She looked at him with utter pain.
“Yes, Paul.”
He shrugged his massive shoulders, and together in silence they walked along the drive. The fine weather of the last three weeks was gone, and the day was chilly, and an east wind blew. A low white mist lay over the park, and the dripping trees were very cheerless. No sign of life was seen at Bridger’s cottage, but the little garden, usually so trim and neat, was trampled and torn, as though many men had gone carelessly over the beds. Paul knocked at the door and waited, but no answer came; he lifted the latch, and followed by Grace, walked in. Bridger, seated at the table, was looking straight in front of him, stupefied still with grief and liquor. He gazed vacantly at the intruders, as though he recognised them not.
“Bridger, I’ve come to tell you how dreadfully sorry I am for the awful thing that has happened.”
The sound of the voice seemed to bring the man to his senses, for he gave a low cry and lurched forward.
“What d’you want? What ’ave you come here for? Couldn’t you leave me alone?” He stared at Paul, rage gradually taking possession of him. “D’you still want me to go—me and the boys? Give us time, and we’ll clear.”
“I hope you’ll stay. I want to do everything I can to make up for your horrible loss. I can’t tell you how deeply I blame myself. I would give anything that this dreadful thing hadn’t occurred.”
“She killed ’erself so as I shouldn’t be turned off. You’re a hard master—You always was.”
“I’m very sorry. In future I will try to be gentler to you all. I thought I only did my duty.”
Mr. Castillyon, that man so conscious of his dignity, had never before spoken to his inferiors in apologetic tones. Apt to take others to account, he had never dreamed that some day himself might need to make excuses.