by Jerry
The old man rose as he spoke, and led the way to the large tent.
“Here you will see an illustration of what I have just said”—they were now among the prize roses. “Women are more material than we are, and the coarser ones have little sympathy with flowers, preferring to find their counterparts in the grosser mineral world. Their passion for gems is, perhaps, the strongest sentiment of which they are capable. Those of the finer mould only aspire to the higher, more spiritual union with the flora; and even these are keyed to the note of the more fleshy flowers. Women and roses are forever coupled together. Women have always been the most successful rose-growers. I myself first cultivated the rose, a flower of a low order of beauty nearly allied to the sensuous side of man. It is the flower that the lover brings to the tryst, that the beloved wears as a love-signal in her breast, the votive-offering which dresses the altars of Cytherea and of Eros. See that young woman breathing the fragrance of that deep-hearted Grloire de Dijon. Its perfume affects her like wine, or like a lover’s kiss.”
“I think them a most charming pair,” said Leonard, stoutly.
“Doubtless; I should have thought so at your age. The trivial passions of youth are necessary to strengthen us for the mightier passions of age. You now, who love a fair face better than all the flowers in the world, will hardly believe that your admiration of woman is a puny sentiment beside my passion for my flowers—the only one that remains to me after a lifetime of passions.”
“Which of the flowers did you choose as your favorite when you discarded the rose?” inquired Leonard.
“All in good time, friend,” answered the enthusiast. “At first I gave myself to the lily; a purer blossom, but still too earthly. It is the flower we lay in dead hands, the symbol of vitality.”
“How can we learn to find our floral affinities?” asked Leonard, curious to hear more of his companion’s wild talk.
“How lightly you ask me for a secret that I have given my life to learn! And yet it is possible that I may some day share it with you, if you can do the service I shall ask of you. Be satisfied that you have learned what few men ever dream of—that the secret exists, and may be learned. Bonaparte knew it. What mighty councils he held with the violet, who shall ever tell? Not till he became inflated, vainglorious, worshipping his power and ignoring the source from which it was drawn, did Napoleon fail. On the morning of Waterloo, why was the familiar knot of violets missing from his coat?”
“I follow you,” cried Leonard. “The corn-flower of the German Kaiser, the primrose of Lord Beaconsfield—these may have been the most powerful allies of these two great men!”
“Even so,” rejoined the visionary. “Did you never suspect that there lurked in the red and white roses of York and Lancaster a deeper significance than the dull historians, who treat them as the mere badges of the rival factions, have ever dreamed?”
They had left the rose-tent, and now entered a small building whose interior was arranged in imitation of a tropical forest. Palm-trees and giant ferns lifted their tall tops to the vaulted roof; the ground was carpeted with moss; a pool of water was filled with rare aquatic plants, some of which Leonard recognized as natives of the tropical countries where he had lived. Amidst the foliage were gorgeous tropical birds; and high up in the branches of the taller trees hung the wonderful orchids, to which the miniature forest merely served as a background.
“Capital!” cried Leonard. “This is the work of an artist! I could almost fancy myself in the forests of Java again. Look at that beautiful night-moth! I have seen it growing from the highest branches of a copal-tree, so lofty, that the flower twinkled from its leaves like a white star. And that cyprepedium—I never saw a more perfect specimen! I almost fancy that I shall see through yonder window the mighty outlines of Java’s volcano, crowned with clouds and fire, and draped with its royal purple haze.”
The old man was delighted with the youth’s enthusiasm. He shook him warmly by the hand, saying:
“Away with hesitation! Let us at once make our compact of friendship. Never was there a fitter partnership. You are young, a poet, an enthusiast. I am old, and a little wiser than you, possessing experience which you lack, lacking the fire of youth which is still yours. You are poor and I am rich. Lend me your strong sinews, your young, active limbs, and I will give you all that you require to live like the sybarite and the adventurous spirit that you are. What say you? Are the terms fair?”
“More than fair; generous!” answered Leonard. “But what is the nature of the service you require of me? I am, as you surmise, an adventurer, and frankly declare myself to be one who has lived too late; a knight-errant of the nineteenth century, seeking for adventure wherever I may find it; stipulating only that I may keep unspotted my honest name, the only inheritance my poor parents left me.”
“Come now! Is it likely I should ask you to rob a hen-roost?” said the old man, testily. “If I were in want of a villain, I should hardly give a chance acquaintance like yourself the power to denounce me. I have made my offer; it is for you to accept or decline it.”
Just as Leonard was about to refuse this preposterous proposition of an unquestioning obedience, a young girl passed by and stopped to admire a beautiful nepenthe growing near him. She lifted a sweet, pale face to the flower; and as she stood thus, her slight figure reaching upward, she looked at Leonard whose eyes were fastened on her. The young man’s heart stood quite still, and then gave a mighty throb. The girl’s large, soft eyes returned his intense gaze frankly; then their expression changed to one of pleading; then they were hidden by the. smooth, white lids. A faint wave of color spread over her transparent cheek, and she drew a sudden, long breath which loosened the modest moss-rose in her bosom so that it fell to the ground. Leonard dropped upon his knee and, kneeling at her feet, restored the flower to her. She thanked him with a gentle inclination of the head and another tremulous glance. No word had been spoken. A careless observer would only have seen that a pretty young girl had let fall a rose, which a good-looking young man had picked up and returned to her with a rather extravagant politeness. But in that brief moment this youth and this girl, strangers till then, looked into each other’s eyes and knew that they were lovers for all time.
“So, Mary Heather, you have come to see your friends in their new surroundings. That is well; but do not linger too long amid this rank vegetation. I shall not return until late to-night.”
It was the old man who thus addressed the new-comer.
“All will be ready, sir,” she answered, in a voice that sounded to Leonard like that of his dead mother. She turned to go, but at the entrance started back. A scorpion lay on the threshold.
“Do not be afraid! I took care to draw his sting; and that green snake you saw gliding up the palm is as harmless as those pretty lizards. I wished to make the imitation as true to nature as possible,” continued the old man turning to Leonard, “and I have been at great pains to be exact in these minor details. But you have not given me your answer. Are we to be friends, or do our paths separate here?”
Leonard’s resolve was already taken. Mary Heather had disappeared. His best chance of ever seeing her again was through this strange old man, who seemed on such intimate terms with her.
“As my Mistress Chance has led me to you, sir, I will not break faith with her, nor with you. I accept your offer,” he exclaimed, holding out his hand.
“Good!” cried the stranger, laying his cold hand in Leonard’s warm grasp. “I am rarely deceived in a face. My name is Kasper Craig. How are you called?”
Leonard handed him his card; and after giving the young American an appointment for the next evening, Kasper Craig left him and melted, like a gray shadow, into the gay crowd that was beginning to pour into the orchid-grove.
“Who was that old man I was just talking with?” asked Leonard, of one of the attendants.
“I don’t wonder you ask,” replied the man. “I never saw him outside his own garden before. That was Kasper Craig, the greatest orchid-coll
ector in the world. This is his exhibit. Folks say that he is a little touched here,” tapping his forehead significantly.
Ebury soon after left the festival of flowers, and made his way home to his poor lodgings. He could remember Mary Heather’s sweet face better in his bare attic-chamber than in that gay crowd, out of which she had dawned for a moment on his sight, like a modest country daisy astray in a garden of splendid court-flowers.
The next evening he knocked at the door of a poor cottage in Hammersmith a little before the hour named by Kasper Craig. The house was a crazy, old affair, but behind it there was a large, well-kept garden and some glass-houses, the whole inclosed by high, brick walls.
He rapped several times without receiving any attention from those within. After a delay of some minutes, the door was cautiously opened and a small, withered hand was put out toward him. Leonard seized it in his own and held it firmly.
“Let me go,” cried a shrill voice. “Give me what you have brought for Kasper Craig, and let me go.”
“I have brought nothing but my muscles,” said Leonard, pushing the door open, “and those are the only things I possess that Kasper Craig has asked me to use in his service.”
The young man had forced himself into the dimly-lighted passage. He still held the little hand in his; but when he saw the crippled child to whom it belonged, his grasp grew more tender.
“Come, my boy,” he said gently; “play no pranks with me. I have come by appointment to see Kasper Craig. Lead me to him.”
“What is your name?” said the cripple, suspiciously.
“Leonard Ebury. What is your’s?”
“Edward Heather,” answered the child. “You are to wait till Kasper Craig returns. You can either sit here, or go out into the garden.” Outside, the weather was damp and it was beginning to drizzle; inside, the prospect of the bare passage, which contained nothing but a dusty hat-rack and a few botanical prints hanging on the walls, was hardly more inviting.
Leonard laughed and patted the child’s thin hand.
“You are not very hospitable, Edward; but if you will stay and talk with me, we will sit on the stairs till Kasper Craig comes home. Is Mary Heather your sister?”
“Yes,” said the boy, fixing his large, hollow eyes on Ebury with an intent, questioning gaze. “What do you want with my Mary?”
“Only to see her, to speak with her. If that cannot be, to know if she is in this house.”
The boy’s eyes seemed to read Leonard’s very soul.
“No,” he said, shaking his head with an air of elfin sagacity. “No, Leonard Ebury, you cannot see her. If you are a friend of Kasper Craig’s, you shall not see my Mary.”
“I am no friend of Kasper Craig’s. I have come to do some work for him, for which he pays me. Do you understand? If I could see your sister—if only once—I care not if I never see that strange old man again.”
“Why?” said the child. “Why do you want to see Mary? Do you love her, too?”
Leonard trembled under those sad, questioning eyes. He could not have lied to the child to save his life.
“Yes, Edward, I love Mary Heather.”
“Are you her sweetheart?” whispered the child, angrily. “She never told me of you.”
“I never spoke, to her—but I have seen her. I love her, and I believe that she loves me.”
“And will you take us away from here, away from Kasper Craig—now—to-night—if I let you see Mary?”
They are all mad in this house, thought Ebury; but he answered the child soothingly.
“If Mary wishes it, yes. But take me to her. He may return at any moment.”
“Come then,” said the child resolutely, leading the way up the dark stairway. Leonard groped his way behind him as best he might. Edward tapped lightly at a door at the end of the passage, which was immediately opened by Mary Heather.
“There she is,” said the child, pointing to his sister. “Say what you have to say quickly.”
“I am afraid that I have intruded upon you, Miss Heather,” Ebury began. “I came by appointment to seek Kasper Craig, and I find that I am before the hour.”
“Come in,” said the young girl. “You are welcome to sit here till Kasper Craig returns. He will not be long.”
Leonard still hesitated on the threshold, hat in hand. He felt all unworthy to enter that white, maiden room, so rich in purity, so poor in all else.
“Come in. Mary says you are to come in,” said the child, petulantly, pushing Ebury into the room and shutting the door. “How cold it is! I will stir the fire while you talk.”
“He is very nervous to-day. Do not notice him,” said Mary in an undertone, as she placed a chair for the visitor near the fire and took her place at a work-table. She was soon stitching at some coarse work, and the home-like air of the large, pleasant chamber, together with Mary’s quiet grace and dignity, soon made Leonard forget the child’s wild talk. Ebury learned that the brother and sister were orphans and dependent upon Kasper Craig, to whom they were distantly related. Mary told him their simple history in answer to his adroit questions.
She barely remembered her parents, both of whom died when Edward was a baby. The children assisted Kasper Craig in caring for his orchids; and in addition to this, Mary made drawings from certain of the rarer specimens. Her easel, with an unfinished sketch of a white orchid, stood near the window. The flower from which the drawing was made, bloomed from the branch of a tree hanging against the wall near the little white bed. The great, tropical flower hung languidly from the fragment of dead wood. It was unlike any orchid Leonard had ever seen. As he was admiring the weird blossom, the door opened and Kasper Craig entered.
“You were prompt indeed, friend,” said the famous collector with his chilly laugh. “But I shall not apologize for keeping you waiting, for my tardiness has given you a glimpse of my greatest treasure, my last discovery. Tell me, frankly. Have you ever seen anything as beautiful as this in Java, or anywhere else?”
“I have certainly never seen anything like this orchid,” said Leonard, “but I am not sure that I think it beautiful. It is such a savagelooking flower! Look at that open mouth and throat—they have almost a human look. Those coarse, white spikes are like teeth. They would hold fast and devour any unfortunate bee that came in search of honey.”
“It is allied to the dioncea muscipula, which, as you know, feeds upon insects. But this flower has a much more highly-developed organism. In evolution, it is as far from the Venus’s fly-trap as you are from the river-drift man. Linnaeus, and Gray, and all the famous botanists between them, have failed to establish the line between animal and vegetable life. There is a good and sufficient cause for this: the line does not exist. There is no break in the chain of creation. The orchid stands midway between the plant and the animal. It is capable of movement and it is carnivorous, but it has not yet attained to its full development. It is the highest and latest expression of nature, the crowning triumph of creation. This hybrid is the result of the experiments of thirty years of my life. Step by step, I have raised the standard of its race’s organism. This wonderful creature already sleeps, breathes, moves, feeds itself like many of its predecessors. It will do more. Hitherto it has been nourished only by the grosser forms of animal life: flies and other insects. Deprived of this sustenance, it will grasp the strong, subtle life-essence which belongs only to some few of the higher animal species.”
Leonard’s attention had wandered from the subject of the old man’s discourse. His eyes were fixed on Mary Heather, who was sitting at the other end of the room, stitching steadily at her work. Her soft hair, her dewy, violet eyes, her pure, flower-like face were already more familiar to him than his own features; and yet, every time that his eyes fell upon her loveliness, it seemed that a rich, new treasure had been given to him.
“You are looking at Mary Heather,” said the collector. “You may well look at that girl. What a rare, orchid-like growth she is! Her father was a drunkard. Her mother, an overwo
rked seamstress. From their union sprang this perfect flower. Can you fancy that her delicate tints, her perfect form, her airy grace, were inherited from a sot and a drudge? No, no; nature does not perform miracles; there are causes for all her so-called phenomena. The scientists have not yet learned the A, B, C, of her wonderful methods. From her babyhood Mary Heather has lived among my plants. Her mother would bring the child in her cradle in the morning, and leave her with me all day. She has breathed the breath of the rarest flowers that the world has ever seen. She has drawn her life from them. Her flesh is more like their flesh than like yours or mine. Frail growths, that have never before lived out of their native soil, have flourished under her hands; plants that have ever been considered sterile in a state of cultivation have grown fruitful under her care; for she is of their kind, and knows the secrets of their mystic marriage-rites. How closely the two forms of life approach each other! This girl is the flower of the human family. If we could produce an animal-flower, with more animal attributes even than the dionoea, should we not have found the link in the chain that binds the two kingdoms together? Would not the man who should produce that flower, who should publish that great secret to the world, be remembered with Galileo, with Newton, with Darwin?”
Kasper Craig had whispered this flood of wild talk into the ear of the young American, who was now thoroughly convinced of the old man’s insanity. Leonard looked at Mary and Edward Heather. The boy was crouching in his invalid-chair, his fearful eyes fixed upon Kasper Craig, his whole figure expressive of a terrified anticipation. Mary had laid down her sewing, and sat leaning back in her arm-chair, pale and weary, but showing no sign of the brother’s nervous agitation. The sweet, faint color had faded from her cheeks. She was drooping like the lilies in his mother’s garden at home, on a hot, summer afternoon. He thought of Kasper Craig’s comparison. She was, indeed, a human flower.
“What you say is very ingenious, at least,” said Leonard, “and I am pleased to have seen this rare flower, of which Miss Heather is making so faithful a drawing. But how is this?” He had stepped close to the little bed, and in passing touched the white pillow, leaving a benediction on the fair linen. “The artist is painting the flower white, while the orchid surely has a faint rose tint on the lower petals.”
