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. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18 CATHERINE ST. STRAND.
1872.
[_The right of translation and reproduction is reserved_.]
CORDIALLY INSCRIBED
TO
MY OLD FRIEND AND FELLOW-WORKER,
GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAP.
I. Calverley's Agent.
II. Exit Tom Durham.
III. Home, sweet Home.
IV. Pauline.
V. A little Paradise.
VI. A safe Investment.
VII. In the City.
VIII. The Vicar of Lullington.
IX. Tom Durham's Friend.
X. Mr. Tatlow on the Track.
XI. L'Amie de la Maison.
XII. When Doctors Disagree.
THE YELLOW FLAG.
CHAPTER I.
CALVERLEY'S AGENT.
"So you have conquered your dislike to leaving England, Tom; I am very
glad. I felt certain you would give-in to our wishes, and see the
wisdom of what we suggested to you ."
"Well, I am not so certain about that, Ally; I don't go-in for
magnanimity; and I believe there is just that touch of obstinacy in my
nature, which would induce me to run counter to any proposition which
was very hardly pressed. But when the suggestion was backed as it has
been in this instance, I could not possibly doubt the sincerity of
those who made it. And so, as you see, I am off."
The place where the conversation, of which a fragment has just been
given, occurred, was a broad gravelled path, the favourite promenade
of such of the worthy townspeople of Southampton as prefer the
beauties of nature to the attractions of the shops in the High-street.
On one side was the broad water glistening in the bright, cheerful
October sun, on the other a large strip of greensward fringed on the
farther edge by a row of shining, white-faced lodging-houses and
hotels. On the promenade, the grim cannons--trophies taken during the
Russian war--were surrounded by happy children, fearlessly climbing
upon the now innocuous engines of death, within hailing distance of
the shore a few boatmen were lazily pulling about, some young men were
intent on watching the progress of two dogs who were making a
neck-and-neck race for a stick which had been thrown into the water
for them to fetch, and the whole scene was one of pleasant
cheerfulness.
Not out of harmony with it were the two persons whose words have been
recorded. The first speaker was a young woman about two-and-twenty, of
middle height, with a slight and graceful figure, and with a face
which, while some would have called it pretty, would have been
pronounced agreeable by all. The features were not regular, the nose
was decidedly not classical, the mouth was a little too large, and the
lips were a little too full; but there was a wonderful charm in the
whiteness and regularity of the teeth, in the bright flash of the
hazel eyes, in the crisp ripples of the dark brown hair, and in the
clear, healthy red and white of her complexion. She was very
becomingly dressed in a black silk gown, a dark-gray jacket trimmed
with velvet of the same colour, and a coquettish little black straw
hat, and she wore perfectly-fitting gloves and boots. Her companion
was some twelve years older, a short, squarely-built man, whose
breadth of shoulders and length of arms showed much muscular power.
The lower part of his face was covered with a thick copper-red beard;
the heavy moustaches falling over his mouth so completely as to defy
any revelation which might be made by the movements of that tell-tale
organ; but his eyes, small and set close together, had a shifty
expression, and round them there was that strained, seared look, which
in some men is always indicative of dissipation and late hours. He
wore a travelling suit of gray tweed, and a wide-awake hat, and from
under his beard the ends of a loosely-tied red silk neckerchief
fluttered in the wind. Lounging along with a rolling gait, his hands
buried in his jacket-pockets, he seemed to take but little heed of his
companion or her conversation, but paid particular attention to
various nursemaids in charge of the children who were playing about,
honouring each of them in turn with a long, peculiar, and offensive
stare.
He had half turned round to look after a particularly attractive
damsel, when his companion, wishing to resume the conversation,
touched him on the arm, and said, "You will get to Ceylon in--"
"O yes, in so many weeks--what matters one or two more or less? It
will be jolly enough on board ship, and when I arrive--I arrive."
"I hope you have made up your mind to be steady, Tom, and to work
hard. You have now the means for a capital start in life, and for my
sake, if for nothing else, you ought to show yourself worthy of what
has been done for you."
"Look here, Ally, don't preach," he said, turning sharply round to
her; "everybody thinks they can have a fling at me, and it is, 'O Tom
Durham this, and O Tom Durham that,' until I am sick enough of it
without being sermonised by my half-sister. Of curse it was very kind
of old Claxton--I beg your pardon," he said with a sneer, as he saw a
shade pass over her face; "I ought to speak with more deference of
your husband and my benefactor--of course it was very kind of Mr.
Claxton to pay my passage out to Ceylon, and give me two thousand
pounds to set myself up in business on my arrival there; but he is a
very long-headed fellow, and he knows I am no fool, and if the agency
turns out rightly, he will get a very considerable profit on his
outlay."
"I am sure John has no such notion in doing this, Tom, and you have no
right to impute such a motive to him."
"I impute nothing; I merely suggested; and, after all, perhaps he
only did it out of love for you, Ally, whom he worships as the apple
of his eye, in order to give your reckless half-brother a chance of
reform--and to get him out of his way," he muttered under his breath.
"I am sure John is kindness itself," said Alice Claxton. "If there
were nothing to prove that, it could be found in the fact of his
wishing me to come down here to see the last of you."
"Nothing like giving the old--I mean your husband, every possible
credit, Ally. You know just now he is away on one of his regular tours
and that therefore he won't miss you from Hendon."
"I know," said the girl, half-pettishly, "these horrible
business-tours are the bane of my life, the only thing I have to
complain about. However, John says he hopes, it will not be very long
before they are over, and then he will be always at home."
"Does he?" said Tom Durham, looking at her keenly; "I would not have
you depend upon that, Ally; I would not have you ask him to give up
the business which takes him away. It is important for him that he
should attend to it for the present, and indeed until there is no
longer a necessity for him to do so."
"You need not speak so earnestly, Tom," said Alice, with a half-laugh;
"I assure you I do not worry John about it; it is he who speaks about
it much oftener than I do. He is constantly talking of the time when
he shall be able to retire altogether, and take me away for a long
foreign travel, perhaps to settle entirely abroad, he said, in
Florence or Vienna, or some charming place of that kind."
"Old idiot!" muttered Tom Durham; "why can't he leave well alone?"
"I told him," said Alice, not hearing or heeding the interruption,
"that I am perfectly content with Rose Cottage. All I wish is, that he
could be more there to enjoy it with me."
"Yes," said Tom Durham, with a yawn. "Well, that will come all right,
as I told you; only don't you worry him about it, but leave it alone,
and let it come right in its own way. Now look here, Ally. You had
better go back to London by the 11.15 train, so that we have only half
an hour more together."
"But you know, Tom, John told me I might wait and see the Massilia
start. Indeed, he particularly wished me to do so."
"My dear child, the Massilia does not sail until half-past two; and if
you waited to see me fairly off, you would not have time to get over
to the railway to catch the three o'clock train. Even if you did, you
would not get to town until nearly six, and you would have a long
dreary drive in the dark to Hendon. Now, if you go by the quarter-past
eleven train, I shall see you off, and shall then be able to come back
to Radley's, and write a few letters of importance before I go on
board."
"Very well, Tom," said Alice; "perhaps it will be better; only,
John--"
"Never mind John on this occasion, Ally; he did not know at what time
the Massilia sailed. Now, Ally, let us take one final turn, and finish
our chat. I am not going to be sentimental--it is not in my line--but
I think I like you better than anybody else in the world, though I did
not take to you much at first. When I came back from sea, a boy of
fifteen, and went home and found my father had married again, I was
savage; and when he showed me a little baby lying in the cradle, and
told me it was my half-sister, I hated you. But you were a sweet
little child, and fended off many a rough word, and many a blow for
the matter of that, which the governor would have liked to have given
me, and I took to you; and when you grew up, you did me a good turn
now and then, and of course it is owing to you, one way or the other,
that I have got John Claxton's two thousand pounds in my pocket at
this moment. So I love you, and I leave you with regret, and I say
this to you at parting. Take this envelope, and lock it away somewhere
where it will be safe, and where you can lay your hand upon it at any
moment. It contains the address of an old pal of mine--a friend I
mean--one of the right sort, a staunch, tried, true, honest, upright
fellow. Hardworking and persevering too; such a kind of man, that you
may be astonished at his ever having been intimate with me. But he
was, and is, and I know that I may reckon upon him to the utmost. If
ever you come to grief, if ever you are in trouble, no matter of what
kind, go to the address which you will find there, and seek him out,
and tell him all about it; I will warrant he will see you through it."
"Thank you, dear Tom; it is very kind and thoughtful of you to say
this, but you know I have John and--"
"Yes, of course, you have John now; but there may be a time
when--however, that is neither here nor there. There is the envelope,
take it, and don't forget what I say. Now come round to the hotel and
pack your bag; it is time for you to start."
The bell rang, and with a scream the engine attached to the
eleven-fifteen train for London forged slowly out of the Southampton
station. Tom Durham, with an unusual expression of emotion on his
face, stood upon the platform kissing his hand to Alice, who, with the
tears in her eyes, leant back in the carriage and covered her face
with her handkerchief. In a second-class compartment next to that
which she occupied were two middle-aged, plainly-dressed men, who had
been observing the parting of the half-brother and sister with some
interest.
"Was not that Tom Durham?" said one, as the train sped on its way.
"Right you are," said the other; "I knew his face, but could not put a
name to it. What is he at now--working on the square or on the cross?"
"On the square, I believe," said the first; "leastways I saw him
walking with Mr. Calverley in the City the other day, and he would not
have been in such respectable company if he had not been all right."
"I suppose not," said the other man, "for the time being; but Tom
Durham is a shaky kind of customer anyways."