Change of scene is a good thing, but utter solitude, under the names of rustication and rest, is a penalty I never willingly undergo.
I knew that there would be plenty of people at Marshlea—people in undress and holiday tempers—fashionables exhibiting, scholars seeking, invalids languishing, flirts flirting, and many good people simply enjoying relief from care and the salubrious situation.
I expected as much of the people as I did of the place, and accepted them quite as willingly.
My quarters were comfortable, a cool northeast room and a little east bedroom looking upon the sea, both rooms furnished freely in bamboo and India matting.
I wheeled my bed so that I could see the sun rise in the morning, quite comfortable, and with no thanks to Mr. Bierstadt, and heard the gong sound two hours later, while I was reading Thackeray.
I never took morning sea-baths—they did not agree with my constitution—but at noon, when the tide lapped the shingles, full of a soft wash and warm swells, I took a stretch of half a mile, and felt the better for my tonic.
But of a morning, as the tide came in, it was pleasant to watch the bathers—men swimming with fearless little boys, mothers dipping astonished babies, and acres of scarlet-clad figures tripping along the sand, or waltzing in the surf, like blossoms blown about—while the sky lay low and fleecy and warm over the scene.
I remember the sand-piper's cry, the peals of laughter, and lowing of the cattle in the marshes.
I recollect the saxifrage that grew among the rocks, the spring that pushed its way over the salt pebbles to the waters of the cove, and the sweet notes of the little brown shore birds.
I recall a day when the sunshine was very bland; glittering carriage loads of dolce far niente pleasure-seekers rolled slowly down the sands. Staniels' canopied boat, its silken flag fluttering, softly rocked at his moorings, little white tents, the mushroom dwellings of sportsmen, dotted the rocks, and the sea glittered and tossed under the serene blueness of the sky.