“No, indeed,” she answered eagerly, “I shall be glad to come.”
In a few minutes they were making their way down to the valley, now sticking in the mud, and now going valiantly onwards without interruption. At first Ben could not bring himself to speak of the trouble which had befallen his friend; he felt as though Hilda did not understand, or as though she did not care. Yet it was impossible that she did not care. No, she was, so he argued, probably one of those reserved characters, who keep their emotions in an iron safe, proof against all attacks. But at last he could no longer keep silent on the subject which was uppermost in his thoughts.
“It is a most disastrous affair, this bursting of the reservoir,” he said. “Bob slaved like a nigger at that earth dam. I never saw any fellow work so hard. And there never was a doubt in our minds about it being as firm as a rock. He has not told me a word about it yet, and I did not like to ask. He will tell me in his own time.”
“He had filled the reservoir too full,” Hilda said, in her grating voice. “I can’t imagine why he did such a ridiculous thing when he knew the rain was coming. And then there was some trouble about the flood-gate. It would not act properly. That is how it has occurred: at least so he told me. Day after day he put off looking after that flood-gate, until it was too late. I am dreadfully sorry about it all, but I cannot think why he did not take proper precautions. I would not say that to him, of course, but it seems to me that it might have been prevented if—”
“If Bob had not been utterly worn out,” said Ben, brusquely.
“Well, it is altogether most unfortunate,” she said indifferently.
Ben glanced at her keenly, scarcely knowing how to control his indignation at her cold criticism of his friend. He was trying to make out what manner of woman she really was, trying to divine what kind of heart she had, and what degree of intelligence; for she apparently did not realise the seriousness of the disaster, and talked of it as though it were something outside her, in the consequences of which she had no part.
“I scarcely think this is the moment for criticism,” he said suddenly; “it is the moment for generous sympathy. Bob will need everything we can give him of help and kindness.”
“Do you suppose I don’t know that?” she asked coldly. “Do you imagine that I am intending to make things harder for him? What do you suppose I am?”
“I suppose you are what you are,” Ben answered, in his quiet deliberate way, “a new-comer to California, ignorant of our lives out here, our struggles, our weeks and months and years of unaccustomed toil, and our great anxieties, and our great disasters. Your ranch is practically ruined. All those trees would have borne splendid lemons next year. Bob has tended them with special care. Now they are swept away. The part of your ranch which is left uninjured by the bursting of the reservoir, is the newly planted part. About two or three months ago, I myself helped Bob to put in the trees. Now he will have to begin all over again. And it is just crushing.”