Mrs. Ballard's First

by W. Pett Ridge

M^rs BALLARD'S FIRST

By W. Pett Ridge

"BUT there!" said Mrs. Ballard, when she had exhausted her stock of acrimonious criticism, "it's no use talking to you, James. Nothing but a sheer waste of words."

"I was going to suggest that," remarked Mr. Ballard respectfully.

"There never was but one man in this world."

"So I've 'eard you say."

"A better and a kinder and a more thoughtfuller 'usband never existed this side of 'eaven. There's his portrait," added Mrs. Ballard, pointing to a coloured photograph of her first mate which hung in a heavy gilt frame on the wall. "That'll prove that I'm speaking the truth, if nothing else won't."

Mr. Ballard's attention had on previous occasions been directed to the portrait, but from a natural spirit of obedience he glanced at it again. It represented a man with a stiff, short beard, which beard the artist had painted a pale blue, and this, although scarcely credible, seemed in keeping with the general style of the picture. Mr. Ballard coughed.

"He knew something," said Mr. Ballard, putting on his braided cap and preparing to leave for the Custom House.

"Gentlemen," remarked Mrs. Ballard pointedly, "do not as a rule keep their caps on indoors." Mr. Ballard whipped it off and looked wearily at a stout watch which he took from his trousers pocket. "And pray what do you mean, James, by saying that he knew something?"

"He knew what he was up to when he went out to see his brother in West Australia and fell down a mine on his way."

"Oh, you low-mannered man!" cried Mrs. Ballard hysterically. "Oh, you coward! Oh, you slanderer! How dare you say a word against my first?"

"I ain't saying a word against your first, my dear," urged the goaded Mr. Ballard. "I'm a-praisin' of him. I don't blame him for making a clerical error and slipping——"

"To think," moaned young Mrs. Ballard, pressing her hands to her neat bodice, "to think that I should live to hear this said! To think that I, who've lived in Swan Lane these four years, keeping the bisness going, and getting the news of poor, dear Long's death—bless his heart!—and then giving way and marryin' you——"

"Look 'ere, my dear," said Mr. Ballard, with a reasonable air, "s'pose we let bygones be bygones! I'm due down at the Custom House in five minutes; let's give each other a kiss——"

Mrs. Ballard gave a little cry of horror.

"——and be friends. Only do try to give that first 'usband of yours a bit of a rest. It can't amuse him being always thrown in my face, and I'll take my solemn oath it don't give me no particular pleasure."

"Ah!" sighed Mrs. Ballard, patting her eyes with the corner of her pink apron, "if he was only back again on this earth. I never realised what a good man he really was until he was gone. I'm quite willing, James, to agree never to speak of him again——"

"Good!" said Mr. Ballard, taking up his cap again.

"But I should be less than mortal if I forgot all his kindness and all his 'appy manner." Mr. Ballard approached his good-looking wife to bid her an affectionate farewell. "When I compare you with him——"

"Bah!" shouted Mr. Ballard, and went out slamming the door.

Mrs. Ballard ran to the window and watched for him as he went through the shop, which still bore her first married name. She heard him say "Good-morning" to Anne, presiding at the counter: heard him go down the two whitened steps into the cobblestoned lane which led from the river to Lower Thames Street. He did not at once appear in the narrow roadway, where scarlet warning flags fluttered on warehouses, and Mrs. Ballard stepped briskly on a horsehair chair to ascertain the reason. Below she saw that a telegraph boy had arrived—that Mr. Ballard was inspecting the envelope of the telegram curiously, as though desirous of identifying the sender by help of the handwriting. Mrs. Ballard stepped down and threw the window up.

"Open it!" she called.

Ballard, glancing up at her, obeyed.

"Is it for me or is it for you?" she demanded insistently. "Don't be all day reading it, for goodness sake!"

He folded it carefully and replaced it in the envelope. He looked up with an odd smile.

"Seems to be for you," he said.

"Then send it up this minute," ordered Mrs. Ballard. "How dare you open a telegram for me."

"You told me to, my dear."

"Send it up this minute, or I shall lose my temper with you."

Anne brought the telegram up with a tearful countenance. The girl had been reading an affecting story in her weekly journal wherein a lady, rather than accept the honourable but undesired advances of a wealthy nobleman, had decided to become a journalist, and Anne had been assisting at the pathetic departure from the old homestead. Mrs. Ballard snatched the telegram from her, bidding her to return at once to the little shop below. The foreign telegram had been handed in at Sydney; it was addressed to Long, Swan Lane, London, and contained these words: "Coming home. Long."

"Oh, Samuel, Samuel!" cried Mrs. Ballard fervently, "thou art returning from the dead to thy own true and faithful wife."

It will be remarked that some slight inaccuracy had crept into this delirious and romantic statement. For one thing, a lady who having lost her first husband thereupon promptly marries again, cannot in strict truth claim to have been true and faithful to his memory. Nevertheless, this was the remark made by Mrs. Ballard; she followed it up in the shop below with many others of like import, so that Anne, round-eyed with interest, discovered that by comparison the story which she had been reading had become dull and wanting in spirit. Patrons who called for elastic strings to be fixed to their hats, or for twopenny cigars, or for packets of sweets, found themselves served absently: for once they were scarcely desired. Mrs. Ballard, her good-looking countenance improved by this sudden arrival of heart-bounding news, laughed and cried by turns, explaining in lucid intervals to Anne that she was the happiest woman in the world, that she should never again know trouble; that her future was bright with unspeakable joy.

"D'ye think, mem," asked Anne respectfully, "that he'll mind your 'aving gone and got married again?"

Mrs. Ballard, for the moment checked by this inquiry, speedily recovered herself.

"He was a man of wonderful common sense and extr'ording amiability of temper, Anne."

"So I've 'eard you tell master, mem."

"And when I show him the letters and what not that we had, announcing his fatal accident, why, he'll excuse everything. Besides," here Mrs. Ballard glanced coyly at the square of unframed looking-glass in the corner of the little shop, "besides, he'll be so overjoyed to see me that——"

"Whenever," said Anne, as her mistress stopped, "in a book I read about anybody being drowned or being carried off for dead by brigands, or falling over a deadly precipice, then I'm always jolly well sure they'll turn up again sooner or later."

"I wonder whether he's made money?"

"Didn't waste much of it over his telegram, mem. It'll be a terrible blow for master, won't it? Like being left a widower."

"I shall 'ave to make up his clothes in a bundle, Anne, and you must carry 'em down to the Customs. And there's a clock and his pipe-rack, and one or two odd articles."

"The place'll seem a bit empty without him, mem."

"A good riddance," said Mrs. Ballard lightly. "We shall both 'ave to set to and put the place ship-shape for—for Samuel."

"I wouldn't marry a man named Samuel," said Anne, going upstairs to commence the work, "not if he brought me a fortune of forty thousin' million pound."

"Ah, Anne," sighed her mistress, "you didn't know mine."

Swan Lane is not a considerable thoroughfare, and the tidings travelled down the inhabited side with great swiftness. Arriving at the pier, the news fluttered about from the men in the two pay-boxes to the piermaster in his office, and the captains of the steamers and the members of the itinerant band, extracting from all varied exclamations of surprise, such as "Well, I am blowed!" and "G' lord! you don't say so?" and "Old Ballard ought to give a dance." Mr. Ballard did not issue invitations for a dance, did not even indulge in a few hilarious steps himself; on the contrary, he received his parcels and the letter of dismissal from Swan Lane with melancholy. Despite the condemnatory manner that his wife had of late assumed, he retained a good deal of affection for her, and he went back to his former lodgings across the river at Dockhead with an air of melancholy that was not reduced when his well-meaning old landlady declared that she had foreseen all this from the first. As for Mrs. Ballard—this name she decided for the present to continue—she held a kind of salon in her small establishment, and the rare City residents of the neighbourhood who could not get inside had to content themselves by standing without on the narrow slip of pavement, so that passengers going down to the steamers, stopping to ascertain the cause of this assembly, became so much interested that they sometimes lost thereby the boat for Rosherville. Mrs. Ballard, as the centre and object of all this, behaved in a proud, condescending way, and wore her best Sunday gown every afternoon.

It is sometimes held to be an excellent circumstance that the popular mind will not interest itself on more than one definite subject at a time. Astonishing events happen in China, and the public eye is attracted there and is held there. But let something occur of a startling character in Egypt, and the public eye leaves China at once, although that country may still be providing tumult and doing its best to retain the world's attention. Similarly, when a housekeeper in Laurence Pountney Lane suddenly came into a fortune of £20 a year, left her by a grateful pepper merchant, the residents of the neighbourhood at once diverted their attention from Mrs. Ballard to the new heiress, and work at the little shop resumed its usual course. The reaction from the excitement of the past week or two placed Mrs. Ballard in a mood more thoughtful and less optimistic. As the figure of Samuel Long appeared to come closer across the map of the cotton advertisement on the wall, so it seemed that the memory of his faults became plainer.

"You want a blow, mem," advised Anne one evening.

"Not another."

"I mean a blow on the river, mem."

"Do you think it'd liven me up, Anne?" she asked.

"It couldn't make you much lower," said the girl, becoming dictatorial as her mistress showed signs of weakness. "Anybody'd think you'd lost 'alf a dozen 'usbands all at one fell swoop, instead of recoverin' one that, though lost to sight, was to mem'ry dear sort of thing."

"I can't 'elp thinking about poor Ballard, Anne. It's dreadful for him."

"Oh," said Anne cheerfully, "he'll soon find someone to soothe his aching brow. A fine, military style such as he's got, and a uniform——"

"Looked well in his uniform, didn't he, Anne?"

"A treat!" said the girl. "You go upstairs and pop your bonnet on and I'll stay in."

"You wouldn't have me to go up to Chelsea and back by meself," begged her mistress pathetically. "If I'm alone I get thinking and thinking, and—well, you know, thinking!"

"What about, mem?" asked Anne, as she took the shutter chalked A.

"Why," said Mrs. Ballard hesitatingly, "about my first. And—and about his faults."

"Faults?" echoed Anne. "Why, goo' gracious me! I thought he was perfect."

"He'd always been used," she said excusingly, "to 'aving a drop or two too much every Saturday and Monday, and I expect he found it 'ard to break off the habit."

"Was he funny with it?" asked Anne, taking out the last shutter.

"Not particular," acknowledged her mistress. "In fact, he was a bit violent at times. Still, he had his good qualities. He never would wear a collar more than two days running."

Mrs. Ballard and her maid went down the lane and booked for Chelsea. It was a summer evening, and several other passengers were waiting on the pier, anxious to get a breath of river air after a warm day of work. Mrs. Ballard wore a new hat which she had purchased in the first gush of excitement after the receipt of the telegram, and looked a very presentable, comfortable young woman, with a definite chin showing below her veil. The piermaster touched his cap and wished her good-evening; begged also to know whether she had any further news of Mr. Long. Mrs. Ballard replied sedately and importantly that she had heard nothing since the telegram, and expected to hear nothing until he arrived.

"I shall be glad to see him again," said the piermaster, rolling a morsel of tobacco and throwing it into his mouth.

"So shall I," declared Mrs. Ballard, with excessive fervour. "It seems like a dream."

"If anybody had asked me," said the piermaster solemnly, "who I'd like to see back from the grave, I should have mentioned his name first. He owed me two pun ten."

"I'm afraid, if Samuel had a fault, it was that he was foolish in regard to borrowing."

"Not so foolish as some of us was in lending to him."

"Depend upon it, he'll settle up with one and all when he arrives next week."

"'Eaven send him," said the other piously, "a safe and a prosperous voyage 'ome. You'll 'ave to get up the other end, ma'am, for Chelsea."

On board the Hirondelle the seats were crowded, and a quiet, straw-hatted man gave up his seat to Mrs. Ballard. She nodded her thanks without looking at him; he sighed and walked off to the paddle-wheel.

"Your 'usband, mem," whispered Anne.

"Which one?" asked Mrs. Ballard excitedly.

"Why, the real one," said Jane.

"Oh, Samuel! To think that after all these years——"

"No, no! It's Mr. Ballard. Shall I go and ask him to come over here?"

"Certainly not, Anne. It's best we shouldn't be seen together."

"There's a couple of young 'ussies with no hats on trying to make him talk."

"Go over at once," ordered Mrs. Ballard instantly, "and tell him I'm here."

Mr. Ballard seemed more at ease than did Mrs. Ballard at the meeting. The steamer bumped against the piers at Blackfriars, at the Temple, at Charing Cross, and when it was nearing Westminster Mr. Ballard announced his intention of disembarking there.

"Going anywhere particular?" asked Mrs. Ballard, glancing down at her shoes.

"Only to make a call," he replied.

"Oh!" she remarked shortly.

"I suppose we shall soon find the days a-droring in, shan't we?"

"It all depends," she answered vaguely. "I expect Samuel 'ome next week."

"Give him my kind regards."

"I'm 'aving the wash'ouse fresh white-washed," she said.

"That'll please him."

"It'll seem strange to have him back again after all this long time, and after 'aving mourned for him as one not lost but gone before," said Mrs. Ballard desolately.

"It was what you was always wishing."

"Was I?" she asked. "I don't mean what I say half me time." She looked up at him shyly, "Must you get off at Westminster?"

"Not if I'm asked to go on," he said readily.

"There are one or two matters I should like to talk over with you," said Mrs. Ballard; "and Anne will be with us."

"That's good enough," remarked James Ballard.

They walked round the circle of Battersea Park, Anne following near and weaving romances in which the cyclists swishing by took part. It was a pleasant evening, and they took refreshments presently outside a wooden house where they were waited upon by a young woman, an acquaintance, it seemed, of Anne's, whom Anne had thought to be married, but who was not married, and, indeed, declared her intention of never so much as thinking of a man again. Pressed for an explanation of this singular attitude, the waitress told them of her engagement two years previously to a man who affected to be a gentleman of means, by name Cecil Montagu, but whose name eventually proved to be Samuel Long.

"My gracious!" interjected Mrs. Ballard, dropping her ice-cream glass.

"And, what was more to the purpose, a married man with a wife, if you please, and him," said the waitress indignantly, as she was called off by an invasion of new customers, "him no more a gentleman of property than this marble table!" Silence ensued on the waitress taking wing, and Ballard, declining to force his advantage, suggested presently more refreshment, but Mrs. Ballard said, "No!" with great determination, and ordering Anne to prepare for the journey home by omnibus, led the way at great speed across Albert Bridge to King's Road. At the Bank, after a speechless ride, Mr. Ballard walked with them down Walbrook, and Anne being sent on with the key, prepared to say good-bye. He perceived that there were tears trickling under the veil.

"Don't take any notice, James," she said brokenly, "but I—I'm beginning to be miserable."

"You'll be all right next week," said he encouragingly.

"I shall never be so 'appy with him, James, as I was with you."

"You mentioned you didn't mean 'alf what you said."

"Just now," she sobbed, "I mean a good deal more'n I say. What I want to tell you is—is—— Good night, James."

And she hurried off after Anne.

As the time came nearer for the P. and O. boat, which left Sydney on the date of the telegram, to arrive, Mrs. Ballard's distress secretly increased, and when one afternoon a wire came from Plymouth, saying, with a curtness equalling that of the previous despatch, that the sender would "arrive Paddington six," then Mrs. Ballard openly bewailed her fate, discarding reserve and confessing to the astonished Anne that she looked forward with tremor to a renewed existence with her first husband. Nevertheless, as difficulties have to be faced in this world, she dried her pretty eyes and wrote an appealing note to Mr. Ballard at the Custom House, begging him to obtain permission to leave early and to favour her with his company. Anne brought back word that Mr. Ballard would rather be excused, but was instantly despatched with a more urgent message, and eventually returned—enjoying the whole business very much, and by no means insensible of her own importance—with the information that Mr. Ballard would be at Paddington at the hour appointed, with which poor Mrs. Ballard had to be satisfied.

The train was late in arriving, and this gave her a last opportunity, as she walked up and down the platform, of reviewing the situation. The other expectant people were radiant with the joy of seeing returning friends, and when one inquisitive porter, noting her dolefulness, asked whether she were expecting a friend, she replied wearily, "No, only a 'usband." Mr. Ballard had not yet come. The white lights approached. Everybody on the platform pressed forward, and as the train came in all the doors opened and passengers from Australia jumped out.

"What ho! old chum."

"How are you?" said the voice of Mr. Ballard.

She turned quickly and saw that he was speaking to one of the arrived passengers. Not her husband! She waited.

"Seen my brother Sam 'bout here?"

"Your brother Sam?" echoed Mr. Ballard.

"My brother Sam."

"Why, he's dead! Slipped down a mine out in West Australia and——"

"Well, I am blowed," declared the other man, with great amusement. "If this isn't just about rich. Here's me telegraphin' to him, thinking he's still at that little shop in Swan Lane, and all the time he's—— Fell down a mine, did he?" The man laughed hilariously. "If that wasn't just like Sam to do that. What become of his widow?"

"I married her," said Mr. Ballard modestly.

"And a very kind action on your part, too," declared the man, with heartiness. "Does you credit. Come and have a tonic."

"Rather not," said Mr. Ballard. "Got to see a lady home."

Mr. and Mrs. Ballard walked out of the station together, and when Mr. Ballard went into a restaurant Mrs. Ballard followed without a word of protest. They had an excellent dinner, talking quietly the while of everything but the subject which had recently engaged their attention. It was only when coffee came and Mr. Ballard lighted a big cigar that she spoke of this.

"James, dear," she said, touching his sleeve, "I was a bit of a nagger in the old days, wasn't I?"

"Yes," said Mr. Ballard frankly, "you was."

"I've had a lesson," went on Mrs. Ballard, "and you'll find it's taught me something."

"A lesson ought," he remarked, patting her hand.

Copyright, 1899, by W. Pett Ridge, in the United States of America.