Doubt and Pride—Which Wins?
For a week Wareham stayed on at Firleigh, walked with another funeral through the garden and along the church path, and laid old Sir Michael down by the side of his young son and younger wife—ashes to ashes, dust to dust. There was much to arrange, much that a friend—a man—could do to spare poor women. Death, like life, has its routine, which must be gone through, though tears proclaim it heartless; and when the head of a family steps down from his place, another waits to climb into it, all of which needs moving out of the way for some, advancing for others, and filling of vacant space.
Here the heir was a nephew, a young lad of fourteen, hastily sent for from Eton, and present at the funeral with his mother. The boy was a fine fellow, but the mother had that capacity for irritation which is by no means the exclusive property of the ill-tempered. Words, kindnesses even, grated. If it is ourselves that reveal others to us, Wareham found himself reflecting that she presented the world with a likeness of herself, painted blackly, when least she intended it, for she seldom spoke of any one without a depreciatory remark. He resented, too, the airs of ownership she had already assumed, and her benign patronage of Ella. Talking to Mrs Newbold, he let fly his dislike.
“The woman fingers everything as if she were appraising it,” he said. “Her hand crooks involuntarily.”
“I wish poor Ella could have her last days in peace,” sighed Mrs Newbold.
“Do you mean that she intends to stay?” Mrs Newbold nodded emphatically, and sighed again.
“Ella said something, and Amelia jumped at it. She said it would be as well to look round her. Said this to Ella, and not a thank you with it!”
“If I can prophesy at all, this will quicken your own movements. What do you think of doing?”
“Ella will come to me in Monmouthshire for the present. That will give her time to look round, instead of deciding hurriedly.” When things had so far advanced, Wareham felt that he might leave. It annoyed him to see Mrs Forbes already in possession, and hinting at this or that change.
“Ella is young, very young,” she remarked to him one day. “She does her best, but I should never allow the coachman to order what he chose,” and the “I” was imperial. The day before he left, Ella came to Wareham in the library, Venom at her heels.