Ahead of the Show Part 14

"My sister wore a chain and locket like these when she was lost," he said, "In a moment I will tell you if this is the locket."

"How can you?" the actress cried.

"Because the locket contains my father's picture."

"There is no picture in this," said Miss March, with a look of deep disappointment.

"You do not know whether there is or not," said Al. "There is a secret spring and I can find it. Look!"

As he spoke the locket flew open.

CHAPTER XXI.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

As Miss March bent over the locket she uttered an exclamation of wonder and delight.

The portrait revealed was that of a singularly handsome man in the prime of life. The calm, thoughtful eyes and the sensitive mouth were those of the young actress herself; the likeness was not only unmistakable, but remarkable.

"Is it possible that this picture has been here all these years, and I have never known it?" the girl exclaimed.

"You might never have discovered it," replied Al. "I should not have known but for the fact that I have a locket precisely like it, which opens in the same way."

"Then there can be no doubt----"

"That you are my sister."

"Brother!"

The next moment the singularly united couple were folded in each other's arms.

It was a moment that in all their after lives neither of them ever forgot, a joy that no future sorrow had the power to efface from their memories.

When the first transports of emotion were over, the young girl said, tremulously: "My mother--when shall I see her? Oh, I must go to her at once! I must, I must!"

"Of course, Mr. Wattles will give you leave of absence as soon as we tell him what we have discovered."

"I do not see how he can."

"Why can't he?"

"I have no understudy. No, I must remain; he has been very kind to me, and I could not ask a favor that I knew it would be so very difficult for him to grant."

"That is right, sister. But I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll telegraph to mother to come on here at once. She will arrive before the evening performance."

"Do so, brother---- Oh, how strange, yet how delightful, it is to utter that sacred name! But do not tell her the truth until she comes."

"No, indeed. Why, I think the shock would almost kill her. We must break it to her gently."

At this moment Mr. Wattles came bustling into the room.

"The advance sale," he began, "is something unheard of in Rockton. Why---- But what's the matter? Nothing wrong, is there?"

"No, indeed," Al replied. "Everything is all right."

And he proceeded to acquaint the manager in a few words with what had happened.

"Well," said Mr. Wattles, when he had finished, "you beat the deck, young man. I'm going to write a romance about you when the season is over. You're no sooner done with one startling adventure than you're right in the midst of another. Why, you're almost equal to one of Dumas' heroes! Well, I sincerely congratulate you both."

After a hearty handshake the manager added: "And now I must be off to give this story to the papers."

"No, no!" cried Miss March.

"Not by any means," added Al.

Mr. Wattles stared at them.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"We mean," said Al, "that this is a private affair with which the papers have nothing to do."

"But, my dear boy, think--only think--what a grand ad. it would make for the show!"

"No matter; we don't want a word printed about it."

"Of course not," said the actress. "I should think you would understand our feelings in the matter, Mr. Wattles."

"Well, I don't," returned the manager, evidently chagrined. "I cannot, to save my life, see why you are willing to throw away such a chance for a stunning free ad. Nor"--addressing Al--"can I understand your scruples. By Jove! you are the queerest combination of impudence and modesty that I ever met. But have it your own way, my children; throw away the chance if you want to."

As he was about to leave the room the old gentleman turned again, saying: "I almost forgot that I had a letter for you, Miss March. Here it is, and I think I know the handwriting."

As the actress glanced at the superscription on the envelope she changed color.

"It is from that wretch, Farley!" she exclaimed.

"So I thought," said Mr. Wattles. "You had better look out for that man, my dear. He is, or thinks he is, desperately in love with you, and he may give you some trouble yet. If you don't mind, I should like to know the contents of that letter. Believe me, it is not from mere idle curiosity that I ask you to let me read it."

"I know that, Mr. Wattles," said Miss March. "Ever since I have been in your company you have been like a father to me. You shall open the letter yourself if you will."

She handed the epistle to the manager, who tore it open. As he glanced at its contents a frown appeared upon his usually cheerful countenance.

"The scoundrel!" he muttered, crus.h.i.+ng the letter in his hand; "if I ever meet him again I will thrash him within an inch of his life--I will, by Jove!"

"What does he say?" the girl asked, anxiously.

"It will do you no good to know the contents of this precious epistle," replied Mr. Wattles. "You had better let me destroy it."

But Miss March's feminine curiosity was now aroused, and she insisted upon knowing what was in the letter.

"Well, if you will have it," said the manager, resignedly, "I'll read it to you. But if you don't sleep nights for the next week or two you mustn't blame me."

"Go on, go on!"

The old gentleman read as follows: "GLADYS: This is to remind you that, although we are separated, I am near you. Do you remember what I told you the last time we met, that no power on earth could make me give you up? I meant what I said, I mean it still. I am not far away; you will see me sooner than you think."

"Is there no signature?" asked Miss March.

"None, but there can be no doubt as to the ident.i.ty of the writer."

"Of course not."

"I don't want to alarm you, my dear, but you ought to be very careful."

"I shall be."

Al laughed.

"I don't think there is much danger," he said. "That letter sounds like an extract from a sensational novel. A barking dog never bites, you know."

"I don't know anything of the sort," returned Mr. Wattles. "Some barking dogs do bite; and this one, as you have reason to know yourself, has sharp teeth. Well, just let me lay my hands on him and I'll settle him in short order."

"What will you do?" smiled Al.

"First, as I said before, I'll give him a sound thras.h.i.+ng. Oh, you may laugh, but I can do it, if I am not a boy. And then I'll hand him over to the authorities. By Jove! I had no idea that the fellow was such a scoundrel when he was in my employ, or I wouldn't have kept him an hour. But now I really must be off. Do your best to-night, Miss March; you'll have one of the biggest houses of the season--thanks to the exertions of that sharp young brother of yours."

And the manager rushed out of the room.

"Brother!" the girl said, softly. "How sweet the name sounds. To think that I have a brother! And a mother!"

"Don't cry--please don't!" entreated Al, with a boy's horror of feminine tears.

"They are tears of joy, brother. And now you must go and send the telegram."

CHAPTER XXII.

AN AWFUL CATASTROPHE.

A telegram, carefully worded so that Mrs. Allston's maternal alarms might not be aroused, was sent. In it Al requested her to come to Rockton by a certain train, and promised to be at the depot to meet her.

A reply came within an hour: "Yours received. Shall be there. Hope nothing has happened."

"I should say something had happened," laughed Al, when he and his new-found sister had read the message.

"Poor mother!" sighed the girl. "She fears that you have met with some accident."

"In a very few hours that fear will be dispelled. What will she say when she learns the truth?"

"Ah, what?" responded Miss March. "I dread almost as much as I long for the meeting."

The anxious mother arrived on time. It is not our purpose to chronicle the first meeting between the long-separated couple. Such scenes defy the skill of the storyteller's pen or the artist's brush. Suffice it to say that the proofs of her ident.i.ty presented by the young girl were perfectly satisfactory to Mrs. Allston, and that the reunion of mother and daughter was all that the fancy of either had ever pictured it.

True, the somewhat Puritanical old lady was a little shocked at finding her daughter a member of the theatrical profession; she had always regarded player folk as far beneath herself, both socially and morally, and her own daughter was probably the first actress she had ever seen off the stage.

"I wish, my dear," she said, "that you would give up this dreadful business and go home with me. To think of my child, my daughter, a play actress! It is dreadful!"

"Not quite as dreadful as you think, mother," the girl replied, quietly. "I could not conscientiously leave Mr. Wattles until he had secured some one else to play the part. Then, however, if you wish me to give up the stage, I shall do so. We will talk it all over after the performance to-night."

"Yes, we will talk it over after the performance," echoed the mother.

The house was crowded to the doors that night. Not a seat was to be had at eight o'clock; even standing room was at a premium.

Again Al had demonstrated his ability as a hustler.

Everyone in town had read and re-read his strange advertis.e.m.e.nt; many eyes were bent on the third row of the orchestra, in search of the "queer old man." And Mr. Marmaduke Merry was there, too, not a whit abashed, a huge bouquet in his withered hand.

A good many people had heard of his attempt to have Al arrested in the morning--such news travels fast--and he was the unconscious b.u.t.t of many a covert jest.

Some one--it will never be known who, though there may be reason to suspect Mr. Augustus Wattles--had caused the report to be spread that the pretty actress, Miss Gladys March, was the long-lost sister of the young press agent, Al Allston, and that they had been reunited through the article in the Banner. That more than one person knew about it was evident when Al made his appearance in a box, with his mother on his arm; the applause that greeted him was as unexpected as it was embarra.s.sing.

At first the boy did not realize that he was the object of these unusual demonstrations.

"What are they making all that noise about?" he said.

"Why, they are applauding you," his mother said.

"Nonsense!"

"Don't you see that every eye is fixed on this box?"

"I don't know but you are right," gasped Al, feeling symptoms of a return of the "stage fright" with which he had been seized on the occasion of the first performance in Boomville.

"Of course I am."