“Well, ain’t he wonderful?” exclaimed Mrs. Burrell. “I knew he’d be just like that. He’s always the same, ain’t he?”
“Well, you didn’t think that such a little thing as an election was going to put me out, did you?” Briggs asked.
“The children are upstairs,” Helen explained, “in the library.”
“I’ll take them up,” said Briggs quickly, “and then Burrell and I will go where we can have a talk and a little—” He looked mockingly at Mrs. Burrell. “Oh, I forgot.”
“Go ahead!” the old woman cried with a wave of the hand. “I feel so happy that I can’t oppose anybody anything. I kind of think I’ve done too much opposin’ in my life.”
As soon as the door had closed behind the others, Mrs. Burrell embraced Helen wildly, the tears filling her eyes. “I declare I did feel sorry for your husband’s failin’ in re-election. I did want him to succeed so. Father says I’m altogether too ambitious for other people. He says I’m the one that made him run for Congress. Well, he was mighty glad not to be up again. But ain’t it wonderful about Carrie Cora? When I think of the way I treated that girl I almost feel as if I’d die of shame. An’ it’s you that kept me from makin’ a fool of myself and from spoilin’ her chances of bein’ happy. An’ if she ain’t the happiest thing! An’ Rufus! Well since they got married, he ain’t hardly let her out of his sight except when he’s away to work. Father’s thinkin’ of settin’ him up in business of his own. I guess he’ll be a rich man some day, from what father says. That only shows you never can tell. But he gives all the credit to Carrie Cora. He says if he didn’t have her he wouldn’t take the trouble to go on workin’. He says queer things sometimes. He’s kind of notional, I guess.” Mrs. Burrell hesitated, drawing a deep breath. “But that ain’t what I come to talk to you about, though the two girls say I’m runnin’ on about Carrie Cora all the time. They pretend to be jealous; but they’re just as fond of her as they can be. And as for pa! Why, he spends most of his evenin’s down there. They’ve got a lovely home. I wish you could see their parlor carpet. But I guess I’ve told you about it. Well, pa spends most of his evenin’s with them, smokin’ an’ talkin’. I tell him they must be awful sick of havin’ him. Well”—Mrs. Burrell gasped, and a fine perspiration broke out on her cheeks—“where am I? I do get mixed up so lately. Oh, yes. The girls. Well, now that Carrie Cora’s all settled, the girls are just crazy to get away again. They were dreadfully disappointed in their first Winter in Washington; and they are crazy to go back there with you. Now, what do you think?” Mrs. Burrell exclaimed, her face flushing violently.
“With me?” Helen said, in astonishment.
Mrs. Burrell nodded. “Now, I wouldn’t ’ave heard of it if pa—well, pa knows everything—well, if pa hadn’t told me Mr. Briggs—well, that he was in some trouble about money. There, I suppose you’ll think I’m awful!”
“Oh, no,” Helen protested, feeling her own face flush.
“Pa just adores Mr. Briggs, an’ he’d like nothin’ better than to help him out. Well, we talked it over—you see,” Mrs. Burrell went on, twisting in her seat, “when the two girls went to the Misses Parlins’ school here, we paid a thousand dollars a piece for ’em. An’ then the extras amounted to a lot more, drivin’, and the theatre, and all that. They used to go to the theatre every week. It must have been comical to see ’em walkin’ down the aisle, two by two. Emmeline used to write to us about it. She hated it. Well, I guess pa spent most five thousand dollars on the girls that year they were here in New York. But we didn’t mind, as long as they was happy. But the trouble was they wasn’t happy. They didn’t have hardly a minute to themselves. They didn’t feel free. That’s it. Now, if they was with you, it would be different. They’d meet all the lovely people you know. That is, if you’re goin’ to go back to Washington?” Mrs. Burrell asked with swift acuteness.