The Candidate: A Political Romance
They entered the dining-room, where the breakfast smoked on the table,
and the old man and his wife were waiting. Harley could not see that
they had changed in appearance in the morning glow. Simpson was still
rugged and grim, while the woman yet cowered and now and then raised
terrified and appealing eyes.
"Whar's your driver?" asked Simpson.
"He has gone down to the stable to feed and care for his horses,"
replied the candidate, easily. "He's a very careful man, always looks
after his horses before he looks after himself. He told us not to wait
for him, as he'll be along directly."
"Then be seated," said the old man, hospitably. "We've got corn-bread
and ham-and-eggs and coffee, an' I guess you kin make out."
"I should think so," said Jimmy Grayson. "Why, if I had not been as
hungry as a wolf already, it would make me hungry just to look at it."
The three sat down at the table, while Mrs. Simpson served them, going
back and forth to the little kitchen adjoining for fresh supplies of hot
food. Mr. Grayson did most of the talking, and it was addressed in an
easy, confidential manner to old Daniel Simpson. The candidate's gift of
conversational talk was equal to his gift of platform oratory, but never
before had Harley known him to be so interesting and so attractive. He
fairly radiated with the quality called personal magnetism, and soon the
old man ate mechanically, while his attention was riveted on Jimmy
Grayson. But by-and-by he seemed to remember something.
"That driver of yourn is tarnal slow," he said; "he ought to be comin'
in to breakfast."
"You have diagnosed his chief fault," said Jimmy Grayson, with an easy
laugh. "He is slow, extremely slow, but he will be along directly, and
he doesn't mind cold victuals."
Then he turned back to the easy flow of anecdote, chiefly about his
political campaign, and Harley saw that the interest of the old man was
centred upon him. The woman, without a word, brought in hot biscuits
from the kitchen, but she did not lose her frightened look, glancing
from one to another of the three with furtive, lowered eyes. But Jimmy
Grayson, the golden-mouthed, talked gracefully, and the note of his
discourse that morning was the sweetness and kindness of life; he saw
only the sunny side of things; people were good and true, and peace was
better than strife. His smiling, benevolent face and the mellow flow of
his words enforced the lesson.
The old man's face softened a little, and even Harley, though a prey to
anxieties, felt the influence of Jimmy Grayson's spell. The little
dining-room where they sat was at the rear of the house. Harley saw the
golden sunshine of a perfect October day, and the wind that sang across
the plain had the soft strain of a girl's voice. He felt that it was
good to live that morning, and his spirits rose as he saw the old man
fall further and further under the spell of Jimmy Grayson's eloquence.
But Simpson raised himself presently and glanced at the door.
"That driver of yourn is tarnal slow," he repeated. "Seems to me he'll
never finish feedin' an' curryin' them horses!"
"He is slow, extremely slow," laughed Jimmy Grayson. "If he were not so
we should not have got lost last night, and we should not be here now,
Mr. Simpson, trespassing on your hospitality. Perhaps the man does not
want any breakfast; it's not the first time since he's been with us that
he's gone without it."
Then he launched again into the stream of a very pretty story that he
had been telling, and the wavering attention of the old man returned.
Harley gave all assistance. Despite his anxiety and his listening for
sounds without, he kept his eyes fixed upon Jimmy Grayson's face as if
he would not miss a word.
The breakfast went on to an unusual length. The candidate and Harley
called again and again for hot biscuits and more coffee, and always the
old woman served them silently, almost furtively.
The story was finished, and just as it came to its end Simpson said,
with a grim inflection:
"It 'pears to me, Mr. Grayson, all you said about that driver of yourn
is true. He hasn't come from the stable yet."
There was the sound of a step in the hall, and the candidate said,
quickly:
"He's coming now; he'll be in presently, as soon as he washes his hands
and face on the porch. No, sit down, Mr. Simpson; he needs no
directions. We were speaking of the sacrifices that people make for one
another, and it reminds me of a very pretty story that I must tell you."
The old man sank into his chair, but his look wandered to the door. It
seemed to Harley that light sounds came from the other part of the
house, and the old man, too, seemed for a moment to be listening, but
Jimmy Grayson at once began his story, and Simpson's attention came
back.
"This is a story of the mountains of eastern Kentucky," began the
candidate, "and it is a love story--a very pretty one, I think."
Simpson moved in his chair, and a sudden wondering look appeared in his
eyes at the words "eastern Kentucky." The old woman, too, slightly
raised her bent form and gazed eagerly at the candidate. But Jimmy
Grayson took no notice, and continued.
"This," he said, "is the love story of two people who were young then,
but who are old now. Yet I am sure there is much affection and
tenderness in their hearts, and often they must think fondly of those
old days. The youth lived on the side of a mountain, and the girl lived
on the side of another mountain not far away. He was tall, strong, and
brave; she, too, was tall, as slender as one of the mountain saplings,
with glorious brown hair and eyes, and a voice as musical as a mountain
echo. Well, they met and they loved, loved truly and deeply. It might
seem that the way was easy now for them to marry and go to a house of
their own, but it was not. There was a bar."
"A feud!" breathed the old man. The old woman put her hands to her eyes.
"Yes, a feud; they seem strange things to us here, but to those distant
people in the mountains they seem the most natural thing in the world.
The youth and the girl belonged to families that were at war with each
other, and marriage between them would have been considered by all their
relatives a mortal sin."
The old man's eyes were fastened upon Jimmy Grayson's, but his look for
the moment was distant, as if it were held by old memories. The woman
was crying softly. Again the soft shuffle of feet in the other part of
the house came to Harley's ears, but the old couple did not hear; the
driver was forgotten; for all Simpson and his wife remembered, he might
still be finishing his morning toilet on the porch.
"They were compelled to meet in secret," continued Jimmy Grayson, "but
the girl was frightened for him because she loved him. She told him that
he must go away, that if her father and brothers heard of their meetings
they would kill him; it was impossible for them to marry, but she loved
him, she would never deny that. He listened to her gently and tenderly;
he was a brave youth, as I have said, and he would not go away. He said
that God had made them for each other, and she should be his wife; he
would not go away; he was not afraid."
"No, I was not afraid," breathed the old man, softly. The old woman had
straightened herself up until she stood erect. There was a delicate
flush on her face, and her eyes were luminous.
"This youth was a hero, a gallant and chivalrous gentleman," continued
Jimmy Grayson; "he loved the girl, and she loved him; there was no real
reason in the world why they should not marry, and he was resolved that
there should be none."
The candidate's head was bent forward over his plate. His face was
slightly flushed, and his burning eyes held Simpson's. Harley saw that
he thrilled with his own story and the crisis for which it was told.
Elsewhere in the building the faint noises went on, but Harley alone
heard.
"The youth did what I would have done and what you would have done, Mr.
Simpson," continued Jimmy Grayson. "He did what nature and sense
dictated. He overbore all resistance on the part of the girl, who in her
heart was willing to be overborne. One dark night he stole her from her
father's house and carried her away on his horse."
"How well I remember it!" exclaimed the old man, with eyes a-gleam. "I
had Marthy on the horse behind me, and my rifle on the pommel of the
saddle before me."
The old woman cried softly, but it seemed to Harley that the note of her
weeping was not grief.
"He stole her away," continued Jimmy Grayson, "and before morning they
were married. Then he took her to a house of his own, and he sent word
that if any man came to do them harm he would meet a rifle bullet. They
knew that he was the best shot in the mountains, and that he was without
fear, so they did not come. And that youth and that girl are still
living, though both are old now, but neither has ever for a moment
regretted that night."
"You speak the truth," exclaimed the old man, striking his fist upon the
table, while his eyes flashed with exultant fire. "We've never been
sorry for a moment for what we did, hev we Marthy?"
Harley had risen to his feet, and a signal look passed between him and
the candidate.
"And then," said Jimmy Grayson, "why do you deny to Henry Eversley the
right to do what you did, and what you still glory in after all these
years? Mr. Simpson, shake hands with your new son-in-law. He and his
bride are waiting in the doorway."
The old man sprang to his feet. His daughter and a youth, a handsome
couple, stood at the entrance. Behind them were three or four men, one
the driver, and another in clerical garb, evidently a minister.
"They were married in your front parlor while we sat at breakfast," said
Jimmy Grayson. "Mr. Simpson, your son-in-law is still offering you his
hand."
The bewildered look left the old man's eyes, and he took the
outstretched hand in a hearty grasp.
"Henry," he said, "you've won."
X
THE "KING'S" REQUEST
An hour later the candidate, Harley, and the driver were on the way to
the town at which they had intended to pass the preceding night. With
ample instructions and a brilliant morning sunlight there was no further
trouble about the direction, and they pursued their way in peace.
The air was crisp and blowy, and the earth, new-washed by the rain, took
on some of the tints of spring green, despite the lateness of the
season. Harley, relaxed from the tension of the night before, leaned
back in his seat and enjoyed the tonic breeze. No one of the three had
much to say; all were in meditation, and the quiet and loneliness of the
morning seemed to promote musing. They drove some miles across the
rolling prairie without seeing a single house, but at last the driver
pointed to a flickering patch of gold on the western horizon.
"That," said he, "is the weather-vane on the cupola of the new
court-house, and in another hour we'll be in town. I guess your people
will be glad to see you, Mr. Grayson."
"And I shall be glad to see them," said the candidate. A few minutes
later he turned to the correspondent.
"Harley," he asked, "will you send anything to your paper about last
night?"
"I have to do so," replied Harley, with a slight note of apology in his
tone--this had not been his personal doing. "For a presidential
candidate to get lost on the prairie in the dark and the storm, and then
spend the night in a house in which only his presence of mind and
eloquence prevent a murder, that is news--news of the first importance
and the deepest interest. I am bound not only to send a despatch about
it, but the despatch must be very long and full. And I suppose, too,
that I shall have to tell it to the other fellows when we reach the
town."
The candidate sighed.