A Claim on Klondyke Part 21

"Dear lady," I answered, speaking with deep feeling, "I cannot tell yet. We must decide on something. Can you live on here alone? I see by your face that you cannot. Can you undertake a journey through this terrible wilderness alone? Of course you cannot; so we must throw all false delicacy aside: you and I are here, miles on miles from any other human beings. I will do all I can for you, we must work together, so try to calm yourself and think what will be best."

She looked hard at me, and, I was thankful to see, trustfully; then she pointed towards the curtain which I had lowered. "What must be done with what is there?" she whispered, and she hid her face in her hands and wept.

I was grateful to see the tears fall, for I knew that to any one in deep grief tears are a great relief.

When she was calmer I talked gently with her. "We cannot bury him, the earth is frozen hard as steel. His poor body will be quite safe here; but could you live here with it?" I asked.

May remained silent for some time, sobbing convulsively. At length she mastered her emotion, and exclaimed, "No! no! let us go away; cannot we start now and make our way to Dawson? I am very strong, I am inured to cold and hardship--let us go; let us start away from this most terrible place; let us make our way to England, and my mother. Oh, my friend, my dear friend, help me to get home!"

Considering how little experience I had had until quite recently with mourning and distress, even amongst men, and that I had never had any with women, I think I acted wisely in encouraging May to discuss and become interested about this idea of getting away. I led her to talk, believing it was the best thing for her.

For an hour or two we discussed the subject in every aspect, until, indeed, I perceived it was very necessary for both of us to have food and sleep.

I was delighted to see my dear companion eat a little, but when I suggested that she should turn into her usual sleeping-place, she broke down again, declaring that to be impossible. The position was terribly distressing, she could not even lie by the fire and sleep, although I promised to stay by. She showed perfect trust in me, much as a young child would, but begged me not to press her to lie down at all there.

I knew that a good long sleep would greatly help her if she could obtain it, but I could think of nothing to suggest, until she asked me if I would mind sleeping there alone. I said "No," but wondered.

"Then," said she, "I think I should rest and sleep if I could be where you have been--in the dug-out--if Patch could stay with me."

I was surprised, but thankful, therefore we went there together. I made a big fire and left her with Patch, to my great contentment.

I slept for long. When I awoke I thought over the plans we had discussed; I weighed all the pros and cons, and tried to see the worst and best of the position of affairs. I prayed fervently to Almighty G.o.d for help, that wisdom and strength might be vouchsafed both of us; I prayed that this dear girl, who had in His providence been put into my care, might be given power and fort.i.tude to bear up against the afflictions she was now experiencing, and the terrible trials and adventures she, I knew, had yet to face.

A great measure of peace, clearness of perception, and courage was bestowed on me; and when May came in by-and-by, I saw that she too had received refreshment and help, and was more like herself than she had been for many days. I lifted up my heart with thankfulness to Him who had so blessed us.

Her first words were brave and encouraging. I could understand that she had weighed and realised, and was not going to give way to useless repinings, but would be my courageous friend, my trusty companion and my help, so long as we were together fighting our way through the innumerable difficulties that we knew beset us.

We cooked breakfast, talked seriously for half an hour, then began to carry out our plans.

Our first duty was most distressing. We carried the body of Mr Bell to the little dug-out I had occupied, and she had slept in. Here we deposited it, covering it with a blanket.

May bore up bravely. I left her alone for a few moments; when she rejoined me outside she was silent. We secured the entrance against bears and foxes with rocks and logs.

I fashioned a cross and fastened it above the door; on it I wrote that it was the burial-place of William Bell, of Hawkenhurst, Kent, England, who died February 20, 1897, and a few other particulars.

We next secured the shanty. Having removed all we wished to carry away, we nailed a paper to the door stating to whom it belonged, giving the names of the party and their residences, outside; adding that the adjacent claim--describing the position of the boundary stakes--was their property, who were the discoverers of the gold, and that it was duly registered according to law.

As for the gold, we hid it safely: May had no fear of robbery, even if any one should wander that way, which was most unlikely, till spring at any rate.

We packed my sled with the remaining food, apparel, and a few things she required--some blankets and her tent; then as we found we could haul the load easily, Patch and I, we opened May's cache and added to our cargo fifty pounds' weight of gold, which was so much less to remove later, and so much saved in case bad characters should come across the place.

May and her father had kept a diary, so by means of the memoranda I had preserved we were enabled to discover with some certainty not only the day her father died, but when poor Meade "left."

Mr Bell pa.s.sed away February 20, 1897, and Meade, November 10, 1896.

There was at this season some daylight; the sky was for some hours beautiful with sunrise colours--and the twilight lasted, though the sun was not up for very long.

We welcomed this promise of better times; indeed it was a great change from the monotony we had so long experienced.

Wrapped to the eyes in furs and blankets, May and I stood for a while impressed with the scene, whilst Patch, to whom cold made no difference, gambolled to his heart's content in the dry and powdery snow.

To us two poor human beings this cold appeared never to vary; it was intense always. We had no thermometer really to test it. We were rarely annoyed by wind; only once or twice whilst I was at the Bells'

place was there anything approaching a breeze, and then we did not leave the house.

It was the 21st of February when we started, at noon, Patch and I harnessed to the sled. On the summit of the hill we halted to take a parting look at the scene of so much sad interest to May, and of so much mingled pain and pleasure to me. She shed many tears; but I hurried on, for I knew that her grief, though natural enough, would do no good, and I did my best to interest her in our surroundings, and thus allured her to brighter thoughts.

After this we got on famously. May had a pair of real Indian snow-shoes, and though out of practice, soon got into the peculiar stride again.

We arrived all well at my midway resting-place, where I shot the foxes: here we halted for tea and food. Out of some pines I shot two brace of grouse.

It had become night long before we reached my cabin, but the heavens were ablaze with northern lights, and we could see well to travel.

Very frequently I blazed trees along our course--that is, I slashed pieces of the bark off with my tomahawk, for I knew when the snow was gone the aspect of the country would be so changed that it would be no easy task, especially for strangers, to find their way without such indications.

We had no adventures, and arrived in due time at my gloomy habitation.

A grand fire was soon blazing, and May was installed mistress thereof.

I showed her all I possessed, and my way of housekeeping. Then as near as possible to the entrance we put up her tent substantially, lining it with blankets; we banked snow high up around it, brought in the usual layer of pine twigs, lit the stove, and thus made an exceedingly cosy sleeping-place for me, May rendering most efficient aid.

And now commenced a most singular life, in many ways to me a very happy one. Certainly my thoughts reverted often to the past, and I could not help thanking the good Providence which had blessed me with the company of this dear girl to fill the gap caused by the loss of my friend Meade, whose memory was, notwithstanding, very green with me, and whose absence from this changed aspect of our dugout home was to me inexpressibly sad.

May was grieving sorely at the loss she had sustained, I saw. I admired the way, however, in which she bore up. She seldom allowed me to see how she suffered from the discomfort and the misery of the life she led. Instead of complaining, she often expressed herself as most grateful to the Almighty, and to me, for the many comforts and blessings we had.

I was always grieving, though, that I could do so little to relieve her during what I knew must be a most miserable time; yet I had one great satisfaction, which, I admit, completely outweighed all my discomforts,--it was that I was so intimately a.s.sociated with her, and it gratified me to know that I had been enabled to rescue and befriend her.

For a time I feared that she could be experiencing no atom of pleasure or comfort, but she frequently a.s.sured me that she was perfectly content, and, knowing that it would be impossible to mend matters for the present, she looked on the least dismal aspect of the situation and made the best of it, like the good, wise, girl she was, which made her lot easier to bear and my burden of anxiety lighter.

With a woman's tact she made the dismal burrow to appear brighter for her stay in it. There were few articles for her to manage with--brilliantly coloured blankets and a few skins of beasts we had killed was all. I think it was her sweet presence that, to my eyes, brightened matters more than anything, though often when I entered in a morning I saw some fresh evidence of her thoughtfulness and taste.

We pa.s.sed our days in company, cooking and eating, reading and talking.

Oh, how we talked! If some person could have peeped in at us when the slush-lamp was burning brightly, the fire was roaring up the chimney, and on the rough table an appetising meal was spread, they would have wondered. We were far better off, I fancy, than any others were that winter in the Yukon region. Certainly I was reconciled to my lot.

Still I felt deeply for and pitied May.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MAY AND I IN THE DUG-OUT.]

Sitting dreamily by the fire one day, talking of our past adventures and planning our future course, we got on to the subject of Meade. I had been narrating how I met him, and how I came to be where I was and what he had done. "Where is he now?" asked May. "Will he come up here again in spring?"

I said "No--he has gone for good and all; he'll never return to me!"

"What! and left all his gold behind? You told me he had taken none away with him."

I was nonplussed, confounded. I did not know what to answer. I hesitated.

"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, a.s.sured 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 f.a.n.n.y 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."