CHAPTER XXI

MIRAGE

"He who has seen a city in the skies Knows he may never cool his tired eyes At the fair waters of that Paradise.

But the one moment when he thought his feet Would enter that dream-city, was so sweet That he can bear the noonday and its heat." --ALICE HERBERT.

The sky was clear and starry; the night was swept by the strong, clean current of the March wind, as the three men stepped out into Collis Square.

"How shall we get back?" asked Burmester, lighting his cigar. "Train, tube or bus?"

"I shall walk," said Brooke, with brevity.

They were standing just beneath a street lamp, whose strong light, falling on his face, showed it haggard and strained. Burmester did not observe it.

"You don't catch me!" he cried jovially, flinging away his light. "Come on, Bishop--leave that maniac to his own devices. Here's a hansom, the very thing."

The jingling cab pulled up at his signal, and he sprang in. "Rhodes Hotel!"

"All right, Burmester, I'm walking a bit with Brooke," said Mayne.

"The deuce you are! Nice trick to play on me!" cried Lance, as he was bowled away.

"Why can't you go with him, and leave me to myself?" growled Brooke, lighting a pipe with a hand that shook.

"Because I want your society, though it seems the desire is not mutual."

There was no reply. They tramped eastwards in silence, past the Marble Arch, down Park Lane into Grosvenor Square, and on into Berkeley Square, where suddenly Brooke said:

"I wish you would go."

"You're not playing fair," quietly replied Mayne. "Conspirators ought to share confidences."

"Confide away then."

"All right, I will. I am as pleased as I feel sure you must be, though you don't show it, at the result of your idea."

"Pleased!" echoed Brooke. "Pleased! ... Great Heaven! Pleased, are you? But then, you see, I am not you. Bishop, I know every line of her face, every tone of her voice, though I never heard but one in the old days! I know her as a man knows the land where he was born; and she could sit looking full at me across the table, and not know she had ever seen me! ... Man! How have I come through it?"

"Excellently. I don't understand you. Surely it is what you were hoping for, planning for--complete non-recognition? What would have happened if she had known you? You heard what she said to me about you?"

"Every word;" his voice sank to a despairing whisper.

"She is at least consistent," said Mayne.

An inarticulate murmur of assent.

"I don't think the non-recognition wonderful," went on Mayne. "You see, she never thought about you, or even looked at you attentively in old days. And think what you were like then! Not only the outer man has changed. Remember that I myself, when first I saw you without your beard, and without your slouch, and without your oaths--in your uniform, drilled into a self-respecting Englishman--I did not know you."

"But you did, as soon as I said: 'Don't you remember me?'"

"Exactly; because you did say so. But you have not said so to Miss Lutwyche; and don't you see that your very failure to do so would banish the idea of your possible identity from her mind? You come before her with looks, words, manners, your very nationality--all changed! An English landed proprietor! Doubtless she knows nothing of the great diamond find on the High Farm, nor of the fortune you have realised. The idea that you should adopt such a method of gaining access to her, would never strike her, it would not seem characteristic of her preconceived idea of you."

"I don't know how I got through," said the Captain brokenly. "When she came in, looking like an angel from God ... and passed me by and went up to you! By George, Mayne, she was right! It was you who saved her! But for you--"

"She was wrong; it was you," said Mayne. "She will probably never know the fight you made; women don't understand these things, and it is as well they don't. Things go like that in the world."

"She's beautiful, Mayne; don't you think so?"

Mayne laughed.

"I don't think her at all angelic," he replied, "but I will own that she seems to me less unlovable than I used to think her in Africa. Don't punch my head! ... Burmester admired her, I thought."

"Yes, confound him!"

"But you have made a splendid opening. The idea of the house was a masterly one. It gives you endless opportunities and a common interest. Only remember, you must keep yourself well in hand. As I warned you, the game is a dangerous one. One false move may cost you all."

"The worst is over now," returned the Captain. "The awfulness of feeling that she's everything to me, I a nightmare to her! I can still hardly believe she didn't know me."

"Everything was in your favour. She was full of my return, and of relief that it was I, not you. The silent Captain Brooke was a negligible quantity."

"She never looked at me squarely but once. That was in the middle of dinner. My heart nearly stopped. I had to lower my eyes lest they should say things. Ah, well; you're a good sort, and no mistake. I'm glad we've talked it out, though I was a sulky brute at first."

"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.