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.