The night was fast approaching—a bitter, cheerless night with a driving wind that seemed to promise snow. It was growing darker every moment. Only her window shone like a beacon in the gloom. How long would he have to wait? How long? How long?
He had brought a doctor with him in obedience to Mrs. Lorimer’s message, transmitting Tudor’s desire. Tudor was not satisfied. He wanted Maxwell Wyndham, the great surgeon—a man still comparatively young in years but high in his profession—a man in whose presence—so it was said—no patient ever died. That of course was an exaggeration—some hysterical woman’s tribute to his genius. But genius he undoubtedly possessed and that of a very high order.
If anyone could save her, it would be Maxwell Wyndham. So Piers told himself each time he turned in his endless pacing and looked at that lighted window. Tudor believed in him. And—yes, he believed in him also. There had been something in the great man’s attitude, something of arrogant self-assurance that had inspired him with confidence almost against his will. He had watched him saunter up the stairs with his hands thrust into his pockets and an air of limitless leisure pervading his every movement, and he had been exasperated by the man’s deliberation and subtly comforted at the same time. He was thankful that he had been able to secure him.
Ah, what was that? A cry in the night! The weird, haunting screech of an owl! He ridiculed himself for the sudden wild thumping of his heart. But would they never call him? This suspense was tearing at the very roots of his being.
Away in the distance a dog was barking, fitfully, peevishly—the bark of a chained animal. Piers stopped in his walk and cursed the man who had chained him. Then—as though driven by an invisible goad—he pressed on, walking resolutely with his back turned upon the lighted window, forcing himself to pace the whole length of the terrace.
He had nearly reached the further end when a sudden fragrance swept across his path—pure, intoxicating, exquisitely sweet. Violets! The violets that grew in the great bed under the study-window! The violets that Sir Beverley’s bride had planted fifty years ago!
The thought of his grandfather went through him like a stab through the heart. He clenched his hands and held his breath while the spasm passed. Never since the night Victor had summoned Avery to comfort him, had he felt so sick a longing for the old man’s presence. For a few lingering seconds it was almost more than he could bear. Then he turned about and faced the chill night-wind and that lighted window, and the anguish of his vigil drove out all other griefs. How long had he yet to wait? How long? How long?
There came a low call behind him on the terrace. He wheeled, strangling a startled exclamation in his throat. A man’s figure—a broad, powerful figure—lounged towards him. He seemed to be wearing carpet slippers, for he made no sound. It was Maxwell Wyndham, and Piers’ heart ceased to beat. He stood as if turned to stone. All the blood in his body seemed to be singing in his ears. His head was burning, the rest of him cold—cold as ice. He would have moved to meet the advancing figure, but he could not stir. He could only stop and listen to that maddening tarantella beating out in his fevered brain.