"H'm! Yes; Melicent might think the change in you not so deep if she had heard your way with me this evening," said his friend drily. "The old Bert is still there, in spite of all the polish."
Bert laughed as he strode on, with his long, swinging step. He made a fine tribute to the creative powers of Sergeant What's-his-name. There had been good material to work upon, and the right kind of training; and the result was something like a miracle.
In the old days, Mayne had realised that this man was something out of the common: but even he had not been prepared for his persistence, nor for his wonderful flair for knowing the right men, reading the right books, doing the right thing. During all these five years, no week had passed without the exchange of letters between those two. Mayne had sent up books, had cheered and inspired his pupil, had never let him feel that nobody cared. Bert had bent all the powers of his strong mind and still stronger will towards the attainment of his one idea. His life had been a life of monastic purity, of iron self-control, of self-denial and constant effort. It was hard for the priest to believe that such a wonderful thing could fail of its reward. But he had been troubled at what Melicent said that evening. He almost made up his mind that he would tell her something of what her influence had meant to Bert. But his final decision was for complete inaction in this most delicate matter. Bert must fight his own battle, and win his own victory. The time had come for his friend to stand aside.
Far into the night Mayne was considering the case. He, with his unusual insight into souls, had found a certain egotism and hardness in Melicent. The hardness was inherent—it had always been there; and her present life of independence and success was likely to foster it. Did she know, at that moment, that a man was in London who had spent five laborious years in fitting himself for her conquest, as a nation may equip itself for a great campaign—and who was bent solely upon that quest—he felt pretty certain that her only impulse would be to escape from him, to guard her own freedom, to determine resolutely never to be enslaved.
Would the constancy and persistence of the man be a match for the hardness and self-will of the woman?
He thought Bert might stand a better chance of winning, were it not for the bitter memories which were bound up in the girl's mind with him. That she should long remain in ignorance of his identity was inconceivable: and when she recognised him—what then?
Bert was his own spiritual son; his desire for his success was intense. But now that he had seen Melicent, he was full of doubts. Carefully as Bert had educated himself, the gulf between them was still wide.
He could do nothing but pray.