who was then twenty years of age.  Though I had little besides my profession, she had money, and we were going to be married.  The circumstances under which the marriage was broken off were as follow:—­Three days before the wedding was to take place I went unexpectedly to the house, and was told by the servant that Miss Heston was upstairs in her sitting-room.  I went upstairs to the room, which I knew well, knocked and got no answer.  Then I walked into the room, and this is what I saw.  Your aunt was lying on the sofa in her wedding dress (that is, in half of it, for she had only the skirt on), as I first thought, asleep.  I went up to her, and saw that by her side was a brandy bottle, half empty.  In her hand also was a glass containing raw brandy.  While I was wondering what it could mean, she woke up, got off the sofa, and I saw that she was intoxicated.”

“It’s a lie!” said Edward excitedly.

“Be careful what you say, sir,” answered the Colonel, “and wait to say it till I have done.”

“As soon as I realised what was the matter, I left the room again, and going down to your grandfather’s study, where he was engaged in writing a sermon, I asked him to come upstairs, as I feared that his daughter was not well.  He came and saw, and the sight threw him off his balance, for he broke out into a torrent of explanations and excuses, from which in time I extracted the following facts:—­It appeared that ever since she was a child, Miss Heston had been addicted to drinking fits, and that it was on account of this constitutional weakness, which was of course concealed from me, that she had been allowed to engage herself to a penniless subaltern.  It appeared, too, that the habit was hereditary, for her mother had died from the effects of drink, and one of her aunts had become mad from it.

“I went away and thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that under these circumstances it would be impossible for me, much as I was attached to your aunt, to marry her, because even if I were willing to do so, I had no right to run the risk of bringing children into the world who might inherit the curse.  Having come to this determination, which it cost me much to do, I wrote and communicated it to your grandfather, and the marriage was broken off.”

“I do not believe it, I do not believe a word of it,” said Edward, jumping up.  “You jilted her and drove her mad, and now you are trying to shelter yourself behind a tissue of falsehood.”

“Are you acquainted with your grandfather’s handwriting?” asked the Colonel quietly.

“Yes.”

“Is that it?” he went on, producing a yellow-looking letter and showing it to him.

“I believe so—­at least it looks like it.”

“Then read the letter.”

Edward obeyed.  It was one written in answer to that of Harold Quaritch to his betrothed’s father, and admitted in the clearest terms the justice of the step that he had taken.  Further, it begged him for the sake of Julia and the family at large, never to mention the cause of his defection to any one outside the family.