But Charlotte motioned her away. “I’m not religiously inclined to-night,” she replied.
“Charlotte Collingwood, do you defy your Maker?”
“I’m rebellious to-night, Mrs. Maclaughlin. There are His waves and His winds, but still I’m rebellious. I’m not apologetic to-night, not even in the face of a baguio.”
“I’ll speak for you,” said Mrs. Maclaughlin earnestly. She went inside, closed the doors and shell windows to keep out the storm, and Charlotte heard her keeping her word. Mrs. Maclaughlin’s prayers were simple but fervent. They seemed to consist chiefly of a few reiterated sentences. “O Lord, protect and save my old husband. You know I love him, Lord; but it isn’t all selfishness. O God, give me back my Mac.” At times she asked that the Divine Power might soften the hardened heart of Mrs. Collingwood.
[1] Barometric pressure in Philippines is measured in millimeters. In typhoons where fifth signal is flown, about 742 is lowest pressure recorded. In great storm of 1908, 739.8 was lowest. Generally the falling of the barometer is gradual for several days during the continuance of the storm. When it falls suddenly, as here indicated, before a storm, it means that a storm of short duration but of terrific violence is coming.
Chapter XVII
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.