After this, Steve, sometimes gaining and sometimes losing, gradually won his way back to the squire's liking. September proved to be an unusually fair month; and to the lovers it was full of happiness, for early in it their relation to each other was fully recognized; and Stephen had gone in and out of the pleasant "Seat," dayshine and dark, as the acknowledged lover of Charlotte Sandal. The squire, upon the whole, submitted gracefully: he only stipulated that for some time, indefinitely postponed, the subject of marriage was not to be taken into consideration. "I could not bear it any road. I could not bear it yet, Stephen. Wait your full time, and be glad to wait. So few young men will understand that to pluck the blossom is to destroy the fruit."
Towards the end of September, there was a letter from Sophia dated Florence. Some letters are like some individuals, they carry with them a certain unpleasant atmosphere. None of Sophia's epistles had been very satisfactory; for they were so short, and yet so definitely pinned to Julius, that they were but commentaries on that individual. At Paris she had simply asked Julius, "What do you think of Paris?" And the opinion of Julius was then given to Seat-Sandal confidently as the only correct estimate that the world was likely to get. At Venice, Rome, Naples, her plan was identical; and any variation of detail simply referred to the living at different places, and how Julius liked it, and how it had agreed with him.
So when the Florence letter came, there was no particular enthusiasm about it. The address assigned it to the squire, and he left it lying on the table while he finished the broiled trout and coffee before him. But it troubled Charlotte, and she waited anxiously for the unpleasant words she felt sure were inside of it. Yet there was no change on the squire's face, and no sign of annoyance, as he read it. "It is about the usual thing, Alice. Julius likes Florence. It is called 'the beautiful.' Julius thinks that it deserves the title. The wine in Rome did not suit Julius, but he finds the Florence vintage much better. The climate is very delightful, Julius is sure he will derive benefit from it; and so on, and so on, and so on." Then there was a short pause, and a rapid turn of the sheet to glance at the other side. "Oh, Julius met Harry yesterday! He—Julius—does not think Harry is doing right. 'Harry always was selfish and extravagant, and though he did affront us on our wedding-day, Julius thought it proper to call upon him. He—I mean Harry—was with a most beautiful young girl. Julius thinks father ought to write to him, and tell him to go back to his duty.'"
These were the words, doubtful and suggestive, which made every heart in Seat-Sandal thoroughly uncomfortable. And yet Charlotte stoutly said, "I would not mind Sophia's insinuations, father and mother. She is angry at Harry. Harry has as much right in Florence as Sophia has. He told us he was going there. He has written to us frequently. Suppose he was with a beautiful girl: is Julius the only young man entitled to such a privilege? Sophia is happy in her own way, and we do not envy nor interfere with her happiness; but why should we permit her to make us unhappy? Throw the letter out of your memories, dear father and mother. It is only a piece of ill-nature. Perhaps Julius had been cross with her; and if Sophia has a grievance, she never rests until she passes it on to some one."
Women still hold the divining-cup, and Charlotte was not far wrong in her supposition. In spite of their twinship of soul, and in spite of that habit of loving which was involved in their belief "that they had been husband and wife in many a previous existence," Mr. and Mrs. Julius Sandal disagreed as conventionally as the ordinary husband and wife of one existence. The day on which the Florence letter was written had been a very unhappy one for Sophia. Julius had quarrelled with her about some very trivial affair, and had gone out in a temper disgracefully at variance with the occasion for it; and Sophia had sat all day nursing her wrath in her darkened room. She did not dress for the evening drive, for she had determined to "keep up" her anger until Julius made her some atonement.
But when he came home, she could not resist his air of confidence and satisfaction. He had quite forgotten the affair at the breakfast-table, and was only eager for her help and sympathy. "I have seen Harry," he said.
"Very well. You came here to find him. I suppose I can see him also. I am sure I need to see some one. I have been neglected all day; suffering, lonely,"—
"Sophia, you and I are here to look after our own affairs a little. If you are willing to help me, I shall be glad; if not"—
"You know I will help you in any thing I can, Julius."