Beulah - Page 285/348

Eugene half rose at this insulting mention of his wife's name, but

the song was now ringing around him, and, sinking back, he, too,

raised his unsteady voice. Again and again the words were madly

shouted; and then, dashing his empty glass against the marble

mantel, Proctor swore he would not drink another drop. What a

picture of degradation! Disordered hair, soiled clothes, flushed,

burning cheeks, glaring eyes, and nerveless hands. Eugene attempted

to rise, but fell back in his chair, tearing off his cravat, which

seemed to suffocate him. Proctor, who was too thoroughly inured to

such excesses to feel it as sensibly as the remainder of the party,

laughed brutally, and, kicking over a chair which stood in his way,

grasped his host by the arm, and exclaimed: "Come out of this confounded room; it is as hot as a furnace; and

let us have a ride to cool us. Come. Munroe and Cowdon must look

after the others. By Jove, Graham, old father Bacchus himself could

not find fault with your cellar. Come."

Each took a cigar from the stand and descended to the front door,

where a light buggy was waiting the conclusion of the revel. It was

a cloudless July night, and the full moon poured a flood of silver

light over the silent earth. Proctor assisted Eugene into the buggy,

and, gathering up the reins, seized the whip, gave a flourish and

shout, and off sprang the spirited horse, which the groom could with

difficulty hold until the riders were seated.

"Now, Graham, I will bet a couple of baskets of Heidseick that my

royal Telegraph will make the first mile post in 2.30. What say

you?"

"Done; 2.40 is the lowest."

"Phew! Telegraph, my jewel, show what manner of flesh you are made

of. Now, then, out with your watch."

He shook the reins and the horse rushed forward like an arrow.

Before the mile post was reached it became evident that Telegraph

had taken the game entirely out of his master's hands. In vain the

reins were tightened. Proctor leaned so far back that his hat fell

off. Still the frantic horse sped on. The mile post flashed by, but

Eugene could barely sit erect, much less note the time. At this

stage of the proceedings, the whir of wheels behind gave a new

impetus to Telegraph's flying feet. They were near a point in the

road where an alley led off at right angles, and thinking,

doubtless, that it was time to retrace his steps, the horse dashed

down the alley, heedless of Proctor's efforts to restrain him, and,

turning into a neighboring street, rushed back toward the city.

Bareheaded, and with heavy drops of perspiration streaming from his

face, Proctor cursed, and jerked, and drew the useless reins. On

went Telegraph, making good his title, now swerving to this side of

the road and now to that; but as he approached a mass of bricks

which were piled on one side of the street, near the foundations of

a new building, the moonlight flashed upon a piece of tin in the

sand on the opposite side, and, frightened by the glitter, he

plunged toward the bricks. The wheels struck, the buggy tilted, then

came down again with a terrible jolt, and Eugene was thrown out on

the pile. Proctor was jerked over the dashboard, dragged some

distance, and finally left in the sand, while Telegraph ran on to

the stable.