ted about; all was in
unison with the state of his feelings. He re-entered the monastic
buildings, meeting with nothing but scouts with boxes of cinders, and
old women carrying off the remains of the kitchen. He crossed to the
Meadow, and walked steadily down to the junction of the Cherwell with
the Isis; he then turned back. What thoughts came upon him! for the last
time! There was no one to see him; he threw his arms round the willows
so dear to him, and kissed them; he tore off some of their black leaves
and put them in his bosom. "I am like Undine," he said, "killing with a
kiss. No one cares for me; scarce a person knows me." He neared the Long
Walk again. Suddenly, looking obliquely into it, he saw a cap and gown;
he looked anxiously; it was Jennings: there was no mistake; and his
direction was towards him. Charles always had felt kindly towards him,
in spite of his sternness, but he would not meet him for the world; what
was he to do? he stood behind a large elm, and let him pass; then he set
off again at a quick pace. When he had got some way, he ventured to turn
his head round; and he saw Jennings at the moment, by that sort of
fatality or sympathy which is so common, turning round towards him. He
hurried on, and soon found himself again at his inn.

Strange as it may seem, though he had on the whole had as good success
as Carlton in the "keen encounter of their wits" the night before, it
had left an unsatisfactory effect on his mind. The time for action was
come; argument was past, as he had himself said; and to recur to
argument was only to confuse the clearness of his apprehension of the
truth. He began to question whether he really had evidence enough for
the step he was taking, and the temptation assailed him that he was
giving up this world without gaining the next. Carlton evidently thought
him excited; what if it were true? Perhaps his convictions were, after
all, a dream; what did they rest upon? He tried to recall his best
arguments, and could not. Was there, after all, any such thing as truth?
Was not one thing as good as another? At all events, could he not have
served God well in his generation, where he had been placed? He
recollected some lines in the Ethics of Aristotle, quoted by the
philosopher from an old poet, in which the poor outcast Philoctetes
laments over his own stupid officiousness, as he calls it, which had
been the cause of his misfortunes. Was he not a busybody too? Why could
he no