The Candidate: A Political Romance
other side of the world to enter another and greater campaign, one in
which mind counted for more.
The candidate, in his rising greatness, was even a hero to his own
family; and from none did he draw greater admiration than from his
niece, Sylvia Morgan. A fierce champion of the West, she always bitterly
resented the unconscious patronage of the East, which was really the
natural patronage of age rather than of convinced superiority; and her
uncle's triumph filled her with delight, because, to her mind, it was
the triumph of the West that she loved so well. Inspired with this
feeling, she appealed to Harley about the sixth or seventh day of the
campaign for his opinion on its result, and the correspondent hesitated
over his answer. He found that his feeling towards her in this week had
changed greatly, the elements in her character, which at first seemed to
him masculine and forward, were now much modified and softened; always
the picture of that child in the mountains, alone among her dead, rose
before him, and then followed the picture of the little girl borne away
on his saddle-bow by the brave borderer. He would think of her now with
a singular softness, a real pity for those misty days which she herself
had almost forgotten. Hence he hesitated, because what he deemed to be
the truth would have in it a sting for her. But her clear eyes instantly
read his hesitation.
"You need not be afraid to tell me your real opinion, Mr. Harley," she
said. "If you think the chances are against Uncle James, I should like
you to say so."
"I do think they are against him now, although they may not be so later
on," replied he, equivocating with himself a little. "It is an uphill
fight, and then one can easily deceive one's self; in a nation of eighty
or ninety millions even a minority can surround a candidate with a
multitude of people and a storm of enthusiasm."
"But Uncle James is the greatest campaigner ever nominated for the
Presidency," she said, "and we shall yet win."
Harley said nothing in reply, but he gladly noticed her refusal to be
discouraged, like other people having an admiration for courage and
spirit. In fact, it seemed to him that she had a cheerfulness somewhat
beyond the occasion.
Three days later--they were in Pittsburg then--she received a letter
addressed in a strong, heavy hand, her name being spelled in large
letters. Sylvia Morgan was alone in the hotel parlor when it was brought
to her, and a strange shadow, or rather the shadow of a shadow, came
over her face as she held it uneasily in her fingers and looked at the
Idaho postmark in the corner. She knew the handwriting well, and she
knew that it was a true index to the character of its author--rough,
strong, and large. That handwriting could not lie, neither could he. She
continued to hesitate, with the letter in her hand; it was the first
time that she had ever done so with a letter of his, and she felt that
she was disloyal. She heard a voice in the other parlor--the wide doors
between were open; it was the voice of Harley speaking to her uncle, and
a flush crept into her cheeks. Then she shook herself in a sudden little
whirl of anger, and abruptly opened the letter with a swift, tearing
sound. It was a longer letter than he usually wrote, and he said:
"MY DEAREST LITTLE SYLVIA--I have been here just two hours, and, I
tell you, the sight of Idaho is good for the eyes, though it would
be better if you were here with me, as you soon will be all the
time, little one."
She paused a moment, looking away, and the shadow of the shadow came
back to her face. Then she murmured: "He is the best man in the world,"
and resolutely went on:
"The more I see of the other states the better I like Idaho, and I
like next best those that are most like it. Every peak out here
nodded a welcome to me as I came in on the train. I've known them
all for thirty years. I was a little afraid of them at first, they
were so tall and solemn with their white crests, but we are old
friends now--I'll have a white crest myself before long, and I'm
fairly tall now, though perhaps I'll never be solemn. And I drew a
deep breath and a long breath, the first one in days, the moment I
crossed the Idaho line. The East sits rather heavy on me [he called
Chicago the East], and my eyes get tired with so many people
passing before them. Now, I'm not running down the East, which is
all right in its own way, but I am glad we have so much mountain
and unwatered plain out here, because then the people can never get
so thick that they tread on you; not that they mean to do it, but
crowds shove just because they can't help it."
Sylvia smiled, and for a moment there was a little moisture in her eyes.
"Good old daddy," she murmured. Somehow, the pet name "daddy" seemed
just to fit him. Then the resolute little frown came over her face again
and she went on.
"As I said, Idaho is a good state. I like it when I am here, and I
like it all the better when I come back to it. God's people live in
these Rocky Mountain states, and that is a reason why I am so
red-hot to have your uncle James elected. He is one of God's
people, too, and they have never yet had a man of ours sitting in
the White House down there at Washington and bossing the job. I
think maybe he will teach them a new trick or two in running the
old ship of state. But, Sylvia, I am not thinking so much even of
him as I am of you. I know that I am a good deal older than you, as
people count years, but I can truly say that my heart is young, and
I think that I will be a husky chap for a good long time to come.
You know I've had you nearly all your life, Sylvia, and we have the
advantage of knowing each other. You are on to all my curves--that
is, you don't have to get married to me to learn my failings.
"I guess I haven't the polish that those Eastern fellows put on, or
that is put on them, but out here in the mountains I amount to
somebody--you must let me brag a little, Sylvia--and if a man
doesn't bow pretty low to Mrs. William Plummer, I'll have to get
out my old six-shooter--I haven't carried one now for ten
years--and shoot all the hair off the top of his head."
"He thinks he's joking, but I believe he would do it. Dear old daddy!"
murmured Sylvia.
"I think you ought to become Mrs. Plummer now, Sylvia, but I guess
I'm willing to wait until this campaign is over. For one ought to
be willing to wait, if by waiting he can get such a good thing.
Still, I hate to think of you away off there in the East, so many
thousands of miles away from me, where there are no friendly old
mountains to look down on you and watch over you, and I'm glad that
my little girl is coming West again soon. I'll try to get down part
of the way, say to Nebraska or Kansas, to meet you. I feel safer
when I have you close by; then, if any of those young Eastern
fellows should try to kidnap you and run away with you, my old
six-shooter might have a word to say."
The sudden flush rose to her cheeks at this new joke, but she murmured
nothing. The rest of the letter was about people whom they knew in Boise
and elsewhere in Idaho, and it closed:
"Don't think I'm growing gushing at my age, Sylvia, but Idaho, fine
as she is, isn't near complete without you, and this is why I want
you back in it just as soon as you can come.
Yours, lovingly,
"WILLIAM PLUMMER."
She folded the letter carefully and put it back in the envelope. Then
she sat for a long time, and her look was one of mingled tenderness and
sadness. Her mind, too, ran back into the past, and she had a dim vision
of the little child, who was herself, borne away on his saddle-horn by
the strong mountaineer, who held her safely in the hollow of his arm.
And then the years followed, and she always looked to the mountaineer
for the protection and the love that were never wanting, but it was
always the protection and love of one older and stronger than herself,
one who belonged to the generation preceding her own.
Mr. Grayson, Harley, and the others were gone, and she heard no voices
in the next parlor. She realized with suddenness how strongly and in how
brief a time this little group, travelling through a vast country, had
become welded together by the very circumstances of their travel--the
comradeship of the road--and she sighed. She and Mrs. Grayson were about
to leave them and return to the Grayson home in the West, because women,
no matter how nearly related, could not be taken all the way on an
arduous campaign of six months. She had enjoyed this life, which was
almost the life of a soldier--the crowds, the enthusiasm, the murmur,
then the cheers of thousands of voices, the flight on swift trains from
one city to another, the dash for the station sometimes before daylight,
and all the freshness and keenness of youth about her. She had
affiliated, she had become one of the group, and now that she was to
leave it for a while she had a deep sense of loss.
There was a step beside her, and Mrs. Grayson, the quiet, the tactful,
and the observant, entered.
"Why, Sylvia," she said, "you are sitting in the dark!"
She touched the button, turned on the electric lights, and noticed the
letter lying in the girl's hand. Her glance passed swiftly to Sylvia's
face and as swiftly passed away. She knew instinctively the writer of
the letter, but she said nothing, waiting for Sylvia herself to speak.
"I have a letter from Mr. Plummer," said Sylvia.
"What does he say?"
"Not much besides his arrival at Boise--just some foolishness of his;
you know how he loves to jest."
"Yes, I have long known that," said Mrs. Grayson, but she noticed that
Sylvia made no offer to show the letter. Hitherto the letters of "King"
Plummer had been read by all the Graysons as a matter of course, just as
one shares interesting news.
"He is a good man, and he will be a good husband," said Mrs. Grayson.
She was for the moment ruthless with a purpose, and when she said the
words, although affecting not to watch, she saw the girl flinch--ever so
little, but still she flinched.
"The best man in the world," repeated Sylvia Morgan, softly.
"And yet there are other good men," said Mrs. Grayson, quietly. "One
good man does not exclude the existence of another."
Sylvia looked up at her, but she failed to take her meaning. Her quiet
aunt sometimes spoke in parables, and waited for events to disclose her
meaning.
Mrs. Grayson and Miss Morgan were to leave for the West the next
afternoon, and shortly before their departure Harley came to tell them a
temporary good-bye. Sylvia and he chanced to be alone for a little
while, and she genuinely lamented her departure--they had become franker
friends in these later days.
"I do not see why women cannot go through a political campaign from
beginning to end," she said; "I'm sure we can help Uncle James, and
there will be, too, so many interesting things to see. It will be like a
war without the wounds and death. I don't want to miss any of it."
"I half agree with you," said Harley, smiling, "and I know that it would
be a great deal nicer for the rest of us if you and Mrs. Grayson could
go along."
He paused, and he had a sudden bold thought.
"If anything specially interesting happens that the newspapers don't
tell about, will you let me write you an account of it?" he asked. "I
should really like to tell you."
She flushed ever so little, but she was of the free-and-open West, and