I jumped into a rowboat, a canoe was not such a familiar craft to me as to the others, and I rowed away to the island house.
The dour boathouse keeper met me, and after a mere word of greeting I hurried up the path to the house.
Merry herself answered my ring, and at first she looked stern and unapproachable. "Miss Alma is seeing nobody, sir," she informed me. "She is lying down just now."
"Won't you ask her if she couldn't give me a few minutes? I'm not here on business of any sort, I'm just making a social call, and perhaps I can cheer her up."
I had unwittingly struck the right note, for Merry smiled a little, though the tears came into her eyes, too, and she gave me a long look as she said, "sit on the porch, please, sir, and I'll ask Miss Alma."
I sat down, and there, in that strange, eerie stillness, in that quiet, mysterious atmosphere, I vowed my life to Alma Remsen, I consecrated my heart and soul to my darling, and I determined to save her from this cloud that seemed to hang over her.
To be sure, my ideas of this salvation and indeed of the cloud itself were a trifle vague, but both mind and soul were full of her and her dearness, and at a light step behind me I turned to see her coming toward me across the verandah.
All in white, her golden curls a little tumbled, and her big, beautiful eyes a little heavy with trouble and sadness, she came, her two hands outstretched as if asking my aid.
I rose slowly, as she slowly advanced, and it seemed to me that as she traversed those few feet across the porch and as I awaited her, we asked and answered all the necessary questions, and when at last I held her two dear hands in mine, I drew her nearer into my arms and clasped her to me.
She made no resistance, she did not hold back or repulse me, but lay against my breast like a tired child, finding haven at last.
I held her so, soothing her a bit, and caressing her golden head, but saying no word lest I startle her.
In a moment, she lifted her head, her eyes gazed into mine and all the woe and sorrow came back into them.
"No, dear," I said, "no, don't look like that. Look happy----"
"Happy!" she said, with an awful intonation.
"Yes," I said, "like this!" and I kissed her.
It was just after I had given Alma that first kiss, and had realized that she was not offended by my daring, that Merry came to the house door, crying out, "Come, Miss Alma, come quickly!" and with an agonized look, Alma begged me to go at once, and she herself ran into the house.