14 The People’s Choice

I spent a happy month with Uncle Paul and Aunt Jane, a month of play, and then the call of the clans came again. I was duly elected a delegate to the State Democratic convention, and early in June I went to Lexington to attend it and to help make the next Governor. An entire State ticket was to be nominated, but the interest centered on the governorship, because of its uncertainty. Grey had continued his campaign with great vigor, that is with the use of money which he thought so effective, and Harrison was still acting as his lieutenant. There were five or six other candidates, all obscure mediocre men, though respectable.

When I reached the city, I saw that the Grey delegates and supporters were arriving in great force, with all the whoop and noise that impress the unobservant so much. The city was pervaded by the Grey forces, they were talking Grey everywhere, and in the lobbies of the hotels they were claiming that he was as good as nominated. It was easy enough to see through it all. It is a common device at conventions to attempt a stampede to a candidate who seems far in the lead, and sometimes it succeeds. Harrison, if not Grey, was shrewd enough to see the opportunity and he was making the most of it.

I met Harrison at the entrance to the convention hall, and he seemed in high spirits.

“I think I’ve got you this time, Mr. Clarke,” he said, “you beat me on that apportionment bill, and I didn’t like it, I’m frank to say, but I’m going to put Grey through and make him the next Governor.”

I made an ambiguous reply, and turning away entered the convention hall, more resolved than ever that we should beat Grey, but further than ever from a knowledge how to do it.

I recognized a new note as soon as the convention met. Much of the old suavity and courtesy was gone, it was no longer “my learned friend,” or “my distinguished friend,” when political foe addressed political foe on the floor, but it was the personal attack full of acrimony and hostility, men sought to override each other, to attain the end by any means they could, in short we led to the full what was then popularly called “the strenuous life,” and I am frank to confess that I did not like it.

The first day was a series of unbroken triumphs for Grey. Harrison controlled the convention and carried everything as he wished it to go. Never was there a finer illustration of the old proverb that in union there is strength. The Grey forces, united, were invincible, we, divided, were beaten whenever we made a fight. As Jimmy Warfield whispered to me: “The only thing we can do is to run, and we don’t seem to be such good runners either.”

Grey was suffused with triumph, and he would have made a great display of it had Harrison let him, but his skillful manager kept him, for the time being, in a state of suppression.

We held a meeting that evening in Judge Wharton’s room and I brought up the subject of his candidacy, but he would not hear to it, declining with an emphasis that was little short of being abrupt. Then we talked about three hours and as before all the talk came to nothing. I felt sick and disgusted, and as all my suggestions had been snubbed I decided to leave the meeting, go to my own room, and sleep if I could.

I rose and announced that I would withdraw as we seemed to me to be wasting time, and to my surprise no one made any objection. I was hurt, much hurt, at this proof of indifference from old friends, personal as well as political, and with a brief good night I left the room.

We met again the next morning with a great attendance of both delegates and spectators, and before the convention was a half hour old, I noticed a new feeling in the opposition. It was not a thing that one could see with the eye, or hear with the ear, but it was perceived rather by the undefined and unknown sixth sense. It was a note of union, of hope, and of confidence, but when I sought to trace it to its ultimate source I found that I was on the outside.

The morning passed on and the time for the nominations came. Harrison put the name of Grey before the delegates and he did it extremely well. He sat down amid thunders of applause, which died, rose and died again and again. When they died for the last time, a dead silence of a minute or two followed, and then the oldest delegate in the convention, a man with snow-white hair, who had served in more than a dozen Legislatures, rose and spoke in a voice wonderfully full and clear for one so old.

He had a nominee, he said, and as I glanced at Warfield and the others, I felt convinced that they had settled upon a man. They were calling for a business administration, the aged speaker continued. Well, his nominee would give them one. They were calling for method, order and economy; his nominee would give them as much of those things as they liked or could stand; they wanted a man who would lead the “strenuous life”; his candidate already led it, and did not know how to lead any other; they wanted a young man; his candidate had youth to spare.

The venerable orator paused here, and I sat up in wonder. There was deep silence, too, in the hall, save for the tense breathing of the delegates and the spectators. I saw a look of amazement on Harrison’s face; clearly he was as puzzled as I about the unknown paragon, who was about to be put in nomination, but his look of surprise was reinforced by a look of alarm.

“I name for you,” said the old orator, “a man who has already done the State great service, I name for you a man who will command your unqualified admiration and support, I name for you a man who will lead you to victory as certainly as the sun shines on old Kentucky, I name for you the Honorable Henry Clarke of Sumpter County.”

He turned his gaze full upon me as he pronounced my name and I was dumbfounded. I had never aspired to such an honor, I had never dreamed of it. Now I understood why they had been willing for me to leave the room the night before, why they had kept me out of the secret. I looked at Jimmy Warfield, and his face bore a broad smile of confidence, comradeship and congratulation. Then I glanced at Harrison and I met a furious gaze, so full of rage and accusation, that I was startled. He seemed to say, “You are a traitor, you have sprung this scheme from the dark and at the last moment to surprise and beat us.” I do not claim to be a meek man and my blood leaped up to meet his threat and challenge. I think that otherwise I should have declined the nomination, but I could not let myself be browbeaten by Harrison—he had no claim on me, just the contrary—and settling back in my seat, I returned his look with another of defiance.

The convention, delegates and spectators, burst into thunders of applause. I do not know why my name pleased them, but it seemed to do so, and the cheers rolled up in increasing volume. Among the spectators many ladies were waving their handkerchiefs.

That great, that indescribable thrill of triumph shot through me again; the overwhelming applause of one’s countrymen is a heady, an intoxicating thing, and I do not wonder that the men who have drunk deeply of it have thought themselves on the steps just below the gods and have done foolish things. There is nothing in this world just like it.

I arose quickly and left the hall, as it was no longer meet that I, whose name had been put before the convention, should stay there, and take part in its deliberations. It was my first intention to go at once to my hotel, but I changed it and walked out into the country to steady my nerves. It all seemed wonderful, but I knew it was true, that I, who had been a convict, who was yet under thirty, should be the Governor—I had a premonition as certain to me as fact that I should be both nominated and elected. Never had the wheel of fortune made a more violent revolution.

I must have walked two or three hours—I was not able to take thought of time—and with my mingled emotions under better control, I turned back to the city, and entered my hotel. The first man who met me there was Grey himself, and all his true nature showed at once. He seemed to make no effort to keep his passions under, but, his face flushed and his hands clinching and unclinching, reproached me with foul names and personal abuse.

“Stop,” I said—I had made up my mind to take no nonsense from him—“I have as much right as you to run for Governor. I was not one of your supporters, I was against you, I told you that frankly, and if I have friends enough to nominate me, I shall not try to keep them from doing it.”

“It is secret! Underhand! You are always in my way!” he said thickly.

I hate a vulgar brawl, and I was very glad at that moment to see Harrison approaching. He had recovered his self-command, and was once more his light and jeering self. He put his hand upon Grey’s arm and his touch was the command of the superior man to the inferior. Grey seemed to shrink physically.

“Come, Mr. Grey,” said Harrison calmly. “We are not beaten yet. Mr. Clarke, as he says, has a right to run, although he had never led us to expect such a thing.”

“I did not expect it myself,” I said, and then angry that I should have said a single word of a defensive nature, I added:

“But had it been otherwise, it would not have altered my right.”

Grey’s wrath was about to blaze up again, but his manager checked him.

“That is true,” said Harrison. “Come, Mr. Grey. We can’t wish you good luck in this instance, Mr. Clarke.”

I bowed shortly to them, as they turned away, and then went up to my room, where I awaited the end. That end, and how it was reached, I shall describe in the words of Jimmy Warfield.

“It was a coup d’etat, and we had arranged it with the greatest care,” said Jimmy afterward. “We didn’t let you into it because we were afraid you would spoil things—you can be such a stubborn fool when you wish—besides you were our only chance and we didn’t want to take risks. Well, we were able to spring the trap in the most dramatic manner. It was a happy idea to have old Synonds nominate you, age presenting youth, and didn’t he do it beautifully!”

“We were finely launched by old man Synonds and the Grey crowd were completely surprised. They had never thought of you, and they took fright at once. Good cause they had. It was really no task to beat that fellow Grey after the opposition was consolidated. Most of the little fellows dropped out at once in your favor, leaving only two in, besides Grey and yourself. The first ballot gave you a majority of eighty over Grey, but not a majority over all. On the second the two remaining little fellows withdrew, and you received more than two thirds the vote of the convention.

“Harrison has a good nerve. He rose, and, without a sign of chagrin, moved that your nomination be made unanimous. It was done, and you are the Democratic nominee for Governor of Kentucky. It’s a big honor, Harry Clarke, now what do you propose to do about it?”

My eyes became wet, and again forgetting my power I grasped his hand and gave it a grip that made him wince with pain.

“If I am elected Governor,” I said, “I shall try to deserve the place.”

“Well,” said Jimmy whimsically, “that makes me think of the epitaph those Western cowboys put over one of their number; ‘he done his damnedest; angels could do no more.’ Stick to that principle, Harry.”

Peden was put on the ticket with me for the Lieutenant Governorship, an act of the convention that delighted me greatly, and, as good men were chosen for all the other places, too, I felt that I should have the aid of a strong ticket. Then the convention adjourned and I took the train for home, still wondering at the great and unexpected event that had happened in my life. Jimmy Warfield left me at Louisville, and he said:

“I’ll do my best for you, Harry. No you don’t! Just a mild handshake if you please.”

I smiled at the recollection, and moderated the pressure. A few hours later I was in Carlton, and then home. Uncle Paul and Aunt Jane were not demonstrative, but I could see their deep satisfaction. Uncle Paul said quietly:

“I wasn’t surprised, Harry: I had got a hint that they were thinking about you.”

I remembered now our evening on the porch and the questions that he had asked me, and I realized how little a man often knows of an event in which he is to be the central figure.

Although letters at once came to me in a flood, and some visitors, too, I did not attempt for several days to do any real work. The fourth day after my return, I was sitting on the back porch, meditating a course of action, when Uncle Paul handed me a letter in a square envelope, faintly tinted blue.

“The postman just left that,” he said, “It looks like a lady’s letter, and I guess it’s a request already for a position.”

But I .knew even before I looked at the address, who had written the letter. It was something about the envelope, an indefinable air of resemblance to her, perhaps the touch of her hand or the faint fragrance of her breath that told me, but be it any one of those or something else I could not be mistaken.

I sat a few moments with the letter in my hand before opening it. Fate had again played us strange pranks. I had snatched the nomination from Alicia’s husband. Would she blame me? She did not love her husband, rather she hated him, but she bore his name, and she might have been the Governor’s wife. It is impossible to foresee always the motives that will move even the best. I felt that, if Alicia blamed me I could put little heart in the campaign, and thus I hesitated. I opened the letter at last and read what she wrote.

“I was surprised at your nomination,” she said, “but it has caused me no pain, rather pleasure. I was opposed from the first to Mr. Grey’s candidacy. I did not believe that the office would suit him, nor that he would suit the office, nor have I ever believed that he could get the nomination. But that it would suit you and that you would suit it I do believe. It is better then that you should be the man.

“I know that you will make a vigorous campaign and I have no doubt of your election. All this I think is coming to you because you deserve it. It seems to me that there is a certain balance preserved in the lives of many of us. You suffered a great and terrible punishment for something that you did not do, and now you are having a great reward as an atonement.”

She wrote more, saying things that showed, however poor and little a man is, he may be large and fine in a woman’s eyes. It seemed to me that what she called my punishment, but which in reality was the making of me, would always illumine me in Alicia’s sight with a fictitious glow.

I folded up the letter, opened it and read it again. It was unsigned, though I believe that Alicia had written to me without any intention of secrecy. Had the letter come to the attention of her husband, she would have said, at once that it was hers, and would have made no apologies. But I tore it into little bits, which I threw away one by one, and then watched the wind take them out of sight.

She had not condemned me. She had approved, and I felt that I could now enter upon my fight, fully armed.

The contest would not be long delayed. Peden and I were to make speeches together and he was coming to Carlton to join me. He arrived a few days later, and I met him at the station. He gave me a hearty grasp of the hand and said:

“We’ve as good as won already, Mr. Clarke. I’m proud to be on the ticket with you, and I’m proud to make a campaign with you.”

Good old Peden! He was ever blind to my faults, and with his homely wit and strong character he was certainly a tower of strength when we began our tour. I do not propose to enter into any detailed description of the way in which we made our speeches or the manner in which they were received. Where it dealt with these details our campaign did not differ greatly from other campaigns, and I enjoyed the travelling, the crowds, and also the controversy. The demands of energy and ambition alike were satisfied and the days were very full.

I was anxious to see the attitude of Harrison and Grey, and when Jimmy Warfield joined me at Paris, which, as all know, is in the famous old county of Bourbon, I asked:

“Jimmy, have you heard anything from Harrison? Is he taking any part in the campaign?”

Warfield gave me a comprehensive look and then smiled.

“I was expecting that question from you,” he replied, “and I’m a little bit surprised that you haven’t asked it sooner. He made great professions of loyalty, but I haven’t heard yet of his doing anything.”

“Then you call upon him to speak,” I said. “You’re one of the committee and you have the right. He ought to do his part.”

“It shall be done,” replied Warfield decisively. “I’m glad to see that you’re taking the bull by the horns, or rather Harrison by the hair. We must know whether his crowd are going to support you or sulk?”

I was in Covington a few days later and I read there in a Cincinnati paper that Harrison had made two speeches for me. I knew that it was a bitter pill for him, but I did not see any reason why he should not take it; he was a party man, and if Grey had secured the nomination, he would have expected me to speak for him.

We stayed in Covington only a day and then we went southeast into the mountains, where for about a week we were cut off from railroad or telegraphic connection. When we returned to the railroad station, coming on horseback, I naturally looked with much interest at the few newspapers that we could obtain. It was a Republican organ that I secured first and it devoted much space to the campaign. Partisanship is still rather strong in our State, and it jeered at my speeches, which I did not mind, and also had some personal ridicule for me which I did not mind either, but a short editorial paragraph claimed my startled attention. It was frivolously worded, but it sent a shiver through me. It read:

“Where was Harry when the light went out? We know Mr. Clarke’s record since he suddenly reappeared at his old home, but where was he for three or four years before that time? Who will answer.”

I looked at the words, common black ink on a common white paper, but as I looked they seemed to burn like red fire. They say the wicked flee when no man pursueth, and I was not guilty, but there was a hidden page in my life that I intended should remain hidden, and, whether the question was winged by chance or purpose, it made me turn cold. My thoughts reverted to Harrison, but to Peden and the others I affected unconcern, and said that all the news of the campaign was most favorable.

We passed westward and the query about the blank space in my life was repeated. It began to grow in circulation and volume; some secret agency seemed to keep it going and to be continually breathing new life into it. In itself it was not important to the public, but it was made to appear so, and my opponents were now after me about it in full cry. I will not deny that it caused me many painful moments, my past life was vulnerable and as a little thing may grow into a big one, the opposition, press and speakers were making the most of what they chose to call “The Great Mystery in the Life of the Democratic Candidate.” The very fact that it remained unanswered and unexplained caused it to grow.

I came to Louisville at last and I spoke there to a great audience which was enthusiastic and which cheered me plentifully, but toward the close some one raised the foolish cry, “Where was Harry when the light went out?” which the opposition had now turned into a catch word. I took no notice of it, and it soon died, as the crowd was friendly, but I did not fail to remember it, and I felt that I must soon take action to stop it.

Another thing that made me ignore for the present the silly, but most annoying cry, was the presence of a pale, lovely, but infinitely sad face in the gallery. I had not seen it until near the close of my address and then I felt a sudden thrill of pride and joy because Alicia had come to hear me. She, too, must be troubled by the question they were raising and I would not have her to think it frightened me. I noticed that she was with Mrs. Guthrie and under the cover of her friend I resolved to speak with her later on, if I could find a good opportunity.

The audience went out slowly after the speech, and as I lingered in the rear I caught a glimpse of the smoothly-shaven, earnest face of the young Member of Congress from the city, Mr. Guthrie. I knew that his wife and Alicia would be near, and letting the crowd thin yet more I overtook him just as he joined the ladies. He gave me a hearty welcome, spoke well of my speech, and told me that I had two devoted political followers in Mrs. Guthrie and Mrs. Grey.

These were but the commonplaces of meeting and I uttered my own in a similar vein, but I waited meanwhile to speak with Alicia, unheard by the others. It came presently. Guthrie went on ahead with Mrs. Guthrie, and I came behind with Alicia.

“You heard that cry,” I said. “They wanted to know where I was in all the years before I came back to Carlton.”

“Yes, I heard,” she replied, as her lips trembled and her face, if possible, grew whiter than ever, “and I understood. Some one suspects, some one instigates this cry, I have seen it before in the papers. Oh, Harry, how much better it would have been if you had never seen me again! I always wish you the best of fortune, and I can never bring you anything but misfortune!”

“You have brought me all of good that I have,” I replied, “and there is nothing to lament. Without that incident in our lives I should have gone straight to ruin.”

“If it is about to become known,” she said, “if they are about to learn where you were, I shall tell the whole truth. I shall tell how I, a weak coward, let you suffer for me. But, Harry, I have been awfully punished!”

Her hands clinched and unclinched, and I saw that she had a touch of hysteria.

“I am going to explain,” I said gently.

“Not that you were there—in that horrible place?”

“No, but I will say what I was before I came back, that I was in the West, that I was a degraded, dissipated creature.”

“Dissipated, you might have been, degraded, no.”

We were in the street now and Guthrie had called his carriage.

“Leave it to me, won’t you?” I entreated. “For both our sakes say nothing. Promise.”

“If you wish it,” she replied faintly, yielding to my will.

I helped her into the carriage beside Mrs. Guthrie and then the three of them drove away. Poor Alicia! How often have I repeated that phrase, and how much oftener have I thought it?

I spoke the next day at Shelbyville and there I replied to the famous Republican campaign catchword, “Where was Harry when the light went out?” I said that my past had not been what I could have wished, I said that there were disgraceful things in it, that I had not lived as I should have lived, but that, I claimed, concerned me alone. Whatever faults and sins I had committed I had paid for them and I had paid in full. Young blood often rose too high and it would serve no good purpose to rake up the old disgraceful records of my youth. I denied nothing, I admitted everything, and it was for the people to judge.

A great audience was present at the speech, and I soon saw that it was with me. One who is in the habit of addressing crowds soon learns to feel the sympathy or hostility of those present, it is like a breath of air or an aroma, and one is rarely mistaken. The public is a terrible master, but on occasion it can be kind as well as cruel, and that day it was kind.

In our State the sins of youth have always been considered venial, and while I hoped for nothing more than forgiveness and forgetfulness, my explanation and apology seemed to make capital for me. I was suddenly, and, not wholly to my pleasure, invested with the glamour of romance, I was the lost sheep who had returned to the fold, and hence there was more joy over me than over those who had never had occasion to repent.

My speech was thus, to me, morally a boomerang. I had made capital out of my past dissipated life, though not intending it, and I felt guilty because the full truth, the real truth, the story of the convict stripes had not been told. The newspapers took up the cry, they said I had made an ample reply to the infamous catchword of the opposition, “Where was Harry when the light went out?” I had done the manful thing, and since the vultures of the opposition had insisted upon knowing all about a boy’s light sins, I had stood up like a hero and confessed them. No one could say that I was not honest, truthful and open.

The campaign presently brought me to Lexington and there I had a call at the hotel from Harrison. No one else was in the room when he entered and he bowed to me with a gravity which was not wholly without a trace of irony.

“You are making a fine campaign, Mr. Clarke,” he said, “that speech of yours at Shelbyville explaining the mystery of your lost years was a masterpiece.”

I regarded him suspiciously, and for a moment my heart stood still. But a man in public life learns self control, and my face did not change.

“It was not intended to make votes,” I said.

“It has earned you at least five thousand.”

I made no comment on his statement. I noticed that he was scrupulously dressed and the dark shade under his eyes had disappeared.

“I thank you for the speeches you made for me,” I said.

“Oh, you’re welcome,” he replied lightly. “I’m sorry you had to call upon me for them, but I was preoccupied with something else. Isn’t Grey too going to speak for you.”

“Not unless he does it of his own accord. I don’t want him.”

He laughed with sincere spontaneous mirth.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “George Grey would injure any campaign that he favored. I think the greatest tribute to my own ability is the fact that I nearly nominated him for Governor, despite what he is.”

“You are pretty frank about your late chief,” I said.

“Why not? He probably uses much rougher words about me. The fool blames me for the loss of the nomination when he wouldn’t have had the ghost of a chance alone. And—there are other things that keeps us now from being such good friends.”

It was on the tip of my tongue to say “Pauline Harmon,” but it was merely an impulse and I restrained it. He spoke again of my campaign, asking questions about the feeling in different parts of the State and volunteering further help, if it was needed, but I felt all the while that his talk was merely perfunctory. It was but the cloak for a critical examination of me that he was making, as if he were seeking to classify me or to infer something from my mental attitude. Harrison, I knew, was a man of extremely acute perception, and I felt the old shiver again, although I turned a calm face to him.

“I am going to New York to-morrow,” he said, “but I shall return to Kentucky in time to see you elected.”

“I shall be elected. I have no doubt of it,” I said.

When he left the room my confidence returned, and when a delegation to see me entered, the doubt was gone entirely.

The summer passed, autumn came, and the campaign was progressing splendidly. The foolish cry, “Where was Harry when the light went out?” was no longer raised, and it began to pass from my mind.

The autumn was one of great beauty in the State of Kentucky. The forests blazed with red and gold and the air had all the crisp tonic of youth. The labors of the campaign, which are never light, had not hurt me, rather I thrived upon them, drawing strength and stimulation from the excitement, and the alternations of fear and hope.

Jimmy Warfield arrived at Carlton the day before the election to bear me company through the ordeal, as the best man goes with the bridegroom, to the altar—and with perhaps the same uncertainty. But he breathed only confidence, he was optimistic, sanguine, irrepressible, the best of comrades at such a time. Sheaves of telegrams, wishing me success, arrived on the eve of election, and Aunt Jane, as she carefully stacked them on the parlor table, watched the pile with pride as it grew higher and higher. That night, which was quite cold, we sat with several other friends, who arrived during the day, and talked of almost everything except the election. It was a cheerful group and Jimmy Warfield was the life of it.

“What office are you going to give me, Harry?” he asked.

“None,” I replied. “You can’t have any except that for which you are chosen by the people.”

But he was the kind whom the people would always choose. He knew it and he knew that I knew it.

I do not propose to describe election day nor election night, because both were uneventful. The returns began to come early and they were favorable from the beginning. Although many portions of Eastern Kentucky are far distant from the railroad and their votes could not be sent in for several days, the result was known without the shadow of doubt by midnight. My majority would be at least fifty thousand, and Jimmy Warfield, rising, said gravely:

“Harry, you are now the Governor-elect of Kentucky.”

I was, for the moment, overpowered. Although knowing that it would come I could scarcely believe in my own elevation now that it had come.

“I have had many friends,” I said, “and now I hope that they will help me.”

The words came from the bottom of my heart

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