Her imagination, being bright and tender and lively,
rather than powerful, was compelled to make its own material, out of
very little stuff sometimes. She was always longing for something sweet
and thrilling and romantic, and what chance of finding it in this
dull place, even with the longest telescope? For the war, with all its
stirring rumors and perpetual motion on shore and sea, and access of
gallant visitors, was gone for the moment, and dull peace was signed.
This evening, as yet, there seemed little chance of anything to enliven
her. The village, in the valley and up the stream, was hidden by turns
of the land and trees; her father's house beneath the hill crest was out
of sight and hearing; not even a child was on the beach; and the only
movement was of wavelets leisurely advancing toward the sea-wall fringed
with tamarisk. The only thing she could hope to see was the happy return
of the fishing-smacks, and perhaps the "London trader," inasmuch as the
fishermen (now released from fencible duty and from French alarm) did
their best to return on Saturday night to their moorings, their homes,
the disposal of fish, and then the deep slumber of Sunday. If the breeze
should enable them to round the Head, and the tide avail for landing,
the lane to the village, the beach, and even the sea itself would swarm
with life and bustle and flurry and incident. But Dolly's desire was for
scenes more warlike and actors more august than these.
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