MR. HASWELL LOSES HIS TEMPER.
Alan and Barbara sat in Mr. Champers-Haswell’s private sitting-room with
the awful decorations, and before them by the fire Mr. Champers-Haswell
reclined upon his couch. Alan in a few, brief, soldier-like words had
just informed him of his engagement to Barbara. During the recital of
this interesting fact Barbara said nothing, but Mr. Haswell had
whistled several times. Now at length he spoke, in that tone of forced
geniality which he generally adopted towards his cousin.
“You are asking for the hand of a considerable heiress, Alan my
boy,” he said, “but you have neglected to inform me of your own
position.”
“Where is the use of telling you what you know already, Mr. Haswell? I
have left the firm, therefore I have practically nothing.”
“You have practically nothing, and yet——Well, in my young
days men were more delicate, they did not like being called
fortune-hunters, but of course times have changed.”
Alan bit his lip and Barbara sat up quite straight in her chair,
observing which indications, Mr. Haswell went on hurriedly:
“Now if you had stopped in the firm and earned the very handsome
competence in a small way which would have become due to you this week,
instead of throwing us over at the last moment for some quixotic
reasons of your own, it might have been a different matter. I do not
say it would have been, I say it might have been, and you may remember
a proverb about winks and nods and blind horses. So I ask you whether
you are inclined to withdraw that resignation of yours and bring up
this question again let us say, next Sunday?”
Alan thought a while before he answered. As he understood Mr. Haswell
practically was promising to assent to the engagement upon these terms.
The temptation was enormously great, the fiercest that he had ever been
called upon to face. He looked at Barbara. She had closed her eyes and
made absolutely no sign. For some reason of her own she had elected
that he should determine this vital point without the slightest
assistance from her. And it must be determined at once; procrastination
was impossible. For a moment he hesitated. On the one side was Barbara,
on the other his conscience. After long doubts he had come to a certain
conclusion which he quite understood to be inconvenient to his
partners. Should he throw it over now? Should he even try to make a sure
and certain bargain as the price of his surrender? Probably he would
not suffer if he did. The flotation was underwritten and bound to go
through; the scandal would come afterwards, months or years hence, long
before which he might get out, as most of the others meant to do. No,
he could not. His conscience was too much for him.
“I do not see any use in reconsidering that question, Mr. Haswell,”
he said quietly; “we settled it on Friday night.”
Barbara reopened her brown eyes and stared amiably at the painted
ceiling, and Mr. Haswell whistled.
“Then I am afraid,” he said, “that I do not see any use in
discussing your kind proposal for my niece’s hand. Listen—I will be
quite open with you. I have other views for Barbara, and as it happens I
have the power to enforce them, or at any rate to prevent their
frustration by you. If Barbara marries against my will before she is
five-and-twenty, that is within the next two years, her entire fortune,
with the exception of a pittance, goes elsewhere. This I am sure is a
fact that will influence you, who have nothing and even if it did not,
I presume that you are scarcely so selfish as to wish to beggar her.”
“No,” answered Alan, “you need not fear that, for it would be
wrong. I understand that you absolutely refuse to sanction my suit on
the ground of my poverty, which under the circumstances is perhaps not
wonderful. Well, the only thing to do is to wait for two years, a long
time, but not endless, and meanwhile I can try to better my position.”
“Do what you will, Alan,” said Mr. Haswell harshly, for now all his
_faux bonhomme_ manner had gone, leaving him revealed in his true
character of an unscrupulous tradesman with dark ends of his own to
serve. “Do what you will, but understand that I forbid all
communication between you and my niece, and that the sooner you cease
to trespass upon a hospitality which you have abused, the better I
shall be pleased.”
“I will go at once,” said Alan, rising, “before my temper
gets the better of me and I tell you some truths that I might regret,
for after all you are Barbara’s uncle. But on your part I ask you to
understand that I refuse to cut off from my cousin, who is of full age
and has promised to be my wife,” and he turned to go.
“Stop a minute, Alan,” said Barbara, who all this while had sat
silent. “I have something to say which I wish you to hear. You told us
just now, uncle, that you have other views for me, by which you meant
that you wish me to marry Sir Robert Aylward, whom, as you are probably
aware, I refused definitely this afternoon. Now I wish to make it clear
at once that no earthly power will induce me to take as a husband a man
whom I dislike, and whose wealth, of which you think so much, has in my
opinion been dishonestly acquired.”
“What are you saying?” broke in her uncle furiously. “He has
been my partner for years, you are reflecting upon me.”
“I am sorry, uncle, but I withdraw nothing. Even if Alan here were dead,
I would not marry that man, and perhaps you will make him understand
this,” she added with emphasis. “Indeed I had sooner die myself.
You told us also that if I marry against your will, you can take away
all the property that my father left to me. Uncle, I shall not give you
that satisfaction. I shall wait until I am twenty-five and do what I
please with myself and my fortune. Lastly, you said that you forbade us
to see each other or to correspond. I answer that I shall both write to
and see Alan as often as I like. If you attempt to prevent me from
doing so, I shall go to the Court of Chancery, lay all the facts before
it, as I have been advised that I can do—not by Alan—please remember,
_all_ the facts, and ask for its protection and for a separate
maintenance out of my estate until I am twenty-five. I am sure that the
Court would grant me this and would declare that considering his
distinguished family and record Alan is a perfectly proper person to be
my affianced husband. I think that is all I have to say.”
“All you have to say!” gasped Mr. Haswell, “all you have to
say, you impertinent and ungrateful minx!” Then he fell into a furious
fit of rage and in language that need not be repeated, poured a stream
of threats and abuse upon Alan and herself. Barbara waited until he
ceased from exhaustion.
“Uncle,” she said, “you should remember that your heart is
weak and you must not overexcite yourself, also when you are calmer,
that if you speak to me like that again, I shall go to the Court at
once, for I will not be sworn at by you or by any other man. I
apologize to you, Alan; I am afraid I have brought you into strange
company. Come, my dear, we will go and order your dogcart,” and putting
her arm affectionately through his, she went with him from the room.
“I wonder who put her up to all this?” gasped Haswell, as the door
closed behind them. “Some infernal lawyer, I’ll be bound. Well, she
has got the whip hand of me, and I can’t face an investigation in
Chancery, especially as the only thing against Vernon is that the value
of his land has fallen. But I swear that she shall never marry him
while I live,” he ended in a kind of shout and the domed and painted
ceiling echoed back his words—“_while I live_” after which the
room was silent, save for the heavy thumping of his heart.
When Alan reached home that night after his ten-mile drive he sent
Jeekie to tell the housekeeper to find him some food. In his mysterious
African fashion the negro had already collected much intelligence as to
the events of the day, mostly in the servants’ hall, and more
particularly from the two golf-caddies, sons of one of the gardeners,
who it seemed instead of retiring with the clubs, had taken shelter in
some tall whins and thence followed the interview between Barbara and
Sir Robert with the intensest interest. Reflecting that this was not
the time to satisfy his burning curiosity, Jeekie went and in due
course returned with some cold mutton and a bottle of claret. Then came
his chance, for Alan could scarcely touch the mutton and demanded toast
and butter.
“Very inferior chop”—that was his West African word for
food—“for a gentleman, Major,” he said, shaking his white
head sympathetically and pointing to the mutton,—“specially when he
has unexpectedly departed from magnificent eating of The Court. Why did
you not wait till after dinner, Major, before retiring?”
Alan laughed at the man’s inflated English, and answered in a more
nervous and colloquial style:
“Because I was kicked out, Jeekie.”
“Ah! I gathered that kicking was in the wind, Major. Sir Robert Aylward,
Bart., he also was kicked out, but by smaller toe.”
Again Alan laughed and, as it was a relief to talk even to Jeekie, asked
him:
“How do you know that?”
“I gathered it out of atmosphere, Major; from Sir Robert’s
gentleman, from two youths who watch Sir Robert and Miss Barbara talking
upon golf green No. 9, from the machine driver of Sir Robert whose eyes
he damn in public, and last but not least from his own noble
countenance.”
“I see that you are observant, Jeekie.”
“Observation, Major, it is art of life. I see Miss Barbara’s eyes
red like morning sky and I deduct. I see you shot out and gloomy like
evening cloud, and I deduct. I listen at door of Mr. Haswell’s room, I
hear him curse and swear like holy saint in Book, and you and Miss
Barbara answer him not like saint, though what you speak I cannot hear,
and I deduct. Jeekie deduct this—that you make love to Miss Barbara in
proper gentlemanlike, ’nogamous, Christian fashion such as your late
Reverend Uncle approve, and Miss Barbara, she make love to you with ten
per cent. compound interest, but old gent with whistle, he _not_
approve; he say, ‘Where corresponding cash!’ He say ‘Noble Sir Robert
have much cash and interested in identical business. I prefer Sir
Robert. Get out, you Cashless.’ Often I see this same thing when boy in
West Africa, very common wherever sun shine. I note all these matters
and I deduct—that Jeekie’s way and Jeekie seldom wrong.”
Alan laughed for the third time, until the tears ran down his face
indeed.
“Jeekie,” he said, “you are a great
rascal——”
“Yes, yes,” interrupted Jeekie, “great rascal. Best thing to
be in this world, Major. Honourable Sir Robert, Bart., M.P., and Mr.
Champers-Haswell, D.L., J.P., they find that out long ago and sit on top
of tree of opulent renown. Jeekie great rascal and therefore have
Savings Bank account—go on, Major.”
“Well, Jeekie, because if you are a rascal you are kind-hearted and
because I believe that you care for me——”
“Oh! Major,” broke in Jeekie again, “that most
’utterably true. Honour bright I love you, Major, better than anyone on
earth, except my late old woman, now happily dead, gone and forgotten in
best oak coffin, £4 10 without fittings but polished, and perhaps your
holy uncle, Reverend Mr. Austin, also coffined and departed, who saved
me from early extinction in a dark place. Major, I no like graves, I
see too much of them, and can’t tell what lie on other side. Though
everyone say they know, Jeekie not quite sure. May be all light and
crowns of glory, may be damp black hole and no way out. But this at
least true, that I love you better, yes, better than Miss Barbara, for
love of woman very poor, uncertain thing, quick come, quick go. Jeekie
find that out—often. Yes, if need be, though death most nasty, if need
be I say I die for you, which great unpleasant sacrifice,” and Jeekie
in the genuine enthusiasm of his warm heart, throwing himself upon his
knees after the African fashion, seized his master’s hand and kissed
it.
“Thanks, Jeekie,” said Alan, “very kind of you, I am sure.
But we haven’t come to that yet, though no one knows what may happen
later on. Now sit upon that chair and take a little whisky—not too
much—for I am going to ask your advice.”
“Major,” said Jeekie, “I obey,” and seizing the whisky
bottle in a casual manner, he poured out half a tumbler full, for Jeekie
was fond of whisky. Indeed before now this taste had brought him into
conflict with the local magistrates.
“Put back three parts of that,” said Alan, and Jeekie did so.
“Now,” he went on, “listen: this is the case, Miss Barbara
and I are——” and he hesitated.
“Oh! I know; like me and Mrs. Jeekie once,” said Jeekie, gulping
down some of the neat whisky. “Go on, Major.”
“And Sir Robert Aylward is——”
“Same thing, Major. Continue.”
“And Mr. Haswell has——”
“Those facts all ascertained, Major,” said Jeekie, contemplating
his glass with a mournful eye. “Now come to the point, Major.”
“Well, the point is, Jeekie, that I am what you called just now
cashless, and therefore——”
“Therefore,” interrupted Jeekie again, “stick fast in
honourable intention towards Miss Barbara owing to obstinate opposition
of Mr. Haswell, legal uncle with control of property fomented by noble
Sir Robert who desire same girl.”
“Quite right, Jeekie, but if you would talk a little less and let me
talk a little more, we might get on better.”
“I henceforth silent, Major,” and lifting his empty tumbler Jeekie
looked through it as if it were a telescope, a hint that Alan ignored.
“Jeekie, you infernal old fool, I want money.”
“Yes, Major, I understand, Major. Forgive me for breaking conspiracy of
silence, but if £500 in Savings Bank any use, very much at your service,
Major; also £20 more extracted last night from terror of wealthy Jew
who fear fetish.”
“Jeekie, you old donkey, I don’t want your £500; I want a great
deal more, £50,000 or £500,000. Tell me how to get it.”
“City best place, Major. But you chuck City, too much honest man, great
mistake to be honest in this terrestrial sphere. Often notice that in
West Africa.”
“Perhaps, Jeekie, but I have done with the City. As you would say, for
me it is ‘wipe out, finish.’”
“Yes, Major, too much pickpocket, too much dirt. Bottom always drop out
of bucket shop at last. I understand, end in police court and severe
magistrate, or perhaps even ‘Gentlemen of Jury’; etcetera.”
“Well, Jeekie, then what remains? Now last night when you told us that
amazing yarn of yours, you said something about a mountain full of gold,
and houses full of gold, among your people. Jeekie, do you
think——” and he paused, looking at him.
Jeekie rolled his black eyes round the room and in a fit of
absentmindedness helped himself to some more whisky.
“Do I think, Major, that this useless lucre could be converted into coin
of gracious King Edward? Not at all, Major, by no one, Major, by no one
whatsoever, except possibly by Major Alan Vernon, D.S.O., and by one,
Jeekie, Christian surname Smith.”
“Proceed, Jeekie,” said Alan, removing the whisky bottle,
“proceed and explain.”
“Major, thus: The Asiki tribe care nothing about all that gold, it no
good to them. Dead people who live long, long ago, no one know when, dig
it up and store it there and make the great fetish which they call
Bonsa to keep away enemy who want to steal. Also old custom when any
one in country round find big nugget, or pretty stone, like ladies wear
on bosom, to bring it as offering to Bonsa, so that there now great
plenty of all this stuff. But no one use it for anything except to set
on walls of house of Asiki, or to make basin, stool, table and pot to
cook with. Once Arab come there and I see the priests give him weight
in gold for iron hoe, though afterwards they murder him, not for the
gold, but lest he go away and tell their secret.”
“One might trade with them then, Jeekie?”
He shook his white head doubtfully.
“Yes, perhaps, if you find anything they want buy and can carry it
Asiki-Land. But I think there only one thing they want, and you got
that, Major.”
“I, Jeekie! What have I got?”
The negro leant forward and tapped his master on the knee, saying in a
portentous whisper:
“You got Little Bonsa, which much more holy than anything, even than Big
Bonsa her husband, I mean greater, more powerful devil. That Little
Bonsa sit in front room Asika’s house, and when she want see things,
she put it in big basin of gold, but I no tell you what it float in.
Also once or twice every year they take out Little Bonsa; Asika wear it
on head as mask, and whoever they meet they kill as offering to Little
Bonsa, so that spirit come back to world to be priest of Bonsa. I tell
you, Major, that Yellow God see many thousand of people die.”
“Indeed,” said Alan. “A pleasing fetish truly. I should think
that the Asiki must be glad it is gone.”
“No, not glad, very sorry. No luck for them when Little Bonsa go away,
but plenty luck for those who got her. That why firm Aylward & Haswell
make so much money when you join them and bring her to office. She drop
green in eye of public so they no smell rat. That why you so lucky, not
die of blackwater fever when you should; get safe out of den of thieves
in City with good name; win love of sweet maiden, Miss Barbara. Little
Bonsa do all those things for you, and by and by do plenty more, as
Little Bonsa bring my old master, your holy uncle, safe out of that
country because all the Asiki run away when they see him wear her on
head, for they think she come sacrifice them after she eat up my life.”
“I don’t wonder that they ran,” said Alan, laughing, for the
vision of a missionary with Little Bonsa on his head caught his fancy.
“But come to the point, you old heathen. What do you mean that I should
do?”
“Jeekie not heathen now, Major, but plenty other things true in this
world, besides Christian religion. I no want you do anything, but I say
this—you go back to Asiki wearing Little Bonsa on head and dressed like
Reverend uncle whom you very like, for he just your age then thirty
years ago, and they give you all the gold you want, if you give them
back Little Bonsa whom they love and worship for ever and ever, for
Little Bonsa very, very old.”
Alan sat up in his chair and stared at Jeekie, while Jeekie nodded his
head at him.
“There is something in it,” he said slowly, speaking more to
himself than to the negro, “and perhaps that is why I would not sell the
fetish, for as you say, there are plenty of true things in the world
besides those which we believe. But, Jeekie, how should I find the
way?”
“No trouble, Major, Little Bonsa find way, want to get back home, very
hungry by now, much need sacrifice. Think it good thing kill pig to
Little Bonsa—or even lamb. She know you do your best, since human being
not to be come at in Christian land, and say ‘thank you for life of
pig.’”
“Stop that rubbish,” said Alan. “I want a guide; if I go,
will you come with me?”
At this suggestion the negro looked exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Not like to, not like to at all,” he said, rolling his eyes.
“Asiki-land very funny place for native-born. But,” he added sadly,
“if you go Jeekie must, for I servant of Little Bonsa and if I stay
behind, she angry and kill me because I not attend her where she walk.
But perhaps if I go and take her to Gold House again, she pleased and
let me off. Also I able help you there. Yes, if you and Little Bonsa
go, think I go too.”
After this announcement Jeekie rose and walked down the room, carrying
the cold mutton in his hand. Then he returned, replaced it on the table
and standing in front of Alan, said earnestly:
“Major, I tell you all truth, just this once. Jeekie believe he
_got_ go with you to Asiki-land. Jeekie have plenty bad dream lately,
Little Bonsa come in middle of the night and sit on his stomach and
scratch his face with her gold leg, and say, ‘Jeekie, Jeekie, you son
of Bonsa, you get up quick and take me back Bonsa Town, for I darned
tired of City fog and finished all I come here to do. Now I want jolly
good sacrifice and got plenty business attend to there at home, things
you not understand just yet. You take me back sharp, or I make you sit
up, Jeekie, my boy;’” and he paused.
“Indeed,” said Alan; “and did she tell you anything else in
her midnight visitations?”
“Yes, Major. She say, ‘You take that white master of yours along
also, for I want come back Asiki-land on his head, and someone wish see
him there, old pal what he forgot but what not forget him. You tell him
Little Bonsa got score she wants settle with that party and wish use
him to square account. You tell him too that she pay him well for trip;
he lose nothing if he play her game ’cause she got no score against
him. But if he not go, that another matter, then he look out, for
Little Bonsa very nasty customer if she riled, as his late partners
find out one day.’”
“Oh! shut up, Jeekie. What’s the use of wasting time telling me
your nightmares?”
“Very well, Major, just as you like, Major. But I got other reasons why
I willing go. Jeekie want see his ma.”
“Your ma? I never heard you had a ma. Besides she must be dead long
ago.”
“No, Major, ’cause she turn up in dream too, very much alive, swear
at me ’cause I bag her blanket. Also she tough old woman, take lot kill
her.”
“Perhaps you have a pa too,” suggested Alan.
“Think not, Major, my ma always say she forget him. What she mean, she
not like talk about him, he such a swell. Why Jeekie so strong, so
clever and with such beautiful face? No doubt because he is son of very
great man. All this true reason why he want to go with you, Major.
Still, p’raps poor old Jeekie make mistake, p’raps he dream ’cause he
eat too much supper, p’raps his ma dead, after all. If so, p’raps
better stay at home—not know.”
“No,” answered Alan, “not know. What between Little Bonsa and
one thing and another my head is swimming—like Little Bonsa in the
water.”
“Big Bonsa swim in water,” interrupted Jeekie. “Little Bonsa
swim in gold tub.”
“Well, Big Bonsa, or Little Bonsa, I don’t care which. I’m
going to bed and you had better clear away these things and do the same.
But, Jeekie, if you say a word of our talk to anyone, I shall be very
angry. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Major, I understand. I understand that if I tell secrets of Little
Bonsa to anyone except you with whom she live in strange land far away
from home, Little Bonsa come at me like one lion, and cut my throat. No
fear Jeekie split on Little Bonsa, oh! no fear at all,” and still
shaking his head solemnly, for the second time he seized the cold
mutton and vanished from the room.
“A farrago of superstitious nonsense,” thought Alan to himself when
he had gone. “But still there may be something to be made out of it.
Evidently there is lots of gold in this Asiki country, if only one can
persuade the people to deal.”
Then weary of Jeekie and his tribal gods, Alan lit his pipe and sat a
while thinking of Barbara and all the events of that tumultuous day.
Notwithstanding his rebuff at the hands of Mr. Haswell and the
difficulties and dangers which threatened, he felt even then that it
had been a happy and a fortunate day. For had he not discovered that
Barbara loved him with all her heart and soul as he loved Barbara? And
as this was so, he did not care a—Little Bonsa about anything else. The
future must look to itself, sufficient to the day was the abiding joy
thereof.
So he went to bed and for a while to sleep, but he did not sleep very
long, for presently he fell to dreaming, something about Big Bonsa and
Little Bonsa which sat, or rather floated on either side of his couch
and held an interminable conversation over him, while Jeekie and Sir
Robert Aylward, perched respectively at its head and its foot, like the
symbols of the good and evil genii on a Mohammedan tomb, acted as a
kind of insane chorus. He struck his repeater, it was only one o’clock,
so he tried to go to sleep again, but failed utterly. Never had he been
more painfully awake.
For an hour or more Alan persevered, then at last in despair he jumped
out of bed wondering what he could do to occupy his mind. Suddenly he
remembered the diary of his uncle, the Rev. Mr. Austin, which he had
inherited with the Yellow God and a few other possessions, but never
examined. They had been put away in a box in the library about fifteen
years before, just at the time he entered the army, and there doubtless
they remained. Well, as he could not sleep, why should he not examine
them now, and thus get through some of this weary night?
He lit a candle and went down to the library, an ancient and beautiful
apartment with black oak panelling between the bookcases, set there in
the time of Elizabeth. In this panelling there were cupboards, and in
one of the cupboards was the box he sought, made of teak wood. On its
lid was painted, “The Reverend Henry Austin. Passenger to Acra,”
showing that it had once been his uncle’s cabin box. The key hung from
the handle, and having lit more candles, Alan drew it out and unlocked
it, to be greeted by a smell of musty documents done up in great
bundles. One by one he placed them on the floor. It was a dreary
occupation alone there in that great, silent room at the dead of night,
one indeed with which he was soon satisfied, for somehow it reminded
him of rifling coffins in a vault. Before him so carefully put away lay
the records of a good if not a distinguished life, and until this moment
he had never found the energy even to look through them.
At length he came to the end of the bundles and saw that beneath lay a
number of manuscript books packed closely with their backs upwards,
marked—“Journal”—and with the year and sometimes the
place of the author’s residence. As he glanced at them in dismay, for
they were many, his eye caught the title of one inscribed—as were
several others—“West Africa,” and written in brackets
beneath—“This vol. contains all that is left of the notes of my
escape with Jeekie from the Asiki Devil-worshippers.”
Alan drew it out, and having refilled and closed the box, bore it off to
his room, where he proceeded to read it in bed. As a matter of fact he
found that there was not very much to read, for the reason that most of
the closely-written volume had been so damaged by water, that the
pencilled writing had run and become utterly illegible. The centre
pages, however, not having been soaked, could still be deciphered, at
any rate in part, also there was a large manuscript map, executed in
ink, apparently at a later date, on the back of which was written: “I
purpose, D.V., to re-write at some convenient time all the history of
my visit to the unknown Asiki people, as my original notes were
practically destroyed when the canoe overset in the rapids and most of
our few possessions were lost, except this book and the gold fetish mask
which is called Little Bonsa or Small Swimming Head. This I think I can
do with the aid of Jeekie from memory, but as the matter has only a
personal and no religious interest, seeing that I was not able even to
preach the Word among those benighted and bloodthirsty savages in whose
country, as I verily believe, the Devil has one of his principal
habitations, it must stand over till a convenient season, such as the
time of old age or sickness. H.A.”
“P.S. I ought to add with gratitude that even out of this hell fire I
was enabled to snatch one brand from the burning, namely, the negro
lad, Jeekie, to whose extraordinary resource and faithfulness I owe my
escape. After a long hesitation I have been able to baptize him,
although I fear that the taint of heathenism still clings to him. Thus
not six months ago I caught him sacrificing a white cock to the image,
Little Bonsa, in gratitude, as to my horror he explained, for my having
been appointed an Honorary Canon of the Cathedral. I have told him to
take that ugly mask which has been so often soaked in human blood, and
melt it down over the kitchen stove, after picking out the gems in the
eyes, that the proceeds may be given to the poor. _Note._ I had better
see to this myself, as where Little Bonsa is concerned, Jeekie is not
to be trusted. He says (with some excuse) that it has magic, and that
if he melts it down, he will melt down too, and so shall I. How dark
and ridiculous are the superstitions of the heathen! Perhaps, however,
instead of destroying the thing, which is certainly unique, I might sell
it to a museum, and thus spare the feelings of that weak vessel,
Jeekie, who otherwise would very likely take it into his head to waste
away and die, as these Africans do when their nerves are affected by
terror of their fetish.”