I timidly advanced, an action which brought about a relapse. When she was a girl, daughters had the common decency to confide in their mothers; they didn't announce engagements to practically total strangers; they didn't get half-killed riding horseback with Tom, Dick, and Harry; they showed some consideration—some sense of the fitness of things; they went regularly to Church and were obedient. At this point Mr. Claybourne admitted a damaging piece of evidence.
"We ran away to be married, Lucy, when you were seventeen and we had just one hundred and twenty-seven dollars between us. What's more, I've never regretted it," he finished, with unexpected tenderness in his voice.
"Mother!" Helen pleaded, and she stretched out her arms. Mrs. Claybourne staggered across the room and melodramatically hurled herself upon her daughter. At the end of another outpouring of sobs and tears, she consented reluctantly to shake hands, and submitted to a formal kiss from me, at Helen's command. I am afraid I did not linger very long over it. With a few more remarks about no one having any regard for her wishes, or taking into consideration her nervous state, she began to cheer up remarkably.
Upon noting these favorable symptoms, Mr. Claybourne announced that he was off for the club, at the same time inviting me to stay and "amuse Helen" until after supper.
"I hope, Martin, you are not going to play cards on Sunday—at the least, not for money." Mr. Claybourne showed long practice in the skill with which he evaded a direct reply, and left hurriedly.
"I don't know what we shall do, Helen, when we announce your engagement. Neither of us have any clothes fit to wear."
I was staggered by this transition to the practical, but at least the implication was that the period of resistance was over.
"We can go to New York before Christmas," Helen said.
"Your father is always complaining I spend too much money," mother sighed, "although he seems to forget, Edward, that I have a grown-up daughter to manage. Of course, now I won't be able to go to Palm Beach for the winter, as I had planned, and this climate is simply killing my nerves. But I don't suppose that ever entered either of your heads."
Helen's eyes danced as we stole a look at one another, but Mrs. Claybourne continued, unconscious of anything but herself: "There isn't a single dressmaker in this city who can turn out a decent evening dress, and all Helen's clothes will have to be made to order—she can't wear jeune fille things any more. Oh, dear, and I don't suppose I'll have any help planning your trousseau—you and Edward will be off riding horseback day and night—it will all be left for me to settle, and I declare I haven't the health or the strength."