So the days slipped by one by one, and she marked them off on her calendar. In the end, the time for the launch to go up to Romblon arrived without her having taken any decisive steps toward the act which she still declared to herself she was bent upon. She excused herself on the ground of Martin’s letter, saying to herself that she owed him a personal interview and explanation for her refusal to accept his offer of reconciliation. But in truth, she was pulling away again from the uncomfortable. She could contemplate the action, but until circumstances more disagreeable than those she was enduring forced her into activity, she would not take a decisive step.
It had been the original intention that Kingsnorth should take the launch over for Collingwood, but, as the time slipped by, and the typhoon season was at hand this idea was deemed impracticable. Maclaughlin was a licensed engineer, while Kingsnorth was not, and the launch was not in the best of repair.
Maclaughlin left at daybreak on an exceedingly hot morning, when the sea rolled lazily in long, metallic swells shining as if the brilliant surface were oiled. All that day the heat was like a vapor, but in mid-afternoon the clouds rolled up, showers fell at intervals, and cool gusts of wind made the cocoanut trees writhe and their stiff leaves to rattle. Once or twice Charlotte looked at the barometer, which fell steadily.
At dinner their common anxiety made the three more companionable than anyone had hoped to be. “We are going to have a baguio, that’s flat,” said Kingsnorth, “but it has been kind in holding off. Mac’s safe in Romblon harbor by this time, and that is landlocked, and shut in by mountains. If Collingwood is there, they’ll wait anyway to come out. Mac’s got sense enough not to leave port on a falling barometer, though Collingwood might take the chances.”
“I hope Martin isn’t out on the ocean to-night,” said Charlotte. “It makes me ill to think of it.” She shivered and glanced into the darkness where the oily surf fell over in ghostly green fire, and the wash rolled back pricked with millions of vanishing light points.
“Spooky, isn’t it?” remarked Kingsnorth. He set down his coffee-cup (they were just finishing dinner), and as his hostess rose, held back the rattling shell curtain for her, then went to inspect the barometer. He whistled.
“What is it?” inquired Mrs. Mac.
“Oh, just so-so.” Something in his tone betrayed an effort to retrieve the impression made by his bit of carelessness. Mrs. Maclaughlin went over to the instrument.
“It’s nearly 750,” she said in a dismayed tone.[1] “I’ve never known it to go that low without warning since I’ve lived on the island. I wish Mac and Martin were here.”
Charlotte said nothing, but in her heart she echoed the other’s words.