_THE OWEN WALESES._
They had the sitting-rooms, No. 6 and No. 7.
“Sixes and Sevens” we called them, and certainly that’s what they were
always at. They stayed three weeks, while their house in London was
being painted and done up inside and out; and if they had stayed much
longer, I think mad I should have gone. When they came I had picked up
my strength again wonderfully, and was quite well; but when they went
away I was reduced to such a state of nervousness that if a door banged
I jumped out of my chair and burst into a perspiration.
One day we had a letter from a lady in London, asking if we had two
sitting-rooms and four bedrooms to spare, and giving a list of the
family she wanted to bring with her, if we could accommodate them for a
fortnight. Mrs. Owen Wales was the name on the lady’s card, and it was a
very good address. So we wrote back to say that we had the bedrooms to
spare, and also two nice sitting-rooms--No. 6 and No. 7. She had asked
us to give her an idea of our terms for such a party for three weeks;
but Harry said it was no good making a reduction, as large families were
sometimes more trouble than small ones, and our terms were quite
moderate enough. So I wrote a nice polite letter, and said what our
regular charges were, and that as we had only limited accommodation, and
were generally full, we couldn’t make any reduction, but they might rely
upon every attention being paid to their comfort.
One or two letters passed before the thing was settled, and then one day
we had a telegram ordering fires to be lighted in both sitting-rooms
and dinner to be ready at 6.30 for six people, in the largest
sitting-room.
They arrived about half-past five--Mr. and Mrs. Owen Wales and two young
gentlemen and two young ladies and a maidservant.
Mr. Owen Wales was a very short and very stout gentleman of about
fifty-five, with the reddest hair and whiskers I ever saw in my life.
Mrs. Owen Wales was about fifty, I should say, but she was six feet, if
she was an inch, and a fine women in every way; in fact, I may say a
magnificent woman. The two sons, Mr. Robert and Mr. David, were fine,
tall young men, taking after the mother. One was twenty-two and the
other nineteen, and the daughters, Miss Rhoda and Miss Maggie, were both
tall, too, and neither of them, I should say, would see twenty again.
Pryce, the lady’s-maid, was the queerest lady’s-maid I ever saw in my
life. She said she was forty to one of our girls, who asked the question
delicately; but she was sixty if she was a day. She was one of those
hard-faced, straight-up-and-down, hawk-eyed, eagle-nosed old women that
never laugh and never smile, and seem to have been turned out of a mould
hard set, and never to have melted.
I soon saw what I had to deal with in Mrs. Pryce (she was a Miss, but
was always called Mrs. by her own request,) directly she got out of the
fly, that came on first with the luggage.
She began to order me about, if you please, before she had been inside
the door a second, and to give me directions what was to be done, as if
I had never had a respectable person stay at my hotel before.
I listened to what she had to say quietly, and I said, “Very good; I
will call the chambermaid, and she will attend to you.”
She looked at me in a supercilious sort of way, and said, “Humph!” out
loud, and growled something to herself, which I know as well as
possible, though I didn’t hear it, was that she supposed I was above my
business.
Now, that is a thing nobody can say of me with truth; but I never could
submit to be sat upon; and nothing puts my back up quicker than for
anybody to try it on, especially people who are always giving
themselves airs and showing off.
After she’d gone upstairs with the chambermaid and the man who carried
the luggage up, to see it put in the proper rooms, I said to my husband,
“Harry, there’ll be trouble with that person before we’ve done with
her--you mark my words.” Harry said, “Well, my dear, don’t you begin
making it,” which made me turn on him rather spitefully. One would have
thought, to hear him say that, that I was inclined to quarrel with
people and to make words, which I never was, and I hope I never shall
be; though, of course, a great deal depends upon the health you are in
and the condition of your nerves. You have a baby who is teething, and
keeps you awake night after night for a fortnight, and I think Job
himself would have lost his patience and turned snappy. And that was
what had happened to me with my second--a dear little girl, with the
loveliest dark eyes you ever saw in your life, and more like me than
Harry, with the prettiest ways a baby ever had, till the teething began,
and then the poor mite, I am bound to say, she didn’t show her mother’s
amiability of temper. (Ahem! Harry.)
Well, of all the impudent things I ever saw! I left my papers on my
desk while I ran downstairs to go to the stores cupboard with cook, and
that impudent husband of mine has been reading my manuscript, and has
put in that nasty remark. I shan’t scratch it out--it shall stand there
as a lasting disgrace to him. It will show young women what they have to
expect when they get married, and how little men appreciate a woman who
lets them have their own way, and doesn’t make herself a tyrant.
And talking about tyrants, if ever there was one in this world it was
that Mr. Owen Wales. That little bit of a fellow, who, as Harry said,
was only a pair of red whiskers on two stumps, made his big wife and his
big family tremble before him. But I shall come to that presently.
It was as much as I could do to keep from saying, “Oh!” and giggling
right out when they all got out of the fly, and the little man walked in
like a small turkey-cock surrounded by his giant family. They really
looked giants and giantesses by the side of him; but not one of them
spoke a word or offered a remark, leaving everything to “Pa.”
Harry said afterwards it reminded him of a little bantam cock when Mr.
Owen Wales first strutted in; but there wasn’t much of the bantam when
he began to crow--I mean when he began to speak. It was more like a
bassoon. He had the deepest and gruffest voice I ever heard. Really, you
would wonder how such sounds could come out of a little man’s throat.
He spoke in his gruff voice in a short, jumpy way, as if he was ordering
a regiment of soldiers about. “Rooms ready?” “Yes, sir; quite ready.”
“Fires alight?” “Yes, sir; they have been alight all day.” He grunted,
and then he turned to his family, who all stood meek and mute behind
him, and said, “Go on!” Well, he didn’t say it--he growled it, and they
all turned and went upstairs after the waitress, like school-children,
leaving Mr. Owen Wales to settle with the flyman. Our flyman is a very
civil flyman, but Mr. Owen Wales bullied him about some trifle till, the
poor man told me afterwards, he felt inclined to jump off the box and
give the “little beggar” a good shaking. And that’s how I often felt
with him afterwards--that I should like to take him up, put him under my
arm, and drop him quietly out of the window, to teach him a lesson.
But his family stood in absolute terror of him, especially his wife, who
was the dullest, meekest, quietest creature for her size that you ever
saw. She could have taken that little man and given him a good shaking
at any moment if she had chosen to put out her strength; and instead of
that she obeyed him like a dog and trembled if he spoke cross to her or
swore.
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.
Their mamma was just the same quiet, meek, long-suffering creature; but
the young ladies and gentlemen were like wild animals, when the keeper’s
gone away and has taken the horsewhip with him. All the pa that was in
them came out, and they quarrelled and went on at each other awfully;
and their poor ma was no more use than a baby to manage them. She used
to lie in bed generally when Mr. Owen Wales was away till eleven o’clock
in the morning, and the family used to come down at all hours, one after
the other, and quarrel over their breakfast.
When Mr. Owen Wales was with us everybody used to be at breakfast at
nine sharp, all looking as if butter wouldn’t melt; and woe betide any
of them that was a minute late at a meal except himself.
But, oh, the meals when he wasn’t there! It was dreadful. It was the
same with dinner as with breakfast. They’d come in one after the other,
and quarrel all the time. And one day at dinner Miss Rhoda slapped Mr.
Robert’s face, and Mr. Robert threw a glass of water over her, and they
all jumped up, and I thought they’d have a free fight. I was so
terrified that I dropped the vegetable-dish I was handing round out of
my hand on the table, and, as it was cauliflower and melted-butter, and
it all fell over into Mrs. Owen Wales’s lap and ruined her dress, I
didn’t know which way to look or what to do. I thought perhaps they’d
all turn on to me, and begin to tear my hair or something; but they went
on calling each other beasts and cats and crocodiles, and other pet
names without taking any notice, and their ma just wiped up the
melted-butter out of her lap with her napkin, and said gently, “It
doesn’t matter, Mrs. Beckett; it’ll come out.” And then she looked up at
the young people and said, “Children, children, do, pray, be quiet.”
But the brothers went on at each other furiously; one brother taking one
sister’s side and one the other; and the young ladies began scratching
their brothers’ faces. And I don’t know how it would have ended, only
Pryce walked into the room as calm as a judge, and they all sat down as
if by magic.
I found out afterwards they were afraid she would tell their father;
they knew their mother wouldn’t. Pryce was the master when the master
was away--there was no mistake about that; and I’ve heard her go into
Mrs. Owen Wales’s room, and order her to get up--not exactly order her,
but you know what I mean--tell her it was late in a way that was as good
as an order to get up.
The constant scenes when their pa was away quite wore me out, and I said
to Harry that my nerves wouldn’t stand it. They always used to quarrel
at the top of their voices, and the young ladies used to scream and rush
out bathed in tears, and bang the doors and run upstairs into their
bed-room; and I said we might as well keep a lunatic asylum at
once--better, for we should have keepers and strait-jackets then, and
padded rooms.
Harry said they were a queer family, certainly. But he supposed it was
their being kept under so awfully by their pa made them burst out when
he wasn’t there--and perhaps that _was_ it; but whatever it was, it was
very unpleasant in an hotel, which had always had quiet, steady-going
people.
And it was not only quarrelling, but they were all over the place. The
young gentlemen would come into the bar, and into the bar-parlour, and
go on anyhow; and one day I found Mr. David sitting on the table in the
kitchen, and making the servants roar with laughter at a figure which he
had got, which was an old man on a donkey, that worked with strings; and
Harry came in one day and told me that he had seen Mr. Robert walking
with our nursemaid, while she was out with baby in the perambulator.
I said to Harry that the sooner their pa came back again the better it
would be for us, for the place was being turned into a bear garden, and
their ma was a poor, helpless creature to be left with such a lot.
But the worst that happened was one afternoon. Mr. Robert and Mr. David
came down and said to Harry, “Mr. Beckett, we want you to do us a
favour.” “What is it?” said Harry. “We’re going up to London, and we
can’t get back till the last train, which gets into ----” (a station four
miles from us) “at one in the morning. Will you let some one sit up for
us, and not say anything about it to Pryce or pa?”
Harry, in his good-natured way, said, “All right,” and off my lords
went. I was very cross when I heard about it; but Harry said they were
grown-up young men, and perhaps they wanted to go to the theatre.
I wouldn’t let Harry sit up alone, so I sat up too. And, if you please,
it was past two in the morning when a cab stopped at the door. And, when
Harry let them in, if these two young gentlemen were not in a nice
condition! Their hats were stuck on the backs of their heads, and they
could hardly stand upright--they were so much the worse for what they
had had.
They grinned a most idiotic grin when they saw me, and tried to say
something polite; but they couldn’t get a distinct sentence out.
While I was lighting their candles they sat on the stairs and talked a
lot of gibberish, and looked like idiots. It was really quite painful.
I said to Harry, “Get them up to bed, for goodness’ sake, and carry
their candles, or they’ll set the place on fire.”
Harry tried to get them up, and by propping one against the wall and
holding him up with one hand, while with the other he helped the other
to get on his legs, he managed it at last. Then they both took hold of
his arms, and they tried to go upstairs three abreast, but before they
got half-way they both tumbled down, and pulled Harry on top of them,
and the candlestick fell out of his hand and came clattering downstairs.
Harry laughed, but I was awfully wild. It wasn’t the sort of thing for a
respectable house like ours; and I was so afraid some of the other
customers would hear the noise and be disturbed by it.
I had to help Harry to get them up again, and I said, “Do please try and
go to bed quietly, there’s good young gentlemen. You’re disturbing the
whole house!”
They said, “All right, Mrs. Beckett. You’re goo’short, you are.” And
they did try to steady themselves, and we managed to get them all right
to the first landing, I going up in front with the candles. I wasn’t
going behind, for fear they should all fall down on top of me.
But when we got to the top of the landing I thought I heard a slight
noise. I looked up, and there, with a candle in her hand leaning over
the banister, was that Mrs. Pryce.
She was fully dressed, and had evidently had an idea what was going to
happen, and the cat--that ever I should call her so!--had sat up and
listened for the young gentlemen to come in and go to bed.
When they looked up, too, and saw her it seemed to sober them for a
minute. “It’s all right, Pryce,” said Mr. Robert. “We’ve been to the
misshurry meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Beckett, and losh lash train.”
If a glance could have withered them that old woman’s would have done
it. “Very good,” she said; “your father shall be informed of this.”
Then, looking at me, she said, “As to you, ma’am, you ought to be
ashamed of yourself--encouraging young men in vice and drunkenness.”
“Oh!” I said, almost with a shriek; “oh, you wicked creature! How dare
you say such a thing?”
Harry had heard what she said, too. He left go of the two young men, and
they both went down bang on the landing; and he jumped up the stairs,
two at a time, till he reached Mrs. Pryce, and then, his eyes glaring
(he looked splendid like that), he almost shouted, “Apologize to my wife
for your insolence, this minute!”
“I shall not,” she said, never flinching an inch. “It’s disgraceful, and
you ought to lose your licence.”
“Do you suppose they got drunk with us?” yelled Harry.
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” said that female; “but they _are_
drunk, and you and your wife are up with them at two o’clock in the
morning. I shall inform my master at once. This is not a fit house for
respectable people.”
“Isn’t it?” shouted Harry; “it’s a d---- sight too respectable for you
and your lot! You and your master can go to the----”
“Harry,” I said, running up, and catching hold of him; “Harry, be calm;
think of the other customers.”
It was too late. People hearing the row had got up, and I could see
white figures peeping through the half-open doors, and one old lady
rushed out in her nightgown shrieking, “What is it? The house is on
fire--I know it is. Fire! fire! fire!----”
“Hush, hush!” I cried, “don’t, don’t!”--and, in my horror, I put my
hands over her mouth to stop her. “It’s nothing; it’s only two gentlemen
drunk.” The old lady caught sight of the two young Mr. Owen Waleses
sitting on the landing, and remembering how she was dressed, and that
she hadn’t got her wig on, bolted into her room and banged the door to
after her, and I went to the other doors and told the people it was
nothing, that they weren’t to be frightened; it was only two of our
gentlemen had been overcome by something which had disagreed with them.
Oh, it was dreadful! I didn’t know where the scandal would end, or what
would be the consequences of it. How we got those two young fellows to
bed--how I quieted Harry down, and left that wretched woman Pryce
triumphant on the staircase, with a wicked, fiendish glare in her eye--I
only remember in a confused sort of way; but I know, when it was all
over and I got to bed, I had to have a good cry to prevent myself having
hysterics. And Harry, as soon as he’d got me round a bit, worked himself
up into a temper again, and, instead of going to sleep, kept on turning
from side to side in his indignation, and saying, if it hadn’t been for
me, he’d “have wrung that old cat’s neck for her.”
* * * * *
The next morning the two young gentlemen came into our private room
after breakfast, and apologized, like gentlemen. They said they were
very sorry for what had occurred, and they hoped we shouldn’t think too
badly of them. I said I should think no more of it, though, of course,
it had made a terrible scandal in the house, and would probably injure
our business; but I should not forget the impertinence of the woman
Pryce, who was only a servant, and had no business to dare to interfere
or to speak to me in such a way.
They said that I was quite right; but they daren’t say anything to
Pryce, as their only chance of getting her not to tell their father was
by being very humble to her and smoothing her down.
I don’t know how they tried to smooth her down; but they didn’t do it,
for their pa came down the next day, and that Pryce told him everything,
and a nice row there was. The way that little man went on at those two
great six-foot fellows was awful. They shook like aspen-leaves before
him--I expected to see him set to and thrash them every minute, though
he would have had to stand on a chair to box their ears. Of course, they
deserved all they got; the cruel part was that he bullied his wife as
well, and told her it was all her fault, and she was ruining her
children, and she wasn’t fit to be a mother, and I don’t know what.
Really one would have thought she was a little girl herself. I wondered
if he was going to stand her in the corner, or send her to bed. The poor
woman trembled and sobbed before the little bantam, till I quite lost
patience with her. Why, if she had given him a push, she could have sent
him over into the fender, for he stood on the hearthrug, and foamed and
swore till he was nearly black in the face.
The door was wide open--the sitting-room door--and we heard all he said,
and he rang the bell, and sent for me and Harry, and demanded to know
“the rights of it.”
It was very awkward; but I got out of it. I said, “If you’ve anything to
say, sir, you can say it to my husband;” and with that I vanished out of
the room. He didn’t frighten Harry, though he tried to; but the end of
it was, he said he shouldn’t stay in the house any longer, and Harry
said he was glad to hear it, as it saved him the pain of having to
present him with the bill, and ask him to take his custom and his family
somewhere else.
When Harry said that, he told me, the little man swelled out to such a
size Harry thought he was going to burst; but he only swore, and ordered
Harry to leave the room instantly, which, to avoid a disturbance, he
did.
And, thank goodness, the next day they all departed; but not without a
good many d----s from Mr. Owen Wales over the bill. The young gentlemen
looked very sheepish, as well they might, and the whole family were
tamed again, and hadn’t a word to say among them. Their tamer was there,
and they quailed before him. Pryce was the first to go; she went in a
fly by herself with the luggage. Harry was at the door as she drove
away, and he raised his hat, with mock politeness, to my lady.
She gave him a look, and turned her head, and sniffed, and said, “Good
afternoon, sir; it’s the first time I’ve stayed at a pothouse, and I
hope it will be the last!”
A pothouse! Oh, when I think of it even now it makes the blood rush to
the roots of my hair. I do believe if I had been at the door when that
creature said that I should have----
* * * * *
Miss Measom not in yet? Why, it’s past eleven!--what does she mean by
such conduct? She’ll have to go. I will not have a barmaid who cannot
come in at a decent and proper time. When she does come in I shall give
her a piece of my mind. She’s much too flighty for her place; I thought
so when you engaged her. You go to bed, Harry; I’ll sit up for _her_.