Weekly Mail

;The Dean's Daughter-m- Law, r; It must be a familiar experience to most people, who have walked about much in any large town, occasionally to meet some chance passer by whose appearance has attracted their attention, and set them speculating on bis probable history, and the errand on which he is at present bound, Such a subject for mental speculation might have been found in a certain cleric, who was threading his way, one afternoon in he present year, through a crowded thoroughfare in the neighbourhood of Pim- lioo, The particular fashion of his dress showed him, to those who were acquainted with such distinctions, to be a dean of the English Church; and the conscious self- importance of his bearing was quite in keep- ing with this character. But anyone who looked at all carefully into his face must have Iurmised, from its harassed, agitated expres- ion, that even for this sleek and portly divine life was not just now running upon its smoothest wheels. Suoh a surmise would have been entirely > correct, The worthy dean was very much opset and agitated indeed, and, what is more, he had good reason for being so. The pre- vious morning he had received a letter from his only son-a young man of great parts and promise, then living in London and reading for the bar—to announce that he had just been married. The wife of his choice-so the young man wrote—was rather below him ;in social station. Indeed, she had earned her living by dancing in the ballet at a certain famous theatre of varieties. 3ot she had all the feelings and instincts of ti lady, and in personal charms yielded to Jioue, The writer concluded by begging his father to forgive him for the step he had ■taken, and assuring him that, whatever view he (his father) might take upon the subject, the marriage was, he was convinced, for his own ultimate happiness. N To describe adequately the state of the 'Dean's feelings upon reading this letter would be a difficult task. Though a stern parent, he ,was yet a kind one; and he was entirely ^rapped up in his only son, for whom he cherished fond hopes of future success and distinction. The news, therefore, of his fatal folly in having manied a ballet-girl, and thus having effectually crippled, if not ruined, his prospects, gave the Dean a cruel shock, and roused in him a sense, not so much of anger as of bitter dis- appointment. He had engagements which made it impossible for him to leave home that same day, but the very next morning he atarted off to If town." And he was now walung his way from. Victoria Station to Jiarston-streefc, Pimlico, where his son lived. What good he was likely to do by his visit lie had hardly stopped to think. But he had a vague idea that he might be able to help his son somehow, and, at any rate, he could satisfy his paternal wrath by upbraiding the young man with his undutifulnesa and folly. He would likewise be able to learn further particulars about the unhappy affair, and might probably have an opportunity of seeing yrita his own eyes the scheming siren who had entrapped his son into this fatal alliance. On reaching No. 10, Mars ton-street, the Dean stopped before the door and pulled the pell. It Was answered, after a short delay, by a trim little housemaid. Is my son, Mr. Onslow, at home P" he in- quired. I "I think ha i., sir." she replied, with a glance of admiring respect at the Decanal integuments. I' And I am sure Mrs. Onslow is. Will you walk in, please ?" 1 The Dean followed her into the passage. The general demeanour of the maid, her neat- ness, modesty, respectfulness and good looks augured better things for the taste of bis son's wife than he had ventured to expect. Indeed he found himself already hoping that she might prove one of those Nature's ladies, who are to be found here and there among the lower classes. ^But the furniture and appearance of the drawing-room, into which he was shown, went very far to dispel these favourable hopes. Vulgarity, and an appalling want of taste made themselves apparent in every detail. And although many of the artioles of furni- tures were in themselves harmless, and even handsome, yet the manner of their arrange- ment made them look positively hideous. P Good gracious muttered the Dean to himself, as, with his glass in his eye, he took stock of the room "if the furniture is the index of the mistress-why, God help my son! r 1 P hAdh?rd,y ut{«red this pious prayer, T was flong open, and a young woman entered. We say « young," because, judging by her dress and carriage, she evidently wished to be so considered. But the rouge on her haggard cheeks was too unmis- takable to deceive the veriest tyro, while the tawdry finery, in which she was habited, father emphasised than concealed her real age. 1 The Dean afc her m horror. He had been prepared for something pretty bad, but nothing quite so bad as this. He had at least expected that his son's wife would be joongand to see before him this haggard, i middle-aged woman, who was thirty-eight if f; away his breath. '• j ^cJaimed, as she advanced towards the Dean, with a jaunty air, You're wy husband's pa, I reckon ? Well, you're Inine now, you know, so 1 suppose I must treat you as sach Thereupon, she walked straight up to him, and, before he could realise what she was about, had placed a hand on each of his shoulders, and given him a sounding kiss on each of his cheeks. toH?h r^t^ni8^.ed .divine recoiled from the touch of her hI>g m mtense wrath and dis- How—how—dare you,"he cried, "treat me with such-such-offensive, and-indecent ,familiarity, you-you bold, braken woman!" She seemed rather amused than offended by his words, and burst into a loud, harsh laugh. ''All right, old mail!" she retorted. "Keep your hair on There's no harm done. Indeed, I know a good many men who'd give their eyes to be treated in the same way." She accompanied this speech by a leer which made her look so particularly revolting that the Dean could only glower at her in apeechless wrath and disgust. The woman burst into another laugh, H Try and look more amiable, old gentle- marl," she said; "you may not like me for a daughter-in-law; but as I am in that rela- tionship towards you, you'd better put it in your pipe and smoke it cheerfully." The v01^?,^iviD€ drew himself up to his fullest height, and replied in his most chill- ing, dignihed tones:- I desire to see my son, if you please. Is he at home P" "No papa-in-Jaw, he isnt 1" sbe answered, not at all abashed by his chilling demeanour. "And he won't be, either, for some bours. Will you leave a message ?" Perhaps you will have the goodness to in- form him upon his return," replied the Dean if Poluible, with increased stiffness, that 1 shall wait upon him here to-morrow morning at eleven o'clock, when I &ball expect to find him in. I will now wish you good day I" r: "Stay a moment," she exclaimed, as the Dean niQved towards the door, Won't you s .*&■ have a drink before you go ?-a B. and S. or a whisky coaktail? You look a bit chippy,' so I reckon it might do you good!" "I thank you; no!" he answered, with crushing dignity, I am not in the habit of taking such refreshments." Then he bowed himself quickly out, thank- ful enough to escape from her odious pre- sence. As he passed down the stairs, the trim housemaid came forward to open the street door for him. In his anger and agita- tion he scarcely noticed her. But she turned her dark eyes upon his pale, disturbed face with a look of evident pity; and when she replied to his mechanical 11 Good evening she seemed jnst on the point of adding some- thing further. Shyness, however, or some other cause, restrained her, and she shut theJ door upon his retreating figure with a half- checked sigh. In the meantime, the Dean walked slowly away down the street, his hands behind his back and his head bowed. All the stiffness and dignity which he had maintained m the presence of his son's wife were now gone, The expression of his face only betokened blank, bitter despair. And the street, always a quiet one, being now quite deserted, he was at less pains to control his outward emotions than he would otherwise have been. Good heavens he kept muttering half aloud. How could he do it ? How could he yoke himself to that revolting creature ? I cannot understand it!" Presently he beard footsteps behind him, coming quick, as of some one hurrying after him. Looking round, be descried the pretty housemaid, evidently breathless and flushed from running. "Has my son come in, then ?" he a3ked her, concluding that she had run after him to summon him back. "No!" she gasped. "It is not that, but, but-" She broke off for lack of breath and pressed her hands to her bosom, which was still heav- ing from the exertion of running. The dean regarded her with a look of some surprise, and waited for her to explain. She was certainly very pretty, he noticed, and of decidedly re- fined appearance for her station. And the words which she now spoke showed that her appeaiance did not belie her. "I hope you will forgive me, sir," she said and (hervoice, it may be remarked, was soft pleasing). "1 know that my conduct must seem impertinent and forward hot I could not help it-I really could not. You looked so despairing and unhappy, sir, when you came downstairs after seeing Mrs. Onslow, that I was driven-by an impulse I could not resist—to run afler you and say a few words to you. Oh, sir; I am so very, very sorry for your son. He has fallen into the toils of a low, unscrupulous woman "Her character is in keeping with her looks, then," said the Dean, bitterly. He did not, strange to say, feel at all disposed to resent the girl's forwardness (if such it oould be called) in addressing him upon this sub- ject. In his present great misery, even a housemaid's sympathy was not unwelcome. Besides, she was in a position to tell him further details about his son's wife. So-having first carefully looked up and down the deserted street, to see that no one was near-he invited her by a gesture to proceed. tt The strangest part about it is, sir, she continued, allowing her soft, dark eyes to dwell on his face for the veriest moment., that your son-poor young man is utterly infatuated by his wife, and cannot see a fault either in her charaoter or looks. Oh, sir, my heart aches for him! He does not know but he will soon find out—how he has clogged and hampered his career for life by tying himself to such a woman! I know well-no one,alas better-the evils of marrying one who is below you in position and in character. My poor mother, sir, the daughter of well-born parents, fell into that grievous mistake. Her people cast her off; her husband, my father,, who added villany to his mean birth, after years of oruel treatment, left her. So she was thrown upon the world and forced to earn her own bread. Yet, through all the hardships which she bad to undergo, she never lest her refinement, gentle- ness, aud piety. Nor would she let me go out to work, or mix with the common, rough girls among whom we lived. But not many months ago, sir, she died, leaving scarcely a shilling behind her. What was I to do ? To an unprotected, friendless girl, such as I was, only two careers lay open -the menial drudgery of domestic service, or a life which only those lost to all sense of shame and right can possibly contemplate. "I chose the former and your son's ser- vice was the first service I entered. I have remained with him from then till now, and I have watched, with you do not know how sinking a heart, that amiable, kind, and pro- mising young gentleman gradually entangled in the wiles of a scheming woman, and finally making that same fatal mistake which has cost my cost my poor mother aud myself such dreadful misery!" She stopped, evidently overcome with the emotions her own tale of trouble had awakened, and, covering her face with her hands, which even yet, the Dean observed, were small and white, sobbed audibly. Her listener was more moved by her words than he oared to show. The earnestness of her tones, the evident reality of her grief, above all, the wonderful refinement of her manner and speech, left in his heart the con- that her tale was true. And being a tender- hearted man, even if he was a trifle pompous, he answered her in tones of genuine pity and sympathy. "My poor girl," he said (he would have laid a fatherly hand upon her shoulder if they had not been in a public street), do not: give way like this Your lot has been a cruel one, and I pity you with all my heart. Nor need you have asked my forgiveness for thus addressing me. It it, the duty—nay, the privilege—of us minis- ters of the Church (the Dearvj could never steer clear of platitudes; for many sentences together) "to comfort and advise the afflicted. And how could we do so, were they not to tell us of their troubles ? Besides, apart from your own sad tale, your genuine regret and pity for my son's; fatal folly would have given you a ready pass- port to my attention. He has, indeed, as yon truly say, clogged and hampered his career for life. 1Jor from what you have implied, the woman's character is even worse than her appearance. I had hoped that she might be, in spite of her profession, a Nature's lady for, in that case, if my son had removed to another neighbourhood, where his wife's antecedents were unknown, she might, with a little training, have passed among hia acquaintances as their social equal. Yon, who know the real woman, can well estimate the absurdity of my hopes Alas I can she answered gently. Yet" (blushing and hesitating), the very badness of her character may, after all, prove an advantage Do not, sir, think me for- ward for mentioning such a subject, but— but-" « You mean," broke in the Dean quiokly, catching at once the purport of her words, that it may enable my son to obtain a sepa- ration, a divorce, from her P If only that result might be brought about, there is nothing, nothing I would not do le it really possible, think you ?" "I-I-think to," she replied. « But I must not stop here talking to you any longer now, Mrs. Onslow will miss me, and wonder where I am. You arc coming agaiu to- morrow?" H Yes," said the Dean, at eleven in the morning." Very well," she rejoined, I will find the opportunity to say more to you then. Now, good night, sir." With that she turned away, aud hurried back home. The Dean, for his part, walked slowly to his hotel, where he spent a lonely and gloomy evening, followed by a restless night. Next morning, punctually at eleven, he pre- sented himself at No. 10, Marston-street. The pretty housemaid let him in, and showed him straight up into the drawing-room, It was empty, and she seized the opportunity of saying a few words to the Dean before going to summon her master, Mr. Onslow is not yet dressed," she ex- plained, "and Mrs. Onslow is still in bed, so there is no fear of our being interrupted for the next few minutes. You said last night, sir, that if I helped to effect a separation between your son and his wife, there was nothing you would not do for me 1" The Dean nodded assent. "I did say so," he replied and I meant it, too "Then," she exclaimed, fixing her dark, expressive eyes pleadingly upon his face, 1 claim the fulfilment of your promise now. And what I ask you to do is—to forgive me "Forgive you! What for asked the Dean, iu some surprise. 1; Never mind what for F' she insisted I will tell you that afterwards. Bat, first of all, promise your forgiveness Very well, I promise it," he answered, smiling. Thank you, with all my heart," she cried. Now that your pardon is assured me, 1 shall dare to explain. But first—you believe my story, do you not, sir ? Yes, my poor girl," he replied, empha- tically. "Even if the earnest way in which you told it had not carried conviction to my heart, your manner, speech, and appearance. all of which stamp you a lady born, would have been sufficient testimony The story is true—as I stand before Heaven," she said, solemnly, except in one particular. When my mother died I did not go into domestic service I went on the stage. And-and the person you saw yes- terday isn't your son's wife—but—but—" (suddenly breaking down and bursting into sobs). I am What happened just after this startling acknowledgment, neither of them had ever any clear remembrance, since they were over- whelmed, for the moment, by their several emotions. But about a minute later the Dean was pressing his daughter-in-law to his heart, and calling her "my child," and assuring her of his forgiveness and favour while she was shedding tears of joy, with her face hidden upon the decanal bosom. At this moment, his son hastily entered, looking rather pale and anxious. But when he saw the state of affairs, the anxiety melted from his look, and, indeed, entirely vanished, as his father held out his right band to him — keeping his left arm still round the weep- ing bi-ide-aiid said, fondly, Jack, my boy, you were a rogue to marry without my leave. But we mustn't be hard on the young people. So, there there Take a foolish old father's blessing, both of you-lf it's worth any- thing "i hope Jou11 extend your forgiveness to me likewise said another voice in the door- tvay. The Dean looked up, with a start,and recog- nised the woman who had played the part of his daughter-in-law yesterday, and tilled him with such ineffable disgust by her vulgarity. To-day she looked much less offensive, for she bad no rouge on her cheeks, and was neatly and quietly dressed. Her voice, also, was free from that intolerable twang which had so jarred upon the Dean's ears at their inter- view. Mav be you'd like to know," she con- turned, what was the object of the little trick we played upon you, I Ij explain. That foolish young thing" (pointing to the bride) wanted to introduce herself to yog in her real character at once But 1 wouldn't let her. No," I ^aid. 'The Dean, when he learns that his son has married an actress, will coii- ceive a violent prejudice ahainst her imme- diately, and will come here determined and' prepared to bate her, whatever she's like! Therefore,' said 1, let him vent all his pre- j conceived dislike on someone who isn't really the wife A nd the more ugly, unpleasing, and vulgar that someone is. the more hatred will he waste upon her so he will be correspond- i ingly relieved when he finds out the truth, j and therefore much more disposed to favour the real bride.' Well, these young people saw the wisdom of my advice, and took it! I myself, an actress by profession, sustained the necessary character-pretty effectively, as you will admit. And I assure you speaking with genuine earnestness) as I see this happy conclusion of my endeavours, I feel that, even were I the first artiste upon the London boards, I should play no part with half so much satisfaction to myself, as I yesterday did that of—the Dean's daughter-in-law,— Truth.