I. A. R. Wylie

“ He's a great actor, for all his absurdities—you know it as well as I do. You're asking me to sell my professional integrity, my very soul as a man of letters——”
Derwent burst out laughing.
“Did he consider his professional integrity when he told you your play was rubbish, just because it didn't give him a 'star' part?”
Meredith uttered a stifled exclamation.
“If that were true——”
“You can be sure it is true. It's each man for himself, and the devil take the hindermost—in our profession as in every other.” ”

“ 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 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. ”

“ The fact that the season's favorite, Sandy McGrab, was acting, and that nothing was known either of the play or of its nameless author, had added an unusual interest to this particular first night. Rolf Derwent occupied a stall on Meredith's right, and the two men exchanged a curt greeting.
“You've sharpened your claws well, I hope,” Derwent whispered. “It's your big chance. Make him and the whole thing ridiculous. You can if you want to. You know what the dear British public is—it waits for some one else to make up its mind for it.” ”

“ Meredith, you wrote good plays once.”
“Yes, years ago. I was fresh and young, then. Now I am old—old in work, and worn out. And I'm married. That makes a difference. Literary men shouldn't marry. Women don't understand.” He laughed, with a note of his first angry cynicism. “Some of them don't understand even their own affairs. And they hamper one—God knows how they hamper one!”
Sandy McGrab smiled.
“Not all,” he said.
“Perhaps not. May you keep your illusions longer than I have kept mine. That is my best wish.”
He picked up his manuscript, and, with a curt bow, turned to the door. ”

“ And suddenly it flashed upon him that it was not alone Sandy McGrab that enthralled him, but the play. It was a great play—a rough-hewn block taken from life itself. All that was genuine in him—the true artist's admiration for art and inspiration—responded to it. But he knew that his power of destruction had been redoubled.
“It's a great success or a great failure,” Derwent commented, as the curtain fell on the last act. “It's too good for popularity unless the press backs it. And if you give the lead——”
Meredith rose to his feet: There were cries of “Author!” ”

“ Sandy McGrab lay back in his chair, and built castles in the glowing embers of the fire. It must be confessed that he forgot all about Antony and Will Shakespeare. He skipped three months of his life, and carried himself and a much-loved lady to a little Highland village, where every one, from the laird downward, turned out to welcome them. He transported the whole party into the familiar kirk, and was actually rehearsing the marriage service when the door opened again.
“If you please, sir,” said James apologetically, “there's a lady to see you. She says she has a message from Miss Eliot. ”

“ Mary Eliot laughed.
“That was really quite pretty, and most delicately expressed. As a reward, we will defer rehearsals for the present. Let me look at next week's program instead.” She bent forward and took the proofs out of his hand, holding them at a distance for a critical inspection. Then she read aloud:
“The Avonia Theater. Tuesday, February first, Mr. Hadley presents 'Antony and Cleopatra.' Cleopatra—Miss Mary Eliot. Antony—Sandy McGrab—— “Oh, my dear, how dreadful and incongruous it does sound! Why wouldn't you let yourself be called Reginald Vernon, or something pretty like that?” ”

“ Miss Eliot drew her furs over her shoulders
“I suppose I shall have to go. An hour is rather a long time to keep the poor, dear thing in a bitter east wind. Who is the visitor, Sandy McGrab?”
“Alec Meredith. Ye maun hae heard of him. He wrote grand plays once, but now he's tired out—finished. He gave me a play of his to read and pass on to Hadley.”
“I see.” She looked at him mockingly. “I suppose he thought if the public swallowed Sandy McGrab, Scotch accent and all, it would swallow anything. What's your verdict?” ”

“ There's Rolf Derwent, for instance——”
Sandy McGrab smiled a contemplative recollection.
“Mon, I think I settled with Rolf Derwent.”
“Yes, yes, no doubt. But, anyhow, he's a scamp no decent man would deal with. At the same time, I warn you——”
“And I thank you for the warning. But it willna make the play a good one, Mr. Meredith.”
The tense look of eagerness died out of Meredith's eyes, his clenched hands relaxed.
“No, no, of course not. I was only explaining my own fears, as it were. One gets to suspect the best and most honest of men. ”

“ He glanced up quickly. “It's the same with you, Mr. McGrab. You have your enemies, like the rest of us. The public adores you, but there are men who'd be glad to tear you headlong from your high place. ”