[Illustration]
Hilda Strafford
_A California Story_
By
Beatrice Harraden
Author of “Ships that Pass in the Night”
“In Varying Moods”
With Illustrations by Eric Pape
[Illustration]
New York
Dodd Mead and Company
1897
COPYRIGHT, 1896
BY BEATRICE HARRADEN
University Press
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WOULD IT SMILE TO HER 13
II. HILDA COMES 32
III. GROWING REGRETS 51
IV. THE STORM 70
V. DOWN BY THE RIVER 88
VI. ATTRACTION AND REPULSION 119
VII. THE GREAT MIRACLE 138
VIII. ROBERT TAKES HEART 145
IX. SCHUMANN’S NACHTSTÜCK 162
X. A STRICKEN MAN 176
XI. PASSION AND LOYALTY 196
XII. FAREWELL TO CALIFORNIA 217
ILLUSTRATIONS
PORTRAIT _Frontispiece_
“Ben lit the lantern, and stationed himself outside with it” _page_ 41
“And he heard Robert asking questions” 47
“She sat on the little verandah” 61
“He lifted a piece of iron piping” 81
“There was no talk between them” 93
“Hilda could not leave the spot” 105
“Hilda at the window” 157
“Hilda’s self-control broke down completely” 167
“Robert passed noiselessly out of the house” 173
“‘Ben,’ he murmured, ‘we must--’ He fainted away” 181
“She bent over her husband and looked at his pale face” 193
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.