Charles’s perplexities rapidly took a definite form on his coming into Devonshire. The very fact of his being at home, and not at Oxford where he ought to have been, brought them before his mind; and the near prospect of his examination and degree justified the consideration of them. No addition indeed was made to their substance, as already described; but they were no longer vague and indistinct, but thoroughly apprehended by him; nor did he make up his mind that they were insurmountable, but he saw clearly what it was that had to be surmounted. The particular form of argument into which they happened to fall was determined by the circumstances in which he found himself at the time, and was this, viz., how he could subscribe the Articles ex animo, without faith, more or less, in his Church as the imponent; and next, how he could have faith in her, her history and present condition being what they were. The fact of these difficulties was a great source of distress to him. It was aggravated by the circumstance that he had no one to talk to, or to sympathise with him under them. And it was completed by the necessity of carrying about with him a secret which he dared not tell to others, yet which he foreboded must be told one day. All this was the secret of that depression of spirits which his sisters had observed in him.
He was one day sitting thoughtfully over the fire with a book in his hand, when Mary entered. “I wish you would teach me the art of reading Greek in live coals,” she said.
“Sermons in stones, and good in everything,” answered Charles.
“You do well to liken yourself to the melancholy Jacques,” she replied.
“Not so,” said he, “but to the good Duke Charles, who was banished to the green forest.”
“A great grievance,” answered Mary, “we being the wild things with whom you are forced to live. My dear Charles,” she continued, “I hope the tittle-tattle that drove you here does not still dwell on your mind.”
“Why, it is not very pleasant, Mary, after having been on the best terms with the whole College, and in particular with the Principal and Jennings, at last to be sent down, as a rowing-man might be rusticated for tandem-driving. You have no notion how strong the old Principal was, and Jennings too.”
“Well, my dearest Charles, you must not brood over it,” said Mary, “as I fear you are doing.”
“I don’t see where it is to end,” said Charles; “the Principal expressly said that my prospects at the University were knocked up. I suppose they would not give me a testimonial, if I wished to stand for a fellowship anywhere.”
“Oh, it is a temporary mistake,” said Mary; “I dare say by this time they know better. And it’s one great gain to have you with us; we, at least, ought to be obliged to them.”
“I have been so very careful, Mary,” said Charles; “I have never been to the evening-parties, or to the sermons which are talked about in the University. It’s quite amazing to me what can have put it into their heads. At the Article-lecture I now and then asked a question, but it was really because I wished to understand and get up the different subjects. Jennings fell on me the moment I entered his room. I can call it nothing else; very civil at first in his manner, but there was something in his eye before he spoke which told me at once what was coming. It’s odd a man of such self-command as he should not better hide his feelings; but I have always been able to see what Jennings was thinking about.”
“Depend on it,” said his sister, “you will think nothing of it whatever this time next year. It will be like a summer cloud, come and gone.”
“And then it damps me, and interrupts me in my reading. I fall back thinking of it, and cannot give my mind to my books, or exert myself. It is very hard.”
Mary sighed; “I wish I could help you,” she said; “but women can do so little. Come, let me take the fretting, and you the reading; that’ll be a fair division.”
“And then my dear mother too,” he continued; “what will she think of it when it comes to her ears? and come it must.”
“Nonsense,” said Mary, “don’t make a mountain of a mole-hill. You will go back, take your degree, and nobody will be the wiser.”
“No, it can’t be so,” said Charles, seriously.
“What do you mean?” asked Mary.
“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.”