Beloved Stranger

by Grace Livingston Hill

  And there were the bride and groom. One could scarcely expect them to enjoy this performance. Sherrill cast them a furtive glance. The bride was a game little thing. She was holding her head high and conversing bravely with all those chattering bridesmaids, who kept surging out of line to get a word with her. And Carter, well, Carter had always been able to adjust himself to his surroundings pretty well, but there was a strained white look about him. Oh, whatever he might have felt for either of his prospective brides, it was scarcely likely that he was enjoying this reception. It was most probable that he would give all he possessed to have a nice hole open in the floor and let him and his Arla through out of sight.

  So Sherrill drew a deep breath, summoned a smile, and greeted Mrs. Battersea, sweeping up in purple chiffon with orchids on her ample breast.

  “Now, Sherrill, my dear,” said the playful lady, “what does this all mean? You’ve got to give us a full explanation of everything.”

  “Why, it was just that we thought this would be a pleasant way to do things,” smiled Sherrill. “Don’t you think it was a real surprise? Mrs. Battersea, do let me introduce my friend Mr. Copeland of Chicago. Oh, Mrs. Reamer, I’m so glad you got well in time to come!”

  Suddenly Sherrill felt a thrill of triumph. She was getting away with it! Actually she was! Mrs. Battersea had been not only held at bay but also entirely sidetracked by this new young man introduced into the picture. She closed her mouth on the question that had been just ready to pop out and fixed her eyes on Copeland, a new fatuous smile quickly adjusted, as she passed with avidity to the inquisition of this stranger. Here was she, the first in the line, and it was obviously up to her to get accurate information concerning him and convey it as rapidly as possible to the gathering assembly. Sherrill could see out of the corner of her eye this typical Battersea attitude, even as the guest put up her lorgnette to inspect the young man. She felt a pang of pity for her new friend. Did he realize what he was letting himself in for when he promised to stand by her through this? Oh, but what a help he was! How his very presence had changed the attitude that might have been, the attitude of pity for a cast-off bride! And, too, he had brought in an element of mystery, of speculation. She could see how avidly Mrs. Battersea was drinking in the possibilities as she approached.

  But Sherrill drew another breath of relief. The young man by her side would be equal to it. She need not worry.

  And there, too, was Aunt Pat! She would not let the first comer linger too long with the new lion of the occasion.

  Even with the thought, she heard the woman’s first question and saw Aunt Pat instantly, capably, if grimly, take over the Battersea woman. Whether Aunt Pat was going to forgive Sherrill afterward or not for making such a mess of the beautiful stately wedding which she had financed, she would be loyal now and defend her own whether right or wrong. That was Aunt Pat.

  Yes, those two could be depended upon.

  And then came Mrs. Reamer, fairly bursting with curiosity, and Sherrill was able to smile and greet her with a gracious merriment that surprised herself, and then interrupt the second question with, “Oh, but you haven’t met my friend Mr. Copeland of Chicago yet. Graham, this is Mrs. Reamer, one of our nearest neighbors.”

  The Hayworths and Buells were mercifully pressing forward, eager to get in their questions, and Sherrill thankfully handed over Mrs. Reamer to Copeland, who dealt with her merrily. So with a lighter heart and well-turned phrases she met the next onslaught, marveling that this terrible ordeal was really going forward so happily, and presently she began to feel the thrill that always comes sooner or later to one who is accomplishing a difficult task successfully.

  She was strained, of course, like one who pilots a blimp through the unchartered skies for the first time perhaps, yet she knew that when she got back to earth and her nerves were less taut, there was bound to be a reaction. Just now the main thing was to keep sailing and not let anyone suspect how frightened and sick at heart she really was, how utterly humiliated and cast out she felt, with another bride standing there beside the man who was to have been her husband. And he smiling and shaking hands, and overall conducting himself as if he were quite satisfied. She stole a glance at him now and again between handshakes and introductions, and perceived that he did not appear greatly distraught. His assurance seemed to have returned to him; the whiteness was leaving his lips, and his eyes were no longer deep, smoldering, angry fires. He really seemed to be having a good time. Of course he, too, was playing a part, and there was no telling what his real feelings were. Equally of course he was caught in the tide of the hour and had to carry out his part or bolt and bear the consequences of publicity of which she had warned him. She remembered that he had always been a good actor.

  But there was another actor in the line who utterly amazed her. Arla, the bride, filled her part graciously, with a little tilt triumphant to her pretty chin, a glint of pride in her big blue eyes, an air of being to the manor born that was wholly surprising. There she stood in borrowed bridal attire, beside a reluctant bridegroom, wearing another girl’s engagement ring, and a wedding ring that was not purchased for her, bearing another girl’s roses and lilies, standing under a bower that did not belong to her; and yet she was carrying it all off in the most delightfully natural way. To look at her, one would never suspect that an hour ago she had been pleading with her lover to run away with her and leave another girl to wait in vain for him at the church. Well, perhaps she deserved to have her hour of triumph. She certainly was getting all she possibly could out of it. One would never suspect to look at her that she was a girl who had threatened just a little while before to kill herself. She looked the ideal radiant bride.

  Sherrill’s eyes went back to the face of her former lover for just an instant. It was lit with one of his most charming smiles as he greeted one of his old friends.

  How she had loved that smile! How like a knife twisting in her heart was the sight of it now! Every line of his face, every motion of his slim white hand, the pose of his fine athletic body, so familiar and so beloved, how the sight of them suddenly hurt her! He was not hers anymore! He belonged to another girl! Her mind and soul writhed within her as the thought pierced home to her consciousness with more poignancy than it had yet done. He belonged to another!

  But there was something worse than even that. It was that he never really had been what she thought him. There never had existed the Carter McArthur whom she had loved, or all this could not have happened.

  For an instant it all swept over her how terrible it was going to be to face the devastation in her own life after this evening was over.

  Then more people swarmed in, and she put aside her thoughts and faced them with a frozen smile upon her face, wondering why everybody did not see what agony she was suffering. She must not look at him again, not think about him, she told herself breathlessly as she faced her eager guests and tried to say more pleasant nothings.

  At last there came a lull in the stream of guests, and Copeland turned to her confidentially, a cheerful smile upon his lips, but a graver tone to his voice: “I’m wondering what you’ve done about the license. Anything? It might make trouble for all concerned if that’s not attended to tonight before they leave. I don’t know what your law is in this state, but I’m sure it ought to be looked into right away. I’m a lawyer, you know, and I can’t help thinking of those things.”

  Sherrill turned a startled face toward him.

  “Mercy, no! I never thought of it. We had a license, of course. Wouldn’t that do?”

  He shook his head slightly.

  “I’m afraid not. Do you know where the license was gotten? If we could get hold of the man—”

  “Yes, I went along. But the office would be closed tonight, wouldn’t it?”

  “I suppose so. Still, if we knew the man’s name, he might be willing, if there were sufficient inducement, to come over here at once and straighten things out for us.”

  “Oh, that would be wonderful! Perh
aps he’d come for twenty-five dollars, or even fifty. I’d offer him fifty if necessary. It would be dreadful to have that kind of trouble.”

  Her eyes were full of distress.

  “There, don’t look so troubled,” he said, putting on his grin again. “Remember you’re a good little sport. This can all be straightened out, I’m sure. If you could just give me a clue to find that man. You don’t know his name, I suppose?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Sherrill eagerly. “His mail was brought in while we were there, and I saw the name on the letters. Afterward, too, somebody called him by it, so I am sure it was he. The name was Asahel Becker. I remembered it because it was so strange. Maybe we could find it in the telephone book. But would he have his stamps and papers and seals and things? Could he get them, do you think, if we offered him enough?”

  “It’s worth trying. If you will tell me where I can telephone without being heard by this mob, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “There’s a phone in the back of the hall under the stairs, but I’ll go with you, of course.”

  “No, please, if you are willing to trust me, I think I can handle this without you. You have been taking an awful beating, and this is just one thing you don’t need to do. Just give me the full names, all three. Here, write them on the card so I won’t make a mistake, and then you stay right here and don’t worry! If I need you, I’ll come for you.”

  He gave her a reassuring smile and was gone. Sherrill found she was trembling from head to foot, her lips trembling, too. She put up an unsteady hand to cover them. Oh, she must not give way! She must snap out of this. She must not remember yesterday when she went joyously to get that license—and how her beautiful romance was all turned to dust and ashes!

  Just then the three elderly Markham sisters hovered in sight, moving in a body, fairly bristling with question marks and exclamation points, and she had plenty to do again baffling them, with no Copeland there beside her to help.

  But blessed Aunt Pat turned in to help and soon had drawn the attention of all three.

  “And this other bride,” said the eldest sister, Matilda by name, leveling her gaze on Arla as if she were a museum piece and then bringing it back to Aunt Pat’s face again. “Did you say she was a relative, too? A close relative?”

  “Yes, in a way,” said Aunt Pat grimly, “but not so close. Quite distant, in fact. It’s on the Adams side of the family, you know.”

  Sherrill gasped softly and almost gave a hysterical giggle, just catching herself in time.

  “Indeed!” said Miss Markham, giving the bride another glance. “I wasn’t aware there were Adamses in your family. Then she’s not a Catherwood?”

  “Oh no!” said Aunt Pat with pursed lips. “In fact”—and her voice sounded almost like a chuckle—“the relationship was several generations back.”

  “Ohh!” sighed the inquisitor, lowering her lorgnette and losing interest. “Well, she seems to be quite attractive anyway.”

  “Yes, isn’t she? Now let me introduce you—”

  But suddenly Sherrill saw Copeland coming toward her, and her eyes sought his anxiously.

  “You must be desperately tired,” he said in a low tone as he stepped into the line beside her. “Couldn’t we run away outside for just a minute and get you into the open air?”

  “Oh yes!” said Sherrill gratefully. “Come through here.”

  She led him to the long french window just behind the line, open to the garden terrace, and they stepped out and went down the walk, where pale moonlight from a young moon was just beginning to make itself felt.

  “It’s all right,” he assured her comfortingly, drawing her arm within his own. “He’ll be here shortly with all his paper and things. He didn’t want to do it at first, but finally snapped at the bait I offered him and promised to be here within the hour. Now, had you thought where we can take him?”

  “Yes,” said Sherrill, “up in that little room where you dressed. That is quite out of the way of all guests and”—she stopped short in the walk and looked up at her escort with troubled eyes—“we’ll have to tell them—the bride and groom—won’t we?” Her gaze turned back toward the house anxiously. He could see how she was dreading the ordeal.

  “Not yet,” he said quickly, “not till our man comes. Then I’ll just give the tip to the best man to ask them to come upstairs. You leave that to me. I’ll attend to it all. You’ve had enough worry.”

  “You are so kind!” she murmured, beginning to walk along by his side again.

  He laid his hand gently over hers that rested on his arm.

  “I’m glad if I can help. And by the way, I told this Mr.

  Becker to come to the side entrance and ask for me, and I took the liberty of asking the butler to keep an eye out for him and let me know at once.”

  “Oh, thank you,” she said. “I don’t know what I should have done without you!”

  “I am honored to be allowed to help,” he said, glad that she had not taken away her hand from his touch, although he was not quite sure she was aware of it, she seemed so distraught. “As far as I am concerned,” he went on brightly, “if it weren’t that you are taking such a beating, I’d be having the time of my life!”

  Sherrill gave him a quick convulsive laugh that seemed very near to tears.

  “Oh, if it weren’t all so very terrible,” she responded wistfully, “I’d think it was almost fun, you’re being so splendid!”

  “You’re a brave girl!” said Copeland almost reverently.

  They had reached the end of the garden walk.

  “I suppose we ought to go back in there,” said Sherrill with a little shiver of dislike. “They’ll be wondering where we are.”

  They turned and walked silently back a few steps, when suddenly a bevy of young people broke forth hilariously from the house, swinging around the corner from the front piazza and evidently bound for the garden.

  “Oh!” said Sherrill, shrinking back. “We’ve got to meet them!”

  “Isn’t there someplace we can hide for a minute until they have passed?” asked Copeland with a swift glance at their surroundings. “Here, how about this?” and he swung aside the tall branches of privet that bordered the path around the house and the hedge.

  Sherrill stepped in and Copeland after her, and the branches swung together behind them, shutting them in together. There was not much space, for it happened that the opening in the hedge had been near the servants’ entrance door, and the hedge curved about across the end, and at the other end it rose nearly twelve feet against the end of the side piazza where they had come out. It made a little room of fragrant green, scarcely large enough for them to stand together in, with the ivy-covered stone wall of the house behind them.

  There in the sweet semidarkness of the spring night, where even frail new moonlight could not enter except by reflection, and with only a few stars above, they stood, face-to-face, quietly, while the noisy throng of guests trooped by and rollicked down to the garden.

  Sherrill’s face was lifted slightly and seemed a pale picture made of moonlight, so sweet and sad and tired and almost desperate there in the little green haven. Copeland, looking down suddenly, put out his arms and drew her close to him, just as a mother might have drawn a little troubled child, it seemed to her. Drew her close and held her so for an instant. She let her head lie still against his shoulder, startled at the sweetness that enwrapped her. Then softly she began to cry, her slim body shaking with the stifled sobs, the tears coming in a torrent. It was so sweet to find sympathy, even with a stranger.

  Softly he stooped and kissed her drenched eyelids, kissing the tears away, then paused and looked down at her reverently.

  “Forgive me!” he said tenderly in a low whisper. “I had no right to do that—now! I’m only a stranger to you! But—I wanted to comfort you!”

  She was very still in his arms for a moment, and then she whispered so softly that he had to bend to hear her: “You aren’t a stranger, and—you do—comfo
rt me!”

  Suddenly above their heads there arose a clatter inside the window of the butler’s pantry.

  “Quick, get those patty shells! The people are coming out to the dining room. We must begin to serve!”

  Dishes began to rattle, trays to clatter; a fork fell with a silvery resonance. The swinging door fell back and let in another clatter from the kitchen. Hard cold facts of life began to fall upon the two who had been so set apart for the moment.

  “We must go back at once!” said Sherrill, making hasty dabs at her eyes with her scrap of lace handkerchief.

  “Of course,” said Copeland, offering a large cool square of immaculate linen.

  Then he took her hand and led her gravely out into the moonlight, pulled her arm possessively through his, and accommodated his step to hers.

  When they came to the long window where they had escaped a few minutes before, he looked down at her.

  “Are you all right?” he asked softly.

  “All right!” she answered with a brave little catch in her breath, and smiled up at him.

  He still held her hand, and he gave it a warm pressure before he let her go. Then they stepped inside the room and saw the end of the long line of guests progressing slowly down the hall and Aunt Pat hovering behind them, looking this way and that, out the front door, and into the vacated library. It was evident she was looking for Sherrill, for as they came forward her brow cleared, and she smiled a relieved smile and came to meet them.