Among the vote-distributors was a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance, and who, by means of the winning manner he possessed, disposed of a large number of tickets, even to men of the opposing party. "Vote for Laneville! vote for Laneville!" was his constant cry, save when he, in well-chosen words, proclaimed the ability and worthiness of his candidate. Some said he was urged on by selfish motives; that, as he was a clerk of Laneville's, the election of that candidate would be much to his pecuniary benefit. But James Clifton cared for none of these insinuations.
"Well, deacon, my dear, dear deacon, who do you vote for?" inquired a stanch teetotaller, as an old gentleman approached. The person addressed, after a little hesitation, during which a few nervous twinges of the mouth betrayed his nervousness of conscience, and the debate going on in his heart between consistency and principles on the one side, and party names and measures on the other, replied, "Well, well,"-then a pause,—"well, I don't know; go for the best man, I s'pose."
"Here's the ticket, sir! the best man, sir, is Laneville! vote for Laneville!" shouted James, as he thrust his ticket into the hands of the old gentleman, and, laying hold of his arm, led him into the room, and saw him deposit the vote of a temperance advocate for a rumseller! James laughed well over his victory, while the distributors of the temperance tickets felt somewhat ill at ease in seeing him whom they thought their truest friend desert them in the hour of need, and give his vote and influence for the other party.
The day ended; the votes were counted, and Laneville was proclaimed elected by a majority of one!
The night was one of carousal. The betting on both sides had been considerable, and the payment of these debts caused the small change to circulate pretty freely among the dispensers of eatables and drinkables.
This night James yielded more easily than ever before to the cravings of an appetite that began to master him.
Poor fellow! Deluded man! A fond, a devoted, a trusting wife waiting at home, watching the hands of the clock as they neared the mark of twelve, and listening for thy footfall! Thou, trusting in thine own strength, but to learn thy weakness, lying senseless among thy drinking mates in the hall of dissolute festivity!
Tom Moore may sing in praise of "wine and its sparkling tide;" but the sighing of wronged women and their tears shall toll the requiem of its praise.
CHAPTER VIII.
Notwithstanding the entreaties of George, added to those of Josephine, James continued in the way he had begun to walk, and which was leading him to ruin. The arguments of the one, and the tears of the other, were equally unavailing.