"Is there some mystery?" she asked. "By your look I feel sure there is some other sorrowful story—you are trying to hide it from me. Don't you wish me to know?—Ah! I see there is. Believe me, if it is something sad, I'll try to sympathise with you, as you have with me in my great sorrow, if that be possible."
I thanked her, assured her that it was a very melancholy story,—then I told her all there was to tell, even to where I had deposited the body of my friend; and I explained what his wishes were about his share of the gold, and that I intended, the first thing after reaching England, to see his mother and Fanny Hume, and carry them out.
It was a great satisfaction to me that May now knew all. There was henceforth nothing hidden from her. During this close companionship we had talked on every possible subject,—our past lives, our desires for our future, our friends and relatives, our hopes and aims,—until we knew each other perfectly.
Amongst other subjects we had some melancholy conversation about her father's death, which led to her speaking about his poor remains. She felt distressed when she thought of them lying in that place alone, so terribly alone, and frozen. "If they were buried in the earth it would seem more natural," she said once. "I believe I should feel much more at ease if that was done."
I promised her if it could be, it should be,—certainly before we left that region it must be.
"Why can they not be treated in the same way as you have interred your friend's remains?" she asked.
"There is no such tunnel up on your place—it cannot be done there." I shook my head in doubt. I was thinking, and the matter dropped.
Is it to be wondered that, day by day, as this sweet girl's character unfolded itself to me, I became more and more devoted to her? I cannot tell the moment when I realised that I loved her, when I felt that life held no greater prize for me than the affection of this, my dear companion in those vast solitudes.
That she liked me, I believed; that she felt towards me in the least as I felt towards her, I dared not hope.
Often I gazed longingly at her, yearning for the time when I could honourably ask her the question which was uppermost in my mind—"Could she ever love me?"