So he had waited for her, expecting her every moment, refusing to believe
the truth that nevertheless had forced itself upon him at the last. So
now he waited for her grandson--the boy with her beauty, her quick and
generous charm, her passionate, emotional nature--to come back to him.
And yet again he waited in vain.
Piers had gone forth in fierce anger, driven by that devil that had
descended to him through generations of stiff-necked ancestors; and for
the first time in all his hot young life he had not returned repentant.
"I treated him like a dog, egad," murmured Sir Beverley into the
shielding hand. "But he'll come back. He always comes back, the scamp."
But the minutes crawled by, the night-wind rustled and passed; and still
Piers did not come.
It was hard on midnight when Sir Beverley suddenly raised both hands to
his mouth and sent a shrill, peculiar whistle through them across the
quiet garden. It had been his special call for Piers in his childhood.
Even as he sent it out into the darkness, he seemed to see the sturdy,
eager little figure that had never failed to answer that summons with
delight racing headlong towards him over the dim, dewy lawn.
But to-night it brought no answer though he repeated it again and yet
again; and as twelve o'clock struck heavily upon the stillness he turned
from the window and groaned aloud.
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