In the course of the day, Charles Henry accompanied the other boys to
the village, where an officer was to call out the names of those
who were drafted. As his name was called out, he did not change
countenance--he remained as gay and cheerful as before, while the other
boys were gazing sadly, thoughtfully before them. Then the officer
handed each of them a ticket upon which their names were printed, and
ordered them to go immediately to the nearest city, Cleve, and receive
their uniforms. Charles Henry requested a day’s leave, as he had various
preparations to make for his father, to whom he wished to will the
little property he had inherited from his mother. The officer granted
him one day. Charles Henry left the house gayly, but instead of turning
his steps toward the little hut inhabited by his father, he took the
path leading to the old school-house, where his bride lived.
She stood at her door waiting for him. “Well,” said she, hastily, “is
all right?”
“Yes,” said he, sadly, “I am drafted.”
She grasped the printed ticket from his hand and hid it in her bosom.
“Now,” said she, “you have but to bring me a decent suit of clothes.”
“My Sunday suit, Anna,” said he, smiling. “It is new; I intended to be
married in it.”
“I shall not hurt it,” said she. “There is a merchant at Cleve, whom I
know to be good and honest--I will leave the clothes with him, and next
Sunday you can walk to the city for them.”
“You will not even keep them to remember me by?”
“It is impossible for me ever to forget you, Charles Henry, for I shall
bear your name.”
“From now on, throughout your whole life, you shall bear it, Anna. For
when you return, you will remember your promise, and marry me. You will
not forget me when far away?”
“How do I know I shall return?” said she. “A soldier’s life is in
constant danger. There can be no talk of marriage until this war is
over. But it is now time we were asleep, Charles Henry. You and I have
many things to do to-morrow; we must arrange our household affairs--you
for the sake of appearances, and I in good earnest. Good-night, then,
Charles Henry.”
“Will you not kiss me on this our last night, Anna Sophia?” said he,
sadly.
“A soldier kisses no man,” said she, with a weary smile. “He might
embrace a friend, as his life ebbed out upon the battle-field, but none
other, Charles Henry. Good-night.”
She entered and bolted the door after her, then lighting a candle she
hastened to her attic-room. Seating herself at her father’s table, she
spread a large sheet of foolscap before her and commenced writing. She
was making her will with a firm, unshaken hand. She began by taking
leave of the villagers, and implored them to forgive her for causing
them sorrow; but that life in the old hut, without her parents, had
become burdensome to her, and as her betrothed was now going away, she
could endure it no longer. She then divided her few possessions, leaving
to every friend some slight remembrance, such as ribbons, a prayer-book,
or a handkerchief. Her clothes she divided among the village wives. But
her house, with all its contents, she left to Father Buschman, with the
request that he would live in it, at least in summer.
When she had finished, she threw herself upon her bed to rest from the
many fatigues and heart-aches of the day. In her dreams her parents
appeared to her--they beckoned, kissed, and blessed her. Strengthened by
this dream, she sprang joyfully at daybreak from her couch. She felt
now assured that what she was about to do was right, for otherwise
her parents would not have appeared to her. She now continued the
preparations for her journey cheerfully. She packed all her linen
clothes into a small bundle, and then scoured and dusted her little
house carefully. Dressing herself with more than her usual care, and
putting her testament in her pocket, she left the house.
Anna took the road leading to the parsonage; she wished to go to
confession to her old pastor for the last time. He had known her during
the whole of her short life; had baptized her, and with him she had
taken her first communion. She had confessed to him her most secret
thoughts, and with loving smile, he absolved what she deemed her sins.
He would not break the seal of confession, and she therefore opened her
heart to him without fear.
The old pastor was deeply moved, and laying his hand upon her head he
wept. When she had bid him a long and loving adieu, and had wiped the
tears from her eyes, she left the parsonage and hastened to the woods,
where Father Buschman was tending his sheep. As soon as the old shepherd
saw her, he beckoned to her his welcome.
“I did not see you throughout the whole of yesterday, Anna Sophia,” said
he, “and my heart was heavy within me; there was something wanting to my
happiness.”
“I will remain with you to-day to make up for yesterday’s absence,” said
she, seating herself beside him and kissing him tenderly. “I could not
work to-day, for my heart aches; I will rest myself with you.”
“Your heart aches because Charles Henry must leave us,” said the old
shepherd. “You would prefer his remaining at home, and not being a
soldier?”
“No, I would not prefer this, father,” said she, earnestly; “would you?”
The old man looked thoughtful for some time, then said:
“It will be a great sorrow to me, Anna Sophia, for he is the last
remaining light of my youth, and when he goes all will be dark and
gloomy for me. It does me good to see his bright, handsome face; to hear
his gay morning and evening song; and when you two are sitting beside me
hand in hand upon the old bench at the front of our little hut, my youth
comes back to me. I see myself sitting on the same bench with my dear
old woman--it was our favorite seat when we were young. When Charles
Henry leaves me, I not only lose him, but my whole past life seems to
vanish away.”
“You would, therefore, prefer he should remain at home?” said Anna,
anxiously.
“If it were possible,” said he, “but it is not. His king has called him,
he must obey.”
“But he may, perhaps, be allowed to stay, father, if you will declare
that you are too old, too weak to support yourself, and wish the only
prop of your old age to remain with you, the authorities at Cleve may,
perhaps, grant your request.”
The old shepherd shook his head slowly and thoughtfully, and said:
“No, we will not make the attempt; it would be deception, and could
bring us no honor. I am not too weak to earn my own living, and it would
be a disgrace to Charles Henry if I bought him off from his duty. The
world might then think he was a coward, and had not courage enough to
fight.”
“Do you think it a disgrace for a man to be wanting in courage?” said
Anna Sophia, gazing at him as if her life depended upon his answer.
“I think so,” said he, calmly; “it is as bad for a man to be without
courage as for a woman to be without virtue.”
Anna Sophia raised her dark, glowing eyes to heaven with an expression
of deep thankfulness. Then giving way to her emotion, she threw her arms
around the old shepherd, and, leaning her head upon his shoulder, she
wept bitterly. He did not disturb her, but pressed her tenderly to his
heart, and whispered occasionally a few loving, consoling words. He
believed he understood her sorrow; he thought he knew the source
of these tears. She was weeping because all hope of preventing her
betrothed from being a soldier was now gone.
“Weep no more, my child,” said he, at last; “your eyes will be red; it
will sadden Charles Henry, and make it harder for him to say good-by.
See, there he comes to join us--do not weep, my child.”
Anna raised her head and dried her eyes hastily. “I am not weeping,
father,” said she. “I entreat you do not tell Charles Henry that I
have been crying--do not, if you love me. I will promise not to be sad
again.”
“I will be silent, but you must keep your word and be cheerful, so as
not to sadden the poor boy.”
“I will.”
Anna Sophia kept her word. She gave Charles Henry a bright, cheery
welcome. While she was joking and laughing with the old man, evening
came upon them, and as it cast its shadows about, Charles Henry became
more and more silent and sad.
It was now time to drive home the fold, the sun had set, and Phylax
had collected his little army. The old shepherd arose. “And now, my
children,” said he, “take leave of one another. It is the last sunset
you will see together for many a long day. Swear to each other here, in
the presence of God and of his beautiful world, that you will be true to
each other, that your love shall never change.”
Charles Henry looked timidly, beseechingly at Anna Sophia, but she would
not encounter his gaze.
“We have said all that we had to say,” said she, quietly, “we will
therefore not make our parting harder by repeating it.”
“It will make parting much easier to me,” cried Charles Henry, “if you
will swear to be true, and always to love me. Though many years may
pass, Anna Sophia, before we meet again, I will never cease to love you,
never cease to think of you.”
“This will I also do, Charles Henry,” said Anna, solemnly. “My thoughts
will be with you daily, hourly; your name will be constantly upon my
lips!”
Charles Henry turned pale. He understood the ambiguous meaning of this
oath, and it cut him to the heart.
“And now, good-night, Anna Sophia,” said the old shepherd; “to-morrow
evening, when your work is done, I will await you here. We will have to
love and console each other. Good-night once more!”
“Good-night, dear father,” whispered she, in a voice choked with tears,
as she pressed a burning kiss on his brow.
The old man took her in his arms and embraced her tenderly, then
whispered:
“To-morrow we will weep together, Anna Sophia.”
Anna tore herself from his arms.
“Good-night, father!”--and then turning to Charles Henry, she said:
“When do you leave for Cleve?”
“To-night, at ten,” said he; “I prefer going at night; it is much hotter
in the day, and I must be at Cleve at eight in the morning. I will be at
your door to night, to take a last look at you.”
“It is all right,” said she, dryly, turning from him and hastening home.
Night had come; the village night-watch had announced the tenth hour; no
light gleamed through the windows--the busy noise and bustle of day had
given place to deep quiet. The whole village was at rest, every eye was
closed. No one saw Charles Henry as he passed, with a bundle under his
arm, and took the path leading to the old school-house--no one but
the moon, that was gleaming brightly above, and was illuminating the
solitary wanderer’s path.
For the first time he found Anna Sophia’s door open--he had no need to
knock. He entered undisturbed with his bundle, which contained the suit
of clothes Anna had desired.
Half an hour later the door was opened, and two tall, slenderly built
young men left the house. The moon saw it all; she saw that the man with
the hat on, and with the bundle on his back, was none other than Anna
Sophia Detzloff, daughter of the old school-teacher. She saw that the
one who was following her, whose countenance was so ghastly pale--not
because the moon was shining upon it, but because he was so sad, so
truly wretched--that this other was Charles Henry Buschman, who was
coward enough to let his bride go to battle in his stead! The moon saw
them shake hands for the last time and bid each other farewell.
“Let me go a little bit of the way with you, Anna Sophia,” said Charles
Henry; “it is so dark, so still, and soon you will go through the woods.
It is best I should be with you, for it is so fearfully gloomy. Let me
accompany you, Anna Sophia.”
“I have no fear of the woods,” said she, gently: “the stars above will
watch over and guard me, the moon will shed her light upon my path, it
will not be dark. I must go my way through life alone--I must have no
fear of any thing, not even of death. Leave me now, and be careful that
you are seen by no one during the whole of tomorrow in my house. No one
will go there tomorrow, for I have left word in the village that I am
going on a visit to my aunt at Cleve. I have prepared your meals for
you; the table is set, and above, in my room, you will find books
to read. You can stand it for one day, tomorrow evening you will be
released. Farewell, Charles Henry!”
“Do not go, Anna Sophia,” said he, weeping and trembling; “I will go. I
will force my heart to be courageous! You must stay here.”
“It is too late,” said Anna: “nor could you do it, Charles Henry.
You are afraid of the dark woods, and what comes beyond is much more
fearful. We have taken leave of each other, the worst is past. Kiss your
father for me, and when at times you are sitting upon the old bench,
remind him of Anna Sophia.”
“I will obey you,” whispered he.
But Anna was not listening to him; she had turned from him, and was
hastening down the road.
The moon saw it all! She saw the tears steal slowly from Anna Sophia’s
eyes, and fall unknown to herself upon her cheek, as she turned her back
upon her old home and hastened forward to a life of danger, privation,
and want. She saw Charles Henry leaning upon the door of the old
school-house, staring after Anna with a trembling heart until the
last glimpse of her was lost in the distant woods. He then entered the
school-house and fastened the door behind him. His heart was heavy and
sorrowful, he was ashamed of himself; he was sorry for what he had done,
but had not the strength to change it; and as he went over Anna Sophia’s
departure, he was inwardly rejoiced that he himself was to remain at
home.
On the morning of the second day after Anna’s departure, there was a
great stir in the village, there were two astounding reports to excite
the community. Charles Henry Buschman had returned from Cleve; they had
told him he could be spared for a while. The second report was that Anna
Sophia had not returned from her visit. They waited for several days,
and as she did not come, Charles Henry went to the distant village
where her aunt lived. But he returned with sad news. Anna Sophia was not
there, her aunt had not seen her.
What had become of her? Where was she? No one could clear up the
mystery. Many spoke of suicide; she had drowned herself in the large
lake to the left of the village they said, because her betrothed had to
leave her. The old pastor would not listen to this; but when the aunt
came to take possession of her niece’s worldly goods, he had to bring
forward the will Anna had given him, in which she had willed her all to
Father Buschman. And now no one doubted that Anna had laid hands upon
herself. The mystery remained unsolved. Every one pitied and sympathized
with Charles Henry, who had lost all his former cheerfulness since the
death of his bride!