Hilda Strafford: A California Story

by Beatrice Harraden

Ben seemed to be quite a broken man, and went about his work as one seeing nothing and caring for nothing. Graham and Lauderdale and Holles tried their best to reach him with their kindness and sympathy; but he seemed unreachable, as though he had climbed to some distant mountain, and had cut himself off from human aid. But he liked to have Jesse Holles near him, remembering always that Jesse had been fond of Robert, and had given him many an hour of willing help. He looked after his ranch as usual, and rode over to Hilda every day without fail. He spent very little of his time with her personally, but worked on Robert’s ranch, finding a melancholy satisfaction in continuing what his friend had begun. He tended the horses, and helped Hilda in many ways. He cultivated, he pruned, and then he came up to the house, and sat down quietly with her, watching her as she prepared tea, watching and wondering and turning over many things in his mind. He was intensely sorry for her, but he had not told her that in words, although he knew she understood it from his deeds. In spite of all that had occurred, he could not help being strongly attracted to her, and sometimes when he was alone at home, he found himself torn in pieces by his great bereavement, by his sympathy with Hilda’s remorse, by his attraction to her, and his repulsion from her. Thus the storm swept furiously over Ben Overleigh. He told her once or twice that he would like to buy Robert’s ranch, and he thought they would not have any difficulty in arranging the matter. She did not make any definite reply, nor did she show any interest in his suggestion. She seemed strangely indifferent about the fate of the ranch, and about her own affairs and plans, which were being held in abeyance by the great railway strike. It was obvious, of course, that she would return home as soon as she could, but she never once spoke of home, and never once referred to the strike as interfering in any way with her own intentions. But she did speak of Robert, and then there was no mistaking the remorse in her manner, and the awe in her voice.

“I can never forget how I wounded him,” she said.

Ben did not answer her on these occasions; and his silence always stung her.

“You condemn me utterly,” she said, almost pleadingly, and she showed by her intensity how much she cared for what this man thought of her. She showed it all the more as the days went on, and, after all, it was natural enough that she should turn to him as her only friend in this distant country, where she was a complete stranger. But the matter did not end there. She was strongly attracted to him, and either she could not or would not hide it. At one moment a thrill of contempt would pass through Ben, and he could have turned from her as from something which soiled his soul; and at another moment a throb of passion would possess him, and he could have thrown up everything for her, his loyalty to his friend, his sense of dignity and fitness, his own estimate of her character—everything he could have swept to the winds. He noticed, too, that as the time went on, she seemed to become more reconciled to the scenery; and indeed the country was looking entrancingly beautiful. All Robert’s promises to her had come true: the foothills were powdered with gold; some of the slopes were arrayed in bright attire of orange-coloured poppies, and others had chosen for themselves a luxurious garment of wild mustard. Then there was the dazzling green grass, and the vast expanse of grain-fields, and in the distance yonder there were patches of purple and yellow flowers, reminding one of the gorse and heather in the old country. The grim barren mountains looked down indulgently on all this finery, like old people who have had their days of vanity, and are content to watch the young bedeck themselves so gaily. And the air was laden with the heavy fragrances of the flowers and the orange and lemon blossoms. Hilda drove out every day, and brought back endless treasures: wild lilac, wild azalea, and maiden-hair from some distant cañon. Her one consolation was to be out of the house: she drove, or she rode the pretty little mare which Robert had chosen so lovingly for her, and sometimes she strolled, taking with her a stout stick in case she came across any snakes. Nellie, the pointer, who had fretted piteously since Robert’s death, went with her, and whatever she did, the dog was always to be seen following her. Hilda’s health had not suffered from the shock which she had sustained, but she often looked anxious and desolate, and some of the people who saw her, thought she had changed sadly. They said that was not to be wondered at, considering the sad circumstances of her husband’s death, and the long continuance of the railway strike, which made it impossible for her to join her friends.

But one evening whilst she was sitting on the honeysuckle porch, Holles rode up waving a paper in his hands.

“Such good news!” he cried; “the strike is over. There has been some kind of a compromise between the company and the men, and some of the mails are through. I’ve got a ton-load for you in this gunny-sack. Nothing for me, of course, except my religious paper. That never gets lost.”

She put the magazines on one side, and opened her home letters. They were the first she had received in answer to her own letter telling of Robert’s death. Her father wrote most kindly, enclosing an order on one of the banks to cover her passage-money.

“Of course you will come back at once,” he said, “and take up your life where you left it.”

The letter fell from her hands.

The old life was offered to her again. There it was waiting for her, and she was free to go and accept it, and taste once more of the things for which she had been starving.