Hilda Strafford

A California Story

By
Beatrice Harraden

Author of “Ships that Pass in the Night”
“In Varying Moods”

With Illustrations by Eric Pape

New York
Dodd Mead and Company
1897

Copyright, 1896
By Beatrice Harraden
University Press
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U. S. A.

Contents

ILLUSTRATIONS

HILDA STRAFFORD

Hilda Strafford

CHAPTER I
WOULD IT SMILE TO HER?

THE day had come at last.

Robert Strafford glanced around at the isolated spot which he had chosen for his ranch, and was seized with more terrible misgivings than had ever before overwhelmed him in moments of doubt.

Scores of times he had tried to put himself in her place, and to look at the country with her eyes. Would it, could it, smile to her? He had put off her coming until the early spring, so that she might see this new strange land at its best, when the rains had begun to fall, and the grass was springing up, and plain and slope were donning a faint green garment toning each day to a richer hue, when tiny ferns were thrusting out their heads from the dry ground, and here and there a wild-flower arose, welcome herald of the bounty which Nature would soon be dispensing with generous hand, but after a long delay. Such a long delay, indeed, that a new-comer to Southern California might well think that Nature, so liberal in her gifts to other lands, had shown only scant favor to this child of hers, clothing her in dusty and unattractive attire, and refusing her many of the most usual graces. But when the long months of summer heat are over, she begins to work her miracle, and those who have eyes to see and hearts to understand, will learn how dearly she loves this land of sunshine, and how, in her own good time, she showers her jewels upon it.

So just now, when this wonderful change was stealing over the country, Robert Strafford looked eagerly for the arrival of Hilda Lester, who had been engaged to him for more than three years, and who was at length able to break away from her home-ties and marry him; when there was a mystic glamour in the air, and a most caressing softness; when the lemon-trees were full of promise, and some of them full of plenty; when the little ranch, so carefully worked and so faithfully nursed, seemed at its very best, and well repaid Robert Strafford for his untiring labor.

He sat on the bench in front of his barn, smoking his pipe and glancing with pride at his little estate on the slope of the hill. He loved it so much, that he had learnt to think it even beautiful, and it was only now and then that he had any serious misgivings about the impression it would produce on any one unaccustomed to the South Californian scenery. But now he was seized with overwhelming doubt, and he took his pipe from his mouth, and covered his tired-looking face with his hands. Nellie, the white pointer, stirred uneasily, and then got up and rubbed herself against him.

“Dear old girl,” he said, caressing her. “You have such a faithful heart. I’m all right, old girl; I’m only down in the dumps a little.”

Suddenly the sound of horse’s hoofs was heard, and Nellie, barking loudly, darted down the hill, and then returned in triumph, now and again making jumps of greeting to Ben Overleigh’s pretty little chestnut mare Fanny.

Ben Overleigh swung off his horse, hitched her to the post, and turned quietly to his friend, who had not risen from the bench, but sat in the same listless position as before.

“Well, now,” said Ben Overleigh, sinking down beside him, “and I tell you, Bob, you’ve made a deucèd pretty little garden for her. That deaf old woman with the ear-trumpet has not grown finer violets than those yonder; and as for your roses, you could not find any better in Santa Barbara itself. I can’t say much for the grass-plot at present. It reminds me rather of a man’s bald head. But the creepers are just first rate, especially the ones I planted. And there isn’t a bonnier little ranch than yours in the whole neighbourhood. If my lemons were coming on as well as yours, nothing on earth should prevent me from stepping over to the dear old country for a few weeks.”

Robert Strafford looked up and smiled.

“The trees certainly are doing splendidly,” he said, with some pride. “I know I’ve given them the best part of my strength and time these last three years. There ought to be some return for that, oughtn’t there, Ben?”

Ben made no answer, but puffed at his pipe, and Robert Strafford continued:

“You see, Hilda and I had been engaged for some time, and things did not go well with me in the old country,—I couldn’t make my niche for myself like other fellows seem able to do,—and then there came that wretched illness of mine, which crippled all my best abilities for the time. So when at last I set to work again, I felt I must leave no stone unturned to grasp some kind of a success: here was a new life and a new material, and I vowed I would contrive something out of it for Hilda and myself.”

He paused a moment, and came closer to Ben Overleigh.

“But I don’t know how I ever dared hope that she would come out here,” he said, half-dreamily. “I’ve longed for it and dreaded it, and longed for it and dreaded it. If I were to have a message now to say she had thrown it up, I don’t suppose I should ever want to smile again. But that is not the worst thing that would happen to one. I dread something far more—her disappointment, her scorn; for, when all is done and said, it is a wretched land, barren and bereft, and you know yourself how many of the women suffer here. They nearly all hate it. Something dies down in them. You have only got to look at them to know. They have lost the power of caring. I’ve seen it over and over again, and then I have cursed my lemon-trees. And I tell you, Ben, I feel so played out by work and doubt, and so over-shadowed, that if Hilda hates the whole thing, it will just be the death of me. It will kill me outright.”

Ben Overleigh got up and shook himself, and then relieved his feelings in a succession of ranch-life expletives, given forth with calm deliberation and in a particularly musical voice, which was one of Ben’s most charming characteristics. He had many others too: his strong manly presence, his innate chivalry to every one and everything, and his quiet loyalty, made him an attractive personality in the valley; and his most original and courteous manner of swearing would have propitiated the very sternest of tract-distributors. He was a good friend, too, and had long ago attached himself to Robert Strafford, and looked after him—mothering him up in his own manly tender fashion; and now he glanced at the young fellow who was going to bring his bride home on the morrow, and he wondered what words of encouragement he could speak, so that his comrade might take heart and throw off this overwhelming depression.

“That’s enough of this nonsense,” he said cheerily, as he stood and faced his friend. “Come and show me what you’ve done to make the house look pretty. And see here, old man, I’ve brought two or three odd things along with me. I saw them in town the other day, and thought they might please her ladyship when she arrives. I stake my reputation particularly on this lamp-shade. And here’s a table-cloth from the Chinese shop, and here’s a vase for flowers, and here’s a toasting-fork!”

They had gone into the house, and Ben Overleigh had laid his treasures one by one on the table. He looked around, and realised for the first time that Robert Strafford was offering but a desolate home to his bride. Outside at least there were flowers and creepers, and ranges of splendid mountains, and beautiful soft lights and shades changing constantly, and fragrances in the air born of spring; but inside this dreary little house, there was nothing to cast a glamour of cheerfulness. Nothing. For the moment Ben’s heart sank, but when he glanced at his friend, he forced himself to smile approvingly.

“You’ve bought a capital little coal-oil stove, Bob,” he said. “That is the best kind, undoubtedly. I’m going to have scores of cosy meals off that, I can tell you. I think you could have done with two or three more saucepans, old man. But that is as nice a little stove as you’ll see anywhere. A rocking-chair! Good. And a cushion too, by Jove! And a book-shelf, with six brand-new books on it, including George Meredith’s last novel and Ibsen’s new play.”

“Hilda is fond of reading,” said Robert Strafford, gaining courage from his friend’s approval.

“And some curtains,” continued Ben. “And a deucèd pretty pattern too.”

“I chose them myself,” said the other, smiling proudly,—“and, what’s more, I stitched them myself!”

So they went on, Ben giving comfort and Bob taking it; and then they made a few alterations in the arrangement of the furniture, and they tried the effect of the table-cloth and the lamp-shade, and Bob put a few flowers in the vase, and stood at the door to see how everything looked.

“Will it smile to her, will it smile to her, I wonder?” he said, anxiously.

“Of course it will,” said Ben, also stepping back to see the whole effect.

“That lamp-shade and that table-cloth and that vase and that toasting-fork settle the whole matter, in my mind!”

“If there were only some nice neighbours,” said Robert Strafford. “But there isn’t a soul within six miles.”

“You are surely forgetting the deaf lady with the ear-trumpet,” remarked Ben, mischievously.

“Don’t be a fool, Ben,” said Robert Strafford, shortly.

“She is not exactly a stimulating companion,” continued Ben, composedly, “but she is better than no one at all. And then there’s myself. I also am better than no one at all. I don’t think you do so badly after all, in spite of your grumblings. Then eight miles off live Lauderdale and Holles and Graham. Since Jesse Holles returned from his travels, they are as merry a little company as you would wish to see anywhere.”

“Hilda is so fond of music,” said Robert Strafford, sadly, “and I have no piano for her as yet.”

“That is soon remedied,” answered Ben. “But why didn’t you tell me these things before? The ear-trumpet lady has a piano, and I daresay with a little coaxing she would lend it to you. I’m rather clever at coaxing through a trumpet; moreover, she rather likes me. I have such a gentle voice, you know, and I believe my moustache is the exact reproduction of one owned by her dead nephew! Her dead nephew certainly must have had an uncommonly fine moustache! Well, about the piano. I’ll see what I can do; and meanwhile, for pity’s sake, cheer up.”

He put his hand kindly on his friend’s shoulders.

“Yes, Bob, I mean what I say,” he continued; “for pity’s sake, cheer up, and don’t be receiving her ladyship with the countenance of a boiled ghost. That will depress her far more than anything in poor old California. Be your old bright self again, and throw off all these misgivings. You’ve just worked yourself out, and you ought to have taken a month’s holiday down the coast. You would have come back as strong as a jack-rabbit and as chirpy as a little horned toad.”

“Oh, I shall be all right,” said Robert Strafford; “and you’re such a brick, Ben. You’ve always been good to me. I’ve been such a sullen cur lately. But for all that—”

“But for all that, you’re not a bad fellow at your best,” said Ben, smiling; “and now come back with me. I can’t have you mooning here by yourself to-night. Come back with me, and I’ll cook you a splendid piece of steak, and I’ll send you off in excellent form to meet and marry her ladyship to-morrow morning. Then whilst you are off on that errand, I’ll turn in here and make the place as trim as a ship’s cabin, and serve up a nice little dinner fit for a king and queen. Come on, old man. I half think there may be rain to-night.”

“I must just water the horses,” said Robert Strafford, “and then I’m ready for you.”

The two friends sauntered down to the stables, the pointer Nellie following close upon their heels.

It was the hour of sunset, that hour when the barren scenery can hold its own for beauty with the loveliest land on earth. The lights changed and deepened, and faded away and gave place to other colours, until at last that tender rosy tint so dear to those who watch the Californian sky, jewelled the mountains and the stones, holding everything, indeed, in a passing splendour.

“Her ladyship won’t see anything like that in England,” said Ben; and he stooped down and picked some wild-flowers which were growing over the ranch: Mexican primroses and yellow violets.

“The ear-trumpet lady says this is going to be a splendid year for the wild-flowers,” he added, “so her ladyship will see California at its best. But I believe we are in for some rain. I rather wish it would keep off until she has happily settled down in her new home.”

“It won’t rain yet,” said Robert Strafford, leading out one of the horses to the water-trough. Then Ben fetched the other one out; but he broke loose and hurried up on the hill, and Ben followed after him, swearing in his usual patent manner in a gentle and musical monotone, as though he were reciting prayers kneeling by his mother’s side. At last the horse was caught, and the chickens were fed, and Nellie was chained up to keep guard over the Californian estate. Robert mounted his little mare Jinny and said some words of comfort and apology to the pointer.

“Poor old Nellie, woman,” he said; “I hate to leave you by yourself. But you must keep the house and ranch safe for your mistress. And I’ve given you an extra supply of bones. And we’ll go hunting soon, old girl, I promise you.”

Nellie went the full length of her chain, and watched the two men canter off.

When she could no longer watch, she listened, every nerve intent; and when at last the sounds of the horses’ hoofs had died away in the distance, she heaved a deep sigh, and after the manner of all philosophers, resigned herself to an extra supply of bones.

CHAPTER II
HILDA COMES

THE next morning after Robert Strafford had gone off to town to meet Hilda, Ben Overleigh went to his friend’s house and put everything in order, and after having paid special attention to the arrangement of his moustache, he set out to visit Miss Dewsbury, the deaf lady, intending, if possible, to coax her piano out of her. He was a great favourite of hers, and he was indeed the only person who was not thoroughly frightened of her. She was quite seventy years of age, but she had unending strength and vitality,[33] and worked like a navvy on her ranch, only employing a man when she absolutely must. And when she did employ any one, she mounted to the top of the house, and kept watch over him with an opera-glass, so that she might be quite sure she was having the advantage of every moment of his time. The boys in the neighbourhood often refused to work for her; for, as Jesse Holles said, it was bad enough to be watched through an opera-glass, but to have to put up with all her scoldings, and not be able to say a word of defence which could reach her, except through a trumpet—no, by Jove, that wasn’t the job for him! Also there were other complaints against her: she never gave any one a decent meal, and she never dreamed of offering anything else but skimmed[34] milk which people did not seem able to swallow. They swallowed the opera-glass and the trumpet and the scoldings and the tough beef, but when it came to the skimmed milk, they felt that they had already endured enough. So the best people in the valley would not work for Miss Dewsbury—as least, not willingly; and it had sometimes happened that Ben Overleigh had used his powers of persuasion to induce some of the young fellows to give her a few days’ help when she was in special need of it; and on more than one occasion, when he could not make any one else go to her, he had himself offered her his services. Thus she owed him some kindness; and moreover his courtliness and his gentle voice were pleasing to her. He was the only person, so she said,[35] who did not shout down the trumpet. And yet she could hear every word he uttered.

This morning when he arrived at her house, she was vainly trying to hear what the butcher said, and the butcher was vainly trying to make himself understood. She was in a state of feverish excitement, and the butcher looked in the last stage of nervous exhaustion.

“You’ve just come in time to save my life,” he said to Ben. “For the love of heaven, tell her through the trumpet, that beef has gone up two cents a pound, that she can’t have her salted tongue till next week, and that she has given me seven cents too little.”

Then Ben of the magic voice spoke these mystic words through the trumpet, and the butcher went off comforted, and Miss Dewsbury smiled at her favourite; and when he told her that he had come to ask a special favour of her, she was so gracious that Ben felt he would have no difficulty in carrying out his project. But when she understood what he wanted, things did not go so easily. To be sure, she did not use the piano, she said, but then that was no reason why any one else should use it for her. Ben stood waiting patiently until she should have exhausted all her eloquence, and then he stooped down, and quietly picked one or two suckers off a lemon-tree, and took his pruning-knife from his pocket, and snipped off a faded branch. After this, with quiet deliberation, he twirled his great moustaches. That settled the matter.

“You may have the piano,” she said, “but you must fetch it yourself.”

Ben did not think it necessary to add that he had already arranged for it to be fetched at once, and he lingered a little while with her, listening to her complaint about the men she employed and about their laziness, which she observed through the opera-glass. Ben was just going to suggest that perhaps the opera-glass made the men lazy, when he remembered that he must be circumspect, and so he contrived some beautiful speech about the immorality of laziness; he even asked for a glass of skimmed milk, and off he cantered, raising his hat and bowing chivalrously to the old lady rancher. Before very long, her piano stood in Robert Strafford’s little house, and Ben spent a long time in cleaning and dusting it.

After he had finished this task, he became very restless, and finally went down to the workshop and made a rough letter-box, which he fixed on to a post and placed at the corner of the road leading up to his friend’s ranch. Two hours were left. He did a little gardening and watered the tiny grass-plot. He looked at the sky. Blue-black clouds were hovering over the mountains, obscuring some and trying to envelop others.

“We are in for a storm,” he said. “It is making straight for this part from Grevilles Mountain. But I hope it won’t come to-night. It will be a poor welcome to Bob’s wife, though it’s about time now for the land to have a thorough good drenching.”

He looked at the pretty valley with its belt of trees, seen at its best from the hill where Robert’s house was built. At all times of the year, there was that green stretch yonder of clustering trees, nestling near the foothills, which in their turn seemed to nestle up to the rugged mountains.

“Yes,” he said, as he turned away, “those trees make one home-sick for a wooded country. These wonderful ranges of mountains and these hills are all very well in their way, and one learns to love them tremendously, but one longs for the trees. And yet when Jesse Holles went north and came back again, he said he was glad to see the barren mountains once more. I wonder what the girl will think of it all, and how she will take to the life. The women suffer miseries of home-sickness.”

He stood thinking a while, and there was an expression of great sadness on his face.

“My own little sweetheart would have pined out here,” he said softly; “I can bear the loneliness, but I could not have borne hers. Poor old Bob,” he said regretfully, “I almost wish he had not sent for her: it is such a risk in this land. I don’t wonder he is anxious.”

He glanced again at the threatening clouds, and went back to the house, took off his coat, turned up his sleeves, and began the preparations for the evening meal. He laid the cloth, changed the flowers several times before they smiled to his satisfaction, and polished the knives and forks. He brought in some logs of wood and some sumac-roots, made a fire, and blew it up with the bellows.

“BEN LIT THE LANTERN, AND STATIONED HIMSELF
OUTSIDE WITH IT.”

Suddenly the frail little frame-house was shaken by a heavy gust of wind; and when the shock had passed, every board creaked and quivered. Nellie got up from her warm place near the fire, and stalked about uneasily.

“Damnation!” said Ben. “The storm is working up. If they’d only come before it is any worse.”

It was now seven o’clock and pitch dark. Ben lit the lantern, and stationed himself outside with it. The time seemed endless to him, but at last he heard the music of wheels, and in a few minutes the horse dashed up the hill, and Robert’s voice rang out lustily:

“Here she is, Ben!”

“Yes, here I am,” said Robert’s wife.

“Just in time to escape the storm,” said Ben, coming forward to greet her, and helping her out of the buggy. “I’ve been awfully anxious about you both. I’ll take the horse down to the barn, Bob, and then I’ll fly up to see about the dinner. Leave everything to me.”

So whilst Ben was unhitching the horse, Robert led his wife into the little house, and he was transfigured with pride and pleasure when she glanced round and said:

“Why, how cosy you’ve made it! And how cheerful the fire looks! And this dear dog ready to be so friendly. It looks like a real little home—doesn’t it?”

In that one moment all Robert’s doubts and misgivings were set at rest, and when Ben hurried up from the barn, the husband and wife were kneeling down and toasting themselves before the fire, the dog nestling up near them, and he heard Robert asking questions about the dear old country, and Hilda answering in a voice which struck on Ben’s sensitive ear as being somewhat harsh and strident. He had only time to glance hastily at her as, intent on serving up a dainty little dinner as quickly as possible, he passed into the kitchen. At last he brought it in triumphantly, hot steak cooked as only Ben knew how, and fried potatoes and chicken salad, and the most fragrant coffee. Finally, overcome with his exertions and his anxiety and his day’s working and waiting, with a sigh of relief he sank back in his chair and twirled his great moustaches.

“You have been such a good friend to Bob,” said Hilda, smiling at him. “I know all about it.”

“No, no,” said Ben, with his easy grace, “I’ve only helped to get him through the time until you came out to him. The poor wretch needed cheering up. But he does not look much like a poor wretch now.”

“No, indeed,” laughed Robert, “and I don’t feel like one.”

“You’ve often been a great anxiety to me,” said Ben, turning to Hilda. “When the mails have been delayed and your letters have not come at their appointed minute, then I have had to suffer. And once you were ill. During that period I was not allowed any peace of mind.”

“In fact, you have had bad times on my account,” she said brightly.

“AND HE HEARD ROBERT ASKING QUESTIONS.”

“Well, I could not bear to see him suffer,” Ben said, laying his arm on Robert’s shoulder. “He is a terrible fellow at taking things to heart. There is no doing anything at all with him.”

“He has suffered quite unnecessarily,” Hilda answered, with that peculiar harsh ring in her voice which again jarred on Ben’s sensitiveness. “I am one of the strong ones of the earth.”

And she looked it. Though tired after the long journey from England, she had the appearance of being in excellent health. Her complexion was dark, and her eyes were brown, but without any softness in them. She was decidedly good-looking, almost beautiful indeed, and strikingly graceful of form and stature. But she impressed Ben as being quite unsympathetic, and all the time he was washing up the tea things and tidying the little kitchen, he found himself harping on this note alone.

And when he had said good-bye to Robert and Hilda, and was hurrying home on his pretty little mare Fanny, he gave vent, in his usual musical fashion, to a vague feeling of disappointment, and kept up a soft accompaniment of swearing to the howling of the wind.

CHAPTER III
GROWING REGRETS

IT was now three days since Hilda’s arrival; and the storm, which had been threatening for so long, had not yet broken loose. Like all the ranchers, Robert was anxious for a good deluge, but he was relieved that there was a little delay about it, for he wanted Hilda to enjoy a few days of outdoor life, and see all he had to show her on the ranch and in the garden. He seemed like a different man now that she had come out to him; and every tiny mark of appreciation which she gave, made him lift his head higher,[52] and encouraged him to step more firmly over the ground. The labour, the anxiety, and the risk of his enterprise were all forgotten in the intense pride and pleasure with which he showed her what he had been doing to ensure success. He told her, with quiet confidence in the ultimate truth of his words, that his lemons could not possibly be a failure.

“You will hear many people say that there is no money in fruit-farming,” he said to her when he was taking her over the ranch and pointing out to her his pet trees. “But you need not be concerned about that. The big ranches often fail because they are too unwieldy, and some of the small ranches fail because they are not properly looked after, and because their owners have not enough capital to spend money on them, and to wait patiently for a good return. But a ranch of twenty-five acres carefully tended in every particular cannot help being a success. Those are my best trees yonder. They are specially fine, and I expect to net two dollars a box on them next year. I can’t tell you how much care I have given to them, but you see for yourself that it was well worth while.”

Hilda tried to make some appropriate remark, but the trees did not really arouse any interest in her: she was bitterly disappointed with them, for, in spite of all Robert’s letters telling her that the orchard was only in its infancy, she had expected to see great groves of trees covered with lemons and oranges. And really until one learns to take a delight in the quick growth, one may well feel disappointment and perhaps contempt. Some amusing criticisms, with a spice of derision in them, rose to her lips, but she managed to shut them off, and followed her husband silently up the trail which led to his reservoir, on which he set great store.

“Yes,” he said, “this is a thoroughly satisfactory piece of work. It cost a good deal of money and labour, but it is splendidly strong. In this dry land, it is such an immense advantage to be able to store water.”

Hilda praised the reservoir, and suggested they should grow some trees there.

“Yes, indeed,” Robert said eagerly, “we will have trees everywhere, and you shall choose them and settle where they are to be planted.”

“Why didn’t you plant some shade trees at once?” she asked. “The whole place is so terribly bare. I could not have believed that such a barren spot existed anywhere outside a desert.”

Robert’s face fell, and Hilda added quickly:

“But these are grand old mountains around us, and I daresay one gets accustomed to the bareness.”

“Oh, yes,” he answered, “and in time one almost learns to think it beautiful.”

“Beautiful, no,” she replied decidedly, “but perhaps tolerable.”

“Every day,” he said, almost pleadingly, “you will see a difference in the scenery. If we have some more rain, as we shall do shortly, you will see the green springing up everywhere. The most dried-up-looking corner will suddenly become jewelled with wild-flowers. In about three weeks’ time that little hill yonder above our ranch will be covered with scented yellow lilies. Down in the valley you will find green enough to satisfy the hungriest eye, and up on the mountains where you must go on horseback, the brushwood is coming on splendidly, and all sorts of lovely flowers and shrubs are springing up. And there you will have a grand view of the surrounding mountains, and the Pacific. You will even feel the sea-breeze, and at times you will hear the sound of the waves.”

He paused for a moment, and Hilda said brightly:

“I shall enjoy the riding immensely. Can I begin soon?”

“At once,” he answered proudly again. “Come and make friends with Bessie, and see the side-saddle which I bought for you the other day. It’s a Mexican one, and I think it is the safest for this country.”

He had taken thought for her in every way, and she could not but notice it and be grateful for it; and as the days went on, she grew more conscious of the evidences of his kindness, and all the more anxious to do her part conscientiously. She threw herself into work to which she had been totally unaccustomed all her life, and for which she had no liking; but because she had a strong will and a satisfaction in doing everything well, she made astonishing progress, illustrating the truth sometimes disputed by ungenerous critics, that a good groundwork of culture and education helps and does not hinder one in the practical and unpoetical things of life.

But nevertheless she recognised that she had made a great mistake. Looking back now she wondered why in the name of heaven she had ever come out to this distant land, and got herself entangled in a life which could never be congenial to her; for once there, and having seen her surroundings and her limitations, she realised that it could never be attractive to her. She had loved Robert as well as she could love any one, and when his health broke down and he had to leave England, she continued her engagement as a matter of course, and his letters of love and longing were acceptable to her, not involving any strain on her part, nor any pressing need of arranging definitely for the future. So she drifted on, and when at last the question arose of her joining him, her relations and friends used every opposition to prevent her. It was pointed out to her that after a London life full of many interests and possibilities and actualities, ranching in Southern California would be simply madness. She had been accustomed to companions, men and women of a certain amount of culture and refinement. How would she manage, bereft of all these advantages? The strenuous opposition with which she met, and the solid arguments advanced against her leaving the old country, stimulated her desire to go; and a sudden wave of loyalty and pity for that lonely rancher who was counting on her help and companionship, confirmed her in her intentions. She felt that if she had not been intending to keep her promise, she ought at least to have let him know the drift of her mind. This, and a very decided inclination for travel and adventures, settled the matter.

So she came.

“SHE SAT ON THE LITTLE VERANDAH.”

And this afternoon, when she sat on the little verandah, resting after her housework, and watching Robert cultivating the eight-acre piece on the hill-slope, she realised that she had been mad. He paused for a moment and waved to her, and she waved back listlessly. She looked at the rich upturned soil, of chocolate brown, and the formal rows of lemon-trees; at the stretch of country all around her, with scarcely a sign of human habitation; at the great mountains, uncompromisingly stern and barren of everything except stone and brush. She watched the pointer Nellie going in front of the little grey team and encouraging them to do their work well. She glanced upwards and noticed the majestic flight of the turkey buzzards, and now she was attracted by the noise of a hummingbird who came to visit her fragrant honeysuckle creeper, and then sped on his way. Everything seemed so still and lifeless. There were no familiar noises such as greet one in the tiniest village in the old country. There was no pulsation nor throb of life. There was nothing to stimulate,—nothing in the circumstances of everyday life, nor in the scenery. With the exception of her husband, there was no one with whom to speak all through the living hours of the day.

And this was what she had chosen of her own free will. She had deliberately thrown up a life full of interests and distractions, and had been mad enough to exchange it for this.

She was fond of music, and would hear none.

She was fond of theatres, and she had cut herself off from them.

As for books—well, she could get them here; but meanwhile Meredith’s “Lord Ormont and his Aminta” lay unopened by her side, and the current number of the “Century” was thrown down and carelessly crumpled. But as she stooped to pick it up, she was ashamed to think how ungrateful she was for all Robert’s kindness. He had filled a little book-shelf with new books for her; he had subscribed for several of the best magazines; he had sent for a tuner from town to tune the ear-trumpet lady’s piano. She scarcely cared to read, and she had not touched the piano. A feeling of tenderness and gratitude came over her, and she sprang up, and trudged over the fields to speak a few words with her husband. His face brightened when he saw her, and he gave her a joyous welcome. Nellie ran to greet her, and the horses looked round inquiringly. For the moment she felt really proud and happy.

“You must let me help you all I can,” she said gently. “I am so strong, and able to do so much. You look dreadfully tired.”

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he said, smiling, and wiping his forehead. “Everything seems different since you came.”

“If you teach me, I can do the pruning,” she said; “I believe I could cultivate too.”

“I believe you could,” he answered, “and perhaps you think too that I am going to allow you to dig the basins for the irrigating during the summer. But you shall do the pruning, and next year, you know, there will be the curing of the lemons.”

“Next year,” she repeated slowly, and her heart sank once more.

“I’ve half decided to plant some walnuts,” he said. “They don’t bear for about nine years, but then they are very profitable.”

“Nine years,” she echoed, and a throb of pain passed through her.

But at that moment Ben Overleigh came cantering over the ranch, with a rifle in front of him and some quail which he had just shot.

“This is my first offering of quail,” he said, turning to Hilda, “and I’ve shot them with this pretty little rifle which Jesse Holles is sending as a present to you. He is too shy to give it to you himself. Though you won’t think him shy when you see him.”

“And when shall I see him?” asked Hilda, who had brightened up considerably, and looked beautiful.

“This evening,” answered Ben, glancing at her admiringly. “The fact is, I came to tell you that in about an hour’s time you may expect seven callers. Lauderdale and Graham and Holles and some of the other boys intend to pay you their respects this evening. They fear lest they may be prevented later on by the storm which I’ve prophesied for the last fortnight, and which I shall continue to prophesy with unfailing persistence until it comes. You will find Holles most amusing if he is in good form. But he has been quite ill for the last three weeks, and is only just himself again. He made nine wills and wrote six farewell letters in twenty-one days, and he said they helped him to recover. He looked in at my place this morning and asked for a tie, and Graham pleaded for a collar, and when I heard why they wanted these articles of luxury, I thought I had better come a little earlier and warn you, as seven visitors are rather a large bunch of grapes, even in California.”

“Then we will go in and get ready for them,” Hilda said, delighted at the prospect of company. “How nice of Mr. Holles to send the rifle! May I fire a shot now, Mr. Overleigh? I should so much like to try.”

He showed her how to use the rifle, loaded it for her, and nodded in approval to Robert when she took a steady aim at a mark which they had placed for her, and hit it.

“She’ll do,” said Ben, cheerily; “we can send her out to shoot the deer in the mountains, Bob. Perhaps she will have better luck than we do.”

“Perhaps,” laughed Robert, as he turned the horses homeward. “Be sure and ask Holles, Hilda, what is the greatest number of deer he has ever shot!”

Hilda promised not to forget, and hurried into the house to make her preparations for the guests.

“It will rain to-night,” Ben said; “it can’t help itself any longer. Just look yonder.”

“Yes, I believe you are right at last,” answered Robert, unhitching the horses from the cultivator.

CHAPTER IV
THE STORM

THE seven callers came as threatened, and Hilda began to think that perhaps there was some kind of companionship possible in the wilds of Southern California. She was delighted with these young English fellows, and sat in the midst of them, laughing at their fun, listening to their stories, and answering their eager questions about the dear old country for which they all longed.

“How does the Strand look?” asked Graham.

“Does Tottenham Court Road seem the same as ever?” asked Lauderdale.

“Has Park Lane changed at all?” asked Holles, putting on airs of great superiority.

In spite of his recent illness, he was in capital spirits, and seemed to be much liked by his companions. “Yes, I’ve been quite ill,” he said, in answer to Hilda’s inquiries; “but Lauderdale nursed me beautifully, and made me drink about a dozen bottles of Elliman’s embrocation, and then I got well enough to write several parting letters to my friends in England, and to make my will. And that’s a very puzzling thing to do satisfactorily when you have many valuable things to leave. I left my pipe first to Lauderdale, then to Graham, then to Bob, and then to Ben Overleigh, and finally I kept it for myself!”

“You ought to have kept your rifle for yourself,” Hilda said graciously, “though I am glad you did not. I am delighted to have it from you, and hope to do it justice.”

“A rifle is a very handy thing to have in this country,” he answered. “One may want it at any moment for a coyote, or a jack-rabbit, or a Mexican.”

“Or perhaps a deer!” suggested Hilda, slyly.

They all laughed at that, and Jesse Holles as heartily as any one, and then Ben said he thought they ought to be starting home. It was evident that none of them wanted to go, and Holles, being particularly fond of music, was looking at the piano; but Ben seemed anxious about the weather, and insisted on their leaving at once with him. They called him the High Binder, explaining to Hilda the exact meaning of a High Binder, and his mysterious and subtle influence over his Chinese compatriots, whom he ruled with an iron rod.

“Just see how we all quail before him,” said Holles, who had been talking incessantly the whole evening; “and no doubt you’ve observed how speechless we are in his presence. He has only to wag his pig-tail and we go flat on our faces at once.”

“Don’t be such a confounded ass,” said Ben, laughing. “Come along, boys.”

“All right, man alive,” said Holles, “but at least let me finish this piece of cake first. We don’t get cake like this at your place, Ben. Do you know, Mrs. Strafford, when we want to kill coyotes, we get Ben to make us some of his best sponge-rusks. That does the trick at once!”

“Why don’t you give them to the deer also?” suggested Hilda, mischievously. There was a shout of laughter at this, and Robert lit the lantern, and opened the door.

“It’s raining, boys,” he said; “and what’s more, it is coming on harder.”

“Hurrah for California!” sang out Graham; “we shall all make our fortunes.”

“Yes,” said Robert Strafford, “we shall all be saved if the country gets a thorough good drenching. But you will be pretty well sprinkled by the time you reach home.”

“Never mind,” replied Holles, cheerily. “I’m the only delicate one, you know, and the others won’t take much harm, being of coarser fibre. And I have nothing on to spoil except the High Binder’s tie, which I will put in my pocket. So good-night, Mrs. Strafford, and three cheers for yourself and Bob and dear old England.”

The High Binder and the seven other callers gave three ringing cheers and cantered off to their homes. Long before they reached their destinations, the storm broke forth with unbridled fury. The rain poured down in torrents, gaining in force and rage every moment. The wind suddenly rose, and all but swept away the riders and their horses, and shook to its very foundation the frail little frame-house where Robert and Hilda were watching by the log-fire, listening to the cracking and creaking and groaning of the boards. The wind rose higher and higher. It seemed as though the little house must assuredly be caught up and hurled headlong. Now and then Nellie got up and howled, and Hilda started nervously.

“It’s all right,” Robert said reassuringly. “The wind will soon drop, and as for the rain, we have wanted it badly. We should all have been ruined this year, if the wet season had not set in. It’s all right, Nell. Lie down, old girl.”

But the wind did not drop. Hour after hour it raged and threatened, and together with the tremendous downpouring of the rain, and the rushing of the water in streams over the ground, made a deafening tumult.

“I wish we had kept those boys,” Robert said once or twice. “It is not fit for any one to be out on such a night. When these storms come,” he added, “I always feel so thankful that Ben urged me to buy land on the hill-slopes rather than in the valley. Three years ago there was fearful damage done in the valley. One of the ranchers had eight acres of olives completely ruined by the floods from the river. You must see the river to-morrow. You saw it yesterday, didn’t you? Well, you will not recognise it after a day or two if the rain continues. And from the verandah you will hear it roaring like the ocean.”

Later on he said:

“I rather wish I hadn’t filled up my reservoir so full with flume-water. It never struck me to make allowances for the rain coming, idiot that I am. But there is a good deal of seepage going on, and I thought I might as well fill it up to just below the overflow.”

“You are not anxious about it?” she asked kindly.

“No, no,” he said, cheerfully; “but I shall go out early to-morrow morning, and raise the flood-gate, just to be well on the safe side. One can’t be too careful about reservoirs. They are the very devil if the dam bursts. But mine is as solid as a fortress. I’d stake my life on that. I worked like ten navvies over that earth dam. I used to feel rather like that man in Victor Hugo’s ‘Toilers of the Sea.’ Do you remember how he slaved over his self-imposed task?”

“Poor old Bob,” she said, bending over him, and speaking in a gentler voice than was her wont, “and you are not in the least fit for such hard work. I believe you have worn yourself out; and all for me, and I, if you only knew, so little worthy of it.”

“I wanted our little ranch to be just as compact as possible,” he said, “so that I might offer to you the best I could in this distant land. As for myself, I am perfectly well, now you’ve come out to me: only I am always wishing that I could have made a home for you in the old country. I never forget it whatever I am doing.”

He seemed to be waiting for an answer, but Hilda was silent, and when at last she spoke, it was about her seven callers, and the next moment there was a terrible blast of wind, and the door was blown in and hurled with a crash to the ground. After that, their whole attention was taken up in trying to keep out the rain, and in securing the windows, until at last, worn out with their long watch, they slept.

Hilda dreamed of England, and of everything she had left there. She dreamed that she heard Robert saying: “And next year there will be the lemons to be cured.” “Next year,” she answered, and her heart sank.

Robert dreamed of the eight acres of olives ruined by the floods three years ago, and of his own ranch situated so safely on the hill-slope, and of his reservoir. He dreamed he was still working at it, still strengthening the earth dam, and still scraping out the cañon so as to have room for about five hundred thousand gallons of water.

“HE LIFTED A PIECE OF IRON PIPING.”

“It’s nearly done,” he said; “about three weeks more, and then I’m through with it.”

At six o’clock he woke up with a start, and found the storm unabated in strength and fury. Suddenly he remembered about his reservoir, and, seized with a sudden panic, he flung out of the house, and, fighting his way through the rain and wind, crossed the ranch, and tore up the trail which led to the reservoir.

For one second he stood paralysed.

The water was just beginning to flow over the earth dam. He had come too late, and he knew it. He lifted a piece of iron piping which lay there at hand, and he tried to knock out the flood-gate, but the mischief was done. In less than ten minutes, the water had cut a hole five feet deep in the dam, and was rushing down the ranch, carving for itself a gully which widened and deepened every second.

In the blinding rain and wind Robert Strafford stood helpless and watched the whole of the dam give way: he watched the water tearing madly over the best part of his ranch: he saw numbers of his choicest lemon-trees rooted up and borne away: he saw the labour of weeks and months flung, as it were, in his face. And he was helpless. It was all over in half an hour, and still he lingered there, as though rooted to the spot,—drenched by the rain, blown by the wind, and unconscious of everything except this bitter disappointment. But when his mind began to work again, he thought of Hilda: how it was through him that she had left her home and her surroundings and all her many interests, and had come to him to this far-off country, to this loveless land, to this starved region—yes, to this starved region, where people were longing and pining for even a passing throb of the old life, for even a glance at a Devonshire lane or a Surrey hill; for some old familiar scene of beauty or some former sensation of mental or artistic satisfaction; for something—no matter what—but just something from the old country which would feel like the touch of a loved hand on a bowed head. He was holding out his arms, and his heart and whole being were leaping towards the blessèd land which had nurtured him: even as tiny children cry out for their mother, and can be comforted and satisfied by her alone. Ah, his thoughts of, and his desires for his old home, had broken down the barrier of control, and were tearing wildly onwards like that raging torrent yonder. And the more he desired the dear old country and thought of it, all the more bitterly did he reproach himself for taking Hilda away from it, for urging her to come and cut herself off from the things most worth having in life—and for what? To share his exile, and his loneliness, and his failure. That was all he had to offer her, and he might have known it from the beginning, and if he could not save himself, at least he might have spared her.

At last he turned away suddenly, and, battling with the storm, made his way home. Hilda ran out to meet him.

“Robert,” she said, seeing his pale face, “I’ve been so anxious—what has happened?—what is the matter?”

“Do you hear that noise?” he said excitedly; “do you hear the roar of that torrent? It is our reservoir let loose over our ranch. How do you like having married a man who has failed in everything?”

CHAPTER V
DOWN BY THE RIVER

ALL through that most miserable day Hilda gave him the best of her sympathy and kindness; but even her best was poor of quality and scant of quantity, and it did not avail to rouse him from his despair. She was too new to Californian life to understand the whole meaning of the morning’s misfortune, and apart from this, her power of comforting lacked the glow and warmth of passionate attachment. Still, she gave to her uttermost farthing, but nothing she could do or say had the effect of helping him. He crouched by the[89] fire, a broken man seemingly, now and again piling on the sumac-roots, and sometimes glancing at her as she passed to and fro busy with the affairs of their little household. She served the mid-day meal and urged him to break his fast, but he shook his head, and drew nearer to the fire. At about three o’clock, there was a lull in the storm, and the rain ceased.

Hilda, who was feeling utterly wretched and perplexed, went out to the verandah and listened to the roar of the river, and saw a silver streak in the valley which two days before had been perfectly dry. She had laughed when she was told that the sandy waste yonder was the great river. Now, looking at it, she was seized with a strong desire to go down and stand near it, and she was just debating in her mind whether she could leave Robert, and whether she could get through the day without some kind of distraction,—no matter what, but something to brace her up a little,—when she saw a figure coming up the hill, and at once recognised Ben Overleigh. A strong feeling of relief and hope took possession of her. Ben would stay with Robert whilst she went out and saw what there was to be seen, and then she would come back refreshed in mind and body. He would know how to comfort Robert, and as for herself, she was quite conscious that she brightened up in his presence, and felt less hopeless too about this lonely ranch life when she remembered that he was a neighbor and their friend.

“Well,” he said, greeting her, “and so you’ve seen a typical Californian rain-storm. I tell you, you are lucky to be on the hill. I shouldn’t wonder if there was a great deal of damage done in the valley. And the storm is not over yet. This is only a lull, but I thought I would just come over to see how things have been going with you. Where is Bob?”

“Bob is inside, crouching over the fire,” she said.

“He should take you down to see the river,” Ben said. “It is a tremendous sight.”

“I half thought of going by myself,” she said gloomily, “if only for the sake of a little distraction. Bob is in trouble; we are both in trouble. The reservoir burst this morning.”

“Good heavens!” said Ben, “and you talk of it as though your band-box had burst, and that was all.”

She darted an indignant glance at him as he opened the door hastily and went into the house. He laid his hands heavily on Bob’s shoulders and said: “Cheer up, old man. I’ve come to smoke a pipe with you.”

“Ben, old fellow,” Robert Strafford said, looking up, and feeling at once the comfort of his presence.

There was no talk between them: they sat together by the fireside, whilst Hilda lingered outside on the verandah.

At last Robert spoke.

“My best trees are gone,” he said half-dreamily; “the best part of my ranch is ruined.”

“We’ll redeem it,” Ben answered, “you and I together.”

Robert shook his head.

“THERE WAS NO TALK BETWEEN THEM.”

“There’s no redeeming it,” he said quietly; “I’ve made another failure of my life, and dragged the girl into it this time. And I can’t forgive myself. And she has been so good and patient all through this wretched day. She has not come out to anything very gay, has she?”

For the moment Ben’s thoughts turned sympathetically to Hilda, and he regretted his hasty words. No; Bob was right: she had not come out to anything very gay: a barren life, a worn-out worker, and a ruined ranch,—not a particularly sumptuous marriage portion for any one.

“I think I shall take her down to the river,” he said suddenly. “She half wanted to go, and it is not safe for her alone.”

Robert nodded as though in approval, and showed no further interest in outside things. Ben saw that it was better to leave him alone, and slipped out quietly, having asked no questions about the reservoir. But he soon saw for himself that the finest part of Robert’s ranch was a scene of desolation, and his heart ached for his friend. Then he came round to the honeysuckle verandah, and saw Hilda still standing there. She looked utterly listless and depressed.

“May I take you down to the river?” he asked, in his own kind way. “Bob is better alone, and the walk will do you good. Put on some thick boots, for the mud is something awful. You don’t mind heavy walking?”

“No, indeed,” she answered eagerly, “I shall be glad to come.”

In a few minutes they were making their way down to the valley, now sticking in the mud, and now going valiantly onwards without interruption. At first Ben could not bring himself to speak of the trouble which had befallen his friend; he felt as though Hilda did not understand, or as though she did not care. Yet it was impossible that she did not care. No, she was, so he argued, probably one of those reserved characters, who keep their emotions in an iron safe, proof against all attacks. But at last he could no longer keep silent on the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts.

“It is a most disastrous affair, this bursting of the reservoir,” he said. “Bob slaved like a nigger at that earth dam. I never saw any fellow work so hard. And there never was a doubt in our minds about it being as firm as a rock. He has not told me a word about it yet, and I did not like to ask. He will tell me in his own time.”

“He had filled the reservoir too full,” Hilda said, in her grating voice. “I can’t imagine why he did such a ridiculous thing when he knew the rain was coming. And then there was some trouble about the flood-gate. It would not act properly. That is how it has occurred: at least so he told me. Day after day he put off looking after that flood-gate, until it was too late. I am dreadfully sorry about it all, but I cannot think why he did not take proper precautions. I would not say that to him, of course, but it seems to me that it might have been prevented if—”

“If Bob had not been utterly worn out,” said Ben, brusquely.

“Well, it is altogether most unfortunate,” she said indifferently.

Ben glanced at her keenly, scarcely knowing how to control his indignation at her cold criticism of his friend. He was trying to make out what manner of woman she really was, trying to divine what kind of heart she had, and what degree of intelligence; for she apparently did not realise the seriousness of the disaster, and talked of it as though it were something outside her, in the consequences of which she had no part.

“I scarcely think this is the moment for criticism,” he said suddenly; “it is the moment for generous sympathy. Bob will need everything we can give him of help and kindness.”

“Do you suppose I don’t know that?” she asked coldly. “Do you imagine that I am intending to make things harder for him? What do you suppose I am?”

“I suppose you are what you are,” Ben answered, in his quiet deliberate way, “a new-comer to California, ignorant of our lives out here, our struggles, our weeks and months and years of unaccustomed toil, and our great anxieties, and our great disasters. Your ranch is practically ruined. All those trees would have borne splendid lemons next year. Bob has tended them with special care. Now they are swept away. The part of your ranch which is left uninjured by the bursting of the reservoir, is the newly planted part. About two or three months ago, I myself helped Bob to put in the trees. Now he will have to begin all over again. And it is just crushing.”

He paused for a moment, and even in the midst of his exasperation at her indifference, and in spite of his sympathy with Bob, he felt a rush of kindly feeling towards her. There she was amongst them in a foreign land, with none of her own people and none of her former interests,—no, she had not come out to anything very cheerful: and at twenty-four, and three weeks married, one has a right to expect some satisfaction out of life.

“But I am not a very gay companion,” he said, with sudden cheeriness. “You have had enough sadness for one day, and here am I doing my level best to add to it. Holles always says that if I had chosen, I could have written an admirable Book of Lamentations.”

“He is a most amusing boy,” Hilda said, smiling in spite of herself.

“One day when he is in good form you must make him tell you his adventures on a fishing expedition,” said Ben. “And some day you must ask him about his famous quarrel with the ear-trumpet lady, your only neighbour. He does just what he likes with us all, and we’re ridiculously fond of him. That is his place right over there, across the river. And now what do you think of the river? Stay, let me go first and test the way across the meadows, and you must follow exactly in my footsteps, and we will get up to the very bank of the torrent. Don’t choose your own path. The ground is fearfully soft, and you may be mired if you’re not careful. Would you rather not go?”

“Indeed not,” she said eagerly; “I am ready for anything.”

She had forgotten all her troubles and depression, and, buoyant with vitality and eagerness, followed after him, calling out sometimes when he looked back, “I’m all right, Mr. Overleigh.”

At last they stood together by the side of the river, and were able to see the wholesale destruction which the storm had wrought. Three days ago there had been no water in the river; now there was a raging torrent, which was cutting down the banks, tearing up the trees, and bearing them away in fierce triumph.

First the topmost branches of a fine sycamore shuddered slightly; then they trembled, and those who were watching them, knew that the tree was doomed. The roots cracked and groaned, and something snapped. And the tree fell. Perhaps there was a moment of resistance even then—but all in vain. The torrent rushed with redoubled fury on its victim, and whirled it away.

“HILDA COULD NOT LEAVE THE SPOT.”

There is a sad fascination in watching such a scene as this. You feel you must wait to see whether that tree yonder will be spared. You do not think it possible that it too will yield to the enemy. The others went, but they were fragile and unstable. This one surely will have the strength to withstand all attacks. You watch, and you turn away perhaps to see the bank a few yards farther down, cave in and disappear; or it may be that you yourself have to step back and save yourself from slipping down with the ground which has given way. You hear a crash—and there is your tree fallen! You feel like holding out your arms to help a friend. You feel the despair of knowing that you cannot help. The torrent seizes your tree, attacks it with overwhelming force, and sweeps it onwards, onwards. And you linger there, remembering sadly that there is one tree less in a barren land, where every green branch is dearly prized; one tree less in that belt of green in the valley, so soothing and restful to the eye through all the months of the year.

Hilda could not leave the spot. She was so excited and interested, and so concerned at seeing the trees rooted up, that Ben began to wonder whether he would ever get her home again; and indeed every moment something fresh was occurring to attract their attention. Now a window and now a door tore past, and now a great olive-tree, and now a pig, and now a pump.

“We must be starting for home,” he said at last. “The storm will be coming on again. Do you see those threatening clouds yonder? My word, there has been a tremendous deal of damage done already, and we’ve not finished with it yet. I hope to goodness none of those boys have suffered. Their land lies low, and this river is cutting away the country right and left.”

She turned to him with sudden eagerness.

“It’s tremendously exciting,” she said, clasping her hands over her head, and drawing a long breath. “If you have not seen anything of the kind before, it works you up to a terrible pitch. I don’t know exactly what it makes one feel like: one does not think of oneself or one’s own concerns: one just watches and wonders.”

“Come,” he said, looking at her with fresh interest, for her eagerness and animation were giving an added charm to her personality. “Come, before we are caught by the rain. Robert will be anxious.”

“Robert will be anxious,” she echoed dreamily, and at once the brightness faded from her face. It was as though some sudden remembrance had quenched her vitality and her interest. She followed Ben over the meadows, and when they had gained the road safely, she glanced at the scene which they had left, and then turned slowly homewards. There was something in her manner which forbade conversation, and Ben walked by her side, twirling his great moustaches, and wondering how things would eventually work themselves out between Robert and herself. His own feelings towards her this afternoon were a curious mixture of resentment and attraction. He was almost angry with himself for being attracted towards her, but he could not help admiring her face and her strength and her whole bearing. She stalked by his side like a young panther. She was as strong as he was, stronger perhaps, and with more vitality in her little finger than poor old Bob in his whole tired body.

At last she spoke.

“Mr. Overleigh,” she said, “you and Robert have been great friends together for a long time now?”

“Why, yes,” he answered brightly. “This is the land of friendships, you know.”

“I am glad to hear it is the land of something beautiful,” she said bitterly.

“Does it frown to you so very much?” he asked kindly.

“Yes,” she answered almost fiercely. “Terribly.”

“But if we have a beautiful spring, you will think differently of it,” he said.

“No, no,” she replied, standing still for the moment; “nothing could make me like it. It isn’t only the scenery—it’s everything: the isolation, the fearful distance from home, the absence of stimulus. One doesn’t realise this at home. If one only realised it, one would not come. Nothing would make one come,” she continued excitedly, “neither love nor friendship, nor duty nor regret; and as for ambition to carve out a new career for oneself—good heavens! if I were a man, I would rather starve in my old career.”

Her thoughts, till now locked in her heart, were leaping into freedom.

“Oh,” she said, “if you only knew what a relief it is to me to speak out to some one. I have been suffocated these last days, and every hour it has been getting worse. I’ve written letters—oh, yes, I’ve written letters and torn them up in despair. The distance is so great, that it paralyses one. You can’t send a chronicle of misery six thousand miles. It’s just absurd mockery to do it. It’s only a caricature of your depression. It helps you a little to write it, and then you must tear it up at once, and that is all the comfort you will have out of it. Oh, it is better than nothing: anything is better than nothing, when you have to keep silent, and when some one near you is watching constantly for your look of approval and waiting for your word of approbation, and you cannot give either. You are simply forced to be silent. But when you are able to speak out your real thoughts to a human being, then you breathe again, as I’m breathing now.”

She paused, and Ben was silent too. He did not know what to say.

“But why, why do people come here?” she continued; “what do they find here to like? What do they get in exchange for all they’ve lost? Why, in the name of heaven, did Robert settle in such a place?—why did you choose to come here? Are you going to stay here all your lives? Tell me what it all means. Tell me frankly and honestly whether you care for your life here, and whether you would not throw it up to-morrow if you could.”

“I will tell you what it all means,” said Ben, slowly; “it means that it’s a land and a life for men, and not for women. We men gain in every particular: no more small clerkships for us, no more imprisonment in airless offices; but out-of-door freedom, and our own lives to ourselves, and our own land. That is what it all means to us. To you women—well—”

“Well?” she said impatiently.

“To you women it is altogether something different,” he continued, “and unless you all know how to love desperately, there is not much to redeem the life out here for you.”

She laughed bitterly.

“No, apparently not much,” she said. “So here, as everywhere, the women come off the worst.”

“It seems to be so,” he answered reluctantly.

“Unless we can manage to love desperately,” she said, in bitter scorn, “and then even Southern California can become a paradise to us. Is that what you think?”

“I think that love and friendship can make things easier, even on a lonely ranch in Southern California,” Ben replied.

“The men are to have eternal freedom from airless offices and small clerkships, and to enjoy out-of-door lives, and revel in the possession of their ranches,” Hilda continued; “and the women are to do work to which they have never been accustomed at home, are to drudge and drudge day after day in an isolated place without a soul to talk to, and their only compensation is to love desperately. A pretty picture indeed! Oh, well, it is folly of me to talk of it, perfect folly, and to you of all people, Bob’s friend.”

“Better to Bob’s friend than to Bob himself,” Ben said quietly.

She glanced up at him. There was something so soft in his voice whenever he spoke of Robert. Hilda was touched.

“You are anxious on Robert’s behalf?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered simply. “I am.”

They walked on in silence for a few minutes.

“You see, we have been such close friends,” he said, “and I nursed him through a bad illness, and learned to look upon him as my own property. He came into my life, too, at a time when I was desolate. The world seemed a desert to me. But Bob held out his hand, and helped me along to a green place. I have found many green places since then.”

“With such a close friendship as that, you must surely resent my presence out here,” Hilda said tentatively.

“Yes,” he said staunchly, “I resent it most deeply, if you do not make him happy.”

Hilda smiled. She liked his candour; she liked everything about him.

They had reached the road which led up to her house.

“Good-bye,” he said; “I won’t come in just now. I must make my way back whilst it is still fine. Tell Bob I’ll be in to-morrow.”

She stood watching him for a moment, and then she went home.

As she opened the door, her husband came forward to greet her, with a smile of love and welcome on his face. Everything was ready for her: the cloth was laid, the food was cooked, the kettle was boiling, there were fresh flowers on the table.

“Oh, Robert,” she said warmly, “and you’ve done everything for me, and you so tired with the day’s trouble.”

“Hush,” he said, smiling sadly, “the day’s trouble is past.”

CHAPTER VI
ATTRACTION AND REPULSION

THERE were three days more of incessant rain and wind, and then the storm ceased, and the sun shone brightly. On the morning of the second fine day, a waggon drove up to Hilda’s house, and Holles got off, leaving Ben in charge of the horses.

“We called in to see if we could do anything for you in the village,” he said, when Hilda opened the door to him.

“I should be ever so much obliged if you would bring me a sack of flour,” she said; “I have just come to the end of my supply. Robert did not want to send our horses in yet. He says the roads are not safe.”

“No, I don’t suppose they are,” said Holles. “But if you had been living on preserved pine-apples and empty coal-oil tins for the last week or ten days, you would be willing to risk a good deal for the sake of some flour or a piece of Porter House steak. We fellows over the river have been starving. Empty coal-oil tins and preserved pine-apples are not very fattening, are they? But there, I mustn’t grumble. We managed to get over to Ben one day, and he gave us one of his skinniest fowls in exchange for a large jar of my best marmalade. There was nothing on the fowl; but there never is anything on Ben’s fowls, so we weren’t disappointed. Only for goodness’ sake don’t tell that to him. He’s awfully touchy on the subject!”

Hilda laughed, and asked about the damages done by the storm on the other side of the river.

“Graham has come off very badly,” Holles answered. “His house was taken clean away, and three acres of his best olives are completely ruined. We have some fearful cuts on our land, and the poor devil of a Chinaman who had his kitchen-garden half a mile away from our place has lost everything, cabbages, asparagus, pig-tail, and all. Graham is living with us just now, and he says he must have something to eat to keep up his spirits. So I said I would risk my valuable life for the good of the whole community. The waggon and horses are Ben’s. After I got across the river, I went and stormed at him until he hitched up. He did not want to come with me, and began swearing at me in that poetical fashion of his, until I referred casually to the skinny fowls raised on his ranch, and then he said: ‘Hold hard, Jesse, I’ll come with you.’ So we are off together, and if you do not hear anything more of us, you will know that we have found a muddy grave!”

“Good-bye,” Hilda said. “I hope you will come safely back, bringing my flour, and the mail. And some day I want you to tell me about your experiences with the ear-trumpet lady.”

“All right,” sang out Holles, cheerily. “Good-bye.”

He stood for a moment, looking down like a shy boy.

“We fellows are all so sorry about the reservoir,” he said kindly. “If there is anything we can do to help old Bob, we’re all ready and willing.”

He was off quickly after that, and Hilda watched him jump into the waggon and take possession of the reins. Then he cracked the big black snake, and started away in grand style.

“Confound you, Holles!” Ben said, as they rattled over the roads. “Do drive carefully. You will be landing us in one of those holes; I’ll take the lines. I don’t want the waggon smashed up, and the horses lamed.”

“I’m sorry, old man,” Holles replied cheerfully. “I’ll promise to be careful, but I cannot possibly let you drive. I always feel like going to my own funeral when you handle the whip. Here, get up, boys. Don’t be frightened of the mud. We’re not going to stick yet. Get up, boys! But, by Jove, Ben, the roads are heavy.”

“They are not fit for travelling yet,” Ben answered. “But you worried me into coming. It is better to give in to you and have peace.”

“Grumble away as much as you like,” Holles answered; “I would rather have any amount of your grumblings than one of your fowls. What on earth do you do to your fowls to turn them out so thin? You might make your fortune by exhibiting them. They’re quite unique!”

“Don’t chatter so much, and look out where you are going,” said Ben, pretending not to notice Jesse’s chaff.

Holles laughed, and drove on silently for a few minutes. Then he said:

“That’s a bad piece of luck about Bob Strafford’s reservoir. Poor fellow! He will take it dreadfully to heart. And I am sorry for her too. It must be lonely for her in this part of the country.”

Ben made no answer.

“I can’t for the life of me understand about women,” Holles continued. “If I were a fine girl like that, nothing on earth would induce me to come out to this kind of existence. Any one can see that she is out of place here.”

“The women have a bad time of it in a new country,” Ben said slowly. “If you talk to any one of them, it is nearly always the same story, home-sickness and desolation, desolation and home-sickness. I remember last year up north meeting such a handsome woman. Her husband had made quite a good thing out of Lima beans, and they had everything they wanted. But she told me that she did not know how to live through the first ten years of home-sickness.”

“That’s a cheerful prospect for Mrs. Strafford,” said Holles.

“She will probably work her way through, as they all do,” answered Ben. “Women are wonderful creatures.”

“You always have something to say for women,” said Holles. “You ought to go back to the old country, and help them get the suffrage and all that sort of thing. You are lost to them out here. How my maiden aunt, who only lives for the Cause, as she calls it, would adore you!”

Ben smiled, and then said quietly: