"I puzzle a good deal upon the subject, and life often flings it uppermost," answered Bullstone. "In fact so are we built, through education of conscience, that it's impossible to go very far without being brought up against God. How often in my secret times of pain do I catch the Name on my tongue? How often do I say 'My God, my God, what have I done?' I ask Him that question by night and day. A silly question, too, for I know what I've done as well as God can. But I know what I've suffered far better than He can. I went on hoping and hoping, as you bade me, last year. I went hoping, with one eye on God, like a rat that creeps out of his hole with one eye on the dog hard by. But the game had to be played out by inches. He knew that Margery was dying, a few miles away, and He kept it secret from me and didn't let me hear till it was too late. He planned it, so that I should just be there after the very last breath was breathed, should touch her before she was cold, should miss her by seconds. And she longing—longing to come back to me—to save me. What should we call that if a man had done it—eh, William?"
"Come and look at my bees, Jacob. A brave swarm yesterday, and poor Sammy Winter took 'em for me with all the cleverness of a sane man."
"Mysteries everywhere. People pity Samuel. I don't—not now, I did once, because it's the fashion to think anybody's lacking reason is a sad sight. Why? Brains are like money—poison so often as not. My brains have poisoned me—fretted and festered and burnt out my soul like an acid. The more I see of the wild, innocent creatures, the more I feel that reason's not all we think it, William. You can't fetter the soul down to reason. What has reason done for me? The little comfort I get now is outside reason. Reason only goads me into wanting to end it and make away with myself. That would be the reasonable thing. What happened yesterday? Auna found a rhyme book that belonged to my wife. And in that book was a sprig of white heath I picked for her on a wonderful day we had, just after she had promised to marry me. There it was faded to brown—more than twenty years old. And what else did Auna find? Between the pages she found the crumbs of a little sweet biscuit—a sort of a little biscuit, William, that Margery loved. Where's the reason when a crumb of wheat can stab the soul deeper than a sword? And what then? What did Auna say? Nothing in reason, God knows. 'Father,' she said, 'you and me will eat these crumbs—then we'll have shared the biscuit with dear mother.' A holy sacrament—yes, faith—'holy's' not too strong a word. We ate the crumbs, and there was a strange, mad comfort in it; and the child smiled and it made her happier too. You could see it in her face. Why? Why? All darkness—no answer. And the little verse book, with the heather bloom, will be in my breast pocket now till I die—never out of reach of my hand—warmed daily by my warmth. Why? Can reason tell me? No—it's only because I'm gone below reason, William."
"Or it might be above it, my son."
"Such things make your head whirl. If there's to be happiness in heaven, we mustn't be built like we are here. Fear must be left out of us and the power of remembering. We must be suffered to forget earth, William; yet, what would that make of heaven? Nothing. It all tumbles to pieces whichever way you think of it, for reason, whether it is a good or evil thing, makes heaven a wilderness."
"Don't you fret your wits with such stuff, for it won't help you to patience or wisdom."
"No, it won't bring the dead to life, or lift the brand from me. But I thresh it out by night and see great things heave up in my mind. Then, when I jump to put them into words, they fade and I lose them. Reason may be the work of the devil—his master-stroke to turn us from salvation. You can't be damned without it; but you can be saved without it. Or would you say a man can't have a soul to be saved, until he is a reasonable creature, built to separate good from evil and choose the right? No doubt it's well understood by deep men. My mind turns in and feeds on itself, William, because there's nothing left outside to feed on."
"You must come back to your appointed task. You must keep doing good things. You must do more and think less."
"I'm going up to Huntingdon with Auna this afternoon."
"And let her talk to you. Don't think her words are worthless. You've got a nice bit of your wife left in Auna. Always remember that."