"Just over," he said, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder and across the river, — "the only house you can see, under the mountain there — just under Wut-a-qut-o. 'Tain't a very sociable place and we are glad to see visiters."
He went; and Elizabeth only waited to have him out of sight, when she took gloves and oars and planted herself in the little 'Merry-go-round.'
"My arms won't carry me far to-day," she thought, as she pushed away from the rocks and slowly skimmed out over the smooth water. But how sweet to be dappling it again with her oar-blades, — how gracefully they rose and fell — how refreshing already that slight movement of her arms — how deliciously independent and alone she felt in her light carriage. Even the thrill of recollection could not overcome the instant's pleasure. Slowly and lovingly Elizabeth's oars dipped into the water; slowly and stealthily the little boat glided along. She presently was far enough out to see Mr. Underhill's bit of a farmhouse, sitting brown and lone at the foot of the hill, close by the water's edge. Elizabeth lay on her oars and stopped and looked at it.
"Go over there! Ridiculous! Why should I? —"
"And why shouldn't I?" came in another whisper. "Do me no harm — give them some pleasure. It is doing as I would be done by."
"But I can't give pleasure to all the old women in the land," she went on with excessive disgust at the idea.
"And this is only one old woman," went on the other quiet whisper, — "and kindness is kindness, especially to the old and lonesome. —"
It was very disagreeable to think of; Elizabeth rebelled at it strongly; but she could not get rid of the idea that Winthrop in her place would go, and would make himself exceedingly acceptable; she knew he would; and in the light of that idea, more than of any other argument that could be brought to bear, Elizabeth's conscience troubled her. She lay still on her oars now and then to think about it; she could not go on and get rid of the matter. She pondered Winthrop's fancied doing in the circumstances; she knew how he would comport himself among these poor people; she felt it; and then it suddenly flashed across her mind, "Even Christ pleased not himself;" — and she knew then why Winthrop did not. Elizabeth's head drooped for a minute. "I'll go," — she said to herself.
Her head was raised again then, and with a good will the oars made the little boat go over the water. She was elated to find her arms so strong, stronger now than they had been five minutes ago; and she took her way down towards the bottom of the bay, where once she had gone huckleberrying, and where a rich growth of wood covered the banks and shewed in one or two of its members here and there already a touch of frost. Here and there an orange or reddish branch of maple leaves — a yellow-headed butternut, partly bare — a ruddying dogwood or dogwood's family connection, — a hickory shewing suspicions of tawny among its green. A fresh and rich wall-side of beauty the woody bank was. Elizabeth pulled slowly along, coasting the green wilderness, exulting in her freedom and escape from all possible forms of home annoyance and intrusion; but that exulting, only a very sad break in a train of weary and painful thoughts and remembrances. It was the only break to them; for just then sorrowful things had got the upper hand; and even the Bible promises to which she had clung, and the faith that laid hold of them, and the hopes that grew out of them, could not make her be other than downcast and desponding. Even a Christian life, all alone in the world, with nobody and for nobody, seemed desolate and uncheering. Winthrop Landholm led such a life, and was not desolate, nor uncheered. — "But he is very different from me; he has been long a traveller on the road where my unsteady feet have but just set themselves; he is a man and I am a woman!" — And once Elizabeth even laid down her oars, and her head upon the hands that had held them, to shed the tears that would have their own peculiar way of comfort and relief. The bay, and the boat, and the woody shore, and the light, and the time of year, all had too much to say about her causes of sorrow. But tears wrought their own relief; and again able to bear the burden of life, Elizabeth pulled slowly and quietly homewards.
Looking behind her as she neared the rocks, to make sure that she was approaching them in a right direction, she was startled to see a man's figure standing there. Startled, because it was not the bent-shouldered form of Mr. Underhill, nor the slouching habit of Anderese; but tall, stately and well put on. It was too far to see the face; and in her one startled look Elizabeth did not distinctly recognize anything. Her heart gave a pang of a leap at the possibility of its being Winthrop; but she could not tell whether it were he or no; she could not be sure that it was, yet who else should come there with that habit of a gentleman? Could Mr. Brick? — No, he had never such an air, oven at a distance. It was not Mr. Brick. Neither was it Mr. Herder; Mr. Herder was too short. Every nerve now trembled, and her arms pulled nervously and weakly her boat to the shore. When might she look again? She did not till she must; then her look went first to the rocks, with a vivid impression of that dark figure standing above them, seen and not seen — she guided her boat in carefully — then just grazing the rocks she looked up. The pang and the start came again, for though not Winthrop it was Winthrop's brother. It was Rufus.