CHAPTER IV. FAREWELL TO THE VILLAGE.
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!