“Then why are you not a follower of Thomas Aquinas into the revealed religion?” asked Conyers. Bulstrode was silent a moment, sighing heavily. “Because--because--Thomas Aquinas leads me inevitably into the field of morals. You see, all rational religions are deuced moral, and that’s what keeps me away from ’em. I tell you, Conyers, that if you had led such a life as I have, you’d be glad enough to think that it was all over when the blood stopped circulating and the breath ceased. My awful doubt is, that it’s all _true_--that it doesn’t stop; that not only life goes on forever, but that the terribly hard rules laid down by that peasant in Galilee are, after all, the code for humanity, and then--great God! what is to become of us?” Bulstrode stopped again and wiped his brow. “You see,” he continued, in some agitation, after a moment, “you want it to be true--you dread that it can’t be true--you are tormented with doubts and harassed with questions. _I_ don’t want it to be true. I believe with Aristotle that there is a Great First Principle. I can be convinced by my reason of that; and I think there is overwhelming presumptive proof of the immortality of the soul; but then--there may be more, there may be more. The Jewish carpenter, with that wonderful code of morals, may be right, after all, and I am sincerely afraid of it; and if I went all the way of the road with Thomas Aquinas, I should reach, perhaps, a terrible certainty. Talk about Wat Bulstrode being pure of heart, and keeping himself unspotted from the world, and loving them who do him evil--and the whole code in its awful beauty--why, if that be true, then I am the most miserable man alive! Sometimes I tell myself, if that code were lived up to the social system would go to pieces; and then it occurs to me, that ideal was made purposely so divine that there was not the slightest danger of the poor human creetur’ ever reaching it, in this place of wrath and tears; that the most he can do is to reach towards it, and _that_ lifts him immeasurably. But that very impossible perfection, like everything else about it, is unique, solitary, creative. All other codes of morals are possible--all lawgivers appoint a limit to human patience, forbearance; but this strange code does not. And that’s why I say I am afraid--I’m afraid it’s true.” Conyers sat looking--looking straight before him. He feared it was not true, and Bulstrode feared it was true; and he asked himself if anything more indicative of the vast gulf between two beings of the same species could be conceived. Bulstrode began again. His head was sunk on his breast, and he seemed to fall into the deepest dejection.