He was wayward, though,
to a certain degree, generous and unselfish; he was reserved but gentle,
except when the tremendous bursts of passion (similar in character to
those of his father) forced their way. On his return from school one Christmas-time, when he had been a year or
so at Bangor, he was stunned by hearing that the undervalued Augharad was
about to be married to a gentleman of South Wales, residing near
Aberystwith. Boys seldom appreciate their sisters; but Owen thought of
the many slights with which he had requited the patient Augharad, and he
gave way to bitter regrets, which, with a selfish want of control over
his words, he kept expressing to his father, until the Squire was
thoroughly hurt and chagrined at the repeated exclamations of “What shall
we do when Augharad is gone?” “How dull we shall be when Augharad is
married!” Owen’s holidays were prolonged a few weeks, in order that he
might be present at the wedding; and when all the festivities were over,
and the bride and bridegroom had left Bodowen, the boy and his father
really felt how much they missed the quiet, loving Augharad. She had
performed so many thoughtful, noiseless little offices, on which their
daily comfort depended; and now she was gone, the household seemed to
miss the spirit that peacefully kept it in order; the servants roamed
about in search of commands and directions, the rooms had no longer the
unobtrusive ordering of taste to make them cheerful, the very fires
burned dim, and were always sinking down into dull heaps of gray ashes. Altogether Owen did not regret his return to Bangor, and this also the
mortified parent perceived. Squire Griffiths was a selfish parent. Letters in those days were a rare occurrence. Owen usually received one
during his half-yearly absences from home, and occasionally his father
paid him a visit. This half-year the boy had no visit, nor even a
letter, till very near the time of his leaving school, and then he was
astounded by the intelligence that his father was married again. Then came one of his paroxysms of rage; the more disastrous in its
effects upon his character because it could find no vent in action. Independently of slight to the memory of the first wife which children
are so apt to fancy such an action implies, Owen had hitherto considered
himself (and with justice) the first object of his father’s life. They
had been so much to each other; and now a shapeless, but too real
something had come between him and his father there for ever. He felt as
if his permission should have been asked, as if he should have been
consulted. Certainly he ought to have been told of the intended event. So the Squire felt, and hence his constrained letter which had so much
increased the bitterness of Owen’s feelings. With all this anger, when Owen saw his stepmother, he thought he had
never seen so beautiful a woman for her age; for she was no longer in the
bloom of youth, being a widow when his father married her. Her manners,
to the Welsh lad, who had seen little of female grace among the families
of the few antiquarians with whom his father visited, were so fascinating
that he watched her with a sort of breathless admiration. Her measured
grace, her faultless movements, her tones of voice, sweet, till the ear
was sated with their sweetness, made Owen less angry at his father’s
marriage. Yet he felt, more than ever, that the cloud was between him
and his father; that the hasty letter he had sent in answer to the
announcement of his wedding was not forgotten, although no allusion was
ever made to it. He was no longer his father’s confidant—hardly ever his
father’s companion, for the newly-married wife was all in all to the
Squire, and his son felt himself almost a cipher, where he had so long
been everything. The lady herself had ever the softest consideration for
her stepson; almost too obtrusive was the attention paid to his wishes,
but still he fancied that the heart had no part in the winning advances. There was a watchful glance of the eye that Owen once or twice caught
when she had imagined herself unobserved, and many other nameless little
circumstances, that gave him a strong feeling of want of sincerity in his
stepmother. Mrs. Owen brought with her into the family her little child
by her first husband, a boy nearly three years old. He was one of those
elfish, observant, mocking children, over whose feelings you seem to have
no control: agile and mischievous, his little practical jokes, at first
performed in ignorance of the pain he gave, but afterward proceeding to a
malicious pleasure in suffering, really seemed to afford some ground to
the superstitious notion of some of the common people that he was a fairy
changeling. Years passed on; and as Owen grew older he became more observant. He
saw, even in his occasional visits at home (for from school he had passed
on to college), that a great change had taken place in the outward
manifestations of his father’s character; and, by degrees, Owen traced
this change to the influence of his stepmother; so slight, so
imperceptible to the common observer, yet so resistless in its effects. Squire Griffiths caught up his wife’s humbly advanced opinions, and,
unawares to himself, adopted them as his own, defying all argument and
opposition. It was the same with her wishes; they met their fulfilment,
from the extreme and delicate art with which she insinuated them into her
husband’s mind, as his own. She sacrificed the show of authority for the
power. At last, when Owen perceived some oppressive act in his father’s
conduct toward his dependants, or some unaccountable thwarting of his own
wishes, he fancied he saw his stepmother’s secret influence thus
displayed, however much she might regret the injustice of his father’s
actions in her conversations with him when they were alone. His father
was fast losing his temperate habits, and frequent intoxication soon took
its usual effect upon the temper. Yet even here was the spell of his
wife upon him. Before her he placed a restraint upon his passion, yet
she was perfectly aware of his irritable disposition, and directed it
hither and thither with the same apparent ignorance of the tendency of
her words. Meanwhile Owen’s situation became peculiarly mortifying to a youth whose
early remembrances afforded such a contrast to his present state.