University of Virginia Library

2. II.

Three years after, the name of Rev. Ralph Huntington,
Rector of Eversley, appeared in the list of arrivals
at the Globe Hotel. It was afternoon, and the rector
sat alone in his room, gazing listlessly into the fire.
He had come up to London with no business, no settled
purpose; driven by an impatient longing to see, or
at least to hear, something of Joanna. In the past
three years he was fearfully changed. He was only
thirty-one, but he looked ten years older than that.
There were already silver threads among the curling
rings of his brown hair. His face was thin, his figure

slightly bent, and his blue eyes wore a look sad, yet
steadfast, as of one who has no more to hope from life.

There was a tap upon his door—then a waiter entered,
placed a letter in his hand, and retired. What was
there in that bold, yet delicate chirography of the superscription
to bring such a sudden crimson to his pale
cheek, to make his fingers tremble so as he broke the
seal? Inside there were but a few lines, which said,

“Go to-night to the Princess's Theatre, Rev. Ralph
Huntington; look well to the stage, and you will see
Joanna. Such contact will not tarnish your holy cloth
for once, and it is your only chance of seeing her whom
I know, as well as if you had told me, you seek in
London.”

That was all—no date, no signature, no clew to her
abode. Those, his parishioners, his brother clergymen,
who thought Ralph Huntington such a calm, saintly
man, so far above all the passions of earth, would not
have comprehended the emotion which, for the first
moment, seemed to paralyze all the faculties of his being;
which, the next, caused him to press that sheet
of paper to his lips; then to sink upon his knees, murmuring
a woman's name in tones of adjuration, of reproach,
of entreaty; which made him pray to God
such prayers for strength as are only borne upward,
from our hearts to our lips, by tide-waves of sorest
trouble.

That mocking, half-derisive letter was answered as
Joanna knew well that it would be. When she went
upon the stage that night Ralph Huntington's face was
one of the first to meet her eye. What shall I say of
her acting? She was determined to convince him
that she had not mistaken her vocation. She played

as she had never played before. Again and again the
house rang with applause, and every time her eye
sought his, as if in his presence was the crowning glory.

Not once was his gaze removed from her face. In
the intervals of her acting, when her features were
in repose, he noted her most keenly. To him, the
face whose changes he had watched from childhood
revealed a history. She had triumphed, but she had
also suffered. Her cheek was a shade thinner, her
figure the least in the world less rounded and symmetrical.
But there was something gone which he
valued more than bloom and symmetry—her faith in
the world, her trust, her unconsciousness of sin. In
her actual life he knew she was blameless. He had
confidence no less in her principles than in her love—
the memory-spell which would link her to him, to the
pure atmosphere of her early home. And yet the delicate
green was gone from the leaf, the primrose tint
from the blossom. He read this, alas! too plainly in
the expression of habitual scorn which sat on her
mouth whenever it was in repose. Her love, too, that
had changed. Perhaps it had not grown less strong,
but it was less active: she had put it under the feet
of her ambition. Even now, when they had not met
for three years, there was more of triumph than tenderness
in the glance she cast upon him. And yet
the passion which time had no power to conquer rose
up in his heart and struggled once more for the mastery.
He was sore beset by a frantic impulse to give
up his ministry, his religion; to cast himself at her feet,
and pray her to be his wife. But in that hour he shut
his eyes and sent his soul forth in prayer. Strength
came from heaven, as manna to the fainting Israelites

of old. Before the play was over he arose and went
calmly forth.

He made no farther effort to see or communicate
with Joanna save a note directed to her theatrical
name and address. Inside it simply said,

“Joanna, will not this life weary you some time?
When it does, Eversley Rectory is open for your return,
and so is your brother's heart. Come back, at
any time, when you so will. No mother's arms ever
welcomed returning child more gladly than I will welcome
you. I have looked into your face to-night.
You are triumphant, but not happy. May God keep
you safely, and bring you back before you die.”

That was all. The next morning the Rev. Ralph
Huntington left London and set out for his living of
Eversley.