MISTRESS FAWCETT. If she knew that Hamilton was on Nevis an hour before
the guns were fired! As like as not he helped to fire them, for he is a
guest at the Fort. If I had not commanded him to go when he came this
afternoon, he would be here now. Thank heaven, no man could breast this
hurricane and live! I know her! I know her--little as she thinks it!
Will she continue to obey me? And after I am dead? Ah! Do I allow myself
to fear aught in this hurricane, I shall never see the morning. (She
presses her hand hard against her heart, and composes herself.)
[Rachael returns. She pours out a drink and forces her mother to take
it, while her own head is erect and listening. Her nostrils dilate; one
can almost see her ears quiver. The wind increases every moment in
violence. In it may now be heard a peculiar monotonous rattle, the
agitation of seeds in the dry pods of the "giant" tree.]
RACHAEL. Did you see? I had but a glimpse, but hours could not have made
the picture more vivid. I could _see_ the great wind. The tops of the
palms are flying about like Brobdingnagian birds, their long blades
darting out like infuriated tongues. I saw the oranges flung about in a
great game of battledore and shuttlecock--as if the hurricane remembered
to play in its fury! I saw men shrieking at the masts of a ship. Their
puny lives! Why are they not glad to die so splendid a death?
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Thank God, Hamilton is not here!
RACHAEL. I tell you that, if he were, the greatest man of his time would
one day call you grandam.
MISTRESS FAWCETT (rising with energy). Hark ye, Rachael! Calm yourself!
You have had your hour of wildness. I understand your mood--the relief,
the delight to give to the storm what you cannot give to Hamilton. But
enough! I can stand no more. I am old. My heart is nearly worn out. If
the storm unnerves me, I am undone.
RACHAEL. Very well, mother. I will put my soul back in its coffin--if I
can. This is a favorable moment. There is a lull.
MISTRESS FAWCETT (she seats herself again). Come here, Rachael.
(Rachael, who has apparently calmed herself, approaches and stands
beside her mother. She tenderly rearranges the old woman's hair, which
fell from her cap during her struggle with the blind.) Rachael, these
hours, I repeat, may be our last on earth. This house is old. The
hurricane may uproot it. Like you, I am not afraid to die. Indeed, I
should welcome death to-night if I could take you with me. Bitterer than
any pain has been the thought of leaving you alone in the world. I am
glad you have broken the silence you imposed. I never could have broken
it. I ask you now to forgive me, and I acknowledge that I alone was
responsible for the tragedy of your married life. That I was deceived is
no excuse. I am reckoned more astute than most. I should have known that
behind that white and purring exterior was a cruel and hideous
voluptuary. But I had known Danes all my life, and respected them, and
you were the child of my old age. I knew that I had not long to live.
But I am not making excuses. I ask you humbly to forgive me.
RACHAEL. Forgive you! I have been bred in philosophy, and I have always
loved you perfectly.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Ah! I did not know. Until to-night you have been so
reticent. And silent people think--think--
RACHAEL. I have thought, but never to blame you. And what is past is
past. I waste no time on what cannot be undone. The soul must have its
education, and part of that is to be torn up by the roots, trampled,
beaten, crucified. Let me hope that, having had that course at the
beginning of my life, I have had it once for all.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. There are worse things than a loveless marriage with a
brute. One is to love a man you cannot marry, and be cast aside by him,
while your heart is still alive with the love he has sloughed off like
an old skin that has begun to chafe. And then, without friends--with
children, perhaps, the world snatching at its skirts as it passes
you--the uncommon and terrible disgrace of divorce. Rachael!--will you
not promise me--
RACHAEL. I promise you this--in normal mood, I will think of you first.
But, do I ever meet Hamilton when I feel as I do to-night, I should not
think--not think, I say--not think nor care! Am I like those cattle in
the cellar? Did not Nature fashion me to love and hate, to create and
suffer--to feel as she does to-night?
MISTRESS FAWCETT (with a long sigh). Thank heaven, Hamilton is not here!
Ah!
RACHAEL. Yes, it comes again.
[The hurricane bursts with renewed fury. The concussions are like the
impact of artillery. Hail rattles on the roof. Trees and roofs crash
against one another in mid-air. Suddenly the house springs and rocks.
Simultaneously there is a long horrid shriek from the negroes in the
cellar.]
RACHAEL. Has Nevis been torn from her foundations?
MISTRESS FAWCETT. It was an earthquake. A hurricane tugs at the very
roots of the earth. Pray heaven that the fires in Nevis are out. But we
have no time to think on imaginary horrors. Look to the windows. (As
Rachael examines the windows, Mistress Fawcett thrusts her head towards
the outer door, as if listening in an agony of apprehension. She raises
herself from the chair, her eyes expanded, but keeps her face turned
from Rachael, and says, steadily): I think I hear the rattle of a
shutter in the dining-room. Run and see. And examine all the other
windows before you return. Remember that if the wind gets in, the roof
will go. (Rachael runs out of the room. Immediately after there is a
loud knocking at the front door, which is on the side of the house at
present sheltered from the direct attack of the storm. Mistress Fawcett
hobbles forward and secures more firmly the iron bar, making it
impossible for an outsider to force his way in.)
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Who is there?
A Voice without. It is I--James Hamilton.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. You cannot enter.
HAMILTON. Not enter? I have braved death, and worse, to come to you,
knowing that you were alone. Nor would you leave a dog out on such a
day.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. I would open to the most desperate criminal in the
islands, but not to you. Go! Go! At once! (She turns her head in great
anxiety towards the long line of rooms where Rachael is examining the
windows.) Surely she cannot hear us; the wind is too great. (Raising her
voice again.) You cannot enter. If my daughter opens the door to you, it
will be after violence to me. Now will you go--or, at least, make no
further sign? You are welcome to the shelter of the veranda until the
hurricane veers, when you can take refuge in an outhouse.
HAMILTON. You have not an outhouse on the estate. Not one stone is upon
another, except in this house. Hardly a tree is standing. If you send
me away, it is to certain death.
MISTRESS FAWCETT (in a tone of great distress). What shall I do? I do
not wish you so ill as that. If I admit you, will you let me hide you?
Promise me not to reveal yourself to Rachael?
HAMILTON. I will not promise.
[Rachael enters. She raises her head with a quick half-comprehending
motion.]
RACHAEL. Who is out there?
MISTRESS FAWCETT (she turns sharply, draws herself up, and places her
back to the door). James Hamilton.
RACHAEL. Ah! (She is about to advance quickly, when she notes the
significance of her mother's face and attitude.) Let him in!
MISTRESS FAWCETT. No.
RACHAEL. It is not possible! You? Why, he must be half dead. But, of
course, you are only waiting to extract a promise from me.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Will you make it?
RACHAEL. No.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Then he can die out there in the storm. (Rachael
laughs, and approaches her swiftly. Mistress Fawcett raises her hand
warningly.) I shall struggle with you, and you know that will mean _my_
death. You may choose between us. (Rachael utters a cry, and covers her
face with her hands. Hamilton throws himself against the door with
violence, but the iron bar guards it.)
HAMILTON. The hurricane is veering, Mistress Fawcett. Do not you _hear_
the absolute stillness? In a few moments it will burst out of the west
with increased fury. Unless you admit me, I shall stay here and meet it.
I have crawled here, wriggled here, like a snake. It has taken me two
hours to cover half a mile. I shall not crawl back. I came here to
protect Rachael--to die with her, if inevitable--
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Or to ruin her life.
HAMILTON. That is done.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. True; but I can protect her from worse.
RACHAEL. Very well! You can keep him out. You cannot keep me in. I shall
not struggle with you; nor will I admit any one to your house against
your will. But if you do not open that door--at once--I go out by
another.
MISTRESS FAWCETT. Rachael! Do I count for nothing? I have loved you so!
Is this all you have to give me in return?
RACHAEL. I know your motive--your love. I misprize neither. But if women
loved their mothers better than the man of their hearts there would be
the end of the race. And what is the will of either of us against Fate?
Cannot you understand? Why was he permitted to reach me to-night? What
man has ever lived through a hurricane before? Nature has held her
breath to let him pass. Do you suppose your puny strength can hold us
apart? Quick! Answer! (She half turns towards the door leading into the
next room.)
MISTRESS FAWCETT. You have conquered. But wait until I am out of this
room. (She falls heavily on her crutch, and hobbles out. Rachael holds
her breath until the door closes behind her, then runs forward and
lowers the bar. Hamilton enters. He is hatless. His long cape is torn
and covered with leaves and mould. He closes and bars the door behind
him, and Rachael, seeing him safe, and her desire so near to fulfilment,
experiences a revulsion of feeling. She falls back, and hurriedly
fetching a pan of coals from a corner, fires them, and mixes a punch.)
RACHAEL (hurriedly). You are cold. You are exhausted. In a moment I will
give you a hot drink.
[Hamilton, after a long look at her, throws himself into a chair by the
table, and stares at the floor, his hand at his head.]
HAMILTON. Thank you. I need it. I feel as if all the hurricane were in
my head.
RACHAEL (pouring the punch into a silver goblet). Drink.
HAMILTON. Gratefully! (He raises the goblet.) I drink--to the hurricane.
RACHAEL (she moves restlessly about, but remains on the other side of
the table). Tell me of your journey here. I should think you would be
gray and old! Ah, the color comes back to your face! You are young
again, already.
HAMILTON (he has drained the goblet and set it on the table; he rises,
and looks full at her). Did you doubt that I would come?
RACHAEL (speaking lightly, and averting her eyes). I thought you were on
St. Kitts.
HAMILTON (vehemently). Still I would have come. I knew the hurricane
would give you to me. And out there, fighting inch by inch, the breath
beaten out of my body, my arms almost torn from their sockets, maddened
by the terrible confusion, I still knew that Nature was driving me to
you, as she has separated us since the day I came, with her smiling,
intolerable calm--
RACHAEL (still half frivolous under the sudden wrench from
tragic despair). And, after that terrible experience, you still
have love and romance in you! I should want a warm bed, and
then--to-morrow--to-morrow--we will sit on the terrace and watch the
calm old sun go down into the calm old sea, with not a thought for the
torn old earth--
HAMILTON. Rachael! I did not come here to jest.
RACHAEL. I must go to my mother! She is alone! _What_ have I done?
HAMILTON. Stay where you are! Do you mean that you wish you had not
opened the door?
RACHAEL (she hesitates a moment, then raises her eyes to his, and
answers distinctly). No! (She is leaning on the table, which she has
deliberately kept between them. Hamilton throws himself into his chair,
and, leaning forward, clasps her wrists with his hands.)
HAMILTON. This hurricane is the end of all things, or the beginning.
RACHAEL (she throws her head back, with a gesture of triumph). The
beginning!
HAMILTON. Yes, the storm has come as a friend, not as an enemy, no
matter which way--no matter which way. (He speaks hoarsely and slowly.
There is a silence, during which they stare at each other until both are
breathless, and the table, under the pressure of Hamilton's arms, slowly
slips aside.)
RACHAEL. Hark!
HAMILTON. Yes; the storm returns.
[Without further warning, the hurricane bursts out of the west with the
fury of recuperated power. The house trembles. The slaves screech in the
cellar. A deluge of water descends on the roof. The confusion waxes
louder and louder, until it seems as if the noise alone must grind all
things to dust. Hamilton thrusts aside the table, and takes Rachael
violently in his arms. Her laugh of delight and triumph blends curiously
with the furious noise of the hurricane.]
X