In the mean time, Julius was quite unconscious of his position.  He was thoroughly enjoying himself.  If others were losing, he was not.  He was in love with the fine old hall.  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.  He had read of women who used it as a lure.  If it were Charlotte’s special weapon he was quite willing to be brought to submission by it.  After all, there was piquancy in the situation; for to most men, love sought and hardly won is far sweeter than love freely given.

Yet of all the women whom he had known, Charlotte Sandal was the least approachable.  She was fertile in preventing an opportunity; and if the opportunity came, she was equally fertile in spoiling it.  But Julius had patience; and patience is the art and secret of hoping.  A woman cannot always be on guard, and he believed in not losing heart, and in waiting.  Sooner or later, the happy moment when success would be possible was certain to arrive.

One day in the early part of September, the squire asked his wife for all the house-servants she could spare.  “A few more hands will bring home the harvest to-night,” he said; “and it would be a great thing to get it in without a drop of rain.”

So the men and maids went off to the wheat-fields, as if they were going to a frolic; and there was a happy sense of freedom, with the picnicky dinner, and the general air of things being left to themselves about the house.  After an unusually merry lunch, Julius proposed a walk to the harvest-field, and Sophia and Charlotte eagerly agreed to it.