Quicksands

Quicksands.

by Adolph Streckfuss.

CHAPTER I.

AN EXCHANGE.

Upon the short, thick gra.s.s of a small, secluded opening in a magnificent forest of firs and beeches a young man lay, his hands clasped under his head, buried in waking dreams. He had chosen himself a charming retreat, where he was safe from all intrusion from wayfarers pa.s.sing through the forest by any of the roads or paths that intersected it at a sufficient distance from this spot. The soft, gra.s.sy sod was a delightful couch, and the interlacing boughs of a huge beech-tree formed above the head of the dreamer a canopy that entirely protected him from the burning rays of the mid-day sun.

Profound quiet reigned in the forest, intensified, rather than disturbed, by the humming of insects; the very birds which had twittered and sung in the early morning seemed silenced by the heat; all creatures sought repose and refreshment at high noon on this glowing July day.

If the young fellow who lay thus luxuriously bedded were seeking mental as well as bodily repose, it was evident that he had not found it. He was not asleep; his dark eyes were wide open, gazing restlessly and discontentedly into the s.p.a.ces of sky among the beech boughs until pained by their brilliancy. "How tiresome! how unutterably stupid!" he muttered, altering his comfortable position so as to rest his head upon his hand as he leaned upon his elbow. "That deadly-tiresome, monotonous stretch of brilliant blue sky is the very image of my own weary existence. Nothing but light and splendour; it is intolerable. If the sky were only covered with clouds,--if there could be a flash here and there of lightning, with thunder crashing and winds howling, one might have some satisfaction in sending a bullet through one"s brains with the thunder for a dirge. But no, even that is not to be. I am to die as I have lived, surrounded by weary, soul-destroying sunshine. Ah, well, it is a fitting end to an insignificant and utterly useless life. Come, little friend, it is high time we were done with it."

He took from his breast-pocket a small, richly-inlaid revolver, and looked at it with a degree of affection. "You have helped me through many a long, weary hour. This moment would have come for me long ago but for you and my piano. It certainly was interesting to learn to shoot one spot after another out of the six of hearts. It was irritating not to succeed in hitting each with the same precision. A useless and silly enough aim in life, to be sure; still it was an aim, and now that it is attained it is just as tiresome as everything else.

To-day you are to find my heart as surely as the hearts on the card. Or suppose we try the head; it would be easier; an involuntary quiver of a muscle, and the ball might miss the heart, but if this barrel lightly touch the temple the effect must be sure. Three or four b.a.l.l.s in the brain must produce death instantaneously. It is the better plan."

He examined the revolver and made sure that it was loaded; his hand did not tremble, his look was clear and steadfast; there was even a smile of satisfaction on his lips as he contemplated the little weapon. "You will do your duty as you have always done it. You never were to blame if every spot on the card was not exactly hit, although the clumsy marksman would gladly have declared the fault yours. As soon as hand and aim were true, each heart was pierced precisely in the centre."

He raised the pistol, and once more took in at a glance the scene around him, while his thoughts ran on: "Really, a lovely spot for my last act! Beneath these spreading boughs the body will lie comfortably on the soft gra.s.s,--for how long before it is found? For days, perhaps for weeks, the place is so secluded. I should like to know what they will say in Berlin when the newspapers announce, "At last the body has been discovered of Egon von Ernau, who disappeared so many days or weeks ago," etc., and there will, of course, follow a long description of the place where it was found, and of the condition and clothes of the corpse. The more there is to tell, the better for some poor devil of a reporter. I do not grudge it him. I can at least serve one man in the world by my death. And the news will fly like wildfire. It would be almost worth living for,--the hearing of all that heartless gossip. How busy all those empty heads will be with wondering what could have driven a fellow so favoured by fortune to suicide! "An unfortunate love-affair," the sentimentally disposed will declare. "His father wished to force him into a marriage with a person of high rank, and in his despair he took his own life." Of course they must invent some reason for a man"s escaping from this wretched, wearisome existence.

Fools! If life were worth living, why should I not comply with my respected parent"s wishes? All women are alike. It is all the same tiresome sham."

He still held the revolver in his raised hand, when suddenly the hand sank by his side, and he sat up and listened.

A clear note broke upon the woodland quiet,--the sound of a man"s tenor voice singing the hymn "Rock of Ages" at no great distance from where Egon von Ernau lay.

He frowned angrily. "Confoundedly annoying!" he muttered. "If I shoot now, that stupid psalm-singer will hear it,--and then? Then all the delightful Berlin gossip will be spoiled, the body will be found immediately, and everything will be known to-morrow. No, no, those good people must puzzle their brains for a while to discover what has become of me. My Herr Papa must have some chance to show the world what a tender, anxious parent he is. We must choose a still more retired spot.

But first let us see where the psalm-singer really is. He seems to have established himself in the forest here, for the sound continues to come from the same direction and from somewhere not very far off."

He unc.o.c.ked his revolver, put the little weapon again into the breast-pocket of a very well made summer coat, and, rising to his feet, walked slowly through the wood in the direction whence came the sound of singing.

It was no easy task to make his way through the thick underbrush, particularly as he took great pains to make no noise. He wished to see the singer without being seen himself, and therefore he walked very slowly, and it was some minutes before he attained his purpose.

Still following the sound, he had reached the edge of the forest, and only a thick fringe of hazel-bushes obstructed his view beyond.

Cautiously parting these he saw before him a landscape of extraordinary beauty. Beyond the velvet sward of a small meadow the land sloped down some eight or ten feet to a charming little lake, on the opposite sh.o.r.e of which green, smiling fields, stretched far away to the mountain-slopes of the distant highlands.

The young man gave but a fleeting glance to this lovely picture; he was far more interested in the singer, whom he now saw at no great distance.

On the brink of the lake the psalm-singer was kneeling, his head held stiffly erect, his bony hands clasped and extended to the skies, while, quite unaware of his listener, he continued his hymn in loud, resonant tones. He was a young man hardly older than twenty-six, although the sallow, flabby features of his beardless face, showing no trace of youthful freshness, might well have caused him to be thought older than he really was. His face was turned to the heavens, and he was staring into the deep, cloudless blue with prominent, lackl.u.s.tre eyes. The large, thick-lipped mouth was wide open as he shouted out the last verse of his hymn.

He certainly was not handsome, and he was made far more repulsive in appearance than he might have been by the ill-fitting, unsuitable black clothes that he wore. An old-fashioned dress-coat, the long pointed swallowtail of which lay like a train behind him on the gra.s.s, hung in disorderly fashion about his bony frame; black, wrinkled trousers, a black waistcoat sufficiently open to display linen of doubtful cleanliness, a high, rusty, black silk cravat, from which projected the huge points of his shirt-collar on each side of his beardless chin, formed this extraordinary being"s attire, which was, moreover, completed by a very tall and very shabby stove-pipe hat.

The hymn came to an end, but the singer did not change his att.i.tude; he still held up his clasped hands to the skies. For a few moments he was silent; then, in a loud voice, he uttered an extemporaneous prayer.

"G.o.d of heaven," he cried, "a repentant wretch casts himself upon Thy mercy! Pardon my betrayal of my trust, my having again yielded to temptation. Pardon what I have done and what I am about to do. Receive me into Thy kingdom. Amen!"

With these words he suddenly sprang up; his clumsy black hat fell off upon the gra.s.s as he did so, but he paid it no attention. Clasping his hands above his head, he leaned forward, gazed for an instant into the deep green water of the lake, exclaimed, "G.o.d forgive me!" and plunged in head-foremost.

Thus far the listener had watched without stirring a limb or giving the slightest sign of his presence; but at this sudden termination of the prayer he broke through the thick underbrush, and in a moment had reached the spot whence the singer had taken the fatal plunge. Here he threw off his coat and hat, keenly scanning the while the lake where the man had disappeared, and where the water was still troubled and sending forth huge rippling circles, while a dark body was visible beneath the surface.

The young man looked about him for some piece of shelving sh.o.r.e where a swimmer could easily clamber upon land; scarcely ten steps to the left he saw what he desired, and in another moment the ripples of the lake broke over his head also.

He was an expert swimmer; when but a mere lad he had saved the life of a drowning comrade at the risk of his own, so tightly had the sinking boy clasped him in his despairing grasp. He remembered this as he now rose to the surface, and seeing a dark form directly before him he merely gave it a powerful push in the direction of the shelving sh.o.r.e, taking good care to avoid the grasp of the wildly struggling man.

Keeping clear of this, he contrived to push him before him as he swam to the landing-place. As soon as he felt the ground beneath him, however, he seized the half-suffocated singer by the arm and dragged him ash.o.r.e. The rescue had been easy, and had occupied but a very few moments of time.

For a while the rescued man lay gasping on the bank; then he started up and gazed wildly at his preserver, who stood quietly looking at him.

The unfortunate man presented a still odder and uglier appearance than before; his long black hair hung in dripping locks over his pale face, and his wrinkled coat clinging to his spare figure was more ridiculous than ever.

"Why did you not let me die?" he cried, wringing his hands.

The young man half smiled. "You are right," he replied; "it was very stupid of me. It always is so when I act upon the impulse of the moment. Had I taken time to consider I should have said to myself, "This gentleman is tired of life and voluntarily puts an end to it; you have no right to interfere with so reasonable a proceeding." I should then have seated myself up there on the bank, and have looked on as you came two or three times, to the surface gasping for breath, sinking to rise again, and hastening your death, perhaps, by the frantic efforts you made to retain a detested existence. Finally, you would have sunk to rise no more, and at this moment you would be lying quiet and comfortable, with only a slight quiver of the limbs, at the bottom of the lake. My impetuosity has deprived me of an interesting spectacle and prevented your fulfilment of a sensible and laudable intention. I pray your pardon, and would suggest that you can repair the wrong I have done. We are but a few steps away from the high bank whence you took your plunge into the lake. The spot was admirably selected, for the water here is too shallow for your purpose. I promise you that you shall not be disturbed again; I will look on with the greatest interest."

The young man"s quiet words filled his hearer with horror; his arms dropped by his sides, and his prominent eyes opened wider and protruded still farther from his head. He shuddered at the description of his death-agony; he looked in fear at his preserver, who could talk so calmly of such horrors, and when the latter proposed that he should try another plunge into the lake he was seized with a nameless dread.

Involuntarily he recoiled a step, and with a gesture of abhorrence cried, "No, no, I cannot! It was too horrible! When the dark water closed over me, and I sank deeper and deeper, the suffocation, the dreadful noises in my ears, the throbbing in my temples--no, I cannot do it again!"

"Indeed? True, death by drowning cannot be agreeable; I have heard so before from one of my acquaintances who very nearly lost his life in the water. The death-struggle is too long; it must be most unpleasant.

Now, a bullet through the head is instantaneous. I will make you another suggestion; I owe it to you since I have interfered with your plans in so uncalled-for a manner. My coat lies on the bank yonder; in its breast-pocket there is a six-barrelled revolver. I was just putting it to my temple when I was arrested by your song. I only need two or three b.a.l.l.s for my purpose. Come up on the bank with me, wait until my work is done, and my revolver is at your service. How people will wonder when the two bodies are found after a while lying peacefully side by side! What odd stories will be told of a duel without witnesses, or some such stupid nonsense! It is a pity one cannot be by to hear them. Come, we will soon make an end of the tiresome affair."

"I cannot! I cannot do it a second time! Good G.o.d! I can neither live nor die! Help me, I implore you! Shoot me down with your revolver; I cannot do it myself! Kill me! I will bless you with my dying breath!"

He flung himself upon his knees, wringing his hands, as he implored his preserver to kill him, but the young man shook his head decidedly, as he replied, "Very sorry, but the part of an executioner does not suit me; one must conclude such matters one"s self, or let them alone. If you will not comply with my suggestion, there is nothing for you but to go on living. I wish you joy of it."

"Good G.o.d! what shall I do? I implore you to help me, to advise me!"

"How can I possibly advise you, when I have no knowledge of you or of the circ.u.mstances that have driven you to despair?"

"I will tell you about it. I am the most miserable man in the world!

You have saved my life, and I will confide my wretchedness, my disgrace, to you."

The young man looked down thoughtfully for a moment before he said, "Very well, tell me. An hour more or less makes no difference. Let us sit down in the shade on the gra.s.s; you shall pour out your woes to me, and if I can give you help or counsel, I will do so."

"Will not the shade be rather too cool for us in our wet clothes? We might catch cold."

The young fellow laughed aloud at this strange mixture of despair and dread of taking cold.

"Well, then, sit in the sun," he said, still laughing. "I prefer the shade, since a cold is of no consequence to me. And now, since we find ourselves comrades after this odd fashion, here at our ease, you can initiate me in the dark mysteries of your life. I promise you an attentive listener."

He had thrown himself down beneath a huge beech-tree, while his companion was looking for a seat on some stone in the blazing sunshine.

"My wet clothes will soon dry here," said the singer. "When they are dried on the body they do not lose their shape." And as he spoke he looked down sadly at the long wet tails of his coat as they draggled dripping behind him. There was no trace to be seen in him of the contrition and despair which had possessed him a few moments since, his whole mind was given to the choosing of a spot in the sunshine. At last he found a fragment of rock which suited him, he sat down upon it, and leaning forward propped his elbows upon his knees and his chin upon his hands. In this att.i.tude he looked, as his companion could not but inwardly observe, like a strange caricature of incredible ugliness. He paused a while to reflect, and then began, in a whining, lachrymose tone,--

"I have always been a child of misfortune. The Lord has punished me with the greatest severity for my sins, although I have tried to lead a pious, resigned life, however heavily His hand might be laid upon me. Wherefore, O Lord, shouldst Thou thus visit Thy most devoted servant----"

He could not go on, for his listener had stopped his ears, and exclaimed angrily, "Stop, stop! nothing in the world is quite so detestable and tiresome as circ.u.mlocution. If I am to listen, you must be brief, simple, and unaffected. Let us have no whining sentimentality. I hate it! Give me a clear, simple statement of facts."

"Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," was the reply to this blunt interruption of the man"s flow of eloquence. "I will command my emotion, if I can, out of regard for you, my preserver. I have always been unlucky; my very name was a misfortune,--not my first name, Gottlieb, which I received in holy baptism, but my surname, Pigglewitch. I always see a smile of derision upon the lips of those who hear it for the first time, when a boy I was always laughed at for my name, and this trial has never left me. But I will not murmur; it is the Lord"s will that I inherit such a t.i.tle, and His ways are always right. How can we, weak mortals that we are----"