“Well, I wish they were for me,” he said, as he pushed them away and lit his pipe. “But I don’t grudge them to her. I daresay she is terribly home-sick for old England: and the mail will cheer her up. Somehow or other I feel sorry for her—don’t you, Ben? What do you think of her?”
“I don’t know,” said Ben, slowly.
And he spoke the truth. He had thought of her constantly ever since his long walk and talk with her. He recalled her fierce distress, her sudden breaking down of the barrier of reserve, her cry of relief at being able to speak openly about the isolation and unattractiveness of the life and land. He remembered every word she had said; he remembered every gesture. In turning the whole matter over in his mind, he was torn by several conflicting feelings: sympathy with her suffering, indignation with himself for being able to sympathise at all with her, resentment against her for her cold criticism of Robert in the very midst of his distress, a growing suspicion that her nature had nothing to offer of tender love and passionate devotion, and an uneasy consciousness that in spite of all this, and in spite of his loyal and long attachment to poor old Bob, there was something about her personality which attracted him immensely, something gallant in her bearing, and something irresistible in her appearance. He could not but admire her, and he hated himself for it.
He did not listen to Jesse Holles’s chatter, and he looked with indifference at the country smiling now in serene sunshine, and at the softened lights on the mountains. Holles tried to draw his attention to a few blades of grass springing up on the roadside, and as they neared Robert’s house, he glanced down into the valley and exclaimed with delight when he saw the river glistening like gold. But Ben, usually so susceptible to the beauties of nature, and so enthusiastic about the varying charms of this wild expanse of scenery which he greatly loved, noticed nothing.
Then the sound of a harsh voice recalled him from his musings, and there stood Hilda.
“So you are back safely,” she said brightly.
“Yes,” said Holles, as he handed out her letters and papers. “We were badly mired going; but the marvel is that we did not sink up to our very eyes coming back, owing to the heavy weight of your mail. But, oh, how I envy it! How I should enjoy those papers! This is not a hint. It is merely an emotional observation, which I regret already.”
“You need not regret it,” laughed Hilda. “I hope you will all read my papers.”
“We will try,” said Holles, quaintly. “And here is the sack of flour. I will just lift it into the house. It is a perfectly lovely day. Spring has come!”