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 identity 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 advertisement; 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 butt 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 embarrassing.

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."

"Of course she is," added Mr. Wattles, suddenly appearing upon the scene. "Bow, my boy, bow! And couldn't you make a little impromptu speech?"

"Not much!" replied Al, very emphatically. "I tell you, Mr. Wattles, if I had had any idea that the duties of a press agent included so many public appearances, I should not have gone into the business."

He bowed; then some one--probably under the manager's direction--called out:

"Speech! speech!"

But Al shook his head so emphatically that the audience saw he meant his refusal, and the applause soon subsided.

A few moments later the curtain rose.

There was very little applause until Miss March made her entrance; her appearance was the signal for another demonstration of enthusiasm. Probably seven-eighths of the audience did not know why they were applauding, but the other eighth did, and its enthusiasm was, as a matter of course, contagious. The applause was literally deafening. In its midst Mr. Merry hurled his bouquet upon the stage. It fell at the feet of the young actress, who picked it up, smiling and blushing, to the evident delight of the elderly "masher."

Mrs. Allston shuddered.

"This life of feverish excitement will kill my child," she said. "She must abandon it."

"Wait till you see her play, mother," said Al.

"That will not alter my determination."

"Wait," added the boy, quietly.

He was not wrong in the conclusion he had reached. Miss March's part was small, but it was a strong one. It was that of a persecuted young girl who had been driven from home because of a misunderstanding. It was a pathetic role, and before the actress had been on the stage five minutes the entire female portion of the audience were in tears, and there was a suspicious moisture in the eyes of more than one of the sterner sex.

"Isn't she fine?" whispered Al in his mother's ear, as the girl left the stage, after her first scene.

"It is wonderful! I am amazed."

"You did not think there was so much talent in the family, did you? Now, wouldn't it be a pity to rob the stage of such an ornament?"

"Yes."

"I thought you would say so. I believe she has a great future. But let us leave the decision to her."

"We will do so, my boy."

At this moment there came a shrill cry from the gallery.

"Fire!"

For one instant there was a dead silence; then three-quarters of the audience sprang to their feet.

Then came a mad rush for the exits.

It was a scene of indescribable confusion. Women and children were trampled beneath the feet of those who should have been their protectors, but whose only thought now was to save their cowardly selves.

The shrieks of the terrified women, the groans of the injured, the curses of the rougher element, who, though face to face with death, did not fear to blaspheme--these added to the horror of the scene.

It was evident that the alarm had not been a false one, for the house was rapidly filling with smoke, and the crackling of flames could be plainly heard.

The doors soon became blocked. It seemed certain that many must perish in the flames.

Al quickly led his mother through the door that connected the box with the stage, and conducted her in safety out of the building through the stage entrance.

As he passed Mr. Wattles at the door he uttered one word:

"Gladys?"

"She is safe," the manager replied. "She went out but a moment ago."

"Thank Heaven! Mother, are you afraid to go back to the hotel alone?"

"No, no; it is but a very short distance. But what are you going to do, my boy?"

"I think I can be of some assistance in getting the people out. Good-by! I shall be with you again soon."

And he rushed around to the front of the house, where the confusion was greater than ever.