THE _BACKFISCH_.
One evening, after the habitual frequenters of the Plankenhorst house
had taken their departure, as Alfonsine was undressing with the help
of her maid, she turned to the latter and asked:
"What is the _backfisch_ doing nowadays, Betty?"
_Backfisch_, be it observed, means literally _a fish for frying_, but,
as commonly used in German, it denotes a girl who is no longer a
child, but not yet a young lady; one who is still innocent and
harmless, and who feels strange emotions stirring in her breast, but
fails to understand them; who takes jest for earnest and earnest for
jest, and who believes the first pretty speech poured into her ear to
be so much refined gold. That is the _backfisch_.
"The _backfisch_ is learning to swim," replied Mademoiselle Bettine.
"Still holding on to the guard-ropes? Not yet able to strike out
alone?"
"She will be able before long," was Betty's reply, as she took down
her mistress's hair and coiled it up anew for the night. "A day or
two ago, as I was doing her hair, she asked me: 'Whose hair is the
longer, mine or Alfonsine's?'"
"Ha, ha! The _backfisch_!"
"And I told her that her hair was the more beautiful."
At this both laughed.
"She knows already, without any one's telling her, that she is a
pretty girl," said Alfonsine. "Does she ever talk about any of the
gentlemen that visit us?"
"Oh, yes, we gossip about all the men that come to the house, and she
tells me her opinion of each; but there is one she never names at all,
and if I happen to mention him she blushes up to her eyes."
"And do you think he is after her?" asked Alfonsine.
"He is very cautious," answered the maid, "and whenever he meets her
alone he can hardly find two words to say to her. But I know what that
means."
"Poor little _backfisch_!" murmured the other. "We'll give her a
pleasant surprise, Betty. To-morrow she shall have a new gown. The
dressmaker spoiled one of mine, and it will do nicely for her."
Mademoiselle Bettine laughed. "The pink tarlatan?" she inquired. "That
is a ball-dress."
"Never mind. She shall have it and be happy. You make her believe that
we have been rather slighting her hitherto because she was only a
child, but that now she is to be regarded as a young lady. We will
have her taught dancing, playing, and singing."
"Really?"
"Oh, well, let her think so, and that she is to be introduced to
society and treated like one of the family."
"If I tell her that now, I sha'n't get a wink of sleep all night long;
she will chatter about it till morning. She is fairly crazy to take
singing lessons."
"Poor little _backfisch_! We'll gratify her for once."
Oh, the heartless Jezebel!
* * * * *
A few days later Richard received an invitation to take tea and play
whist at the Plankenhorsts'--quite _en famille_. Alfonsine was to sing
also.
The young hussar officer refused no invitation from the Plankenhorst
ladies, nor was he ever tardy on such occasions, but was wont to set
his watch ahead so as to have an excuse to offer if he was the first
guest to arrive. Thus it occurred in this instance that he saw no
signs of a previous arrival when he handed his cloak and sword to the
footman in the anteroom.
"Am I the first one here?" he asked.
The footman smiled and replied in the affirmative as he opened the
drawing-room door for the guest.
Entering, he came upon Betty, who seemed busy with something about the
room.
"Am I too early, Miss Betty?" he asked.
The maid courtesied and smiled. "The baroness has not come in yet, but
she will soon be at home. The young lady is in the music-room."
At this moment, indeed, he heard some one singing in the next room,
but the voice sounded fuller and richer than Alfonsine's. He
concluded, however, that it was with her as with so many others, who
sing their best when alone.
He passed into the music-room, but halted suddenly in surprise. At the
piano sat, not Alfonsine, but another young lady whom at first he
failed to recognise. It was Edith, in a new gown and with her hair
arranged as he had never seen it before. She wore a low-necked pink
dress which exposed to view her beautiful neck and shoulders, and she
was singing a ballad, in an untrained voice, but with expression and
feeling, picking out the air on the piano with one hand like a person
unskilled in playing. She was quite alone in the room.
Richard feasted his eyes on the little white hand dancing over the
keyboard, until Edith, glancing up from her music, caught sight of
him. Her first impulse was to cover her bare neck with both hands, so
new and strange did her costume still seem to her. But recognising
that this was exactly the wrong thing to do, she let her hands fall
and advanced to meet the young officer. Her face flushed a rosy red
and her heart beat violently as, in a voice that nearly failed her,
she announced that the baroness was not at home.
Richard pitied her embarrassment. "And Miss Alfonsine?" he asked.
"They both went out together," she replied. "They were called to court
and will not return until late."
"Has my brother been here?"
"Yes, but he went away again some time ago."
"And did not the baroness say that she expected company?"
"She said she had ordered the footman to go around to the houses of
the invited guests and tell them that the whist party was postponed
until to-morrow."
"Strange that he didn't say anything about it to me when he let me in.
Pardon me, Miss Edith, for disturbing you. Please present my
compliments to the baroness."
So saying, he bowed with much formality and withdrew, purposing to
call the footman to account for his negligence. But he failed to find
him in the anteroom, and the front door, by which he had entered,
proved to be locked and the key removed. He was forced to go back
through the drawing-room and seek an exit by the servants' door; but
this also was locked. One other door was known to him, leading into
the kitchen, and he tried it. It would not open, however. In the
dining-room was a bell-cord communicating with the servants' quarters;
he pulled it sharply three times in succession, but no one answered
his summons. Returning once more to the anteroom, he found it still
empty. Evidently he and Edith were the only ones in the house. His
heart beat tumultuously. He felt himself the victim of a curious plot
whose outcome he could not foresee. Once more he returned to the
music-room. At the sound of his step Edith came toward him. Her face
was no longer flushed; she was very pale. But she met the young man's
eyes calmly, with no sign of trembling or embarrassment.
"Pardon me, Miss Edith," he began, "I have tried all the doors and
found them locked, nor is there any one in the house to let me out."
A life-size portrait of Alfonsine hung on the wall. To Richard, at
that moment, the fair face seemed to smile down upon the scene with a
malicious triumph.
Edith, however, lost none of her composure. "The servants must have
gone down into the courtyard," said she; "but I know where there is
another key to the front door, and I will let you out."
Against the wall hung a wicker-work device for holding keys, and in
order to reach it Edith was forced to pass by Richard. When she was
very near him he suddenly stepped in front of her.
"One word, Edith," said he. "Do you know what is in my mind at this
moment?"
In his fancy the fair lady on the wall seemed to be carrying on a
diabolical dialogue with his loudly beating heart. The world was on
fire around him. Yet the young girl whom he was confronting stood
there calmly and answered him with great presence of mind:
"Yes; you are thinking: 'I once promised this girl never to offend her
even with a look, and not to raise my eyes, when I stand before her,
higher than her hands.'" Therewith she folded her hands and dropped
them in front of her.
"That is it," nodded Richard, feeling as if a hundred-pound weight had
been removed from his breast. "And one thing more I must ask of you,
Miss Edith," he added. "I have an urgent message to write to the
baroness. Can you furnish me with writing-materials?"
Edith opened her aunt's desk and, with a motion of her hand, invited
him to be seated.
Richard sat down and wrote. His letter was brief and soon written. He
enclosed it in an envelope and sealed it, Edith meanwhile standing
quietly on the other side of the desk with her hands still folded and
resting upon her lap. Then he rose and advanced with the sealed note
to where she stood. Nobility spoke in his face and pride in his
bearing. The girl's very soul was in her eyes as she met his gaze.
"Can you also tell me, Miss Edith," he asked, "what I have written in
this letter which I hold sealed before you?"
The young girl slowly raised her hands and pressed them to her
forehead, unmindful that in so doing she invited him to raise his eyes
and look into hers, where he could not but read the mingled expression
of pain and delight, of despair and rapture.
"In this letter," he continued, "I have written the following: 'My
dear Baroness: I beg herewith to prefer my petition for Miss Edith
Liedenwall's hand in marriage. I shall be of age in a year's time, and
will then come and claim her. Until then pray let her be regarded as
my affianced bride.'" Therewith he handed the letter to Edith, who
pressed its seal to her lips in a long kiss, after which she returned
it to him. His lips also touched the seal, while it was still warm
with the kiss of his beloved. That was their betrothal kiss.
"Will you deliver this letter to the baroness?" asked Richard.
Edith inclined her head without speaking, and stuck the note into her
bodice.
"And now we shall not have another such interview for a year.
Good-bye." He withdrew and let himself out by aid of the key which
Edith had given him.
When he had gone Edith sank down and pressed a kiss on the spot still
marked by her lover's footprints in the soft carpet.
* * * * *
It was late when the baroness and her daughter returned, and Edith had
already gone to her room,--that is, the room which she shared with the
maid.
"Send the _backfisch_ to us," commanded Alfonsine, addressing Betty.
"Not gone to bed yet, Edith?" asked the baroness, as her niece entered
the room.
"No, aunt."
Antoinette looked into the girl's eyes with searching scrutiny, but
failed to find there what she sought. She saw, on the contrary, a
proud self-consciousness that was new to the girl.
"Have any callers come while we were out?" inquired the baroness.
"Yes; Captain Baradlay."
The two ladies' eyes directed a cross-fire upon Edith, but with no
effect. She no longer blushed at the mention of that name. It was now
enshrined in her heart and would not again drive the tell-tale blood
to her cheeks.
"Did the captain wait for us?" asked Antoinette.
"Only long enough to write this letter," was the girl's calm reply, as
she delivered Richard's note to her aunt.
Now it was the latter's turn to feel the hot blood mounting to her
face as she read the missive.
"Do you know what is in this letter?" she asked, giving the girl a
penetrating look.
"Yes," answered Edith, with modest dignity.
"You may return to your room and go to bed," said the baroness.
Edith withdrew. Antoinette tossed the letter wrathfully to her
daughter.
"There!" she exclaimed, "that's what comes of your fine scheme."
Alfonsine turned pale and trembled with passion as she read the
letter. Her voice failed her. Her mother's face was distorted with
anger.
"You evidently thought," said the baroness, biting her words off one
by one, "that every man was an Otto Palvicz! Your stupid game is lost,
and now we will try my plan."