I assured her that was how I felt then,—that I thought it would be much better so.
May was silent again. Shortly she arose and walked slowly to her cabin. I fancied I observed a tear trickling down her cheek as she left us. "She is thinking about the past," I said to myself.
That same evening, later,—indeed it was getting towards midnight—the sun had long set, but its brilliance was still in the sky—it did not leave it the whole night through at that season,—I was on deck, as I supposed alone, the steamer was pressing onward to the ocean down the rapidly flowing river, here quite broad. The distant mountains in the west and north towered up, violet, from a bank of rose-tinted mist, soft as carded wool. Here and there ice-clad peaks were still gilded by the sun, which was far down behind them, whilst the moon was riding full behind me. I was in deep distress, broken-hearted, yet I have a clear remembrance of the scene on which I gazed that night.
As I leant upon the rail and pondered upon what I and May had said earlier in the day, what our adventures together had been in the past, and what I had been foolish enough, as I at that moment considered, to imagine might be possible in the future, I was down-hearted and exceeding sad. My heart went out to May, I dwelt long and fondly on thoughts of her, but I could see no ray of hope, and could think of no reason why she should ever regard me as more than a friend; whilst I was longing, yearning, beside myself with love of her. "Yes, oh! yes," I muttered to myself, "it is far better that I part with her,—far better, indeed, that I return to my work away back in the north."
There was much vibration in the vessel. These craft are at best very fragile, very shaky. The beating paddle-wheel astern made so much noise that perfect quiet could not be attained anywhere on board.
I was somewhere amidships, the stillest spot that I could find, yet I heard no footsteps, and had no idea that any one was near me. Lifting up my eyes to heaven, I ejaculated something—I don't know what—some exclamation of despondency at the prospect of the life that I was contemplating in the Upper Yukon; but I do remember that I ended with the words, "And no May there!"
As I uttered them a hand was laid softly on my arm. I turned round hastily, and there my darling stood, gazing at me steadily, with tear-filled eyes. "Bertie!" she exclaimed, "Bertie, what do you mean? What ails you? Are you unwell? Are you in some new grief? What do you mean by crying out 'and no May there'? Tell me, my friend, my very dear friend, what is amiss, what you mean?"
I was speechless for a little while. What could I say? I only stared at her distraught, I was overwhelmed with emotion, and I could not prevent my looks showing what I felt. "Oh! May, May!" I murmured at last, "do you not understand? Do you not comprehend the misery that I am suffering?"
She was silent. She leant on the rail beside me, fixing her gaze upon the crimson glow beyond the mountain range. She was perfectly still and speechless.
My agitation was very great—she and I were at last alone. I knew that the time had come when I must speak out. It was, I felt, now or never, yet my tongue refused to form a sentence; the thoughts that were whirling through my brain refused to be turned to words. For several minutes we two looked straight before us, seeing nothing, and were dumb.