Before Leo von Heydeck returned to his apartments he took a long walk
in the park. He wished to be alone to hold communion quietly with
himself, that he might come to a decision with regard to his future
conduct. He knew that he had arrived at a crisis in his career.
Forced, against his inclination, by a stern father, Colonel von
Heydeck, to embrace the military profession, he had, notwithstanding,
become reconciled to it during the war with France, which he had
entered into with patriotic enthusiasm, and in which he had greatly
distinguished himself.
Esteemed and beloved by his comrades, he had never before now found
himself in a position either to send or to receive a challenge. He had
always considered duelling as a savage relic of mediaeval barbarism; but
the insult offered him intentionally in the presence of numerous
witnesses, by Herr von Bertram, was certainly cause sufficient, if any
such could exist, to justify the savage practice.
As he slowly sauntered along the secluded alleys of the park he weighed
and pondered every argument for and against his yielding in this case
to military prejudice. He had a hard struggle with himself to undergo,
but by the time he reached his home he had made up his mind,--he would
be true to his convictions and yield no jot to public opinion.
On the stairs he met his servant who surprised him with the
intelligence that Colonel von Herwarth was in his apartment, where he
had awaited him for a quarter of an hour.
Colonel von Herwarth, the commander of his regiment? What did this
visit portend? Had he heard already of the scene at Buechner's?
Leo paused for an instant, and his heart beat undeniably faster. He
foresaw that the ensuing conversation with the man who was alike his
superior officer and his paternal friend would be of great importance
to him; he must be perfectly prepared before it began. Once more he
passed in mental review the reasons for the resolution he had taken. He
never wavered; for the first time in his life an opportunity was
offered him to step forward boldly and frankly in vindication of a
principle. Firm in his purpose to do so he entered the room.
The colonel had not found the time spent in his young officer's room
long. He had been much interested in what he found there, where there
was nothing except the weapons, arranged upon a wall with an eye for
artistic effect, to remind one that this was the abode of a soldier.
The apartment might rather have been taken for a scholar's study or an
artist's studio.
One side of the room was entirely covered with book-shelves, the
contents of which would hardly have tempted the lovers of light
reading, and the writing-table was loaded with books and papers in true
scholarly disorder; while quantities of sketches in oil, framed and
unframed, occupying every available spot upon the walls, and a large
easel in the centre of the room, upon which was an unfinished picture,
betrayed the artist.
Before this picture, a portrait of a beautiful girl, the colonel was
standing, attentively surveying it, when Leo entered. The dress was
only sketched in, but the face was nearly finished; at least so the
colonel thought, as he admired the delicate features and the glorious
black eyes that seemed to gaze into his own.
Leo's entrance aroused him from its contemplation; he turned and held
out his hand. "I have been awaiting you for some time, Herr von
Heydeck," he said; "but I do not regret the quarter of an hour spent
here, since it has given me an opportunity of admiring your artistic
skill. I knew you were fond of the brush, but I had no idea that you
had reached such a pitch of perfection in the art. What a brilliant
sketch this is! I am sure I have seen that face somewhere. Who is she?
I surely know that girl."
"Scarcely, I think, colonel," Leo replied, unable to conceal a certain
embarrassment. "It is but a daub,--just begun, and not at all like. You
never would recognize the original from seeing this thing."
"And yet--and yet--I surely remember having seen that, young girl
somewhere."
"Probably some chance resemblance, colonel. There is no trace of
likeness in this portrait; it is only a slight sketch from memory. If I
had known that I was to have the honour of a visit from you, I should
not have left it upon the easel. Permit me to remove it."
He took the picture from the easel and leaned it with the face against
the wall,--the colonel shook his finger at him, with a smile: "You are
in a great hurry to hide it away. Have I, perchance, been indiscreet?"
"Not at all, colonel," said Leo, trying unsuccessfully to appear easy
and unembarrassed. "I do not know the lady at all. I met her once in
society, and hardly exchanged a couple of words with her."
"In spite of which she has made so profound an impression upon the
artist that he has painted a charming portrait from memory. But I will
not meddle with your secrets, my dear Heydeck, I have come upon other
and serious business. You will guess what it is when I tell you that my
nephew, Kuno, has been with me. He came to confide, not in Colonel von
Herwarth, but in his uncle; and so I come to you, my dear Heydeck, not
as your colonel and superior officer, but as your true friend, to
discuss this miserable matter in which Herr von Bertram's brutal
insults have entangled you. Give me your hand, Heydeck; I trust you are
convinced that I have your welfare at heart!"
"I certainly am, colonel."
"And there is good reason why it should be so; not because you saved my
life at Gravelotte at terrible risk of your own,--that was your duty,
and I would have done the same in your place,--but because you are the
best officer in my regiment, and a fast friend to that feather-headed
nephew of mine, Kuno, whose admiration and affection for you prevent
his getting into many a scrape. You see my friendship for you is rather
selfish, but none the less genuine.
"To business, then! Kuno tells me that you have got into your head some
romantic and entirely incomprehensible ideas about the immorality of
duelling, and that in consequence you are in doubt as to calling out
Herr von Bertram. Is this true, my dear Heydeck?"
"Not quite, colonel. I am no longer in doubt; I have decided: I shall
not challenge Herr von Bertram."
The colonel, who had been pacing the room to and fro at Leo's side,
suddenly stood still. "The devil you won't!" he exclaimed. "Why, it's
worse than I thought! Kuno was right, then! Do you know the fate of an
officer who allows himself to be accused of dishonourable conduct?"
"I do, colonel, and therefore I am resolved to send in my resignation
immediately."
"Why, forty thousand dev---- No, no, I will not swear; I will
be calm. Only tell me, are you stark, staring mad? Send in your
resignation!--you, before whom there is the most brilliant career? You
must not! 'Tis impossible!"
"I must, colonel, and I rely upon your help in the matter, for this is
the only way in which mischief among my comrades can be prevented."
"But, deuce take it! why don't you send a bullet through that scoundrel
Bertram, as any other brave officer would do, and settle the matter
reasonably?"
"Because my principles forbid duelling. My mind is made up, colonel.
Pray do not attempt to shake my resolution, for I give you my word of
honour that I will not fight a duel."
"There it is!" cried the colonel, in despair. "All's over now! Unhappy,
misguided young man, what have you done?"
"My duty, colonel; I but fulfil a sacred obligation. You, at least,
will not believe that I am actuated by cowardice."
"Cowardice! You? I'll fight the man myself who accuses you of cowardice
in my presence. Your courage has been proved a hundred times in France,
as I can testify. No one can accuse you of cowardice,--that's not what
vexes me; but you can't stay in the service for all that! What would
become of the corps of officers if these cursed democratic ideas of
yours were to find acceptance among us? But you have declared upon your
honour that you'll not fight, and there's no use talking any more about
it. You must send in your resignation, and I'll see that it's accepted.
That's all I can do for you now. Sit down this moment and write it,
and I'll take it with me and attend to it."
Leo did so. While the colonel walked up and down the room, muttering
curses, not loud, but deep, upon the 'd----d democratic nonsense,' Leo
wrote his resignation, and handed it to his superior officer.
The colonel read the paper through. "It is all in order," he said, "and
shall be attended to. There is nothing else to be done now; but
confound that scoundrel Bertram! and deuce take me if I don't find some
way to reward him for his share in this business! I believe the dog
knew your craze about duelling. Did you ever mention your cursed
democratic ideas in his presence?"
"Of course he knows what my opinions are: we used to be friends."
"I thought so. The confounded coward could play the hero cheaply; but
I've not done with him yet. He shall find it no joke to have driven my
best officer from the service. But that will not bring you back again.
I see well enough that with your principles you had better resign. And
you had best leave K---- as soon as possible. Take a journey to get out
of the way of all the gossip and fuss there will be. I'll give you a
leave upon my own responsibility,--and goodbye. I can't help loving
you, my dear fellow, though you are such a d----d democrat; and if ever
you need a true friend, remember Oswald von Herwarth, who never will
forget you at Gravelotte."
The old officer cleared his throat violently, and indignantly winked
away a suspicious moisture from his eyes; then, pulling his cap low
over his forehead, he stamped down-stairs without one more word of
farewell.
Scarcely was Leo alone than he took up the picture which he had leaned
against the wall, replaced it upon the easel, stepped backwards from
it, and regarded it sadly. "So you send me out into the world!" he
murmured. "It is your revenge upon me for my cowardly words of you in
your absence; for it was cowardly so to do violence to myself. Your
punishment is hard, but just. Now that I dare once more to gaze into
the depths of those dark, girlish eyes, why are they not scornful and
angry, but sad and dreamy?"
He stood for a while so lost in thoughts of the few moments he had
spent in Eva's presence, and in contemplation of the picture, that he
did not hear the door behind him open.
An aged officer, leaning heavily upon a stout bamboo cane, entered the
room, and, standing still, gloomily surveyed the young man lost in
revery before the picture; then as he glanced at a mirror hanging on
the wall opposite the door, he saw reflected in its depths his own
image and his son's. He was startled; the astonishing likeness between
them, which he had never before admitted, struck him forcibly and
painfully at the moment.
"So like, and yet so different!" the old man thought, "Yes, he is my
son. I could not disown him if I would. My only son,--so like me,--and
that he should disgrace our name,--'tis maddening!"
He stood for a moment silently watching his son, and then struck the
floor violently with his bamboo cane. "Halloo, Herr Leo von Heydeck!"
he cried. "Colonel von Heydeck requests the honour of a few words with
you!"
Leo turned in surprise. "What, father, you here?" he asked. One glance
at his father's gloomy face told him plainly enough that the old man
was perfectly aware of the events of the last few hours, and had come
to call his son to account. Confused and annoyed, Leo bent his looks
upon the ground.
"You did not expect a visit from me?" the colonel asked,
contemptuously. "You had indeed no right to do so, for old Colonel von
Heydeck has never had anything to do with scoundrels!"
"Father!"
"Why, don't you like the word? I should not have thought you would
notice it! I have just seen the Herwarths, uncle and nephew, and I know
everything. 'Tis the second time a Heydeck has tamely borne such an
insult,--first my vagabond of a brother, and now you, my only son!"
The old man sat down, and continued: "I was on my way here to
remonstrate with you when I met your colonel; he told me you had
declared upon your honour that you would fight no duel, and that there
would be no use in anything I could say; that he had your resignation
in his pocket, and was going to attend to it. He spoke warmly in your
behalf,--my heart was touched by it; you have him to thank that I do
not bestow my curse upon you, as once I did upon my coward of a
brother, but that I am come to you to ask, 'What are you going to do
now?'" The old man looked about him in his son's room, to which this
was his first visit, and frowned, as he went on: "If you have one
single spark of affection for your old father do not disgrace our name
by a Heydeck's painting pictures for money. I know you will answer me
that you cannot live on air, or beg, or steal, and that I cannot
support you, since my pension barely suffices for my own wants. I know
this is what you will say, but I have a proposition to make. Leo, you
must marry!"
Certainly this proposition was the last that Leo expected from his
father. "I marry?" he exclaimed, with a side-glance at the easel.
"Never! How could I dream of it now when I am about to enter upon a new
life, in which the struggle for existence will be hard enough with only
one to provide for."
"All the more reason why this new life should never be sullied by any
occupation unworthy a nobleman," the colonel replied, quite unmoved by
his son's words, "Hear me quietly; we must understand each other, and I
have much to do to-day besides. Your colonel has promised that your
resignation shall find honourable acceptance. I myself will see to it
that Herr von Bertram does not go unpunished for an insult offered to a
Heydeck!"
"What do you mean, sir?"
"That's no affair of yours; you are not my guardian. If you claim a
right to publish your convictions in direct opposition to universal
opinion, I, old man as I am, surely have a right to do as honour bids
me. I shall do so, and shall see that the name of Heydeck is not
sullied; it is your part, as far as in you lies, to keep it clear from
stain."
"What do you require of me?"
"Before I tell you I must, that you may understand me, give you some
information concerning the past of a certain member of our family. You
know that I have a brother of whom I have never spoken to you; I am
going to do so now. We were two merry boys together,--Ferdinand two
years younger than I,--and we were very fond of each other, although we
were utterly dissimilar physically and mentally; he was a bookworm,
excellent at learning, while I was a wild, wayward fellow, fonder of my
rifle than of any book. When we left school he wanted to pursue his
studies, while I was bent on entering the army. Our father was a stern,
harsh man, and would not suffer any son of his to be a quill-driver.
All Ferdinand's entreaties, and even the tears of our mother, whose
favourite he was, were of no avail; he had to don the uniform. To the
last moment he implored my father not to force him to embrace a
profession which he hated, but my father contemptuously turned a deaf
ear, and did not even bid him good-bye when he left us, nor indeed did
I, for I was vexed with him for his womanish conduct.
"And so Ferdinand became a soldier, and the reports received of him
from his colonel, an old friend of my father's, were extremely fair. He
was no favourite in the corps of officers: he was too staid and grave,
he was even accused of miserliness, but he did his duty, soon became
ensign, passed a brilliant examination, and scarcely a year after
entering the service gained his epaulettes, while I was two full years
gaining mine.
"Several years went by; then we met on some great occasion. I had been
delighted with the prospect of seeing him, but I soon found that we
did not suit each other. He had grown more staid, I was wilder than
ever,--no two brothers could be more different. All our comrades said
so. I heard remarks of theirs about Ferdinand that made me furious, and
yet I could do nothing to contradict them, for there was no positive
expression of opinion in what was reported to me,--it mostly consisted
of vague sneers from which I drew the worst conclusions.
"Ferdinand was as unpopular as possible; the officers of his regiment
accused him of unsociability, and declared that instead of living with
them he was always shut up in his room, poring over his books, and that
he hoarded every penny of his pay. But they found fault with him
chiefly because he never took part in any social entertainment unless
he knew that gaming would form part of it. Play was his only passion;
his stakes were never large, although when he had a decided run of luck
he would play a little higher than usual, but then only with extreme
caution. It was owing to this caution that he won with great
regularity.
"My head used to spin when I heard my comrades talk of Ferdinand and
his never-failing luck at play, using expressions too vague to admit of
a reply, but easy enough to understand. I made up my mind to speak
frankly with him upon the subject, but before I could do so the
catastrophe occurred which separated us forever. One evening we were
both present at a gay gathering; Ferdinand knew that the thing would
close with play. A young officer of hussars, a Herr von Kleinschmidt,
kept the bank, and was unfortunate. He lost considerable sums and it
vexed him, but it irritated him still more that Ferdinand, whom he
could not bear, played with his usual caution and met with his usual
success. Every time Ferdinand won Herr von Kleinschmidt made some
cutting remark, and his observations were all the more bitter as
Ferdinand scarcely seemed to hear them. Others won far larger sums than
he, but he alone seemed to excite the venom of the angry bank-keeper;
he followed Ferdinand's play with suspicious eyes, and suddenly, when
Ferdinand had won several times upon the same card, the irritated
officer threw his cards upon the table.
"'So long as Herr von Heydeck plays I will not draw another card,' he
said, angrily; and then, with a contemptuous glance at Ferdinand, he
continued: 'I am not a gamester by profession, and am not sufficiently
skilful to enter the lists against a man who makes gaming his study and
knows well how to assist his luck. I hold such play dishonourable, and
the man who practises it guilty of dishonourable conduct.'
"This was followed by dead silence throughout the room. All eyes were
riveted upon Ferdinand, who stood by the card-table ghastly pale,
biting his lips. He replied not a word, but gathered in the money he
had won with a trembling hand and left the room. His comrades gave way
before him, seeming to avoid him as he passed out from among them.
"When I heard such disgraceful words applied to my brother I grew
almost wild with rage. I was on the point of rushing upon his insulter,
but a friend restrained me. 'You can do nothing, Heydeck,' he whispered
in my ear. 'Your brother's honour is lost if he leaves you to defend
it.'
"I saw that he was right. It was hard to bridle my fury, but I did it.
I followed Ferdinand, and overtook him near his lodgings. 'I am your
second,' I said to him.
"He made no reply, and, as I looked at him as we passed beneath a
street-lamp, I saw his lips quiver spasmodically; his cheeks were
ashen, his eyes without lustre; he looked fearfully.
"I went on talking to him, and asked him how I should word his
challenge, but still he did not answer me; and when we reached his
apartments he threw himself upon a lounge and sobbed like a child. My
brain reeled; I did not know what to think of his condition, for it
never occurred to me that fear, pitiable disgraceful cowardice, could
turn a Heydeck into a whining baby. I would not believe him when at
last he composed himself sufficiently to tell me, his teeth chattering
the while, that he could not fight,--could never summon sufficient
courage to stand in front of a loaded pistol. He was beside himself,
not with the thought of the insult that had been offered him, but with
fear!
"He was a coward, an infamous coward; he confessed it to me, and cried
like a child, cursing his father's harshness that had forced him to
enter the army against his will, and that now condemned him to
dishonour, for he could not fight.
"I stood as if turned to stone. I had never dreamed of the possibility
of such cowardice. I left him with contempt, and I have never seen him
since. The next morning I heard that he had sent in his resignation and
was gone; whither I did not learn until long afterwards."
The colonel paused in his story and bent his gaze gloomily upon the
ground. Memory was a greater pain to him than he cared to show.
For Leo his father's narrative possessed an absorbing interest. He had
frequently heard allusions made to the irreconcilable quarrel that had
existed for many years between his father and his uncle, but this was
all he had ever known concerning it. Now the veil was lifted from the
mystery; this explained the scorn and hatred with which the colonel
mentioned the name of his brother, who was now a wealthy man, living
somewhere in the Tyrol. But the story had produced upon Leo an effect
which the narrator never intended. The young lieutenant was firmly
convinced that his father had been mistaken. His uncle Ferdinand had
never refused to fight a duel from cowardice; it was impossible! Had he
not passed through the same struggle with himself which his uncle had
formerly undergone? Small as was the old colonel's comprehension of his
son's motives to-day, it must have been infinitely less with regard to
his brother's motives in his hot-headed youth. Would he not have
suspected Leo of cowardice if his colonel had not borne such
enthusiastic testimony to the young officer's bravery?
Leo was most desirous to hear the rest of the story, but he did not
venture to interrupt the old man's gloomy reverie. He sat silent until,
after a long pause, the colonel at last struck the floor violently with
his cane, and, lifting his head, said, in a loud, harsh voice, "What
good will thinking of it or regretting it do now? What is done is done,
and there's no help for it. The grave will not give up its dead. My
cowardly vagabond of a brother has burdened my soul with another's
blood! I can see him now, the handsome young fellow, curveting over
the field at a review, with his dolman fluttering gayly over his
shoulder,--and then it's all changed: I see only his pale face as he
lies dying with my bullet through his lungs. He forgave me; he knew I
could not help it. I could not endure that a Heydeck should tamely
suffer disgrace. With his dying breath he declared me a man of honour
whom he greatly esteemed, and he died in my arms.
"I can forgive Ferdinand everything but this, that he should have
forced me to shoot down that fine young fellow and rob a poor mother of
her only child! No, I can never, never forgive him! But enough of this;
I did my duty then, and I will do it again, only I hope the bullet this
time will not enter the youthful breast heaving with gay love of life,
but bring rest to the weary old cripple."
Leo would have interposed here, but his father gave him no opportunity,
and continued,--
"Let us finish this once for all. Do not interrupt me. I was sentenced
to one year's imprisonment. As soon as I was free again I hastened to
my father's death-bed. He gave me his blessing, and left his curse for
his unworthy son, whom he would have disinherited had he possessed
anything in the world save his honourable name. For a long time I heard
nothing of Ferdinand. After my father's death a letter arrived from
him; I never broke the seal, but returned it to him with, 'Unopened.
Hans von Heydeck,' written on the envelope. The letter bore the
official stamp of a Hungarian town. Some years afterwards a friend who
had been travelling in Hungary told me that he had met Ferdinand in
Pesth; that he was living there as tutor with a wealthy Hungarian
noble; and after several more years I learned that he had purchased
large estates in the Tyrol,--having become a very wealthy man by his
marriage with a rich tradesman's heiress; that his wife had died about
a year after her marriage in giving birth to a son, who had not long
survived his mother. Ferdinand, therefore, was the sole possessor of
great wealth, which, however, he did not seem to enjoy, as he lived the
life of a hermit in his lonely castle, which he left only for a few
weeks in the year, when his shattered health made a sojourn at one of
the baths desirable.
"My last indirect news of Ferdinand I had about ten years ago. He had
married some time before a very beautiful girl of an ancient and noble
family. This second wife, however, whom he was said to have loved most
devotedly, also died after a short time, leaving him an only child,--a
daughter. He had been inconsolable for her loss, and was leading a more
retired life even than before, scarcely ever leaving his castle,
Reifenstein. Buried in his books, he repelled all advances from his
neighbours, and was regarded in all the country round as a proud,
inaccessible aristocrat. He had become a Catholic, and observed with
great rigour all the duties and fasts of his church, although, in
accordance with a promise made to her Protestant mother, he brought up
his daughter in the Protestant faith.
"After this indirect intelligence, which I had some time since from a
friend visiting in the Tyrol, I heard nothing farther of my brother
until I received a letter from himself, about a week ago. At first I
was undecided whether to break the seal or to return it to him
unopened, as I had done by the first I had from him. At last I opened
it, and yet, after I had read it, I was more undecided than before. The
memory of the disgraceful past prompted me to burn it, while reason
bade me give it to you. Since I received it I have always carried it
about with me. Now I am glad that I did not burn it, since that has
happened which I never could have anticipated.
"I was convinced that an honourable career was assured to you; that,
without any outside aid, you would have attained the highest military
honours. All that is past. Here is your uncle's letter; read it
yourself."
Leo took the letter which his father handed him, and eagerly ran
through it. It was as follows:
"More than thirty years have passed since that miserable evening which
exiled me forever from my native country. Are you still implacable,
Hans? My first letter to you, begging your forgiveness, was returned to
me unopened. Will this one share the same fate? If it should, we are
parted forever. For humbled as is my pride I cannot, for the third
time, offer in reconciliation a hand that has been twice rejected. But
no; I know you will read these lines. These long years must surely have
softened your hard judgment. You will remember sadly, as I do, the
happy days of childhood, and no longer think with hatred and aversion
of the brother whom you once loved so tenderly.
"Let us now, as old men, Hans, forget what occurred in that wretched
night. Let us reflect that we, brothers, are the last of the noble race
of the von Heydecks, and resolve together to do what we can to revive
the half-extinguished lustre of our ancient name.
"Daring the thirty melancholy years which I have passed in exile,--by
my father's curse an outcast from my family,--the consciousness of
being a Heydeck has upheld me and saved me from much degradation to
which want might have compelled me.
"You can never dream of the suffering I brought upon myself by
refusing, as I did, to comply with a custom so long upheld by
aristocratic authority. All the wretchedness of my life has been the
consequence of the events of that night which drove me forth from my
parents,--from you and from my country. My punishment has been bitter!
"At first I became tutor in the family of a Hungarian magnate; then I
entered that of a wealthy banker. In this dependent position I was
subjected to humiliations of every kind. My blood boils now at the
remembrance of how I was forced to yield to the whims of others: to
humour dulness on the one side and intellectual superficiality on the
other. It was a terrible ordeal! After some years, I became acquainted
with a young and beautiful woman, the wealthy widow of a manufacturer,
who had left her all his property. Her beauty attracted me, her wealth
allured me! I was fearfully punished. She made my life a hell on earth.
"I Was foolish enough at the time of our marriage to allow myself to be
persuaded to sign a paper giving to her the entire right of disposal of
her property, and of bequeathing it as she chose in case of her death.
I had sold myself, and did not even receive the proceeds of the sale! I
actually believed that love would bend my wife's wishes to my will, and
went so far, in my devotion to my bride, as to change my faith for her
sake,--I became a Catholic!
"My punishment was sure and speedy. My wife reduced me almost to
despair. While she scarcely allowed me sufficient means for the bare
necessities of existence, she indulged in the wildest extravagance. I
had to resign my beloved studies to accompany her to balls and
masquerades, to concerts and the theatre. If I did not go with her she
found some other escort. It was a horrible time! I was pursued by
continual dread lest my wife might dishonour me. And I had to endure it
all, for if I had attempted a separation I should have been a beggar.
Death came at last to relieve me from my wretched thraldom. She died a
few months after giving birth to a son, and on her death-bed she
testified her hatred of me. She made a will which gave every penny
which she possessed to her son; to me she left nothing. As during her
life I lived but by her bounty, I was, after her death, to be dependent
upon that of her son. I say hers, for I never believed him to be mine!
She died with a smile of satisfied hatred upon her lips. She thought me
crushed forever; but she had forgotten to appoint a guardian for her
child, and this was my salvation. In the eye of the law I was his
father, and as such his natural guardian. Moreover, when after a short
time he died, I was his heir.
"I will say no more, dear Hans, of that horrible time. I was a prey to
the stings of conscience. The thought that I had sold myself for gold
never left me. I was doubly dishonoured!
"Henceforth I lived solitary and alone, given over to my historical and
scientific studies in my old castle in the Tyrol, until my health
obliged me to try the waters at Carlsbad. There I became acquainted
with a charming girl, Countess Hilda von Sarnstein. I won her hand, and
she came with me to the Tyrol. She was an angel. If the memory of my
miserable past had not still poisoned my existence I should have been
the happiest man in the world while by her side. She left me all too
soon; but in my Hilda I have her living image. My daughter is my sole
joy and pride; her gay, happy temperament enlivens as far as is
possible my melancholy retired existence. When I hear her joyous
laughter, I forget for a moment the wretched past. My dearest wish is
to make her happy; and it is in the hope of doing so that I have for
years nourished the scheme which I now tell you. I am rich; after my
death all my property will devolve upon my child, who will bring it to
her future husband. Shall it go to a stranger? Affection for my kindred
has always filled my heart. In the saddest times of my life I
remembered with loving fidelity my home and my parents, of whom I
always contrived to procure tidings until their death; since when I
have followed your career, Hans, with the deepest interest. I have
never lost sight of you or yours.
"When a son was born to you, I rejoiced with you that our noble name
would once more have a worthy representative. I could have wished that
he had been a scholar instead of a soldier, but I am nevertheless proud
of my nephew, the last genuine Heydeck. I have taken pains to learn all
that I could of him, and I know how brilliantly he distinguished
himself in the French war.
"I have often told my Hilda of you and of Leo; her blue eyes sparkle
when she hears his name; she is proud of her cousin, and loves him
without ever having seen him. Could I but see Leo and Hilda man and
wife! I conjure you, Hans, forget what parted us; help me to provide a
happy future for our children. We old people could depart in peace if
we knew our name thus destined to flourish worthily.
"Answer me, Hans, as soon as you can, or better still send your Leo to
me at Castle Reifenstein; he will be received with open arms by your
brother,
"Ferdinand."
Leo dropped the letter, which he had read with the greatest attention.
"Now I understand you, father," he said, sadly. "You desire me to
accede to my uncle's proposition that I should go to the Tyrol and sell
my freedom."
"Yes, that is what I desire," the colonel burst out; "but I see that
you are minded to reject also this last means of securing to our family
a dignified independence in the world!"
"Is it honourable to accept the gift of wealth at the hands of a man
whom you have always heaped with opprobrium?"
"You have no right to condemn him as I do, since you have followed his
example. I have had hard work to make up my mind; but now that it is
made up, I will not yield one jot! Yesterday, I thought my son's
marriage with the daughter of my wretched brother a disgrace; to-day, I
see in it the only possible means of avoiding the shame of having the
last Heydeck depend for existence upon quill-driving or daubing. I give
you my honour that we are separated forever, you and I, if you do not
set off for the Tyrol and your uncle to-morrow! Now you know that there
is no use in one word more. Make your decision, and let me have it in
writing. I will not see you again before your departure!"
The old man arose to leave the room, and Leo did not attempt to detain
him. He knew perfectly well that after the colonel had given 'his
honour' no power on earth could induce him to alter his determination.
Leaning heavily on his bamboo cane, the colonel hobbled to the door,
opened it, and stood pondering for one moment upon the threshold. Then
he turned once more to his son, and, in a much gentler tone than he had
hitherto used, said, "We part, Leo, certainly for a long time, perhaps
forever. If you hear that sudden death has overtaken me, do not think
hardly of your old father; but if you have a spark of love for me obey
me and go to the Tyrol!"