortune.”
“I never covet the possession of great wealth,” said Juliet. “Mark Hurdlestone is an awful example to those who grasp after riches. I do not anticipate much pleasure in this London visit, but I will go, dear papa, as you wish it.”
“There’s a dear good girl!” and the old man fondly kissed her. “I wish I could see the rose’s blush once more upon this pale face. You look so like your mother, Julee, it makes my heart ache. Ah! just so thin and pale she looked, before I lost her. You must not leave your poor old father in this cold-hearted world alone.”
Juliet flung her arms round his neck. “Do not make my heart ache, dear papa, as I know not how soon we may part. You once loved poor Anthony,” she whispered: “for Julee’s sake, love him still.”
“She will forget him,” said the Captain looking fondly after her, as she left the room, “she will forget him in London.”
And to London they went. Juliet was received by her rich aunt with the most lively demonstrations of regard. She felt proud of introducing to the notice of the gay world a creature so beautiful. Admired for her great personal attractions, and courted for her wealth, Juliet soon found herself the centre of attraction to a large circle of friends. But ah! how vapid and tasteless to the young lover of nature were the artificial manners and the unmeaning flatteries of the world. Professions of attachment, breathed into her ears by interested admirers, shocked and disgusted her simple taste, and made her thoughts turn continually to the one adored object, whose candid and honest bearing had won her heart. His soul had been poured forth at the same shrine, had drunk inspiration from the same sacred fount, and his sympathies and feelings were in perfect unison with her own.
How could she forget Anthony whilst mingling in scenes so uncongenial to her own pursuits? Was he not brought every hour nearer to her thoughts? Was she not constantly drawing contrasts between him and the worldly beings by whom she was surrounded! Did not his touching voice thrill more musically in her mental ear, when the affected ostentatious tones of the votary of fashion and pleasure tried to attract her attention by a display of his accomplishments and breeding? There was a want of reality in all she heard and saw that struck painfully upon her heart; and after the first novelty of the scene had worn off, she began to pine for the country. Her step became less elastic, her cheek yet paler, and the anxious father began to watch more closely these hectic changes, and to tremble for the health of his child.
“I am sick of this crowded place, of these sophisticated people, papa. I shall die here. Let me return to the country.”