With the
basket in his hand, he dropped softly from his window upon the pile
of seaweed at the back of the house--collected to make the walls
wholesome--and then, caring little what his course might be, was led
perhaps by the force of habit down the foot-path towards the beach. So
late at night, it was not likely that any one would disturb him there,
and no one in the cottage which he had left would miss him before the
morning. The end of October now was near, the nights were long, and he
need not hurry. He might even lie down in his favourite boat, the best
of her size in Springhaven, the one he had built among the rabbits.
There he could say good-bye to all that he had known and loved so long,
and be off before dawn, to some place where he might earn his crust and
think his thoughts.
CHAPTER XXXI
SORE TEMPTATION
When a man's spirit and heart are low, and the world seems turned
against him, he had better stop both ears than hearken to the sound of
the sad sea waves at night. Even if he can see their movement, with the
moon behind them, drawing paths of rippled light, and boats (with white
sails pluming shadow, or thin oars that dive for gems), and perhaps a
merry crew with music, coming home not all sea-sick--well, even so, in
the summer sparkle, the long low fall of the waves is sad. But how much
more on a winter night, when the moon is away below the sea, and weary
waters roll unseen from a vast profundity of gloom, fall unreckoned, and
are no more than a wistful moan, as man is!
The tide was at quarter-ebb, and a dismal haze lay thick on shore and
sea.
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