SIR ALEXANDER AND STEPHEN
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 4 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, ALEXANDER SOMERS.”
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.