Shaw had desired of him, that is to say as one who wished
neither to believe nor disbelieve, but cared only about finding out
whether he ought to believe or no. The more he read in this spirit the
more the balance seemed to lie in favour of unbelief, till, in the
end, all further doubt became impossible, and he saw plainly enough
that, whatever else might be true, the story that Christ had died,
come to life again, and been carried from earth through clouds into
the heavens could not now be accepted by unbiassed people. It was well
he had found it out so soon. In one way or another it was sure to meet
him sooner or later. He would probably have seen it years ago if he
had not been hoodwinked by people who were paid for hoodwinking him.
What should he have done, he asked himself, if he had not made his
present discovery till years later, when he was more deeply
committed to the life of a clergyman? Should he have had the courage
to face it, or would he not more probably have evolved some
excellent reason for continuing to think as he had thought hitherto?
Should he have had the courage to break away even from his present
curacy?
He thought not, and knew not whether to be more thankful for
having been shown his error or for having been caught up and twisted
round so that he could hardly err further, almost at the very moment
of his having discovered it.
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