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5. V.
Alice Huntington had been dead six months, when
once more a letter came to the Rector of Eversley
from Joanna. This time the chirography was hurried
and irregular, as if written by one who was suffering
much. It ran thus:
“Ralph Huntington, you are free now—come to me.
I summon you by the memory of your dead father
and mother, both of whom loved me. I summon you
by the love you yourself have so many times breathed
into my ears. The barrier is removed. Joanna
Montford is an actress no longer, but—she is dying.
Come to me at once. Wait a day, and it may be too
late. Oh, Ralph, I have loved you with a love that is
stronger than life. If it gives me any claim on you,
come to me.”
The rector traveled all night. The next morning
he stood in Joanna's presence. In a stately room,
surrounded by every luxury, she lay, but the shadow
of death was on that polished brow. She had well
said—“Strong hearts break sometimes.”
“You have come,” she said, the hectic flush deepening
on her cheek; “I knew you would—I expected
you. The drama is almost over. Soon the curtain
will fall. I wanted one last scene. Clasp me in your
arms now; kiss me. I tell you I am an actress no
longer, and your canonicals wont suffer. I want to
see how the kiss will thrill my dying lips for which
my living ones have longed so vainly.”
He obeyed her. He clasped her to his heart; he
could scarcely have helped it had his eternal birthright
depended upon it. He kissed her many times.
And then she spoke. This time her voice was not
mocking, not scornful, but earnest, pleading, thrilling,
in its tones of supplication:
“Now, Ralph, you will marry me. The doctor says
I have not more than three hours to live, and I am
going to be your wife before I die. It was for this I
sent for you.”
The Rector of Eversley turned pale.
“I can not, Joanna—I can not. My wife has been
dead but six months.”
“But you were true to her while she lived. Have
I not suffered enough for her already? You married
her, in the first place, more for her sake than for your
own, and now you must marry me, not for my sake
only, but for the dear old love. Listen, Ralph. I am
not an actress. That barrier is gone. All my pride
is gone with it. It is your Joanna—your poor, proud,
to be your wife three short hours. Then I will die,
Ralph, and not trouble you any more.”
He was vanquished. A groan burst from his lips.
“It shall be as you say, my own first love. Oh,
Joanna, God knows I would have you live! Oh, if
my arms could shelter you! if my love could save
you!”
She smiled sadly.
“It is too late now; but we must lose no time.
There is a clergyman in the next room. I got all
things ready. I knew you would come. I knew I
should be your wife.”
Her look was bright and triumphant. In a few
moments more the nuptial benediction had been pronounced,
and the two were left again alone.
She put her arms around his neck; she drew his
head down upon her pillow, and then she said, while
her whole face seemed to glow with the fullness of
content,
“There, Ralph, I am your wife. I had faith—I always
knew this day would come some time. I am
dying, but that matters little. My wild heart is at
rest. Love me, Ralph, love me.”
And he did love her. Into the lap of those two
hours he lavished the hoarded love of a lifetime. She
died in his arms, lifting to his the fading glory of her
eyes, clinging to his neck, murmuring his name. Her
life had been an ovation at the shrine of her ambition
—her death was a sacrifice to her love.
Doubly sorrow-stricken, the Rector of Eversley bore
home the dead body of his second wife. She was laid
in the church-yard, with a few feet of ground between
months before the man they had both loved, grown
prematurely old and grief-stricken, laid off, at last, the
worn-out armor with which he had fought his Battle
of Life, and went to his long sleep between his two
wives. Whose shall he be in the resurrection?
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