The weariest nights, the longest days, sooner or later must perforce come to an end. Marguerite had spent over fifteen hours in such acute mental torture as well-nigh drove her crazy.
After a sleepless night, she rose early, wild with excitement, dying to start on her journey, terrified lest further obstacles lay in her way. She rose before anyone else in the house was astir, so frightened was she, lest she should miss the one golden opportunity of making a start.
When she came downstairs, she found Sir Andrew Ffoulkes sitting in the coffee-room. He had been out half an hour earlier, and had gone to the Admiralty Pier, only to find that neither the French packet nor any privately chartered vessel could put out of Dover yet.
The storm was then at its fullest, and the tide was on the turn. If the wind did not abate or change, they would perforce have to wait another ten or twelve hours until the next tide, before a start could be made.
And the storm had not abated, the wind had not changed, and the tide was rapidly drawing out. Marguerite felt the sickness of despair when she heard this melancholy news.
Only the most firm resolution kept her from totally breaking down, and thus adding to the young man’s anxiety, which evidently had become very keen.
Though he tried to disguise it, Marguerite could see that Sir Andrew was just as anxious as she was to reach his comrade and friend. This enforced inactivity was terrible to them both. How they spent that wearisome day at Dover, Marguerite could never afterwards say.
She was in terror of showing herself, lest Chauvelin’s spies happened to be about, so she had a private sitting-room, and she and Sir Andrew sat there hour