“We’ll redeem it,” Ben answered, “you and I together.”
Robert shook his head.
“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?”