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 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.
[Illustration: “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.
[Illustration: “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.”