May had really changed very little in appearance, although she seemed to me to grow in beauty daily. With more civilised appliances, a few improvements in her dress, she became, in my eyes, the picture of all a girl should be. I longed to tell her this. I was annoyed, impatient, irritated at the obstacles which prevented me.
May always had a sad expression. Could one wonder at it? She was, I knew, still grieving over her lost father, and was anxious, filled with apprehension about her mother when she had heard the sad story she must tell her. I longed to help, to sympathise with her, indeed to be all in all to her, as I fancied I had been during that awful time up country.
It was very foolish, very preposterous of me, I am aware. I should have realised that such companionship could never be again, unless she became my wife. Really I knew it, and that is why I was so unhappy, and, as I see now, so stupid, for I then feared that she never could be that.
This state of matters continued until towards the end of this portion of our journey. It had grown so unbearable that I had become somewhat reckless. I really felt that I must put an end to it in some way. It actually came into my mind that I had better, on arriving at St Michael's, put her safely on board a ship bound for Victoria and return to Dawson and our claims up the Klondyke.
I said so to May one afternoon in the presence of Mr and Mrs Parker. I spoke as if I had all but determined to do so. She turned pale, then red. She did not speak, but she looked at me so eagerly, so imploringly, so frightened, that I was puzzled.
I was so abominably stupid that I attributed her expression of alarm to her fear of losing my help and guardianship. That she should be grieved at the mere prospect of parting with me, never entered my thick head that afternoon.
I said that I believed I should be better employed in looking after our interests up the Yukon than in going home in ease and luxury. "I'm sure you'll do very well and comfortably without me now, Miss Bell," I declared.
At this nasty speech the dear girl looked at me so surprised, so very sorrowfully, that I half regretted what I had said. She kept silence for a little. "Have you forgotten your promise to your friend Meade? and to my poor father?" she asked me.
I replied, with difficulty, I admit, I was so dreadfully down-hearted and distressed, "Oh! you will do all there is to be done for Meade, I'm sure, as well, nay, better than I can, and so that I know all will be carried out as he wished, that promise will be kept; and your father's desire will be carried out too if I see you off safely from this country—and that I will do, most certainly."
"Are you in earnest, Bertie?" She seemed to be amazed.