Mrs Days Daughters | Page 4

arrange these things, haven't they?"
"Well, you see, Bessie, usually the young man--"
"I know. But Reggie does not wish to. If you must know, mama, he
said so, in so many words."
"Then, Bessie--!"
"But I think that something ought to be done. You ought to do
something--or papa. Everything can't be left to me!"
The tip of Bessie's nose grew pink, her lip quivered, tears showed in
her pale blue eyes. Mrs. Day laid a soothing hand upon her arm.
"We won't talk of it any more now," she said. "We are both tired. We
will sleep on it, Bessie. Go to bed, dear, and leave everything till the
morning."
Her silver candlestick in her hand, Mrs. Day trailed her rich green satin
across the landing, pausing at the door of Bernard, her second-born,
coming between Bessie and Deleah. She listened a moment, then
rapped upon the door. "In bed, dear?"
"Yes, mother."
"Lights out?"
"A half hour ago."
"Not smoking, Bernard?"
"Of course not. Go away."
To the bedside of the youngest child she betook herself next. Franky,

who had been sent to bed several hours before the rest, was sound
asleep. There were nine years between this child and Deleah; Franky
was the baby, the darling of them all. The mother, tired as she was with
the duties and responsibilities of the evening, stood long to look upon
the sleeping face of the boy. His dark hair, allowed, through mother's
pride in its beauty, to grow longer than was fitting for a boy, curled
damply about his brow, his small, dark, delicately aquiline features
were like the pretty Deleah's. The elder boy and girl, fair of skin, with
straight hair of a pale, lustreless gold, resembled their father; Mrs.
William Day was not so far blinded by love of her husband as not to
rejoice in secret that at least two of her children "favoured" herself.
The mother sat for a few minutes on the bed, her candle shaded by her
hand, to watch the child's regular breathing. "My darling Franky!" she
whispered aloud; and to herself she said, "If only they could all always
keep Franky's age!" She smiled as she sighed, thinking of Bessie and
her love affair, about which she had many doubts; of Bernard, who, in
spite of prayers and chidings, would smoke in bed, and had once set
fire to his bedclothes; of Deleah, even, who, schoolgirl as she was, had,
and held to, her own ideas, and was not so easy to manage as she had
been. If a mother could always keep her children about her, to be no
older, no more difficult to make happy than Franky!
She sighed, kissed the child, pushed from his face the admired curls,
then dragged her rich, voluminous draperies to her own room, where
her husband was already, by his silence she judged, asleep.
There was a pier-glass in the large, handsomely furnished bedroom.
Mrs. Day caught her reflection in it as she approached, and paused
before it. Bessie had thought her new green satin might have been made
a yard or so fuller in the skirt. Did it really need that alteration, she
wondered? She lit the candles branching from the long glass and
standing before it seriously debated the point with herself. Walking
away from the glass, her head turned over her shoulder, she examined
the back effect; walked to meet herself, gravely doubtful still; gathered
the fullness of the skirt in her hand, released it, spreading out the rich
folds. Then, something making her turn her head sharply to the big bed

with its red moreen curtains hanging straightly down beside its four
carved posts, her eyes met the wide open eyes of the man lying there.
"Oh!" she cried. "How you startled me, William! I thought you were
asleep. How silly you must have thought me!"
"Not more than usual," William growled. He held the idea--it was more
prevalent perhaps at that period than this--that wives were the better for
being snubbed and insulted.
"I was deciding if to have my evening dress altered or not."
"You are never in want of an excuse for posturing before the glass.
What does it matter at your time of life how your dress looks? Come to
bed, and give me a chance to get to sleep."
Mrs. Day extinguished again the candles she had lit, and began docilely
to unrobe herself. As she did so she talked.
"It all went off very well to-night, I think, William?"
"First-rate. Champagne-cup ran short."
"There should have been enough. The Barkers at their party never have
champagne at all."
"When you're about it, do the thing well. What's a few pounds more
here and there, when the end comes!"
"The end, William?"
"The end of