Neither to brother nor to sister had the conversation been a
satisfaction or relief. "I can go nowhere for sympathy," thought
Charles; "dear Mary does not understand me more than others. I can't
bring out what I mean and feel; and when I attempt to do so, my
statements and arguments seem absurd to myself. It has been a great
effort to tell her; and in one sense it is a gain, for it is a trial
over. Else I have taken nothing by my move, and might as well have held
my tongue. I have simply pained her without relieving myself.
By-the-bye, she has gone off believing about twice as much as the fact.
I was going to set her right when Carry came in. My only difficulty is
about taking orders; and she thinks I am going to be a Roman Catholic.
How absurd! but women will run on so; give an inch, and they take an
ell. I know nothing of the Roman Catholics. The simple question is,
whether I should go to the Bar or the Church. I declare, I think I have
made vastly too much of it myself. I ought to have begun this way with
her,--I ought to have said, 'D'you know, I have serious thoughts of
reading law?' I've made a hash of it."
Poor Mary, on the other hand, was in a confusion of thought and feeling
as painful as it was new to her; though for a time household matters and
necessary duties towards her younger sisters occupied her mind in a
different direction. She had been indeed taken at her word; little had
she expected what would come on her when she engaged to "take the
fretting, while he took the reading." She had known what grief was, not
so long ago; but not till now had she known anxiety. Charles's state of
mind was a matter of simple astonishment to her. At first it quite
frightened and shocked her; it was as if Charles had lost his identity,
and had turned out some one else. It was like a great breach of trust.
She had seen there was a good deal in the newspapers about the "Oxford
party" and their doings; and at different places, where she had been on
visits, she had heard of churches being done up in the new fashion, and
clergymen being accused, in consequence, of Popery--a charge which she
had laughed at. But now it was actually brought home to her door that
there was something in it. Yet it was to her incomprehensible, and she
hardly knew where she was. And that, of all persons in the world, her
brother, her own Charles, with whom she had been one heart and soul all
their lives--one so cheerful, so religious, so good, so sensible, so
cautious,--that he should be the first specimen that crossed her path of
the new opinions,--it bewildered her.
And where _had_ he got his notions?--Notions! she could not call them
notions; he had nothing to say for himself. It was an infatuation; he,
so clever, so sharp-sighted, could say nothing better in defence of
himself than that Mrs. Bishop of Monmouth was too pretty, and that old
Dr. Stock sat upon a cushion. Oh, sad, sad indeed! How was it he could
be so insensible to the blessings he gained from his Church, and had
enjoyed all his life? What could he need? _She_ had no need at all:
going to church was a pleasure to her. She liked to hear the Lessons and
the Collects, coming round year after year, and marking the seasons. The
historical books and prophets in summer; then the "stir-up" Collect just
before Advent; the beautiful Collects in Advent itself, with the Lessons
from Isaiah reaching on through Epiphany; they were quite music to the
ear. Then the Psalms, varying with every Sunday; they were a perpetual
solace to her, ever old yet ever new. The occasional additions, too--the
Athanasian Creed, the Benedictus, Deus misereatur, and Omnia opera,
which her father had been used to read at certain great feasts; and the
beautiful Litany. What could he want more? where could he find so much?
Well, it was a mystery to her; and she could only feel thankful that
_she_ was not exposed to the temptations, whatever they were, which had
acted on the powerful mind of her brother.
Then, she had anticipated how pleasant it would be when Charles was a
clergyman, and she should hear him preach; when there would be one whom
she would have a right to ask questions and to consult whenever she
wished. This prospect was at an end; she could no longer trust him: he
had given a shake to her confidence which it never could recover; it was
gone for ever. They were all of them women but he; he was their only
stay, now that her father had been taken away. What was now to become of
them? To be abandoned by her own brother! oh, how terrible!
And how was she to break it to her mother? for broken it must be sooner
or later. She could not deceive herself; she knew her brother well
enough to feel sure that, when he had really got hold of a thing, he
would not let it go again without convincing reasons; and what reasons
there could be for letting it go she could not conceive, if there could
be reasons for taking it up. The taking it up baffled all reason, all
calculation. Well, but how was her mother to be told of it? Was it
better to let her suspect it first, and so break it to her, or to wait
till the event happened? The problem was too difficult for the present,
and she must leave it.
This was her state for several days, till her fever of mind gradually
subsided into a state of which a dull anxiety was a latent but habitual
element, leaving her as usual at ordinary times, but every now and then
betraying itself by sudden sharp sighs or wanderings of thought. Neither
brother nor sister, loving each other really as much as ever, had quite
the same sweetness and evenness of temper as was natural to them;
self-control became a duty, and the evening circle was duller than
before, without any one being able to say why. Charles was more
attentive to his mother; he no more brought his books into the
drawing-room, but gave himself to her company. He read to them, but he
had little to talk about; and Eliza and Caroline both wished his stupid
examination, past and over, that he might be restored to his natural
liveliness.
As to Mrs. Reding, she did not observe more than that her son was a very
hard student, and grudged himself a walk or ride, let the day be ever so
fine. She was a mild, quiet person, of keen feelings and precise habits;
not very quick at observation; and, having lived all her life in the
country, and till her late loss having scarcely known what trouble was,
she was singularly unable to comprehend how things could go on in any
way but one. Charles had not told her the real cause of his spending the
winter at home, thinking it would be a needless vexation to her; much
less did he contemplate harassing her with the recital of his own
religious difficulties, which were not appreciable by her, and issued in
no definite result. To his sister he did attempt an explanation of his
former conversation, with a view of softening the extreme misgivings
which it had created in her mind. She received it thankfully, and
professed to be relieved by it; but the blow was struck, the suspicion
was lodged deep in her mind--he was still Charles, dear to her as ever,
but she never could rid herself of the anticipation which on that
occasion she had expressed.