I had come almost to forget that I was a member of
the human family, and to live entirely with the dead whose books I
pored over, when a sudden incident occurred which threw all my
thoughts into a new channel.
Three rough days in June had been succeeded by one calm and
peaceful one. There was not a breath of air that evening. The sun
sank down in the west behind a line of purple clouds, and the
smooth surface of the bay was gashed with scarlet streaks. Along
the beach the pools left by the tide showed up like gouts of blood
against the yellow sand, as if some wounded giant had toilfully
passed that way, and had left these red traces of his grievous hurt
behind him. As the darkness closed in, certain ragged clouds which
had lain low on the eastern horizon coalesced and formed a great
irregular cumulus. The glass was still low, and I knew that there
was mischief brewing. About nine o'clock a dull moaning sound came
up from the sea, as from a creature who, much harassed, learns that
the hour of suffering has come round again. At ten a sharp breeze
sprang up from the eastward. At eleven it had increased to a gale,
and by midnight the most furious storm was raging which I ever
remember upon that weather-beaten coast.
As I went to bed the shingle and seaweed were pattering up against
my attic window, and the wind was screaming as though every gust
were a lost soul. By that time the sounds of the tempest had
become a lullaby to me.
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