The Photo-Play Journal (Jul 1919-Feb 1921)

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42 P H O T O P L A Y JOURNAL July, ic/ig that other was Mr. Tremaine's own child. His own son must reign alone, supreme — so with a rigid resignation engendered by a loVe so magnified as to be almost monstrous, he bade a stoic's farewell to his boy, a child even now only a few years old, and let Mr. Tremaine take him away." "Wonderful!" exclaimed Trevor, turning to Anne. "And all this beautiful revelation, even though it does prove me to be a fisherman's son, gives me you!" Simkin smiled faintly. "The foundlings, brother and sister, were left behind. The sister, a fair-haired, beautiful child, was taken in charge by an old lady, a motherly soul, who gave her a home, but who unfortunately died a short time later, thus throwing the child upon the mercies of the world. The little one, luckily, was picked up by a wealthy old man who lived alone, his own children being married. He grew very fond of her and placed her in a private school. The years went by, and the child developed into a beautiful young girl." Simkin, with an impulsivness unusual to him, ceased speaking and looked beamingly at Anne, whose cheeks were flushed a delicate pink. "You must have been incomparably beautiful," he said. "You couldn't have been otherwise." Anne laughed. "Go on with your — I mean my — story." "She must give you the details," he said to the utterly joyous Trevor. "It's a marvelous tale that would hold you spellbound for a month of enchanted nights. I can only give you the bare outlines." Trevor kissed her forthwith. "I shall make her teach it to me by heart," he declared, boyishly. Simkin, grown grave again, continued his narrative. "The old gentleman, oddly enough, was drowned in a shipwreck — the fate narrowly escaped by his adopted daughter's own father. The published death list included her name also, but she was rescued. The accident was unfortunate for her in two ways. She not only lost her friend and benefactor, but his neglect to make a will left her dependent upon the bounty of his own children, who had never approved of his adopting the child, and who were glad of the opportunity to reduce her to poverty. So she was forced to go out into the world and battle for a living." "She was a lawyer, I'll wager!" hazarded Trevor, laughingly. "We mustn't forget our dramatic personnae," went on Simkin. "Paul Lester is one of the 'leads' in this play of life." Trevor winced. "What a brother — ! I'll lay another wager — he was only my adopted kin!" They laughed merrily. The narrator continued : "Soon after the death of Anne's adopted father, Fate, in cruel caprice, crossed her path with Paul Lester's. They met. And the young man, who was already a criminal with a criminal's cleverness, and who, aided by more of Fate's whims, had stumbled upon some of the facts regarding affairs at the Black House — not including the fact of your real parentage, however, Mr. Trevor — began that dogged persecution of your wife, which ceased only this very night. In his monumentally fantastic conspiracy, he needed two foundlings. He would assume the role of the brother. She must be the sister. — And after all, he could make his story plausible enough. The world is full of the histories of substituted children — and Lester, to do him justice, was working on possibilities, if not probabilities. — But Anne declined to become his ally. His persuasion became a pursuit, his pursuit a passion, his passion a persecution. But he was so sly, his methods were so devious, as to admit of no tangible guilt attached to himself. He did his work in the dark. If Anne secured a position, his underhand lying caused her dismissal. He even succeeded in fastening the suspicion of theft upon her, but with no legal result. When at last she was about to gratify her heart's desire by interviewing her father and presenting her claims to him, Lester's advance denunciation of her was so effective as not only to deafen her father's ears to her story, but to impel him to declare he would never see her again — " "Wait !" interrupted Trevor. "How did she happen to know he was her father?" "We're coming to that — " "And where did she get the thrilling name of Grieve?" "That was her adopted father's n,ame." Trevor was irrepressible. "And how did you learn all these things about Lester's persecution of her?" Simkin smiled. "Mack told me." His face grew stern. "I made him tell me everything before I . . . " "Don't ..." whispered Anne. There was a pause. Simkin's breath came hard. He turned away, but in a moment was himself again. "Now we must return to the play's cast of characters. Have you forgotten the other foundling — Anne's brother, the real Tremaine? He, you'll remember, was left alone with the fisherman. And the fisherman, you'll remember, was dying ..." His clear-cut tones died away in reminiscence. He gazed musingly into space. "Go on," urged Trevor. "The fisherman just before his death had a miraculous vision. His dead wife appeared to him in a dream and condemned him for substituting a spurious heir to the Black House for the real one. So the poor man, who had scarcely enough strength to lift his finger, managed to write a short and half-delirious confession, which he pinned to the lining of the real heir's coat. Then he died. And then the heir to the Black House, Anne's brother, the bearer of the Tremaine name, went out into the world to do battle like his sister ..." "The confession," whispered Trevor, hoarsely, "you . . . Who are you — ?" Simkin handed him a slip of paper yellowed with age. With shaking fingers and half-blinded eyes, he read it. "You are his son !" he cried. "You are the owner of the Black House ! You are the Tremaine, while I . . . Anne, he is your brother !" But Anne did not have to be told. She was already weeping on Simkin's shoulder. And so passed silently those few greatest moments of their converged lives . . . "It's all so amazing, so overwhelming," said Trevor, who had thrown off every morbid thought anent the change in relationship between himself and the man he had called servant. "I'm up to mv ears in tangled skeins. But you haven't told me yet how Anne knew of her parentage?" Simkin smiled. "Let her tell you that." "I read the confession verbatim in the personal column of a London paper and knew it was intended for me," she answered. Trevor pondered, then was ready to address another question to Simkin. "Of course, you had the confession published in the paper?" "Yes, and in dozens of others dozens of times. Good friends helped me." "But why didn't you search for your sister?" "I did — desperately — until I read the account of her death in the shipwreck with her adopted father." Trevor looked at him with involuntary admiration. "Astonishing ! One by one the skeins are being untangled. — But why have you played the role of butler in the Black House all these years? Couldn't you convince my father — " he flushed — "I mean your father — that you were his son ?" "I didn't'try." "What! You mean he died in ignorance of the truth?" "Yes." "But — you're asking us to believe the impossible ! Do you mean to say you were willing to let me pass as the son while you — " "Certainly. Why not?" "Did you do it for my sake ?" "I had a number of reasons. First of all, I loved my father deeply — as you know — and I wanted him to love me without feeling forced to do so through the mere fact that I happened to be his lost son." "We are not at the point yet," objected Trevor. "Your father did learn to love you, so why didn't you tell him the truth?" The half-amused expression in Simkin's eyes changed to one of profound gentleness as he looked at the fisherman's son. "Then I began thinking of you ... I knew what it would mean to you. My father had never really cared for you, although you deserved his affection, and I knew that the revelation would ruin your life. So I decided to wait until you grew older and had more strength and fortitude to bear the inevitable disclosure and a better equipment to get along in the world." Trevor grasped his hand silently. Simkin was visibly affected. "But you mustn't give me too much credit ... I fully intended to tell my father the truth and to publish it to all the world : and I anticipated our new relationship with the greatest happiness. But in the meantime I was content to be here at the Black House with a few light duties to perform, with plenty of time for study, and with the opportunity of passing many pleasant hours with my father, which privilege he graciously accorded me." "But when did you decide to tell him the truth?" insisted the intensely interested Trevor. A sombre shadow settled in his eyes. Anne's hand stole into his. "I was going to tell him . . . the night . . . the very night of the murder ..." There was a convulsive little pressure of the brother and sister's hands. Trevor looked on with moist eyes. "But why have you been silent since his death ?" "When I learned of your marriage, how could I speak out in the first few months of your happiness? Think what it would have meant to you and your bride — !" He turned to Anne. "And how could I speak out when I saw who she was . . . ?" "I see," answered Trevor, "I see everything — at last. I am very grateful — and very happy." "It's Fate." said Anne, kissing him, "as you yourself would have said in the old days." "It's the chain of Fate," elaborated Trevor. She smiled. "And the links of the chain have unlinked only to link us together again . . . forever." THE END