And he did swear. Not very bad swearing, but still swearing all the same. It was only one word he used, beginning with D; but he would say it as if he was thinking it out loud. This was the sort of thing. “Where did I put my glasses? D——!” “Hasn’t anybody seen them? D——!” “Oh, there they are on the sofa. D——!” “What time is it—half-past ten? D——!” “Which way is the wind this morning—east? D——!” And so on. It was such a habit with him that I think he didn’t know what he did it for. One Sunday I heard him, coming out of church, before the people were out of the doors, say quite out loud, “I have left my Church Service in the pew. D——!” And, turning round to go back, he pushed up against the clergyman’s wife, and apologized, “Beg pardon, ma’am, I’m sure. D——!”
He used to say that word between every sentence he spoke aloud, just like some people grunt between every sentence when they talk; and being such a pompous little man, and so conspicuous with his red hair and whiskers and his stoutness, it made it seem odder than ever, and attracted everybody’s attention.
I believe he was a very clever little man, which perhaps accounted for his queer ways. I was told that he was a very wonderful man at figures; and I think he was under Government, in some great office—at least, I’ve heard so; and this perhaps accounted for his muttering, and thinking, and swearing so much to himself. He really forgot that anybody was in the room, his head being on something else. Sometimes at dinner, when the joint was in front of him, he would help himself and begin to eat, forgetting his wife and family altogether, until one of them would venture to say “Pa.” And then he would look up suddenly, and say quite sharply, “Eh? What? Oh, d——!” and then serve them.
When he was in our hotel he always had one of the sitting-rooms to himself, and he would sit there for hours with a lot of papers, which he had in a big dispatch-box he carried about with him. I suppose he was ciphering, but I couldn’t tell, because he always locked the door, and nobody was allowed to go near when he was there. The only person he was really civil to, and was really afraid of, was Mrs. Pryce, the lady’s-maid. I’m sure that old woman knew something; for he never tried any of his bullying on with her. Sometimes, when dinner was ready, and he was locked in his room, there wasn’t one of them—not his wife, and not his children—who dared go and knock and tell him. They used to send for Pryce to go; and she would march up to the door as bold as brass and knock, and say, quite short, “Dinner, sir.”
If Pryce did that he would come out in a minute; but once, when Pryce was out, his eldest daughter went and gave a feeble little tap after dinner had been ready three-quarters of an hour, and he came out foaming at the mouth, and dancing about in a rage, and roaring and bellowing, like a wild animal that had been stirred up in its cage with a long pole.
The least thing would put him out. I remember when they first came I had to tell him one day that his wife had gone for a walk with the young ladies.
“Mrs. Wales has gone out, sir,” I said.
“That’s not her name,” he said. “D——! Don’t you think you ought to call people who stay with you by their proper name? D——! My name is Owen Wales, D——! not Wales. My wife’s Mrs. Owen Wales; my daughters are Miss Owen Waleses. Don’t chop half our name off, please. D——!”
And with that he went growling and muttering up the stairs, as though he’d been having a fight with another animal over a bone.
I’ve told you that when he was about, the rest of the family were like lambs. Even the sons, grown-up young men as they were, didn’t dare to open their mouths hardly before him; but when he went up to London and left them in the hotel by themselves, oh dear me! you wouldn’t have believed what a wonderful change took place.