it must be a mistake. Mr. Craddock never meant anything of the sort.”
“‘E told us positive to take down this one and them others yonder. You can see his mark, mum.”
“Nonsense. I’ll talk to Mr. Craddock about it. Take that rope off and come down from the ladder. I forbid you to touch another tree.”
The man on the ladder looked at her, but made no attempt to do as he was bid.
“The squire said most particular that we was to cut that tree down to-day.”
“Will you have the goodness to do as I tell you?” said Bertha, reddening with anger. “Tell that man to unfasten the rope and come down. I forbid you to touch the tree.”
The man Hodgkins repeated Bertha’s order in a surly voice, and they all looked at her suspiciously, wishing to disobey but not daring—in case the squire should be angry.
“Well, I’ll take no responsibility for it.”
“Please hold your tongue and do what I tell you as quickly as possible.”
She waited till the men had gathered up their various belongings and trooped off.
Chapter XXI
BERTHA went home, fuming, knowing perfectly well that Edward had really given the orders which she had countermanded, but glad of the chance to have a final settlement of rights. She did not see him for several hours.
“I say, Bertha,” he said, when he came in, “why on earth did you stop those men cutting down the beeches on Carter’s field? You’ve lost a whole half-day’s work. I wanted to set them on something else to-morrow, now I shall have to leave it over till Thursday.”
“I stopped them because I refuse to have the beeches cut down. They’re the only ones in the place. I’m very much annoyed that even one should have gone without my knowing about it. You should have asked me before you did such a thing.”
“My good girl, I can’t come and ask you each time I want a thing done.”
“Is the land mine or yours?”
“It’s yours,” answered Edward, laughing, “but I know better than you what ought to be done, and it’s silly of you to interfere.”
Bertha flushed. “In future, I wish to be consulted.”
“You’ve told me fifty thousand times to do always as I think fit.”
“Well, I’ve changed my mind.”
“It’s too late now,” he laughed. “You made me take the reins in my own hands and I’m going to keep them.”
Bertha in her anger hardly restrained herself from telling him she could send him away like a hired servant.
“I want you to understand, Edward, that I’m not going to have those trees cut down. You must tell the men you made a mistake.”
“I shall tell them nothing of the sort. I’m not going to cut them all down—only three. We don’t want them there—for one thing the shade damages the crops, and otherwise Carter’s is one of our best fields. And then I want the wood.”
“I care nothing about the crops, and if you want wood you can buy it. Those trees were planted nearly a hundred years ago, and I would sooner die than cut them down.”
“The man who planted beeches in a hedgerow was about the silliest jackass I’ve ever heard of. Any tree’s bad enough, but a beech of all things—why, it’s drip, drip, drip, all the time, and not a thing will grow under them. That’s the sort of thing that has been done all over the estate for years. It’ll take me a lifetime to repair the blunders of your—of the former owners.”
It is one of the curiosities of sentiment that its most abject slave rarely permits it to interfere with his temporal concerns; it appears as unusual for a man to sentimentalise in his own walk of life as for him to pick his own pocket. Edward, having passed all his days in contact with the earth, might have been expected to cherish a certain love of nature. The pathos of transpontine melodrama made him cough, and blow his nose; and in literature he affected the titled and consumptive heroine, and the soft-hearted, burly hero. But when it came to business, it was another matter—the sort of sentiment which asks a farmer to spare a sylvan glade for æsthetic reasons is absurd. Edward would have willingly allowed advertisement-mongers to put up boards on the most beautiful part of the estate, if thereby he could surreptitiously increase the profits of his farm.
“Whatever you may think of my people,” said Bertha, “you will kindly pay attention to me. The land is mine, and I refuse to let you spoil it.”
“It isn’t spoiling it. It’s the proper thing to do. You’ll soon get used to not seeing the wretched trees—and I tell you I’m only going to take three down. I’ve given orders to cut the others to-morrow.”
“D’you mean to say you’re going to ignore me absolutely?”
“I’m going to do what’s right; and if you don’t approve of it, I’m very sorry, but I shall do it all the same.”
“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
