There were complications here, too, that bewildered me. True, I should not be left alone as I had been before, but what terrible difficulties I should have to face! I should have this afflicted, broken-hearted girl to guard and care for, and what could I do for her?
Of course I am not wishing to convey the idea that I objected to doing all I possibly could for her. I felt so heartbroken on her account that I would willingly have given my heart's blood to help her, but I felt my ignorance and my incompetency.
All this flashed through my consciousness whilst Mr Bell paused to take breath. I endeavoured to make him silent, but he would go on whispering continually. He repeated that as May was sleeping, he must tell me all he could, and he did tell me much, far more than I ever can repeat. He assured me he knew he never should recover, that he was equally sure that I should stand by his daughter after he was gone. He begged me to help her out and home to England, and to do my best to get the gold out too.
I promised, of course. Even if I had not learned to admire May, I should have done that—but here in this savage wilderness, although it was a supremely difficult task I knew, of course I would do my best for her.
To say I loved her then would hardly explain my feelings; I had not thought of it in that light. I only knew that every thought and wish and aim was centred in her, and I was positively desperate when I realised what was in store for her, and what my incapability of efficacious help was.
Certainly I loved her—loved her with my whole heart and soul, but I did not recognise it then. I did not analyse, and here her father was giving her into my care and guidance!
He proceeded slowly, but very clearly, with his observations. "All my life," said he, impressively, "I have been unfortunate. I never made money. I have always been in trouble about that. I'm a failure—that's what I am. My dear wife in England is broken-hearted about us. She has suffered for years the greatest of all earthly trials—the want of sufficient money. She is suffering now, and waiting, hoping against hope, that we will send for her to join us, or come home with plenty. And here, now, at last, we have got money, and are rich; the hope, the aim of my life is granted, and I must go and leave it! Is it not sad? Is it not wonderfully sad?"
I said it was. I tried to talk to him as though I believed he might still hope—but ah! I knew, I knew.
Continuing, he said, "Doesn't it almost seem unjust! We know that 'He doeth all things well.' We know there is One above in whom we have, or ought to have, perfect trust; and yet, my friend, desiring as I do to speak with all reverence of Almighty God, doesn't it appear impossible that He should let me perish just when I have really attained my object, after all the struggles and trials of life?"
I said it certainly did seem to us poor mortals very strange, but we just had to trust Him, and I quoted what I had often heard my father repeat—