The Candidate: A Political Romance
Hence the two great Presidential conventions, in each of which Western
influences were paramount, and in each of which a Western man was
chosen, created upon him a new and surprising impression. He found
himself in the presence of unexpected forces; he became aware that there
was another way of looking at things, and this powerful sensation was
deepened by the personality of Mr. Grayson, in whom he saw intuitively
that there was something fresh, original, and strong; he seemed less
hackneyed and more joyous than the types that he found in the old states
of the Union or the Old World, and, because of this, the interest of
Harley, whose mind had a singularly keen and inquiring quality, was
aroused; the regions that apparently lay in the shadow might have enough
light, after all, and, seeing before him a campaign not less exciting
than a war, he resolved to stay in it until the last battle was fought.
He took out the telegram from his editor and read it over again with
keen satisfaction. "Out of one war and into another," he murmured. The
conventions had been held early; it was now only the first week in June,
and the election would be in the first week of November; before him lay
five months of stress and perhaps storm, but he thought of it only with
pleasure.
Harley always travelled light, carrying only two valises, and an hour
sufficed for his packing. Then, like the old campaigner that he was, he
slept soundly, and early the next morning he went again to the hotel at
which the Graysons were staying. He felt a little hesitation in sending
up a card so soon, knowing what swarms of people Mr. Grayson had been
compelled to receive and how badly he must stand in need of rest, but
there was no help for it.
While he sat in the huge lobby waiting the return of the boy, the hum of
many voices about him rose almost to a roar, varied by the rustling of
many newspapers. The place was filled with men, talking over the
thrilling events of the night before, the nomination and the nominee,
while every newspaper bore upon its front page a great picture of the
new candidate.
The boy came back with a message that Mr. Grayson would see him; and
Harley, a minute later, was knocking at the door, which the candidate
himself opened. This man, who was his own usher, was the nominee of a
great party, he might become the President of the United States--of
ninety million people, of what was in nearly every material sense the
first power in the world; and yet Harley, when in Europe, seeking
information from the youngest and least _attache_ of a legation, had
been compelled to go through an infinite amount of form and flummery.
The contrast was lasting.
"Come in," said Mr. Grayson, courteously, and Harley at once acted upon
the invitation. Mrs. Grayson, at the same moment, came from the inner
room, quiet and self-contained, and Harley bowed with respect.
"I dare say there is nothing you wish to ask me which a lady should not
hear," said Mr. Grayson, with a slight smile. "Mrs. Grayson is my chief
political adviser."
"It is no secret," replied Harley, also smiling. "I have merely come to
tell you that the _Gazette_, my paper, has instructed me to keep watch
over you from now until election night, and to describe at once and at
great length for its readers every one of your wicked deeds. So I am
here to tell you that I wish to go along with you. You are public
property, you know, and you can't escape."
"I know that," said Jimmy Grayson, heartily; "and I do not seek to
escape. I am glad the representative of the _Gazette_ is to be you. I do
not know what course your paper will take, but I am sure that we shall
be friends."
"The _Gazette_ is independent; its editor is likely to attack you for
some things and to praise you for others. But I am here to tell the
news."
"Then we are comrades for a long journey," said Jimmy Grayson.
Thus it was settled simply and easily by the two who were most
concerned, and Harley throughout the little interview was struck by the
difference between this man and many other famous men with whom in the
course of business he had held journalistic dealings. Here was a lack of
conventionality, and an even stronger note of simplicity and freshness.
The candidate, with his new honors, still held himself as one of the
people, it never occurred to him that he might assume a pose and the
public would accept it; he was democracy personified, and he was such
because he was unconscious of it. His perfect freedom of manner, which
Harley had not liked at first, now became more attractive.
"We leave at eleven o'clock for my home," said Mr. Grayson, "and arrive
there to-morrow morning. I have some preparations to make, but I shall
begin the campaign a day or two later."
"I intend to go with you to your town," said Harley. "You know the
compact; I cannot let you out of my sight."
Mrs. Grayson, a grave, quiet woman, spoke for the first time.
"You shall come along, not merely as a sentinel, but as one of our
little party, if you will, on one condition," she said.
"What is that?"
"On condition that you come to our house and take dinner with us
to-morrow."
Harley gave her a grateful look. He felt that the candidate's wife
approved of him, and he liked the approval of those who evidently knew
how to think. And it would be far pleasanter to travel with Jimmy
Grayson as a friend than as one suspected.
"I am honored, Mrs. Grayson," he said, "and I shall be happy to come."
Then he left them, and when he passed into the hall he saw that the
burden of greatness was being thrust already upon the Grayson family, as
callers of various types and with various requests were seeking their
rooms. But he hurried back to his own hotel, and as it was some distance
away he took the street-car. There he was confronted by long rows of
newspapers which hid the faces of men, and whenever a front page was
turned towards him the open countenance of Mr. Grayson looked out at him
with smiling eyes. Everybody was reading the account of the convention,
and now and then they discussed it; they spoke of the candidate
familiarly; he was "Jimmy" Grayson to them--rarely did they call him
Mr. Grayson; but there was no disrespect or disesteem in their use of
the diminutive "Jimmy." They merely regarded him as one of themselves,
and their position in the matter differed in no wise from that of Mr.
Grayson; it was a matter of course with both. To Harley, fresh from
other lands, it seemed in the first breath singular, and yet in the
second he liked it; the easy give-and-take promoted the smoothness of
life, and men might assume false values, but they were not able to keep
them. His thoughts returned for a moment to the least little _attache_
whose manner was more important than that of a Presidential nominee.
Harley, with his two valises, was at the station somewhat ahead of time,
as he wished to see Mr. and Mrs. Grayson arrive, curious to know in what
sort of state or lack of it they would come.
Mr. Grayson's intention of going at once to his home was not published
in the press, and there was only the ordinary crowd at the station, some
coming, some leaving, but all bearing upon their faces the marks of
haste and impatience. As the people hurried to and fro, the sound of
many tongues arose. There was nearly every accent of Europe, but the
American rose over and enveloped all. Many writers from other lands,
seeking only the bad, had pronounced the Babel coarse, vulgar, and
sordid; but Harley, seeking the good, saw in it men and women toiling to
better their condition in the world, and that fact he knew was not bad.
Through the station windows he saw the tall buildings rise floor on
floor, and there was a clang of car-bells that never ceased. In the
fresh morning air it was inspiriting, and Harley felt himself a part of
the crowd. He was no hermit. Life and activity and the spectacle of
people filled with hope always pleased him.
An ordinary cab arrived, and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, alighting from it,
bought their tickets at the window, just like anybody else, and then
sought inconspicuous seats in the corner of the waiting-room, as their
train would not be ready for five minutes. In the hastening crowd they
were not noticed at first, but even in the dusk of the corner the
smoothly shaven face and massive features of Mr. Grayson were soon
noticed. His picture had been staring at them all from the front page of
the newspapers, and here was the reality, too like to be overlooked.
There was a sudden delay in the crowd; the two streams, one flowing
outward and the other inward, wavered, then stopped and began to stare
at the candidate, not intrusively, but with a kindly curiosity that it
considered legitimate. Harley had quietly joined the Graysons, and they
gave him a sincere welcome. The people unfamiliar with his face began to
speculate audibly on his identity.
The crowd in the station, reinforced from many side-doors, thickened,
and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson, under the gaze of so many eyes, became uneasy
and shy. Harley, who had been made a member of their party, found
himself sharing this awkward feeling, and he was glad to hear the
announcement that the train was ready.
The three abreast moved towards the gate, and the crowd opened a way
just wide enough, down which they marched, still under the human battery
of a thousand eyes. To Harley, although little of this gaze was meant
for him, the sensation was indescribable. It was something to be an
object of so much curiosity, but the thrill was more than offset by the
weight that it put upon one's ease of manner.
He saw many of the people--it was a curious manifestation--reach out and
touch the candidate's sleeve lightly as he passed. But Mr. Grayson, if
he knew it, took no notice and marched straight ahead, all expression
discharged from his face. Harley saw that this was the disguise eminent
public men must assume upon occasions, and he was willing that they
should keep the task.
When the great iron gate leading to his train was closed behind him,
Harley felt a mighty sense of relief. It seemed to him that he had run a
gantlet not much inferior to that through which the Indians put the
captive backwoodsmen, and the dark-red walls of the car rose before him
a fortress of safety.
It was an ordinary Pullman, and Mr. and Mrs. Grayson had not secured the
drawing-room, but the usual berths like Harley's, and he joined them in
their seats. He felt now a certain pleasure in the situation. The
pressure of circumstances was making him, in a sense and for the time
being, a member of their family. He was glad that the other
correspondents would wait to join the candidate at his home, as it gave
him a greater chance to establish those personal relations needful on a
long campaign that must be made together.
The whistle blew, the train moved, and they passed through miles of
city, and then through suburbs growing thinner until they melted away
into the clean, green prairie, and Harley, opening the window, was glad
to breathe the unvexed air that came across a thousand miles of the
West. He leaned back in his seat and luxuriously watched the quietly
rolling country, tender with the breath of spring, as it spun past.
That mighty West of which he had thought so little seemed to reach out
with its arms and invite him, and he was glad to go.
Presently he was aware of an unusual movement of people down the aisles
of the car, accompanied by a certain slowing of the pace when they
passed the seats in which the Graysons and he sat. They were coming from
the other cars, too, and now and then the aisle would choke up a little,
but in a moment the shifting figures would relieve it, and the endless
procession of faces moved on.