How long I thus remained silent and despairing I do not know. I was
aroused by May addressing me.
"See," she whispered softly,--"see what has happened," and she pointed.
"I know, I know," was all that I could utter.
It was a profoundly miserable scene in that far-away shanty. The rough
walls, the crevices between the logs stuffed with moss and mud; the
earthen floor, worn into holes and inequalities; the huge fireplace,
with its pile of smouldering logs; the dim light from the flickering
slush-lamp; the blanket screen, drawn aside for the sake of air; the
rough couch of leaves and rugs, on which her father was lying; and she,
standing near, with her hands clasped, her face white as that upon
which she gazed, with such a look of woe and despair on it, that it
made me feel what no mere words can describe.
Thus we stood, Patch sitting by the fire, turning his head
occasionally, with the same look he bore when poor Meade died.
We remained in this position until the pent-up feelings of my
distressed companion vented themselves in a moan, so pitiful, so
heart-breaking, that I could not control myself. I felt I must do
something. I grasped her by the arm, and exclaiming "Come, come away,"
I drew her to the fire, and made her lie down upon a heap of blankets
that happened to be there. Then, taking a stool beside her, I
endeavoured to say something to calm her, and to show how deeply I
sympathised with and felt for her.
She remained quite silent. She neither shed tears nor spoke, but lay
there motionless, with staring eyes, with such an utterly lost look
upon her face, that I began to fear she too would die.
This thought so startled me that I suddenly spoke sharply to her. I
forget what I said, but it roused her from her lethargy. Startled by
my exclamation, she regarded me with piercing earnestness, exclaiming,
"What is to be done? What can be done?"
"Dear lady," I answered, speaking with deep feeling, "I cannot tell
yet. We must decide on something. Can you live on here alone? I see
by your face that you cannot. Can you undertake a journey through this
terrible wilderness alone? Of course you cannot; so we must throw all
false delicacy aside: you and I are here, miles on miles from any other
human beings. I will do all I can for you, we must work together, so
try to calm yourself and think what will be best."
She looked hard at me, and, I was thankful to see, trustfully; then she
pointed towards the curtain which I had lowered. "What must be done
with what is there?" she whispered, and she hid her face in her hands
and wept.
I was grateful to see the tears fall, for I knew that to any one in
deep grief tears are a great relief.
When she was calmer I talked gently with her. "We cannot bury him, the
earth is frozen hard as steel. His poor body will be quite safe here;
but could you live here with it?" I asked.
May remained silent for some time, sobbing convulsively. At length she
mastered her emotion, and exclaimed, "No! no! let us go away; cannot we
start now and make our way to Dawson? I am very strong, I am inured to
cold and hardship--let us go; let us start away from this most terrible
place; let us make our way to England, and my mother. Oh, my friend,
my dear friend, help me to get home!"
Considering how little experience I had had until quite recently with
mourning and distress, even amongst men, and that I had never had any
with women, I think I acted wisely in encouraging May to discuss and
become interested about this idea of getting away. I led her to talk,
believing it was the best thing for her.
For an hour or two we discussed the subject in every aspect, until,
indeed, I perceived it was very necessary for both of us to have food
and sleep.
I was delighted to see my dear companion eat a little, but when I
suggested that she should turn into her usual sleeping-place, she broke
down again, declaring that to be impossible. The position was terribly
distressing, she could not even lie by the fire and sleep, although I
promised to stay by. She showed perfect trust in me, much as a young
child would, but begged me not to press her to lie down at all there.
I knew that a good long sleep would greatly help her if she could
obtain it, but I could think of nothing to suggest, until she asked me
if I would mind sleeping there alone. I said "No," but wondered.
"Then," said she, "I think I should rest and sleep if I could be where
you have been--in the dug-out--if Patch could stay with me."
I was surprised, but thankful, therefore we went there together. I
made a big fire and left her with Patch, to my great contentment.
I slept for long. When I awoke I thought over the plans we had
discussed; I weighed all the pros and cons, and tried to see the worst
and best of the position of affairs. I prayed fervently to Almighty
God for help, that wisdom and strength might be vouchsafed both of us;
I prayed that this dear girl, who had in His providence been put into
my care, might be given power and fortitude to bear up against the
afflictions she was now experiencing, and the terrible trials and
adventures she, I knew, had yet to face.
A great measure of peace, clearness of perception, and courage was
bestowed on me; and when May came in by-and-by, I saw that she too had
received refreshment and help, and was more like herself than she had
been for many days. I lifted up my heart with thankfulness to Him who
had so blessed us.
Her first words were brave and encouraging. I could understand that
she had weighed and realised, and was not going to give way to useless
repinings, but would be my courageous friend, my trusty companion and
my help, so long as we were together fighting our way through the
innumerable difficulties that we knew beset us.
We cooked breakfast, talked seriously for half an hour, then began to
carry out our plans.
Our first duty was most distressing. We carried the body of Mr Bell to
the little dug-out I had occupied, and she had slept in. Here we
deposited it, covering it with a blanket.
May bore up bravely. I left her alone for a few moments; when she
rejoined me outside she was silent. We secured the entrance against
bears and foxes with rocks and logs.
I fashioned a cross and fastened it above the door; on it I wrote that
it was the burial-place of William Bell, of Hawkenhurst, Kent, England,
who died February 20, 1897, and a few other particulars.
We next secured the shanty. Having removed all we wished to carry
away, we nailed a paper to the door stating to whom it belonged, giving
the names of the party and their residences, outside; adding that the
adjacent claim--describing the position of the boundary stakes--was
their property, who were the discoverers of the gold, and that it was
duly registered according to law.
As for the gold, we hid it safely: May had no fear of robbery, even if
any one should wander that way, which was most unlikely, till spring at
any rate.
We packed my sled with the remaining food, apparel, and a few things
she required--some blankets and her tent; then as we found we could
haul the load easily, Patch and I, we opened May's cache and added to
our cargo fifty pounds' weight of gold, which was so much less to
remove later, and so much saved in case bad characters should come
across the place.
May and her father had kept a diary, so by means of the memoranda I had
preserved we were enabled to discover with some certainty not only the
day her father died, but when poor Meade "left."
Mr Bell passed away February 20, 1897, and Meade, November 10, 1896.
There was at this season some daylight; the sky was for some hours
beautiful with sunrise colours--and the twilight lasted, though the sun
was not up for very long.
We welcomed this promise of better times; indeed it was a great change
from the monotony we had so long experienced.
Wrapped to the eyes in furs and blankets, May and I stood for a while
impressed with the scene, whilst Patch, to whom cold made no
difference, gambolled to his heart's content in the dry and powdery
snow.
To us two poor human beings this cold appeared never to vary; it was
intense always. We had no thermometer really to test it. We were
rarely annoyed by wind; only once or twice whilst I was at the Bells'
place was there anything approaching a breeze, and then we did not
leave the house.
It was the 21st of February when we started, at noon, Patch and I
harnessed to the sled. On the summit of the hill we halted to take a
parting look at the scene of so much sad interest to May, and of so
much mingled pain and pleasure to me. She shed many tears; but I
hurried on, for I knew that her grief, though natural enough, would do
no good, and I did my best to interest her in our surroundings, and
thus allured her to brighter thoughts.
After this we got on famously. May had a pair of real Indian
snow-shoes, and though out of practice, soon got into the peculiar
stride again.
We arrived all well at my midway resting-place, where I shot the foxes:
here we halted for tea and food. Out of some pines I shot two brace of
grouse.
It had become night long before we reached my cabin, but the heavens
were ablaze with northern lights, and we could see well to travel.
Very frequently I blazed trees along our course--that is, I slashed
pieces of the bark off with my tomahawk, for I knew when the snow was
gone the aspect of the country would be so changed that it would be no
easy task, especially for strangers, to find their way without such
indications.
We had no adventures, and arrived in due time at my gloomy habitation.
A grand fire was soon blazing, and May was installed mistress thereof.
I showed her all I possessed, and my way of housekeeping. Then as near
as possible to the entrance we put up her tent substantially, lining it
with blankets; we banked snow high up around it, brought in the usual
layer of pine twigs, lit the stove, and thus made an exceedingly cosy
sleeping-place for me, May rendering most efficient aid.
And now commenced a most singular life, in many ways to me a very happy
one. Certainly my thoughts reverted often to the past, and I could not
help thanking the good Providence which had blessed me with the company
of this dear girl to fill the gap caused by the loss of my friend
Meade, whose memory was, notwithstanding, very green with me, and whose
absence from this changed aspect of our dugout home was to me
inexpressibly sad.
May was grieving sorely at the loss she had sustained, I saw. I
admired the way, however, in which she bore up. She seldom allowed me
to see how she suffered from the discomfort and the misery of the life
she led. Instead of complaining, she often expressed herself as most
grateful to the Almighty, and to me, for the many comforts and
blessings we had.
I was always grieving, though, that I could do so little to relieve her
during what I knew must be a most miserable time; yet I had one great
satisfaction, which, I admit, completely outweighed all my
discomforts,--it was that I was so intimately associated with her, and
it gratified me to know that I had been enabled to rescue and befriend
her.
For a time I feared that she could be experiencing no atom of pleasure
or comfort, but she frequently assured me that she was perfectly
content, and, knowing that it would be impossible to mend matters for
the present, she looked on the least dismal aspect of the situation and
made the best of it, like the good, wise, girl she was, which made her
lot easier to bear and my burden of anxiety lighter.
With a woman's tact she made the dismal burrow to appear brighter for
her stay in it. There were few articles for her to manage
with--brilliantly coloured blankets and a few skins of beasts we had
killed was all. I think it was her sweet presence that, to my eyes,
brightened matters more than anything, though often when I entered in a
morning I saw some fresh evidence of her thoughtfulness and taste.
We passed our days in company, cooking and eating, reading and talking.
Oh, how we talked! If some person could have peeped in at us when the
slush-lamp was burning brightly, the fire was roaring up the chimney,
and on the rough table an appetising meal was spread, they would have
wondered. We were far better off, I fancy, than any others were that
winter in the Yukon region. Certainly I was reconciled to my lot.
Still I felt deeply for and pitied May.
[Illustration: MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT.]
Sitting dreamily by the fire one day, talking of our past adventures
and planning our future course, we got on to the subject of Meade. I
had been narrating how I met him, and how I came to be where I was and
what he had done. "Where is he now?" asked May. "Will he come up here
again in spring?"
I said "No--he has gone for good and all; he'll never return to me!"
"What! and left all his gold behind? You told me he had taken none
away with him."
I was nonplussed, confounded. I did not know what to answer. I
hesitated.
"Is there some mystery?" she asked. "By your look I feel sure there is
some other sorrowful story--you are trying to hide it from me. Don't
you wish me to know?--Ah! I see there is. Believe me, if it is
something sad, I'll try to sympathise with you, as you have with me in
my great sorrow, if that be possible."
I thanked her, assured her that it was a very melancholy story,--then I
told her all there was to tell, even to where I had deposited the body
of my friend; and I explained what his wishes were about his share of
the gold, and that I intended, the first thing after reaching England,
to see his mother and Fanny Hume, and carry them out.
It was a great satisfaction to me that May now knew all. There was
henceforth nothing hidden from her. During this close companionship we
had talked on every possible subject,--our past lives, our desires for
our future, our friends and relatives, our hopes and aims,--until we
knew each other perfectly.
Amongst other subjects we had some melancholy conversation about her
father's death, which led to her speaking about his poor remains. She
felt distressed when she thought of them lying in that place alone, so
terribly alone, and frozen. "If they were buried in the earth it would
seem more natural," she said once. "I believe I should feel much more
at ease if that was done."
I promised her if it could be, it should be,--certainly before we left
that region it must be.
"Why can they not be treated in the same way as you have interred your
friend's remains?" she asked.
"There is no such tunnel up on your place--it cannot be done there." I
shook my head in doubt. I was thinking, and the matter dropped.
Is it to be wondered that, day by day, as this sweet girl's character
unfolded itself to me, I became more and more devoted to her? I cannot
tell the moment when I realised that I loved her, when I felt that life
held no greater prize for me than the affection of this, my dear
companion in those vast solitudes.
That she liked me, I believed; that she felt towards me in the least as
I felt towards her, I dared not hope.
Often I gazed longingly at her, yearning for the time when I could
honourably ask her the question which was uppermost in my mind--"Could
she ever love me?"
In all our intimate conversations the subject of love had never been
discussed. I was not brave enough to broach it, and she never did.
But often, oh! how very often, we two compared notes about our future
plans, how we would live our future lives. We pledged ourselves to
lifelong friendship; we vowed that, whatever betided us in the years to
come, if, please God, we ever reached home again, we two would ever be
in touch with one another, and would aid each other to carry out the
plans we concocted in that gloomy home we had up near the Arctic Circle.
We each had plenty of money, or should have, if we succeeded in getting
our gold away, and would then have the means to carry out the schemes
we laid. What good we projected to our fellows! to all poor strugglers
at home! What philanthropic associations we would help!
May's ideas of a happy, useful life were exactly the same as mine,
which impressed me more and more with the desire, the hope, that we two
might live that life together.
That the dear girl approved of me as a friend, I could not doubt, but
that she had learned to love me I was not vain enough to believe. How
could she love a rough, uncouth fellow like me, unkempt and dirty? I
was all that then. It did not occur to me that she also was very far
from presentable in civilised society. Her dress, like mine, was one
mass of grease and blackness: the life we led amongst the smoke of the
miserable slush-lamps, the cooking and grubbing, with no free use of
water, and no soap, for neither of us had any left, had caused us to
become very disreputable-looking beings. However, it was her sweet
face which attracted me. It never occurred to me to think that for the
rest she was not a whit better dressed or cared for than I was.
Certainly I felt in honour bound to treat this girl with the utmost
deference, yet I often dreaded that my strong feeling for her would
show itself, and then good-bye to much of our content. For if even,
impossible as I then thought it, she felt the same regard for me as I
did for her, the difficulty of our position would be greatly increased.
Therefore I prayed God to enable me to control myself, and I am
thankful to say He did, until the time arrived when it became possible
for me to speak out plainly.
For a week or two after the death of Mr Bell I always addressed her as
Miss Bell, and she spoke to me as Mr Singleton. It was stiff and
formal, but I had not the power to suggest any change. One day,
however, we being both outside, busy at some necessary work, she called
to me to help her lift, or do something for her, and as usual called me
Mr Singleton. "Oh!" I replied, "pray call me Bertie--it is time that
Mister should be dropped, surely."
She smiled, as she answered, "Surely, surely it is, but you must call
me May."
I being quite agreeable to this arrangement, it was May and Bertie
between us from that time forward.