Allan and the Holy Flower. H. Rider Haggard

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