Mrs. Day's Daughters. Mary E. Mann
"You mean you and Reggie Forcus consider yourselves engaged?"
"I think so. But it was so difficult to catch every word in that galop. If he did not say the exact words he said as much."
"Did he say anything about speaking to papa?"
"No. But I said it."
"You said it, Bessie?"'
"Well, mama! Reggie did not seem to wish to be bothered."
"I see."
"Not quite yet, you understand."
"I see."
In the pause that followed the mother's large eyes, surrounded by dark rings, and set rather deeply in the dusky paleness of her well-featured face, dwelt consideringly upon her daughter's round cheeks with their fair smooth skin, upon her grey-green eyes, and smooth fair hair.
"It is not very satisfactory, I'm afraid, Bessie," she said reluctantly at length.
Bessie's face fell. "I thought I'd better tell you."
"Certainly, my dear."
"I wonder what we ought to do, mama?"
"To do, Bessie?"
"I thought, perhaps, if Reggie does not speak to papa, that papa might speak to Reggie?"
Mrs. Day shook a sharply dissenting head. "That would not be the same thing at all, my dear child."
"What ought we to do, then? I thought you would know. Mothers have to 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 the year. When the bills come in."
"How did you think Bessie looked to-night?"
"I thought my little Deleah was the belle of the ball."
"Deleah is a child only. You never have eyes but for Deleah."
"Bess was all right."
"I thought she looked so fair and sweet. Her neck and arms are like milk,
William. I wonder if Reggie Forcus—means anything?"
"Ba-a! Not he! No such luck."
"I really don't see why. I don't see why our girls should not have as good luck as other people's. Reggie will marry some one, I suppose."
"Now, don't be a silly fool if you can help it; and don't encourage the girl to run her head at any such nonsense. Francis Forcus will no more allow his brother to marry your daughter than the queen will allow him to marry one of hers. I told you that before."
"But Bessie—poor child—thinks differently."
"Tell Bessie not to be an ass then; and come to bed."
She went to bed; and, spite of her disturbing thoughts of Bessie and her love affair, went to sleep.
"Oh, dear!" she said as she lay down. "What a lot of bother there'll be for the servants, getting the house straight, tomorrow; and they so late to bed! The drawing-room carpet to put down again, and all the furniture to move into place. And it only seems the other day since we went through the same thing on last New Year's Eve."
"Turning the house upside down is what women like. It's what they're made for."
"I