At the appointed place stood Charles Henry, and as his betrothed approached him, so proud, so smiling, sparkling with beauty and youth, it appeared to him that he had never seen her so exquisitely beautiful; to her, as he advanced smilingly to meet her, he had never seemed so small, so devoid of attractions.
When they met, they looked at each other in amazement--there was a change in both.
"Anna Sophia," said Charles Henry at last, sadly, "you have something against me."
"Yes," said she, "I have something against you, otherwise I would not have appointed this meeting here, where we can be heard by no one. Were this that I have to tell you something good, something pleasant, all the world might stand by and hear it, but as it is something painful, it must be heard by you alone."
She seated herself silently upon the ground, signing to Charles Henry to follow her example.
"It was here," said Anna, hastily, "that you first told me of your love."
"Yes, it was here, Anna," repeated he, "and you then told me that my love was returned, and that you would be my wife when we had saved enough to commence housekeeping. But still I have always felt that you were not kind to me, not as the other girls in the village are to their lovers. You have never permitted me to come under your window at night; I have never been allowed to take you in my arms and kiss you tenderly, as the others boys do their sweethearts; and never, no never, have you given me a kiss unasked; and, after all my entreaties, you kissed me only in the presence of my old father and his dog."
"It is not in my nature to be very tender," said Anna, shrugging her shoulders. "I read in one of my books lately a fairy tale, in which there was a young girl, of whom it was said that a bad fairy had bound her heart in iron, to prevent its full play; the girl was constantly bewailing this fatality, saying, 'I can only like, but never love.'
Perhaps it is thus with me, but I do not weep over it, like the foolish girl in the book."
"And was this what you had to tell me?" asked Charles Henry, mockingly.
She gave him a look that sent the jeering smile from his lip.
"No, Charles Henry," said she, "this is not what I have to tell you."
"Well, what is it then, Anna, for this wounds me?" said he impatiently.
"Perhaps the other will do so also," said she, sadly. "But it must come out, I cannot suppress it. Hear, Charles Henry, what I have to say, and if it is not true, forgive me. I fear you do not go willingly into the army, and that your heart does not beat with joy at the thought of becoming a soldier."
"You are right," said Charles Henry, laughing, "I do not go willingly; and how should it be otherwise? it is a wild, disorderly life, and it strikes me it cannot be right for men who, our pastor says, should love each other like brothers, to vie in cutting off each other's limbs, and to fire upon each other without mercy or pity, as if one were the butcher, the other the poor ox, who only resists because he does not wish to give up his life; and in this case all would be the butchers, and none the oxen, therefore each one gives his stroke bravely to preserve his own life."
"It would be sad if it were as you say," said Anna, shaking her head, "but it is not so. The true soldier does not think of his life; he thinks of his country, for which he will gladly shed his blood--of his king, to whom he has sworn to be true--and of the glory which he will gain for himself!"
Charles Henry looked in amazement upon Anna Sophia's agitated countenance.
"How do you know all this?" said he. "Who has told you that these are soldiers' thoughts?"
"I have read of it in my books, Charles Henry; in one of them there is the history of a man whose name was Leonidas. He defended, with three hundred of his soldiers, against many thousands of his enemy, a narrow passway. He well knew that he could not conquer; his soldiers also knew it, but they preferred death rather than the humiliation of laying down their weapons and praying for mercy. And every man of them died joyfully, giving up his life for his country."
"Well, I must say they were fools!" cried Charles Henry, excitedly; "if I had been there, I would not have done so--I would have sued for pardon."
"Yes," said Anna Sophia thoughtfully--"yes, I think you would have done as you say; and I have been wondering all through the past night whether you would willingly and joyfully go to battle?"
"I? God forefend; I will not go joyfully--I will not go at all! This morning I intend going to our pastor to receive from him a certificate, showing that I cannot join the army, as I have a decrepit old father to support, who would die without me."
"Charles Henry, your father is not decrepit, nor very old, nor would he starve if you were not here, for he can support himself."
"But he may, at any moment, become unable to help himself, and then he would need me; I would have no rest day or night when far away, but would be thinking if my poor old father, lying sick and helpless in his hut, with no one near to give him a piece of bread or a cup of water."
"Let not this trouble you, Charles Henry," said Anna, solemnly. "I swear to you that I will love him and care for him as a daughter. He shall want for nothing; and when he can work no longer, I am strong and healthy enough to work for both of us. Go with a peaceful mind, I will be here in your place."
"No, no!" cried Charles Henry, turning pale; "I will not join the army.
I cannot, I will not be separated from you, Anna. You have sworn to be my wife, and I will beseech the pastor to join us to-day; then they cannot take me away from here, for I will have a father and a wife to take care of."
"Not for me, Charles Henry, for I will not marry yet. Have we saved enough to commence housekeeping? Is this a time to marry and build a nest, when war, misery, and ruin are raging throughout the country? No, no! Charles Henry, we cannot marry now."
"Because you do not wish it, Anna. But it shall be, for I have your promise, and you must keep it. Ah, Anna Sophia, you do not know what a longing I have to call you my wife!"
"But I have no such longing," said she, drily; "no desire whatever to marry; and I will tell you, that though you wish to marry to-day, it is not out of love for me, but to save yourself."
His eyes sunk before the large, searching ones fixed upon him.
"To save myself, and from what, Anna Sophia?"
"From being a soldier, Charles Henry! For last evening, I read upon your countenance that you were devoid of courage."
"You read that?"
"Yes, Charles Henry, fear was stamped upon your brow."
"Well, then," said he, after a pause, "you have read aright. I have no courage, I fear for myself. I am not accustomed to stand still, while some one is pointing his gun at me, and to cry, 'Long live the king!'
when the cannon-balls are flying around me; to attack men who have done me no harm, and to whom I wish to do none. When I think upon the possibility of my being compelled to do this. I tremble, and my heart ceases to beat. Do not require it of me, Anna, for if I have to go, I will fly at the first fight, and come back here. They may then shoot me as a deserter, if they choose; I prefer to die rather than to kill any one else."
Anna Sophia sprang from her seat with a cry of horror.
"I thought so," said she, in a low voice; and, crossing her arms upon her breast, she walked to and fro, thoughtfully.
Charles Henry looked at her in amazement, but had not the courage to speak to her; for she was so completely changed, that he was almost afraid of her. There was something so cold and proud about her to-day, something aristocratic in her beauty. He thought to himself, "It is thus that a queen would look when dressed as a peasant." Anna Sophia stood still before him at last, and gave him a tender, almost pitiful glance.
"Charles Henry," said she, "you shall not join the army; I will not suffer it."
He sprang from his seat with a cry of joy.
"You will then marry me, Anna Sophia?" said he, exultingly. "You will become my wife, so as to keep me here? You love me too much to let me go!" He tried to embrace her, but she waved him off.
"No," said she, "I will not marry you, but, still, you must not join the army; for if you became a deserter, it would break your father's heart, and it would be a disgrace, not only for me, but for the whole village.
Think well over what you have said. Perhaps you are mistaken in yourself, and only dislike joining the army on your poor father's account. Question your conscience and your heart, and remember, Charles Henry, that God will hear your answer. Do you truly believe that you are wanting in courage--that you would fly from the battle-field?"
"As truly as there is a God above us, I believe it, Anna Sophia. It is not belief, it is certainty. It is not in my nature to be brave; I was not brought up to it, and am therefore without it. I am an apt farmer, but would be a bad soldier."
Anna Sophia sighed deeply, and covered her face with her hands. Thus she stood for some time in front of her betrothed, and he saw the large tears, stealing through her fingers, fall upon the grass, to be transformed there by the sun into sparkling jewels.
"Why do you weep, Anna Sophia?" asked he, gently. "What has so suddenly made you sad?"
Her hands fell slowly and wearily from her face. "I am not weeping now,"
said she, "it is past--I have shed my last tear. Now we must settle upon what is to be done, for you cannot be a soldier."
"But they will force me," said he, "for I am tall, strong, and healthy--just the build for a soldier."
Anna Sophia raised herself proudly and stood beside him. "I am as tall as you," said she.