CHAPTER IX.
Whilst May and I ate, Mr Bell had some oxtail soup, which I had brought.
"How was it that those men did not keep their promise, and send you provisions and help?" I asked him.
"Well," said he, "I believe I can understand. They are not bad fellows, really, but were most anxious to get home to the States. Two were married. No doubt they called at Dawson, and made what they thought a good arrangement; but they could not stop to see it carried out. Very likely the boat was just starting, and it would be their last chance to get off; they could not delay. No, I don't think they neglected us willingly."
"Had you known them long?"
"We fell in with them at St Michael's last June, when we came up the Yukon. We did not come here to dig for gold?"
"Why! what on earth brought you then? Storekeeping? You puzzle me."
"Oh! no. I'm a writer and an artist. I came up for a Tacoma newspaper—to send articles and sketches out."
I had noticed a few drawings fastened to the logs. They had interested me. May had informed me they were her father's work, and this was the explanation.
"But you haven't been able to keep up correspondence with headquarters," I remarked. "Have you sent anything to them? Has anything been published?"
"Ah! that I don't know," he replied. "We sent some from Circle City and a few sketches, but since that, nothing. You see we soon discovered there was the chance of making more money here at gold-digging than by newspaper work, and ultimately we got up this Stewart river."
"Stewart river!" I exclaimed, "what makes you call this river so? This is the Klondyke, or a branch of it."
"No! no!" declared Mr Bell, "I assure you it is a tributary of the Stewart, here."
We had no map, no knowledge at all of the geography of the country. We only understood that the Yukon ran through it, having its sources in the Rocky Mountains to the east, and ending in Behring Sea, in the Arctic Ocean, to the north-west. Into this river we believed all other streams ran. I assured him that Meade and I came down it from the east, passing the mouth of the Stewart on the way to Dawson, where we entered the Thronda or Klondyke, which we ascended for fifty miles or so; then we came up a branch perhaps forty miles, and there we camped and had stopped since.
Now, I had come farther up this same stream for ten or twelve miles, and found them. "Certainly," I said, "we must be on a branch of the Klondyke."
Mr Bell was as sure that we were on the Stewart. We could not settle it. I believed that it was, at most, one hundred miles from my dug-out to Dawson, whilst he declared that from the shanty in which we were then talking it was more than two hundred and fifty! It was a puzzle which we could not and did not clear up then.
After this digression the story of their adventures was continued. They told me about the gold they obtained before and after their companions left them, and of the arrangement which was made that they should register the claim in Dawson on their way down, as they expected to find there some proper authority, whether Canadian or American they did not then know. But I had been able to assure my friends that we were in Canada, that all the Klondyke was in Canada; it was known to be seventy miles at least from the international boundary. This had pleased them greatly, for they knew the name of William Ogilvy, the Canadian Government Surveyor, who had been deputed to run the 141st parallel of north longitude to settle this.
Their party being the discoverers of this rich spot, they expected to receive large claims along the creek, and Mr Bell declared that he believed they were all really rich. "And yet," he went on, "with all this gold, we should have starved to death but for God's mercy and you."
Then I recounted what Meade and I had done, adding that I supposed we also were wealthy.
After this we talked about our doings in Canada before we came to this far northern part. I told them of my going first to a district back of Peterborough, in Ontario, with the idea of settling. It was near Buckhorn Lake, very pretty and picturesque, with fine fishing and game, plenty of deer, and so forth, but no place for farming; therefore I came farther west, through Manitoba—which I did not exactly like—on to Broadview, in Assiniboia.
This caused them to exclaim, "Why, that is where we went! how strange. Who did you know there?"
I mentioned the Birds and Fields, the Scotts and Wallises, and I found they were acquainted with them all. We spoke of the peculiarities of the settlers and the district, how promising all seemed to be at first.
By degrees I made out that Mr Bell had been at one time in very comfortable circumstances in England. If he had but been content all might have been well, but his hobby was gardening and farming, and when he married he went into it. He had no experience, and did not possess the gift of money-making, so, naturally, in a very few years he came to grief. May was their only child.
Having some artistic skill and literary abilities, he attempted to make an income by their means. It was all but a failure. They dragged on a precarious existence till May was fifteen years of age, when they had a windfall, a legacy of £3000.
Next to farming in England, Mr Bell's favourite theme was emigration. For years he had declared if they had only done that when they first married they would have been wise and in due time wealthy, and now that this bit of good fortune had come to them, nothing would do but they must carry out his scheme. Friends remonstrated, experienced relatives tried to dissuade him. It was useless.
May had received a good education, and had led an outdoor active life, and her father's plan was that she should go with him to Canada, leaving her mother at home in the little Kentish village where they had lived for years. There she was to remain until they two had made a new home for her in the Great North-West.
Mrs Bell was not so extremely sanguine, yet having still, in spite of all, unbounded belief in her husband's cleverness, she was by degrees led to consider that this would be a wise step, and in the end agreed to it.
From all I could make out then, and have learned since, Mr Bell had not been either an extravagant or unsteady man. He was indeed a great favourite with every one, and regarded, as indeed he was, as an exceedingly clever person. He simply had not the faculty of money-making, as I have already said.
May and her father emigrated then to Canada in 1892—he declaring, as he parted sorrowfully from his loving wife, that in less than a year he would return and take her out to a bright new home in that land of promise, Manitoba.
May and her father went direct to a village on the Canadian Pacific Railway, west of Winnipeg, called Carberry. It was stated by the railway and steamship advertisements to be situated on "The Beautiful Plains," and that land was to be had for a mere song close to the railroad.
On their arrival they found this was an exaggeration: no land could be obtained except at great price, and although undoubtedly it was a "plain" there, yet they failed to consider the dead level, most uninteresting prairie as "beautiful," and only by going "away back" many miles could they obtain a place within their means.
Then they moved on to Broadview, and liked the look of things there. Really, it is not so good a part as that round Carberry, but there are many clumps of wood, called bluffs, and many blue lakelets, sleughs they call them; there is a more picturesque appearance to its surroundings which no doubt caused them to prefer it. At any rate, Mr Bell at once bought a place, an improved farm, with a decent frame-house upon it—decent, then, for those parts—and they were charmed with everything. It was in the fall when they took possession, and the fall is certainly the most delightful time of year in that part of the world.
At once they wrote home, quite elated, to May's mother, telling her that in the early spring she was to join them, for that the long-looked-for prosperity had come to them.
Yet before the snow had been swept from the prairie the following spring all their enthusiasm had vanished! What with the extreme loneliness, the intense cold, and the dreadfully arduous work, labouring work, which they had to do themselves or starve, they concluded that it would never do to have Mrs Bell there. The climate, the labour, the isolation would never suit them or her, that was plain.
In the midst of this sad disillusionment Mr Bell had an offer for the place and the stock. He jumped at the chance, and the next time they went still farther west, to a place called Banff, in the Rocky Mountains.
They reached there early in the season, and with the enthusiasm with which Mr Bell went at every new scheme, when they had been there only three days he wrote to his wife a letter full of the beauty and the glory of their surroundings; declaring that, at last—no mistake about it this time—they had found what they were in search of.
He at once bought a piece of land with a little cottage thereon, and proceeded to start a garden, feeling convinced, he said, that with his knowledge of horticulture he could raise no end of vegetables and fruit, which would sell for an amazing price at the great hotel and amongst the crowd of wealthy visitors who came to that famous health-resort.
There is no saying but this might have turned out well, although from what I know myself of the climate up there I think it very doubtful; but, anyway, this is what occurred.
During that summer they were only preparing their ground; there were very few returns from it, scarcely any profits, but, as they said, when the crops and fruit-trees they had sown and planted had come to bearing the following year, all would wonder at their success.
In the meantime Mr Bell had made some sketches of the grand scenes around Banff,—they were exhibited for sale at the hotel. He also wrote some graphic descriptions of the place; these were published in newspapers in Vancouver, Winnipeg, and even in Toronto.
At the hotel Mr Bell and May met many of the visitors: there were many Americans amongst them, who talked, as usual, very "big" of the chances of making fame and money in their country; amongst them was the proprietor of one of the leading Tacoma papers. He was attracted by Mr Bell's drawings and printed articles, and this resulted in his making him what May and he considered a most excellent offer of employment.
They were to go still farther west, to this same Tacoma, on Puget Sound, on the Pacific coast of the United States.
There they were to live; but he was to go about, up and down the country, making drawings and writing, at what was considered very good pay.
They were now quite sure they would be settled permanently there; Mrs Bell was to come out the following spring, and all looked, and was, bright and promising.
They sold out at Banff, and started afresh under the Star-spangled Banner.
It will be gleaned from the foregoing that Mr Bell was a "rolling stone." The colonies are full of such. They are common enough in America especially.
Only a few months after they were settled in Tacoma news came of the doings in Alaska: I allude to reports of the gold being got there, and the impetus that the trade of the country was likely to receive. There was nothing yet sensational, but it caused Mr Bell to be commissioned to take what they called "The Alaskan trip."
He did this successfully, returning in the autumn, enthusiastic about the scenery and the future of that country. He brought back many drawings, notably one of Sitka, the capital, and others of the famous Lynn Canal.
This so gratified his employers that they arranged he should take a still more extended tour the following season. He was to cross the Gulf of Alaska to Dutch Harbour, on Unalaska Island, some 2000 miles from Tacoma, thence 750 miles north to St Michael's in Behring Sea.
This place lies 80 miles north of the mouth of the Yukon river. Here he was to take a river steamer and proceed up the Yukon some 1600 miles to the Canadian frontier. He was to describe and picture all he saw.
The proprietors of the newspaper, in the open-handed manner of successful Americans, proposed that he should take his daughter with him, on what was considered to be a most delightful pleasure excursion—which is exactly what it was, up to a certain point.
At St Michael's a number of miners joined their steamer with whom they became acquainted.
Their talk was gold, gold—always gold. Our travellers were deeply interested in all they heard about it. By-and-by the idea occurred to them that it would be a grand thing for their paper if they accompanied one of these parties, lived with them, helped them in their work, and thus become able to write, from personal experience, about a Yukon miner's life.
By the time they reached Circle City all was arranged; from there Mr Bell sent back to Tacoma all he had done, and told them his intention in his usual enthusiastic style.
They had joined with four of the least objectionable of their fellow-voyagers.
At Fort Cudahy, which they did not then seem to know was in Canada, they bought a boat and some food, and ascended the Yukon to Dawson, at which, although merely a few shanties and a store or two, they were able to purchase a full outfit of provisions and necessaries, especially "Alaskan strawberries," that is, pork and beans.
They passed by the Klondyke with scorn, being informed by all that it bore no gold—that it was just a famous salmon stream, no more. Indeed, the meaning of its name, Thron duick—Thronda—Throndike—or, as it has since been changed into, and seems likely to be for ever called, Klondyke, is "Plenty of fish."
They travelled up the Yukon, sometimes rowing, at others poling or towing against its swift current. At every likely spot their companions, experienced miners, prospected: they found gold everywhere, but not in paying quantities.
May did not dislike the life, except the mosquito torture. She had her own tent, and the Americans were kind and attentive to her, as is always their habit with ladies. She had a banjo, she sang nicely, she was an acquisition: they were proud of having so beautiful a damsel with them.
This went on until early in July, when, near where the Stewart river joins the Yukon, they met a party just come down that stream who were all English, knew something of the Bells' people at home, which made the meeting agreeable, and they camped together for a couple of days.
The English party owned they had found gold enough to satisfy them, and showed samples. It was coarse and nuggety. This fired the ambition of the four Yankees, who knew well that, until then, very little such gold had been got: they also knew that this indicated plenty more where that came from. Naturally, they were keen to learn where the Englishmen had found it.
But the Englishmen would not tell: they vaguely declared it was "up the Stewart."
In vain our party endeavoured to get some more definite information; they would only assure them that they believed every tributary of the Stewart was rich.
May had attracted the attention of one of these men, a young fellow of the better sort. For the short time they were together they were very friendly: he talked much of England, and what he was going to do when he returned there.
May told him what she would do if she had made her pile as he had. At which he told her that she easily could make it, if she would follow his instructions, and that if she would engage not to tell others he would give her the route, and ended by making her promise that when she had made all she wanted, and returned to Kent, she would let him know.
She laughingly gave her word. So when they parted next day, he whispered: "Up-stream, about fifty miles, the river forks. Go up the branch that trends north-west, follow that for less than twenty miles, and you'll get gold enough."
All this time Mr Bell had been taking notes and making sketches for his journal; but when these young Englishmen described their good fortune, it excited him and caused him and May to desire to do as they had done, so they arranged to join in with the four Americans, in work and profit, sharing equally. May was, you understand, an acquisition, and could in many ways do as much as a man. So now there were six in company, all gold-diggers.
I did not hear many particulars of their journey up the Stewart, only that they landed and tried for gold frequently, They usually got "a show," principally of flour-gold, but nothing that looked like a pile big enough for six.
When they had gone up fifty miles, as they reckoned, a very likely looking branch went off to the south-east. The practical men of the party wanted to ascend it; but Mr Bell, knowing what May had heard, strenuously opposed this. Having some little knowledge of geology, besides the gift of talking well, he made a plausible theory, and soon got them to agree to try their luck up the north-west stream.
As they proceeded they found gold everywhere, and occasionally a coarse speck which encouraged them.
One day they were camped beside a creek which joined the Stewart, perhaps seventy miles from the Yukon. The miners had gone off prospecting. May and her father scrambled up this creek: it was very picturesque, and he wished to make a drawing.
Whilst he worked with his pencil, May, as usual, poked about the rocks and bars. She carried a tin dish always, with which she had learned dexterously to wash and prospect.
All was quiet, except the murmur of water running over the stones, the buzz of mosquitos, and the twitter of the humming-birds, who were darting amongst the flowers which were plentiful along the margin of the stream.
May having been silent for some minutes, suddenly came to her father, pale, and looking strangely at him.
He was alarmed, thinking perhaps a snake had bitten her. She pointed eagerly, and did not speak.
Going in the direction she indicated, he came to her dish. Then he, too, was excited, for the bottom of it was covered with gold—and coarse gold, too!
For some minutes they could neither of them do much more than stare with amazement.
"Where, where did you get it?" he asked.
She showed him. He emptied the gold into the crown of his hat, and, bareheaded, scooped up another pan of gravel, which he washed, and found to be as full of gold as hers was.
They were calmer now; but they looked at each other with immense satisfaction, for they realised what they had discovered.
"May, my dear, we've got gold at last!" he exclaimed. "Our fortune is made; but, oh! if we could but let your dear mother know—eh?"
They were both in tears, quite overcome with emotion; but they were very thankful.
Every one carried a little gold scales, so they soon weighed what they had obtained. There were over twenty ounces, worth £70 at least.
That there was plenty more ground like it they made sure by trying several places around, and all gave splendid prospects. In an hour or two they had £200 worth!
Then they hurried back to camp, joyful and grateful.
May said she had much difficulty to calm her father, he was so exalted: she greatly feared he would have a fainting fit again.
The others were still absent when they reached camp, but soon returned disheartened: they had found nothing.
May began joking them, and asking if they had found stuff that would go five dollars to the dish.
They dolefully replied, "No; nor any that would go one dollar, which would pay—but five cent stuff was all that they could hit on."
"Two dollars!" she cried. "Oh, that's nothing; that will not satisfy me." She laughed as she cried, "Fifty dollars to the pan is about my figure!"
"Fifty dollars!" one of them replied with a sneer. "I guess you'll not get that round this yere region."
Then her father offered to wager that he could lead them to a spot where they could get stuff as rich as she had said, within an hour. He said this in such a jovial way that they saw there was some deep meaning to it. And when Mr Bell nodded to May, and she produced the tin and upset it into a dish, and they saw the shine of the gold, there was a lively time.
It was late, but light enough; no one could sleep. All hands rushed up to the place, each washed a pan of dirt, and every one showed gold—coarse gold, galore!
No need to describe how they cached their boat, and moved their camp to the hillside near their find. How they built the shanty for May and her father, which we were then in, and hewed a couple of dug-outs for themselves.
Then for two months they worked away with pick and shovel, dish and sluice, almost day and night, till they had secured some eighteen hundred ounces, which gave them about £1000 each!
Then they planned that all should go home together for the winter. They purposed to secure their claim at the headquarters of the Government in that region, which they supposed was Circle City, for they believed then that all that country belonged to the United States. They intended, however, to stop off at Dawson City to ascertain the truth.
It was then that Mr Bell took sick, and the rest of the story transpired which I have already recounted.
Nearly all of what I have so far related was told by May, only here and there her father added a word of correction or explanation.
For the last half-hour he had not spoken. May was sitting turned from him, but I could see his face, and I noticed that he had closed his eyes: I merely supposed that he was sleeping.
When May ended her story we were silent for a minute. She turned to address him; the moment her eyes fell on him, she exclaimed in alarm, "He has fainted again! He is dead!"
I was bewildered. "No, no! not that!" was all I could say; "he is only sleeping."
Kneeling beside him, she endeavoured to arouse him, but he did not stir.
Again she cried out that he was dead, and looked at me appealingly.
But I had hold of his wrist, I could feel his pulse; it was weak, but I knew he was alive, and told her it was a recurrence of his old complaint—bad enough, but not so bad as she supposed.
I brought whisky, forced some into his mouth, and before long we had the satisfaction of seeing him revive.
May was now blaming herself for having allowed him to be agitated by our conversation, at which I also felt guilty, for had not my visit been the cause of it?
We carried her father to his bed; I sat beside him with his sorrowing daughter for an hour. He slowly came to himself and knew us, but she declared that it would be many days before he would be anything like right again.
It was terribly sad, I felt very deeply for her, yet I could do little to help; and fancying I would be better out of the way, I began to make preparations to depart.
When May saw my intention she was strongly opposed to it, and begged me to remain, prayed me not to leave her there alone, and declared that if I had any kind feeling I would not think of going.
I cannot remember all she said in her excitement; all I know is, that it being against my wish to go, I promised to stay a while, and when her father had rallied more I laid myself down beside the fire and soon fell asleep, for I was very weary.
When I awoke I persuaded May to take some rest, whilst I sat by him, and as she was fagged out and quite exhausted she agreed to do so.
Then when he and I were alone he began to talk to me in a low weak voice. In vain I begged him to lie quietly, to try and sleep, and get well for his daughter's sake. But it was useless, he would not keep silent; he knew she was sleeping, and declared in an eager whisper that this being perhaps the only chance that he would ever have to speak privately to me, he must talk. What could I do but listen?
"You know that I'm a dying man," were the first words he said. I was so overwhelmed with consternation at this, that I did not know what to reply to him.
"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 wishing 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 assured 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 analyse, 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 God, 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—
"God 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 fashion 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 companionship 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 anticipate 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 hoarse 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. God 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 God'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.