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 assured 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 circumstances
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 identity. 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 assistance 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 circumstances. 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.
"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.