The simple, sylvan character of its
daily life charmed his poetic instincts. The sweet, hot days on the
fells, with a rod in his hand, and Charlotte and the squire for company,
were like an idyl. The rainy days in the large, low drawing-room,
singing with Sophia, or dreaming and speculating with her on all sorts
of mysteries, were, in their way, equally charmful. He liked to walk
slowly up and down, and to talk to her softly of things obscure,
cryptic, cabalistic. The plashing rain, the moaning wind, made just the
monotonous accompaniment that seemed fitting; and the lovely girl,
listening, with needle half-drawn, and sensitive, sensuous face lifted
to his own, made a situation in which he knew he did himself full
justice.
At such times he thought Sophia was surely his natural mate,--'the soul
that halved his own,' the one of 'nearer kindred than life hinted of.'
At other times he was equally conscious that he loved Charlotte Sandal
with an intensity to which his love for Sophia was as water is to wine.
But Charlotte's indifference mortified him, and their natures were
almost antagonistic to each other. Under such circumstances a great love
is often a dangerous one. Very little will turn it into hatred. And
Julius had been made to feel more than once the utter superfluity of his
existence, as far as Charlotte Sandal was concerned.
Still, he determined not to resign the hope of winning her until he was
sure that her indifference was not an affectation.
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