Meanwhile, the object of her solicitation sat on in a mood terribly
blended of recklessness and despair. No shadow of fear darkened the
almost ecstatic rebellion of her mood. As the tempest gathered force,
and gusts of savage violence hurtled themselves out of the crashing
void in front, the rain was driven like fine shot before them. In
the lulls the great organ of the surf filled the starless night with
crashing harmonies, and through sound or silence a snow field of
tumbling froth showed a spectral glimmering through the inky gloom. A
crimson glow came through the transparencies of Kingsnorth's shell
windows, a touch of warmth in the blinding convulsion of nature. In
the distant Filipino village no lights showed; and it was only after a
considerable time that Charlotte became aware that she missed them,
and missed seeing, too, the riding lights of the launch, which,
on cloudy night or clear, had shone out brightly against the dark
outline of the hills above the cove.
For three hours she remained in the storm, drenched, her wet hair torn
down by the blasts; her being full of tumultuous welcome to the mad
elements that seemed to threaten her. They were so harmonious with her
sense of desolation, of failure, of wrecked effort, that for a time it
hardly occurred to her that they could mean other than destruction. She
pictured herself hurled about in the seething waste before her; but no
thrill of fear entered her heart. She almost yearned for the struggle,
the helpless physical effort, the very pain of dissolution. The house
rocked under the blows of the wind, but she hardly noticed them. She
was joyfully expectant of the blow that should shatter and end all,
and should take forever from her the agony of deciding between two
evils. She rose and, grasping the rails of the piazza, tried to breast
the full force of the wind and shot driven rain, but it drove her back,
and knocked her flat upon the veranda floor.
She must have been slightly stunned by knocking her head against a
chair, for she was next conscious of blurred thoughts, of a spent,
chill body and of great mental and physical lassitude. Her mood
of elation had departed. She was confused, fearful of the crashing
thunder of surf and storm. In a lull, she dragged herself to her feet
and opened the door of her house.
The room, with its touches of refinement and beauty, looked hospitable
and attractive in spite of the fact that it was dripping where great
torn patches in the thatched roof let in the torrent. Mrs. Mac knelt
by the table, her eyes fixed, her lips moving. She uttered the one
phrase over and over in a heart-broken tone, "O God, keep my old
man. God take care of my Mac."
Charlotte, a wild, torn, drenched figure, stood contemplating her for
a moment, half in contempt; then, as the burden of the other's cry
pierced her brain, a sudden wave of pity and affection swept aside
the egoistic defiance of her mood.
"Martin," she said softly, and each word came like the musical
utterance of grief. "O Martin!" She turned again toward the sea and
its howling terrors just as a gust blew out the lamp. "O my husband! O
Martin!" The sea which had been a welcome enemy, a thing to fling
defiance to and to yield to in one last bout of struggle, seemed
suddenly an abyss of untold horrors; was that thing which would not
destroy her, but which might destroy him. She stood motionless, with
parted lips, staring into the blackness. Behind her a ship's lantern,
lighted earlier by Mrs. Maclaughlin in anticipation of the fact that
sooner or later the wind would put out the lamp, revealed dimly the
room and Mrs. Maclaughlin's kneeling figure, with its plain tear-worn
face, so fervently uplifted. But she saw neither room nor figure. Her
mind leaped into the waste and pictured Martin all alone in the
little white and gold dining-room of the coastguard steamer. She saw
the heaving panelled walls, heard the hum of the electric light motor
and the pounding of the engines, felt the staggering impact of waves,
and heard the wash of the water as it swept astern. Martin's face
was white and set. He sat by the table in one of the swivel chairs,
and she could see his eyes fixed on the tassels of the little green
silk curtains at the stern windows. He was thinking of her. Something
told her that no thought of his own danger had ever occurred to him;
that, in that crucial hour, he could feel only for her facing the
tempest alone in their home. His larger unselfishness made itself
felt. And for three hours she had been thinking of herself, playing
at melodrama, and mouthing heroic quotations, coquetting on dry land
with a tempest while the man she had loved was actually in its grasp
on the sea! Unutterable self-contempt seized upon her.
She turned and met Mrs. Maclaughlin's gaze. That lady had risen.
"Are you sane?" she inquired. "You've been a mad woman. I've tried
three times to drag you inside, You didn't seem awake."
"I'm awake now, Mrs. Maclaughlin. I've been mad, but I'm sane. My poor,
poor Martin."
But Mrs. Maclaughlin, though a woman of prayer, was practical. "You're
drenched," she said. She made Charlotte change into dry, warm
clothing. Still the storm waxed violent.
"We've got to get out of this," Mrs. Maclaughlin said. "Get your
mackintosh and Martin's pistols. I've put up a basket of food--enough
for two or three days. The house has got to go." Indeed, it swayed
perilously as they talked.
It was indeed strange to be belting on pistols and ammunition belts
at that hour of the night; but Charlotte saw that the older woman
had her wits about her. In a few minutes the two were ready to sally
forth. Charlotte looked back with a sob. "My dear little home," she
said. "I've been happy here--the only happy moments of my life have
been passed here." Mrs. Maclaughlin said nothing.
The wind lulled for a moment as they stepped outside. The glow of
Kingsnorth's light brought recollection back to Charlotte.
"But why hasn't Mr. Kingsnorth come to us?" she cried. "He promised."
Mrs. Mac lifted an accusing finger. "He promised," she said
bitterly. "What do a boozer's promises amount to? He's there now
sodden with drink--not Christian drink, but them French liqueurs. And
our men that ought to be here, God help 'em!"
The wind came back at that moment so violently that it knocked them
over. They lay gasping on their faces, but they heard the roar of
falling timbers behind them.
"My home!" Charlotte peered through the darkness, but could not see.
"Or mine! Well, we've got to get Kingsnorth out. His will go down
with him in it."
They struggled on--it seemed an interminable time--to Kingsnorth's
piazza. They realized instantly from its groanings and swayings that
the house was in immediate danger.
"The door is locked," said Charlotte. "We can't make him hear in
this rage."
Mrs. Mac took Mac's big .45, deftly unloaded it, and slipped the
cartridges into the pocket of her mackintosh. With the heavy butt she
struck two or three blows on the lattice work of Kingsnorth's shell
windows. The opening made was large enough to admit her hand. She
slipped up the wooden latch which falls into place when a Filipino
sliding window is drawn to, and opened a casement. The lamp was
burning brightly on a table, and Kingsnorth, aroused by the noise and
Mrs. Maclaughlin's repeated calls, was rubbing his eyes and staring
dully at their faces in the aperture.
"Are you mad?" said Mrs. Maclaughlin sharply. "Come out of here. This
house will go down in a minute."
"I'll come," said Kingsnorth stupidly. It was evident that he was
not fully awake, but he staggered to his feet and came to the open
casement. A new blast came from the sea, and they felt the floor
heave under their feet.
"Back!" cried Mrs. Maclaughlin, seizing Charlotte's hand and dragging
her backward along the veranda. "We have done what we could. O
man! man! the door! the door!" For Kingsnorth was still fumbling with
the window, pushing back another shutter with the evident intention
of getting out that way. In the outstreaming glow of light, they saw
the veranda supports sway and heave. Then came a shriek in the air,
a deafening roar, the snap of powerful supports strained to breaking;
and, as Kingsnorth clambered heavily through the window, the same
gust that tipped the cottage over like a child's house of blocks,
sent both women to their faces on the wet ground.
Charlotte never could remember how long it was before she was
struggling to her feet, clambering over wrecked bamboo flooring,
calling aloud to the man, who, she, knew, must have gone down with
the house. Mrs. Maclaughlin was by her side, saying "O my Lord!" at
intervals. They could see a crimson glow waxing brighter where the
overturned petroleum lamp had set fire to the wrecked house; but it
was not till its light grew brilliant, that they saw the man they
sought. He seemed to be wedged between an upheaval of the bamboo
flooring and the leaning wall of the house. His forehead was gashed
and he was unconscious.
Charlotte's training stood her well, and it was she who bent
over him and tried to lift him. She turned a white face, then, to
Mrs. Maclaughlin.
"A piece of bamboo has entered his side," she said. "We must break away
these pieces and free him. He will be roasted if we are not quick."
Fortunately the supports of the floor as well as the floor itself, were
of bamboo. At Charlotte's belt there hung her bunch of housekeeper's
keys, and a knife, not the ordinary penknife, but a real household
necessity, combining several domestic utensils. Mrs. Maclaughlin owned
one like it, and, in an instant, both women were hacking at the stiff
rattan fibres, working with frantic haste as the dry suali lining of
the house burst into roaring flame. They tore away the long bamboo
slats, but at the last, it was Charlotte who drew out the broken
piece which had entered Kingsnorth's breast. He moved and groaned.
"Is he coming to?" asked Mrs. Maclaughlin, peering but not
stopping. Charlotte shook her head. "I hope not, yet," she said. "We
must drag him back out of these ruins."
By the glow of the burning dwelling, the two women, now dragging,
now lifting, took Kingsnorth out of the wreckage, and succeeded in
carrying him some fifty feet along the path that led to Charlotte's
home. There a clump of pandan bushes made a shelter against the wind,
which, as if satisfied with the havoc it had wrought, ceased for fully
five minutes. The crimson radiance of the fire lighted the dripping
bushes, cast its demon flickers on the ocean's rage, and sent leaping
shadows among the broken-stemmed cocoanut trees. Charlotte gazed
wearily in the direction of the native village.
"They can't be asleep," she said. "Why don't they come?"
"Come!" echoed Mrs. Maclaughlin. "They'll not come; or, if they do,
it will be with evil in their hearts. They've got two Japanese rogues
to lead them, and they think Mac and Martin have gone to the bottom;
and when they find that this man is disabled--" She paused.
Charlotte took time only to groan as she bent over Kingsnorth,
wrapping a piece of cloth torn from her petticoat about his wounded
forehead, trying to pad the torn and bleeding breast. Blood and froth
stood upon his lips and at times convulsions of coughing seized him,
and more froth and blood were expelled.
"It is worse than disabled," said Charlotte slowly after what
examination she could make. "I think the lung has been penetrated. I
am afraid he is dying." Mrs. Maclaughlin pressed her lips together,
but said nothing.
When Charlotte had done what she could, she sat down and took
the wounded man's head in her lap. The fire, which had blazed up
so valiantly, died out as it reached the wet roof, and another
pattering shower extinguished it. The night closed about them again
in impenetrable darkness. Only once, as the clouds drove past, a rift
showed for an instant, and a star beamed down upon them as if reminding
them that the world of former days was still there. Little by little,
the wind moderated, the showers ceased, and the wild harmonies of
the sea subsided into a long rhythmic booming of surf. In spite of
its violence, the wind was soft and warm as velvet, and though they
were damp, chilled, and uncomfortable, what they had undergone could
not have been called suffering.