IT WAS just at this moment that I saw standing by me a fine-looking, stout man with a square, grey beard and a handsome, but not very good-tempered face. He was looking about him as one does who finds himself in a place to which he is not accustomed.
“Perhaps you could tell me, sir,” he said to me, “whether a gentleman called Mr. Somers is in this room. I am rather short-sighted and there are a great many people.”
“Yes,” I answered, “he has just bought the wonderful orchid called ‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ That is what they are all talking about.”
“Oh, has he? Has he indeed? And pray what did he pay for the article?”
“A huge sum,” I answered. “I thought it was two thousand three hundred shillings, but it appears it was £2,300.”
The handsome, elderly gentleman grew very red in the face, so red that I thought he was going to have a fit. For a few moments he breathed heavily.
“A rival collector,” I thought to myself, and went on with the story which, it occurred to me, might interest him.
“You see, the young gentleman was called away to an interview with his father. I heard him instruct his gardener, a man named Woodden, to buy the plant at any price.”
“At any price! Indeed. Very interesting; continue, sir.”
“Well, the gardener bought it, that’s all, after tremendous competition. Look, there he is packing it up. Whether his master meant him to go as far as he did I rather doubt. But here he comes. If you know him——”
The youthful Mr. Somers, looking a little pale and distrait, strolled up apparently to speak to me; his hands were in his pockets and an unlighted cigar was in his mouth. His eyes fell upon the elderly gentleman, a sight that caused him to shape his lips as though to whistle and drop the cigar.
“Hullo, father,” he said in his pleasant voice. “I got your message and have been looking for you, but never thought that I should find you here. Orchids aren’t much in your line, are they?”
“Didn’t you, indeed!” replied his parent in a choked voice. “No, I haven’t much use for—this stinking rubbish,” and he waved his umbrella at the beautiful flowers. “But it seems that you have, Stephen. This little gentlemen here tells me you have just bought a very fine specimen.”
“I must apologize,” I broke in, addressing Mr. Somers. “I had not the slightest idea that this—big gentleman,” here the son smiled faintly, “was your intimate relation.”
“Oh! pray don’t, Mr. Quatermain. Why should you not speak of what will be in all the papers. Yes, father, I have bought a very fine specimen, the finest known, or at least Woodden has on my behalf, while I was hunting for you, which comes to the same thing.”
“Indeed, Stephen, and what did you pay for this flower? I have heard a figure, but think that there must be some mistake.”
“I don’t know what you heard, father, but it seems to have been knocked down to me at £2,300. It’s a lot more than I can find, indeed, and I was going to ask you to lend me the money for the sake of the family credit, if not for my own. But we can talk about that afterwards.”
“Yes, Stephen, we can talk of that afterwards. In fact, as there is no time like the present, we will talk of it now. Come to my office. And, sir” (this was to me) “as you seem to know something of the circumstances, I will ask you to come also; and you too, Blockhead” (this was to Woodden, who just then approached with the plant).
Now, of course, I might have refused an invitation conveyed in such a manner. But, as a matter of fact, I didn’t. I wanted to see the thing out; also to put in a word for young Somers, if I got the chance. So we all departed from that room, followed by a titter of amusement from those of the company who had overheard the conversation. In the street stood a splendid carriage and pair; a powdered footman opened its door. With a ferocious bow Sir Alexander motioned to me to enter, which I did, taking one of the back seats as it gave more room for my tin case. Then came Mr. Stephen, then Woodden bundled in holding the precious plant in front of him like a wand of office, and last of all, Sir Alexander, having seen us safe, entered also.
“Where to, sir?” asked the footman.
“Office,” he snapped, and we started.
Four disappointed relatives in a funeral coach could not have been more silent. Our feelings seemed to be too deep for words. Sir Alexander, however, did make one remark and to me. It was:
“If you will remove the corner of that infernal tin box of yours from my ribs I shall be obliged to you, sir.”
“Your pardon,” I exclaimed, and in my efforts to be accommodating, dropped it on his toe. I will not repeat the remark he made, but I may explain that he was gouty. His son suddenly became afflicted with a sense of the absurdity of the situation. He kicked me on the shin, he even dared to wink, and then began to swell visibly with suppressed laughter. I was in agony, for if he had exploded I do not know what would have happened. Fortunately, at this moment the carriage stopped at the door of a fine office. Without waiting for the footman Mr. Stephen bundled out and vanished into the building—I suppose to laugh in safety. Then I descended with the tin case; then, by command, followed Woodden with the flower, and lastly came Sir Alexander.
“Stop here,” he said to the coachman; “I shan’t be long. Be so good as to follow me, Mr. What’s-your-name, and you, too, Gardener.”
We followed, and found ourselves in a big room luxuriously furnished in a heavy kind of way. Sir Alexander Somers, I should explain, was an enormously opulent bullion-broker, whatever a bullion-broker may be. In this room Mr. Stephen was already established; indeed, he was seated on the window-sill swinging his leg.
“Now we are alone and comfortable,” growled Sir Alexander with sarcastic ferocity.
“As the boa-constrictor said to the rabbit in the cage,” I remarked.
I did not mean to say it, but I had grown nervous, and the thought leapt from my lips in words. Again Mr. Stephen began to swell. He turned his face to the window as though to contemplate the wall beyond, but I could see his shoulders shaking. A dim light of intelligence shone in Woodden’s pale eyes. About three minutes later the joke got home. He gurgled something about boa-constrictors and rabbits and gave a short, loud laugh. As for Sir Alexander, he merely said:
“I did not catch your remark, sir, would you be so good as to repeat it?”
As I appeared unwilling to accept the invitation, he went on:
“Perhaps, then, you would repeat what you told me in that sale-room?”
“Why should I?” I asked. “I spoke quite clearly and you seemed to understand.”
“You are right,” replied Sir Alexander; “to waste time is useless.” He wheeled round on Woodden, who was standing near the door still holding the paper-wrapped plant in front of him. “Now, Blockhead,” he shouted, “tell me why you brought that thing.”
Woodden made no answer, only rocked a little. Sir Alexander reiterated his command. This time Woodden set the plant upon a table and replied:
“If you’re aspeaking to me, sir, that baint my name, and what’s more, if you calls me so again, I’ll punch your head, whoever you be,” and very deliberately he rolled up the sleeves on his brawny arms, a sight at which I too began to swell with inward merriment.
“Look here, father,” said Mr. Stephen, stepping forward. “What’s the use of all this? The thing’s perfectly plain. I did tell Woodden to buy the plant at any price. What is more I gave him a written authority which was passed up to the auctioneer. There’s no getting out of it. It is true it never occurred to me that it would go for anything like £2,300—the odd £300 was more my idea, but Woodden only obeyed his orders, and ought not to be abused for doing so.”
“There’s what I call a master worth serving,” remarked Woodden.
“Very well, young man,” said Sir Alexander, “you have purchased this article. Will you be so good as to tell me how you propose it should be paid for.”
“I propose, father, that you should pay for it,” replied Mr. Stephen sweetly. “Two thousand three hundred pounds, or ten times that amount, would not make you appreciably poorer. But if, as is probable, you take a different view, then I propose to pay for it myself. As you know a certain sum of money came to me under my mother’s will in which you have only a life-interest. I shall raise the amount upon that security—or otherwise.”
If Sir Alexander had been angry before, now he became like a mad bull in a china shop. He pranced round the room; he used language that should not pass the lips of any respectable merchant of bullion; in short, he did everything that a person in his position ought not to do. When he was tired he rushed to a desk, tore a cheque from a book and filled it in for a sum of £2,300 to bearer, which cheque he blotted, crumpled up and literally threw at the head of his son.
“You worthless, idle young scoundrel,” he bellowed. “I put you in this office here that you may learn respectable and orderly habits and in due course succeed to a very comfortable business. What happens? You don’t take a ha’porth of interest in bullion-broking, a subject of which I believe you to remain profoundly ignorant. You don’t even spend your money, or rather my money, upon any gentleman-like vice, such as horse-racing, or cards, or even—well, never mind. No, you take to flowers, miserable, beastly flowers, things that a cow eats and clerks grow in back gardens.”
“An ancient and Arcadian taste. Adam is supposed to have lived in a garden,” I ventured to interpolate.
“Perhaps you would ask your friend with the stubbly hair to remain quiet,” snorted Sir Alexander. “I was about to add, although for the sake of my name I meet your debts, that I have had enough of this kind of thing. I disinherit you, or will do if I live till four p.m. when the lawyer’s office shuts, for thank God! there are no entailed estates, and I dismiss you from the firm. You can go and earn your living in any way you please, by orchid-hunting if you like.” He paused, gasping for breath.
“Is that all, father?” asked Mr. Stephen, producing a cigar from his pocket.
“No, it isn’t, you cold-blooded young beggar. That house you occupy at Twickenham is mine. You will be good enough to clear out of it; I wish to take possession.”
“I suppose, father, I am entitled to a week’s notice like any other tenant,” said Mr. Stephen, lighting the cigar. “In fact,” he added, “if you answer no, I think I shall ask you to apply for an ejection order. You will understand that I have arrangements to make before taking a fresh start in life.”
“Oh! curse your cheek, you—you—cucumber!” raged the infuriated merchant prince. Then an inspiration came to him. “You think more of an ugly flower than of your father, do you? Well, at least I’ll put an end to that,” and he made a dash at the plant on the table with the evident intention of destroying the same.
But the watching Woodden saw. With a kind of lurch he interposed his big frame between Sir Alexander and the object of his wrath.
“Touch ‘O. Paving’ and I knocks yer down,” he drawled out.
Sir Alexander looked at “O. Paving,” then he looked at Woodden’s leg-of-mutton fist, and—changed his mind.
“Curse ‘O. Paving,’” he said, “and everyone who has to do with it,” and swung out of the room, banging the door behind him.
“Well, that’s over,” said Mr. Stephen gently, as he fanned himself with a pocket-handkerchief. “Quite exciting while it lasted, wasn’t it, Mr. Quatermain—but I have been there before, so to speak. And now what do you say to some luncheon? Pym’s is close by, and they have very good oysters. Only I think we’ll drive round by the bank and hand in this cheque. When he’s angry my parent is capable of anything. He might even stop it. Woodden, get off down to Twickenham with ‘O. Pavo.’ Keep it warm, for it feels rather like frost. Put it in the stove for to-night and give it a little, just a little tepid water, but be careful not to touch the flower. Take a four-wheeled cab, it’s slow but safe, and mind you keep the windows up and don’t smoke. I shall be home for dinner.”
Woodden pulled his forelock, seized the pot in his left hand, and departed with his right fist raised—I suppose in case Sir Alexander should be waiting for him round the corner.
Then we departed also and, after stopping for a minute at the bank to pay in the cheque, which I noted, notwithstanding its amount, was accepted without comment, ate oysters in a place too crowded to allow of conversation.
“Mr. Quatermain,” said my host, “it is obvious that we cannot talk here, and much less look at that orchid of yours, which I want to study at leisure. Now, for a week or so at any rate I have a roof over my head, and in short, will you be my guest for a night or two? I know nothing about you, and of me you only know that I am the disinherited son of a father, to whom I have failed to give satisfaction. Still it is possible that we might pass a few pleasant hours together talking of flowers and other things; that is, if you have no previous engagement.”
“I have none,” I answered. “I am only a stranger from South Africa lodging at an hotel. If you will give me time to call for my bag, I will pass the night at your house with pleasure.”
By the aid of Mr. Somers’ smart dog-cart, which was waiting at a city mews, we reached Twickenham while there was still half an hour of daylight. The house, which was called Verbena Lodge, was small, a square, red-brick building of the early Georgian period, but the gardens covered quite an acre of ground and were very beautiful, or must have been so in summer. Into the greenhouse we did not enter, because it was too late to see the flowers. Also, just when we came to them, Woodden arrived in his four-wheeled cab and departed with his master to see to the housing of “O. Pavo.”
Then came dinner, a very pleasant meal. My host had that day been turned out upon the world, but he did not allow this circumstance to interfere with his spirits in the least. Also he was evidently determined to enjoy its good things while they lasted, for his champagne and port were excellent.
“You see, Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “it’s just as well we had the row which has been boiling up for a long while. My respected father has made so much money that he thinks I should go and do likewise. Now I don’t see it. I like flowers, especially orchids, and I hate bullion-broking. To me the only decent places in London are that sale-room where we met and the Horticultural Gardens.”
“Yes,” I answered rather doubtfully, “but the matter seems a little serious. Your parent was very emphatic as to his intentions, and after this kind of thing,” and I pointed to the beautiful silver and the port, “how will you like roughing it in a hard world?”
“Don’t think I shall mind a bit; it would be rather a pleasant change. Also, even if my father doesn’t alter his mind, as he may, for he likes me at bottom because I resemble my dear mother, things ain’t so very bad. I have got some money that she left me, £6,000 or £7,000, and I’ll sell that ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ for what it will fetch to Sir Joshua Tredgold—he was the man with the long beard who you tell me ran up Woodden to over £2,000—or failing him to someone else. I’ll write about it to-night. I don’t think I have any debts to speak of, for the Governor has been allowing me £3,000 a year, at least that is my share of the profits paid to me in return for my bullion-broking labours, and except flowers, I have no expensive tastes. So the devil take the past, here’s to the future and whatever it may bring,” and he polished off the glass of port he held and laughed in his jolly fashion.
Really he was a most attractive young man, a little reckless, it is true, but then recklessness and youth mix well, like brandy and soda.
I echoed the toast and drank off my port, for I like a good glass of wine when I can get it, as would anyone who has had to live for months on rotten water, although I admit that agrees with me better than the port.
“Now, Mr. Quatermain,” he went on, “if you have done, light your pipe and let’s go into the other room and study that Cypripedium of yours. I shan’t sleep to-night unless I see it again first. Stop a bit, though, we’ll get hold of that old ass, Woodden, before he turns in.”
“Woodden,” said his master, when the gardener had arrived, “this gentleman, Mr. Quatermain, is going to show you an orchid that is ten times finer than ‘O. Pavo!’”
“Beg pardon, sir,” answered Woodden, “but if Mr. Quatermain says that, he lies. It ain’t in Nature; it don’t bloom nowhere.”
I opened the case and revealed the golden Cypripedium. Woodden stared at it and rocked. Then he stared again and felt his head as though to make sure it was on his shoulders. Then he gasped.
“Well, if that there flower baint made up, it’s a master one! If I could see that there flower ablowing on the plant I’d die happy.”
“Woodden, stop talking, and sit down,” exclaimed his master. “Yes, there, where you can look at the flower. Now, Mr. Quatermain, will you tell us the story of that orchid from beginning to end. Of course omitting its habitat if you like, for it isn’t fair to ask that secret. Woodden can be trusted to hold his tongue, and so can I.”
I remarked that I was sure they could, and for the next half-hour talked almost without interruption, keeping nothing back and explaining that I was anxious to find someone who would finance an expedition to search for this particular plant; as I believed, the only one of its sort that existed in the world.
“How much will it cost?” asked Mr. Somers.
“I lay it at £2,000,” I answered. “You see, we must have plenty of men and guns and stores, also trade goods and presents.”
“I call that cheap. But supposing, Mr. Quatermain, that the expedition proves successful and the plant is secured, what then?”
“Then I propose that Brother John, who found it and of whom I have told you, should take one-third of whatever it might sell for, that I as captain of the expedition should take one-third, and that whoever finds the necessary money should take the remaining third.”
“Good! That’s settled.”
“What’s settled?” I asked.
“Why, that we should divide in the proportions you named, only I bargain to be allowed to take my whack in kind—I mean in plant, and to have the first option of purchasing the rest of the plant at whatever value may be agreed upon.”
“But, Mr. Somers, do you mean that you wish to find £2,000 and make this expedition in person?”
“Of course I do. I thought you understood that. That is, if you will have me. Your old friend, the lunatic, you and I will together seek for and find this golden flower. I say that’s settled.”
On the morrow accordingly, it was settled with the help of a document, signed in duplicate by both of us.
Before these arrangements were finally concluded, however, I insisted that Mr. Somers should meet my late companion, Charlie Scroope, when I was not present, in order that the latter might give him a full and particular report concerning myself. Apparently the interview was satisfactory, at least so I judged from the very cordial and even respectful manner in which young Somers met me after it was over. Also I thought it my duty to explain to him with much clearness in the presence of Scroope as a witness, the great dangers of such an enterprise as that on which he proposed to embark. I told him straight out that he must be prepared to find his death in it from starvation, fever, wild beasts or at the hands of savages, while success was quite problematical and very likely would not be attained.
“You are taking these risks,” he said.
“Yes,” I answered, “but they are incident to the rough trade I follow, which is that of a hunter and explorer. Moreover, my youth is past, and I have gone through experiences and bereavements of which you know nothing, that cause me to set a very slight value on life. I care little whether I die or continue in the world for some few added years. Lastly, the excitement of adventure has become a kind of necessity for me. I do not think that I could live in England for very long. Also I’m a fatalist. I believe that when my time comes I must go, that this hour is foreordained and that nothing I can do will either hasten or postpone it by one moment. Your circumstances are different. You are quite young. If you stay here and approach your father in a proper spirit, I have no doubt but that he will forget all the rough words he said to you the other day, for which indeed you know you gave him some provocation. Is it worth while throwing up such prospects and undertaking such dangers for the chance of finding a rare flower? I say this to my own disadvantage, since I might find it hard to discover anyone else who would risk £2,000 upon such a venture, but I do urge you to weigh my words.”
Young Somers looked at me for a little while, then he broke into one of his hearty laughs and exclaimed, “Whatever else you may be, Mr. Allan Quatermain, you are a gentleman. No bullion-broker in the City could have put the matter more fairly in the teeth of his own interests.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“For the rest,” he went on, “I too am tired of England and want to see the world. It isn’t the golden Cypripedium that I seek, although I should like to win it well enough. That’s only a symbol. What I seek are adventure and romance. Also, like you I am a fatalist. God chose His own time to send us here, and I presume that He will choose His own time to take us away again. So I leave the matter of risks to Him.”
“Yes, Mr. Somers,” I replied rather solemnly. “You may find adventure and romance, there are plenty of both in Africa. Or you may find a nameless grave in some fever-haunted swamp. Well, you have chosen, and I like your spirit.”
Still I was so little satisfied about this business, that a week or so before we sailed, after much consideration, I took it upon myself to write a letter to Sir Alexander Somers, in which I set forth the whole matter as clearly as I could, not blinking the dangerous nature of our undertaking. In conclusion, I asked him whether he thought it wise to allow his only son to accompany such an expedition, mainly because of a not very serious quarrel with himself.
As no answer came to this letter I went on with our preparations. There was money in plenty, since the re-sale of “O. Pavo” to Sir Joshua Tredgold, at some loss, had been satisfactorily carried out, which enabled me to invest in all things needful with a cheerful heart. Never before had I been provided with such an outfit as that which preceded us to the ship.
At length the day of departure came. We stood on the platform at Paddington waiting for the Dartmouth train to start, for in those days the African mail sailed from that port. A minute or two before the train left, as we were preparing to enter our carriage I caught sight of a face that I seemed to recognise, the owner of which was evidently searching for someone in the crowd. It was that of Briggs, Sir Alexander’s clerk, whom I had met in the sale-room.
“Mr. Briggs,” I said as he passed me, “are you looking for Mr. Somers? If so, he is in here.”
The clerk jumped into the compartment and handed a letter to Mr. Somers. Then he emerged again and waited. Somers read the letter and tore off a blank sheet from the end of it, on which he hastily wrote some words. He passed it to me to give to Briggs, and I could not help seeing what was written. It was: “Too late now. God bless you, my dear father. I hope we may meet again. If not, try to think kindly of your troublesome and foolish son, Stephen.”
In another minute the train had started.
“By the way,” he said, as we steamed out of the station, “I have heard from my father, who enclosed this for you.”
I opened the envelope, which was addressed in a bold, round hand that seemed to me typical of the writer, and read as follows:
|
“MY DEAR SIR,—I appreciate the motives which caused you to write to me and I thank you very heartily for your letter, which shows me that you are a man of discretion and strict honour. As you surmise, the expedition on which my son has entered is not one that commends itself to me as prudent. Of the differences between him and myself you are aware, for they came to a climax in your presence. Indeed, I feel that I owe you an apology for having dragged you into an unpleasant family quarrel. Your letter only reached me to-day having been forwarded to my place in the country from my office. I should have at once come to town, but unfortunately I am laid up with an attack of gout which makes it impossible for me to stir. Therefore, the only thing I can do is to write to my son hoping that the letter which I send by a special messenger will reach him in time and avail to alter his determination to undertake this journey. Here I may add that although I have differed and do differ from him on various points, I still have a deep affection for my son and earnestly desire his welfare. The prospect of any harm coming to him is one upon which I cannot bear to dwell. “Now I am aware that any change of his plans at this eleventh hour would involve you in serious loss and inconvenience. I beg to inform you formally, therefore, that in this event I will make good everything and will in addition write off the £2,000 which I understand he has invested in your joint venture. It may be, however, that my son, who has in him a vein of my own obstinacy, will refuse to change his mind. In that event, under a Higher Power I can only commend him to your care and beg that you will look after him as though he were your own child. I can ask and you can do no more. Tell him to write me as opportunity offers, as perhaps you will too; also that, although I hate the sight of them, I will look after the flowers which he has left at the house at Twickenham.—
“Your obliged servant, |
This letter touched me much, and indeed made me feel very uncomfortable. Without a word I handed it to my companion, who read it through carefully.
“Nice of him about the orchids,” he said. “My dad has a good heart, although he lets his temper get the better of him, having had his own way all his life.”
“Well, what will you do?” I asked.
“Go on, of course. I’ve put my hand to the plough and I am not going to turn back. I should be a cur if I did, and what’s more, whatever he might say he’d think none the better of me. So please don’t try to persuade me, it would be no good.”
For quite a while afterwards young Somers seemed to be comparatively depressed, a state of mind that in his case was rare indeed. At last, he studied the wintry landscape through the carriage window and said nothing. By degrees, however, he recovered, and when we reached Dartmouth was as cheerful as ever, a mood that I could not altogether share.
Before we sailed I wrote to Sir Alexander telling him exactly how things stood, and so I think did his son, though he never showed me the letter.
At Durban, just as we were about to start up country, I received an answer from him, sent by some boat that followed us very closely. In it he said that he quite understood the position, and whatever happened would attribute no blame to me, whom he should always regard with friendly feelings. He told me that, in the event of any difficulty or want of money, I was to draw on him for whatever might be required, and that he had advised the African Bank to that effect. Further, he added, that at least his son had shown grit in this matter, for which he respected him.
And now for a long while I must bid good-bye to Sir Alexander Somers and all that has to do with England.