JOAN HASTE by H. RIDER HAGGARD (e reader comics TXT) 📕

"As you may guess, a marriage thus entered into between two people so dissimilar in tastes, habits and education did not prove successful. For a month or so we were happy, then quarrels began. I established her in lodgings in London, and, while ostensibly carrying on my business as a land agent here, visited her from time to time. With this, however, she was not satisfied, for she desired to be acknowledged openly as my wife and to return with me to Bradmouth. I refused to comply--indeed, I dared not do so--whereupon she reviled me with ever-increasing bitterness. Moreover she became furiously jealous, and extravagant beyond the limit of my means. At length matters reached a climax, for a chance sight that she caught of me driving in a carriage with another woman, provoked so dreadful an outburst that in my rage and despair I told her a falsehood. I told her, Joan, that she was not really my wife, and had no claim upon me, seeing that I had married her under a false name. This in itself was true, for my own name is not Levinger; but it is not true that the marriage was thereby invalidated, since neither she nor those among whom I had lived for several years knew me by any other. When your mother heard this she replied only that such conduct was just what she should have expected from me; and that night I returned to Bradmouth, having first given her a considerable sum of money, for I did not think that I should see her again for some time. Two days afterwards I received a letter from her--here it is," and he read it:--

"'George,

"'Though I may be what you call me, a common woman and a jealous scold, at least I have too much pride to go on living with a scoundrel who has deceived me by a sham marriage. If I were as bad as you think, I might have the law of you, but I won't do that, especially as I dare say that we shall be best apart. Now I am going straight away where you will never find me, so you need not trouble to look, even if you care to. I haven't told you yet that I expect to have a child. If it comes to anything, I will let you know about it; if not, you may be sure that it is dead, or that I am. Good-bye, George: for a week or two we were happy, and though you hate me, I still love you in my own way; but I will never live with you again, so don't trouble your head any more about me.

"'Yours, "'Jane ----?

"'P.S.--Not knowing what my name is, I can't sign it.'

"When I received this letter I went to London and tried to trace your mother, but could hear nothing of her. Some eight or nine months passed by, and one day a letter came addressed to me, written by a woman in New York--I have it here if you wish to see it--enclosing what purports to be a properly attested American certificate of the death of Jane Lacon, of Bradmouth in England. The letter says that Jane Lacon, who passed herself off as a widow, and was employed as a housekeeper in a hotel in New York, died in childbirth with her infant in the house of the writer, who, by her request, forwarded the certificate of death, together with her marriage ring and her love.

"I grieved for your mother, Joan; but I made no further inquiries, as I should have done, for I did not doubt the story, and in those days it was not easy to follow up such a matter on the other side of the Atlantic.

"A year went by and I married again, my second wife being Emma Johnson, the daughter of old Johnson, who owed a fleet of fishing boats and a great deal of other property, and lived at the Red House in Bradmouth. Some months after our marriage he died, and we came to live at Monk's Lodge, which we inherited from him with the rest of his fortune. A while passed, and Emma was born; and it was when her mother was still confined to her room that one evening, as I was walking in front of the house after dinner, I saw a woman coming towards me carrying a fifteen-months' child in her arms. There was something in this woman's figure and gait that was familiar to me, and I stood still to watch her pass. She did not pass, however; she came straight up to me and said:--

"'How are you, George? You ought to know me again, though you won't know your baby.'

"It was your mother, and, Joan, /you/ were that baby.

"'I thought that you were dead, Jane,' I said, so soon as I could speak.

"'That's just what I meant you to think, George,' she answered, 'for at that time I had a very good chance of marrying out there in New York, and didn't want you poking about after me, even though you weren't my lawful husband. Also I couldn't bear to part with the baby; though it's yours sure enough, and I've been careful to bring its birth papers with me to show you that it is not a fraud; and here they are, made out in your name and mine, or at least in the name that you pretended to marry me under.' And she gave me this certificate, which, Joan, I now pass on to you.

"'The fact of the matter is,' she went on, 'that when it came to the point I found that I couldn't marry the other man after all, for in my heart I hated the sight of him and was always thinking of you. So I threw him up and tried to get over it, for I was doing uncommonly well out there, running a lodging-house of my own. But it wasn't any use: I just thought of you all day and dreamed of you all night, and the end of it was that I sold up the concern and started home. And now if you will marry me respectable so much the better, and if you won't--well, I must put up with it, and sha'n't show you any more temper, for I've tried to get along without you and I can't, that's the fact. You seem to be pretty flourishing, anyway; somebody in the train told me that you had come into a lot of money and bought Monk's Lodge, so I walked here straight, I was in such a hurry to see you. Why, what's the matter with you, George? You look like a ghost. Come, give me a kiss and take me into the house. I'll clear out by-and-by if you wish it.'

"These, Joan, were your mother's exact words, as she stood there in the moonlight near the roadway, holding you in her arms. I have not forgotten a syllable of them.

"When she finished I was forced to speak. 'I can't take you in there,' I said, 'because I am married and it is my wife's house.' She turned ghastly white, and had I not caught her I think that she would have fallen.

"'O my God!" she said, 'I never thought of this. Well, George, you won't cast me off for all that, will you? I was your wife before she was, and this is your daughter.'

"Then, Joan, though it nearly choked me, I lied to her again, for what else was I to do? 'You never were my wife,' I said, 'and I've got another daughter now. Also all this is your own fault, for had I known that you were alive, I would not have married. You have yourself to thank, Jane, and no one else. Why did you send me that false certificate?'

"'I suppose so,' she answered heavily. 'Well, I'd best be off; but you needn't have been so ready to believe things. Will you look after the child if anything happens to me, George? She's a pretty babe, and I've taught her to say Daddy to nothing.'

"I told your mother not to talk in that strain, and asked her where she was going to spend the night, saying that I would see her again on the morrow. She answered, at her sister's, Mrs. Gillingwater, and held you up for me to kiss. Then she walked away, and that was the last time that I saw her alive.

"It seems that she went to the Crown and Mitre, and made herself known to your aunt, telling her that she had been abroad to America, where she had come to trouble, but that she had money, in proof of which she gave her notes for fifty pounds to put into a safe place. Also she said that I was the agent for people who knew about her in the States, and was paid to look after her child. Then she ate some supper, and saying that she would like to take a walk and look at the old place, as she might have to go up to London on the morrow, she went out. Next morning she was found dead beneath the cliff, though how she came there, there was nothing to show.

"That, Joan, is the story of your mother's life and death."

"You mean the story of my mother's life and murder," she answered. "Had you not told her that lie she would never have committed suicide."

"You are hard upon me, Joan. She was more to blame than I was. Moreover, I do not believe that she killed herself. It was not like her to have done so. At the place where she fell over the cliff there stood a paling, of which the top rail, that was quite rotten, was found to have been broken. I think that my poor wife, being very unhappy, walked along the cliff and leaned upon this rail wondering what she should do, when suddenly it broke and she was killed, for I am sure that she had no idea of making away with herself.

"After her death Mrs. Gillingwater came to me and repeated the tale which her sister had told her, as to my having been appointed agent to some person unknown in America. Here was a way out of my trouble, and I took it, saying that what she had heard was true. This was the greatest of my sins; but the temptation was too strong for me, for had the truth come out I should have been utterly destroyed, my wife would have been no wife, her child would have been a bastard, I should have been liable to a prosecution for bigamy, and, worse of all, my daughter's heritage might possibly have passed from her to you."

"To me?" said Joan.

"Yes, to you; for under my father-in-law's will all his property is strictly settled first upon his daughter, my late wife, with a life interest to myself, and then upon my lawful issue. /You/ are my only lawful issue, Joan; and it would seem, therefore, that you are legally entitled to your half-sister's possessions, though of