"You are speaking of Mr. Plummer himself; she was his daughter at first,
and so long as she was a little girl I suppose that he never dreamed of
her in any other light. But when she began to grow into a young woman,
Mr. Harley--and a beautiful one, too, as beautiful as she is good--he
began to look at her in a different way. When these elderly men, who
have been so busy that they have not had time to fall in love, do fall
in love, the fall is sudden and complete. Mr. Plummer was like the
others. And what else could she do? She was too young to have seen much
of the world. There was no young man, none of her own age, who had taken
her heart. Mr. Plummer is a good man, and she owed him everything. Of
course, she accepted him. I ask you, what else could she do?"
There was a defensive note in her voice when she said: "I ask you, what
else could she do?" and Harley replied, with due deliberation:
"Perhaps she could do nothing else, but sometimes, Mrs. Grayson, I have
my doubts whether twenty and fifty can ever go happily together."
"We like Mr. Plummer, and he is a great friend of my husband's."
Harley said nothing, but he, too, liked Mr. Plummer, and he held him in
the highest respect. It required little effort of the imagination to
draw a picture of the brave mountaineer riding from the Indian massacre
with that little girl upon his saddle-bow. And much of his criticism of
Sylvia Morgan herself was disarmed. She was more a child of the
mountains even than his first fancy had made her, and it was not a
wonder that her spirit was often masculine in its strength and boldness.
It was involuntary, but he thought of her with new warmth and
admiration. Incited by this feeling, he soon joined her and the group
that was with her. He had expected to find her sad and comparatively
silent, but he had never seen her in a more lively mood, full of light
talk and jest and a gay good-humor that could not have failed to infect
the most hardened cynic. Certainly he did not escape its influence, nor
did he seek to do so, but as he watched her he thought there was a
slight touch of feverishness to her high spirits, as if she had just
escaped from some great danger.
Before they reached Detroit he talked a while with Mr. Grayson, in the
private drawing-room of the car--Mrs. Grayson had joined the others--and
"King" Plummer was the subject of their talk.
"Is he really such a great political power in the Northwest?" asked
Harley.
"He is. Even greater than popular report makes him. I believe that in a
presidential election he could decide the vote of five or six of those
lightly populated states. He has so many interests, so many strings that
he holds, and he is a man of so much energy and will. You see, I want to
keep "King" Plummer my friend."
"I surely would, if I were in your place," said Harley, with conviction.
VI
ON THE ROAD
The great success of Grayson as an orator was continued at Detroit. A
vast audience hung breathless upon his words, and he played upon its
emotions as he would, now thrilling the people with passion, and then
stirring them to cheers that rolled like thunder. It became apparent
that this hitherto obscure man from the Far West was the strongest
nominee a somewhat disunited party could have named, and Harley, whose
interest at first had been for the campaign itself rather than its
result, began to have a feeling that after all Grayson might be
elected--at least he had a fighting chance, which might be more if it
were not for the shadow of Goodnight, Crayon, and their kind. Part of
these men had gone back, among them the large and important Mr.
Goodnight; but Harley saw the quiet Mr. Crayon still watching from a
high box at Detroit, and he knew that no act or word of the candidate
would escape the scrutiny of this powerful faction within the party.
Ample proof of his conclusion, if it were needed, came the next morning
in a copy of the New York _Monitor_, Churchill's paper, which contained
on its front page a long, double-leaded despatch, under a Milwaukee date
line. It was Hobart who brought it in to Mr. Grayson and his little
party at the breakfast-table.
"Excuse me for interrupting you, Mr. Grayson," he said, flourishing the
paper as if it were a sort of flag; "but here is something that you are
bound to see. It's what might be called a word in your ear, or, at
least, it seems to me to have that sound. I guess that Churchill got a
beat on us all in Milwaukee."
"I wish you would join us, Mr. Hobart, and read the whole article to us,
if you will be so kind," said the candidate, calmly.
Nothing could have pleased Hobart better, and he read with emphasis and
care, resolved that his hearers should not lose a word. Churchill had a
good style, and he possessed a certain skill in innuendo, therefore he
was able throughout the article to make his meaning clear. He stated
that among those surrounding the candidate--he could give names if he
would, but it was not necessary--there was a certain feeling that Mr.
Grayson was not quite--at least not yet--as large as the position for
which he had been nominated. Keen observers had noticed in him a
predisposition to rashness; he had spoken lightly more than once of
great vested interests.
"Uncle James, how could you be so lacking in reverence?" exclaimed
Sylvia Morgan.
Mr. Grayson merely smiled.
"Go on, Mr. Hobart," he said.
"'But some of the ablest minds in the country are closely watching Mr.
Grayson,'" continued the article, "'and where he needs support or
restraint he will receive it. There are certain issues not embodied in
the platform from which he will be steered.'"
"Now, I think that is too much!" exclaimed Mrs. Grayson, the indignant
red rising in her cheeks.
"Their printing it does not make it true, Anna," said the candidate,
mildly.
"As if you did not know enough to run your own campaign!" exclaimed the
indignant wife.
But Jimmy Grayson continued to smile. "We must expect this sort of
thing," he said; "it would be a dull campaign without it. Please go on,
Mr. Hobart."
A number of eminent citizens, the article continued, would make a
temporary sacrifice of their great business interests for the sake of
the campaign and the people, and with their restraining care it was not
likely that Mr. Grayson could go far wrong, as he seemed to be an
amiable man, amenable to advice. Thus it continued at much length, and
Harley, keen and experienced in such matters, knew very well whence
Churchill had drawn his inspiration.
"The editor, also, makes comment upon this warning," said Hobart, who
was undeniably enjoying himself.
"I should think that the despatch was enough," said Mrs. Grayson, whose
indignation was not yet cooled.
"But it isn't, Mrs. Grayson," said Hobart; "at least, the editor of the
_Monitor_ does not think so. Listen.
"'The campaign in behalf of our party has begun in the West, and we have
felt the need of thoroughly reliable news from that quarter, free from
the sensationalism and levity which we are sorry to say so often
disgrace our American newspapers, and make them compare unfavorably with
the graver and statelier columns of the English press.'"
"He is an Englishman himself," said Harley--"American opinion through an
English channel."
Even Jimmy Grayson laughed.
"'At last we have obtained this information,'" continued Hobart,
reading, "'and we are able to present it to-day to those earnest and
sincere people, the cultivated minority who really count, and who
constitute the leaven in the mass of the light and frivolous American
people. A trusted correspondent of ours, judicious, impartial,
absolutely devoid of prejudices, has obtained from high sources with
which common journalistic circles are never in touch----'"
"How the bird befouls its own nest!" said the elderly Tremaine.
"'--information that will throw much light upon a campaign and a
candidate both obscure hitherto. This we present upon another page, and,
as our cultivated readers will readily infer, the candidate, Mr.
Grayson, is not a bad man----'"
"Thanks for that crowning mercy," said Mr. Grayson.
"--but neither is he a great one; in short, he is, at least for the
present, narrow and provincial; moreover, he is of an impulsive
temperament that is likely to lead him into untrodden and dangerous
paths. Our best hope lies in the fact that Mr. Grayson, who has not
shown himself intractable, may be brought to see this, and will rely
upon the advice of those who are fitted to lead rather than upon the
reckless fancies of the Boys who are sure to surround him if he gives
them a chance. In this emergency we are sure that all the best in the
state will rally with us. The eyes of Europe are upon us, and we must
vindicate ourselves.'"
"Uncle James," said Sylvia Morgan, sweetly, "I trust that you will
remember throughout the campaign that the eye of Europe is upon you, and
conduct yourself accordingly. I have noticed that in many of your
speeches you seemed to be unconscious of the fact that Vienna and St.
Petersburg were watching you. Such behavior will never do."
Mr. Grayson smiled once more. He seemed to be less disturbed than any
one else at the table, yet he knew that this was in truth a warning
given by an important wing of the party, and, therefore, he must take
thought of it. A prominent politician of Michigan was present, the guest
of Mr. Grayson, and he did not take the threat as calmly as the
candidate.
"The writer of this despatch is with your party, I suppose," he said to
Mr. Grayson.
"Oh yes; it is Mr. Churchill. He has been with us since the start."
"I would not let him go a mile farther; a man who writes like that--why,
it's a positive insult to you!--should not be allowed on your train."
The Michigan man's face flushed red, and in his anger he brought his
hand down heavily on the table; but Harley did not look at him, his full
attention being reserved for the candidate. Here was a test of his
bigness. Would he prove equal to it?
"I am afraid that would be a mistake," said Jimmy Grayson, amiably, to
the Michigan man, "a mistake in two respects: our Constitution
guarantees the freedom of the press, and the _Monitor_ and its
correspondent have a right to write that way, if they wish to do so; and
if we were to expel Mr. Churchill, it would give them all the greater
ground for complaint. Now, perhaps I am, after all, a narrow and
ignorant person who needs restraint."
He spoke the last sentence in such a whimsical tone and with such a
frank smile that they were all forced to laugh, even the Michigan man.
But Harley felt relief. The candidate had shown no littleness.
"I was sure that you would return such an answer, Uncle James," said
Sylvia Morgan, and the look that she gave him was full of faith. "Now, I
mean to help you by converting Mr. Churchill."
"How will you do that?"
"I shall smile upon him, use my winning ways, and draw him into the
fold."
There was a slight edge to her voice, and Harley was not sure of her
meaning; but he and she were together in the parlor an hour later, when
they met Churchill, and he had a chance to see. Churchill evidently was
not expecting to find them there, but he assumed an important air,
knowing that his despatches had been received and read, and feeling,
therefore, that he was the author of a sensation. He anticipated
hostility; he believed that Mr. Grayson's relatives and friends would
assail him with harsh words, and he had spoken already to one or two
persons of the six months' ordeal that he would have to endure. "But we
must stand such things when they are incurred in the line of duty," he
said, "and I have a way which, perhaps, will teach them to be not so
ready in attacking me." He expected such a foray against him now, and
his manner became haughty in the presence of Sylvia Morgan and Harley.
"We--that is, all of us--have just been reading your despatch in the
_Monitor_," she said, in a most winning tone, "and on behalf of Uncle
James I want to thank you, Mr. Churchill."
Churchill looked surprised but doubtful, and did not abate the stiffness
of his attitude nor the severity of his gaze.
"We do feel grateful to you," she continued, in the same winning tone.
"There was never a man more willing than Uncle James to learn, and,
coming out of the depths of the West, he knows that he needs help. And
how beautifully you write, Mr. Churchill! It was all put so delicately
that no one could possibly take offence."
It was impossible to resist her manner, the honey of her words, and
Churchill, who felt that she was but giving credit where credit was due,
became less stern.
"Do you really like it, Miss Morgan?" he asked, and he permitted himself
a smile.
"Oh yes," she replied, "and I noticed that the _Monitor_ alone contained
an article of this character, all about those big men who are watching
over Uncle James, and will not let him go wrong. That is what you
correspondents call a beat, isn't it?"
Churchill gave Harley a glance of triumph, but he replied, gravely:
"I believe it is what we call a beat, Miss Morgan."
"And you will continue to help us in the same way, won't you, Mr.
Churchill?" she continued. "You know who those great men are; Mr.
Harley, here, I am sure does not, nor does Mr. Blaisdell nor Mr. Hobart;
you alone, as the _Monitor_ says, can come into touch with such
important circles, and you will warn us again and again in the columns
of the _Monitor_ when we are about to get into the wrong path. Oh, it
would be a great service, and I know that Uncle James would appreciate
it! You will be with us throughout the campaign, and you will have the
chance! Now, promise me, Mr. Churchill, that you will do it."
Her manner had become most appealing, and her face was slightly flushed.
It was not the first time that Harley realized how handsome she was, and
how winning she could be. It was his first thought, then, what a woman
this mountain maid would make, and his second that "King" Plummer should
continue to look upon her as his daughter--she was too young to be his
wife.
Nor was Churchill proof against her beauty and her blandishments. He
felt suddenly that for her sake he could overlook some of Mr. Grayson's
faults, or at least seek to amend them. It was not hard to make a
promise to a pair of lovely eyes that craved his help.
"Well, Miss Morgan," he said, graciously, "since it is you who ask it, I
will do my best. You know I am not really hostile to Mr. Grayson. The
_Monitor_ and I are of his party, and we shall certainly support him as
long as he will let us."
"You are so kind!" she said. "You have seen so much of the world, Mr.
Churchill, that you can help us greatly. Uncle James, as I told you, is
always willing to learn, and he will keep a sharp watch on the
_Monitor_."
"The _Monitor_, as I need not tell you," said Churchill, "is the chief
organ in New York of good government, and it is never frivolous or
inconsequential. I had hoped that what I sent from Milwaukee would have
its effect, and I am glad to see, Miss Morgan, that it has."
Churchill now permitted himself a smile longer and more complacent, and
Harley felt a slight touch of pity that any man should be blinded thus
by conceit. And Sylvia did not spare him; by alternate flattery and
appeal she drew him further into the toils, and Harley was surprised at
her skill. She did not seem to him now the girl from Idaho, the child of
the mountains and of massacre, but a woman of variable moods, and all of
them attractive, no whit inferior to her Eastern sisters in the
delicate airs and graces that he was wont to associate with feminine
perfection.
As for Churchill, he yielded completely to her spell, not without some
condescension and a memory of his own superiority, but he felt himself
willing to comply with her request, particularly because it involved no
sacrifice on his own part. He and the _Monitor_ would certainly keep
watch over Mr. Grayson, and he would never hesitate to write the words
of warning when ever he felt that they were needed.
"Why did you treat him that way?" asked Harley, when Churchill had gone.
"What do you mean by 'that way'?" she asked, and her chin took on a
saucy uplift.
"Well, to be plain, why did you make a fool of him?"
"Was my help needed?"
Harley laughed.
"Don't be too hard on Churchill," he said, "he's the creature of
circumstance. Besides, you must not forget that he is going to watch
over Mr. Grayson."
Churchill did not join the general group until shortly before the
departure for the evening speech, and then he approached with an
undeniable air of hostility and defence, expecting to be attacked and
having in readiness the weapons with which he had assured himself that
he could repel them. Miss Morgan, it is true, had received him well, but
she, so he had begun to believe, was a girl of perception and
discrimination, and the fine taste shown by her would not be exhibited
by others. The candidate, surprising him much, received him cordially,
though not effusively, and he was made welcome in similar manner by the
others. There was no allusion whatever to his despatch, but he found
himself included in the general gossip, just as if he were one of a
group of good comrades.
Yet Churchill was not wholly pleased. His great stroke seemed to be
ignored by all except Miss Morgan, when they ought to be stirred deeply
by it, and he felt a sense of diminished importance. There should be
confusion among them, or at least trepidation. He closely studied the
faces of Mr. Grayson and the others to see if they were merely masking
their fire, but no attack came either then or later.
Thus two or three days passed, and the campaign deepened and popular
interest increased. Not since the eve of the Civil War had there been
such complexity and intensity of interests, and never before had the
personal factor been so strong. Out of the vast turmoil quickly emerged
James Grayson as the most picturesque figure that ever appeared upon the
stage of national politics in America. His powerful oratory, his daring,
and his magnetic personality drew the eyes of all, and Harley saw that
wherever he might be there the fight would be thickest. The
correspondent's intuition had been right; he had come from a war on the
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.