The Caruthers family took their departure from Appledore.

“Well, we have had to fight for it, but we have saved Tom,” Julia remarked to Mr. Lenox, standing by the guards and looking back at the Islands as the steamer bore them away.

“Saved! ­”

“Yes!” she said decidedly, ­“we have saved him.”

“It’s a responsibility,” said the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders.  “I am not clear that you have not ‘saved’ Tom from a better thing than he’ll ever find again.”

“Perhaps you’d like her!” said Miss Julia sharply.  “How ridiculous all you men are about a pretty face!”

The remaining days of her stay in Appledore Lois roved about to her heart’s content.  And yet I will not say that her enjoyment of rocks and waves was just what it had been at her first arrival.  The island seemed empty, somehow.  Appledore is lovely in September and October; and Lois sat on the rocks and watched the play of the waves, and delighted herself in the changing colours of sea, and sky, and clouds, and gathered wild-flowers, and picked up shells; but there was somehow very present to her the vision of a fair, kindly, handsome face, and eyes that sought hers eagerly, and hands that were ready gladly with any little service that there was room to render.  She was no longer troubled by a group of people dogging her footsteps; and she found now that there had been, however inopportune, a little excitement in that.  It was very well they were gone, she acknowledged; for Mr. Caruthers might have come to like her too well, and that would have been inconvenient; and yet it is so pleasant to be liked!  Upon the sober humdrum of Lois’s every day home life, Tom Caruthers was like a bit of brilliant embroidery; and we know how involuntarily the eyes seek out such a spot of colour, and how they return to it.  Yes, life at home was exceedingly pleasant, but it was a picture in grey; this was a dash of blue and gold.  It had better be grey, Lois said to herself; life is not glitter.  And yet, a little bit of glitter on the greys and browns is so delightful.  Well, it was gone.  There was small hope now that anything so brilliant would ever illuminate her quiet course again.  Lois sat on the rocks and looked at the sea, and thought about it.  If they, Tom and his friends, had not come to Appledore at all, her visit would have been most delightful; nay, it had been most delightful, whether or no; but ­this and her New York experience had given Lois a new standard by which to measure life and men.  From one point of view, it is true, the new lost in comparison with the old.  Tom and his people were not “religious.”  They knew nothing of what made her own life so sweet; they had not her prospects or joys in looking on towards the far future, nor her strength and security in view of the trials and vicissitudes of earth and time.  She had the best of it; as she joyfully confessed to herself, seeing the glorious breaking waves and watching the play of light on them, and recalling Cowper’s words ­

   “My Father made them all!”

But there remained another aspect of the matter which raised other feelings in the girl’s mind.  The difference in education.  Those people could speak French, and Mr. Caruthers could speak Spanish, and Mr. Lenox spoke German.  Whether well or ill, Lois did not know; but in any case, how many doors, in literature and in life, stood open to them; which were closed and locked doors to her!  And we all know, that ever since Bluebeard’s time ­I might go back further, and say, ever since Eve’s time ­Eve’s daughters have been unable to stand before a closed door without the wish to open it.  The impulse, partly for good, partly for evil, is incontestable.  Lois fairly longed to know what Tom and his sister knew in the fields of learning.  And there were other fields.  There was a certain light, graceful, inimitable habit of the world and of society; familiarity with all the pretty and refined ways and uses of the more refined portions of society; knowledge and practice of proprieties, as the above-mentioned classes of the world recognize them; which all seemed to Lois greatly desirable and becoming.  Nay, the said “proprieties” and so forth were not always of the most important kind; Miss Caruthers could be what Lois considered coolly rude, upon occasion; and her mother could be carelessly impolite; and Mr. Lenox could be wanting in the delicate regard which a gentleman should show to a lady; “I suppose,” thought Lois, “he did not think I would know any better.”  In these things, these essential things, some of the farmers of Shampuashuh and their wives were the peers at least, if not the superiors, of these fine ladies and gentlemen.  But in lesser things!  These people knew how to walk gracefully, sit gracefully, eat gracefully.  Their manner and address in all the little details of life, had the ease, and polish, and charm which comes of use, and habit, and confidence.  The way Mr. Lenox and Tom would give help to a lady in getting over the rough rocks of Appledore; the deference with which they would attend to her comfort and provide for her pleasure; the grace of a bow, the good breeding of a smile; the ease of action which comes from trained physical and practised mental nature; these and a great deal more, even the details of dress and equipment which are only possible to those who know how, and which are instantly seen to be excellent and becoming, even by those who do not know how; all this had appealed mightily to Lois’s nature, and raised in her longings and regrets more or less vague, but very real.  All that, she would like to have.  She wanted the familiarity with books, and also the familiarity with the world, which some people had; the secure a plomb and the easy facility of manner which are so imposing and so attractive to a girl like Lois.  She felt that to these people life was richer, larger, wider than to her; its riches more at command; the standpoint higher from which to take a view of the world; the facility greater which could get from the world what it had to give.  And it was a closed door before which Lois stood.  Truly on her side of the door there was very much that she had and they had not; she knew that, and did not fail to recognize it and appreciate it.  What was the Lord’s beautiful creation to them? a place to kill time in, and get rid of it as fast as possible.  The ocean, to them, was little but a great bath-tub; or a very inconvenient separating medium, which prevented them from going constantly to Paris and Rome.  To judge by all that appeared, the sky had no colours for them, and the wind no voices, and the flowers no speech.  And as for the Bible, and the hopes and joys which take their source there, they knew no more of it so than if they had been Mahometans.  They took no additional pleasure in the things of the natural world, because those things were made by a Hand that they loved.  Poor people! and Lois knew they were poor; and yet ­she said to herself, and also truly, that the possession of her knowledge would not be lessened by the possession of theirs.  And a little pensiveness mingled for a few days with her enjoyment of Appledore.  Meanwhile Mrs. Wishart was getting well.

“So they have all gone!” she said, a day or two after the Caruthers party had taken themselves away.

“Yes, and Appledore seems, you can’t think how lonely,” said Lois.  She had just come in from a ramble.

“You saw a great deal of them, dear?”

“Quite a good deal.  Did you ever see such bright pimpernel?  Isn’t it lovely?”

“I don’t understand how Tom could get away.”

“I believe he did not want to go.”

“Why didn’t you keep him?”

“I!” said Lois with an astonished start.  “Why should I keep him, Mrs. Wishart?”

“Because he likes you so much.”

“Does he?” said Lois a little bitterly.

“Yes!  Don’t you like him?  How do you like him, Lois?”

“He is nice, Mrs. Wishart.  But if you ask me, I do not think he has enough strength of character.”

“If Tom has let them carry him off against his will, he is rather weak.”

Lois made no answer.  Had he? and had they done it?  A vague notion of what might be the truth of the whole transaction floated in and out of her mind, and made her indignant.  Whatever one’s private views of the danger may be, I think no one likes to be taken care of in this fashion.  Of course Tom Caruthers was and could be nothing to her, Lois said to herself; and of course she could be nothing to him; but that his friends should fear the contrary and take measures to prevent it, stirred her most disagreeably.  Yes; if things had gone so, then Tom certainly was weak; and it vexed her that he should be weak.  Very inconsistent, when it would have occasioned her so much trouble if he had been strong!  But when is human nature consistent?  Altogether this visit to Appledore, the pleasure of which began so spicily, left rather a flat taste upon her tongue; and she was vexed at that.

There was another person who probably thought Tom weak, and who was curious to know how he had come out of this trial of strength with his relations; but Mr. Dillwyn had wandered off to a distance, and it was not till a month later that he saw any of the Caruthers.  By that time they were settled in their town quarters for the winter, and there one evening he called upon them.  He found only Julia and her mother.

“By the way,” said he, when the talk had rambled on for a while, “how did you get on at the Isles of Shoals?”

“We had an awful time,” said Julia.  “You cannot conceive of anything so slow.”

“How long did you stay?”

“O, ages!  We were there four or five weeks.  Imagine, if you can.  Nothing but sea and rocks, and no company!”

“No company!  What kept you there?”

“O, Tom!”

“What kept Tom?”

“Mrs. Wishart got sick, you see, and couldn’t get away, poor soul! and that made her stay so long.”

“And you had to stay too, to nurse her?”

“No, nothing of that.  Miss Lothrop was there, and she did the nursing; and then a ridiculous aunt of hers came to help her.”

“You staid for sympathy?”

“Don’t be absurd, Philip!  You know we were kept by Tom.  We could not get him away.”

“What made Tom want to stay?”

“O, that girl.”

“How did you get him away at last?”

“Just because we stuck to him.  No other way.  He would undoubtedly have made a fool of himself with that girl ­he was just ready to do it ­but we never left him a chance.  George and I, and mother, we surrounded him,” said Julia, laughing; “we kept close by him; we never left them alone.  Tom got enough of it at last, and agreed, very melancholy, to come away.  He is dreadfully in the blues yet.”

“You have a good deal to answer for, Julia.”

“Now, don’t, Philip!  That’s what George says.  It is too absurd.  Just because she has a pretty face.  All you men are bewitched by pretty faces.”

“She has a good manner, too.”

“Manner?  She has no manner at all; and she don’t know anything, out of her garden.  We have saved Tom from a great danger.  It would be a terrible thing, perfectly terrible, to have him marry a girl who is not a lady, nor even an educated woman.”

“You think you could not have made a lady of her?”

“Mamma, do hear Philip! isn’t he too bad?  Just because that girl has a little beauty.  I wonder what there is in beauty, it turns all your heads!  Mamma, do you hear Mr. Dillwyn? he wishes we had let Tom have his head and marry that little gardening girl.”

“Indeed I do not,” said Philip seriously.  “I am very glad you succeeded in preventing it But allow me to ask if you are sure you have succeeded?  Is it quite certain Tom will not have his head after all?  He may cheat you yet.”

“O no!  He’s very melancholy, but he has given it up.  If he don’t, we’ll take him abroad in the spring.  I think he has given it up.  His being melancholy looks like it.”

“True.  I’ll sound him when I get a chance.”

The chance offered itself very soon; for Tom came in, and when Dillwyn left the house, Tom went to walk with him.  They sauntered along Fifth Avenue, which was pretty full of people still, enjoying the mild air and beautiful starlight.

“Tom, what did you do at the Isles of Shoals?” Mr. Dillwyn asked suddenly.

“Did a lot of fishing.  Capital trolling.”

“All your fishing done on the high seas, eh?”

“All my successful fishing.”

“What was the matter?  Not a faint heart?”

“No.  It’s disgusting, the whole thing!” Tom broke out with hearty emphasis.

“You don’t like to talk about it?  I’ll spare you, if you say so.”

“I don’t care what you do to me,” said Tom; “and I have no objection to talk about it ­to you.”

Nevertheless he stopped.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“I shouldn’t change my mind, if I lived to be as old as Methuselah!”

“That’s right.  Well, then, ­the thing is going on?”

“It isn’t going on! and I suppose it never will!”

“Had the lady any objection?  I cannot believe that.”

“I don’t know,” said Tom, with a big sigh.  “I almost think she hadn’t; but I never could find that out.”

“What hindered you, old fellow?”

“My blessed relations.  Julia and mother made such a row.  I wouldn’t have minded the row neither; for a man must marry to please himself and not his mother; and I believe no man ever yet married to please his sister; but, Philip, they didn’t give me a minute.  I could never join her anywhere, but Julia would be round the next corner; or else George would be there before me.  George must put his oar in; and between them they kept it up.”

“And you think she liked you?”

Tom was silent a while.

“Well,” said he at last, “I won’t swear; for you never know where a woman is till you’ve got her; but if she didn’t, all I have to say is, signs aren’t good for anything.”

It was Philip now who was silent, for several minutes.

“What’s going to be the upshot of it?”

“O, I suppose I shall go abroad with Julia and George in the spring, and end by taking an orthodox wife some day; somebody with blue blood, and pretension, and nothing else.  My people will be happy, and the family name will be safe.”

“And what will become of her?”

“O, she’s all right.  She won’t break her heart about me.  She isn’t that sort of girl,” Tom Caruthers said gloomily.  “Do you know, I admire her immensely, Philip!  I believe she’s good enough for anything.  Maybe she’s too good.  That’s what her aunt hinted.”

“Her aunt!  Who’s she?”

“She’s a sort of a snapping turtle.  A good sort of woman, too.  I took counsel with her, do you know, when I found it was no use for me to try to see Lois.  I asked her if she would stand my friend.  She was as sharp as a fish-hook, and about as ugly a customer; and she as good as told me to go about my business.”

“Did she give reasons for such advice?”

“O yes!  She saw through Julia and mother as well as I did; and she spoke as any friend of Lois would, who had a little pride about her.  I can’t blame her.”

Silence fell again, and lasted while the two young men walked the length of several blocks.  Then Mr. Dillwyn began again.

“Tom, there ought to be no more shilly-shallying about this matter.”

“No more! Yes, you’re right.  I ought to have settled it long ago, before Julia and mother got hold of it.  That’s where I made a mistake.”

“And you think it too late?”

Tom hesitated.  “It’s too late.  I’ve lost my time. She has given me up, and mother and Julia have set their hearts that I should give her up.  I am not a match for them.  Is a man ever a match for a woman, do you think, Dillwyn, if she takes something seriously in hand?”

“Will you go to Europe next spring?”

“Perhaps.  I suppose so.”

“If you do, perhaps I will join the party ­that is, if you will all let me.”

So the conversation went over into another channel.