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 passionless, 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 passed 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.