The blue ribbon. A novel

Front matter

* fHE BLUE RIBBON

& XoucL

BY THE AUTHOR OF

Chapter I

ANY one going along the High Street of Cruxborough one sunshiny summer morning five-and-thirty years ago, and looking up to the second-floor windows of Mr. Ballinger’s office, might have seen that gentleman reading a note, in which he was invited to walk over some fine afternoon and take a glass of wine with his friend and client, Hiram Armstrong, of Wastewood.

Mr. Ballinger knew well enough what that r,c wine meant. Business ; neither more

1 Hiram, who for : :: ■ . 1 • l .. i g house to

. tost likely

'Ll : t fat ; 1 i • ■ - >-.te building

. - un a shuffling ;■ ■ - o - i • r in: ears with his

.. mg were carry- :■ ’ 1- , ■ : an easy trot to his

em\ ■>— >t might be the settlement of his affairs that v 3 upon his mind, the due and righteous disposition of that snug fortune of thirty or forty -1 >usand pounds, whose ownership made , as times went then, one of the most suu^ntial men in Cruxborough. At any rate, the turning of a penny was involved, and, as penny turning was an occupation after Mr. Ballinger’s own heart, he lost no time in accepting the invitation.

Hiram Armstrong was a bachelor of sixtyfive, or thereabouts. He had the reputation of being a coarse, easy, somewhat free-living man, whose manners had not improved Avith the improvement in his circumstances. In his early days he had been a cattle dealer, and his talk was generally of the earth, earthy. But still there was a stratum of good-will under the old man’s coarseness; and after a good dinner, a good bottle of wine, and a pipe or two of good tobacco, Hiram "would have promised any thing in the world to his friends, and then next morning have forgotten all about it.

Wastewood was an ill-kept, uncomfortablelooking house, about half a mile out of Cruxborough, on the Willowmarsh Road. Generally, when Mr. Ballinger had gone there, he had been admitted by an elderly widow — a dapper, obsequious little -woman, who courtesied to him with the reverence due to one of the city’s most respectable men. But, on the occasion of his first visit after receiving Mr. Armstrong’s note, the door was opened by a stranger — a curious foreign -looking woman, oddly dressed, darh complexioned, defiant, who, after glancing keenly at him, ushered him, with very scant shov of respect, into the dining-room, where her master, enveloped in a genial cloud of tobacco smoke, sat in his arm-chair, behind the decant er of old port which formed the ostensible ob ject of the invitation.

“Glad to see you, Ballinger — glad to seo you. Thought this would bring you out pret ty soon,” said the old gentleman, winking ai his glass as he held it up to the light. “Yot won’t do it comfortably, now, will you, and join me with a pipe ? I always sa}r, you know, tha poi;t and pipes go together as naturally as bean and bacon.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Ballinger, bow ing, and rubbing his hands ; “ smoking is a lux ury in which I never indulge.”

And indeed one might have told that by th look of him. Nathan Ballinger was not a ma Avho indulged in any thing, save that afore mentioned penny turning which was the chic purpose of his life. But he accepted Mr. Armstrong’s offer of a glass of port; and then — for he was far too cautious a man to hurry the busi ness, whatever it might be, for which he wa ■ summoned — he directed the conversation int an indifferent channel, wisely judging that it would work its own way by-and-by to sonu thing more interesting.

“You have made a change in your domesti i arrangements,” he began, having a somewhr galling impression that he had not been admi ted with the respect due unto him ; “ and, if I might venture to express an opinion, Mr. Arrr strong, if I might venture to express an opir - ion, I should add, a change which most of ^ your friends will scarcely consider an improvement.”

“Change!” and old Hiram blinked through the cloud of tobacco smoke which envelope 1 him. “ Oh yes, of course. Patch opened the door to you. I’ve had her about the place good while ; but she never came to the froi until a week or two ago, when old Betsy, th widow, you remember, dropped off. She’s a queer sort, is Patch, rather touched in the u] per story, I fancy, but a decent woman, a faithful as a dog, and as honest as the day. x

THE BLUE KIBBON.

never happened to tell you, did I, how I picked her up, poor body?”

“You did not, sir; and really, now that I have seen her, I must confess to a certain amount of curiosity upon the subject. In fact, her manners and deportment — ”

“Oh, never mind her manners and deportment! Patch never pretends any thing she doesn’t feel; but she’s as sound as a drum, for all that. It was in this way : About two years back, as near as I can recollect, I was set here, with my pipe and my glass, and I just happened to look out, and there she was, out in the road opposite, up to her ankles in mud and snow, singing ‘My lodging is on the cold ground.’ Now you know I’m not a badhearted man, Ballinger — not at all a badhearted man.”

“On the contrary, my dear sir, quite the reverse;” and Ballinger bowed.

“No; and I used to sing that song myself when I was a boy, and it sort of touched me up, because I don’t like to forget old times ; so I tapped at the window for her to come across, and I declare, when I set eyes upon her near hand, she looked that starved and hungry I couldn’t .for shame send her away without a bite of something to eat.”

“Very kind of you, sir — exceedingly kind — but quite what a gentleman of your well-known liberality — ”

“ Yes, yes ; and so I took her into the kitchen to Betsy, and set her down to a basin of hot broth ; and while she fastened upon it — which she did pretty sharp, I can tell you — I found out who she was, and where she came from — Naples, I think, it was, or somewhere that way — and she’d been in the musical line, and lost her vpice and her luck, poor thing, too, and seemed to have had rather a rough carrying-on of it, one way and another. I crossquestioned her pretty closely, I can tell you — or I’m not a man that’s easy took in, Ballinger — and, when I’d satisfied myself that it was all air and above-board, I told her, if Betsy had 10 objections, she might stop and have a night’s odging in the void loft. Not what every body vould have done, was it ?”

“Not at all, sir. In fact, I think I may be lermitted to say that, considering the peculiar lciture of the circumstances, and the entire abence of any familiarity on your part with the irevious character and habits of the party in luestion, it might, upon the whole — ”

“Yes, yes, just so,” said old Hiram, impaient of Mr. Ballinger’s long paragraphs ; “ but t turned out all right. I’ve never had any call o repent it. Next morning she made, herself o handy about the place, while Betsy said she didn’t see but what we might let her stop anther day ; and that got to another, and anothr, and she fell into the work, and behaved her- • elf so well that the end was, she stopped on rith us regular ; and when poor Betsy fell ill,

■ month ago, Batch nursed her night and day o her death ; and since then she’s stopped and done for me altogether, and I don’t know as I could better myself.”

“Most remarkable, sir — quite a little romance, and one which, so far, has eventuated much more successfully than might have been expected from the woman’s ungainly appearance.”

“ Oh, hang appearances ! I never care any thing about them. She’s a good sort, is Patch — a very good sort. I haven’t a word against her, except when there happens to be any thing going on in the music line, and then I’m blessed if I know what to make of her. Why, at the last festival here, she was like a mad creature, shooting off to Cruxborough all times of the day, and prowling about round the hotels where the singers were staying, and never any certainty when you’d have your dinner, or whether you’d ever get it at all. But I don’t mind her being a bit flighty now and then, if she goes on all right between whiles. What can you expect from foreigners, you know ?”

“That depends. In my opinion, it is best to keep them at a judicious distance. And may I ask, with regard to her name, how she came to be provided with so singular an appellation ?”

“Why, as to her name, she gets just what a woman can claim thi ouaes to doesn’t it, Ballingei ling at his own joke. “Just said it over to me a dozen time? bef me I coaid make either 1 tad ot of it, an i di <-a. she wrote it out on a pie *r — Pacehdi,

or something like that, as near as I can ren her. Of course 1 wasn’t going to put up with, any such • : nglciacu >•. • pr n ..

I hate a name that sticks to your teeth like badly boiled toffee ; give me something that comes out short and sharp, and you’ve done with it. So I told her, if she liked to be. plain Patch, she might; and Patch she was, and Patch she is, and Patch she will be to the end of the chapter — and that’s about all. And now, Ballinger, there’s a little matter I want to talk over with you.. Help yourself to another glass first. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Mr. Ballinger’s face assumed a blandly cautious expression. He rubbed his hands, bowed complacently, and leaned toward his host, with a smile of intense benevolence.

“My services are entirely at your command. In fact, my dear sir, I may say that any thing in the world I can do for you — ”

“ Thank you — thank you. I suppose I may call it a little matter of business ; and I don’t suppose any one will see me through it better than you will. It’s those Monkestons, Ballinger, down at the Willowmarshes, you know. I’ve been turning it over in my own mind a good bit past ; I would like to give them something of a lift.”

“Exactly so, sir. A case of wasted opportunities— very -wasted opportunities.”

“I dare say— likely enough. We’ve all of

THE BLUE RIBBON.

t .• i ' ny opportunities, one way

or no • ■ ' • te ; but that’s neither here

1 lion it les to a matter of business.

i r e’s a kind of connection in

;1 ili’.nilv Old ndrew Monkeston’s cousin

i u:<i ■ -1 her of one of my aunts — at

least, if : e b id marry him, he made her an offer. I can’t ore if it ever came to a wedding. But it’s a connection, anyway, and I like to remember old times, Ballinger — I like to remember old times.”

“Precisely, sir, and your intentions are most creditable ; in fact, I may be permitted to say, highly commendable, the connection between the two families being, as I may express it, so exceedingly hieroglyphic.”

After Mr. Ballinger had got the word out, he rather thought it ought to have been “ apocryphal;” but Mr. Armstrong seemed to accept it as equally applicable, and went cheerfully on.

“Yes, old times hadn’t ought to be forgotten. Ralph Monkeston’s father and me used to be very good friends. I don’t mind telling it to you, Ballinger, for you’re not a man that talks ; but, if it hadn’t been for the old farmer giving me a shove when I was at the bottom of the ladder, I might have been there now, Ballinger— there now”

“Indeed, si ! You don ally say so !” replied that wort hy gentleman, with as gracious an n;i «.>t surprise as if he . ■ I, at least a

fact of Mr.

! ;hy old farmer of Willowmarshes.

M know Marti- . fcy years ago

that bank was beginning to pay its way tidily, and old Stives, the cattle dealer, that I’d done a good turn for, gave me the chance of buying a dozen shares without premium. You know he’d a deal to do with the banks, had Stives — director, and all that sort of thing ; and I talked to Andrew Monkeston about it, and he said it wasn’t a chance to be let go, and, as I hadn’t the cash to turn to, he down with it there and then, and no. word of interest, only I was to pay it back at my own convenience. I don’t think the fag-end of it ever did get paid off at all, for it was uphill work with me then, and I wanted my ready money for the cattle dealing, and I’m pretty sure old Monkeston let me off the last fifty or so. But that was the beginning of my luck, Ballinger — the beginning of my luck. Little makes much, you know, and much makes more, and the bank kept getting on, and all that I could lay by I put into it in shares ; and I’m not such a fool as to go and talk about it to any one, but the original share-holders in that bank get their five-and-twenty per cent, now.”

“A most wonderfully satisfactory investment,” said Mr. Ballinger, with a solemnity worthy of the subject.

“Ay, you’re right there. And I’ve been thinking it wouldn’t be a bad way of clearing off old scores if I did something now for poor Ralph. He’s about got to the end of his i tether, I fancy ; and, when a fellow’s at t length, strangling pretty often comes next i somebody don’t give him a pull the other w ’ Only, you see, Ballinger, Ralph’s a man t brings his ninepence to nothing, as sure as e he lays his hands on it, and if I gave him a g< round lumping sum to-day, it would be in h i the public-houses in Cruxborough to-morro >

“Most likelv, sir, most likelv. A lamer table fact.”

“Yes. I might get over that, may be, i giving it to his wife instead ; but Mrs. Monk ton’s a woman I never could abide, and tha the plain English of it. She’s overmuch gv to speaking her mind, and a man like me dc - get on with that sort of thing, Ballinger. W she came to me once, not long after Monkes / began to go to the dogs, and she told me to m face that I’d made her husband love his glass, by asking him night after night to the ‘ Crown and Cushion,’ and drinking with him there ! nice thing that, don’t you call it, to fling in a man’s face ?”

“Most unjustifiable, my dear sir, but j like the woman,” said Mr. Ballinger, bow r again.

“ I don’t deny either but that there may be a bit of truth in it. Ralph’s a jolly fellow, a I’d rather treat him to a glass than drink hall: a dozen by myself ; but a man don’t like to h> himself abused, reason or no reason, and wl he’s always stood the reckoning, too, and n. be a night’s lodging into the bargain, forRal often came out that shaky he’d have been in the dike fifty times over if I’d have let him . back to Willowmarshes on his black mare, a the road that dark you couldn’t scarce see yc hand before your face. But I never got a thanks from Mrs. Monkeston for it — no, not i I’d kept him from breaking his neck either, I’ve done many a time, when the mare’s be m skittish, and his temper up with liquor, as used to say to him, ‘ Ralph,’ I used to say, ‘yo> stop with me, and we’ll have another glass o two comfortable, and I’ll give you a nigh ' lodging, and you’ll sleep it off by morning and then she coming to me, and saying h( she’d sat up o’ nights waiting for him. We and hadn’t she better sit up o’ nights waiting f him than have him brought home with his ne i broke? — fill your glass again, Ballinger — a b he there with the farm going to rack and ru on his hands, as every one says you can scarce keep a pig upon it now, the land’s that go od for nothing. No, Mrs. Monkeston’s a worn; i I can’t abide, and she sha’n’t have the fingering of my money while I can help it.”

And Hiram took a long, deep draught of the old port, and puffed away for a few minutes i mute indignation. Mr. Ballinger, filling 1 i •> glass, replied blandly,

“I agree with you, sir, Mrs. Monkeston is a woman who has always roused my antagonisr Indeed, I think I may be permitted to say th I seldom come into contact with her witho being deprived of my temper.”

THE BLUE RIBBON.

“I don’t care what you’re deprived of, she sha’n’t deprive me of a penny of my money. I’ve got my purse in my pocket, and I’ll keep it there. But I’m willing to do poor Ralph a turn, for all that, and that’s why I’ve sent for you. There’s ten shares in Martinet’s Bank — an odd lot as I bought a year or two back, when old Stives died. Now, I’m wanting to have them shares transferred to you, and you’ll give me an agreement, signed, and all proper, to pay over the interest of ’em once a quarter or so to Ralph, as you see it’ll help him on. He was talking to me a bit since about the little lad, as he would want putting to boardingschool afore long ; and then there’d be binding him to something, and them shares would about do it comfortable. It’s a fair thing, Ballinger — naught but right. I’ve thought many a time — not as Mrs. Monkeston put me up to it, for I’d never let a woman go meddling with me — but I’ve thought may be Ralph might have been a steadier man if he’d never set eyes on me, and that isn’t a nice thing for a man to feel ; and I can’t say but what it>’s laid awkward upon me sometimes, when I’ve been set quiet.”

“ My dear sir, there is not the slightest need for you to trouble yourself,” and Mr. Ballinger put the whole responsibility easily away with a wave of his hand. Though poor Ralph Monkeston was distantly connected with himself, and though he had a sort of family interest in his decent behavior, still it was better to keep matters quiet. Let the old man do as he liked about the shares, but it was no use disturbing lie pleasant relations between them by allowng that any thing had been done which could call for reprobation or even mild reproof. “I issure you, if a man has the disposition to go wrong, he will do it, quite apart from any tempations which may be presented to him in an external direction. I believe I am justified in aving that there is not the slightest need for you o criminate yourself on the present occasion.”

“ To what ?” said old Armstrong, rubbing his yes, for the old port and the tobacco smoke ogether had somewhat dimmed them. “I an’t get on with your fine words; but if you aean I don’t need to bother about it more than .-hat the money can cure, it’s all right. And et you know, Ballinger, I’ve had many a glass nth him — ay, many and many a one, when, if ; hadn’t been for me, he’d have been set at his wn fireside, may be. However, that’s neither ere nor there. It’ll be a stone in the other ocket if the little lad gets his schooling, and is ut apprentice and that; and as for his sister, oor wench ! why, no schooling can do her much ood. I reckon she’ll have to foot it pretty )ugh to the end of the chapter, unless they can tanage to put by a little for her, which doesn’t jem very likely as things are going now. You’ll 3e after them shares, then, Ballinger?”

“ With pleasure,” said Mr. Ballinger, rising, )r the old man seemed almost too far gone to •ansact much more business. “ The necessar arrangements shall be entered into forthwith ;

and I will bring the a; au'y igo 1.

After that I will take it] n myself t e

conduct of your wishes.”

“Ay, that’s right. T it’s what : wn ;t- t to be bothered about it any more, ■ V: . . And I don’t want folks telling of it. ’ to set ’em talking. It’s bet ro Bal-

linger, between you and k .. id nob Jy else has got nothing to do n ill it. I never was a man to like other people talking about what I did or what I didn’t do ; and so the snugger you keep it the better.”

“Your wishes shall be attended to with the utmost of my ability,” said Mr. Ballinger, courteously.

“Ay. And when we’ve got the agreement signed, I think I shall begin to trouble you about that little property of mine which wants squaring up for kingdom - come, you know. That nice little property, eh, Mr. Ballinger?”

And old Mr. Armstrong chuckled. Such a nice little property indeed, of thirty or forty thousand pounds, and all in such good investments, too.

“ You are facetious, sir. But I shall be ready to wait upon you at any time. I am exceedingly glad that you see it advisable to settle your affairs. I always recommend testamentary precautions, especially in the case of important effects. It saves irrm>enc~ ■ ■ and anxiety. You may at any moment.”

“Thank you. You won will you? It’s a good so- : . <y mv.o

where that came from \nc . 5

after next you’ll look i’\ things together, self, Ballinger, for

business for rr ... your nine, anil a friend’s worth his price when you know lie’s there. There’s another odd lot of shares in that bank of Martinet’s as I shouldn’t mind. But I’m a bit sleepy to-night ; I think you’d may be best go, if you’re not in the mind for another glass.”

Mr. Ballinger departed. Patch shut the door after him with a contemptuous click which spoke volumes ; she had no fancy for men who bowed and salaamed, and always said, “ Exactly so, my dear sir.”

Mr. Hiram Armstrong had a couple more glasses, which made him unusually communicative. When Patch came into the room again he told her all about what he had been doing, and the arrangement which had been made for the benefit of Ralph Monkeston. He also said that he intended to remember her, too ; but Patch had been told that so often before that the prospect had ceased to have any charms.

o

Chapter II

Mr. Ballinger was not ill pleased with the confidence reposed in him. He enjoyed being benevolent at other people’s expense, and he

THE BLUE RIBBON.

II keenly appreciated the authority which the office of almoner would give him in Ralph Monkeston’s family.

Perhaps the old man was right ; there might he an obligation on his part. When a man who can drink his half-dozen glasses, and stand steady after them, has well-nigh ruined a shiftless scape-grace, whose one tumbler of toddy has power to rouse the demon within him, and send him home a curse to his wife and family, it is only fitting that the offender should appease his conscience by investing a trilling sum for the benefit of the unfortunate children whose natural protector he has taken away from them, and whose prospects he has blasted ; and if, with a certain soft-hearted shamefacedness, not unnatural under the circumstances, he dislikes to clean the path which his own footsteps have fouled, why, then, let him dip just a little deeper into his well-lined purse, and pay a scavenger to sweep him a road to heaven through the mud of his own self-indulgence.

So the transaction was completed, the scrip transferred from old Hiram Armstrong’s cashbox to the iron safe in Mr. Ballinger’s office, and the agreement drawn up by which the latter engaged to pay a certain proportion of inrl y, 01 I ilf yeai'ly, as the case might Ralph Ivb> '.eston, of Willow-

af of his own immediate n of his son.

- - • , , l i; no; t.t signed, Mr. Ballinger

ire evening to step down m Waste \> Vh tb document, on which ■v-’r: ijr Mt, ’ was to send for a

fitnesses to the signature ; and a snug rubber, with a few glasses of toddy after it, was to wind up the agreement.

But before that spare evening came death knocked at the rich man’s door. Old Hiram Armstrong’s gout went to his heart, the easy trot of the pale horse quickened to a gallop, and at a moment’s notice Hiram was hurried away, his will unmade, his affairs unsettled, no disposition of his property arranged, save that which, as we have seen, had handed over the shares in Martinet’s Bank to the proprietorship of Mr. Ballinger.

Moreover, it so chanced that within a week Armstrong’s decease, Ralph Monkesrank, jovial, shiftless scape-grace, also this life — departed it, as many of his had prophesied he would, by falling A - the dike as he was riding home one dark n that skittish mare whose propensities had en given poor Hiram excuse for keep- - a* jolly owner to an extra glass atWaste-

j~u, instead of letting him go to his waiting, anxious-eyed wife at the Willowmarslies.

And now whose should those shares be, which, without cost or payment of his, were lying so safe in Nathan Ballinger’s strong-box ?

Give them to the widow and children, said Conscience, that great solemn voice which, heeded or not, does always speak above the chattering babble of self-interest and policy. But Nathan Ballinger paused. It was not well to do any thing in a hurry, he said to himself, as he looked over the scrip and the little scrap of paper— the sole, mute record of his obligations to the dead and the living — which kept him from its honest possession.

Then, passing the paper slowly through his irresolute fingers, he took counsel with himself. Old Armstrong disliked Mrs. Monkeston ; made no secret of his dislike ; had said she should never have the handling of his money. Anv claim of hers, then, to it might safely be set aside— nay, more than safely— that was not the word, it might justly be set aside. Nay, again, Mr. Ballinger might say that in strict justice Mrs. Monkeston ought not to have the money.

If, then, Ralph Monkeston were ignorant of the transaction — and most likely he was, bui that must be found out — what need was then that he, Nathan Ballinger, should say anything more about that slip of paper, or the obligatior: to which it bound him?

Mrs. Monkeston was a stern, independent self-reliant woman, intolerant of help and an thority. She would almost rather be withon money than receive it through his hands Would it not, then, really, after all, be better more to the interest of the children, and there fore more according to the wish of his respect ed client, Mr. Armstrong, if, instead of payin down the money by these humiliating install ments — and Mrs. Monkeston was a woma whose whole soul would rebel against “ installments ” — he were to destroy the agreemcni keep the shares in his own possession, and, a a compensation for them, give the widow whaiprofessional advice she needed in her preser extremity, look after placing the little girl in a.: orphanage, and, in the course of a year or twc take the boy into his own office, and so giv him a fair start in life?

Really, when Mr. Ballinger came to thin the matter over, that seemed to be the best Ava of settling it. Why, the mere fact of takin the boy into his office Avithout premium, or r the most a trifling consideration of a feAV pound Avhich Mrs. Monkeston could easily raise on tl farm, Avould more than Avipe off’ the sum Avhie he Avas appropriating ; and then there avou! be the professional services, and the advice, an all the rest of it, as a free gift to the Avidov Mr. Ballinger thought, on the Avhole, he Avas rati er a generous man than othenvise. And the there Avas this to be said — that, in any case, M Ballinger Avould have been expected to c something for the family. Being trustee u) der old AndrcAv Monkeston’s will, and connec ed with him by a relationship much less apo ryphal than that Avhich partly instigated Hira Armstrong’s act of reparation, his Avife beii niece to AndreAV, and therefore cousin to Ralph people Avould naturally look to him to stand 1 the family, and help to keep Mrs. Monkeston on her feet in some respectable Avav, until s' Avas able to turn round for herself. Therefor *,