Part 15 (1/2)
”All things are possible, Mr. Plummer. My husband is a lawyer, and I have heard him quote often a maxim of the law which runs something like this, 'He must keep who can.'”
She turned away and would not have another word to say to him then, leaving Mr. Plummer in much perplexity and trouble.
Mrs. Grayson herself was in a similar perplexity and trouble throughout the day. Her doubts about the letter she had written to ”King” Plummer increased. Perhaps it would have been wiser to let affairs take their own course. The sight of the two brown heads and the two young faces on the station platform had made her very thoughtful, and she drew comparisons with ”King” Plummer; there might be days in autumn which resembled those of spring, but it was only a fleeting resemblance, because autumn was itself, with its own coloring, its own fruits, and its own days, and nothing could turn it into spring. ”I will not meddle again,” she resolved, and then her mind was taken off the matter by an incident in her husband's progress. In Nebraska the men left the train for a few days, travelling by carriage, and here occurred the event which created a great stir in its time.
IX
JIMMY GRAYSON'S SPELL
A night, after a beautiful, brown October day, came on dark and rainy, with fierce winds off the Rocky Mountains; and Harley, who was in the first carriage with the candidate, could barely see the heads of the horses, gently rising and falling as they splashed through the mud.
Behind him he heard faintly the sound of wheels amid the wind and rain, and he knew that the other correspondents and the politicians, who always hung on the trail of Jimmy Grayson, s.h.i.+fting according to locality, were following their leader in single file.
Mrs. Grayson and Sylvia had remained on the special car, and expected to join them on the following day, although Sylvia was quite prepared to take the carriage journey across the country and dare all the risks of the darkness and possible bad weather. Indeed, with the fine spirit of the West and her own natural high courage, she wanted to go, saying that she could stand as much as a man, and only Mrs. Grayson's refusal to accompany her and the consequent lack of a chaperone compelled her to abandon the idea. Now Harley and Mr. Grayson were very glad that she was not out in the storm.
Although the hood of the carriage was down and the collar of Harley's heavy coat was turned up to his ears, the cold rain, lashed by the wind, struck him in the face now and then.
”You don't do anything by halves out here on these Western plains,” he said.
”No,” replied Jimmy Grayson, ”we don't deal in disguises; when we're hot we're hot, and when we're cold we're cold. Now, after a perfect day, we're having the wildest kind of a night. It's our way.”
It was then ten o'clock, and they had expected to reach Speedwell at midnight, crossing the Platte River on the big wooden bridge; but the rain, the darkness, and the singularly sticky quality of the black Nebraska mud would certainly delay them until one o'clock in the morning, and possibly much later. It was not a cheerful prospect for tired and sleepy men.
”Mr. Grayson,” said Harley, ”without seeking to discredit you, I wish I had gone to another war instead of coming out here with you. That would have been less wearing.”
The candidate laughed.
”But you are seeing the West as few men from New York ever see it,” he said.
The driver turned, and a little stream of water ran off his hat-brim into Harley's face.
”It's the wind that holds us back, Mr. Grayson,” he said; ”if we leave the road and cut across the prairie on the hard ground it will save at least an hour.”
”By all means, turn out at once,” said the candidate, ”and the others will follow.”
”Wise driver; considerate man!” remarked Harley.
There was marked relief the moment the wheels of the carriage struck the brown gra.s.s. They rolled easily once more, and the off horse, lifting up his head, neighed cheerfully.
”It means midnight, and not later, Harley,” said the candidate, in a rea.s.suring tone.
Harley leaned back in his seat, and trusted all now to the wise and considerate driver who had proposed such a plan. The night was just as black as a hat, and the wind and rain moaned over the bleak and lonesome plains. They were far out in Nebraska, and, although they were near the Platte River, it was one of the most thinly inhabited sections of the state. They had not seen a light since leaving the last speaking-place at sundown. Harley wondered at the courage of the pioneers who crossed the great plains amid such a vast loneliness. He and the candidate were tired, and soon ceased to talk. The driver confined his attention to his business. Harley fell into a doze, from which he was awakened after a while by the sudden stoppage of the carriage. The candidate awoke at the same time. The rain had decreased, there was a partial moonlight, and the driver was turning upon them a shamefaced countenance.
”What's the matter?” asked the candidate.
”To tell you the truth, Mr. Grayson,” replied the driver, in an apologetic tone. ”I've gone wrong somehow or other, and I don't know just where we're at.”
”Lost?” said Harley.