A Claim on Klondyke Part 20

"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.

Since the night when May had slept whilst I sat by her father, he and I had no private conversation; it was impossible, as she never left the hut. But often he looked at me so sadly, perhaps in the middle of lively talk with her, that I was very much troubled, dreading what was coming.

The day before I had arranged to start he was busy, just as poor Meade was, writing--letters apparently. They seemed to be deeply affecting him. He was paler than usual, and struck me as being still more withered and shrunken. He looked as if there was but a feeble spark of life in him, which a breath would extinguish. How dare I hope that he would ever gain strength enough to take the terrible journey out?

I knew May noticed this change in him: she begged him to rest, she hung round his couch, sadly troubled; and for the life of me I could not say anything to cheer her. She urged him to give up his writing, but all that he would answer was, "Soon, my love--directly."

He wrote only a little more after this, then folded the sheet, and with trembling hands placed it in an envelope and fastened it. Then he looked up at her and me.

His eyes were suffused with tears: I never saw so mournful a look upon a human face. It affected me deeply. What did May feel then? She glanced at me once only. I'll never forget that glance.

Clasping her father in her arms, she drew him frantically to her breast, crying, "Father, dear father, tell me what is troubling you?"

In a loud hoa.r.s.e voice, speaking more powerfully than I had ever heard him, he said, "I was writing to your mother, May--bidding her farewell!"

"Farewell!--father. What do you mean?" she cried.

"My dear, I have written 'Good-bye' to her. I have finished; and--now--I must say--Good-bye to you--my darling. Yes--I'm going to leave you. It's all right. I have--known this--for a--long time. I'm going--to die here--May. I'll never--see dear England--again--nor your sweet mother. But I know--where my trust is, May. I know that--my Redeemer--liveth. Tell her--this, dear--we shall meet--in the beyond.

And, May--my dearest--I leave you--in full faith--that you'll--get home. G.o.d will bless--your journey. Don't fear. I leave you--in His hands--and in those--of this good friend--Bertie Singleton's. He'll do his best--for you. Trust him. Don't grieve--too much--for me."

During this long, sad, and very solemn discourse, May had fixed a stony gaze upon him: her face was white as chalk, her eyes were staring wildly. She uttered no sound until he ceased to speak; then she gave a most piteous, woful cry, and sank insensible across the bed, his hand clasped in hers.

I stepped forward, anxious to render some aid--I knew not what. He looked down upon his daughter, then wistfully at me. "It is well, my friend," he whispered; "my time has come. My sands of life have run out. I must go!"

I put my hand out mechanically. He clasped it very tightly, with a nervous grip, and placed it on May's head, saying most gravely and yet so trustfully, "I leave her in G.o.d's hands--and yours. I know you will deal kindly with her, as I know my heavenly Father will. I can trust you. I do. Farewell, dear friend, farewell!"

As the last words fluttered from his lips he lay back, closed his eyes, and after he had heaved a few feeble sighs, at longer and longer intervals, I knew that he, too, was dead! At which I threw myself upon my knees beside his couch, utterly unnerved--despondent--desperate.

CHAPTER X.

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?"