The Great Impersonation - E. Phillips Oppenheim (best books to read for self development TXT) 📗

“My friend,” Von Ragastein said at last, speaking with the air of a man who has spent much time in deliberation, “you speak to me of Germany, of my homeland. Perhaps you have guessed that it is not duty alone which has brought me here to these wild places. I, too, left behind me a tragedy.”

Dominey’s quick impulse of sympathy was smothered by the stern, almost harsh repression of the other’s manner. The words seemed to have been torn from his throat. There was no spark of tenderness or regret in his set face.

“Since the day of my banishment,” he went on, “no word of this matter has passed my lips. Tonight it is not weakness which assails me, but a desire to yield to the strange arm of coincidence. You and I, schoolmates and college friends, though sons of a different country, meet here in the wilderness, each with the iron in our souls. I shall tell you the thing which happened to me, and you shall speak to me of your own curse.”

“I cannot!” Dominey groaned.

“But you will,” was the stern reply. “Listen.”

An hour passed, and the voices of the two men had ceased. The howling of the animals had lessened with the paling of the fires, and a slow, melancholy ripple of breeze was passing through the bush and lapping the surface of the river. It was Von Ragastein who broke through what might almost have seemed a trance. He rose to his feet, vanished inside the banda, and reappeared a moment or two later with two tumblers. One he set down in the space provided for it in the arm of his guest’s chair.

“Tonight I break what has become a rule with me,” he announced. “I shall drink a whisky and soda. I shall drink to the new things that may yet come to both of us.”

“You are giving up your work here?” Dominey asked curiously.

“I am part of a great machine,” was the somewhat evasive reply. “I have nothing to do but obey.”

A flicker of passion distorted Dominey’s face, flamed for a moment in his tone.

“Are you content to live and die like this?” he demanded. “Don’t you want to get back to where a different sort of sun will warm your heart and fill your pulses? This primitive world is in its way colossal, but it isn’t human, it isn’t a life for humans. We want streets, Von Ragastein, you and I. We want the tide of people flowing around us, the roar of wheels and the hum of human voices. Curse these animals! If I live in this country much longer, I shall go on all fours.”

“You yield too much to environment,” his companion observed. “In the life of the cities you would be a sentimentalist.”

“No city nor any civilised country will ever claim me again,” Dominey sighed. “I should never have the courage to face what might come.”

Von Ragastein rose to his feet. The dim outline of his erect form was in a way majestic. He seemed to tower over the man who lounged in the chair before him.

“Finish your whisky and soda to our next meeting, friend of my school days,” he begged. “Tomorrow, before you awake, I shall be gone.”

“So soon?”

“By tomorrow night,” Von Ragastein replied, “I must be on the other side of those mountains. This must be our farewell.”

Dominey was querulous, almost pathetic. He had a sudden hatred of solitude.

“I must trek westward myself directly,” he protested, “or eastward, or northward⁠—it doesn’t so much matter. Can’t we travel together?”

Von Ragastein shook his head.

“I travel officially, and I must travel alone,” he replied. “As for yourself, they will be breaking up here tomorrow, but they will lend you an escort and put you in the direction you wish to take. This, alas, is as much as I can do for you. For us it must be farewell.”

“Well, I can’t force myself upon you,” Dominey said a little wistfully. “It seems strange, though, to meet right out here, far away even from the byways of life, just to shake hands and pass on. I am sick to death of niggers and animals.”

“It is Fate,” Von Ragastein decided. “Where I go, I must go alone. Farewell, dear friend! We will drink the toast we drank our last night in your rooms at Magdalen. That Sanskrit man translated it for us: ‘May each find what he seeks!’ We must follow our star.”

Dominey laughed a little bitterly. He pointed to a light glowing fitfully in the bush.

“My will-o’-the-wisp,” he muttered recklessly, “leading where I shall follow⁠—into the swamps!”

A few minutes later Dominey threw himself upon his couch, curiously and unaccountably drowsy. Von Ragastein, who had come in to wish him good night, stood looking down at him for several moments with significant intentness. Then, satisfied that his guest really slept, he turned and passed through the hanging curtain of dried grasses into the next banda, where the doctor, still fully dressed, was awaiting him. They spoke together in German and with lowered voices. Von Ragastein had lost something of his imperturbability.

“Everything progresses according to my orders?” he demanded.

“Everything, Excellency! The boys are being loaded, and a runner has gone on to Wadihuan for ponies to be prepared.”

“They know that I wish to start at dawn?”

“All will be prepared, Excellency.”

Von Ragastein laid his hand upon the doctor’s shoulder.

“Come outside, Schmidt,” he said. “I have something to tell you of my plans.”

The two men seated themselves in the long, wicker chairs, the doctor in an attitude of strict attention. Von Ragastein turned his head and listened. From Dominey’s quarters came the sound of deep and regular breathing.

“I have formed a great plan, Schmidt,” Von Ragastein proceeded. “You know what news has come to me from Berlin?”

“Your Excellency has told me a little,” the doctor reminded him.

“The Day arrives,” Von Ragastein pronounced, his voice shaking with deep emotion. He paused a moment in thought and continued, “the time, even