Transcriber's Note:
http://www.archive.org/details/yellowflagnovel02yate (University of
Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
THE YELLOW FLAG.
THE YELLOW FLAG.
A Novel.
By EDMUND YATES. AUTHOR OF 'A WAITING RACE.' 'BROKEN TO HARNESS,' ETC.
'That single effort by which we stop short in the downhill path to
perdition is itself a greater exertion of virtue than an hundred acts
of justice.' OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II.
LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND. 1872.
[_The right of translation and reproduction is reserved_.]
LONDON ROBSON AND SONS, PRINTERS, PANCRAS ROAD, N.W.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
CHAP.
I. Breaking the News.
II. A confidential Mission.
III. A Check.
IV. Take her up tenderly.
V. Parson's Work.
VI. Run to Earth.
VII. A Third in the Plot.
VIII. So far successful.
IX. The small Hours in London.
X. The small hours in Hendon.
XI. Mrs. Calverley loses her Husband.
THE YELLOW FLAG.
CHAPTER I. BREAKING THE NEWS.
Doctor Haughton stared hard at his old friend, who had just made such
an astounding announcement--stared hard, but said nothing. Naturally a
reticent man, in his capacity of physician he had had a great many odd
things confided to him in his life, and had consequently not merely
learned the value of silence, but had almost lost the faculty of
astonishment.
After a minute's pause he turned to the little crowd, and said in a
quiet, business-like way, 'Just four of you lift this poor gentleman's
body, two at the head and two at the feet, and carry it over to the
tavern I see on the other side of the road.--Gibson,' to the coachman,
'you go with them and pay them for their trouble. See it properly
placed on a bed or sofa somewhere, and have the door locked, and tell
the landlord he will be properly paid, and that a hearse will come out
and fetch it away this evening.'
When Gibson returned and reported that all these directions had
been properly obeyed, he mounted his box again, and the gentlemen,
re-entering the carriage, drove off swiftly towards London, leaving the
little crowd in the road gazing after them.
The gentlemen inside the brougham composed themselves comfortably, each
in his corner, looking out of the window, and waiting for the other to
speak. Each was most anxious to hear all that the other might have to
tell him, but both knew the professional etiquette of caution so well
that neither liked to be the first to commence the conversation. At
length Mr. Broadbent, who was a year or two younger, and considerably
more impulsive than his friend, broke the silence by saying, in a
casual manner, and as though the subject had but little interest for
him, 'Odd that I should have been talking to you about that man this
morning, and that we should have come upon him just now, wasn't it?'
'Very odd; very odd indeed,' said Doctor Haughton; 'quite a
coincidence! Odd thing, too, his going under two names. Mr. Calverley
certainly could not be called an eccentric man.'
'Nor could Mr. Claxton, so far as I have seen of him at least,' said
Mr. Broadbent; 'a thoroughly steady-going man of business, I should
say.'
'Ah!' said Doctor Haughton. And then there was a pause, broken by the
doctor's saying, as he looked straight out of the window before him,
'No need of asking what made the man adopt this mystery and this alias,
eh? A woman, of course?'
'Well, there certainly is a Mrs. Claxton,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and a
very pretty woman too.'
'Poor creature, poor creature!' said Doctor Haughton; 'such things as
these always fall hardest upon them.'
'Yes, it's a bad thing for her losing her husband,' said Mr. Broadbent.
'Her husband!' echoed Doctor Haughton. 'I--I--I suppose every one at
Hendon thought she was Calverley's wife?'
'Thought she was!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'do you mean to say she wasn't?'
'Why, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, pushing his hat on
the back of his head and staring at his companion, 'there's a Mrs.
Calverley at home in Great Walpole-street, whither we are now going, to
whom Calverley has been married for the last ten or fifteen years.'
'Good Heaven!' cried Mr. Broadbent; 'then that poor girl at Rose
Cottage is--ah, poor child, poor child!' And he sighed and shook his
head very sorrowfully. He knew at that moment that so soon as the story
got wind he would have to brave his wife's anger, and the virtuous
indignation of all his neighbours, who would be furious at having him
in their spotless domiciles after his attendance on such a 'creature;'
but his first emotions were pity for the girl, however erring she might
be.
'Very distressing indeed,' said Doctor Haughton, blowing his nose
loudly. 'It is a most extraordinary thing that men who are liable to a
cardiac affection are not more careful in such matters. And the girl is
pretty too, you say?'
'Very pretty, young, and interesting,' said Mr. Broadbent kindly.
'Ah!' commented Dr. Haughton; 'doesn't resemble Mrs. Calverley much, as
you will say when you see her. No doubt poor Calverley--however, that's
neither here nor there. Do you know this is a remarkably unpleasant
business, Broadbent?'
'It is indeed,' said Mr. Broadbent, 'and for both the families.'
'Yes, and for us, my good friend,' said Doctor Haughton, 'for us, who
have to break the news to one of them within the next half hour. Where
on earth can we say we found the man? I suppose he was living out at
this box of his, wasn't he?'
'Yes, he has been there for the last few days. He was in the habit of
passing a week or ten days there, and then going off, as Mrs. Claxton
told me, on business journeys connected with the firm of which he was a
partner.'
'That exactly tallies with Calverley's own life. He was absent from his
home about every fortnight to look after, as he said, some ironworks in
the North. It is very little wonder that a man leading a double life of
such enormous excitement should bring upon himself a cardiac attack.
Such a steady sobersides as he looked too! Gad, Broadbent, I shouldn't
be surprised if you were to turn out a Don Juan next!
'No fear of that,' said Mr. Broadbent, with a half smile; 'but really
this is a most unpleasant position for us. Where can we say we found
the poor fellow? We cannot possibly tell Mrs. Calverley we picked him
up on the roadside, as he was probably supposed by her to be travelling
in the North. And yet she must know the truth some day.'
'Yes, but not yet,' said Doctor Haughton, 'nor need we take upon
ourselves the trouble and anxiety of telling her. We can say to Mrs.
Calverley that this poor man was found dead in a railway carriage,
which she would be ready to believe, imagining him to be on his return
from the ironworks. Mr. Gurwood, a clergyman, her son by her former
husband, who happens to be stopping in the house, how the matter really
stands, and get him to explain it to her on some future occasion.'
Mr. Broadbent agreed to this mechanically; indeed he was but little
concerned about Mrs. Calverley, and was wondering what would become of
the poor little woman at Rose Cottage when she should hear the fearful
news.
'And I'll tell you what, my dear Broadbent,' continued Doctor Haughton,
after a pause, 'if you don't mind my giving you a little advice.
I should let this young woman up at Hendon find out this news by
herself--I mean to say, I shouldn't tell her. No one knows that you
know anything about it; and it is as well for a professional man to
mix himself up in such matters under such circumstances as little as
possible.'
Mr. Broadbent again signified his assent. He was a kindly-hearted
man, but he knew that from a worldly point of view his companion's
advice was sound, and he determined to act upon it, remembering Mrs.
Broadbent's tongue.
So the two gentlemen journeyed on until the carriage pulled up in front
of the dull, grim, respectable house in Great Walpole-street, and
there, feeling very nervous despite their professional training, they
alighted.
There was no need to give their names, for the butler recognised Doctor
Haughton at once, and ushered the gentlemen into the drawing-room,
where Mrs. Calverley was seated alone, with the eternal Berlin-wool
frame in front of her. She looked up at the butler's announcement, rose
from her seat, and stood with her hands crossed primly before her,
waiting to receive her visitors.
Doctor Haughton advanced, and taking one of her cold flat hands shook
it in a purely professional manner, and then let it drop. Nor could
Mrs. Calverley, however acute she might have been, have gleaned
any intelligence from the doctor's look, which was also purely
professional, and met her steely blue eyes as though it were inspecting
her tongue. But Mrs. Calverley was not acute, and she merely said, 'How
do you do, Doctor Haughton?' in her thin acid voice, and stared blankly
at Mr. Broadbent, as though wondering how he came there.
'This is Mr. Broadbent, an old friend of mine, and a medical man of
great experience, whose company I was fortunate enough to have on this
very melancholy occasion.'
Doctor Haughton laid great stress upon the last words; but Mrs.
Calverley took them very calmly, merely saying 'Yes;' and rubbing the
palms of her silk mittens softly together.
'I am afraid I have not succeeded in making you understand, Mrs.
Calverley, that a great misfortune has befallen you.'
'The Swartmoor Ironworks,' said Mrs. Calverley, suddenly brightening
up. 'I always said--but how could you know about them?'
'The calamity to which I am alluding is, I regret to say, much more
serious than any mere business loss,' replied Doctor Houghton gravely.
'Mr. Calverley has been out of town for some little time, I believe?'
'Yes,' said Mrs. Calverley, becoming rigid with rage; 'he is away
carrying out some of those ridiculous schemes in which he wastes our
money and--'
'Do not speak harshly, my dear madam,' said the doctor, laying his hand
upon her arm. 'I am sure you will regret it. Mr. Calverley is very ill,
dangerously ill.'
Mrs. Calverley looked up sharply into his face. 'Stop one minute,
Doctor Houghton, if you please; I should wish my son, the Reverend
Martin Gurwood, to be present at any communication you have to make to
me respecting Mr. Calverley. He is somewhere in the house, I know. I
will send for him.' And she rang the bell.
'By all means,' said Doctor Haughton, looking helplessly at Mr.
Broadbent, and feeling how very much more difficult it would be to tell
his white lie, prompted though it was by merciful consideration, in the
presence of a clergyman.
In a few minutes Martin Gurwood entered the room. He knew Doctor
Houghton, and shook hands with him; bowing to Mr. Broadbent, to whom he
was introduced.
'Doctor Houghton was beginning to make some communication to me about
Mr. Calverley,' said Mrs. Calverley, 'and I thought it better, Martin,
that you should be present.'
Martin Gurwood bowed, and looked inquiringly at the doctor.
'It is, I regret to say, a very painful communication,' said Doctor
Haughton, in answer to this mute appeal. 'Mr. Calverley was found this
afternoon in a very critical state in a--in a railway carriage on
the--on the Great Northern line,' said the doctor, with some little
hesitation, feeling himself grow hot all over.
Mr. Broadbent, feeling the actual responsibility thus lifted from his
shoulders, preserved a perfectly unruffled demeanour, and nodded his
head in solemn corroboration.
'May I ask how you came to hear of this, Doctor Haughton?' said Martin.
'It so happened,' said the doctor, 'that I had been called in
consultation to a case at--a short distance from town'--it would never
do to name the exact place while this woman is present, he thought to
himself--'and we were returning in the train when the discovery was
made, and we at once offered our services, little thinking that the
unfortunate sufferer would prove to be an acquaintance of mine.'
'Some one must go to him at once,' said Martin, looking hard at his
mother.
'It is a great pity that Madame Du Tertre is not in the way just now
when she is wanted,' said Mrs. Calverley, quietly; 'this seems exactly
one of the occasions--'
'There is no necessity for anyone to go,' interrupted Doctor Haughton;
'all that it is possible to do has been done.'
'Do you consider Mr. Calverley to be in danger?' asked Martin,
anxiously.
'In extreme danger,' replied the doctor; and then catching Mr.
Gurwood's eye, he endeavoured by the action of his mouth to frame the
word 'dead.' But Mrs. Calverley's steely eyes were upon him at the same
moment, and she guessed his meaning.
'You are endeavouring to deceive me, Doctor Haughton,' said she with
her stoniest manner; 'Mr. Calverley is dead.'
'My dear mother,' said Martin, leaving his chair, and putting his arms
round her.
'I can bear it, Martin,' said Mrs. Calverley coldly; 'this is not the
first time I have known suffering. My life has been one long martyrdom.'
'Is this true?' asked Martin, turning to the doctor.
'I regret to say it is,' said Doctor Haughton. 'Out of consideration
for Mrs. Calverley's feelings, I endeavoured to break the news as
gently as possible, but it is better that she should know the truth as
she does now.'
'It is some consolation for me to think,' said Mrs. Calverley, in
measured tones, 'that I never failed to utter my protest against these
reckless journeys, and that if Mr. Calverley had not obstinately
persisted in ignoring my advice, on that as on every other point, he
might have been here at this moment.'
'What was the immediate cause of death?' asked Martin Gurwood
hurriedly, for his mother's tone and manner jarred harshly on his ear.
'It is impossible to say without--without an examination,' said the
doctor, lowering his voice; 'but I should say, from the mere cursory
glance we had, that death probably arose from pericarditis--what you
would know as disease of the heart.'
'And that might be brought on by what?'
'It would probably be the remnant of some attack of rheumatic fever
under which the deceased had suffered at some period of his life. But
it has probably been accelerated or increased by excess of mental
excitement or bodily fatigue.'
'There need have been no question of excitement or fatigue either,
if my advice had been followed,' said Mrs. Calverley, with a defiant
sniff; 'if Mr. Calverley had been more in his home--'
'Yes, mother; this is scarcely the time to enter into such questions,'
said Martin Gurwood severely, for he was ashamed of his mother's
peevish nagging. 'What arrangements have you made, doctor, in regard to
the body of our poor friend?'
'None whatever at present,' said the doctor; 'we did the best we could
temporarily, but this is a matter in which I thought it would be better
to speak with you--alone,' he added, after a pause, glancing at Mrs.
Calverley.
But that lady sat perfectly unmoved. 'Will there be an inquest?' she
asked.
'I trust not, madam,' said the doctor dryly; for he was much
scandalised at Mrs. Calverley's hardness and composure. 'I shall use
all the influence I have to prevent any such inquiry, for the sake of
the poor gentleman who is dead, and whom I always found a kind-hearted
liberal man.'
'I know nothing about his liberality,' said Mrs. Calverley, only
exhibiting her appreciation of the doctor's tone by a slight increase
in the rigidity of her back; 'but I know that, like most of his other
virtues, it was never exhibited towards me, or in his own home.'
'I never saw Mr. Calverley except in this house,' remarked the doctor
angrily. Then turning to Martin, he said, 'These arrangements that we
spoke of had we not better go into them?'
'I think so,' said Martin. Then turning to Mrs. Calverley, he added,
'My dear mother, I must have a little business-talk with Doctor
Haughton about some matters in connexion with this melancholy affair
which it might perhaps be painful for you to listen to, and at which
there is happily no necessity for your presence. Shall we go into the
drawing-room or--'
'Pray don't trouble yourself; I will relieve you of my company at
once,' said Mrs. Calverley. And with a very slight inclination to the
visitors she rose and creaked out of the room.
The usual pallor of Martin Gurwood's face was covered by a burning
flush. 'You must excuse my mother, Doctor Haughton, and you too, if you
please, sir,' turning to Mr. Broadbent. 'Her sphere in life has been
very narrow, and I am constrained to admit that her manner is harsh and
forbidding. But it is manner, and nothing more.'
'Some persons are in the habit of disguising the acuteness of their
feelings under a rough exterior,' said the doctor; 'Mrs. Calverley may
belong to that class. At all events, subjects of this kind are better
discussed without women, and we have a communication to make to you
which it is absolutely necessary she should know nothing of, at least
for the present.'
Martin Gurwood rose from his chair and walked to the mantelpiece,
where he stood for a moment, his head resting on his hand. When he
turned round his face had resumed its usual pallor, was, indeed, whiter
than usual, as he said: 'I have guessed from the first that you had
something to say to me, and I have a fearful idea that I guess its
purport. Mr. Calverley has committed suicide?'
'No, I think not; I certainly think not,' said the doctor. 'What do you
say, Broadbent?'
'Most decidedly not,' said Mr. Broadbent.
'When I saw him yesterday, even in the cursory examination which I
was able to make, I satisfied myself that there were symptoms of
pericarditis, and I will stake my professional reputation it was that
that killed him.'
'When you saw him yesterday?' repeated Martin Gurwood, looking blankly
at the surgeon. 'Why, yesterday he must have been in the North. It was
on his return journey, thence, as I understood, that he died in train.'
'Yes, exactly,' said Doctor Haughton, 'this is just the point where a
little explanation is necessary. The fact is, my dear sir, that our
poor friend did not die in the train at all, but on the public road,
the high road leading to Hendon, where he lived.'
'Where he lived!' cried Martin Gurwood. 'You are speaking in riddles,
which it is impossible for me to understand. I must ask you to be more
explicit, if you wish me to comprehend you.'
'Well, then, the fact of the matter is, that our poor friend for some
years past has led a kind of double life. Here and in Mincing-lane he
was, of course, Mr. Calverley; but at Hendon, where, as I said before,
he sometimes lived, having a very pretty place there, he passed as Mr.
Claxton.'
'Claxton!' cried Martin; 'it is the name of one of the firm.'
'Yes,' said the doctor; 'I have always understood that Mr. Claxton
was a sleeping partner in the firm. Our friend here,' pointing to Mr.
Broadbent, 'thought so, as well as many others. No doubt the suggestion
originated with the poor man himself; who thought that some day his
connexion with the firm might crop up, and that this would prove a not
ineffectual blind.'
'What an extraordinary idea!' said Martin Gurwood. 'And he took this
house at Hendon, and lived there, you say, from time to time.'
'Exactly,' said Doctor Houghton, looking hard at him.
'As an occasional retreat, doubtless, to which he could retire from
the worries of business and--other things. You are a man of the world,
Doctor Houghton, and though you have not been much at this house, you
must have remarked that my mother is somewhat exacting, and scarcely
calculated to make a comfortable home for a man of poor Mr. Calverley's
cheerful temperament. I can understand his not telling his wife of the
existence of this little retreat.'
'Yes--why--he,' said Doctor Houghton dryly; 'there was another reason
why he did not mention its existence to Mrs. Calverley. The fact is,
that this little retreat had another occupant.' And the doctor paused
and looked at Martin with a serio-comic expression.
'I am at a loss again,' said the clergyman; 'I do not understand you.'
'My good sir,' said Doctor Houghton, 'your parish must lie a long way
out of the world. Don't you comprehend? Mr. Calverley did not live
alone at Hendon; there was a young woman there.'
'What!' cried Martin Gurwood, staggering back against the mantelpiece;
'do you mean to say that this man, so looked up to and respected, has
been living for years in open crime?'
'Scarcely in open crime, my good sir,' said the doctor, 'as is proved
by the fact that it has been kept quiet so long. Moreover, he is gone,
poor fellow; and though there can be no question of his guilt, there
may have been what the lawyers call extenuating circumstances. I fancy,
from what I saw of him, That Mr. Calverley was of all men inclined to
be happy in his home, had matters run smoothly.'
'I think you are very right, sir,' said Martin Gurwood; 'and it is not
for me to judge him, Heaven knows, nor,' he added, seeing the doctor's
eyes firmly fixed on him, 'nor any other sinful man. You have so
astonished me by your revelation that I feel myself almost incapable of
any farther action at present. You did perfectly right in concealing
this dreadful story from my mother; she must be kept in ignorance of it
as long as possible. Now, what else is there to be said?'
'Nothing, after you have given me the address of the undertakers you
wish to employ.'
'I know none in London, nor, I am sure, does my mother. You will be
more accustomed to such matters, and I should be obliged to you to act
for us.'
'Very well,' said Doctor Haughton. 'I will give orders that the body
be fetched from the tavern, where it is now lying, and brought here
to-night. I will see you in a day or two; and I think you may trust to
me for arranging the business without any unpleasant legal inquiry,
under which the facts might possibly come to light.'
Martin Gurwood shook hands with his retiring visitors, and followed
them to the door, which he closed behind them and carefully locked.
Then returning to the chair which he had occupied he fell on his knees
beside it, and prayed long and fervently. He must have felt strong love
for the man whose death and whose crime had just been revealed to him;
the story just narrated must have struck deeply into his soul; for when
he lifted his face from between his hands where it had been buried, it
was strained, and seared, and tear-blurred.
What was to be done? The dreadful news must be kept from Mrs. Calverley
as long as possible; not, as Martin well enough knew, that her feelings
towards the dead man would be wounded as almost any other woman's
feelings would be wounded by the disclosure; not that in her case it
would involve any shattering of the idol, any revulsion of love long
concentrated on one earthly object, and at the last finding itself
betrayed; but in fear lest the woman's ungovernable temper should break
forth and blurt out to the whole world the story of her wrongs, and of
her husband's dishonour.
There was the other woman too, the poor wretch who had been the sharer
of that dishonour, who had been living with a man on whom she had no
moral or legal claim, and who even now was all unconscious of the
blow which had fallen upon him, cutting him off in the midst of his
wickedness, and leaving her to the scorn and reprobation of the world.
Martin Gurwood's large-souled pity had time to turn even to this
outcast. As he thought of her, he pictured to himself the desolation
which would fall upon that little home, and could not help contrasting
it with the proper and conventional display of mourning which had
already commenced to reign in the house in which he sat.
Yes! Mourning as understood by undertakers and at _maisons de
deuil_;--which is a very different thing from grief as displayed in red
eyelids and swollen cheeks, in numbed feelings and dumb carelessness
as to all that may happen--had begun to reign in the mansion in Great
Walpole-street. The blinds had all been drawn down, and the servants
stole about noiselessly on tip-toe. It was felt to be a time when
people required keeping up, and the butler had opened a bottle of
John Calverley's particular Madeira, and the cook had announced her
intention of adding something special to the ordinary supper fare. Mrs.
Calverley had retired to her bed-room, and announced that she would
see no one save Madame Du Tertre, who was to be shown up directly she
returned. And about seven o'clock in the murky autumnal evening, there
was a noise of wheels and a low knock, and It arrived, and was borne in
its shell on men's shoulders up the creaking stairs to an unused room
on the second-floor, where It was left alone. There It lay deserted by
all; It that had been young John Calverley the worshipped treasure of
the old mother long since passed away; It that had been the revered
head of the great City house of Calverley and Company of world-wide
fame and never-tarnished renown; It that had been 'dear old John,'
so passionately loved by Alice Claxton, who was even now looking out
into the dark night from her cottage-porch, and wondering whether her
husband had gone off on business or whether he would return.
Long before It was brought there, Mr. Jeffreys had arrived from the
City; and had an interview with Mr. Gurwood, in which he learned of his
principal's sudden death. As Mr. Jeffreys came down the steps he met a
lady going up; a lady in a state of great excitement, and who asked the
footman standing at the hall-door what had happened.
The footman was concise in his reply. 'Mr. Calverley is dead, mum,'
he said. 'And Mrs. Calverley wished to see Madame Doo Turt as soon as
possible.'