  One Friday Klove was hanged. The public prints of the following day were filled with details of the occurrence, and Mrs. Applegate, mindful of the doctor's injunctions, strove to keep her brother from reading them. A futile effort, though, for Mr. Heath, on finding that the newspapers were not brought to him at the usual time, rang the bell violently, and rated the servant soundly for the omission. The magnifico was in his chamber, and looked as aged as a man of eighty. His hair and beard had turned white, his eyes were cavernous and feverishly bright. Roused momentarily by the incident just mentioned, he returned to his seat in an arm-chair near the fire, where, wrapped in a dressing-gown, he had probably passed the night, as his couch was undisturbed. He soon relapsed into a gloomy meditation, holding in his hands the folded newspaper, which he apparently hesitated and dreaded to read. Suddenly, with an effort, his fingers spread the sheet open, and he scanned the columns rapidly until his eyes rested on the account of Klove's execution. To an unusually long description of the horrible affair was appended what purported to be the confession of the malefactor, made to the clergyman in attendance, and reported verbatim. It ran thus:
Rufus Heath read those lines with dilated eyes and shortened breath, like one undergoing the rack. When he had finished, he let the paper drop and uttered a deep groan. His head sank back on his chair, and he pressed his hands over his temples and brow as if to smother distracting thoughts. He remained thus for some time, until a light hand was placed on his shoulder, when he started as if it had been a blow. The intruder was Edna, who, having knocked at the door and receiving no reply, had entered the room with some anxiety. "Father, dear father, how you frighten me! What ails you? Are you in pain?" exclaimed she, alarmed at his wild aspect. "Do tell me, please tell me, what is the matter?" "Matter—matter," repeated Mr. Heath abstractedly, as he rose and walked towards the window. "No—no—nothing, child, nothing. Why do you—Ring the bell for James and leave me—leave me, I tell you. I have business to occupy me." He was rattling his fingers nervously on the window-panes as he spoke, and looking vacantly out. His daughter strove to draw him aside, and looking in his face asked anxiously if she might be permitted to send for a physician. "I'm sure there's something the matter with you—you look so very, very strange. Do please, father, may I?" "No, no, no! Leave me, Edna, and do as I bid you." She obeyed, and Mr. Heath made a struggle to regain his self-possession. When the servant came, he directed him to bring a decanter of brandy. As soon as it was brought, with a trembling hand he poured out a tumblerful and gulped it down. It seemed to affect him no more than so much water, and pacing the room, he forced a laugh as he soliloquized: "Idiot, idiot, and threefold fool! What is it to me that this vagabond and ruffian has met his deserts? Nothing, surely nothing. Then why should I worry about it? Why should I be tormented and maddened by it? Those who murder must expect to be hung. A man is responsible only for his own crimes—the crimes he himself commits, and surely none other, none other. What a monstrous, cruel, wicked doctrine it would be that would hold men to account for the remote and indirect consequences of trivial and commonplace acts. Skilful lawyers cheat justice every day; thousands and thousands of villains have been rescued from the clutches of the law by their paid advocates, and set loose on society, to again plunder and kill. As well hold these advocates responsible for the crimes subsequently committed by their clients, as to tax me with—pshaw! it's too absurd to deserve a moment's thought. What a simpleton I am to quake like a puny child because a low ruffian meets his merited fate! How ridiculous—absurd—preposterous! No, no; I am getting old and childish—old and childish," he continued to croon, until interrupted by the entrance of a servant with luncheon, who was quickly bidden to withdraw. The luncheon remained untouched. Again in the arm-chair, and staring with a look of despair at the fire; again torturing thoughts seethe in his brain. The pirate Klove was hung yesterday for murder. What a blood-stained desperado he was, and what a life he had led! Where was his soul now? Who would exchange places with him to gain the whole world? And all this had arisen, he said, from the dishonesty of some one who had caused him to be unjustly accused of stealing a small sum of money. What a flimsy and shameless apology! What an atrocious attempt to shift the responsibility of hellish deeds to other shoulders; to drag some innocent person to everlasting perdition with him! Suppose Cook, his employer, had really given him the money, and had no intention of wrongfully accusing him—what then? Perhaps the money was lost, and if so, if any one had found it they would naturally have kept it. Of course, anybody would do that. It's a very common thing for persons to do. It is an everyday occurrence. No one but a fool would act otherwise. Ten dollars is but a trifle, and to attribute to the loss of a sum so paltry such terrible, awful consequences, is simply ridiculous. But the boy should not have been allowed to rest under the imputation of having stolen it. He should have been saved from arrest. They discharged him—yes, they discharged him. He was not long imprisoned. True, but he should have been cleared from suspicion at any cost—any cost! His innocence proclaimed in thunder tones far and wide! To omit that was wrong, fearfully, bitterly wrong! Not doing so, forced him to leave home in disgrace; made him an outcast, killed his mother, drove his sister to shame. Horror!... And he thanked the kind gentleman who had been so good to him, and with his dying breath, bade God bless and reward him! "O Christ, help—help me!" These last words escaped from Mr. Heath in a lacerating cry. He pressed his hands to his face as if to shut out some horrifying sight, and remained so until he gradually fell into a dreamy stupor. The excited mind ceased to work, and became numb. Luminous images floated before his mental vision, and kaleidoscopic interminglings of uncouth objects and faces. Then the wearied and distracted brain lapsed into a feverish slumber—a slumber alive with fearful visions. He dreamt he was in a prison-cell. It was night, and the grated door swung open to admit the jailer and hangman. They pinioned him, and led him out to the scaffold. At the foot of the gallows lay a coffin, containing the corpse of Klove, with horribly distorted features. The hangman was about pulling a cap over his face, when Mr. Heath awoke with trembling limbs, and a cold sweat starting from every pore. It was evening, for he had lain in that stupor and sleep for hours. Again he resorted to the brandy to dissipate the lingering impressions of the frightful nightmare, and then rang the bell. The servant appeared, and desired to know what his master wanted. Nothing—nothing. Yes, to have light in the library—he would read. Did Mr. Heath wish to have dinner brought up to him? No, no; leave me—leave me. The man lit the gas in the library, replenished the grate, and left. The library was the room adjoining Mr. Heath's, and thither he went. He took a volume from a shelf, and returned to his apartment; then resumed his seat and lethargic stare at the fire. The book fell unheeded from his grasp. Hours passed, and again the coarse, distorted, purple features of Klove appeared—once the countenance of a timid boy, who stood falsely accused and cowering before a stern magistrate; thence driven by a storm of hisses, and flying from home, followed by a widowed mother and child-sister. And the brand THIEF clings to the hapless lad, and enmeshes him in a web of misfortune; now reckless with despair, he plunges into vice and crime, until the law forces him to yield up his spotted soul on the gallows! And how fared the real thief? He, sly and sharp, in sudden glee at his trover, bought with it a lottery ticket that drew a prize. This windfall, shrewdly invested, brought him a fortune, then an heiress; and thus he waxed in wealth and station, until he became one whose possessions bred envy, and whose position commanded respect; while the innocent and wrongly accused boy became an outcast, a criminal—an assassin! Driven to perdition by the wealthy and respectable citizen! "It's a dream—a dream. The foolish dream of an enfeebled man, whose reason and judgment are failing and wandering; who is frightened at shadows conjured by his imagination. My mind wanders. Why will those dreadful thoughts return? That sinking terror!" "I must leave this room—this place—for the air is full of jibing imps!... I must go, for all this luxury mocks me. Away from this roof—from these ponderous walls, that are loaded with iniquity, or they will fall and crush me.... In some quiet, retired spot I may live in happiness and peace...." Mr. Heath left his room, and with stealthy steps descended the stairs. It was late; the house was silent; all had retired for the night save he. With nimble fingers he opened the hall-door noiselessly, and went out on the lawn. He was bareheaded, and in his dressing-gown and slippers. The night was dark, gloomy, and rainy. The cold drops falling on his unprotected head seemed to soothe and refresh him. "So, so—this is better," he exclaimed, with a sigh of relief. "How dreadful was all that pomp and glitter! How fortunate I am to have escaped from those torturing, horrible riches! That wealth was consuming me like licking flames—that load of ill-gotten money crushing my poor brain—my poor brain. Now I am free, free! and will seek a home where poverty, and peace, and happiness abide." With almost preternatural adroitness he picked his way, in spite of the obscurity, over his grounds and out at a postern gate to the open road. He walked along rapidly, and seemed intent on reaching the town. He changed his apparent intention, however, for he retraced his steps and turned abruptly into a by-path that led along the river-side. On he went towards the cliff, proceeding as unerringly as if in broad daylight, and without the slightest hesitation, guided, perhaps, by some instinct similar to the marvellous second-sight of the somnambulist. The least deviation might have brought him to the edge of the precipice. At length he reached the foot-bridge. It was a frail structure of wood spanning the chasm, with its ends resting on the lofty basaltic walls. Mr. Heath was about to cross this bridge, but stopped midway and gazed in the direction of the town only to be distinguished by the faint glimmer of a few lights. He seemed absorbed in reflection, and stood there in that wild, rainy night, unmindful of the cold and wet, and motionless amid the continual thunder of the falling waters, visible through the blackness in swiftly agitated scrolls of snowy foam. But his thoughts were elsewhere; back to the time when he was a young man beginning life, and had seen the boy Klove standing on that bridge with his little sister by him! The two children were staring in open-eyed awe at the appalling depth below them, and the boy held the girl tightly by the hand in precaution. It seemed but yesterday. He, Heath, then a clerk, was taking some papers to Mr. Obershaw, when he passed those two innocent children on the bridge. Better for them—far better, had he flung them both into the raging torrent below! Again he met the boy at old Van Slyke's store. There was a dispute about a missing bank-note, and the lad was in dismay at the loss. He, Heath, had seen the note fall on the floor, and put his foot on it. He could distinctly recall the feeling of gratification with which he slyly secured it, and the singular superstitious prompting that induced him to buy a lottery ticket with it. That bank-note had borne him luck, and proved the corner-stone of his opulence and grandeur; and its loss had entailed the destruction of two souls! What fearful, fatal results from so light a theft! How deeply had the boy fallen—a malefactor, a deeply-dyed murderer, and his sister—that helpless child! O Christ! that awful conscience-throe! Why had he not sent them both to eternity then? Better for them and for him. Mercy, mercy! that terrible lead-like load is coming again, and pressing—pressing so fearfully on the throbbing brain. Help—O God!... Easier now—and hark! A voice seems calling to him. No, it's but the sighing wind. Oh for rest, and forgetfulness, and peace! Rest and oblivion. Take all—all! and give me that. Cannot wealth buy it? It is there, though—down there! How quietly those black boulders sleep amid that boiling foam. One leap and I am free! With a frantic toss of his arms Rufus Heath flung himself off the bridge. A form vanished into the dark abyss, and all was over. Sullenly and persistently, as before, the Passaic plunged over the steep, bearing in its rapid tide the magnifico of Belton, like a drifting log. Early the next morning, as some artisans were going to their work and walking along the riversde, their attention was attracted by a partly submerged object near the bank. It was the body of Rufus Heath, kept to the surface by the swirl of an eddy. With the assistance of a boat, the corpse was drawn ashore, and kept there until the coroner could be summoned. Like wild-fire the news spread through Belton, and crowds hurried to see the drowned body of its chief citizen. And then through the circle of gaping, curious spectators came a cry of anguish that separated them like the thrust of a sword; and they hustled aside as the daughter hastened with faltering steps to her dead father. With clasped hands, knit brows, and brimming eyes the poor child knelt to embrace the wet and bruised head. Her low quivering sobs awed them all, until George Gildersleeve, tenderly unclasping her clinging arms, raised her fainting form, and bore her away. |
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