in that clear, carrying voice of hers, “will you, as an expert, instruct a very ignorant person? I want a little information.”
“Miss Champers,” he answered, “am I not always at your service?” and all listened to hear upon what point their hostess desired to be enlightened.
“Sir Robert,” she went on calmly, “everyone here is, I believe, what is called a financier, that is except myself and Major Vernon, who only tries to be and will, I am sure, fail, since Nature made him something else, a soldier and—what else did Nature make you, Alan?”
As he vouchsafed no answer to question, although Sir Robert muttered an uncomplimentary one between his lips which Barbara heard, or read, she continued:
“And you are all very rich and successful, are you not, and are going to be much richer and much more successful—next week. Now what I want to ask you is—how is it done?”
“Accepting the premises for the sake of argument, Miss Champers,” replied Sir Robert, who felt that he could not refuse the challenge, “the answer is that it is done by finance.”
“I am still in the dark,” she said. “Finance, as I have heard of it, means floating companies, and companies are floated to earn money for those who invest in them. Now this afternoon as I was dull, I got hold of a book called the Directory of Directors, and looked up all your names in it, except those of the gentlemen from Paris, and the companies that you direct—I found out about those in another book. Well, I could not make out that any of these companies have ever earned any money, a dividend, don’t you call it? Therefore how do you all grow so rich, and why do people invest in them?”
Now Sir Robert frowned, Alan coloured, two or three of the company laughed outright, and one of the French gentlemen who understood English and had already drunk as much as was good for him, remarked loudly to his neighbour, “Ah! she is charming. She do touch the spot, like that ointment you give me to-day. How do we grow rich and why do the people invest? Mon Dieu! why do they invest? That is the great mystery. I say that cette belle demoiselle, votre nièce, est ravissante. Elle a d’esprit, mon ami Haswell.”
Apparently her uncle did not share these sentiments, for he turned as red as any turkey-cock, and said across the great round table:
“My dear Barbara, I wish that you would leave matters which you do not understand alone. We are here to dine, not to talk about finance.”
“Certainly, Uncle,” she answered sweetly. “I stand, or rather sit, reproved. I suppose that I have put my foot into it as usual, and the worst of it is,” she added, turning to Sir Robert, “that I am just as ignorant as I was before.”
“If you want to master these matters, Miss Champers,” said Aylward with a rather forced laugh, “you must go into training and worship at the shrine of”—he meant to say Mammon, then thinking that the word sounded unpleasant, substituted—“the Yellow God as we do.”
At these words Alan, who had been studying his plate, looked up quickly, and her uncle’s face turned from red to white. But the irrepressible Barbara seized upon them.
“The Yellow God,” she repeated. “Do you mean money or that fetish thing of Major Vernon’s with the terrible woman’s face that I saw at the office in the City. Well, to change the subject, tell us, Alan, what is that yellow god of yours and where did it come from?”
“My uncle Austin, who was my mother’s brother and a missionary, brought it from West Africa a great many years ago. He was the first to visit the tribe who worship it; in fact I do not think that anyone has ever visited them since. But really I do not know all the story. Jeekie can tell you about it if you want to know, for he is one of that people and escaped with my uncle.”
Now Jeekie having left the room, some of the guests wished to send for him, but Mr. Champers-Haswell objected. The end of it was that a compromise was effected, Alan undertaking to produce his retainer afterwards when they went to play billiards or cards.
Dinner was over at length and the diners, who had dined well, were gathered in the billiard room to smoke and amuse themselves as they wished. It was a very large room, sixty feet long indeed, with a wide space in the centre between the two tables, which was furnished as a lounge. When the gentlemen entered it they found Barbara standing by the great fireplace in this central space, a little shape of white and silver in its emptiness.
“Forgive me for intruding on you,” she said, “and please do not stop smoking, for I like the smell. I have sat up expressly to hear Jeekie’s story of the Yellow God. Alan, produce Jeekie, or I shall go to bed at once.”
Her uncle made a movement as though to interfere, but Sir Robert said something to him which appeared to cause him to change his mind, while the rest in some way or another signified an enthusiastic assent. All of them were anxious to see this Jeekie and hear his tale, if he had one to tell. So Jeekie was sent for and presently arrived clad in the dress clothes which are common to all classes in England and America. There he stood before them white-headed, ebony-faced, gigantic, imperturbable. There is no doubt that his appearance produced an effect, for it was unusual and indeed striking.
“You sent for me, Major?” he said, addressing his master, to whom he gave a military salute, for he had been Alan’s servant when he was in the Army.
“Yes, Jeekie. Miss Barbara here and these gentlemen, wish you to tell them all that you know about the Yellow God.”
The negro started and rolled his round eyes upwards till the whites of them showed, then began in his school-book English:
“That is a private subject, Major, upon which I should prefer not to discourse before this very public company.”
A chorus of remonstrance arose and one of the Jewish gentlemen approaching Jeekie, slipped a couple of sovereigns into his great hand, which he promptly transferred to his pocket without seeming to notice them.
“Jeekie,” said Barbara, “don’t disappoint me.”
“Very well, miss, I fall in with your wishes. The Yellow God that all these gentlemen worship, quite another god to that of which you desire that I should tell you. You know all about him. My god is of female sex.”
At this statement his audience burst into laughter while Jeekie rolled his eyes again and waited till they had finished. “My god,” he went on presently, “I mean, gentlemen, the god I used to pray to, for I am a good Christian now, has so much gold that she does not care for any more,” and he paused.
“Then what does she care for?” asked someone.
“Blood,” answered Jeekie. “She is god of Death. Her name is Little Bonsa or Small Swimming Head; she is wife of Big Bonsa or Great Swimming Head.”
Again there was laughter, though less general—for instance, neither Sir Robert nor Mr. Champers-Haswell laughed. This merriment seemed to excite Jeekie. At any rate it caused him to cease his stilted talk and relapse into the strange vernacular that is common to all negroes, tinctured with a racy slang that was all his own.
“You want to hear Yellow God palaver?” he said rapidly. “Very well, I tell you, you cocksure white men who think you know everything, but know nothing at all. My people, people of the Asiki, that mean people of Spirits, what you call ghosts and say you no believe in, but always look for behind door, they worship Yellow God, Bonsa Big and Bonsa Little, worship both and call them one; only Little
