He didn't speak for a little, nor could I see his face. But when he did break the silence, it was to say he'd walk to the post-office with me; he added that the exercise would do him good, since he hadn't had much of an appetite for supper—which was, I thought, one of the shabbiest speeches he could have framed. But I let him come.
"Why not row down?" he suddenly suggested as we came to the bend in the road beside the river. Our boat-house, its door wide open, was at the water's edge. "We can land within a square of the office," he enlarged.
I should have refused, I know; for the letter to Charlie was in my hand. But I didn't. And I remember yet the sense of sweet helplessness I felt as he turned and led the way to the boat-house. It all comes back to me again. I stand once more alone, outside, while the tall form disappeared within the low-roofed house. The sound of pushing and rolling I hear again as the boat emerged slowly from its home. The rattle of oars comes back, idly rolling to and fro in the rocking skiff; the metallic chink as they were being adjusted in the iron sockets; and the lapping waves, and the soft breath of evening, and the distant noises of the drowsy town. I remember, too, that there was neither moon nor star, the sky all veiled with the gentle haze that often marks our Southern spring. He rowed; and I sat in the armchair in the stern.
"You're going too far out," I said suddenly, for we were near the middle of the river.
"I want to get a last look at the place," he said, "and one can see better from out here. Doesn't the town look lovely in the dusk?—see all those twinkling lights."
"Yes," I agreed, "it's beautiful. Why do you say that?" I asked, trying to conceal the tremor in my voice.
"Say what?"
"What you said a moment ago—about a last look—why the last?"
"Because it is," he answered slowly, the oars hardly moving now. "I'm going away."
I looked down at the dimpling track my hand was making in the water.