Ahead of the Show Part 13

"Yes, sir."

And the deputy laid his hand on Al's shoulder.

But Miss March interposed.

"Wait a moment, Mr. Merry."

"Certainly, my dear young lady. What is it?"

"This gentleman, Mr. Allen Allston, never saw or heard of you before he came to Rockton. It was not in a spirit of malice that he wrote that advertis.e.m.e.nt. Don't you see, Mr. Merry, that by having him arrested you will only subject yourself to ridicule? You acknowledge yourself to be a 'queer old man.' Why should you do that?"

The old gentleman coughed.

"Ahem! That aspect of the case had not occurred to me," he said. "You a.s.sure me, Miss March, that the young man did not intend to hold me up to ridicule?"

"I am absolutely certain," interrupted the deputy, "that he did."

"Shut up, Bullfinch!"

"Mr. Merry," interrupted Al, "I give you my word of honor that I should not have inserted that advertis.e.m.e.nt if I had for one moment supposed it would injure the feelings of anyone. It was only a joke on the public."

"A joke at my expense, young man!"

"I have given you my word of honor, sir, that I did not intend to hurt you or anyone else by that ad."

"Your word of honor!" sneered Mr. Merry. "What is your word of honor good for? Who are you?"

Al colored.

"You have heard my name from Miss March. I am Allen Allston."

The old man started.

"I did not catch the name before," he said. "Surely you are not Allen Allston from Boomville?"

"I am."

"The n.o.ble young fellow who saved the life of my grandchild?"

"Is Mayor Anderson's little girl your granddaughter, sir?" asked Al, a little embarra.s.sed.

"Of course she is. My boy, I beg your pardon."

And the old man grasped Al's hand and shook it warmly, adding: "The youth who performed such a heroic act could not be guilty of such a crime as that of which you are accused. Bullfinch"--turning fiercely upon the deputy--"you are a fool!"

"Sir----"

"What put it into your head that he could have had any malicious intent in writing that advertis.e.m.e.nt?"

"I only acted upon your instructions, sir," responded the deputy, very humbly.

"Nonsense! I thought you had a little common sense. Leave the room, sir. Your presence is an insult to me and to my friends."

"But the arrest, sir----"

"There will be no arrest to-day; I withdraw the complaint."

"But the warrant----"

"Tear it up--do anything you like with it, only don't worry me any further with your nonsensical remarks. Go, sir!"

The deputy slunk out of the room.

Mr. Merry turned to the actress.

"I am extremely pained," he began, "that such a scene should have occurred in your room. I am----"

"Will you please state your business, sir?" interrupted Miss March.

The old gentleman was a little disconcerted at first, but he quickly recovered himself and said: "I come, as I remarked before, to pay a tribute to genius and beauty."

"Well?"

Al had not supposed the girl capable of a.s.suming such a frigid air as that with which she now confronted her aged admirer.

"Will you accept these flowers?" stammered the old man. "They are a tribute to----"

"Thanks," interrupted the actress. "You may leave them on the table."

"You are very kind. And now----"

"And now you must excuse me; I have business of importance with Mr. Allston."

"Oh, certainly! May I call again?"

"I am too much occupied to receive callers. Good-morning."

And with perfect self-possession the young girl opened the door.

Mumbling a few inaudible words, the aged admirer of the drama left the room.

"I am sorry to say," remarked Miss March, "that I have seen men like him before. He means no harm, but I cannot endure such silliness. But never mind about him; let us talk about ourselves. Sit down, please, and I will try to commence where I left off. When we were interrupted I had asked you to tell me the story of your sister's disappearance----"

"And I was about to do so."

"Exactly. Go on."

Al hesitated.

"Why do you want to hear the story, Miss March?" he asked.

"Because--because----"

"Well?"

"Because I believe that I may be your sister!"

CHAPTER XX.

THE LOCKET.

Al started. Could Miss March seriously mean what she said?

"You surely do not think," the girl said, earnestly, "that I would jest on a subject so sacred?"

"No, no," Al a.s.sured her, "but what ground have you for thinking that we may be related?"

"No logical ground, perhaps," the actress replied; "but from the moment I first saw you--and I have seen you when you were not aware of my presence--I was strangely attracted to you. You may laugh at this, you may think it only the foolish fancy of a foolish girl, but it is true."

"And I, too," said Al, thoughtfully, "have had the same feeling toward you. I remember I could think of nothing but your face all the way home on the night of your first performance in Boomville. Can it really be that you are my sister, restored to me in this strange way? If she is alive she must be about your age."

"Tell me all you know about her," entreated the girl; "the circ.u.mstances under which she was lost--all. But no"--with sudden change of manner--"I will tell you my story first, if you will listen to it."

"Go on, please, Miss March."

"My first recollections are of a miserable home on the upper floor of a tenement house in New York. I lived with a hard-featured woman who called herself my aunt. Her name was Ann Thompson. Did you ever hear of her?"

And Miss March gazed anxiously into the boy's face.

Al shook his head.

"Never!"

"Aunt Ann, as I used to call her," went on the actress, "was always more or less under the influence of liquor. Gin was her favorite drink. She would work until she had money enough for a debauch, and then--but I cannot bear to recall my unhappy childhood."

Miss March paused and turned away her face; her trembling voice showed the emotion she felt.

"I can imagine it all," said Al, sympathetically. "Go on, please, and spare yourself unnecessary pain."

"How kind you are!" the young girl said, gratefully. "I will, then, omit many details which I am sure would be as painful for you to hear as for me to relate. When under the influence of alcohol Aunt Ann was sometimes very cruel to me. She would beat and otherwise ill-treat me; and to-day I bear scars inflicted by her. But I bore all as patiently as I could, and for what reason, do you suppose?"

"I should think you would have left her," said Al, as the actress paused.

"I should have done so but for one thing."

"And that was?"

"Sometimes while intoxicated she would hint to me that in reality we were not flesh and blood, that I was in no way akin to her, that there was a secret in my life that she could reveal if she would, a secret the publication of which would be greatly to my advantage. But she never became so intoxicated that she told me the whole truth; I could only guess it. Sometimes during her sober intervals I would tax her with what she had said; but she would always reply by telling me that I must pay no attention to anything she said when she was drunk--that she was at such times out of her mind, and did not know what she was saying. Once, when I persisted, she became greatly enraged, and gave me such a beating that I was taken to a hospital and she was arrested and sentenced to a term of imprisonment."

At this point in her story Miss March burst into tears.

"Postpone telling the rest of it until another time," said Al, to whom the recital was almost as painful as to the girl.

"No," said the actress, "I must go on. I was discharged from the hospital on the day on which Aunt Ann was released from jail, and the old life was renewed."

"You went back to live with the woman?" cried Al.

"Yes. I had no other home. Besides, I still hoped that I might be able to learn from her the secret of my birth--for that there was a secret I was now more firmly convinced than ever. At the time of which I have just been telling you, I was about twelve years of age. Three years later Aunt Ann, while under the influence of liquor, met with an accident which terminated her miserable life in two days. When she was told that she was really dying, she sent for a priest and confessed to him. When the clergyman was gone she summoned me to her bedside, and told me that at the suggestion of the good father she was about to tell me at last the secret that I had been striving so long to learn."

"And she said----" demanded the boy, breathlessly.

"She began by telling me that she was not my aunt, that we were in no way related. Years before she had been my nurse. My poor mother had in some trivial way offended her, and under the influence of her anger--and, I suppose, of alcohol--she determined to revenge herself by kidnaping me. She carried this resolution into effect, and her guilt was never proven, although it was suspected. 'My name is not Ann Thompson,' she said to me, 'but you shall know now what it really is, and who your parents are. Your father is dead, but your mother still lives. For years she has mourned you unceasingly.' The woman then bade me unlock and open a certain drawer in her bureau. I did so, and took from it at her direction a small package. 'That bundle,' she said, 'contains proof of your ident.i.ty. Take it to your mother and show her what is in it. Tell her what I have said, give her my real name, and she will acknowledge you as her 'daughter.' 'What is your name?' I cried, breathlessly--'what is mine?' The woman opened her lips to reply, but not a sound escaped them. The next moment she fell back upon her pillow. I bent over her, crying in an agony of suspense: 'Speak, speak!' But she could not, she was dead!"

"What did the package contain?" asked Al.

"Only a few articles of infant's clothing and two pieces of jewelry. Some time they may be of a.s.sistance to me in finding my parents, but thus far they have proved of no value as a clew. Well, after Aunt Ann's death I was adopted by a family in moderate circ.u.mstances. They had no interest in my personal affairs, all they wanted of me was my services as housemaid, and I served in that capacity for two years. Then came an opportunity to adopt a stage career, and I eagerly seized it, against the advice of all who were in any way interested. I must say that, so far, I have had no reason to regret my decision in the matter. I find that the stories of the temptations of stage life that I had heard were gross exaggerations, and that a woman can be as good and pure on the stage as off it. And now, my friend, you have heard my story; can you help me find my mother? Do you think it possible that I am the sister for whom you have been searching?"

Al's voice trembled with emotion as he replied: "That question can very soon be decided. Have you the package of infant's clothing that you spoke of?"

"Yes; I always have it with me wherever I go."

"May I see it?"

"I am very anxious to show it to you."

And the actress rose and opened her trunk, from which she took a small parcel.

Her face was very pale, her hands trembled as she unfastened the little package.

"Look!" she said.

Al took the garments, yellowed with time, in his hands.

"I have heard my mother describe the clothing that my little sister wore when she disappeared," he said, "a thousand times. She would be able to tell you if these are the ones, but I cannot. But the jewelry--where is that?"

"Here."

And the girl handed him a box.

The lad took from it a baby's ring and a chain, to which was attached a locket.