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<h3 id="id01189" style="margin-top: 3em">CHAPTER XI.</h3> <h3 id="id01190" style="margin-top: 3em">SUMMER MOVEMENTS.</h3> All things in the world, so far as the dwellers in Shampuashuh knew, went their usual course in peace for the next few months. Lois gathered her strawberries, and Madge made her currant jelly. Peas ripened, and green corn was on the board, and potatoes blossomed, and young beets were pulled, and peaches began to come. It was a calm, gentle life the little family lived; every day exceedingly like the day before, and yet every day with something new in it. Small pieces of novelty, no doubt; a dish of tomatoes, or the first yellow raspberries, or a new pattern for a dress, or a new receipt for cake. Or they walked down to the shore and dug clams, some fine afternoon; or Mrs. Dashiell lent them a new book; or Mr. Dashiell preached an extraordinary sermon. It was a very slight ebb and flow of the tide of time; however, it served to keep everything from stagnation. Then suddenly, at the end of July, came Mrs. Wishart's summons to Lois to join her on her way to the Isles of Shoals. "I shall go in about a week," the letter ran; "and I want you to meet me at the Shampuashuh station; for I shall go that way to Boston. I cannot stop, but I will have your place taken and all ready for you. You must come, Lois, for I cannot do without you; and when other people need you, you know, you never hesitate. Do not hesitate now." There was a good deal of hesitation, however, on one part and another, before the question was settled. "Lois has just got home," said Charity. "I don't see what she should be going again for. I should like to know if Mrs. Wishart thinks she ain't wanted at home!" "People don't think about it," said Madge; "only what they want themselves. But it is a fine chance for Lois." "Why don't she ask you?" said Charity. "She thought Madge would enjoy a visit to her in New York more," said Lois. "So she said to me." "And so I would," cried Madge. "I don't care for a parcel of little islands out at sea. But that would just suit Lois. What sort of a place is the Isles of Shoals anyhow?" "Just that," said Lois; "so far as I know. A parcel of little islands, out in the sea." "Where at?" said Charity. "I don't know exactly." "Get the map and look." "They are too small to be down on the map." "What is Eliza Wishart wantin' to go there for?" asked Mrs. Armadale. "O, she goes somewhere every year, grandma; to one place and another; and I suppose she likes novelty." "That's a poor way to live," said the old lady. "But I suppose, bein' such a place, it'll be sort o' lonesome, and she wants you for company. May be she goes for her health." "I think quite a good many people go there, grandma." "There can't, if they're little islands out at sea. Most folks wouldn't like that. Do you want to go, Lois?" "I would like it, very much. I just want to see what they are like, grandmother. I never did see the sea yet." "You saw it yesterday, when we went for clams," said Charity scornfully. "That? O no. That's not the sea, Charity." "Well, it's mighty near it." It seemed to be agreed at last that Lois should accept her cousin's invitation; and she made her preparations. She made them with great delight. Pleasant as the home-life was, it was quite favourable to the growth of an appetite for change and variety; and the appetite in Lois was healthy and strong. The sea and the islands, and, on the other hand, an intermission of gardening and fruit-picking; Shampuashuh people lost sight of for a time, and new, new, strange forms of humanity and ways of human life; the prospect was happy. And a happy girl was Lois, when one evening in the early part of August she joined Mrs. Wishart in the night train to Boston. That lady met her at the door of the drawing-room car, and led her to the little compartment where they were screened off from the rest of the world. "I am so glad to have you!" was her salutation. "Dear me, how well you look, child! What have you been doing to yourself?" "Getting brown in the sun, picking berries." "You are not brown a bit. You are as fair as—whatever shall I compare you to? Roses are common." "Nothing better than roses, though," said Lois. "Well, a rose you must be; but of the freshest and sweetest. We don't have such roses in New York. Fact, we do not. I never see anything so fresh there. I wonder why?" "People don't live out-of-doors picking berries," suggested Lois. "What has berry-picking to do with it? My dear, it is a pity we shall have none of your old admirers at the Isles of Shoals; but I cannot promise you one. You see, it is off the track. The Caruthers are going to Saratoga; they stayed in town after the mother and son got back from Florida. The Bentons are gone to Europe. Mr. Dillwyn, by the way, was he one of your admirers, Lois?" "Certainly not," said Lois, laughing. "But I have a pleasant remembrance of him, he gave us such a good lunch one day. I am very glad I am not going to see anybody I ever saw before. Where are the Isles of Shoals? and what are they, that you should go to see them?" "I'm not going to see them—there's nothing to see, unless you like sea and rocks. I am going for the air, and because I must go somewhere, and I am tired of everywhere else. O, they're out in the Atlantic—sea all round them—queer, barren places. I am so glad I've got you, Lois! I don't know a soul that's to be there—can't guess what we shall find; but I've got you, and I can get along." "Do people go there just for health?" "O, a few, perhaps; but the thing is what I am after—novelty; they are hardly the fashion yet." "That is the very oddest reason for doing or not doing things!" said Lois. "Because it's the fashion! As if that made it pleasant, or useful." "It does!" said Mrs. Wishart. "Of course it does. Pleasant, yes, and useful too. My dear, you don't want to be out of the fashion?" "Why not, if the fashion does not agree with me?" "O my dear, you will learn. Not to agree with the fashion, is to be out with the world." "With one part of it," said Lois merrily. "Just the part that is of importance. Never mind, you will learn. Lois, I am so sleepy, I can not keep up any longer. I must curl down and take a nap. I just kept myself awake till we reached Shampuashuh. You had better do as I do. My dear, I am very sorry, but I can't help it." So Mrs. Wishart settled herself upon a heap of bags and wraps, took off her bonnet, and went to sleep. Lois did not feel in the least like following her example. She was wide-awake with excitement and expectation, and needed no help of entertainment from anybody. With her thoroughly sound mind and body and healthy appetites, every detail and every foot of the journey was a pleasure to her; even the corner of a drawing-room car on a night train. It was such change and variety! and Lois had spent all her life nearly in one narrow sphere and the self-same daily course of life and experience. New York had been one great break in this uniformity, and now came another. Islands in the sea! Lois tried to fancy what they would be like. So much resorted to already, they must be very charming; and green meadows, shadowing trees, soft shores and cosy nooks rose up before her imagination. Mr. Caruthers and his family were at Saratoga, that was well; but there would be other people, different from the Shampuashuh type; and Lois delighted in seeing new varieties of humankind as well as new portions of the earth where they live. She sat wide-awake opposite to her sleeping hostess, and made an entertainment for herself out of the place and the night journey. It was a starlit, sultry night; the world outside the hurrying train covered with a wonderful misty veil, under which it lay half revealed by the heavenly illumination; soft, mysterious, vast; a breath now and then whispering of nature's luxuriant abundance and sweetness that lay all around, out there under the stars, for miles and hundreds of miles. Lois looked and peered out sometimes, so happy that it was not Shampuashuh, and that she was away, and that she would see the sun shine on new landscapes when the morning came round; and sometimes she looked within the car, and marvelled at the different signs and tokens of human life and character that met her there. And every yard of the way was a delight to her. Meanwhile, how weirdly and strangely do the threads of human life cross and twine and untwine in this world! That same evening, in New York, in the Caruthers mansion in Twenty-Third Street, the drawing-room windows were open to let in the refreshing breeze from the sea. The light lace curtains swayed to and fro as the wind came and went, but were not drawn; for Mrs. Caruthers liked, she said, to have so much of a screen between her and the passers-by. For that matter, the windows were high enough above the street to prevent all danger of any one's looking in. The lights were burning low in the rooms, on account of the heat; and within, in attitudes of exhaustion and helplessness sat mother and daughter in their several easy-chairs. Tom was on his back on the floor, which, being nicely matted, was not the worst place. A welcome break to the monotony of the evening was the entrance of Philip Dillwyn. Tom got up from the floor to welcome him, and went back then to his former position. "How come you to be here at this time of year?" Dillwyn asked. "It was mere accident my finding you. Should never have thought of looking for you. But by chance passing, I saw that windows were open and lights visible, so I concluded that something else might be visible if I came in." "We are only just passing through," Julia explained. "Going to Saratoga to-morrow. We have only just come from Newport." "What drove you away from Newport? This is the time to be by the sea." "O, who cares for the sea! or anything else? it's the people; and the people at Newport didn't suit mother. The Benthams were there, and that set; and mother don't like the Benthams; and Miss Zagumski, the daughter of the Russian minister, was there, and all the world was crazy about her. Nothing was to be seen or heard but Miss Zagumski, and her dancing, and her playing, and her singing. Mother got tired of it." "And yet Newport is a large place," remarked Philip. "Too large," Mrs. Caruthers answered. "What do you expect to find at Saratoga?" "Heat," said Mrs. Caruthers; "and another crowd." "I think you will not be disappointed, if this weather holds." "It is a great deal more comfortable here!" sighed the elder lady. "Saratoga's a dreadfully hot place! Home is a great deal more comfortable." "Then why not stay at home? Comfort is what you are after." "O, but one can't! Everybody goes somewhere; and one must do as everybody does." "Why?" "Philip, what makes you ask such a question?" "I assure you, a very honest ignorance of the answer to it." "Why, one must do as everybody does?" "Yes." The lady's tone and accent had implied that the answer was self-evident; yet it was not given. "Really,"—Philip went on. "What should hinder you from staying in this pleasant house part of the summer, or all of the summer, if you find yourselves more comfortable here?" "Being comfortable isn't the only thing," said Julia. "No. What other consideration governs the decision? that is what I am asking." "Why, Philip, there is nobody in town." "That is better than company you do not like." "I wish it was the fashion to stay in town," said Mrs. Caruthers. "There is everything here, in one's own house, to make the heat endurable, and just what we miss when we go to a hotel. Large rooms, and cool nights, and clean servants, and gas, and baths—hotel rooms are so stuffy." "After all, one does not live in one's rooms," said Julia. "But," said Philip, returning to the charge, "why should not you, Mrs. Caruthers, do what you like? Why should you be displeased in Saratoga, or anywhere, merely because other people are pleased there? Why not do as you like?" "You know one can't do as one likes in this world," Julia returned. "Why not, if one can,—as you can?" said Philip, laughing. "But that's ridiculous," said Julia, raising herself up with a little show of energy. "You know perfectly well, Mr. Dillwyn, that people belonging to the world must do as the rest of the world do. Nobody is in town. If we stayed here, people would get up some unspeakable story to account for our doing it; that would be the next thing." "Dillwyn, where are you going?" said Tom suddenly from the floor, where he had been more uneasy than his situation accounted for. "I don't know—perhaps I'll take your train and go to Saratoga too. Not for fear, though." "That's capital!" said Tom, half raising himself up and leaning on his elbow. "I'll turn the care of my family over to you, and I'll seek the wilderness." "What wilderness?" asked his sister sharply. "Some wilderness—some place where I shall not see crinoline, nor be expected to do the polite thing. I'll go for the sea, I guess." "What have you in your head, Tom?" "Refreshment." "You've just come from the sea." "I've just come from the sea where it was fashionable. Now I'll find some place where it is unfashionable. I don't favour Saratoga any more than you do. It's a jolly stupid; that's what it is." "But where do you want to go, Tom? you have some place in your head." "I'd as lief go off for the Isles of Shoals as anywhere," said Tom, lying down again. "They haven't got fashionable yet. I've a notion to see 'em first." "I doubt about that," remarked Philip gravely. "I am not sure but the Isles of Shoals are about the most distinguished place you could go to." "Isles of Shoals. Where are they? and what are they?" Julia asked. "A few little piles of rock out in the Atlantic, on which it spends its wrath all the year round; but of course the ocean is not always raging; and when it is not raging, it smiles; and they say the smile is nowhere more bewitching than at the Isles of Shoals," Philip answered. "But will nobody be there?" "Nobody you would care about," returned Tom. "Then what'll you do?" "Fish." "Tom! you're not a fisher. You needn't pretend it." "Sun myself on the rocks." "You are brown enough already." "They say, everything gets bleached there." "Then I should like to go. But I couldn't stand the sea and solitude, and I don't believe you can stand it. Tom, this is ridiculous. You're not serious?" "Not often," said Tom; "but this time I am. I am going to the Isles of Shoals. If Philip will take you to Saratoga, I'll start to-morrow; otherwise I will wait till I get you rooms and see you settled." "Is there a hotel there?" "Something that does duty for one, as I understand." "Tom, this is too ridiculous, and vexatious," remonstrated his sister. "We want you at Saratoga." "Well, it is flattering; but you wanted me at St. Augustine a little while ago, and you had me. You can't always have a fellow. I'm going to see the Isles of Shoals before they're the rage. I want to get cooled off, for once, after Florida and Newport, besides." "Isn't that the place where Mrs. Wishart is gone," said Philip now. "I don't know—yes, I believe so." "Mrs. Wishart!" exclaimed Julia in a different tone. "She gone to the Isles of Shoals?" "'Mrs. Wishart!" Mrs. Caruthers echoed. "Has she got that girl with her?" Silence. Then Philip remarked with a laugh, that Tom's plan of "cooling off" seemed problematical. "Tom," said his sister solemnly, "is Miss Lothrop going to be there?" "Don't know, upon my word," said Tom. "I haven't heard." "She is, and that's what you're going for. O Tom, Tom!" cried his sister despairingly. "Mr. Dillwyn, what shall we do with him?" "Can't easily manage a fellow of his size, Miss Julia. Let him take his chance." "Take his chance! Such a chance!" "Yes, Philip," said Tom's mother; "you ought to stand by us." "With all my heart, dear Mrs. Caruthers; but I am afraid I should be a weak support. Really, don't you think Tom might do worse?" "Worse?" said the elder lady; "what could be worse than for him to bring such a wife into the house?" Tom gave an inarticulate kind of snort just here, which was not lacking in expression. Philip went on calmly. "Such a wife—" he repeated. "Mrs. Caruthers, here is room for discussion. Suppose we settle, for example, what Tom, or anybody situated like Tom, ought to look for and insist upon finding, in a wife. I wish you and Miss Julia would make out the list of qualifications." "Stuff!" muttered Tom. "It would be hard lines, if a fellow must have a wife of his family's choosing!" "His family can talk about it," said Philip, "and certainly will. Hold your tongue, Tom. I want to hear your mother." "Why, Mr. Dillwyn," said the lady, "you know as well as I do; and you think just as I do about it, and about this Miss Lothrop." "Perhaps; but let us reason the matter out. Maybe it will do Tom good. What ought he to have in a wife, Mrs. Caruthers? and we'll try to show him he is looking in the wrong quarter." "I'm not looking anywhere!" growled Tom; but no one believed him. "Well, Philip," Mrs. Caruthers began, "he ought to marry a girl of good family." "Certainly. By 'good family' you mean—?" "Everybody knows what I mean." "Possibly Tom does not." "I mean, a girl that one knows about, and that everybody knows about; that has good blood in her veins." "The blood of respectable and respected ancestors," Philip said. "Yes! that is what I mean. I mean, that have been respectable and respected for a long time back—for years and years." "You believe in inheritance." "I don't know about that," said Mrs. Caruthers. "I believe in family." "Well, I believe in inheritance. But what proof is there that the young lady of whom we were speaking has no family?" Julia raised herself up from her reclining position, and Mrs. Caruthers sat suddenly forward in her chair. "Why, she is nobody!" cried the first. "Nobody knows her, nor anything about her." "Here—" said Philip. "Here! Of course. Where else?" "Yes, just listen to that!" Tom broke in. "I xxow should anybody know her here, where she has never lived! But that's the way—" "I suppose a Sandwich Islander's family is known in the Sandwich Islands," said Mrs. Caruthers. "But what good is that to us?" "Then you mean, the family must be a New York family?" "N—o," said Mrs. Caruthers hesitatingly; "I don't mean that exactly. There are good Southern families—" "And good Eastern families!" put in Tom. "But nobody knows anything about this girl's family," said the ladies both in a breath. "Mrs. Wishart does," said Philip. "She has even told me. The family dates back to the beginning of the colony, and boasts of extreme respectability. I forget how many judges and ministers it can count up; and at least one governor of the colony; and there is no spot or stain upon it anywhere." There was silence. "Go on, Mrs. Caruthers. What else should Tom look for in a wife?" "It is not merely what a family has been, but what its associations have been," said Mrs. Caruthers. "These have evidently been respectable." "But it is not that only, Philip. We want the associations of good society; and we want position. I want Tom to marry a woman of good position." "Hm!" said Philip. "This lady has not been accustomed to anything that you would call 'society,' and 'position'—But your son has position enough, Mrs. Caruthers. He can stand without much help." "Now, Philip, don't you go to encourage Tom in this mad fancy. It's just a fancy. The girl has nothing; and Tom's wife ought to be— I shall break my heart if Tom's wife is not of good family and position, and good manners, and good education. That's the least I can ask for." "She has as good manners as anybody you know!" said Tom flaring up. "As good as Julia's, and better." "I should say, she has no manner whatever," remarked Miss Julia quietly. "What is 'manner'?" said Tom indignantly. "I hate it. Manner! They all have 'manner'—except the girls who make believe they have none; and their 'manner' is to want manner. Stuff!" "But the girl knows nothing," persisted Mrs. Caruthers. "She knows absolutely nothing,"—Julia confirmed this statement. Silence. "She speaks correct English," said Dillwyn. "That at least." "English!—but not a word of French or of any other language. And she has no particular use for the one language she does know; she cannot talk about anything. How do you know she speaks good grammar, Mr. Dillwyn? did you ever talk with her?" "Yes—" said Philip, making slow admission. "And I think you are mistaken in your other statement; she can talk on some subjects. Probably you did not hit the right ones." "Well, she does not know anything," said Miss Julia. "That is bad. Perhaps it might be mended." "How? Nonsense! I beg your pardon, Mr. Dillwyn; but you cannot make an accomplished woman out of a country girl, if you don't begin before she is twenty. And imagine Tom with such a wife! and me with such a sister!" "I cannot imagine it. Don't you see, Tom, you must give it up?" Dillwyn said lightly. "I'll go to the Isles of Shoals and think about that," said Tom. Wherewith he got up and went off. "Mamma," said Julia then, "he's going to that place to meet that girl. Either she is to be there with Mrs. Wishart, or he is reckoning to see her by the way; and the Isles of Shoals are just a blind. And the only thing left for you and me is to go too, and be of the party!" "Tom don't want us along," said Tom's mother. "Of course he don't want us along; and I am sure we don't want it either; but it is the only thing left for us to do. Don't you see? She'll be there, or he can stop at her place by the way, going and coming; maybe Mrs. Wishart is asking her on purpose—I shouldn't be at all surprised—and they'll make up the match between them. It would be a thing for the girl, to marry Tom Caruthers!" Mrs. Caruthers groaned, I suppose at the double prospect before her and before Tom. Philip was silent. Miss Julia went on discussing and arranging; till her brother returned. "Tom," said she cheerfully, "we've been talking over matters, and I'll tell you what we'll do—if you won't go with us, we will go with you!" "Where?" "Why, to the Isles of Shoals, of course." "You and mother!" said Tom. "Yes. There is no fun in going about alone. We will go along with you." "What on earth will you do at a place like that?" "Keep you from being lonely." "Stuff, Julia! You will wish yourself back before you've been there an hour; and I tell you, I want to go fishing. What would become of mother, landed on a bare rock like that, with nobody to speak to, and nothing but crabs to eat?" "Crabs!" Julia echoed. Philip burst into a laugh. "Crabs and mussels," said Tom. "I don't believe you'll get anything else." "But is Mrs. Wishart gone there?" "Philip says so." "Mrs. Wishart isn't a fool." And Tom was unable to overthrow this argument. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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