Dominey slept till late the following morning, and when he woke at last
from a long, dreamless slumber, he was conscious of a curious
quietness in the camp. The doctor, who came in to see him, explained it
immediately after his morning greeting.
“His Excellency,” he announced, “has received important despatches from
home. He has gone to meet an envoy from Dar-es-Salaam. He will be away
for three days. He desired that you would remain his guest until his
return.”
“Very good of him,” Dominey murmured. “Is there any European news?”
“I do not know,” was the stolid reply. “His Excellency desired me to
inform you that if you cared for a short trip along the banks of the
river, southward, there are a dozen boys left and some ponies. There are
plenty of lion, and rhino may be met with at one or two places which the
natives know of.”
Dominey bathed and dressed, sipped his excellent coffee, and lounged
about the place in uncertain mood. He unburdened himself to the doctor
as they drank tea together late in the afternoon.
“I am not in the least keen on hunting,” he confessed, “and I feel like
a horrible sponge, but all the same I have a queer sort of feeling that
I'd like to see Von Ragastein again. Your silent chief rather fascinates
me, Herr Doctor. He is a man. He has something which I have lost.”
“He is a great man,” the doctor declared enthusiastically. “What he sets
his mind to do, he does.”
“I suppose I might have been like that,” Dominey sighed, “if I had had
an incentive. Have you noticed the likeness between us, Herr Doctor?”
The latter nodded.
“I noticed it from the first moment of your arrival,” he assented. “You
are very much alike yet very different. The resemblance must have been
still more remarkable in your youth. Time has dealt with your features
according to your deserts.”
“Well, you needn't rub it in,” Dominey protested irritably.
“I am rubbing nothing in,” the doctor replied with unruffled calm. “I
speak the truth. If you had been possessed of the same moral stamina as
His Excellency, you might have preserved your health and the things that
count. You might have been as useful to your country as he is to his.”
“I suppose I am pretty rocky?”
“Your constitution has been abused. You still, however, have much
vitality. If you cared to exercise self-control for a few months, you
would be a different man.--You must excuse. I have work.”
Dominey spent three restless days. Even the sight of a herd of elephants
in the river and that strange, fierce chorus of night sounds, as beasts
of prey crept noiselessly around the camp, failed to move him. For the
moment his love of sport, his last hold upon the world of real things,
seemed dead. What did it matter, the killing of an animal more or
less? His mind was fixed uneasily upon the past, searching always for
something which he failed to discover. At dawn he watched for that
strangely wonderful, transforming birth of the day, and at night he sat
outside the banda, waiting till the mountains on the other side of
the river had lost shape and faded into the violet darkness. His
conversation with Von Ragastein had unsettled him. Without knowing
definitely why, he wanted him back again. Memories that had long since
ceased to torture were finding their way once more into his brain.
On the first day he had striven to rid himself of them in the usual
fashion.
“Doctor, you've got some whisky, haven't you?” he asked.
The doctor nodded.
“There is a case somewhere to be found,” he admitted. “His Excellency
told me that I was to refuse you nothing, but he advises you to drink
only the white wine until his return.”
“He really left that message?”
“Precisely as I have delivered it.”
The desire for whisky passed, came again but was beaten back, returned
in the night so that he sat up with the sweat pouring down his face and
his tongue parched. He drank lithia water instead. Late in the afternoon
of the third day, Von Ragastein rode into the camp. His clothes were
torn and drenched with the black mud of the swamps, dust and dirt were
thick upon his face. His pony almost collapsed as he swung himself off.
Nevertheless, he paused to greet his guest with punctilious courtesy,
and there was a gleam of real satisfaction in his eyes as the two men
shook hands.
“I am glad that you are still here,” he said heartily. “Excuse me while
I bathe and change. We will dine a little earlier. So far I have not
eaten to-day.”
“A long trek?” Dominey asked curiously.
“I have trekked far,” was the quiet reply.
At dinner time, Von Ragastein was once more himself, immaculate in white
duck, with clean linen, shaved, and with little left of his fatigue.
There was something different in his manner, however, some change which
puzzled Dominey. He was at once more attentive to his guest, yet further
removed from him in spirit and sympathy. He kept the conversation with
curious insistence upon incidents of their school and college days, upon
the subject of Dominey's friends and relations, and the later episodes
of his life. Dominey felt himself all the time encouraged to talk about
his earlier life, and all the time he was conscious that for some reason
or other his host's closest and most minute attention was being given
to his slightest word. Champagne had been served and served freely, and
Dominey, up to the very gates of that one secret chamber, talked volubly
and without reserve. After the meal was over, their chairs were dragged
as before into the open. The silent orderly produced even larger cigars,
and Dominey found his glass filled once more with the wonderful brandy.
The doctor had left them to visit the native camp nearly a quarter of a
mile away, and the orderly was busy inside, clearing the table. Only the
black shapes of the servants were dimly visible as they twirled their
fans,--and overhead the gleaming stars. They were alone.
“I've been talking an awful lot of rot about myself,” Dominey said.
“Tell me a little about your career now and your life in Germany before
you came out here?”
Von Ragastein made no immediate reply, and a curious silence ebbed and
flowed between the two men. Every now and then a star shot across
the sky. The red rim of the moon rose a little higher from behind the
mountains. The bush stillness, always the most mysterious of silences,
seemed gradually to become charged with unvoiced passion. Soon the
animals began to call around them, creeping nearer and nearer to the
fire which burned at the end of the open space.
“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. To-night 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.
“To-night 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. “To-morrow, before you awake, I shall be gone.”
“So soon?”
“By to-morrow 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 to-morrow, 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 by-ways 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 Sanscrit 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
the month, is fixed. I am recalled from here to take the place for which
I was destined. You know what that place is? You know why I was sent to
an English public school and college?”
“I can guess.”
“I am to take up my residence in England. I am to have a special
mission. I am to find a place for myself there as an Englishman. The
means are left to my ingenuity. Listen, Schmidt. A great idea has come
to me.”
The doctor lit a cigar.
“I listen, Excellency.”
Von Ragastein rose to his feet. Not content with the sound of that
regular breathing, he made his way to the opening of the banda and gazed
in at Dominey's slumbering form. Then he returned.
“It is something which you do not wish the Englishman to hear?” the
doctor asked.
“It is.”
“We speak in German.”
“Languages,” was the cautious reply, “happen to be that man's only
accomplishment. He can speak German as fluently as you or I. That,
however, is of no consequence. He sleeps and he will continue to sleep.
I mixed him a sleeping draught with his whisky and soda.”
“Ah!” the doctor grunted.
“My principal need in England is an identity,” Von Ragastein pointed
out. “I have made up my mind. I shall take this Englishman's. I shall
return to England as Sir Everard Dominey.”
“So!”
“There is a remarkable likeness between us, and Dominey has not seen an
Englishman who knows him for eight or ten years. Any school or college
friends whom I may encounter I shall be able to satisfy. I have stayed
at Dominey. I know Dominey's relatives. To-night he has babbled for
hours, telling me many things that it is well for me to know.”
“What about his near relatives?”
“He has none nearer than cousins.”
“No wife?”
Von Ragastein paused and turned his head. The deep breathing inside the
banda had certainly ceased. He rose to his feet and, stealing uneasily
to the opening, gazed down upon his guest's outstretched form. To all
appearance, Dominey still slept deeply. After a moment or two's watch,
Von Ragastein returned to his place.
“Therein lies his tragedy,” he confided, dropping his voice a little
lower. “She is insane--insane, it seems, through a shock for which he
was responsible. She might have been the only stumbling block, and she
is as though she did not exist.”
“It is a great scheme,” the doctor murmured enthusiastically.
“It is a wonderful one! That great and unrevealed Power, Schmidt, which
watches over our country and which will make her mistress of the world,
must have guided this man to us. My position in England will be unique.
As Sir Everard Dominey I shall be able to penetrate into the inner
circles of Society--perhaps, even, of political life. I shall be able,
if necessary, to remain in England even after the storm bursts.”
“Supposing,” the doctor suggested, “this man Dominey should return to
England?”
Von Ragastein turned his head and looked towards his questioner.
“He must not,” he pronounced.
“So!” the doctor murmured.
Late in the afternoon of the following day, Dominey, with a couple of
boys for escort and his rifle slung across his shoulder, rode into the
bush along the way he had come. The little fat doctor stood and watched
him, waving his hat until he was out of sight. Then he called to the
orderly.
“Heinrich,” he said, “you are sure that the Herr Englishman has the
whisky?”
“The water bottles are filled with nothing else, Herr Doctor,” the man
replied.
“There is no water or soda water in the pack?”
“Not one drop, Herr Doctor.”
“How much food?”
“One day's rations.”
“The beef is salt?”
“It is very salt, Herr Doctor.”
“And the compass?”
“It is ten degrees wrong.”
“The boys have their orders?”
“They understand perfectly, Herr Doctor. If the Englishman does not
drink, they will take him at midnight to where His Excellency will be
encamped at the bend of the Blue River.”
The doctor sighed. He was not at heart an unkindly man.
“I think,” he murmured, “it will be better for the Englishman that he
drinks.”