This was the first, the unworldly and perhaps deepest view of the matter.  In it Charles Verity allowed himself to rest, inactive for a space.  That there were, not one, but many other views of the said matter, very differently attuned and coloured he was perfectly well aware.  Soon these would leap on him, and that with an ugly clamour which he consciously turned from in repulsion and weary disgust.  For he was very tired, as he now realized.  The anxiety endured during his tedious cross-country journey, the distasteful tragic-comedy of the scene de seduction so artlessly made him by unlucky Theresa Bilsen, followed by this prolonged vigil; lastly the very real tragedy—­for such it in great measure remained and must remain—­of his interview with Damaris and the re-living of long buried drama that interview entailed, left him mentally and physically spent.  He fell away into meditation, mournful as it was indefinite, while the classic lament of another age and race formed itself silently upon his lips.

“Comprehenderunt me iniquitates meae, et non potui ut viderem.  Multiplicatae sunt super capillos capitis mei; et cor meum dereliquit me,” he quoted, in the plenitude of his existing discouragement.

At his time of life, he told himself, earth held no future; and in heaven—­as the Churches figure it—­namely, an adjustment of the balance on the other side death, his belief was of the smallest.  A sea of uncertainty, vast, limitless, laps the shores of the meagre island of the present—­which is all we actually have to our count.  Faith is a gift.—­You possess it, or you possess it not; yet without it—­

But here his attention was caught, and brought home to that very present, by a movement upon the bed and Damaris’ voice, asking tremulously: 

“Commissioner Sahib are you angry, too angry to speak to me?”

Whereupon Charles Verity got up, gathered back the curtain stuffing it in between the head board and the wall, and stood, tall, spare, yet graceful, looking down at her.  Whether from fatigue or from emotion, his expression was softer, his face less keen than usual, and the likeness between him and Darcy Faircloth proportionately and notably great.

“No, my dear,” he said, “why should I be angry?  What conceivable right have I to be angry?  As a man sows so does he reap.  I only reap to-day what I sowed eight or nine-and-twenty years ago—­a crop largely composed of tares, though among those tares I do find some modicum of wheat.  Upon that modest provision of wheat I must make shift to subsist with the best grace I may.  No, don’t cry, my darling.  It is useless.  Tears never yet altered facts.  You will only do yourself harm, and put a crown to my self-reproach.”

He sat down on the side of the bed, taking her hand, holding and coaxing it.