Feathers drove like a man in a dream. Everything seemed so unreal and impossible. He wondered what the end of it all would be.
It was only four o'clock when he reached the inn, but Marie was not there. He supposed he could hardly have expected her to be, seeing that he had not told her to meet him until eight that evening.
He remembered how he had calculated that it would be dark and that they could make their escape under cover of the friendly night. His whole soul writhed now as he thought of it. The shame of what he had done overwhelmed him.
He never knew how he got through the long hours. He could not keep still for a moment. In and out he wandered, looking up and down the long road by which she must come.
It seemed to get dark early. The river flowed close to the inn, and a curious gray mist rose from the fields and the water till almost a fog lay over the countryside.
Feathers suffered the tortures of the damned. His heart was sick with mingled dread and longing. One moment he was praying that she would not come, that at the last moment she would change her mind and not dare to face it, and the next his soul was in agony lest he should never see her again. A thousand times he went into the quiet little inn parlor and looked at the clock. It was five minutes to eight, and he had told Chris to be there at half-past seven! It had seemed the only way! If Chris came, between them they could tell her the whole story, but the clock struck the hour and there was no sign of Chris, no sign of Marie.
Feathers went to the door again. He was shaking as if with ague and his lips were like ice.
Had anything happened to her? He thought he should go mad with dread. He paced back into the inn again. Perhaps the clock was wrong—perhaps . . .
"Mr. Dakers," said a timid voice, and he turned slowly to find Marie beside him.