"Vernon, what do you mean?"

"I will tell you. Now you stay quite quiet and listen. Are you aware of the fact--perhaps you are not--that that dear Lady Helen, that precious stepmother of yours, has a brother who was in the army?"

"Has she?" I asked. "I didn't know."

"Well, I happen to be aware of the fact. He was a good-for-nothing, if anyone was in all the world. His name was Gideon Dalrymple. Surely your father has sometimes spoken to you about Colonel Dalrymple?"

"Never," I said.

"Well, it doesn't greatly matter; you're not likely to hear a great deal about him in the future--he is the sort of person whose history people shut up; but before that time comes I--have some work to do in connection with that same excellent officer in His Majesty's army."

"Stop!" I said suddenly. I bent forward and looked into his eyes; my own were blazing with excitement, and my cheeks must have been full of colour.

"Vernon, I recall a time, it comes back to me. I went unexpectedly into a room where my father and stepmother were seated. I saw my darling father in a rage, one of the few rages I have seen him in since his marriage. I heard him say to her: 'Your brother will not enter this house!' Can he be the same man?"

"Beyond doubt he is. Well, now, I will tell you that when I first knew you I also knew, as did most people who were acquainted with your father, something of his story. I knew that he had gone through a time of terrible punishment; that he had been cashiered; that he was supposed to have committed a very heinous crime--in short, that he was the sort of person whom no upright soldier would speak to."

"Yes," I said, trembling very much; "that is what one would think, that is what I said in my letter. Only you understand, Vernon, that I am on his side--he and I bear the same shame."

"Little darling, not a bit of it. There's no shame for you to bear. But let me go on. You remember that day when I met you in Hyde Park?"

"_The_ day?" I said.

"_The_ day, Heather. You and I walked back to the house in Hanbury Square together. You were sent out of the room. I had a long talk with your stepmother and with your father--no matter now what was said. I was beside myself for a time, but I made up my mind then that whatever happened I'd woo you and win you and get you and keep you! Something else also haunted me, and that was the fact that your father, Major Grayson, was not in the least like the sort of man I had expected him to be. I have, Heather, I believe, the power of reading character, and if ever there was a man who had a perfectly beautiful, honourable expression, if ever there was a man who could _not_ do the sort of thing which Major Grayson had been accused of doing, that man was your father.

Before I left the house I was as certain of his innocence as I was of my own."

"You darling!" I said. I stooped and kissed his hand.

"Then I thought of you, and I said to myself: 'She's Major Grayson's worthy daughter,' and--I gave myself up to thinking out this thing.

People can go to the British Museum, Heather, and can read the newspapers of any date, so I went there on the following morning and read up the whole of your father's trial. I read the evidence for and against him, and I discovered that there was a great deal of talk about a Gideon Dalrymple--the Honourable Gideon Dalrymple, as he was called.

He was mixed up in the thing. I went farther into particulars, and discovered that this man was the brother of Lady Helen. I sat and thought over that fact for a long time. I took it home to my rooms with me and thought it over there; I thought it over and over and over, but I could not see daylight, only I was more and more certain that your father was innocent.

"Then I got your letter, and that letter was just enough to stir me up and to make me wild, to put me into a sort of frenzy. So at last I said to myself: 'There's nothing like bearding the lion in his den,' and one day, quite early in the morning, I called at the house in Hanbury Square. I asked to see Lady Helen Dalrymple, and as I stood at the door a boy came up with a telegram. The telegram was taken in, and I was also admitted, for I gave the sort of message that would cause a woman of her description to see me. She was in her boudoir, and she came forward in a frenzy of distraction and grief, and said: 'What do you want? Go away! I am in dreadful trouble; I won't see you--it's like your impertinence to come here!'

"'I won't keep you long,' I said. 'I want to get at once from you Colonel Gideon Dalrymple's private address, for I have something of the utmost importance to talk over with him.'

"'What?' she screamed. 'You can't see him--you can't possibly see him.

He's very ill. I've just had a telegram from a nursing home where he is staying. I am on my way to see him myself. My poor, poor brother!'

"'Oh, then, if he is ill, of course he'll confess,' I said. 'I may as well go with you. He has got to confess, sooner or later, and the sooner he does it the better.'"

"Vernon! You said _that_ to her?"

"Yes, Heather; I said all that."

"Oh, you had courage. But what did you mean?"

"I knew quite well what I meant. I had gathered a few facts together from those papers, and I meant to put the screw on when I saw the victim. Was not I working for home, and love, and wife? Was I likely to hesitate? Was I not working for a good man's honour? What else is a soldier worth if he can't make the best of such a job as I had set myself?

"Well, the long and short of it was this, Heather. That woman got as meek as a mouse. I put the screw on her right away, and she was so frightened she hardly knew what to do; so terrified was she that in less than ten minutes I could do anything with her, and in a quarter of an hour she and I were going in her motor-car to the home where the Honourable Gideon was lying at the point of death, owing to a fresh attack of his old enemy, D.T. We both saw him together, and the moment I looked at his face I said to myself: 'You're the boy; you have got the ugly sort of face that would be capable of doing that sort of low-down, mean thing.'

"Afterwards I saw him alone; I put the screw on at once, but quite quietly. The doctor had said that he couldn't possibly recover, and I said that it would be much better for him to ease his conscience. So he did ease it, with a vengeance. He was in such a mortal funk at the thought of dying that he told me the whole thing. It was he who forged the cheque and took the money, and he and Lady Helen between them got your father to bear the brunt of the blame--in short, to act as the scapegoat. You see, your father was half mad about Lady Helen then, and she could do anything with him: he was badly in debt, too, and half off his head with trouble. Your father spent ten years in penal servitude, and all for the sake of a woman who was not worth her salt. It was arranged between them that he was to save her brother, and that she would marry him and take his part, and give him of her enormous wealth when he came out of prison. It was a nicely-arranged plan, and why he ever yielded to it is more than I can make out; but guilty--he was never guilty.

"When that precious Gideon had told his story, I got in proper witnesses and had it all written down, and he put his signature to it, and I had that signature witnessed. After that I did not bother much about him; he died in the night.

"I went to Lady Helen next day, and told her what was to be expected. I said: 'Your husband's honour has to be cleared.' She was in an awful funk, but I did not care. I never saw anyone in such a state; I don't know what she did not promise me. She said I might marry you, and welcome, and that she'd settle ten, or even twenty thousand pounds on you. As if either of us would touch a farthing of her money! But in the end your father himself came to the rescue, and said that if you knew he was innocent, and I knew he was innocent, he was accustomed to the opinion of the world, and he would be true to Lady Helen as long as he lived. It was quixotic of him--much too quixotic; but there, that's how things stand. Oh, of course, I forgot--your Aunt Penelope is to know, and we may be married as soon as ever we like--to-morrow by special licence, if we can't wait any longer, but anyhow as soon as possible.

There, little Heather. Now, haven't I a right to kiss you? And what nonsense you did talk in your sweet little letter, your precious letter, which I will keep, all the same, until my dying day!"

Vernon put his arm round me, and I laid my head on his shoulder. My first sensation was one of absolute peace. Oh! my light and happy heart!

Oh! my father--my hero once again!

CHAPTER XX

Certainly Vernon's story was the most amazing that any girl had ever listened to. Notwithstanding my great joy I could not take it all in at once. The first time of telling seemed to have little or no effect on me, except that it lightened my heart in a most curious manner of a load which was almost insupportable. I sprang suddenly to my feet.

"Will you come out with me?" I said. "Shall we go up on the Downs, and will you tell me there the whole story from beginning to end over again?"

He smiled and said, in his bright way:

"All right, little Heather."

I flew upstairs. Aunt Penelope was moving about in her room, but I would not go to her. I felt somehow that I could not meet her just yet, and she, dear old thing, must have guessed my feelings, for she did not attempt to trouble me. I put on my hat and jacket, s.n.a.t.c.hed up my gloves, and ran downstairs. Vernon was waiting for me. How tall he was, and broad, and how splendidly he carried himself!

"Oh, Vernon," I said, looking into his face, "I am so proud that you are a soldier!"

He laughed.

"Thank you very much indeed, little Heather," he said.

When we got out he drew my hand through his arm, and we went up to the beautiful Downs. We sat on the heather and he told me the story over again; I took it in much better this time. When it was quite finished I said:

[Ill.u.s.tration: "We sat on the heather and he told me the story over again."]

"And father--what is to become of father?"

"I'm afraid he'll have to go on living with Lady Helen," was Vernon's answer. But I shook my head.

"No," I said; "not at all. I have a better scheme than that. Lady Helen is very much frightened, isn't she, Vernon?"

"A 'blue funk' doesn't even describe her," replied Vernon.

"Well, then," I said, "I have a plan in my head. You and I will go up to London to-morrow." "I am quite agreeable, Heather--that is, if it causes you to hurry on our wedding day."

"Oh, there's time enough for our wedding day," I said. "We mustn't be selfish, you know, Vernon."