The Hon. Rufus Heath remained at home during the eventful day. He had no doubt as to the result of the election, and felt certain that he would carry it. Candidates always feel so. The amazing self-conceit that induces every ticket-holder in a lottery to expect a prize would permit no other supposition than one of success. Still, being a cautious man, he was anxious to have his belief corroborated. Meanwhile so confident was he of the issue, that he employed himself in preparing a draught of his inaugural address, and revolving in his mind a proper disposition of his affairs preparatory to a removal of his home to the capital of the State. He anticipated, too, no little gratification in teaching his opponent a lesson, for he deemed it no less than a piece of impertinence that an obscure village lawyer, who had acquired some cheap fame by vulgar appeals as a stump speaker, should presume to cross swords with him in a contest for position. At length night came, and towards ten o'clock a messenger brought various returns that had been announced, almost all indicating majorities in his favor. He went to bed, but found it difficult to court slumber with such a stake still weighing in the balance. The next morning he became rather uneasy as the minutes passed and no friend came to congratulate him on the result. Mumbie, he certainly expected would have been on hand betimes. The newspaper, too, did not arrive at the usual hour, delayed probably to give the latest results of the canvassing. At length it came, and he saw at a glance from the returns of certain decisive counties that he was defeated.
The editor endeavored to depreciate the importance of these indications by stating that the final result was still in doubt; that later news might alter the complexion of things, etc. But Mr. Heath was not to be deluded by such assertions, and was convinced that he and his party had lost. As the first check in a career of uninterrupted prosperity, it proved a bitter disappointment; so bitter, that he lost his temper—an unusual occurrence for him—swore at James for some trivial offence, snarled at Mrs. Applegate, and snubbed poor Mumbie, who had come rather blunderingly to sympathize with him. To one unaccustomed to obstacles and reverses they come with double severity, and Mr. Heath took his defeat deeply to heart. Friends, to be sure, proffered condolences, advising him to try again; that in the next attempt he would certainly be successful, etc., etc.; but a sense of discouragement had taken possession of him which no sympathy or counsel could remove. Probably the bitterest pill to swallow was the discovery that his own county and town had given a large majority against him. He was much surprised at this, being utterly unconscious of his personal unpopularity. Small comfort he got too from George Gildersleeve, who never spared a beaten adversary, and gripping the patrician's hand when he met him a few days after, bade him be of good cheer in such words as these: "Sorry for you, Heath, but it couldn't be helped. I could have told you how it would be. Too much of the old Democratic leaven about here. This county cooked your mutton, and I carry it in my breeches pocket. Liked to have helped you—you're an old friend; but you can't expect us to desert our life-long principles, scratch our ticket, and go for outsiders when the woolly-heads are getting so rampant. There is no safety in these times but sticking to the old ship. But I wouldn't be down in the mouth about it. If you'll only come round to our side of the house, I'll engage to send a good-looking man of about your size to Trenton or Washington. You ought to be there; you've got the brains, and have forgotten more than half those fellers ever knew; but you ain't the right stripe, that's the trouble, and you're on the wrong track."
Mr. Heath endeavored to take this advice good-humoredly, and attempted a smile at the blunt sallies; but the smile was a forced one, or a "yellow laugh," as the French express it.
XI.
It was long past midnight, and between the small hours that usher in the light of a new day, when the stillness of the mansion on the cliff was broken by a piercing shriek. It was an appalling cry of distress that awoke the slumberers and froze the timid ones to their couches with fear. Mr. Heath sprang from his bed, and ran precipitately to his daughter-in-law's apartment, whence the cry proceeded. Poor Mercedita met him at the door in her night-dress, and in answer to his inquiries pointed in speechless horror at the floor of her dressing-room, where lay stiff and stark the body of her husband!
Jack Heath had come home the previous night for the first time since his fortnight's debauch. He was in a shocking condition, with filthy clothes, and a bad bruise over one eye, resulting, doubtless, from a fall. His wife, incensed at his conduct, refused to speak or notice him; and Jack, still tipsily stupid, threw himself on a lounge in the dressing-room to sleep. During the night he awoke; tormented by the "horrors," and thirsting for some stimulating liquid, he seized a crystal flask of cologne that lay on the toilet-table, and drank it to appease the infernal craving that possessed him. The congested condition of his brain, super-excited by this fiery draught, induced apoplexy, and the stroke was fatal. His wife, asleep in the adjoining room, awoke soon after, and not hearing his usual heavy breathing, was much surprised. She imagined he must have left the room, and after waiting awhile, arose from her bed, went into the dressing-room, where there was a dim light burning, and found that he had fallen from the lounge and lay on the floor. She shook him without effect; raised his arm—it fell rigidly. She tried to arouse him, called him loudly, but the dull ear heard not, for the sleep that bound him knew no waking; and then, as the truth flashed on her, with a shriek she summoned the household. They led her away, agitated, probably, more by terror than grief, but Mr. Heath remained gazing at the corpse of his only son. What a spectacle to meet a father's eye was this inert bulk, repulsive with the stigmas of dissipation fresh upon it! In the middle ages the heir of the house fell in battle, killed perhaps by the shot of an arquebuse or the blow of a partisan; or he met his death in some midnight encounter, and was brought home with a broken rapier and doublet dripping with blood—there is romance in that. But now he falls a victim to the bottle, and furnishes but a vulgar theme. Nevertheless the drama is none the less real. Mr. Heath's contemplation was sad, but full of worldly reasoning. The curse of unearned wealth, he mused, has fallen on my son. Had he been the child of a bricklayer or born to labor, he would have been alive now; or had not the blood of the Obershaws with its coarse appetites, predominated, he might have been an honor to me. Unmoved remained Mr. Heath as he philosophized thus, until the sight of his daughter's emotion, as she covered her dead brother's face with tears and kisses, stirred the parent within him, and his eyes clouded and cold features relaxed.
Another funeral, another solemn procession to the tolling of the bell of St. Jude's, and the body of John Peter Heath was laid beside that of his grandsire in the family vault, in the yard of the little church.