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.