"I am in earnest too," said Nap. "But you needn't be afraid of me on that account. I may be a savage, but I'm not despicable. If I take more than you are prepared to offer it's only because I know it to be my own." He bent towards her, trying to see her face. "My own, Anne!" he said again very softly. "My own!"

But at his movement she drew back sharply, with a gesture of such instinctive, such involuntary recoil, that in an instant she knew that she had betrayed that which she had sought to hide.

He stiffened as if at a blow, and she saw his hands clench. In the silence that followed she stood waiting for the storm to burst, waiting for his savagery to tear asunder all restraining bonds and leap forth in devilish fury. But--by what means she knew not--he held it back.

"So," he said at last, his voice very low, "the Queen has no further use for her jester!"

Her heart smote her. What had she done? She felt as if she had cruelly wounded a friend. But because he demanded of her more than friendship, she dared not attempt to allay the hurt. She stood silent.

"Can't you find another _role_ for me?" he said. "You will find it difficult to exclude me altogether from the cast."

Something in his tone pierced her, compelled her. She glanced up swiftly, met his eyes, and was suddenly caught, as it were, in fiery chains, so that she could not look away. And there before her the gates of h.e.l.l opened, and she saw a man's soul in torment. She saw the flames mount higher and higher, scorching and shrivelling and destroying, till at last she could bear the sight no longer. She covered her face with her hands and blotted it out.

"Oh, Nap," she moaned, "if you love me--if you love me--"

"If I love you--" he said.

He put his hand on her shoulder and she trembled from head to foot.

"Prove your love!" she whispered, her face still hidden.

He stood awhile motionless, still with his hand upon her. But at last it fell away.

"You doubt my love then?" he said, and his voice sounded strange to her, almost cold. "You think my love is unworthy of you? You have--lost faith in me?"

She was silent.

"Is it so?" he persisted. "Tell me the truth. I may as well know it. You think--because I am not what Capper would, term a thoroughbred--that I am incapable of love. Isn't that so?"

But still she did not answer him. Only, being free, she turned to the garden-seat and sank down upon it, her arms stretched along the back, her head bowed low.

He began to pace up and down like a caged animal, pausing each time he pa.s.sed her, and each time moving on again as if invisibly urged. At last very suddenly he stopped with his back to her, and stood like a statue in the moonlight.

She did not look at him. She was too near the end of her strength. Her heart was beating very slowly, like a run-down watch. She felt like an old, old woman, utterly tired of life. And she was cold--cold from head to foot.

Minutes pa.s.sed. Somewhere away in the night an owl hooted, and Nap turned his head sharply, as one accustomed to take note of every sound.

A while longer he stood, seeming to listen, every limb alert and tense, then swiftly he wheeled and gazed full at the drooping woman's figure on the bench.

Slowly his att.i.tude changed. Something that was b.e.s.t.i.a.l went out of it; something that was human took its place. Quietly at length he crossed the moonlit s.p.a.ce that intervened between them, reached her, knelt beside her.

"Anne," he said, and all her life she remembered the deep melancholy of his voice, "I am a savage--a brute--a devil. But I swear that I have it in me to love you--as you deserve to be loved. Won't you have patience with me? Won't you give me a chance--the only chance I've ever had--of getting above myself, of learning what love can be? Won't you trust me with your friendship once more? Believe me, I'm not all brute."

She thrilled like a dead thing waked to life. Her dread of the man pa.s.sed away like an evil dream, such was the magic he had for her. She slipped one of her cold hands down to him.

He caught it, bowed his head upon it, pressed it against his eyes, then lifted his face and looked up at her.

"It is not the end then? You haven't given me up in disgust?"

And she answered him in the only way possible to her. "I will be your friend still, only--only let there never again be any talk of love between us. That alone will end our friendship. Can I trust you? Nap, can I?"

He jerked back his head at the question, and showed her his face in the full moonlight. And she saw that his eyes were still and pa.s.sionless, unfathomable as a mountain pool.

"If you can bring yourself--if you will stoop--to kiss me," he said, "I think you will know."

She started at the words, but she knew instantly that she had nought to fear. His voice was as steady as his eyes. He asked this thing of her as a sign of her forgiveness, of her friendship, of her trust; and every generous impulse urged her to grant it. She knew that if she refused he would get up and go away, cut to the heart. She seemed to feel him pleading with her, earnestly beseeching her, reasoning against prejudice, against the shackles of conventionality, against reason itself. And through it all her love for the man throbbed at the very heart of her, overriding all doubt.

She leaned towards him; she laid her hands upon his shoulders.

"In token of my trust!" she said, and bent to kiss his forehead.

But he gave her his lips instead--the thin, cynical lips that were wont to smile so bitterly. There was no bitterness about them now. They were only grave to sternness. And so, after a moment, she kissed him as he wished, and he kissed her in return.

Afterwards, he rose in unbroken silence, and went away.

CHAPTER VI

THE BURIAL OF A HATCHET

During the weeks that followed, something of her former tranquillity came back to Anne. It was evident that Nap was determined to show himself worthy of her trust, for never by word or look did he make the slightest reference to what had pa.s.sed between them. He came and went after his customary sudden fashion. He never informed any one of his movements, nor did even Lucas know when he might be expected at Baronmead. But his absences were never of long duration, and Anne met him fairly frequently.

She herself was more at leisure now than she had been for years, for Lucas had found an agent for her and the sole care of her husband's estate no longer lay upon her. She spent much of her time with Mrs.

Errol. Her happiest hours were those she spent with Lucas and his mother in the great music-room at Baronmead. It was here also that she learned to know of that hidden, vital quant.i.ty, elusive as flame, that was Nap Errol's soul. For here he would often join them, and the music he drew from his violin, weirdly pa.s.sionate, with a pathos no words could ever utter, was to Anne the very expression of the man's complex being. There were times when she could hardly hear that wild music of his without tears. It was like the crying of something that was lost.

Often, after having accompanied him for a long time, she would take her hands from the piano and sit silent with a strange and bitter sense of impotence, as if he were leading whither she could not follow. And Nap would play on and on in the quiet room, as though he played for her alone, with the sure hand of a master upon the quivering strings of her woman's heart.

But he never spoke to her of love. His eyes conveyed no message at any time. His straight gaze was impenetrable. He never even touched her hand unless she offered it to him. And gradually her confidence in him grew stronger. The instinct that bade her beware of him ceased to disquiet her. She found herself able to meet him without misgiving, believing that he had conquered himself for her sake, believing that he bowed to the inevitable and was willing to content himself with her friendship.

Undoubtedly a change had pa.s.sed over him. Lucas was aware of it also, felt it in his very touch, marked it a hundred times in the gentleness of his speech and action. He attributed it to the influence of a good woman.

It seemed that Nap had found his soul at last.

Bertie alone marked it with uneasiness, but Bertie was no impartial critic. He had distrusted Nap, not without reason, from his boyhood. But matters of a more personal nature were occupying his attention at that time, and he did not bestow much of it upon home affairs. For some reason he had begun to study in earnest, and was reading diligently for the English Bar.

Perhaps Mrs. Errol could have pierced the veil of civilisation in which Nap had wrapped himself had she desired to do so, but she was the last person in the world to attempt such an invasion. There never had been the faintest streak of sympathy between them. Neither was there any tangible antagonism, for each by mutual consent avoided all debatable ground. But there existed very curiously a certain understanding each of the other which induced respect if it did not inspire confidence. Without deliberately avoiding each other they yet never deliberately came in contact, and, though perfectly friendly in their relations, neither ever offered to cross the subtle dividing line that stretched between them.

They were content to be acquaintances merely.

Anne often marvelled in private at Mrs. Errol's att.i.tude towards her adopted son, but the subject was never mentioned between them. Often she would recall Capper's words and wonder if they had expressed the literal truth. She wondered, too, what Capper would say to his ally when he returned at the end of the summer and found the charge he had laid upon her unfulfilled. But, after all, Capper was scarcely more than a stranger, and it seemed to her, upon mature reflection, that he had been inclined to exaggerate the whole matter. She did not believe that Lucas's welfare depended upon Nap's absence. Indeed, there were times when it actually seemed to her that he relied upon Nap for support that none other could give. Moreover, he was growing daily stronger, and this of itself seemed proof sufficient that Nap was at least no hindrance to his progress. She knew also that Nap was using his utmost influence to persuade him to undergo the operation when Capper should return in September; but she had no opportunity for furthering his efforts, for Lucas never referred to the matter in her hearing. If he had yet made his decision he imparted it to none. He seemed to her to be like a soldier awaiting orders to move, with that steadfast patience which had become his second nature. She knew that he would never act upon impulse, and she admired him for it.

Dot, who heard all from Bertie, wondered how he could ever hesitate. But Dot was young and possessed of an abundant energy which knew no flagging.

Her vigorous young life was full of schemes, and she knew not what it was to stand and wait. She was keenly engaged just then in company with Mrs.

Damer, Mrs. Randal, and a few more, in organising an entertainment in support of the Town Hall and Reading Club, to which Lucas Errol had promised his liberal support. It was no secret that he had offered to supply the whole of the necessary funds, but, as Dot remarked, it was not to be a charity and Baronford was not so poor-spirited as to be entirely dependent upon American generosity. So Lucas was invited to give his substantial help after Baronford had helped itself, which Dot was fully determined it should do to the utmost of its capacity.

Many schemes were in consequence discussed and rejected before the Town Hall Committee finally decided in favour of amateur theatricals.

Here again Lucas Errol's a.s.sistance was cordially invited, since no place suitable for such an entertainment existed in Baronford. It was naively intimated to him by Dot that he might provide the theatre and the scenery, so that the profits might be quite unenc.u.mbered.