University of Virginia Library

13. XIII.
“MY SISTER-IN-LAW, GLADYS.”

The following afternoon Dumont took the Herrons, the Fanshaws and Langdon back to New York in his private car, and for three days Olivia and Pauline had the Eyrie to themselves. Olivia was about to write to Scarborough, asking him to call, when she saw in the News-Bulletin that he had gone to Denver to speak. A week after she left, Dumont returned, bringing his sister Gladys, just arrived from Europe, and Langdon. He stayed four days, took Langdon away with him and left Gladys.

Thus it came about that Scarborough, riding into Colonel Gardiner's grounds one hot afternoon in mid September, saw a phaeton-victoria with two women in it coming toward him on its way out. He drew his horse aside to make room. He was conscious that there were two women; he saw only one—she who was all in white except the scarlet poppies against the brim of her big white hat.

As he bowed the carriage stopped and Pauline said cordially: “Why, how d'ye do?”

He drew his horse close to the carriage and they shook hands. She introduced the other woman —“My sister-in-law, Gladys Dumont”—then went on: “We've been lunching and spending the afternoon with father and mother. They told us you returned this morning.”

“I supposed you were in the East,” said Scarborough—the first words he had spoken.

“Oh—I'm living here now—Gladys and I. Father says you never go anywhere, but I hope you'll make an exception for us.”

“Thank you—I'll be glad to call.”

“Why not dine with us—day after to-morrow night?”

“I'd like that—certainly, I'll come.”

“We dine at half-past eight—at least we're supposed to.”

Scarborough lifted his hat.

The carriage drove on.

“Why, he's not a bit as I expected,” Gladys began at once. “He's much younger. Isn't he handsome! That's the way a man ought to look. He's not married?”

“No,” replied Pauline.

“Why did you look so queer when you first caught sight of him?”

“Did I?” Pauline replied tranquilly. “Probably it was because he very suddenly and vividly brought Battle Field back to me—that was the happiest time of my life. But I was too young or too foolish, or both, to know it till long afterward. At seventeen one takes happiness for granted.”

“Did he look then as he does now?”

“No—and yes,” said Pauline. “He was just from the farm and dressed badly and was awkward at times. But—really he was the same person. I guess it was the little change in him that startled me.” And she became absorbed in her thoughts.

“I hope you'll send him in to dinner with me,” said Gladys, presently.

“What did you say?” asked Pauline, absently.

“I was talking of Mr. Scarborough. I asked if you wouldn't send him in to dinner with me—unless you want to discuss old times with him.”

“Yes—certainly—if you wish.”

And Pauline gave Scarborough to Gladys and did her duty as hostess by taking in the dullest man in the party—Newnham. While Newnham

droned and prosed, she watched Gladys lay herself out to please the distinguished Mr. Scarborough, successful as a lawyer, famous as an orator, deferred to because of his influence with the rank and file of his party in the middle West.

Gladys had blue-black hair which she wore pulled out into a sort of halo about her small, delicate face. There were points of light in her dark irises, giving them the look of black quartz in the sunshine. She was not tall, but her figure was perfect, and she had her dresses fitted immediately to it. Her appeal was frankly to the senses, the edge taken from its audacity by its artistic effectiveness and by her ingenuous, almost innocent, expression.

Seeing Pauline looking at her, she tilted her head to a graceful angle and sent a radiant glance between two blossom-laden branches of the green and white bush that towered and spread in the center of the table. “Mr. Scarborough says,” she called out, “character isn't a development, it's a disclosure. He thinks one is born a certain kind of person and that one's life simply either gives it a chance to show or fails to give it a chance. He says the boy isn't father to the man, but the

miniature of the man. What do you think, Pauline?”

“I haven't thought of it,” replied Pauline. “But I'm certain it's true. I used to dispute Mr. Scarborough's ideas sometimes, but I learned better.”

As she realized the implications of her careless remark, their eyes met squarely for the first time since Battle Field. Both hastily glanced away, and neither looked at the other again. When the men came up to the drawing-room to join the women, Gladys adroitly intercepted him. When he went to Pauline to take leave, their manner each toward the other was formal, strained and even distant.

Dumont came again just after the November election. It had been an unexpected victory for the party which Scarborough advocated, and everywhere the talk was that he had been the chief factor—his skill in defining issues, his eloquence in presenting them, the public confidence in his party through the dominance of a man so obviously free from self-seeking or political trickery of any kind. Dumont, to whom control in both party machines and in the state government was a business necessity, told his political agent, Meriweather,

that they had “let Scarborough go about far enough,” unless he could be brought into their camp.

“I can't make out what he's looking for,” said Merriweather. “One thing's certain—he'll do us no good. There's no way we can get our hooks in him. He don't give a damn for money. And as for power—he can get more of that by fighting us than by falling in line. We ain't exactly popular.”

This seemed to Dumont rank ingratitude. Had he not just divided a million dollars among charities and educational institutions in the districts where opposition to his “merger” was strongest?

“Well, we'll see,” he said. “If he isn't careful we'll have to kill him off in convention and make the committees stop his mouth.”

“The trouble is he's been building up a following of his own—the sort of following that can't be honeyfugled,” replied Merriweather. “The committees are afraid of him.” Merriweather always took the gloomy view of everything, because he thus discounted his failures in advance and doubled the effect of his successes.

“I'll see—I'll see,” said Dumont, impatiently. And he thought he was beginning to “see” when

Gladys expanded to him upon the subject of Scarborough—his good looks, his wit, his “distinction.”

Scarborough came to dinner a few evenings later and Dumont was particularly cordial to him; and Gladys made the most of the opportunity which Pauline again gave her. That night, when the others had left or had gone to bed, Gladys followed her brother into the smoke-room adjoining the library. They sat in silence drinking a “night-cap.” In the dreaminess of her eyes, in the absent smile drifting round the corners of her full red lips, Gladys showed that her thoughts were pleasant and sentimental.

“What do you think of Scarborough?” her brother asked suddenly.

She started but did not flush—in her long European experience she had gained control of that signal of surprise. “How do you mean?” she asked. She rarely answered a question immediately, no matter how simple it was, but usually put another question in reply. Thus she insured herself time to think if time should be necessary.

“I mean, do you like him?”

“Why, certainly. But I've seen him only a few times.”

“He's an uncommon man,” continued her brother. “He'd make a mighty satisfactory husband for an ambitious woman, especially one with the money to push him fast.”

Gladys slowly lifted and slowly lowered her smooth, slender shoulders.

“That sort of thing doesn't interest a woman in a man, unless she's married to him and has got over thinking more about him than about herself.”

“It ought to,” replied her brother. “A clever woman can always slosh round in sentimental slop with her head above it and cool. If I were a girl I'd make a dead set for that chap.”

“If you were a girl,” said Gladys, “you'd do nothing of the sort. You'd compel him to make a dead set for you.” And as she put down her glass she gave his hair an affectionate pull—which was her way of thanking him for saying what she most wished to hear on the subject she most wished to hear about.