“I shall give the men orders to do nothing of the kind.”
Edward laughed. “Then you’ll make an ass of yourself. You try giving them orders contrary to mine, and see what they do.”
Bertha gave a cry. In her fury she looked round for something to throw; she would have liked to hit him; but he stood there, calm and self-possessed, quite amused.
“I think you must be mad,” she said. “You do all you can to destroy my love for you.”
She was in too great a passion for words. This was the measure of his affection; he must, indeed, utterly despise her; and this was the only result of the love she had humbly laid at his feet. She asked herself what she could do; she could do nothing—but submit. She knew as well as he that her orders would be disobeyed if they did not agree with his; and that he would keep his word she did not for a moment doubt. To do so was his pride. She did not speak for the rest of the day, but next morning when he was going out, asked what was his intention with regard to the trees.
“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten all about them,” he replied. “I mean to do as I said.”
“If you have the trees cut down, I shall leave you; I shall go to Aunt Polly’s.”
“And tell her that you wanted the moon, and I was so unkind as not to give it you?” he replied, smiling. “She’ll laugh at you.”
“You will find me as careful to keep my word as you.”
Before luncheon she went out and walked to Carter’s field. The men were still at work, but a second tree had gone, the third would doubtless fall in the afternoon. The men glanced at Bertha, and she thought they laughed; she stood looking at them for some while so that she might thoroughly digest the humiliation. Then she went home, and wrote to her aunt the following veracious letter:—