"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.