But in course of time I was able to speak; it was slowly and in broken sentences. "May," I began, "my dear friend May—my dearest friend—you are going home—shortly we must part. I am broken-hearted about it. You were such sweet company to me up in that fearful north; we have been through such awful scenes together. To me, though, they were the happiest times that I have ever known, or ever expect to know. I would willingly go back there, and end my days there, if you could be with me; but that being impossible, I have really, and truly, and seriously thought of late that it would be better for me to go back there alone, for I believe I should be happier in the scenes where you and I have dwelt together, where the memory of your dear presence will for ever cling, than at home in England separated from you." Then I was silent again.
Shortly after this outburst May asked me why we must be separated; why, if her companionship was so necessary to my happiness, I could not have it easier and better in England than in Alaska?
What was I to reply to this? I muttered something, and she went on—"Have we not laid our plans and schemes for our future lives? Are we not going to carry them out? We are well off now as regards money. We believe we can do all we wish, thank God. What, then, is troubling you? Why this sadness, this unhappiness? Why do you speak of parting company and ending it all, and adding a greater—yes, I will admit it, a greater grief to me than any I have to bear, by talking thus of putting an end to the life together which we have contemplated with so much delight?"
"Why—why do I do this, May?" I cried excitedly. "Why? because I love you—love you. Do you understand why, now? Don't you know that you are all the world to me, and more? Don't you comprehend that the entire future is dark and dreadful to me, because I love you, yearn for you, and have no hope of winning your dear love in return? That is the reason, May. Now you know this secret of my heart."
Again my dearest was speechless for some time: I saw the tears dropping, dropping from her sweet eyes; fain would I have clasped her to my heart and dried them, but I dared not.
"Bertie," she said then, softly. "Yes; now I know your secret. But why? oh, why are you so sure that you cannot win my love?"
I glanced at her bewildered. She turned to me, and I saw in her dear eyes a look I cannot describe, but I understood it. I was overcome with the joy of it, enchanted at the knowledge that suddenly flashed through my intelligence. I did not, could not, stop to analyse, but I knew she loved me. I knew that all my fears were follies, and that all my greatest desires, my fondest hopes, were granted, and that May was mine!
What I said or did then I have no clear recollection; only this, that I seized my beloved's hands and drew her to me as she laid her head confidingly on my shoulder and whispered softly in my ear, "Dearest, don't you know I love you?"
We remained on deck together for a long while. For my part I was in the seventh heaven of delight and thankfulness. I could not find words to make my darling understand how great my joy was. I could but kiss her and draw her to my heart, whilst she murmured again and again to me the joyful words, "Bertie, my dearest, best of friends, I love you."
We parted only when the sun was about to rise above the north-eastern ranges. I went below, a gloriously happy man. I went to my berth rejoicing that never-to-be-forgotten morning on the Lower Yukon in Alaska.