Allan and the Holy Flower by H. Rider Haggard (online e reader TXT) 📗

He closed the door and locked it.

“Now,” he said in a tone of the villain in a novel who at last has come face to face with the virtuous heroine, “now we are alone. Mr. Quatermain, let me see—those butterflies.”

I placed the case on a deal table which stood under a skylight in the room. I opened it; I removed the cover of wadding, and there, pressed between two sheets of glass and quite uninjured after all its journeyings, appeared the golden flower, glorious even in death, and by its side the broad green leaf.

The young gentleman called Somers looked at it till I thought his eyes would really start out of his head. He turned away muttering something and looked again.

“Oh! Heavens,” he said at last, “oh! Heavens, is it possible that such a thing can exist in this imperfect world? You haven’t faked it, Mr. Half—I mean Quatermain, have you?”

“Sir,” I said, “for the second time you are making insinuations. Good morning,” and I began to shut up the case.

“Don’t be offhanded,” he exclaimed. “Pity the weaknesses of a poor sinner. You don’t understand. If only you understood, you would understand.”

“No,” I said, “I am bothered if I do.”

“Well, you will when you begin to collect orchids. I’m not mad, really, except perhaps on this point, Mr. Quatermain,”—this in a low and thrilling voice—“that marvellous Cypripedium—your friend is right, it is a Cypripedium—is worth a gold mine.”

“From my experience of gold mines I can well believe that,” I said tartly, and, I may add, prophetically.

“Oh! I mean a gold mine in the figurative and colloquial sense, not as the investor knows it,” he answered. “That is, the plant on which it grew is priceless. Where is the plant, Mr. Quatermain?”

“In a rather indefinite locality in Africa east by south,” I replied. “I can’t place it to within three hundred miles.”

“That’s vague, Mr. Quatermain. I have no right to ask it, seeing that you know nothing of me, but I assure you I am respectable, and in short, would you mind telling me the story of this flower?”

“I don’t think I should,” I replied, a little doubtfully. Then, after another good look at him, suppressing all names and exact localities, I gave him the outline of the tale, explaining that I wanted to find someone who would finance an expedition to the remote and romantic spot where this particular Cypripedium was believed to grow.

Just as I finished my narrative, and before he had time to comment on it, there came a violent knocking at the door.

“Mr. Stephen,” said a voice, “are you there, Mr. Stephen?”

“By Jove! that’s Briggs,” exclaimed the young man. “Briggs is my father’s manager. Shut up the case, Mr. Quatermain. Come in, Briggs,” he went on, unlocking the door slowly. “What is it?”

“It is a good deal,” replied a thin and agitated person who thrust himself through the opening door. “Your father, I mean Sir Alexander, has come to the office unexpectedly and is in a nice taking because he didn’t find you there, sir. When he discovered that you had gone to the orchid sale he grew furious, sir, furious, and sent me to fetch you.”

“Did he?” replied Mr. Somers in an easy and unruffled tone. “Well, tell Sir Alexander I am coming at once. Now please go, Briggs, and tell him I am coming at once.”

Briggs departed not too willingly.

“I must leave you, Mr. Quatermain,” said Mr. Somers as he shut the door behind him. “But will you promise me not to show that flower to anyone until I return? I’ll be back within half an hour.”

“Yes, Mr. Somers. I’ll wait half an hour for you in the sale room, and I promise that no one shall see that flower till you return.”

“Thank you. You are a good fellow, and I promise you shall lose nothing by your kindness if I can help it.”

We went together into the sale room, where some thought suddenly struck Mr. Somers.

“By Jove!” he said, “I nearly forgot about that Odontoglossum. Where’s Woodden? Oh! come here, Woodden, I want to speak to you.”

The person called Woodden obeyed. He was a man of about fifty, indefinite in colouring, for his eyes were very light-blue or grey and his hair was sandy, tough-looking and strongly made, with big hands that showed signs of work, for the palms were horny and the nails worn down. He was clad in a suit of shiny black, such as folk of the labouring class wear at a funeral. I made up my mind at once that he was a gardener.

“Woodden,” said Mr. Somers, “this gentleman here has got the most wonderful orchid in the whole world. Keep your eye on him and see that he isn’t robbed. There are people in this room, Mr. Quatermain, who would murder you and throw your body into the Thames for that flower,” he added, darkly.

On receipt of this information Woodden rocked a little on his feet as though he felt the premonitory movements of an earthquake. It was a habit of his whenever anything astonished him. Then, fixing his pale eye upon me in a way which showed that my appearance surprised him, he pulled a lock of his sandy hair with his thumb and finger and said:

“‘Servant, sir, and where might this horchid be?”

I pointed to the tin case.

“Yes, it’s there,” went on Mr. Somers, “and that’s what you’ve got to watch. Mr. Quatermain, if anyone attempts to rob you, call for Woodden and he will knock them down. He’s my gardener, you know, and entirely to be trusted, especially if it is a matter of knocking anyone down.”

“Aye, I’ll knock him down surely,” said Woodden, doubling his great fist and looking round him with a suspicious eye.

“Now listen, Woodden. Have you looked at that Odontoglossum Pavo, and if so, what do you think of it?” and he nodded towards a plant which stood in the centre of the little group that was placed on the small table beneath the auctioneer’s desk. It bore a spray of the most lovely white flowers. On the top petal (if it is a petal), and also on the lip of each of these rounded flowers was a blotch or spot of which the general effect was similar to the iridescent eye on the tail feathers of a peacock, whence, I suppose, the flower was named “Pavo,” or Peacock.

“Yes, master, and I think it the beautifullest thing that ever I saw. There isn’t a ‘glossum in England like that there ‘glossum Paving,” he added with conviction, and rocked again as he said the word. “But there’s plenty after it. I say they’re a-smelling round that blossom like, like—dawgs round a rat hole. And” (this triumphantly) “they don’t do that for nothing.”

“Quite so, Woodden, you have got a logical mind. But, look here, we must