Part 20 (1/2)

”Oh, no!” I said at last; ”surely, surely not; think how much better you are than you were a while ago. Cheer up, sir; don't allow these sad ideas to take hold of you. You'll soon be well and up again, and ready to start for home.”

”Nay, nay, my friend,” he murmured; ”that will never be. I shall not live many days.”

As he thus talked to me I was looking at him searchingly, and I believed that what he said was true. There was that grey drawn look on his countenance which I remembered so well on my lost friend Meade's, and I realised in a flash that I was again to stand by whilst another died.

There were complications here, too, that bewildered me. True, I should not be left alone as I had been before, but what terrible difficulties I should have to face! I should have this afflicted, broken-hearted girl to guard and care for, and what could I do for her?

Of course I am not wis.h.i.+ng to convey the idea that I objected to doing all I possibly could for her. I felt so heartbroken on her account that I would willingly have given my heart's blood to help her, but I felt my ignorance and my incompetency.

All this flashed through my consciousness whilst Mr Bell paused to take breath. I endeavoured to make him silent, but he would go on whispering continually. He repeated that as May was sleeping, he must tell me all he could, and he did tell me much, far more than I ever can repeat. He a.s.sured me he knew he never should recover, that he was equally sure that I should stand by his daughter after he was gone. He begged me to help her out and home to England, and to do my best to get the gold out too.

I promised, of course. Even if I had not learned to admire May, I should have done that--but here in this savage wilderness, although it was a supremely difficult task I knew, of course I would do my best for her.

To say I loved her then would hardly explain my feelings; I had not thought of it in that light. I only knew that every thought and wish and aim was centred in her, and I was positively desperate when I realised what was in store for her, and what my incapability of efficacious help was.

Certainly I loved her--loved her with my whole heart and soul, but I did not recognise it then. I did not a.n.a.lyse, and here her father was giving her into my care and guidance!

He proceeded slowly, but very clearly, with his observations. ”All my life,” said he, impressively, ”I have been unfortunate. I never made money. I have always been in trouble about that. I'm a failure--that's what I am. My dear wife in England is broken-hearted about us. She has suffered for years the greatest of all earthly trials--the want of sufficient money. She is suffering now, and waiting, hoping against hope, that we will send for her to join us, or come home with plenty. And here, now, at last, we have got money, and are rich; the hope, the aim of my life is granted, and I must go and leave it! Is it not sad? Is it not wonderfully sad?”

I said it was. I tried to talk to him as though I believed he might still hope--but ah! I knew, I knew.

Continuing, he said, ”Doesn't it almost seem unjust! We know that 'He doeth all things well.' We know there is One above in whom we have, or ought to have, perfect trust; and yet, my friend, desiring as I do to speak with all reverence of Almighty G.o.d, doesn't it appear impossible that He should let me perish just when I have really attained my object, after all the struggles and trials of life?”

I said it certainly did seem to us poor mortals very strange, but we just had to trust Him, and I quoted what I had often heard my father repeat--

”G.o.d moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform.”

Mr Bell sighed deeply as he agreed with me. I tried to cheer him. I urged him to endeavour to get better, to look at the brighter side of affairs, for his daughter's sake, at least. I said, of course, I would stand by and aid her all I possibly could, with my life if need be. I would do all a man could to conduct her safely home to her mother, if he were taken; but I urged him again and again to try to pull himself together, and for all our sakes not to give up hope.

He took all I said kindly; he clasped my hand in his, and promised to do his best, but whispered as we heard May stirring, ”It's hopeless, Bertie Singleton--quite hopeless; but I'll try to hide the truth from May as long as possible.”

When May rejoined us he rallied wonderfully, and in a few hours had improved so greatly that I said something more about leaving, and again May begged and prayed me to remain with them, in which her father joined with her eagerly.

Most certainly I did not wish to leave them, but I was troubled about the way to stay. I suggested that I should erect a tent, bank it round with snow, use the Yukon sheet-iron stove they had, and sleep in it.

With plenty of pine brush, furs, and blankets, I should be all right.

For in a tent, in the way I have described, one can keep warm with the thermometer many degrees below zero.

We were planning this when she said, ”But why not use one of the places the men made? Come and see.”

Wrapping up carefully and taking a firebrand, we two, and Patch, who was true to May, and would hardly allow her to move without his knowing all about it, tramped through the snow to a den excavated in the same fas.h.i.+on as Meade's and mine. It was absolutely dry inside--dismal enough certainly, but to me, used to such a dwelling, it offered a convenient lair.

May returned to her father. I built a huge fire in the proper corner, and soon had a warm burrow for a sleeping-place. It was close to the shanty. If May hammered on her door I should hear it, and be with her in a moment.

For a week Mr Bell continued to improve; May became quite cheerful. I did all I was able to aid them, kept up the fires, thawed snow for water, cooked, and made matters as pleasant as I could. We read and talked, and in many respects we had a happy time.

Plenty of food and firing and sweet companions.h.i.+p satisfied my ideas of rest then, and I was glad to notice that in spite of all the terrible surroundings May was looking well and strong. Mr Bell was able to sit up and talk cheerfully at times; but, notwithstanding, I noted no improvement in his appearance, and I feared greatly his daughter had much to suffer yet.

I did not antic.i.p.ate immediate danger though, and as I was obliged to visit my dug-out down the creek for another load, I arranged to go, and to be absent for two days only.