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."