Allan and the Holy Flower. H. Rider Haggard
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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 have that ‘Pavo’ whatever it costs. Now the Governor has sent for me. I’ll be back presently, but I might be detained. If so, you’ve got to bid on my behalf, for I daren’t trust any of these agents. Here’s your authority,” and he scribbled on a card, “Woodden, my gardener, has directions to bid for me.—S.S.” “Now, Woodden,” he went on, when he had given the card to an attendant who passed it up to the auctioneer, “don’t you make a fool of yourself and let that ‘Pavo’ slip through your fingers.”
In another instant he was gone.
“What did the master say, sir?” asked Woodden of me. “That I was to get that there ‘Paving’ whatever it cost?”
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what he said. I suppose it will fetch a good deal—several pounds.”
“Maybe, sir, can’t tell. All I know is that I’ve got to buy it as you can bear me witness. Master, he ain’t one to be crossed for money. What he wants, he’ll have, that is if it be in the orchid line.”
“I suppose you are fond of orchids, too, Mr. Woodden?”
“Fond of them, sir? Why, I loves ’em!” (Here he rocked.) “Don’t feel for nothing else in the same way; not even for my old woman” (then with a burst of enthusiasm) “no, not even for the master himself, and I’m fond enough of him, God knows! But, begging your pardon, sir” (with a pull at his forelock), “would you mind holding that tin of yours a little tighter? I’ve got to keep an eye on that as well as on ‘O. Paving,’ and I just see’d that chap with the tall hat alooking at it suspicious.”
After this we separated. I retired into my corner, while Woodden took his stand by the table, with one eye fixed on what he called the “O. Paving” and the other on me and my tin case.
An odd fish truly, I thought to myself. Positive, the old woman; Comparative, his master; Superlative, the orchid tribe. Those were his degrees of affection. Honest and brave and a good fellow though, I bet.
The sale languished. There were so many lots of one particular sort of dried orchid that buyers could not be found for them at a reasonable price, and many had to be bought in. At length the genial Mr. Primrose in the rostrum addressed the audience.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I quite understand that you didn’t come here to-day to buy a rather poor lot of Cattleya Mossiæ. You came to buy, or to bid for, or to see sold the most wonderful Odontoglossum that has ever been flowered in this country, the property of a famous firm of importers whom I congratulate upon their good fortune in having obtained such a gem. Gentlemen, this miraculous flower ought to adorn a royal greenhouse. But there it is, to be taken away by whoever will pay the most for it, for I am directed to see that it will be sold without reserve. Now, I think,” he added, running his eye over the company, “that most of our great collectors are represented in this room to-day. It is true that I do not see that spirited and liberal young orchidist, Mr. Somers, but he has left his worthy head-gardener, Mr. Woodden, than whom there is no finer judge of an orchid in England” (here Woodden rocked violently) “to bid for him, as I hope, for the glorious flower of which I have been speaking. Now, as it is exactly half-past one, we will proceed to business. Smith, hand the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo’ round, that everyone may inspect its beauties, and be careful you don’t let it fall. Gentlemen, I must ask you not to touch it or to defile its purity with tobacco smoke. Eight perfect flowers in bloom, gentlemen, and four—no, five more to open. A strong plant in perfect health, six pseudo-bulbs with leaves, and three without. Two black leads which I am advised can be separated off at the proper time. Now, what bids for the ‘Odontoglossum Pavo.’ Ah! I wonder who will have the honour of becoming the owner of this perfect, this unmatched production of Nature. Thank you, sir—three hundred. Four. Five. Six. Seven in three places. Eight. Nine. Ten. Oh! gentlemen, let us get on a little faster. Thank you, sir—fifteen. Sixteen. It is against you, Mr. Woodden. Ah! thank you, seventeen.”
There came a pause in the fierce race for “O. Pavo,” which I occupied in reducing seventeen hundred shillings to pounds sterling.
My word! I thought to myself, £85 is a goodish price to pay for one plant, however rare. Woodden is acting up to his instructions with a vengeance.
The pleading voice of Mr. Primrose broke in upon my meditations.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he said, “surely you are not going to allow the most wondrous production of the floral world, on which I repeat there is no reserve, to be knocked down at this miserable figure. Come, come. Well, if I must, I must, though after such a disgrace I shall get no sleep to-night. One,” and his hammer fell for the first time. “Think, gentlemen, upon my position, think what the eminent owners, who with their