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.”