ROBERT TAKES HEART
So every day the country put on fresh beauties, and Robert was a little
comforted to see that Hilda took pleasure in watching the quick growth
and marking the constant change in the scenery.
“When the wild-flowers are at their best,” he said, “you will begin
to think that Southern California is a beautiful land after all. That
foot-hill yonder will be aglow with orange-coloured poppies, and those
other slopes over there across the river will be covered with brightest
mustard. I admire the mustard more than anything.”
She smiled at him, and found something kind to say about all the
wonderful surprises in store for her, and she seemed so appreciative
of the fresh charms of the country, which were unfolding themselves to
her one by one, that he began to hope she might yet learn to care for
the new life and the new land. He put his troubles bravely on one side,
and went back to work. Hilda saw him contemplating his ruined ranch;
and when he came in, although he tried to conceal his feelings, yet his
thin face wore a peculiar look of pain, which softened her almost into
tenderness. He said very little about the disaster, and spoke only of
filling up the wash, levelling the land, ploughing and cultivating it,
and getting it in good condition for the planting of fresh lemon-trees.
All this meant terribly hard work, and he looked really quite unfit to
take the slightest exertion. Ben was anxious about him, and came over
every day to help with the cultivating of that part of the ranch which
had escaped damage. He pushed Bob quietly away, and took possession of
the cultivator.
“Sit down and smoke, old man,” he said. “You’re about as fit as a
kitten to do this kind of job.”
Bob was glad enough to rest. He watched Ben, smoked his pipe, and
smiled to hear his friend swearing at the horses.
“I’m so fearfully tired, Ben,” he said. “I suppose it is the worry and
the disappointment and all that. But I shall be rested in a day or two,
and then I must tackle that waste land. I daresay in a fortnight’s
time, if we don’t have any more rain, the ground will be solid enough
to be worked.”
“It will be a big business,” Ben said, glancing in that direction.
“I shall have no peace until I have started it,” Bob said doggedly.
“Well, we are all coming to help,” Ben answered. “All the fellows are
sorry, and you will have quite a little gang round you. Holles is a
splendid worker when he chooses, and he will go ahead like a ship on
fire for your sake.”
“You boys are good to me,” Bob said gratefully. “I know you will help
me.”
Then he added half-shyly:
“The little wife is ever so kind about the whole affair. And I do
believe she is beginning to like the life out here better than she
ever thought she would. I’ve been terribly worried about her, Ben. In
spite of my great happiness, I feel it was selfish of me to ask her to
leave England and her people, and the many pleasures and interests she
has always had in her life over there.”
“She needn’t have come,” Ben answered stoutly.
Bob smiled happily.
“No, that is just the comfort of it,” he said. “She came because she
cared about me. But, nevertheless, I am anxious the whole time. When
anything pleases her, I cheer up a little, and lately she has taken so
kindly to the riding. She will soon be a splendid horsewoman. She looks
well on a horse.”
“Yes, by Jove!” answered Ben, enthusiastically.
“And the country is coming on beautifully,” continued Bob. “We shall
have an abundance of flowers. That will be a pleasure to her. But she
does not touch the piano. She sits down beside it, looks at it, and
goes away. At home she used to play by the hour.”
“She will play in time,” said Ben, kindly; “just leave her to choose
her own moment. Some day when you least expect it, you will hear her
touching the notes.”
But he went away with his heart very sore about his friend; for though
he believed that Hilda was trying her best to seize hold of the new
life and make what she could of it, he remembered his long conversation
with her, and felt that she would never be reconciled to the lot which
she had deliberately chosen. She had not once referred to her outburst
of confidence that afternoon: at first she had seemed a little nervous
in his presence; but as the days passed by and she saw him constantly,
the slight uneasiness of manner wore off. She trusted to his kindness,
and he knew it. He knew, too, that she liked him and looked forward
to seeing him, and, for his own part, he could not but admire the
brave attempt she was making to adapt herself to these difficult
circumstances. It was altogether admirable. But that set expression on
her face betrayed to him the real state of her mind, and he trembled
for Bob. And yet he had to own that she was good to her husband. Strong
as a panther herself, she did not understand much about ill-health,
but she tried to save his strength. Only she did not love him. It was
this that Ben resented in her. Still he was greatly attracted to her at
times, much against his will and against his prejudices. Then he would
go home twirling his moustaches, and swearing softly and continuously.
So the weeks slipped away, and Bob began to work at the ruined half
of his ranch. He looked very frail, and there was something about his
unrelenting doggedness which filled Ben with alarm. Nothing would
induce him to spare himself over this difficult task. He might be seen
at any hour of the day struggling with that stubborn land, filling up
the wash-outs, now and then pausing to rest, and after a few moments
returning with redoubled zeal to his tedious occupation. It made no
difference to his quiet persistence when the other men came to help
him. Ben worked alongside with him, and could not induce him to leave
off; Graham, Lauderdale, and Holles rode over constantly and gave him
the best of their strength and willingness, but he never relaxed for
their presence; indeed they rather stimulated him to further efforts.
Holles was in capital form, and kept every one in good spirits.
“I never remembered to have worked as hard as this,” he said once or
twice. “It just shows what a beautiful character I am, if people would
only believe it. I would not have done it for myself. But I am not
really properly appreciated in this neighbourhood.”
Hilda liked him immensely, and was always ready to hear his unique
experiences by land and by sea. She laughed till the tears streamed
down her cheeks, for Holles had quite his own method of narrating. He
told her, too, of his famous feud with the ear-trumpet lady, and how
he had refused to work for her because he preferred not to be watched
through an opera-glass.
“Ben does not mind being watched through an opera-glass,” he said, “and
I believe Bob rather likes it. But, even if I were on the verge of
starvation, I would not work on such infamous conditions. No; I still
have some lingering sense of dignity, and that wretched old woman will
never have the benefit of my valuable services. But there! I forgot she
was a friend of yours and had lent you her piano. Does she come and
listen to you through an opera-glass?”
“She came once,” answered Hilda, “but she did not ask me to play, and
she was particularly kind about the piano, and told me to keep it as
long as I pleased. She is away now, but when she returns, I must go and
see her.”
“Well, I think all the better of her,” said Holles, brightly. “Perhaps
I will work for her.”
Then he told Hilda he was passionately fond of music, and he asked her
to play for him.
“I have never cared for anything so much as for music,” he said
gently. “It always had a mysterious influence over me. Do you know, I
believe it appeals to the best part of us. Sometimes when I’ve been
in the back-country knocking about and not knowing where I was going
next, a most painful yearning for music has come over me, and I have
positively suffered from the deprivation. At moments like that, it
is an awful thing to be cut off from all possibility of easing one’s
longing.”
Hilda made no answer. She touched the key-board, and after hesitating,
she played some dainty old French gavotte. She followed it up with a
mazurka by Godard.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
Jesse’s face had fallen. He looked unsatisfied.
“Play me something sad now,” he said. “That is the music one cares for
most, because it is the truest, I suppose.”
Her fingers wandered aimlessly over the notes.
“I don’t know that I can play anything sad to you,” she said quietly.
[Illustration: “HILDA AT THE WINDOW.”]
“Why not?” he asked shyly, for her manner had suddenly intimidated him.
“Because I don’t believe I dare trust myself,” she said, more to
herself than to him.
She struck a few chords and began one of Chopin’s Nocturnes. She broke
off abruptly, rose from the piano, and went to the window. When she
turned round again Holles had gone. He had understood.
But out on the ranch, Ben and Bob looked at each other when they heard
the strains of music, and Bob’s face was aglow with pleasure. Ben was
glad too.
“My little wife has gone back to her music,” Bob said. “Now all will be
well with her. I feel as though things were going on better, and as
though she were not fretting so much for the old country.”
Then the music ceased abruptly.
“She did not finish that melody,” he said, a little uneasily.
“I daresay she is tired,” Ben said reassuringly.
Meanwhile Hilda rested on the honeysuckle verandah, and looked at the
distant ranges of mountains, and the foothills nestling up to them
as children to their parents; she listened to the sweet notes of the
mocking-bird who had lately taken up his quarters on the barn; she
watched the flight of a company of wild ducks; and she glanced at the
garden, where the flowers were growing apace.
The camphor-trees were coming on bravely, and she was glad to see
that the grass was sprouting up. She tried to give her mind to each
separate thing which attracted her attention; and as the sun sank, and
the tender rosy glow spread over hill and mountain, she stared fixedly
at the beautiful sight until it faded into a tender vagueness. And then
once more Chopin’s Nocturne stole on her remembrance, overwhelming her
with regret and longing.
[Illustration: NACHTSTÜCK, No. 4.]