University of Virginia Library

[FROM “THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.”]
COUNT VON LUNDSTEIN.

BY HARRIET A. DAVISON.

One pleasant morning in July, the Count
Von Lundstein was pacing to and fro in his own
apartment. Evidently, something was troubling
him. A gentle tap at the door aroused him,
and he impatiently exclaimed: “Come in;”
but his frown relaxed when his wife Blenda entered,
and drawing a chair close to the open
window, he motioned her to be seated, saying
at the same time:

“Just in time, Blenda, for I am sorely perplexed
by my son Freiderich.”

“Perplexed by Freiderich?” asked his wife,
turning half round to see her husband.

“Yes, about my son. I have noticed of late
that he is very abstracted and seems rather sad.”

“Depend upon it, my dear, it is only because
he devotes so much time to his studies. I am
sure you never see him without a book,” replied
his wife, smilingly.

“That is just it,” answered the count, quickly.
“That is just it. He starts off every morning
with a book or drawing materials to study in
the fields, as he says, and he don't draw a line,
or read a page. He goes to old Carl Verder's,
the peasant across the valley, and spends his
time making love to his daughter, the pretty
Catherine.”

Blenda Von Lundstein new rose from her
chair and seemed as much perturbed as the count.

“Now, Wilhelm, you must have been mistaken;
for the son of count Von Lundstein would
not so far forget himself as to make love to a
peasant girl.”

“I tell you I am not mistaken,” exclaimed the
count.

“What are the grounds for your assertions,
your proofs?” asked his wife, in a quiet tone.

“Listen, and I will tell you. For a long time
I have noticed the abstraction of my son, and at
first imputed it to his interest in literature and
art, and accordingly made myself perfectly
easy; but this morning, returning from a long
ride, I took a road which I never recollect having
seen before, and lost my way. I concluded the
best thing to be done was to follow the road and
maybe come across somebody who would be able
to point out the right way home. I had ridden
but a short distance, when I saw the glimmer of
a house through the trees, and discovered a little
foot-path which I naturally thought must lead

me to the house. I alighted, and tying my horse
to a tree, followed the path. I had gone but a
short distance when I heard talking, and discovered
that I was close upon the garden. The
shrubbery was thick, and I paused to take a look
at the speakers before I discovered myself. Imagine
my amazement, when I beheld my son
Freiderich standing talking to a young girl. The
girl was tying up a rose-bush, and my son was
very complacently watching her, holding her hat
and a little watering pot. He was saying something
very interesting, doubtless, for the girl
laughed and blushed, and replied in such a tone
that I was able to distinguish the words.

“ `I do not doubt you, Freiderich; and I am
very happy.'

“Freiderich then said: `Dearest Catherine, I
know there will come a time of happiness for us
both; but everything must be kept secret as yet
from my father. Now give me my flowers.'

“She handed him a beautiful bunch of flowers
which he kissed very tenderly and again said
something in a whisper which made the girl
blush. I did not wait to see or hear any more,
but making a crackling of the bushes, I found
my way to the gate. When I got there, the girl
only was to be seen, Freiderich having made
his escape. Wishing to prove if I had heard
aright, I said in a cold tone:

“I am the Count Von Lundstein, and have
lost my way. Can you point out to me a way to
reach the castle?”

“She turned very pale as I announced myself,
but upon my stating the cause of my being there,
she recovered her self possession, and answered
me very clearly.”

“Well?” queried the countess, “and that is
all? Is the girl very handsome?”

“No, I see nothing very beautiful about her;
though her face is a pleasant one. No, no, I saw
nothing about her which could possibly account
for the infatuation of my son. He will have to
give her up.”

“Pause one moment, Wilhelm. If Freiderich's
heart is irrecoverably lost; if his happiness
depends upon his marriage with this peasant
girl, had—”

“Tut! I know what you would say. You,
in your gentleness, would forget the immense
distance between our son and a peasant, and for
the sake of his happiness permit him to unite
himself with the girl. Is not that it?”

“Yes,” she answered, “I thought—”

“I will hear no more. I had hoped you would
see the matter in the same light as I do and assist
me in forming some plan to put an end to
the affair. But I see I must act alone.”

“Don't have recourse to any severe measures,”
she pleaded.

“Let me alone. I will act for myself. No,
wife,” he added, seeing she looked sad, “no, I
will do nothing harshly if it can be avoided.
Don't let Freiderich suspect for an instant that
we know aught of his folly. There he comes
now, and I will join him.” So saying he left,
and as he goes to meet his son, we will say a few
words which may not be amiss.

Count Von Lundstein is a handsome man,
with military bearing, but his features have a
harshness about them which invariably impresses
the beholder unpleasantly.

Almost twenty years previous to the opening of
my story, the world of Munich was startled by
the report of a duel fought by the Counts Von
Lundstein and Wieldman. The Count Von
Lundstein fell mortally wounded, it was then
thought, and his adversary, Count Wieldman,
permitting himself only one look at his friends,
was forced to fly. The report of the duel was
the first intimation of any quarrel the friends or
acquaintances of either had. The cause of the
duel was unknown. Some said a lady was at the
bottom of it; others loss at play, and the rest
shook their heads sorrowfully and gravely, agreeing
that some terrible insult had been given, to
cause the Count Wieldman and Von Lundstein
to take the field against each other. Von Lundstein
was carried to his young wife and child,
for he had been married scarcely three years,
and all his friends mourned for him as one already
dead, for the surgeon had shaken his head
when asked if there was hope. For a long time
he lingered in the same almost hopeless state,
then slowly recovered. It was a joyful day for
the young Countess Blenda Von Lundstein,
when he left his room. The count recovered his
health, but not his spirits. Upon his recovery
he instituted inquiries everywhere for the missing
Count Wieldman. When every effort proved
unavailing, he became morose and retired to
his castle, a few miles from Munich, and kept
aloof from all society. To his wife and child
only was he the same kind friend. Twenty
years have passed but he still refuses to mix
with the world, still mourns for his wandering
friend, Count Wieldman.

Some days after the conversation with her
husband Blenda was called to his library, and the

count there explained to her that, to prevent any
marriage between his son Freiderich and the
pretty Catherine, he intended to give her in marriage
to his gardener, young Ludwig Schenkendorf,
and that forthwith.

The countess pleaded as only a mother can
plead for an only son. All her efforts were unavailing,
and she had the sorrow of knowing
that in this her husband would have his way.
Blenda Von Lundstein was proud, but her affection
for her son was greater than her pride, and
to that she yielded. She went from her husband's
presence with the determination to acquaint
Freiderich with his father's plan, that he
might be on his guard. She made no effort to
gain a private interview with her son for fear of
exciting her husband's suspicions. Before long
an opportunity presented itself, which she did
not fail to take advantage of.

One fine morning the count announced his intention
of riding to Munich, a ride of an hour.
When the sound of his horse's feet were no longer
heard, the countess, motioning her son to
follow, led the way to her apartment. When
there, after carefully closing the door, she turned
to her son, who was respectfully awaiting her to
speak, and said:

“Freiderich, your father has learned of your
love affair, and will do everything to prevent
you from attaining your wishes.”

Freiderich, upon being thus abruptly addressed,
started, and perceptibly changed color, but
feigning a nonchalance he did not feel, he walked
to the window, and began to tap slowly upon the
window as he said:

“Why couldn't my father have informed me
of his plans himself?”

The countess came to his side and laying her
hand upon his arm, said earnestly:

“My dear Freiderich, it was farthest from
his wishes that you should know his plans, and
great would be his wrath if he knew I had been
the one to warn you.”

“Dear mother,” said Freiderich, raising his
hand to his lips.

“Listen to me one moment, my son, and you
shall know all you have to fear, and can then tell
what is best to be done. To warn you is all I
can do. I must say, though it pain you, that I
was sorry to hear that my son should so far forget
what is due to himself and his parents
as to wish to unite himself with one so much
beneath him. Your father has declared that he
will prevent the union, and to do so he intends
to marry Catherine Verder to his gardener Ludwig
Schenkendorf immediately, and—”

“But, mother, I—”

“Nay, do not interrupt me. He will give
Ludwig the cottage by the stream, and increase
his salary that he may be able to live in comfort.”
As she finished speaking, she looked timidly up
in her son's face, as if fearing to see there the
pain she was causing. There were no signs of
any intense emotion on her son's face, and the
mother's heart grew lighter. Freiderich left his
station by the window, and took a seat by his
mother's side, and began to tell her something
earnestly, which caused her to open her eyes in
astonishment. At length she exclaimed:

“Then you do not love Catherine? Your
father was wrong?”

“Yes, mother, entirely wrong. What I said
to Catherine, which made her blush and look so
pleased, was, that when my day of happiness
came hers would come too. She has been a
kind friend to me, and Ludwig, whom she dearly
loves, has often done me a good turn. Now,
listen to me, mother; father must not know this,
for if he does he will abandon his present scheme
and may be ruin the happiness of both.

“Let him believe as he does now and act accordingly.
He will thereby unwittingly secure the
happiness of two people, and not mar that of two
others. I must away instantly to put Catherine
and Ludwig on their guard, and instruct them
in the part they have to perform. Should my
father return, you are ignorant of my whereabouts.
Now, adien, dearest mother,” and kissing
her tenderly he withdrew. Springing upon
his horse, Freiderich Von Luadstein was soon
out of sight.

There were bright tears in Blenda's blue eyes
as she gazed after the fast disappearing form of
her son, and the sigh that escaped her was one
of relief and thankfulness.

Before long her husband returned and divulged
to her that the business which led him to Munich
was nothing more or less than to arrange for
the marriage of Catherine and Ludwig, which he
had determined should be in one week from that
day, it being Thursday then.

The next day, as the count was crossing the
hall he met his son, who was on the point of
leaving for his customary walk, with his book
under his arm. His father bade him follow and
silently led the way to the library. There was
an air of hesitation about Freiderich as he entered
the room, which did not pass unnoticed by

his father, who motioned him to a chair, and at
the same time seated himself in another.

“My son,” began the count, striving to appear
perfectly indifferent, yet watching Freiderich
closely, to observe the effect of his words,
“I have been to Munich this morning to arrange
a marriage between Catherine Verder
and—”

“And who, father?” eagerly asked Freiderich.

“Don't interrupt me and I will tell you. To
arrange,” he repeated, slowly, as if observing
the effect of each word, “a marriage between
Catherine Verder and Ludwig Schenkendorf.”
Having said it he rose and walked up and
down the room with his hands clasped before
him. After a pause of a few moments, having
passed his hand slowly across his brow, as if to
collect his thoughts, Freiderich asked in a low
tone:

“Did I hear aright, sir? Did you say a
marriage between Catherine Verder and—”

“And Ludwig? Yes, yes, my son, I said so.
Have you any objections?”

“Did I say objections, father?” asked Freiderich,
looking up with a bewildered air. I—I—I
know of but one, sir, that is—I mean I don't
know of any. Have you found out, father, whether
this sacrifice—I mean marriage, is agreeable
to both parties?”

“It must be agreeable, for it is my will,”
haughtily replied Count Lundstein; and he walked
with a determined step up and down the room.

Again Freiderich spoke and he seemed to be
intently engaged in looking at an engraving
which was laying on the table as he did so:

“Did it never occur to you, sir, that Catherine
may love another?

“Upon my word, Freiderich, you appear very
curious and careful of the feelings of a peasant
girl.”

“As careful as of my own,” he replied, in a
low voice.

“No, it did not occur to me, and if it had, it
would have made no difference, for I have willed
that she marry Ludwig, and Ludwig only
shall she marry.”

A few more strides up and down the apartment,
then dismissing his son, he rang the bell
for a servant whom he sent with a message to
Catherine and Ludwig, desiring their attendance
the next morning.

At an early hour the next day, Catherine
made her appearance. She stood timidly before
the count, who, trying to assume a benign expression,
said to her in his blandest tones:

“I have sent for you, Catherine, that I might
inform you of my wish that you should marry
Ludwig Schenkendorf the coming Thursday.”

Hearing these words Catherine sank, where
she stood upon her knees, and covered her face
with her hands.

The count shaking off any unpleasant feelings
he might have at the sight of this innocent girl
so overcome with grief, and pretending to misunderstand
the cause of her emotion, came forward
and taking hold of one hand he said, in an
encouraging tone:

“Nay, be not so grieved at the thought of
leaving thy father. You will not be so far away
from him, for I intend on your wedding to Ludwig,
the little cottage by the stream as a reward
for his faithful services. Does not that make
you more content?”

“O, sir count!” sobbed the girl, “I cannot—
cannot—mar—ry Lud—wig Schenkendorf.”

“Do not take it so hard. Go home now, and
when to-morrow comes you will thank the count
who takes such an interest in you both.” So
saying, he led her to the door. When there she
turned and said to the count, as if driven to it by
desperation:

“Thank you, that you are making an unwilling
bride of me? compelling me to leave a happy
home? No, no, no.” Again she covered her
face with her hands. Count Von Lundstein
smiled grimly, and going back into the room
resumed his seat and waited impatiently for Ludwig
to appear. After a few moments the door
opened and Ludwig entered. He was a handsome,
sun-browned athletic young man, about
twenty, with a frank expression on his face, you
could not help liking him. He made an embarrassed
but not an awkward obeisance, and stood
hat in hand, waiting for his master to speak.
The count looked at him steadily for a moment
then sooke in this way:

“You know Catherine Verder?”

“Yes, sir count,” and his eyes smiled, though
his lips moved not.

“It is my command that you marry her Thursday.
Be ready,” said the count, haughtily.

Again Ludwig answered, “yes, sir,” and a
wave of his master's hand dismissed him. The
count then slowly rose to join his wife.

“It is all over with,” he exclaimed, as he entered
her room. “Freiderich seemed struck
dumb; Catherine dissolved in tears, and Ludwig,
the only sensible one, assented quietly.”

Blenda only sighed and continued stitching
on her embroidery.

The dreaded day came and passed. Freiderich
seemed overwhelmed with despair, and as soon
as the ceremony was over, was seen to spring
upon his horse and ride furiously away. The
young bride was wonderfully calm till she was
irrevocably bound to Ludwig, then sank at the
foot of the altar and was carried out by her husband.
Count Von Lundstein looked on, smiling
grimly to himself, as if highly pleased with the
part he had taken in causing this general misery.
For three days Freiderich was absent from home;
at the end of that time he came back looking calm,
and having no desire to recur to the scene. His
father smiled as he saw him day after day take
his book and start off towards Verder's cottage.

“He revisits his old trysting places,” said his
father, and laughed.

For a long time everything went on calmly:
but a day of sorrow came for the count himself.
That day was the one appointed for the sale of
the estate belonging to the Count Wieldman.
Count Von Lundstein had hoped, wildly though
it seemed, that his friend would come back, but
now the place must be sold. Count Von Lundstein
determined to buy it, and return it to the
Count Wieldman should he ever return. The
estate was to be sold to the highest bidder. A
great many were there who wished to have the
estate. Before long the count and a stranger
was left to bid against each other. The count
made his last bid, but the stranger offered a higher
sum and the place was his.

“I would know thy name?” said the count.

“In one week from to day, come to the castle
and you shall know my name,” replied the stranger,
and walked hastily away.

The intervening days passed slowly to the
count, who was very desirous to know who was
the man who had so thwarted his dearest wish.
The longest day will have an end, and so did
the week, and the count found himself in the
hall which he had not entered since the flight of
his friend. An almost magical change had
come over the place, which on the day of the sale
looked gloomy and deserted; it was bright and
fair, with every vestige of neglect gone. Count
Von Lundstein followed the servant through the
hall into the library. Standing almost in the
centre of the room was the stranger, who stretched
out his hands, exclaiming:

“Forgive me, Wilhelm, for I have suffered.”

Hearing the sounds and seeing the action, the
Count Von Lundstein grew deadly pale, but
caught the outstretched hands, almost shouting
in his eagerness: “O, God! have you come
back, Henri? Can you forgive me?”

“I forgive?” answered the other sadly. “I
have nothing to forgive. It is you who must do
that. You cannot tell, Wilhelm, what I have
suffered, though justly, for my rashness.”

“Dearest Henri,” said the count, embracing
him, “I am happy. But you who have never
seen your home because of my hasty temper,
have much more to forgive than I.”

“It has been many years since I visited my
home, though not so long as you think, and it
has been harder than you have any idea of, for I
had a year previous to that dreadful time, secretly
married a young and lovely girl, who with
her baby daughter, I had to leave.”

“You married! Ah, why did you not come
back sooner?”

“Because I heard you cherished a deadly
hatred for me, and would do all in your power
to persecute me!”

“A base slander!” exclaimed the count,
furiously, then added, sadly, “Ah, Henri, did
you not know that I would gladly receive you
back? But your wife and daughter, I would
see them, and ask of then forgiveness for the
misery I have caused.”

The Count Wieldman, for he it is, as the
reader must know, led the way to the drawingroom,
where his lovely wife and still more lovely
daughter were seated. It is needless to recount
what passed. Before the count left, he was
astounded by the entrance of his son Freiderich,
who seemed to be perfectly well acquainted with
all parties. Taking the daughter by the hand,
he led her to his father, saying:

“Father, I love this young lady, and she returns
my affection. Have I your approval?”

His father embraced him, and gave him his
unqualified consent. Having obtained which, he
explained to his father that this same young
lady and mother had resided for a long time at
the cottage of old Carl Verder, and she it was
whom he loved, and not Catherine. His father
seemed to be overwhelmed with despair, but his
son hastened to relieve him, by informing him of
all with which the reader is already acquainted.

A few days and another wedding was celebrated
in the little chapel, where nothing but
happy faces were seen. Count Von Lundstein
became a changed and a happier man, and has
never been known to fight another duel or make
a match.