His face turned white. He pulled his soft hat a little over his eyes and looked fixedly at me.
"Well, Heather, speak. You—you're no coward."
"I don't think I am. It began first in this way," I said. "It was something Lady Mary said; these were her words. She said: 'You are, of course, aware of the fact that Hawtrey must have loved you beyond the ordinary love of an ordinary man when he made up his mind to take as a wife the daughter of Major Grayson?'"
"So he must; that's true enough, Heather."
"Father, oh, father! Do you think I listened to those words tamely? I said: 'My father is the best man in all the world.' Lady Mary looked at me; at first she was angry, then a softened expression came over her face. She said: 'You poor little girl!' and then she said: 'Have you never suspected why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple?' Oh, father, it was after those words I came here, for I was determined to find out, and to-day—oh, my own Daddy, I did find out! I asked Aunt Penelope."
"She told you—my God! she told you!"
"She did, but I don't believe it—it isn't true."
"Give me your hand, Heather."
I gave it. I had some little difficulty in doing so, for a cold, icy, terrible doubt was flooding my mind, flooding my reason, flooding my powers of thought.
"Keep it up," said my father to me. "Be brave, right on to the end. Tell me what she said. You are my daughter and—once I was a soldier; tell your soldier father what she said."