Allan and the Holy Flower by H. Rider Haggard (easy books to read txt) 📕

place of business of Messrs. May and Primrose, bearing with me the golden Cypripedium, which was now enclosed in a flat tin case.

As it happened I chose an unlucky day and hour, for on arriving at the office and asking for Mr. May, I was informed that he was away in the country valuing.

“Then I would like to see Mr. Primrose,” I said.

“Mr. Primrose is round at the Rooms selling,” replied the clerk, who appeared to be very busy.

“Where are the Rooms?” I asked.

“Out of the door, turn to the left, turn to the left again and under the clock,” said the clerk, and closed the shutter.

So disgusted was I with his rudeness that I nearly gave up the enterprise. Thinking better of it, however, I followed the directions given, and in a minute or two found myself in a narrow passage that led to a large room. To one who had never seen anything of the sort before, this room offered a curious sight. The first thing I observed was a notice on the wall to the effect that customers were not allowed to smoke pipes. I thought to myself that orchids must be curious flowers if they could distinguish between the smoke of a cigar and a pipe, and stepped into the room. To my left was a long table covered with pots of the most beautiful flowers that I had ever seen; all of them orchids. Along the wall and opposite were other tables closely packed with withered roots which I concluded were also those of orchids. To my inexperienced eye the whole lot did not look worth five shillings, for they seemed to be dead.

At the head of the room stood the rostrum, where sat a gentleman with an extremely charming face. He was engaged in selling by auction so rapidly that the clerk at his side must have had difficulty in keeping a record of the lots and their purchasers. In front of him was a horseshoe table, round which sat buyers. The end of this table was left unoccupied so that the porters might exhibit each lot before it was put up for sale. Standing under the rostrum was yet another table, a small one, upon which were about twenty pots of flowers, even more wonderful than those on the large table. A notice stated that these would be sold at one-thirty precisely. All about the room stood knots of men (such ladies as were present sat at the table), many of whom had lovely orchids in their buttonholes. These, I found out afterwards, were dealers and amateurs. They were a kindly-faced set of people, and I took a liking to them.

The whole place was quaint and pleasant, especially by contrast with the horrible London fog outside. Squeezing my small person into a corner where I was in nobody’s way, I watched the proceedings for a while. Suddenly an agreeable voice at my side asked me if I would like a look at the catalogue. I glanced at the speaker, and in a sense fell in love with him at once—as I have explained before, I am one of those to whom a first impression means a great deal. He was not very tall, though strong-looking and well-made enough. He was not very handsome, though none so ill-favoured. He was just an ordinary fair young Englishman, four or five-and-twenty years of age, with merry blue eyes and one of the pleasantest expressions that I ever saw. At once I felt that he was a sympathetic soul and full of the milk of human kindness. He was dressed in a rough tweed suit rather worn, with the orchid that seemed to be the badge of all this tribe in his buttonhole. Somehow the costume suited his rather pink and white complexion and rumpled fair hair, which I could see as he was sitting on his cloth hat.

“Thank you, no,” I answered, “I did not come here to buy. I know nothing about orchids,” I added by way of explanation, “except a few I have seen growing in Africa, and this one,” and I tapped the tin case which I held under my arm.

“Indeed,” he said. “I should like to hear about the African orchids. What is it you have in the case, a plant or flowers?”

“One flower only. It is not mine. A friend in Africa asked me to—well, that is a long story which might not interest you.”

“I’m not sure. I suppose it must be a Cymbidium scape from the size.”

I shook my head. “That’s not the name my friend mentioned. He called it a Cypripedium.”

The young man began to grow curious. “One Cypripedium in all that large case? It must be a big flower.”

“Yes, my friend said it is the biggest ever found. It measures twenty-four inches across the wings, petals I think he called them, and about a foot across the back part.”

“Twenty-four inches across the petals and a foot across the dorsal sepal!” said the young man in a kind of gasp, “and a Cypripedium! Sir, surely you are joking?”

“Sir,” I answered indignantly, “I am doing nothing of the sort. Your remark is tantamount to telling me that I am speaking a falsehood. But, of course, for all I know, the thing may be some other kind of flower.”

“Let me see it. In the name of the goddess Flora let me see it!”

I began to undo the case. Indeed it was already half-open when two other gentlemen, who had either overheard some of our conversation or noted my companion’s excited look, edged up to us. I observed that they also wore orchids in their buttonholes.

“Hullo! Somers,” said one of them in a tone of false geniality, “what have you got there?”

“What has your friend got there?” asked the other.

“Nothing,” replied the young man who had been addressed as Somers, “nothing at all; that is—only a case of tropical butterflies.”

“Oh! butterflies,” said No. 1 and sauntered away. But No. 2, a keen-looking person with the eye of a hawk, was not so easily satisfied.

“Let us see these butterflies,” he said to me.

“You can’t,” ejaculated the young man. “My friend is afraid lest the damp should injure their colours. Ain’t you, Brown?”

“Yes, I am, Somers,” I replied, taking his cue and shutting the tin case with a snap.

Then the hawk-eyed person departed, also grumbling, for that story about the damp stuck in his throat.

“Orchidist!” whispered the young man. “Dreadful people, orchidists, so jealous. Very rich, too, both of them. Mr. Brown—I hope that is your name, though I admit the chances are against it.”

“They are,” I replied, “my name is Allan Quatermain.”

“Ah! much better than Brown. Well, Mr. Allan Quatermain, there’s a private room in this place to which I have admittance. Would you mind coming with that——” here the hawk-eyed gentleman strolled past again, “that case of butterflies?”

“With pleasure,” I answered, and followed him out of the auction chamber down some steps through the door to the left, and ultimately into a little cupboard-like room lined with shelves full of books and