Part 28 (1/2)

”These things don't clear off in that way,” said he; ”it is no summer-cloud; it may turn to rain, for what they know.”

Mary looked at him with some surprise.

”I mean,” he said, ”that I have no confidence that they will let me take my degree, any more than let me reside there.”

”That is very absurd,” said she; ”it's what I meant by brooding over things, and making mountains of mole-hills.”

”My sweet Mary,” he said, affectionately taking her hand, ”my only real confidant and comfort, I would tell you something more, if you could bear it.”

Mary was frightened, and her heart beat. ”Charles,” she said, withdrawing her hand, ”any pain is less than to see you thus. I see too clearly that something is on your mind.”

Charles put his feet on the fender, and looked down.

”I _can't_ tell you,” he said, at length, with vehemence; then, seeing by her face how much he was distressing her, he said, half-laughing, as if to turn the edge of his words, ”My dear Mary, when people bear witness against one, one can't help fearing that there is, perhaps, something to bear witness against.”

”Impossible, Charles! _you_ corrupt other people! _you_ falsify the Prayer Book and Articles! impossible!”

”Mary, which do you think would be the best judge whether my face was dirty and my coat shabby, you or I? Well, then, perhaps Jennings, or at least common report, knows more about me than I do myself.”

”You must not speak in this way,” said Mary, much hurt; ”you really do pain me now. What can you mean?”

Charles covered his face with his hands, and at length said: ”It's no good; you can't a.s.sist me here; I only pain you. I ought not to have begun the subject.”

There was a silence.

”My dearest Charles,” said Mary tenderly, ”come, I will bear anything, and not be annoyed. Anything better than to see you go on in this way.

But really you frighten me.”

”Why,” he answered, ”when a number of people tell me that Oxford is not my place, not my position, perhaps they are right; perhaps it isn't.”

”But is that really all?” she said; ”who wants you to lead an Oxford life? not we.”

”No, but Oxford implies taking a degree--taking orders.”

”Now, my dear Charles, speak out; don't drop hints; let me know;” and she sat down with a look of great anxiety.

”Well,” he said, making an effort; ”yet I don't know where to begin; but many things have happened to me, in various ways, to show me that I have not a place, a position, a home, that I am not made for, that I am a stranger in, the Church of England.”

There was a dreadful pause; Mary turned very pale; then, darting at a conclusion with precipitancy, she said quickly, ”You mean to say, you are going to join the Church of Rome, Charles.”

”No,” he said, ”it is not so. I mean no such thing; I mean just what I say; I have told you the whole; I have kept nothing back. It is this, and no more--that I feel out of place.”

”Well, then,” she said, ”you must tell me more; for, to my apprehension, you mean just what I have said, nothing short of it.”

”I can't go through things in order,” he said; ”but wherever I go, whomever I talk with, I feel him to be another sort of person from what I am. I can't convey it to you; you won't understand me; but the words of the Psalm, 'I am a stranger upon earth,' describe what I always feel.

No one thinks or feels like me. I hear sermons, I talk on religious subjects with friends, and every one seems to bear witness against me.

And now the College bears its witness, and sends me down.”

”Oh, Charles,” said Mary, ”how changed you are!” and tears came into her eyes; ”you used to be so cheerful, so happy. You took such pleasure in every one, in everything. We used to laugh and say, 'All Charlie's geese are swans.' What has come over you?” She paused, and then continued: ”Don't you recollect those lines in the 'Christian Year'? I can't repeat them; we used to apply them to you; something about hope or love 'making all things bright with her own magic smile.'”