# The Romances of Sandy McGrab/The Understudy

Ainslee's magazine, April 1914, pp. 129–140.
   Sandy McGrab, a young tailor, one day reciting his beloved Shakespeare, in the hills above his native Kirkhumphries, is overheard by a young actress, one of a company of obscure traveling players. She recognizes his genius, and announces herself as a fellow professional. Sandy's denial that he is an actor leads her to think that be is the “laird,” while he takes her for a famous actress who is expected in the neighborhood. When the truth finally comes out, it serves only to deepen their growing love. Sandy sells his shop to enable her to get to London to keep an engagement upon which her future depends, promising to meet her there to play Romeo to her Juliet. Then he starts after her on foot.

### 1V.—THE UNDERSTUDY

THE Avonia Theater was packed.
In the gallery, a once critical, but now enthusiastic, audience sat, crushed together so that the slightest movement aroused indignation, somber glances, and threatening mutterings. Elbowroom was a thing of the past. A very stout gentleman, with the appearance of a retired greengrocer, was the only one who, by sheer weight and ruthless self-importance, was able to applaud comfortably as the curtain fell on the fourth act.
“Well, I've seen Shakespeare in what you might call his prime,” he was saying largely to his neighbor. “I've seen Irving and Ellen Terry, but I say give me Rolf Derwent as Romeo, and I'll not regret the past. A marvel, that man—a real marvel!”
Sandy McGrab sighed wearily, and tried to find a new place for his aching legs.
“It's Juliet I'm thinking of,” he said.
“You would be,” said the large person, and chuckled. “You young fellows are all for a pretty face, and Mary Eliot's pretty enough; but an old stager like myself wants more than that: He wants Art—Art with a capital A, my boy—and Rolf Derwent is an artist——”
“He's a stick,” said Sandy McGrab.
His neighbor turned his head and stared. He perceived a young man with red hair, a gaunt, stubborn-looking profile, a fine pair of shoulders, and shabby apparel that reminded him of a serio-comic Scotch performer he had once heard in a music hall.
“Could act Romeo better yourself, I suppose?” the retired greengrocer demanded satirically.
“I could,” said Sandy McGrab.
The greengrocer gasped.
“You Scotchmen beat everything!” he remarked.
“We do,” said Sandy.
“Well, I'm blowed!” said the greengrocer.
The orchestra ceased its troublings, and the lights began to die out.
“Ye'll be worse than 'blowed,'” said McGrab softly, “if ye dinna hold your tongue.”
After that there was silence. The curtain went up on the gloomy vault of the Capulets, and Juliet lay sleeping amidst her flowers. A ray of moonlight from some unimaginable opening fell on her lovely, upturned face, and even the greengrocer caught his breath. Sandy McGrab did not move. Throughout the long, tragic scene his unflinching eyes never left that white-clad figure, and only when Romeo broke upon the quiet did his jaw tighten and an ironical, contemptuous smile cross his lips.
“Puir lassie!' he muttered, under his breath.
When the curtain fell for the last time, amidst a thunder of applause, he rose and stood with folded arms, watch- ing the actors as they came forward to bow their acknowledgments. Even when Juliet, hand in hand with Romeo, appeared before the footlights, he gave no sign. For an instant she waited, smiling faintly and very sweetly at the politely enthusiastic stalls; then her eyes rose to the gallery. There they rested for what seemed a long minute. The smile faded like an obscured sunbeam, then brightened again to a sudden, glad recognition, and in the very midst of it all, even while she stood there, the curtain fell with a jarring, illusion-shattering thump.
“What I think about Shakespeare——” the greengrocer began.
Sandy McGrab pushed past him. He was not rude, but he had a forceful steam-roller manner that was irresistible, and he was the first to step out into the cool night air. It was raining. A harsh-voiced urchin shrieked the latest news in unintelligible accents, and thrust a moist paper into McGrab's unwilling hand. McGrab, from a mysterious pocket, produced a halfpenny. It was his last, and therefore easy to find.
“I dinna want your paper, ye puir, feckless laddie,” he said. “But I'm a happy man to-night, and ye can hae all me possessions. Will ye no tell me what 'Down, Dishes!' means?”
He was referring to the inscription on the yellow, fluttering poster, but the youth had already shot across under the horses' noses, and McGrab's question was left unanswered. He did not seem to care particularly. The theatergoers jostled him onto the road, and the snorting, impatient motors drove him back onto the pavement, but he still retained his rapt expression of unutterable, triumphant satisfaction.
When some one touched him on the arm, he started and looked down at the small person who had sprung up unexpectedly beside him. He saw at once that she was attractive. She had no hat on, and her dark hair curled rebelliously round a piquant, smiling little face. The plain black dress had been made incredibly frivolous by a dainty lace apron and an indescribable air of mock sobriety.
“Pardon, monsieur,” she began, a little breathlessly. “If monsieur would be so kind as to come zis way—— My mistress ask if monsieur will not speak wiz 'er a moment——”
“Your mistress?” McGrab interrupted.
“Certainement—my mistress, Mademoiselle Eliot, monsieur.”
He colored to the roots of his hair.
“Lassie, ye canna be sure it's me she's wanting.”
“Mais, oui, monsieur. She explained to me. 'Nanette,' she say, 'you will find 'im standing on ze pavement, dreaming. 'E will be dressed like no one else you 'ave ever seen, and 'e will be ze only 'ansome man in ze crowd.' I saw you at once. It is not possible I 'ave made a mistake, monsieur?”
Her eyes twinkled up at him with malicious interrogation, and McGrab shook his head,
“I canna think but ye are right,” he said. “I will come at once.”
He followed her down dark, winding little passages. There was a sharp rap at a door, the answer of a familiar voice, and the next minute he found himself in a little room that, at first glance, seemed made of mirrors. Juliet was seated before one of them—only she was not Juliet any more. She had discarded the burial shroud, and wore something wonderful in gold-and-black brocade, which left bare the white shoulders and seemed to catch in its rich folds glints of her hair's radiance. The powder had been brushed from her cheeks, and, as she turned, their soft color deepened.
“Sandy McGrab,” she said gently.
He bent over her outstretched hand and kissed it. The action became him. It brightened the tarnished silver of his buckled shoes, and brought back the colors to his travel-stained kilt. Prince Charlie stepping out of the frame of some old picture could not have cut a more gallant figure. Miss Eliot smiled upon him.
“Sandy McGrab!” she repeated, and this time there was something more than pleasure in her voice—a quick, involuntary relief. “Laird!” she added, with a touch of joyous mockery.
Nanette went out and discreetly closed the door.
Sandy McGrab drew himself up, and his hand dropped to his side.
“I'm no laird,” he said. “Ye ken that well eno', fairy-tale princess.”
“And I'm no fairy-tale princess,” she answered back.
“You are to me.”
“And to me you are the laird.” She looked at him from under half-closed lids. “Do you know, to-night, while I was lying on my bier, I thought of the moors and the heather-covered hills of Glen Every, and of Sandy McGrab, and of the hours I had spent with him and Will Shakespeare? Do you remember?”
“I'm always remembering,” he answered simply.
“How sweet of you! I thought of it so much that when I looked up at the gallery, it seemed quite natural that you should be there. I recognized you at once among all these funny men—and—and I was so glad!” She laughed a little, and her voice steadied. “Won't you sit down, Mr. McGrab?” she asked primly.
Sandy McGrab chose the most reliable looking of the fragile gold-and-white chairs. He sat opposite her, and her eyes rested on him with grave satisfaction.
“It's like a breath of fresh air to have you,” she said.
“Ye'll be needing a little fresh air, princess,” he answered.
“You mean I'm pale? Yes—it's fatigue—and—and the anxiety of it all. But I acted all right?”
“Ye were grand,” he answered, “but no so grand as ye were up at the glen when ye played Juliet from the laird's balcony.”
“I hadn't got you to act with me. Derwent can't act.”
“No,” McGrab admitted. “He knows his Shakespeare like a bairn. He's a stick.”
“And a scoun——”
She broke off hastily, and there was a moment's silence. For the first time she was noticing the man's hollow cheeks and threadbare clothes.
“You've not set the Thames on fire yet, laird?” she asked, at last.
He shook his head.
“Not yet, princess.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
“And then?” she demanded quizzically.
He did not answer, but he looked at her, and Mary Eliot turned her attention suddenly to the looking-glass.
“I wish I could help you, Sandy McGrab,” she said dreamily. “Sometimes I build fairy castles, and my favorite one is that I have a theater all of my own and that I send to my manager and say: 'Find me one Sandy McGrab, and let him act Romeo to my Juliet. He's the only man living who can.' And it all comes true—in my dream—and we two are famous together. But it's only a dream. I can't help myself—or any one.”
“I dinna want help,” he said stubbornly; and then, with a quick change of tone: “You're no crying, princess?”
She brushed her hand impatiently over her eyes.
“No, I'm not—not really. But I'm so helpless—so alone. It's not all fun—this life, Sandy McGrab. It's not easy for a woman who springs suddenly to the top of the tree, as I did. She has so much to fight—and sometimes I'm afraid—— You don't understand all the jealousy, and spite, and hatred——”
“Hatred?” he interrupted almost roughly. “Who dares hate you?”
“Oh, lots of people—Derwent for one. And there's my understudy, Edith Wharton. She thinks I'm doing her out of her big chance—perhaps I am. And Derwent's mad about her. Sometimes I feel them both plotting and scheming against me. If they could get me out of my part for a single night, they think they'd do for me. I'm popular, but I'm not 'established.' Another's triumph would easily swamp mine—and I'd just drop out—forgotten.” She tried to laugh. “I'm fighting for my existence against a dozen unseen enemies,” she said. “And that's why I'm so glad to see you, Sandy McGrab. You seem to me to-night the only one I can trust.”
She got up wearily and drew her silk cloak about her. Sandy McGrab stood at her side, a grim, rather overpowering figure in the tiny room.
“Ye're going now, princess?”
“I've got to. It's a big supper party at the Francaise. All the company will be there. I daren't stay away. Even there, I shall have to fight. I hear there's a strike of waiters on, so it may be amusing.” She glanced at him over her shoulder with a touch of her old gayety. “Will you be there to wait on me, my Scottish cavalier?” she asked.
“It's no such a bad idea,” he answered gravely.
The door opened slowly, and at the same time with a sufficiency of discreet noise.
“Mademoiselle's taxi auto awaits her,” said Nanette demurely.
“Good night, then, Sandy McGrab.” Once more the small hand rested in his. “Perhaps we shall meet again—one—day.”
“Maybe,” he answered.
“Good luck, laird!”
“Good luck, princess!”
She was gone, amidst a soft rustle of silks and brocades. Sandy McGrab lingered. He gazed thoughtfully at the silver-backed brushes, at the hundred and one mysteries shut away in delicate little boxes. There was a faded flower lying on the table. Sandy McGrab picked it up with an air of absent-minded detachment, and then slipped it surreptitiously into the breast of his jacket, to join an unrecognizable piece of heather.
He did not tip Nanette as he went out, but he bowed to her gravely, and Nanette curtsied to him with quite exceptional amiability.
He was very handsome, ce monsieur écossais, and since he was so poor, he must certainly be a lord, she thought.
II.
Hadley, manager of the Avonia Theater, sat at the head of a beautifully spread table, and the members of his company, clustered around him, were like plants under the warm rays of a beneficent sun. For Hadley was a great man, on whose capricious geniality much depended. And this evening was propitious. The house had been sold out, and on such occasions tactful souls had been known to mount high and less heedful people to sink low, Hadley's good humor being usually marked by spasms of irritability.
At the long table there was only one empty chair, and that was on Hadley's right. Rolf Derwent, who sat opposite it, smiled across and then glanced down to where a dark-haired woman sat restlessly playing with her bread.
“Are we waiting for any one?” he asked pleasantly.
Hadley started and frowned.
“For Miss Eliot,” he said. “I don't know what has become of her.”
“I expect,” Derwent returned, with smooth deliberation, “that she is merely late. It is the privilege of greatness to be late, is it not?”
Hadley's frown deepened.
“She's not as great as all that,” he said. “I'm not accustomed to being kept waiting. Here, maître, dinner can be served at once, do you hear?”
Monsieur Géraud, of the Française, advanced with extended hands of apology.
If monsieur would only excuse—just a few little minutes longer. There had been great trouble. At the last moment the waiters—scélérats, all of zem—had refused to work. Zey had asked impossibilities, and zey 'ad gone. At this very moment he, Monsieur Géraud, was engaging fresh forces; rough hands, no doubt, but monsieur would excuse? Ze chef remained, as monsieur knew, ze best chef in London——
Hadley laughed.
“As long as your cook hasn't bolted, I don't care,” he said. “We'll do the serving ourselves, if the worst comes to the worst. See that your new forces don't bolt with our belongings, though; that's all.”
There was a general laugh, and in the midst of it Mary Eliot entered. For an instant she stood in the open doorway, looking shyly down the length of the table, then, as some one called her by name, came forward to her place. There had been a little exclamation of welcome, but beneath its effusiveness she thought she caught a note of hostility. It was, perhaps, inevitable. Many of those who greeted her had fought bitterly for her success, and had become bitter. And there was at least one who waited a chance to snatch that success from her and keep it.
Edith Wharton looked up and smiled across at her.
“Punctual at business, unpunctual at pleasure!” she said mockingly. “How admirable! Miss Eliot, I wager you'd never be late for a performance, would you?”
“She'd better try!” Hadley cut in roughly; and then he laughed. “That would suit your book, though, wouldn't it? What's the contract say? One performance missed, and you two alternate, eh? You'd better not keep me waiting at the theater, Miss Eliot, or your glory will be shared.”
“Shared?” echoed Derwent, in his suave way. “Is that possible?”
He bowed to Mary Eliot, but his eyes wandered down the table. The action lent his well-cut face an expression that was not wholly agreeable, and that seemed mysteriously to accentuate the trace of coarseness about the mouth and nostrils. Matinée ladies were wont to call Rolf Derwent “almost beautiful,” but then, as Romeo, he had never exhibited to them all the subtleties of face play of which he was capable.
Mary Eliot did not answer him. She sat quietly at Hadley's right hand, her eyes bright with an instinctive defiance. She knew now for certain that the atmosphere around her was hostile. Hadley did not speak to her. She knew that his amour propre was hurt, and that a skillfully flattering word would heal the wound, but she could not speak it. She was fighting, perhaps, for her professional existence, and could not use the weapons of her profession.
The first course was served almost in silence. Then Derwent leaned forward again. He held a wineglass toward her.
“To the risen star!” he said. Then he smiled again down the table, and lifted his glass a little higher: “To the rising star!” he finished lightly.
Hadley exclaimed with a somewhat spiteful “Bravo!” and Derwent put the glass to his lips. The next moment it lay in pieces on the table, and a pale stream of wine trickled across the cloth.
“Clumsy fool!” Derwent burst out furiously.
The culprit, evidently one of Géraud's hastily recruited forces, mumbled an apology. Mary Eliot glanced up. She saw at first nothing but a very big and red-haired man arrayed in a shabby suit of evening clothes that were a size too small for him. Then she smothered a gasp and stared at her plate.
“Clumsy fool!” Derwent reiterated peevishly, as the wine trickled onto his knee.
The “clumsy fool” completed his task of mopping up the disaster and disappeared. He came back a moment later with a fresh dish, which he offered to Miss Eliot first.
“Sandy McGrab,” she whispered faintly. “Sandy McGrab—for Heaven's sake—— The other side, you duffer!”
He obeyed. His hand shook, and the fork slipped cheerfully into the gravy.
“I'm no used to this sort of thing,” he muttered.
“I should think not! How did you come here?”
“I beg your pardon?” her neighbor apologized.
“I was only asking the waiter for a clean 'fork,' Mary Eliot explained glibly.
“I just came and offered mysel',” said Sandy McGrab in the other ear. “Some one had to look after you.”
Mary Eliot smiled to herself. Suddenly she felt very much comforted. She was no longer quite so much alone, and the chill atmosphere was warmed by something ardent and sincere, giving her a new courage, a new energy. She lifted her head, and met Edith Wharton's curious, antagonistic eyes with a smiling self-confidence.
“You seem very happy to-night,” Derwent remarked, almost with irritation.
“I am happy,” she admitted. “I met an old friend at the theater—a very dear friend—and the surprise has made me pleased with the whole world. Do you object?”
“On the contrary. Might one ask the privileged one's name?”
She met the veiled impertinence with steady eyes.
“You would not be much the wiser if I told you. No one knows him yet, but one day he will be famous. He is a great actor.”
“Indeed!”
“He can act Romeo better than any man living,” she added innocently.
Derwent flushed crimson, and Hadley laughed. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than another, it was seeing some one discomfited. At that moment Sandy McGrab offered Miss Eliot the potatoes for the third time in rapid succession.
“You're just grand!” he whispered. “Just grand!”
“And you”—she smiled to herself—“you're the worst waiter in the kingdom, Sandy McGrab. But you look a gentleman, even when you're dressed like one.”
“For Heaven's sake, take these potatoes away!” Hadley burst out, adding, with angry conviction: “The man's drunk!”
Sandy McGrab and the potatoes withdrew. But Mary Eliot felt the Scotsman's presence all through the long and ponderous meal. Whenever she met the watchful glances of her vis-à-vis, it seemed to her that the next moment Sandy McGrab was there, a large air of protection about his carriage, his stubborn head held high with a dignity that a mere misfit in coats could not diminish. Yet her sense of something impending, something threatening, left her no peace. She feigned an extreme fatigue and rose early from the table. Hadley nodded at her, still sulky, but with an appreciative eye that no amount of personal prejudice could dim. Mary Eliot was a beautiful woman and a great actress, and these things meant packed theaters, dearer to his soul even than his vanity.
“I dare say you're right,” he said. “We're all tired out, and to-morrow night we have the German emperor to cater for. You'd better get all the sleep you can, ladies.”
Mary Eliot smiled.
“I prefer fresh air,” she said lightly. “A friend has lent me a car for the day, and I shall see what a breath from the sea will do for me.”
“Beware of breakdowns, then!” Hadley adjured. “We want no trouble to-morrow.”
“I shall see to that. Good night—every one.”
With an effort, Hadley recovered his good manners. He rose to accompany her to the vestibule, and the three other men followed his example. But at the door, Derwent dropped behind, as if by accident, hesitated, and finally came back to the table.
There Edith Wharton had resumed a pose of childish ill humor. One hand supported her chin, the other toyed with a costly bracelet which, in a fit of restlessness, she had detached from her wrist and flung upon the table. She refused to look up as Derwent came to her side.
At the other end of the private dining room, the waiter with the red hair was slowly and ponderously removing the last traces of the festivity.
“Well?” Derwent inquired, in an undertone.
She shrugged her shoulders at him.
“She wipes the earth with both of us,” she flared out. “You, being a man, seem to enjoy the process. It amuses you to be laughed at, to be walked over, by her serene highness. You take it all lying down——”
“Do I?” he interjected.
“Well—don't you?”
She looked at him now, aroused in spite of herself from a sullen anger to curiosity. Derwent seated himself quickly beside her.
“I don't,” he said. “But I'm a trifle more subtle than you think—that's all. I hate that fair-haired upstart as much—well, as much as I love you——”
“Thank you,” she interrupted insolently. “I don't want to hear that sort of thing now.”
“I know you don't. I was merely giving you the measure of my own personal resentment. I was also giving you a reason for what I shall do. Look here—what will you give me if you play Juliet to-morrow night?”
She turned and looked him full in the face, the thought coarsening her florid beauty with a dull flush of excitement.
“Give you?” she echoed, catching her breath. “I—I don't know. Anything.”
“Will you marry me?”
She nodded, and then laughed suddenly.
“Yes—by Heaven, I'd marry the devil himself for that! It's a promise, Rolf.”
“Thank you. You might have made it more flattering, but I understand.”
He glanced swiftly over his shoulder at the curtained doorway of the vestibule. They could hear Hadley chuckling hugely over one of his own jokes and Mary Eliot's lighthearted answer. The red-haired waiter clattered stupidly with the plates.
“Hadley's in a queer mood,” Derwent continued. “It's all touch and go with him. His protégée of to-day may be the victim of to-morrow. It's only nerves, of course, but we've got to reckon with them all the same. There's one thing sure: He's out for birthday honors, and to-morrow night's gala show is his chance—and ours.”
“I don't see——” she began hurriedly.
He laid his hand on hers.
“My dear girl, it's just this: The man or woman who helps Hadley to glory on such an occasion is made. It may be Mary Eliot, or it may be your humble servant—or it might be you.”
“Still I don't follow. Mary Eliot will play to-morrow night if she's alive—if it's only to spite me.”
“No, she won't.”
“Who's to prevent her?”
“I am. I'm going to try, anyhow. It flashed across my mind this evening. I know whose car she's using to-morrow. It's Mrs. Waybon's, and Mrs. Waybon's chauffeur used to drive me. I've given him seats for the theater, and we're rather good friends. Aren't you beginning to see? Mrs. Waybon's car is going to have a breakdown ten miles from anywhere. At seven o'clock Hadley will be foaming at the mouth; at eight, Miss Edith Wharton steps into the breach; at eleven London is talking of the new star; and the next morning Miss Mary Eliot gets her congé——”
“You daren't do it——”
“Yes, I dare. And if you're wise, you'll look up Nanette to-morrow morning early. You'll give her a large douceur, and see that she has everything ready for you to-morrow night. Take her into your confidence, if needs must. She'll go where the money is, and she knows Hadley won't give twopence for a just and true account of how some one got him into a fix.” Derwent sat back in his chair with a movement of satisfaction. “I think that will about square my account,” he said. “Miss Eliot won't have another opportunity to compare my Romeo with that confounded unknown fool of hers——”
Edith Wharton burst out laughing.
“So it's wounded vanity, after all? Well, who cares, as long as we both get what we want? It's a bargain, mon ami. To our good luck!”
They touched glasses. At that moment Hadley reappeared with his companions, Monsieur Géraud bringing up the rear with many eager, complimentary gestures. On perceiving the new waiter still fumbling with the dishes, he gave vent to a passionate sigh of despair.
“Mais voyons, imbécile, do you stand zere ze 'ole hight doing nozing? Away wiz you! Coffee for ze lady, liqueurs also for ze gentlemen, and endeavor to forget you are a big lout of a Scotchman. Allons!”
The red-headed waiter drew himself up, and measured his insulter. Then suddenly he seemed to remember something of greater importance, and, without a word, disappeared behind the curtains. But he did not fetch the coffee. Instead, he hurried to the waiters' dressing room, snatched down a worn-looking plaid from a peg, flung it about his medieval evening suit, troubadour fashion, to this romantic costume added a tam-o'-shanter, and left the restaurant by a back entrance, slamming the door after him.
III.
The Waybons' car stood against the curb of a quiet West End street, and Nanette, laden with furs, stood on the curb and talked to the Waybon chauffeur. She was looking very pretty that morning, and the chauffeur's attitude was confidential, his expression tender.
“You can just go ahead and name the day, Nan,” he was saying; “just as soon as you can fix it up. You might do worse, my-girl.”
“Mon Dieu, marry an Englishman!” exclaimed Nanette, with coquettish disgust.
“Well, why not? I can drive a car as well as any bloomin' froggie. And, look 'ere!” He took a slip of paper from his pocket, and held it triumphantly under her nose. “How about that, eh? Fifty quid, and a bit more if things come off. Enough to start us off as fine as you please, and a bit over for a week-end spree. Come on! Say the word.”
Nanette looked at the check, then she looked up at the chauffeur, with her head at a wise and knowing angle.
“You 'ave not 'ad that for driving ze motor, George,” she said conclusively.
“For not drivin' it,” said George, with a suppressed grin.
“I see.” She smoothed a curl from her forehead. “P'r'aps,” she said softly, “p'r'aps zere will be a leetle accident on ze road. Is it not so?”
They looked at each other in questioning, uncertain silence. George bent down to her.
“Look ere,” he said sharply, “are you in the know?”
She nodded.
“I 'ave guessed. I also 'ave 'ad a leetle present.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It is perhaps what you would call a low, underneath trick; but—que voules-vous? One must live, one must take what ze bon Dieu offers and not ask too many questions.”
“'Ear! 'Ear!' said George, with enthusiasm.
“Where will it be?” Nanette inquired.
“Ah, now you're askin'! Just 'alfway between Worston and Hilton, me little car will 'ave a 'orrid attack of hindigestion, and for two bloomin' hours I shall be doctorin' up 'er inside and cursin' like mad.” He chuckled. “And there ain't a station or a village within five miles,” he added cheerfully.
“Ma pauvre mademoiselle!” said Nanette regretfully.
At that moment, the front door of the house outside which they waited opened a little wider, and Miss Mary Eliot came down the steps. Last night's weariness had left no trace on her fresh, young beauty, and an old gentleman and an errand boy stopped involuntarily and glanced back, moved by the same instinctive pleasure.
“And remember, George,” said Miss Eliot, as she stepped into the waiting car, “we must be back at three o'clock at all costs. You must run no risks.”
George touched his cap. The Mercèdes purred expectantly. Nanette curtsied.
“Good-by, Nanette. Have everything ready!”
“Certainement. Bon voyage, mademoiselle!”
The Mercèdes glided smoothly forward. Nanette waited until it had disappeared round the corner. Then she went back into the house and into her mistress' dressing room.
At midday she was trying on Miss Eliot's latest purchase from a Bond Street dressmaker, and singing to herself, when the doorbell rang violently. Nanette frowned displeasure. She did not hurry, and it was not till the noise began to get on her nerves that she deigned to answer the summons. Then she uttered a smothered exclamation.
“Monsieur!” she said, and held the door wide open.
Sandy McGrab burst in like a gust of a long-thwarted north wind.
“Yes, it's me,” he said, fiercely ungrammatical. “Where's your mistress?”
Nanette stared, and then smiled. He had not changed his costume of the previous evening, and his appearance was accordingly unusual. But he was, for all that, by no means ill to look on, and Nanette had an eye for a man.
“My mistress 'as gone, monsieur,” she answered demurely.
“Where?”
“'Ow should I know, monsieur?” McGrab made no answer for a moment. He was looking all around the room, noting all its graceful feminine details with eager, sunken eyes, and once he passed his hand over his forehead. Nanette saw that it trembled.
“Monsieur is ill?” she asked solicitously.
“No, no; but I hae been up all night looking for you. I only got your address this morning fra the theater, or I should hae been here before.” He turned to her with a sudden appeal. Lassie,” he said, “where's your mistress?”
“I 'ave told monsieur, I do not know.”
He interrupted her with a stern gesture.
“Ye ken well eno'. You are in the plot—and you are going to tell me.”
“Monsieur—I shall do nozing of ze kind.”
“Then ye do ken where she is?”
Nanette felt the angry tears rise.
“And if I did, I would not tell you,” she said.
“You will tell me!” said Sandy McGrab.
“'Ow do you know zat?” she retorted.
“Because I ken a true woman when I see one,” said Sandy McGrab, with beautiful conviction.
Nanette gasped at him. He stood before her, broad of shoulder, splendid in carriage, his head thrown back, a curious, but wholly pleasing, figure of a man. Nanette clutched involuntarily at the douceur hidden in the bosom of her dress. “Ye will tell me,” McGrab went on, “because ye canna do such a mean, dastardly thing as ye are trying to do now. Ye canna do it, lassie. No one with so sweet a face could be so bad at heart. And ye love your mistress—ye maun love her—ye couldna help yourself. If she is not back in time to-night, she is ruined. I ken ye hae not thought of that?”
She could only stare at him. She had thought of it—quite clearly and callously, but then she had not had his fiery, pleading eyes on her.
“What is my mistress to you, monsieur?” she asked defiantly.
“Nothing—but I love her,” he answered, so simply and ardently that the tears sprang to Nanette's eyes—she did not know why. She made a determined effort to remain cool and businesslike.
“What will monsieur give me if I tell him?”
“I can give ye nothing—but ye will keep your honor, lassie.” And then Sandy McGrab had an inspiration. He laid his big, shapely hand on her shoulder. “I love her so much,” he said. “Ye ken what it is to love. Ye'll no do it against me, lassie?”
Nanette shrugged her shoulders. She waited to say something flippant—she cried openly instead.
“Mademoiselle 'as gone to Eastlake.”
“Where will the car break down?” he persisted.
“Be—tween Worston and Hilton,” she sobbed.
Sandy McGrab looked on her with helpless remorse.
“Ye mustna cry, lassie; I canna bear it. It's no so bad as all that. We'll get her back safe and sound in time—no fear.”
He patted her, and Nanette wept, with her head on his shoulder. It was not, perhaps, quite usual, but then neither Sandy McGrab nor the circumstances were usual, and there was something large and comforting and brotherly about the man that was irresistible.
“I maun go,” he said gently. “We hae not a minute to lose He got as far as the door when he looked back. The light and color had suddenly gone out of his face. “I—I had forgotten,” he said brokenly. “I haven't a bawbee in the world.”
Nanette had no idea what a bawbee might be, but she guessed his meaning. It may sound very incredible, but this is exactly what happened: She took out her douceur and thrust it into Sandy McGrab's hand.
“May all the saints help you both, monsieur!” she said huskily.
“God bless you!” said Sandy McGrab, and kissed her.
He raced down the stairs.
Mademoiselle Nanette went back into the dressing room. She dried her eyes and powdered her nose, and then she began to sing again—even more cheerily than before.
IV.
The Mercèdes hummed its way merrily along the highroad, and Miss Mary Eliot, seated comfortably amid the cushions, watched the sun sink behind the hills, and built castles out of rose-tinted clouds. She was feeling very happy, curiously elated. The fresh country air had given her a joyous energy, and there was something else hidden at the back of her mind—a something that she did not care to analyze, but that glowed and shone like a comforting, cheery, little fire. One of the castles that she built concerned that same evening. She imagined a great, sweeping triumph for herself. The emperor had sent for her and congratulated her. Hadley had offered her a magnificent engagement. And she had turned and said to him:
“I will agree to anything you like, but first you must give Sandy McGrab his chance—Sandy McGrab, who is the greatest actor in all England——”
And just then, right in the middle of her dreams, something happened. There was a jar, a jerk, and a grunt, and the Mercèdes hummed no more. It stopped. The chauffeur looked back over his shoulder, and mumbled something. For some minutes he disappeared under the car, and Mary Eliot glanced at her watch. They had still two hours, and she went on dreaming until the chauffeur's face, much blackened, appeared over the side.
“Sorry, miss, there's something wrong with the spark. If you'd not mind getting out a moment, I've some tools under the seat.”
Mary Eliot rose reluctantly.
“How long will it be?”
“I don't rightly know.” He gave her a long and gloomily technical explanation of his difficulties. “It's a longish business, miss. It might run to an hour or two.”
She gave no sign of the deadly faintness that gripped suddenly at her heart. She looked at him steadily.
“How far are we from the nearest station?”
“A matter of ten miles, miss.”
“Then—then we can't do it?”
“Sorry, miss. It's not my fault——”
“Do the best you can.”
She turned away from him, and stood gazing over the long stretch of empty country to the sunset. But the clouds were no longer rose-tinted. They were black and storm-threatening. She did not cry. Even to herself she would not show the white feather, but there was an immense, burning. bitterness in her heart. It had been her chance—and perhaps his chance—and it was being snatched from her at the last hour. It seemed to her that Fate grinned mockingly at her from out of the melancholy dusk.
“Oh, Sandy McGrab!” she whispered dully. “Sandy McGrab!”
She did not know that she was appealing to him, claiming the help of a man who himself was no better off, no more capable of helping, than the poorest beggar. But she repeated his name in her heart with a passionate insistency. And suddenly, like the magic realization of a dream, he was there; disheveled, breathless, hatless, in that setting of peaceful country his apparel the more hopelessly ludicrous, but for all that a Titan to the rescue—a very Lohengrin.
There was small ceremony about what happened then. A great many things that usually take days of long consideration and explanation were passed over. She uttered a low explanation of incredulous relief, and flung herself into his arms. Sandy McGrab kissed her. The chauffeur stared at them both in anxious curiosity. But not for long. Sandy McGrab put Miss Eliot gently to one side. He came across the road and took the uneasy mechanician by the neck and shook him backward and forward as a mastiff shakes a rat.
“You infernal scoundrel of an Englishman!” he said. “If ye do no hae that machine going in five minutes, I'll shake the miserable bit of life ye hae out of ye.”
George gasped.
“It's the sparking, sir——”
“I dinna care what it is. I ken the whole damnable plot, and if we are not off in those five minutes, ye'll wish ye had never been born!”
George looked at him with starting eyes of terror.
“But it's true, sir,” he said. “The sparking is wrong—and—and I left my tools behind.”
He stood there waiting for death, but McGrab let go his hold. He looked at Mary Eliot, and saw that a wan smile passed over her face.
“It's no good, Sandy McGrab,” she said wearily. “You're wonderful, but you're too late. We've just got to make up our minds——”
“What's that?” he interrupted curtly.
He was pointing out across the country. Something that looked like a long snake of light was gliding swiftly toward them through the dusk. It disappeared an instant—reappeared again. Sandy McGrab gripped the chauffeur by the arm, and his grip
“What's that?” he repeated from behind set teeth.
“I—I don't know, sir. The London Express, maybe—— It's near time.”
“Where are the tracks?”
“A few yards ahead, sir——”
“Then, if ye value your life, ye'll do as I tell ye—quick!”
He set his great shoulders to the body of the car. At that moment his strength was something superb to watch. The Mercèdes glided forward, and it was at the run that the two men brought her to within a yard of the crossing. Sandy McGrab pushed back the mechanical closing gates as if the force of the car had driven them open.
“It would hae been nearly a grand accident if it were true!” he soliloquized. Then he wrenched off one of the car's side lamps, and raced like a madman right between the lines toward the oncoming express.
“Sandy McGrab—for my sake——”
Mary Eliot called in vain. He was out of hearing. She could see his lamp rise and fall in the darkness like a wild, quixotic will-o'-the-wisp rushing full tilt at some snorting, roaring dragon of fairy legend. Just at that moment Mary Eliot cared nothing for triumph or for glory. There seemed only one thing that mattered—and that the something at the back of her mind, at the bottom of her heart—her love.
“If he is killed——” she thought.
George beside her clenched his chattering teeth.
“It was the money,” he moaned. “It makes bloomin' scoundrels of the best of us. If you'd only forgive me, miss?”
She nodded an impatient, agonized assent. Something had happened. The will-o'-the-wisp and the dragon were almost on top of each other—the will-o'-the-wisp faded into the dragon's greater brightness. But the dragon had ceased to snort and roar. It stood still, as if cogitating over its murderous success. Voices came through the darkness. The will-o'-the-wisp reappeared and raced back. A minute later Sandy McGrab and an excited guard were at Mary Eliot's side. The guard looked at the car and then at the lady.
“Well, that was a near squeak,” he admitted. “You can thank your lucky stars, madam, your husband stopped us in time. He says you're feelin' a bit queer—and no wonder! If you'd like to come aboard, we'll be in London in half an hour. But you'll have to hurry. We're overdue as it is.”
Sandy McGrab gave her no chance to answer. He picked her up and carried her like a child.
It was nine o'clock. Rolf Derwent put the finishing touches to his make-up and smiled to himself in the glass. Edith Wharton had just gone to Mary Eliot's dressing room, ordered there by an infuriated Hadley. Derwent had met her on the way back from his first scene, and she had kissed him in silent triumph. Their next meeting would be on the stage in the house of Capulet. Derwent was going over his first lines when the door opened. He turned swiftly and angrily, and then gasped. The man who stood before him was vaguely familiar. The door closed sharply.
“My name is Sandy McGrab,” said the stranger deliberately. “I was waiter last night at the Française, Mr. Derwent, and I overheard things. I hae come to tell you that Miss Eliot has just arrived, and has taken over her part, and I hae come to thrash the life out of ye——”
Derwent made a dive for the bell. He was stopped halfway by a stinging blow between the eyes, and when he got up again, he knew that he was lost.
“You infernal scoundrel!” he stuttered. “You've disfigured me—I shan't be able to play——”
“No, you won't,” McGrab admitted; “but I shall.” He rang the bell. “And if you move or protest, I'll tell the world the whole story. You can choose. And when you hae chosen, you can take off the things and help me dress.”
The call boy answered the summons.
“Your turn in ten minutes, sir,” he shouted through the closed door.
“Very well. Tell Mr. Hadley that Mr. Derwent is very ill and that his part has been taken over by his special understudy, Mr. McGrab. He had better make the announcement to the audience. Do you understand?”
“Y-es—sir,” came the dubious answer.
McGrab turned to his cowering companion.
“Hae ye chosen?” he asked.
“It's blackmail,” Derwent declared hoarsely.
“I don't care what it is,” said McGrab, unperturbed. “If ye like to go on the stage with that face, ye are at liberty to do so.”
“Damn you!” said Derwent ferociously.
Hadley came raging to the dressing-room door just as Sandy McGrab came out of it. Derwent's gorgeous costume fitted him excellently well, though there was a tightness about the shoulders which the cloak covered. He wore no wig and practically no make-up, and Hadley's' jaw dropped.
“Who the devil——” he began, “and what the devil——”
McGrab pushed him firmly to one side.
“If ye want the devil, ye'll find him behind there in the dressing room, but I advise ye to get to the front, sir. Ye're going to see 'Romeo and Juliet' for the first time.”
Two minutes later the audience of the Avonia caught its breath. They had seen many Romeos—melancholy Romeos, romantic Romeos, handsome and plain Romeos—but never a one with red hair and a figure that must have measured six feet one if it measured an inch. When he uttered his first lines, they nearly lost their well-bred indifference. They nearly laughed. For the Italian nobleman had, besides red hair, a faint, musical Scotch accent. But, as in that gay crowd of Capulets' guests Romeo first caught sight of Juliet, the desire to laugh suddenly passed. It passed with the instinctive recognition of greatness. The whole audience was lifted out of the theater, above superficialities. This was no play, this was not an actor; it was real life, and this man was Romeo.
“Did my heart love till now? forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.”
The words might have been spoken for the first time; those who heard them felt that they were at least uttered with a sincerity, a fire of inspiration that gave them new life and meaning. The most jaded, most weary theatergoer sat up to listen. McGrab did not fail them. At the first meeting between Romeo and Juliet, both actor and actress held them spellbound. Juliet's swift surprise, Romeo's movement of ardent admiration and devotion were magnificently spontaneous. So, too, was Juliet's fortunately unheard exclamation.
“Sandy McGrab!” she whispered. “Sandy McGrab!”
“It's our chance!” he whispered back, and then caught up his own lines with a confidence and a passion that carried the listeners through the scene on a high wave of enthusiasm.
As the curtain fell, the applause was continuous. Edith Wharton and Derwent had left the theater. Hadley had ceased cursing. He gazed at Sandy McGrab with a wondering, appreciative eye. But he said nothing.
At the end of the evening, after what the papers described as “the most dramatic and remarkable performance of the season,” Romeo and Juliet stood hand in hand in the wings, waiting to answer the repeated calls. They behaved with a blissful disregard for their surroundings that is typical of the very young and the very happy. It was thus Hadley came upon them. He carried himself like a frigate under full sail.
“You are made, both of you!” he cried, and struck McGrab on the shoulder. “I don't care a dollar who you are, sir, but you're a genius. The emperor has conferred the Order of the Red Eagle upon me. And—and”—with a gust of graciousness—“he has sent for both of you.”
But Romeo and Juliet only looked at each other and smiled.
For there are times when even German emperors do not count.