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.