The Beloved Stranger - By Grace Livingston Hill Page 0,31
Everything, I said. We’re hungry as bears. Neither of us ate as much as a bird while that mob was here. No, you needn’t worry, Gemmie; it won’t hurt me this time of night at all. I’m as chipper as a squirrel, and if I’ve stood this evening and all the weeks before it, I certainly can stand one good meal before I sleep. The fact is, Gemmie, things have come out my way tonight, and I don’t think anything could very well hurt me just now.”
“Yes, ma’am!” said Gemmie with a happy glance toward Sherrill.
A general air of good cheer pervaded Aunt Pat’s room when Sherrill, in her old robe of shell pink satin with blue butterflies fluttering over it, and her comfortable old slippers with the lamb’s wool lining and pink feather edges, arrived and was established in a big stuffed chair at one side of the open fire. Aunt Pat, with her silver hair in soft ringlets around her shoulders, sat on the other side of the fire robed in dove-gray quilted silk.
Gemmie brought two little tables and two heaping trays of food, and left them with the lights turned low. The firelight flickered over the two, the young face and the old one.
“Now,” said Aunt Pat, “who is he?” Sherrill looked up, puzzled.
“The other one, I mean. You certainly picked a winner this time if I may be permitted a little slang. He seems to be the key to the whole situation. Begin with him! Where have you been keeping him all this time? And why haven’t I been told about him before? Is he an old schoolmate, to quote Mrs. Battersea, and how long have you known him?”
“I haven’t!” said Sherrill with a sound of panic in her voice.
“You haven’t?” asked her aunt with a forkful of chicken salad paused halfway to her mouth. “What do you mean, you haven’t? You certainly seemed to know him pretty well, and he you.”
“But I don’t, Aunt Pat. I don’t really know him at all.”
“But—where did you meet him?”
“On the street.”
“On the street! When?”
“Tonight.”
“Mercy!” said Aunt Pat with a half grin. “Explain yourself. You’re not the kind of girl that goes around picking up men on the street.”
“No!” said Sherrill with a choke of tears in her voice. “But I did this time. I really did. At least—he says he picked me up. You see, I fell into his arms!”
“Mmmm!” said Aunt Pat, enjoying her supper and scenting romance. “Go on. That sounds interesting.”
“Why, you see, it was this way. I parked my car in a hurry to get up into the gallery, and when I went to get out, I caught my toe in one of those long ruffles, or else I stepped on it; anyway, I fell headlong out on the pavement. Or at least I would have if this man hadn’t been there and caught me. I guess I was so excited I didn’t really realize that I was pretty well shaken up. Perhaps I struck my head; I’m not sure. It felt dizzy and strange afterward. But he stood me up and brushed me off and insisted on going across the road with me. I guess I must have been unsteady on my feet, for when he found I wanted to go upstairs to the gallery, he almost carried me up, and he was very nice and helpful. He took that note down to you and then got me a drink of water.”
“Hmm!” said Aunt Pat with satisfaction. “He’s what I call a real man. Nice face! Makes me think of your father when he was young. I couldn’t make out how you’d take up with that little pretty-face McArthur nincompoop after seeing a man like this one.”
“Why, Aunt Pat!” said Sherrill in astonishment. “I never knew you felt that way about Carter! You never said you did!”
“What was the use of saying? You were determined to have him. But go on. How did this Graham fellow get up here, and how did he get to calling you by your first name, and you him?”
“Well, you see, I slipped out just before the ceremony was over. He said I wasn’t fit to drive; he’d either drive himself or get some friend if I said so. But I was in a hurry so I let him drive. I wasn’t thinking about formalities then. I knew I ought to get back home quickly. Anyhow, he was so respectful I knew he was all right.”