# The Romances of Sandy McGrab/Law and Order

Ainslee's magazine, March 1914, pp. 86–97.
      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. and announces herself as a fellow professional. She recognizes his genius, and announces herself as a fellow professional. Sandy's denial that he is an actor leads her to think that he 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, although he realizes too late that he does not know her name.

   ### III.—LAW AND ORDER

   THE Reverend John Andrews stood on the steps of St. Giles Church with his hands clasped in front of him over the clerical hat, and his eyes closed. It had been a beautiful evening service, and in the sermon he had surpassed himself. He had preached on the glory of peace, and one old lady in the front pew had cried—or else she had had a cold, he could not be quite sure which. But he knew he had been effective. And now he had come out to find a brilliant-hued sunset and an appropriate atmosphere of quiet over the little church and the overcrowded little churchyard.
   St. Giles is a wonderful place. It lies in the heart of London. Nobody seems to know anything about it except those who tumble over it, as it were, by accident. Even the county council seems to have forgotten it, which is strange because it occupies quite an inordinate amount of space, and its churchyard is like an oasis, so green and cheerful does it look in the midst of the drab houses. The Reverend John Andrews loved it. By dint of closing his eyes and fixing his thoughts on things spiritual, he could almost persuade himself that the rumbling of the motor bus round the corner was the break of the surf against the rocks of his native highland home.
   It was all very consoling. He let the consolation of it sink into his soul. Then he placed the clerical hat on his fair head, murmured “Amen” under his breath, and prepared to catch the motor bus before it passed beyond recall. But at the bottom of the stone-flagged path he hesitated. Something, apparently, had attracted his attention. The motor bus tooted a melancholy farewell in the distance, and the Reverend John retraced his steps.
   The “something” was at once tragic and pathetic. Quite close to the path, under the shadow of a shrub that those who knew called a yew tree, was a tombstone of comparatively youthful appearance. At least its raison d'être had departed this life in the early eighties, and it still retained a somewhat truculent, never-was-so-sober-in-my-life uprightness. Beside it, with his head buried in his arms, lay the prostrate, grief-stricken figure of a man. John Andrews understood at once. He was young, and consequently the tragedies of life were all known to him. From the tombstone he learned that one Samuel Tucker was not lost, but gone before, and it needed no imagination to recognize in the shrouded, motionless figure the guilty, conscience-stricken prodigal, returned—too late, alas!—to receive forgiveness.
   John Andrews rubbed the moisture from his eyes, and then—because it is really not healthy to lie in the grass after dusk—he bent down and touched the prodigal on the shoulder.
   “Poor fellow!” he said mildly. “Poor young fellow!”
   At the first touch, Sandy McGrab merely groaned. Finally he yielded to the gentle persistence, unrolled himself from his plaid, yawned, stretched, and sat up.
   “I'll no move on,” he said with great firmness. “Where's your grand English freedom, ye great, skulking Englishman, if a mon canna sit down when he's tired? I'll no move on——”
   “My poor young man——” the curate interrupted, and then stopped short. Even in broad daylight, the travel-stained kilt must have been quite unrecognizable, but whether Stuart or McPherson or Macduff, it was still indubitably a kilt. Sandy McGrab's knees were stained with the damp soil, and the glory of silver buckles was no more. John Andrews drew his breath quickly. “Man,” he said almost with passion, “you're not real?”
   Sandy McGrab folded his arms and propped his back against Samuel Tucker's monument. Something like a smile of understanding passed over his face.
   “I'm fra Kirkhumphries,” he said laconically. “Have ye no seen a Scotchman before?”
   “Laddie,” said the curate reproachfully, “have I lost caste all that? Can ye no see what I am?”
   “I ken what ye may hae been,” said Sandy McGrab, “but ye speak English like a low-born Englishman.”
   The curate sighed.
   “I've been here ten years,” he apologized. There was a moment's silence. “It's ten years since I was over the border,” he added, in the tones of one expecting commiseration.
   “Then it's no so strange,” Sandy acknowledged. “Most of us would gang astray in ten years. I'll no say I wouldna mysel'.”
   “Aye,” agreed the curate gloomily. He glanced down at the recumbent figure. Sandy McGrab's eyes were closed. He seemed to have fallen asleep again. His tam-o'-shanter had fallen off, and the light from a distant street lamp fell on his disordered shock of brilliant hair. The effect was resplendent, and somehow hid the fact that the rugged, stubborn-looking face beneath was wan, and that the cheek bones stood out with a painful prominence. The curate remembered Samuel Tucker and the damp grass. “Ye maun get up,” he said, with a shy reversion to their native tongue. “Ye canna call back the dead, laddie, and it's no healthy to be lying there.”
   “I'm no waiting to call back the dead,” said Sandy indistinctly. “I want to go to sleep.”
   “Mon, ye're no grieving for your forebears?”
   “For whom?” Sandy McGrab's eyes opened. The curate indicated the tombstone. “Samuel Tucker!” Sandy read out with cold scorn. “My name is McGrab. Did ye ever hear of a Highlander called Tucker?”
   The curate shook his head. “It's awfu' what ten years can do with a man,” he commented. “But if ye be no grieving, ye mus'na sit in the grass, laddie.”
   “Ye can throw me out then,” said McGrab. “I'll no move on. It's two days since I came into this godless, heathen city. For two days I've tried to find a blade of grass and a patch of clean air, and each time I've found it and settled mysel' in for the night, there's been a crowd of bairns and half-sized Englishmen around me, staring for a' the world as if they weren't the pitifulest creatures on God's earth. Then up comes a big laddie in a blue coat and asks me name and address.” Sandy McGrab set his mighty shoulders more firmly against the tombstone. “I told him I was fra Kirkhumphries, but I'll no move on again, and the man who puts me out of here maun take the consequences.”
   “But it's against law and order to sleep in a cemetery,” protested John Andrews pathetically. “I cannot allow any one——”
   “Are you going to throw me out, mon?” asked McGrab.
   The curate considered the powerful figure in silence.
   “Weel, ye can bide a wee, laddie,” he said. He waited for a moment, casting doubtful glances to the right and left of him. The church lights had long since gone out, and the verger had taken his departure by a side entrance. There was no one to see what the respected curate of St. Giles did with himself. He sat down slowly and cautiously on the mound that covered the late lamented Tucker.
   “Mon,” he said earnestly, “it's no affair of mine, but if ye could tell me what brought an honest Scotchman to this place of wickedness——”
   “What brought you?” asked Sandy McGrab.
   The curate sighed again and clasped his his thin hands over his knees.
   “What has ever brought man to his fall since the days of our first father?” he demanded.
   “Woman,” said Sandy.
   “Aye.”
   “Aweel, ye ken now,” remarked McGrab wearily.
   James Andrews glanced down at his companion. He perceived for the first time that there was something more than fatigue written on the composed features.
   “Et tu, Brute!” he said. “Puir laddie!”
   “I'm no puir,” retorted McGrab, with a flash of vigor. “She's the loveliest, grandest woman in the world.”
   “And you've come all this long way to marry her?”
   “Aye,” said Sandy. He frowned. “It may be a matter of a little difficulty,” he added, “for I dinna ken her name.”
   “Mon—nor what she is?”
   “We met up at Glen Every,” McGrab said, dreamily reminiscent. “We played 'Romeo and Juliet' together, and she said no man had ever played Romeo so grandly before. One day I shall play Romeo again to her, and then I shall marry her.”
   The curate groaned aloud.
   “A play actress!”
   “I'm another,” Sandy remarked gravely; “at least—I'm a play actor. Ye maun be polite. It's an honorable profession.”
   “Laddie,” exhorted John Andrews with passion, “go back to Kirkhumphries! Get away from the place of wickedness—free yoursel' from the toils of the evil one! This London is full of temptation, of bad, bold women, who have thrown away all true womanly modesty. If ye maun marry, go back to the Highlands, and take to yursel' a good Scotch wife. It's your only hope, Mr. McGrab.”
   “And you, meenister?” asked Sandy cunningly. “Had ye no better come, too?”
   The curate smiled infinite wisdom into the twilight.
   “Ye dinna ken woman as I do,” he said. “If the lady I marry is English, she is yet as gentle and pure and good as the flowers. There's nothing modern about her. She is like the women our mothers were, Mr. McGrab—an angel who, living in the very midst of a sinful world, knows nothing but what is good.”
   He paused a moment, drinking in the poetry of his own description. “On week days she teaches little children,” he added softly, “and on Sundays we walk together in the park. We are very poor, but perhaps in a year or two we shall marry. It is hard to wait so long, but she is good and patient, long suffering and gentle, as are all true women. I'm a proud and happy man, Mr. McGrab. If—if I lost her——”
   He paused again. It was probably the twilight and the hint of Highland heather that seemed to have crept into the gloomy little cemetery with this kilted Scotsman. It was, perhaps, an echo of memory borne back to him on the old familiar accent, or a wave of emotion from his evening's sermon. At any rate, his voice cracked. He steadied it with a manful effort.
   “It's very unhealthy to sit in the damp grass,” he said. “We maun be moving on, Mr. McGrab.”
   Sandy McGrab rose stiffly to his feet. He appeared to have forgotten his late protest, and, without a word, followed his companion to the gates of the churchyard. There both paused reluctantly. From where they stood, they could see the lights of the big thoroughfare, and the rumble of the motor busses had lost every poetic resemblance. Sandy McGrab set his tam-o'-shanter firmly on his head. He swayed a little, but the set of his jaw was grim.
   “It's a very big place,” he said, half to himself and with a faint wistfulness; “a big place. It will be no so easy to find a lady without a name, I'm thinking.”
   “You never will,” said John Andrews solemnly. “I pray you never will. Go back to Kirkhumphries, mon. Go back before your faith in womanhood is broken forever. This is no place for you.”
   Sandy McGrab smiled to himself.
   “Good night to you, meenister.”
   “Good night——” He hesitated, as the tall figure swung around. Then he held out a nervous hand. “Mr. McGrab—you're a fellow countryman—I'm no so rich mysel', but if there's anything I can do—a bite o' supper now—or—or—a bed—or—I'd be glad——” He stumbled helplessly.
   McGrab drew himself up to his full height. “I'm obleeged to ye, meenister, but there is nothing that I need but the lady's name. Good night!”
   “The Lord be with you!” said John Andrews, remembering his profession.
   He watched while Sandy McGrab strode down the street, his shoulders squared, his step defiant, his kilts flying. A street urchin shrieked, “Go it, Scottie!” from the opposite side of the road, and then the roaring traffic seemed to engulf Sandy McGrab, and the memory of the heather, and everything but its own bewildering noisy self.
   The Reverend John Andrews shook his head and sighed again. But a barrel organ, close at hand, broke into a sudden melody, and all at once the dull, gray twilight was full of color. And the Reverend John, for no apparent reason, remembered a sweet face and the fact that the day after to-morrow was Sunday; and he, too, turned with head erect and marched off, in all innocence, to the beat of the latest ragtime.
   II.
   The box-office manager of the Avonia Theater sat back in his chair with a sigh of satisfaction. He could have put up the notice “house full” if he had wanted to, but he had shares in the theater, and it gave him endless amusement to turn away belated and ticketless arrivals.
   “You can bet your bottom dollar it isn't Willy Shakespeare that's done it,” he remarked flippantly to an immaculate person with a wide expanse of shirt front and a large mustache who decorated the entrance. “It's her, you know. What the dear British public wants is a very pretty face, lots of pretty dresses, a dash of cheap music, and no talent——”
   “Miss Eliot has talent,” the large person interrupted with dignity. “I discovered her. I never discover anything less than talent.”
   The box-office manager apologized.
   “Of course. But who cares? And, anyhow, how can she develop it with that stick of a fellow as a partner? Now, then—what do you want?”
   The last remark was addressed to an unexpected and unusual apparition. For a few minutes it had hovered unnoticed on the steps, gazing at the display of photographs, now it came forward, and removed its head covering.
   “Good evening,” said Sandy McGrab courteously.
   But the manager and the box-office manager stared. The latter, whose range of view was limited by the rabbit-hutchlike construction in which he had his being, craned his head through the aperture in the endeavor to see exactly how matters ended. Finally he looked back at the gaunt face, and the grave, rather sunken, eyes.
   “If you want the gallery, it's round the corner,” he said curtly.
   “Thank you. But I don't want the gallery.”
   “Then what do you want? A box?”
   “I should like one very much indeed,” said McGrab gratefully.
   The manager pulled his mustache. There was nothing else to do, and he had what he called a sense of humor.
   “Well, how much will you give for it?” he asked.
   “I haven't any money at all,” said McGrab.
   “Then might I ask what you're doing here?”
   McGrab leaned his elbow on the box-office ledge.
   “I want,” he said, “to know the name of the lady whose portrait you have out there.”
   “You mean Miss Mary Eliot?”
   “I mean the very beautiful lady,” McGrab explained.
   “That's Miss Elliot right enough. Do you know her?”
   Sandy McGrab nodded.
   “Yes. Would you mind telling her I'm here?”
   “If you'd give me your name?” suggested the manager, who was having the joke of his life.
   “My name is Sandy McGrab, of Kirkhumphries,” was the proud answer. “Miss Eliot will remember.”
   The manager leaned forward confidentially.
   “Look here,” he said. “Miss Eliot's very busy, and she's very particular whom she sees. But I tell you what—if you send her a basket of orchids through me, she might have a look at you. She just loves orchids{bar
   —2
“I'm sure,” interrupted McGrab haughtily, “that Miss Eliot wouldna see any man who sent her flowers without her permission—least of all through you.”
The manager suddenly lost his sense of humor and his temper.
“You've got no business loafing round here,” he said. “If you don't move on, I'll have you thrown out——”
“I'm going,” said McGrab sternly, “because it is evident to me you do not even know the lady. But I willna move on for you or any man. Good evening to you.”
He went with dignity, but his heart had suddenly become leaden. In this strange world of strange people he felt himself lost and helpless. They did not understand him or he them, and they stood like an insurmountable barrier between him and the woman whose portrait smiled out upon indifferent passers-by. And it was doubly hard because, although she did not know it, he was to marry her.
Sandy McGrab, regardless of the threatening authorities behind him, lingered on the steps of the theater and gazed dreamily down into the lovely face. For a moment he did not notice that some one had come out with him and was standing beside him. But suddenly he turned and saw her. She was a little bit of a thing, very shabbily dressed, but with a vividly sweet face and eyes that were like violets transfused with light. For a moment they rested on him, but blankly as if she did not really see him, and in that brief instant he noticed how white she was and the lines of tense anxiety about the compressed mouth. It was just an instant and then she was gone.
Sandy McGrab caught his breath.
“Aye, but there are bonny lassies in this awfu' city!” he murmured. He glanced back at the portrait. “But not one as sweet as you!” he added loyally. Then he, too, dropped into the ever-moving stream and was lost to the angry manager's sight.
It is a long call from Kirkhumphries to London, and most of the way Sandy McGrab had walked on “nothing a mile.” He had not tasted food for forty-eight hours, and this was his first night in the great metropolis. The many lights danced before his eyes; at times the pavement showed an inclination to rise up and hit him on the head. The hundreds of changing faces added to his confusion. It was not only that they all turned and smiled at him—he felt in some strange way that they represented unknown things he would never understand. St. Anthony in a wilderness of wickedness could not have felt more desolate than did Sandy McGrab in Regent Street.
He wandered on listlessly and objectlessly, until all at once the crowd seemed to thin. He found himself in a quiet thoroughfare with big, pompous-looking houses on either hand, and immediately in front of him was the girl who had stood beside him in the theater. He hesitated an instant, and she seemed to hesitate, too. Her face was turned to one of the houses. Sandy fancied that she was gazing up at one of the windows almost on a level with the street.
Then suddenly something awful, incredible happened. There was a loud crash, a shivering whir, the clatter of glass, the bang of something heavy falling into the area. And then a dead, petrifying silence. Sandy McGrab was not conscious of any particular train of thought. But a great pity welled up in his heart. There was a policeman at end of the street, and Sandy hated policemen. He knew them to be rough and heartless. And the girl was so young, so obviously poor. Before he knew what he was doing, he had caught her by the arm and had bundled her around the corner and then around another, and then down dark, empty streets until they both stopped for breath, panting. The girl recovered first. She looked up at him and her eyes shone.
“How decent of you!” she said. “You Scotsmen are fine! The moment I saw you, I felt somehow you were one of us.”
Sandy McGrab smiled at her. He was feeling weak and faint, but entirely thankful.
“You poor lassie!” he said. “It was a very good thing there was some one to look after ye. They'd hae made you pay for that window——”
“Oh, no, they wouldn't!” she said rather grimly.
“Weel, they'd hae shut you up.”
“I expected them to,” she returned.
He felt the whole pathos of her poverty and helplessness. He only wished that he did not feel so faint and so ridiculously light-headed.
“But ye ken it was just a wee bit careless of ye,” he said, by way of warning. “Ye shouldna do things like that. Was it a message ye were trying to throw to some one? A woman never can throw straight.”
“Can't she?” Suddenly the girl laughed. “But you're right about the message.” She walked on a pace. “So you think it was an accident?” She asked after a moment.
“Ye couldna hae done it on purpose,” said Sandy feebly.
“Have you ever tried to break a plate-glass window?” she persisted.
“Never,” said Sandy, with indignation.
“Well, if you had, you'd know they can't be broken by accident. They're hard enough to break on purpose. Don't you know who lives in that house?”
“How should I?” he returned, utterly bewildered.
“Well, I never!” She stopped and eyed him. “You're a back number!” she added critically. “Don't you know what I am?”
Mr. McGrab shook his head. The faintness had got into his knees. He had much ado to stand upright.
“I'm a suffragette!” the girl said. She seemed to wait for some sort of outburst, but none came, and suddenly her manner changed. She peered up into his face. “Oh, I say!” she exclaimed under her breath. “What a brute I am!” Then suddenly she slipped her arm through his. “You come along with me!” she said.
The amazing part of the thing was that Sandy McGrab went. Ten policemen could not have managed him, but this minute person at his side seemed irresistible. There was no question about her. He had to come along and there was an end of the matter. Not only that, but her touch seemed to support him.
They went down dozens of streets and finally up long flights of stairs into a little room which, to Sandy McGrab's dazzled eyes, seemed overflowing with women. He did not believe he had ever seen so many women together in his life. There were all sorts and conditions. A prim little old lady, with her bonnet primly tied under her chin was absent-mindedly warming her toes at an empty grate. Opposite her, a stout person with a feathered hat and a shawl over her shoulders was gesticulating with a gnarled, toil-worn hand. On what might once have been a sofa a very handsome lady in sables reclined gracefully. And there were others.
Sandy McGrab made an effort to retreat. He was gently but firmly pushed down upon the opposite end of the couch, and the door was closed.
“Hullo!” said his rescuer cheerfully.
“Hullo!” said the little old lady.
“I were getting fair worretted about you,” said the person with the feathered hat.
“You dear, brave child!” said the sable lady warmly. “I was just going to send James to Bow Street to see what had become of you.”
“Oh, I'm all right.” Sandy McGrab's companion tossed her hat on the table and rumpled up her fair hair with impatient fingers. “He got me away,” she added, with a smile at Sandy.
They all looked at him. The feather hat nodded.
“'E's a bit of orl right,” the owner remarked approvingly.
“How splendid of you!” said the magnificent being in sables. She laid her hand on his arm and her eyes shone a gracious admiration. “I do think some of you men are fine!” she added.
Sandy McGrab gasped. He had the feeling that everything was slipping away from him.
“Will ye no tell me——” he said faintly. “Will ye no tell me—hae ye been breaking plate-glass windows, too?”
“I'm afraid they weren't plate,” she returned pleasantly. “They don't put up plate ones in Downing Street nowadays. It's not worth while. But I've broken them.” She sighed. “We shall all be doing two months hard to-morrow,” she concluded with resignation.
Sandy McGrab tried to get up. His eyes wandered around the room. They rested for an instant on the girl with the fair hair and the sweet face, and, as if hypnotized, traveled to the mantelshelf. There, hanging in all the glory of real oak frame, was a lifelike portrait of the curate.
Sandy McGrab sat down again. He had a dull recollection of the sable lady putting her arm around him, of a faint, delicious perfume of violets, of some one murmuring: “Poor fellow! starving, you know,” of a soft hand on his forehead; then all passed away into a merciful darkness and oblivion.
III.
When Sandy McGrab came back to a knowledge of the world, it was broad daylight. He was lying full length on the sofa with his shoes off and his plaid tucked comfortably round him. The girl with the fair hair was boiling water over a cheerful fire, and there was an agreeable aroma of buttered toast. Sandy McGrab struggled up.
“My goodness!” he said, panic-stricken.
The girl smiled at him over her shoulder.
“Good morning!” she said. “You're awake, are you? You've had had a splendid sleep!”
“Here?” he demanded.
“Well, looks like it, doesn't it?” She laughed. “We did have a time with you, though. We weren't sure you weren't dying and that we oughtn't to call in a doctor. Which would have been very awkward all round. But you went into a nice sleep, so we tucked you up nicely, and left you on the sofa. How do you feel?”
McGrab ignored the question.
“And where,” he began fiercely, “hae you been all night?”
“In the next room, of course.”
“All alone—alone? No mother—no—no—nothing?”
“Certainly not.”
McGrab stumbled to his feet.
“It's awfu'!” he said. “It's not right—it's scandalous—it's a disgrace! Why, I might hae been the worst scoundrel on earth!”
She glanced at him with a faint scorn.
“And even if you had been, I could have managed you,” she said. “You should see me tackle a mob. Besides—all that's silly. What's the good of my breaking windows if I can't break stupid conventions? Sit down. Here's your tea.”
He sat down. He took his tea with a meekness that would have made his ancestors turn in their graves. But he continued to protest.
“It's not right,” he said.
“Bosh! Here's a nice fried egg for you. Now, look here, are you a human being or aren't you?”
“Yes,” said Sandy, with conviction.
“Am I?”
“I'm not so sure,” he returned cautiously.
“That's just like a man! Well, I am. And when one human being needs help, another human being ought to do her or his best and not bother about rotten conventions. You helped me and I'm helping you, and there we are.” She paused a moment and looked up at the curate. “Besides, I really am rather grateful about last night. You see, I'm engaged to him, and he would have been so upset. He's a dear, but just a trifle old-fashioned, you know—always thinking of mother and me as two sweet innocents wrapped up in lavender. Whereas, as a matter of fact, mother's as go ahead as I am.”
“And he doesn't know!” Sandy stated gloomily.
“Not at present. I'm educating him up to it. If it came all at once, he'd break his heart and mine. Which would be most unnecessary. I had to risk that, of course.”
“But——” Sandy began.
“Now, don't argue,” she interrupted gently. “I teach children all day long, and that's quite trial enough. Besides that, I have to work in the evenings, so I'm tired. We'll quarrel another time.”
“What,” began McGrab again, “what were ye doing in the theater last night?”
She frowned, and then smiled in recollection.
“Oh, that's a little extra. He”—with a nod at the curate—“he doesn't know. He wouldn't approve, but I want to make all the money I can to help—later on. I'm dresser to Miss Mary Eliot.”
“Miss Eliot!” He sat up. It must be regretfully admitted that from that moment Sandy McGrab forgot all moral scruples. He leaned forward with flushed countenance and shining eyes. “D'ye reelly ken Miss Eliot?” he asked, awe-struck.
“Rather. Do you?”
He nodded.
“We met, up at Kirkhumphries,” he said—jerked out.
“When she was staying with Sir John?”
Sandy McGrab's eyes twinkled.
“She said so,” he assented solemnly.
“Then—then you're Sandy McGrab!” the girl exclaimed.
He rose to his feet. He felt suddenly very strong and well. If the good name of McGrab had penetrated to this benighted city, there was hope for every one concerned.
“I'm Sandy McGrab,” he said.
The next instant his hand was warmly clasped in a very small one.
“I've heard of you,” she said. “Miss Eliot told me. She was very angry with her partner one night, and she came into the dressing room and said she wished she had her Scotchman to act Romeo for her. He was the oddest, nicest, big person, with the reddest hair she had ever seen. I wonder I didn't recognize you.” She laughed up at him. “But she said you could act better than any man alive,” the girl added gravely.
Sandy McGrab nodded.
“I've come up to act Romeo for her,” he explained. He did not mention the marriage proposition. He felt that it might not be quite delicate. “But they wouldna let me see her,” he remarked instead.
His companion hesitated. Then her face lit up.
“I shall see her to-night. Shall I say—Sandy McGrab's come?”
“Will ye reelly?”
“Because you've been so decent to me!” she said gayly.
He squeezed her hand. He put a great deal of unconscious strength into his clasp, but the girl never winced.
“Ye're a strange, wee bit of a woman,” he said. “I canna pretend to understand about the windows, but I'm thinking the meenister is a lucky man for a' that. And—and I'm glad about last night.”
“Are you? You dear, lawless Scotchman!”
“I'm no lawless,” said Sandy, “but I'm glad.”
Ten minutes later he ran lightly down the flight of narrow stairs that had seemed so endless the night before. It is wonderful what hope and a good breakfast can do for a man. As Sandy McGrab pulled open the front door, he fancied that the pompous person in the rabbit hutch had already tendered him a humble apology, and that the loveliest woman in the world was holding out her hands in welcome. “So you've come, Sandy McGrab!” she was saying, when some one caught him sharply by the shoulder.
“Now then, young man,” said a voice. “You come along with me!”
Sandy McGrab turned. As he saw the blue-coated figure beside him, he made a determined endeavor to shake himself free. He was very angry.
“I am moving on,” he said fiercely. “Can a man no walk out of a door without ye lay hands on him?”
Constable X 28 smiled broadly.
“None of your larks, Scottie. I saw yer. I've been waiting for yer orl night. Yer a nice chap, aren't ye, breaking windows! You'll get two months for it, you will! 'Ere, mate!”
Apparently from nowhere, a second representative of the law sprang up on Sandy McGrab's other side. They laid hold of him with a professional zeal that made resistance painful. Sandy McGrab glanced from one stony face to the other, then at the closed door. His own face had gone white, and his jaw was tight set.
“So ye saw me?” he asked.
“With me own eyes,” said Constable X 28.
“Aweel, ye hae keen sight for an Englishman,” said Sandy. “I'll come along.”
“You'd better,” returned the constable pleasantly.
They marched down all the most-populated thoroughfares, with a crowd of urchins and sight-seers at their heels. A small boy who pranced after the procession shrieked, “Suffragette in disguise!” with raucous glee, and a passing bus conductor made a caustic comment on kilts that brought a flush of scorn to McGrab's set face. But he walked proudly, head erect. Already, as in a vision, he saw the consternation of Kirkhumphries, his name and disgrace written large in the local paper; he saw the loveliest woman in the world turn from him without recognition, the box-office person sneer triumphantly, and the doors of fame slam to forever. Who ever heard of Romeo doing two months hard for window smashing?
They entered Bow Street police station, three of them amicably linked together, and the crowd was left disappointedly behind. A tired-looking inspector sighed and drew up a charge sheet.
“Another of them?” he said wearily. “Name?”
For a moment the temptation to save a great family from dishonor almost triumphed. Sandy shook it from him.
“I'm Sandy McGrab,” he said, “fra Kirkhumphries.”
“Cell five,” said the inspector. “You'll come up this afternoon.”
That was all. The unfeeling informality of it all was almost stunning. For an hour Sandy McGrab sat in his cell with his face in his hands and tried to understand it all. None of his clan had ever been in prison, sheep-stealing having always been considered an honorable pastime; and here he was, the last of his race, in a low English police station. Yet he regretted nothing. There was the curate, hanging over the mantelshelf, and the sweet-faced girl whom the curate loved, and their respective hearts in deadly danger of breakage. If Sandy McGrab told the truth, it would be all over with everything. The curate's ideal would be wrecked, and the girl would lose her work, and every one would be miserable. Whereas, if Sandy McGrab held his tongue, no one would ever know. True, the world would lose a great actor and a certain lady a devoted husband, but, he supposed wistfully, both would get over the loss. At this point, Sandy McGrab had a lump in his throat. To save himself from the unmanly weakness, he drew out a shabby little volume from an inner pocket. He opened it at random.
“Farewell, a long farewell to a' me greatness,”
recited McGrab with passionate feeling
“This is the fate of man; to-day he puts forth
The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms,
And bears his blushing honors thick upon him;
The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,
And, when he thinks, good easy man, full surely
His greatness is a-ripening—nips his root,
And then he falls, as I do——”
The door of the cell swung open
“You come along now, Scottie,” said a warder gruffly. “And don't you make more of that noise than you can help or you'll get an extra month. Out with you!”
McGrab drew himself up with a sigh.
“Puir Shakespeare!” he said. “It must be an awfu' thing to be born a poet and an Englishman. Lead on, MacDuff.”
“And no names, either!” said the warder suspiciously.
They traversed the long passages in silence. McGrab's heart beat fast, and there was a kind of blur before his eyes as he was shot out of a demi-obscurity into a dingy room full of solemnly clad, dingy-looking people. The only consolation was that he seemed to occupy the central position. A nicely dressed gentleman opposite him talked a good deal under his breath—as did everybody. It seemed to Sandy that it was a rule that anything said had to be repeated two or three times over very slowly and monotonously. Finally Constable X 28 made his appearance in a pulpitlike arrangement at McGrab's left.
“You were on duty on the night of the twelfth?” asked a pompous person in the well of the court.
“Yes, sir.”
“You saw the defendant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What was he doing?”
“He was throwing stones at the windows,” said Constable X 28 glibly.
Sandy McGrab groaned in spirit.
“Did you pick up one of the stones?”
“I didn't, sir. I pursued the prisoner.”
“He eluded you?”
“Until this morning. I saw 'im come out of the 'ouse. There ain't two like 'im in london.”
Some one tittered. McGrab drew himself up with a lionlike poise of the head. The magistrate coughed.
“Have you any questions to ask the witness, defendant?”
McGrab remained silent, his gaze fixed stoically in front of him. Another cough.
“A most clear and disgraceful case. I have not the slightest hesitation in passing the severest sentence——”
There was a sudden commotion in the court, a scuffle, above which a woman's voice rang out clearly. Sandy McGrab swung round. At the same instant he became aware that there were people seated in the pewlike seats to his right. Two of them had not been there before. He recognized them in a flash, though for the first moment it seemed to him that they could be only the reflections of his thoughts. There was the curate, white-faced and gloomy-eyed, and beside him, richly furred, a lady. Her veil was turned back. To Sandy she was more lovely than he had dreamed her. He leaned forward, and their eyes met, and his whole life hung in the balance.
“Sandy McGrab!” she said gently, and smiled upon him.
“Silence!” said the usher.
“I shall have the court cleared!” said the magistrate.
“Juliet!” cried Sandy McGrab triumphantly.
They could not turn the prisoner out, so they left him, and he turned again to the witness box. but his whole bearing had changed. A miracle had happened. She was there. She had heard of his ruin and disgrace, and she had not disowned him. She had smiled upon him. And behold! the dingy police court was a paradise.
“Ye can do what ye like——” he began and broke off. Constable X 28 had disappeared; and in his place was the girl with the fair hair.
“It's very sweet of you, Mr. McGrab,” she said, “but I couldn't allow it—I couldn't really——”
“You maun say nothing,” McGrab interrupted earnestly. “I dinna care care what happens, lassie——”
“Silence!” said the magistrate.
“But I care!” said the girl bravely. “I won't let any one suffer for my sake.” She turned to the bench. “I came along as soon as ever I could,” she went on. “It was I who broke the window, and I can prove it. It wasn't a stone. It was a sardine tin with a—a cover round it—and 'Votes for Women' written on it—and if you look, you'll find it in the area.”
“And what,” said the magistrate, looking severely at McGrab, “has this—eh—person to do with it?”
“Nothing.” She also smiled on McGrab. “He didn't know anything about it. He—was just a friend.”
“He ought to have given you in charge.” But thereafter the magistrate stared at Constable X 28 and Constable X 28 stared into the crown of his helmet. “The defendant is dismissed,” said the magistrate.
Sandy McGrab turned blindly to the entrance of the dock. But there he paused and looked back. The girl was still smiling bravely, but he thought there were tears in her eyes.
“Don't you worry, Mr. McGrab,” she said. “I'm all right—and you're a gentleman——”
“And—you're another,” said Sandy McGrab.
“Order!” proclaimed the usher.
Sandy McGrab walked out of the police court in triumph. The curate walked on his one side, and the lady in the furs on the other. The tip of her gloved fingers rested on his arm.
“It was my little dresser who told me all about it,” she said. “She came to me first, and so I went with her. Will you see me to my carriage, Mr. McGrab?”
He nodded speechlessly.
“And you'll come and see me one day?” she asked.
“When I've made me name,” said McGrab.
She smiled a little. As he wrapped the carriage rugs around her, she bent down to him.
“I came to see my little dresser through,” she said, “but I also wanted to see McGrab. I'd known him as Romeo and the laird up at Glen Every—do you remember?—and I wanted to see what he was like in real life——”
He looked up.
“And?”
“I think our little suffragette was right—he's a gentleman,” she said softly.
The carriage rolled away, and the curate and McGrab were left standing on the curb. The curate passed his handkerchief over his forehead.
“Women are strange creatures!” he said. “I'm no so sure of them as I was.”
“It maun be a hard blow for ye,” said McGrab.
“It is that. I couldna believe my gentle lassie would do such a thing.” Suddenly his eye brightened. “But—damn it all!” he said explosively. “It was the honorable, plucky thing she did. I'll no go back on her!”
“If ye did——” Sandy McGrab began fiercely, “and if she'd have me”—he glanced after the disappearing carriage—“and if me affections were no engaged already——” he added.
The curate nearly smiled.
“I'm much obliged to ye for the suggestion, Mr. McGrab,” he said, “but I'll no run the risk. For I'll marry her mysel' when she comes out.”