On the other hand, he couldn't bear, either, to display it openly, and
thereby become, as the matter envisaged itself to his mind, a direct
preacher of evolutionism--that is to say, of irreligion and immorality. With what face could he ever rise and exhibit at a scientific meeting
this evident proof that the whole universe was a black chaos, a gross
materialistic blunder, a festering mass of blank corruption, without
purpose, soul, or informing righteousness? His entire moral being rose
up within him in bitter revolt at the bare notion of such cold-blooded
treachery. To give a long-winded Latin classificatory name, forsooth, to
a thing that would destroy the faith of ages! At last, after long
pondering, he determined to carry the slab carefully home inside his
coat, and hide it away sedulously for the present in the cupboard of his
little physiological laboratory. He would think the matter over, he
would take time to consider, he would ask humbly for light and guidance. But of whom? Well, well, at any rate, there was no necessity for
precipitate action. To Cyril Milliter's excited fancy, the whole future
of human thought and belief seemed bound up inextricably at that moment
in the little slab of lithographic slate that lay before him; and he
felt that he need be in no hurry to let loose the demon of scepticism
and sin (as it appeared to him) into the peaceful midst of a still
happily trusting and unsuspecting humanity. He put his hand into his pocket, casually, to pull out his handkerchief
for a covering to the thing, and, as he did so, his fingers happened to
touch the familiar clasp of his little pocket Bible. The touch thrilled
him strangely, and inspired him at once with a fresh courage. After all,
he had the Truth there also, and he couldn't surely be doing wrong in
consulting its best and most lasting interests. It was for the sake of
the Truth that he meant for the present to conceal his compromising
fossil. So he wrapped up the slab as far as he was able in his
handkerchief, and hid it away, rather clumsily, under the left side of
his coat. It bulged a little, no doubt; but by keeping his arm flat to
his side he was able to cover it over decently somehow. Thus he walked
back quickly to Mortiscombe, feeling more like a thief with a stolen
purse in his pocket than he had ever before felt in the whole course of
his earthly existence. When he reached his own house, he would not ring, lest Netta should run
to open the door for him, and throw her arms round him, and feel the
horrid thing (how could he show it even to Netta after this morning's
sermon? ), but he went round to the back door, opened it softly, and
glided as quietly as he could into the laboratory. Not show it to
Netta--that was bad: he had always hitherto shown her and told her
absolutely everything. How about the Truth? He was doing this, he
believed, for the Truth's sake; and yet, the very first thing that it
imposed upon him was the necessity for an ugly bit of unwonted
concealment. Not without many misgivings, but convinced on the whole
that he was acting for the best, he locked the slab of oolite up,
hurriedly and furtively, in the corner cupboard. He had hardly got it safely locked up out of sight, and seated himself
as carelessly as he could in his easy chair, when Netta knocked softly
at the door. She always knocked before entering, by force of habit, for
when Cyril was performing delicate experiments it often disturbed him,
or spoilt the result, to have the door opened suddenly. Netta had seen
him coming, and wondered why he had slunk round by the back door: now
she wondered still more why he did not "report himself," as he used to
call it, by running to kiss her and announce his return. "Come in," he said gravely, in answer to the knock; and Netta entered. Cyril jumped up and kissed her tenderly, but her quick woman's eye saw
at once that there was something serious the matter. "You didn't ring,
Cyril darling," she said, half reproachfully, "and you didn't come to
kiss your wifie." "No," Cyril answered, trying to look quite at his ease (a thing at which
the most innocent man in the world is always the worst possible
performer), "I was in a hurry to get back here, as there was something
in the way of my work I wanted particularly to see about." "Why, Cyril," Netta answered in surprise; "your work! It's Sunday." Cyril blushed crimson. "So it is," he answered hastily; "upon my word,
I'd quite forgotten it. Goodness gracious, Netta, shall I have to go
down to meeting and preach again to those people this evening?" "Preach again? Of course you will, Cyril. You always do, dear, don't
you?" Cyril started back with a sigh. "I can't go to-night, Netta darling," he
said wearily. "I can't preach to-night. I'm too tired and out of
sorts--I'm not at all in the humour for preaching. We must send down
somehow or other, and put off the brethren." Netta looked at him in blank dismay. She felt in her heart there was
something wrong, but she wouldn't for worlds ask Cyril what it was,
unless he chose to tell her of his own accord. Still, she couldn't help
reading in his eyes that there was something the matter: and the more
she looked into them, the more poor Cyril winced and blinked and looked
the other way in the vain attempt to seem unconcerned at her searching
scrutiny. "I'll send Mary down with a little written notice," she said
at last, "to fix on the door: 'Mr. Milliter regrets he will be unable,
through indisposition, to attend worship at Patmos this evening.' Will
that do, Cyril?" "Yes," he answered uneasily. "That'll do, darling. I don't feel quite
well, I'm afraid, somehow, after my unusual exertions this morning." Netta looked at him hard, but said nothing. They went into the drawing-room and for a while they both pretended to
be reading. Then the maid brought up the little tea-tray, and Cyril was
obliged to lay down the book he had been using as a screen for his
crimson face, and to look once more straight across the room at Netta. "Cyril," the little wife began again, as she took over his cup of tea to
his easy chair by the bow window, and set it down quietly on the tiny
round table beside him, "where did you go this afternoon?" "On the Downs, darling." "And whom did you meet there?" "Nobody, Netta." "Nobody, Cyril?" "No, nobody." Netta knew she could trust his word implicitly, and asked him no
further. Still, a dreadful cloud was slowly rising up before her. She
felt too much confidence in Cyril to be really jealous of him in any
serious way; but her fears, womanlike, took that personal shape in
which she fancied somebody or something must be weaning away her
husband's love gradually from her. Had he seen some girl at a distance
on the Downs, some one of the Mortiscombe ladies, with whom perhaps he
had had some little flirtation in the days gone by--some lady whom he
thought now would have made him a more suitable, companionable wife than
poor little Netta?