His was an orderly solid mind that could not do with
cracks and holes in it, trimness, neatness, and firmness of outer wall
were necessary to its well-being; openness to windy doubts ruined it.
He felt that an accidental universe was the wrong box for it. He
wanted to believe in the God who created order out of chaos, the God
who settled cut-and-dried plans for the whole of creation--yes, the
God made in man's image, and yet the Maker and Ruler of man.
And some days he did believe, and some days he couldn't. But all at
once an idea came, first soothing then cheering him. He thought:
"Whether I believe or not, I'll take it for granted. I'll act as if
God is real."
He did so, acting as if God were believed in as truly by him as by the
most stanch believers. He clung to the idea. It seemed to be the way
out of all his troubles. He would make peace with God--then there
would be no need to bother about men, or offer any confession of his
guilt to _them_.
He grew calmer now. Doing things had always suited him better than
brooding over things. His new determination illuminated the reason for
reckless adventures, and lifted their purpose to a higher plane. He
thought now that he held his life at God's will--to be given back to
God at a moment's notice.
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