“Oh! this is too much,” said Henry. “Either you are mistaken, Joan, or we are all living in a web of lies and intrigues.”
“I do not think that I am mistaken.” Then briefly, but with perfect clearness, she repeated to him the story that Mr. Levinger had told her on the previous night, producing in proof of it the certificates of her mother’s marriage and of her own birth.
“Why, then,” he burst out when she had finished, “this old rogue has betrayed me as well as you! Now I understand why he was so anxious that I should marry his daughter. Did she know anything of this, Joan?”
“Not a word. Do not blame her, Henry, for she is innocent, and it is in order that she may never know, that I have repeated this story to you. Look, there go the proofs of it—the only ones.” And taking the two certificates, she tore them into a hundred fragments and scattered them to the winds.
“What are you doing?” he said. “But it does not matter; they are only copies.”
“It will be difficult for you to find the originals,” she answered, with a sad smile, “for I was careful that you should see neither the name of the parish where my mother was married, nor the place of the registration of my birth.”
“I will get those out of him, he said grimly, nodding his head towards the house.
“If you care for me at all, Henry, you will do nothing of the sort—for your wife’s sake. I have been nameless so long that I can well afford to remain so; but should Lady Graves discover the secret of her birth and of her father’s conduct, it would half kill her.”
“That is true, Joan; and yet justice should be done to you. Oh! was ever man placed so cruelly? What you have said about the money is just, for it is Emma’s by right, but the name is yours.”
“Yes, Henry; but remember that if you make a stir about the name, attempts will certainly be made to rob your wife of her fortune.”