“We have no debts, at any rate, thank Heaven!” said Mrs. Redacre.
“No,” assented her husband; “I would rather live on beefsteaks and beer than swindle a tradesman. All the same it is hard work, this screwing one’s wants within one’s income; and poor Darrell, if the Almighty called him away, could not leave his money to anybody harder up for it than myself.”
Mrs. Redacre made no comment, but went on sorting her wools, while her husband turned over the pages of the newspaper with an ill-humored jerk and an occasional grunt. She was puzzled and pained. Could it be possible that his reluctance to let her write to the dean sprang from any unworthy motive?—he who was so emphatic in declaring in season and out of season that he devoutly wished his cousin to outlive him, that it was only on account of his children he cared for the inheritance, his present income sufficing for his own wants; and as to ambitions, he had none.
Every now and then within the last few years Col. Redacre had thrown out hints of some remote but possible catastrophe overtaking them all; he never said anything definite, but in a vague, moody way would remark that there was no saying what straits they might not be one day reduced to, and that it was well to look the danger in the face, so as not to be taken altogether by surprise if a catastrophe occurred. When he first took to saying this sort of thing Mrs. Redacre was very miserable, and conjured up all kinds of dreadful spectres to explain the mysterious words. She first thought he gambled; but after watching him for a time as a cat watches a bird, she gave that up and took to suspecting him of betting on the turf; but this, too, proved itself a chimera. Then she began to suspect him of having made some bad investments and being in terror of a sudden collapse; but this was in its turn dispelled by a conversation with their man of business, who assured her that Col. Redacre’s money—or rather his wife’s, for he had, so to speak, none of his own—was safe beyond the reach of speculating schemers. When everything was tried and found non-proven Pearl set down the gloomy forebodings to Balaklava.
“You may be sure, mamma, it is all the east wind or some turn in the weather—nothing else. I have noticed that we never hear of the ‘catastrophe’ except when Balaklava is worrying papa.” And Mrs. Redacre was thankful to believe that this was really the word of the riddle.
Mrs. Monteagle lived on the floor above the Redacres. She received on no particular evening, but she was at home every evening in general, seldom going out anywhere except to her old friends’ on the entresol. Pearl and Polly were up and down all day long with her, and she declared they hardly ever came near her.
“Why should you, my dears? A tiresome old woman—what should you young things have to say to her? But I am very glad whenever you have time to pop in for five minutes. Not that I care much about seeing anybody. One gets selfish as one grows old; one cares for nobody. And really, living amongst these French people, it is no wonder. What a set they are, to be sure! And what a government! Good gracious! when I remember how it used to be when I came to Paris first. We had a court then, and real nobles attended it. They were not much to look at, I must say; you never saw such toilettes in your life as they used to wear coming to make their court to Mme. d’Angoulême, and the Duchesse de Berri, and all of them. But it was much pleasanter. People got themselves up like guys, but nobody minded that, and they had not to ruin themselves in fine clothes. I remember one evening the Duchesse de R—— presented herself in a dyed pea-green gown with dirty feathers and lace that was the color of strong tea. I felt ashamed for her, poor thing!—I did indeed; but, goodness me! nobody saw it, I believe, but myself; the Duchesse d’Angoulême received her as if she had been dressed like the Queen of Saba. They knew how to receive, those princesses—not like this little woman you have at the Tuileries now. But it won’t last, my dear. Things are going from bad to worse, I hear. People fancy that because I don’t go dans le monde, as they call it, I know nothing about what is going on. Ha! ha!” And the old lady shook her finger at some invisible contradictor. “I can tell you I know a great deal more than any of you. I hear many things that I keep to myself; but I can tell you things are looking very badly indeed. I suppose you are going to the ball at the Tuileries to-morrow night, all of you?”
“Polly and I have our dresses ready,” said Pearl; “but I am afraid papa won’t be well enough to come with us.”
“What’s amiss with him? Balaklava troublesome?”
“Yes, dreadfully. I wonder if Mme. Léopold is going? I dare say she would take us, if papa asked her.”