STORMS IN THE WEST.
While the Fanshaw-Herron storm was slowly gathering in Dumont's eastern horizon, two others equally black were lifting in the west.
In the two months between Scarborough's election and his inauguration, the great monopolies thriving under the protection of the state's corrupted statute-book and corrupted officials followed the lead of their leader, Dumont's National Woolens Company, in making sweeping but stealthy changes in their prices, wages, methods and even in their legal status.They hoped thus to enable their Legislature plausibly to resist Scarborough's demand for a revision of the laws--why revise when the cry of monopoly had been shown to be a false issue raised by a demagogue to discredit the tried leaders of the party and to aggrandize himself? And, when Scarborough had been thoroughly "exposed,"business could be resumed gradually.
But Scarborough had the better brain, and had character as well.
He easily upset their program and pressed their Legislature so hard that it was kept in line only by pouring out money like water.This became a public scandal which made him stronger than ever and also made it seem difficult or impossible for the monopolies to get a corruptible Legislature at the next election.
At last the people had in their service a lawyer equal in ability to the best the monopolies could buy, and one who understood human nature and political machinery to boot.
Dumont began to respect Scarborough profoundly--not for his character, which made him impregnable with the people, but for his intellect, which showed him how to convince the people of his character and to keep them convinced.When Merriweather came on "to take his beating" from his employer he said among other things deprecatory: "Scarborough's a dreamer.His head's among the clouds." Dumont retorted: "Yes, but his feet are on the ground--too damned firmly to suit me." And after a moment's thought, he added: "What a shame for such a brain to go to waste! Why, he could make millions."He felt that Gladys was probably his best remaining card.She had been in Indianapolis visiting the whole of February, Scarborough's second month as governor, and had gone on to her brother in New York with a glowing report of her progress with Scarborough's sister Arabella, now a widow and at her own invitation living with him in Indianapolis to relieve him of the social duties of his office.She was a dozen years more the Arabella who had roused her father's wrath by her plans for educating her brother "like a gentleman"; and Olivia and Fred were irritated and even alarmed by her anything but helpful peculiarities--though Scarborough seemed cheerful and indifferent enough about them.
It was a temperamental impossibility for Dumont to believe that Scarborough could really be sincere in a course which was obviously unprofitable.Therefore he attached even more importance to Arabella's cordiality than did Gladys herself.
And, when the Legislature adjourned and Scarborough returned to Saint X for a brief stay, Dumont sent Gladys post-haste back to the Eyrie--that is, she instantly and eagerly acted upon his hint.
A few evenings after her return, she and Pauline were on the south veranda alone in the starlight.She was in low spirits and presently began to rail against her lot.
"Don't be absurd," said Pauline."You've no right to complain.You have everything--and you're--free!"That word "free" was often on Pauline's lips in those days.
And a close observer might have been struck by the tone in which she uttered it.Not the careless tone of those who have never had or have never lost freedom, but the lingering, longing tone of those who have had it, and have learned to value it through long years without it.
"Yes--everything!" replied Gladys, bitterly."Everything except the one thing I want."Pauline did not help her, but she was at the stage of suppressed feeling where desire to confide is stronger than pride.
"The one thing I want," she repeated."Pauline, I used to think I'd never care much for any man, except to like it for him to like me.Men have always been a sort of amusement--and the oftener the man changed, the better the fun.I've known for several years that I simply must marry, but I've refused to face it.It seemed to me I was fated to wander the earth, homeless, begging from door to door for leave to come in and rest a while.""You know perfectly well, Gladys, that this is your home.""Of course--in a sense.It's as much my home as another woman's house could be.But"--with a little sob--"I've seen my mate and I want to begin my nest."They were side by side on a wide, wicker sofa.Pauline made an impulsive move to put her arm round Gladys, then drew away and clasped her hands tightly in her lap.
Gladys was crying, sobbing, brokenly apologizing for it--"I'm a little idiot--but I can't help it--I haven't any pride left--a woman never does have, really, when she's in love--oh, Pauline, do you think he cares at all for me?" And after a pause she went on, too absorbed in herself to observe Pauline or to wonder at her silence: "Sometimes I think he does.Again I fear that--that he doesn't.And lately--why doesn't he come here any more?""You know how busy he is," said Pauline, in a voice so strained that Gladys ought to have noticed it.
