“Leave that to me,” Bess answered. “Or rather, do what I tell you—and the bird will come to the whistle, my lad!”
“What’ll you do?”
She told him, and when she had told him she put before him pen and ink and paper; the pen and ink and paper which had been obtained that he might write to Thistlewood. But when it came to details and he knew what he was to write and what lure to throw out, he flung the pen from him. He told her angrily that he would not do it. After all, Henrietta had believed in him, had trusted him, had given up all for him.
“I’ll not do it,” he repeated. “I’ll not do it! You want to do the girl a mischief!”
She flared up at that.
“Then you’ll hang!” she cried brutally, hurling the words at him. “And, thank God, it will be she will hang you! Why, you fool,” she continued vehemently, “you were for doing her a worse turn, just to please yourself! And not a scruple!”
“No matter,” he answered, thrusting his hands in his pockets and looking sullenly before him. “I’ll not do it!”
Her face was dark with anger, and cruel. What is more cruel than jealousy?
“And that is your last word?” she cried.
He scowled at the table, aware in his heart that he would yield. For he knew—and he resented the knowledge—that he and Bess were changing places; that the upper hand which knowledge and experience and a fluent tongue had given him was passing to her for whom Nature intended it. The weak will was yielding, the strong will was asserting itself. And she knew it also; and in her jealousy she was no longer for humouring him. Brusquely she pushed together the pen and ink and paper.