“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I can do nothing for you. You’ve had your chance, and you’ve refused to take it.”
“I’ve got to go to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
The gamekeeper turned his cap round nervously, and to his face came an expression of utter distress; he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came, only an inarticulate groan. He turned on his heel and walked out. Then Grace went up to Paul desperately,
“Oh, Paul, you can’t do it,” she cried. “You’ll break the man’s heart. Haven’t you any pity? Haven’t you any forgiveness?”
“It’s no good, Grace. I’m sorry that I can’t fall in with your wishes. I must do my duty. It wouldn’t be fair to the other people on the estate if I let this go by without notice.”
“How can you be so hard!”
He wouldn’t see, he couldn’t see, that it was out of the question to drive Bridger away callously from the land he loved with all his soul; in one flash of inspiration she realized all that his little cottage signified to him, the woods and coverts, the meadows, the trees, the hedges: with all these things his life was bound up; like a growing thing, his roots were in the earth which had seen his birth and childhood, his marriage, and the growth of his children. She took hold of her husband’s arms and looked up into his face.
“Paul’ don’t you know what you’re doing? We’ve come nearer to one another of late. I’ve felt a new love grow up in my heart for you, and you’re killing it. You won’t let me love you. Can’t you forget that you’re this and that and the other, and remember that you’re only a man, weak and frail like the rest of us? You hope to be forgiven yourself, and you’re utterly pitiless.”
“My darling, it’s for your sake also that I must be firm with this man. It’s because you are so good and pure that I dare not be lenient.”