The Beloved Stranger - By Grace Livingston Hill Page 0,10
out the service drive, and whirled away to the church.
She threaded her way between the big cars parked as far as she could see either way from the church. Could she manage to get hidden somewhere before the service really began?
Breathlessly she drove her car into a tiny place on the side street, perilously near to a fire hydrant, and recklessly threw open her door. The police would be too busy out in the main avenue to notice perhaps, and anyway she could explain to them afterward. Even if she did have to pay a fine, she must get into that church.
A hatless young man in a trim blue serge suit was strolling by as she plunged forth from her car, and fortunately, for she caught the heel of her shoe in the billowy taffeta that was much too long for driving a car, and would have gone headlong if he had not caught her.
“I beg your pardon,” he said pleasantly as he set her upon her feet again. “Are you hurt?”
“Oh no!” said Sherrill, smiling agitatedly. “Thank you so much. You saved me from a bad fall. I was just in a terrible hurry,” and she turned frantic eyes toward the looming side of the church across the street. The young man continued to keep a protective arm about her and eye her anxiously.
“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked again. “You didn’t strike your head against the running board?”
“No!” she gasped breathlessly, trying to draw away. “I’m quite all right. But please, I must hurry. I am late now.”
“Where do you want to go?” he asked, shifting his hand to her elbow and taking a forward step with her.
“Over there”—she motioned frantically—“to the church. I must get in before the ceremony begins.”
“You ought to wait until you get your breath,” he urged.
“I can’t! I’ve got to get there!” and she tried to pull away from him and fly across the street. But he kept easy pace with her, helping her up to the curb.
“Don’t you want to go around to the front door?” he said as she turned toward the side entrance.
“No!” she said, her heart beating so fast that it almost choked her. “This little side door. I want to get up to the choir loft.”
“Well, I’m coming with you!” he announced, fairly lifting her up the steps. “You’re all shaken up from that fall. You’re trembling! Can I take you to your friends? You’re not fit to be alone.”
“I’m—all—right!” panted Sherrill, fetching a watery smile and finding the tears right at hand.
“Don’t hurry!” he commanded, circling her waist impersonally with a strong arm and fairly lifting her up the narrow winding stair that led to the choir loft. “You’ve plenty of time. Don’t you hear? Those are the preliminary chords to the wedding march. The bride must be just at the door! Take it slow and easy!”
They arrived at the top of the stair in an empty choir loft. It was a church of formal arrangement, with the organ console down out of sight somewhere and the choir high above the congregation, visible only when standing to sing, and then only to one who dared to look aloft.
The whole quiet place was fully screened by plumy palms, and great feathery tropical ferns, and not even a stray from the street had discovered this vantage point from which to watch the ceremony. They had it all to themselves. No curious eyes could watch the face of the agonized bride-that-was-to-have-been.
Sherrill nestled in wearily against the wall behind the thickest palm, where yet she could peer through and see everything. She thanked her unknown friend pantingly with a hasty fervor, and then forgot he was still beside her.
Breathlessly she leaned forward, looking down, catching a glimpse of the bridegroom as he stood tall and handsome beside the best man, a smile of expectancy upon his face. Her bridegroom, watching for her to come! Her heart contracted and a spasm of pain passed over her face. She mustn’t, oh, she mustn’t cry! This wasn’t her wedding! This was something she must nerve herself to go through. This was something tragic that must move aright or all the future would be chaos.
Then she remembered and her eyes turned tragically, alertly, down the aisle to the front door, her hand unconsciously pressed against her heart in a quick little frantic motion.
Yes, the bride had arrived! Of course she might have known that or the wedding march would not be ringing out its