performances in the gymnasium. She commonly contented herself with
the same exercises that her companions were accustomed to. Only her
dumb-bells, with which she exercised easily and gracefully, were too
heavy for most of the girls to do more with than lift them from the
floor. She was fond of daring feats on the trapeze, and had to be
checked in her indulgence in them. The Professor of gymnastics at the
University came over to the Institute now and then, and it was a source
of great excitement to watch some of the athletic exercises in which the
young lady showed her remarkable muscular strength and skill in managing
herself in the accomplishment of feats which looked impossible at first
sight. How often The Terror had thought to herself that she would gladly
give up all her knowledge of Greek and the differential and integral
calculus if she could only perform the least of those feats which were
mere play to The Wonder! Miss Euthymia was not behind the rest in her
attainments in classical or mathematical knowledge, and she was one of
the very best students in the out-door branches,--botany, mineralogy,
sketching from nature,--to be found among the scholars of the Institute.
There was an eight-oared boat rowed by a crew of the young ladies, of
which Miss Euthymia was the captain and pulled the bow oar. Poor little
Lurida could not pull an oar, but on great occasions, when there were
many boats out, she was wanted as coxswain, being a mere feather-weight,
and quick-witted enough to serve well in the important office where
brains are more needed than muscle.
There was also an eight-oared boat belonging to the University, and
rowed by a picked crew of stalwart young fellows. The bow oar and
captain of the University crew was a powerful young man, who, like the
captain of the girls' boat, was a noted gymnast. He had had one or two
quiet trials with Miss Euthymia, in which, according to the ultras of
the woman's rights party, he had not vindicated the superiority of his
sex in the way which might have been expected. Indeed, it was claimed
that he let a cannon-ball drop when he ought to have caught it, and
it was not disputed that he had been ingloriously knocked over by a
sand-bag projected by the strong arms of the young maiden. This was of
course a story that was widely told and laughingly listened to, and
the captain of the University crew had become a little sensitive on
the subject. When there was a talk, therefore, about a race between the
champion boats of the two institutions there was immense excitement in
both of them, as well as among the members of the Pansophian Society and
all the good people of the village.
There were many objections to be overcome. Some thought it unladylike
for the young maidens to take part in a competition which must attract
many lookers-on, and which it seemed to them very hoidenish to venture
upon. Some said it was a shame to let a crew of girls try their strength
against an equal number of powerful young men. These objections were
offset by the advocates of the race by the following arguments. They
maintained that it was no more hoidenish to row a boat than it was to
take a part in the calisthenic exercises, and that the girls had nothing
to do with the young men's boat, except to keep as much ahead of it as
possible. As to strength, the woman's righters believed that, weight
for weight, their crew was as strong as the other, and of course due
allowance would be made for the difference of weight and all other
accidental hindrances. It was time to test the boasted superiority
of masculine muscle. Here was a chance. If the girls beat, the whole
country would know it, and after that female suffrage would be only
a question of time. Such was the conclusion, from rather insufficient
premises, it must be confessed; but if nature does nothing per
saltum,--by jumps,--as the old adage has it, youth is very apt to take
long leaps from a fact to a possible sequel or consequence. So it had
come about that a contest between the two boat-crews was looked forward
to with an interest almost equal to that with which the combat between
the Horatii and Curiatii was regarded.
The terms had been at last arranged between the two crews, after
cautious protocols and many diplomatic discussions. It was so novel in
its character that it naturally took a good deal of time to adjust it
in such a way as to be fair to both parties. The course must not be too
long for the lighter and weaker crew, for the staying power of the young
persons who made it up could not be safely reckoned upon. A certain
advantage must be allowed them at the start, and this was a delicate
matter to settle. The weather was another important consideration. June
would be early enough, in all probability, and if the lake should be
tolerably smooth the grand affair might come off some time in that
month. Any roughness of the water would be unfavorable to the weaker
crew. The rowing-course was on the eastern side of the lake, the
starting-point being opposite the Anchor Tavern; from that three
quarters of a mile to the south, where the turning-stake was fixed, so
that the whole course of one mile and a half would bring the boats back
to their starting-point.
The race was to be between the Algonquin, eight-oared boat with
outriggers, rowed by young men, students of Stoughton University, and
the Atalanta, also eight-oared and outrigger boat, by young ladies from
the Corinna Institute. Their boat was three inches wider than the other,
for various sufficient reasons, one of which was to make it a little
less likely to go over and throw its crew into the water, which was a
sound precaution, though all the girls could swim, and one at least, the
bow oar, was a famous swimmer, who had pulled a drowning man out of the
water after a hard struggle to keep him from carrying her down with him.
Though the coming trial had not been advertised in the papers, so as to
draw together a rabble of betting men and ill-conditioned lookers-on,
there was a considerable gathering, made up chiefly of the villagers
and the students of the two institutions. Among them were a few who were
disposed to add to their interest in the trial by small wagers. The bets
were rather in favor of the “Quins,” as the University boat was commonly
called, except where the natural sympathy of the young ladies or the
gallantry of some of the young men led them to risk their gloves or
cigars, or whatever it might be, on the Atalantas. The elements of
judgment were these: average weight of the Algonquins one hundred and
sixty-five pounds; average weight of the Atalantas, one hundred and
forty-eight pounds; skill in practice about equal; advantage of the
narrow boat equal to three lengths; whole distance allowed the Atalantas
eight lengths,--a long stretch to be made up in a mile and a half. And
so both crews began practising for the grand trial.
II. THE BOAT-RACE.
The 10th of June was a delicious summer day, rather warm, but still and
bright. The water was smooth, and the crews were in the best possible
condition. All was expectation, and for some time nothing but
expectation. No boat-race or regatta ever began at the time appointed
for the start. Somebody breaks an oar, or somebody fails to appear in
season, or something is the matter with a seat or an outrigger; or if
there is no such excuse, the crew of one or both or all the boats to
take part in the race must paddle about to get themselves ready for
work, to the infinite weariness of all the spectators, who naturally ask
why all this getting ready is not attended to beforehand. The Algonquins
wore plain gray flannel suits and white caps. The young ladies were all
in dark blue dresses, touched up with a red ribbon here and there, and
wore light straw hats. The little coxswain of the Atalanta was the last
to step on board. As she took her place she carefully deposited at her
feet a white handkerchief wrapped about something or other, perhaps a
sponge, in case the boat should take in water.
At last the Algonquin shot out from the little nook where she lay,
--long, narrow, shining, swift as a pickerel when he darts from the
reedy shore. It was a beautiful sight to see the eight young fellows in
their close-fitting suits, their brown muscular arms bare, bending their
backs for the stroke and recovering, as if they were parts of a single
machine.
“The gals can't stan' it agin them fellers,” said the old blacksmith
from the village.
“You wait till the gals get a-goin',” said the carpenter, who had often
worked in the gymnasium of the Corinna Institute, and knew something of
their muscular accomplishments. “Y' ought to see 'em climb ropes, and
swing dumb-bells, and pull in them rowin'-machines. Ask Jake there
whether they can't row a mild in double-quick time,--he knows all abaout
it.”
Jake was by profession a fisherman, and a freshwater fisherman in a
country village is inspector-general of all that goes on out-of-doors,
being a lazy, wandering sort of fellow, whose study of the habits and
habitats of fishes gives him a kind of shrewdness of observation, just
as dealing in horses is an education of certain faculties, and breeds a
race of men peculiarly cunning, suspicious, wary, and wide awake, with a
rhetoric of appreciation and depreciation all its own.
Jake made his usual preliminary signal, and delivered himself to the
following effect:
“Wahl, I don' know jest what to say. I've seed 'em both often enough
when they was practisin', an' I tell ye the' wa'n't no slouch abaout
neither on 'em. But them bats is all-fired long, 'n' eight on 'em
stretched in a straight line eendways makes a consid'able piece aout 'f
a mile 'n' a haaf. I'd bate on them gals if it wa'n't that them fellers
is naterally longer winded, as the gals 'll find aout by the time they
git raound the stake 'n' over agin the big ellum. I'll go ye a quarter
on the pahnts agin the petticoats.”
The fresh-water fisherman had expressed the prevailing belief that the
young ladies were overmatched. Still there were not wanting those who
thought the advantage allowed the “Lantas,” as they called the Corinna
boatcrew, was too great, and that it would be impossible for the “Quins”
to make it up and go by them.
The Algonquins rowed up and down a few times before the spectators. They
appeared in perfect training, neither too fat nor too fine, mettlesome
as colts, steady as draught-horses, deep-breathed as oxen, disciplined
to work together as symmetrically as a single sculler pulls his pair of
oars. The fisherman offered to make his quarter fifty cents. No takers.
Five minutes passed, and all eyes were strained to the south, looking
for the Atalanta. A clump of trees hid the edge of the lake along which
the Corinna's boat was stealing towards the starting-point. Presently
the long shell swept into view, with its blooming rowers, who, with
their ample dresses, seemed to fill it almost as full as Raphael fills
his skiff on the edge of the Lake of Galilee. But how steadily the
Atalanta came on!---no rocking, no splashing, no apparent strain; the
bow oar turning to look ahead every now and then, and watching her
course, which seemed to be straight as an arrow, the beat of the strokes
as true and regular as the pulse of the healthiest rower among them
all. And if the sight of the other boat and its crew was beautiful, how
lovely was the look of this! Eight young girls,--young ladies, for those
who prefer that more dignified and less attractive expression,--all
in the flush of youth, all in vigorous health; every muscle taught its
duty; each rower alert, not to be a tenth of a second out of time,
or let her oar dally with the water so as to lose an ounce of its
propelling virtue; every eye kindling with the hope of victory. Each
of the boats was cheered as it came in sight, but the cheers for the
Atalanta were naturally the loudest, as the gallantry of one sex and the
clear, high voices of the other gave it life and vigor.
“Take your places!” shouted the umpire, five minutes before the half
hour. The two boats felt their way slowly and cautiously to their
positions, which had been determined by careful measurement. After a
little backing and filling they got into line, at the proper distance
from each other, and sat motionless, their bodies bent forward, their
arms outstretched, their oars in the water, waiting for the word.
“Go!” shouted the umpire.
Away sprang the Atalanta, and far behind her leaped the Algonquin,
her oars bending like so many long Indian bows as their blades flashed
through the water.
“A stern chase is a long chase,” especially when one craft is a great
distance behind the other. It looked as if it would be impossible for
the rear boat to overcome the odds against it. Of course the Algonquin
kept gaining, but could it possibly gain enough? That was the question.
As the boats got farther and farther away, it became more and more
difficult to determine what change there was in the interval between
them. But when they came to rounding the stake it was easier to guess at
the amount of space which had been gained. It was clear that something
like half the distance, four lengths, as nearly as could be estimated,
had been made up in rowing the first three quarters of a mile. Could
the Algonquins do a little better than this in the second half of the
race-course, they would be sure of winning.
The boats had turned the stake, and were coming in rapidly. Every minute
the University boat was getting nearer the other.
“Go it, Quins!” shouted the students.
“Pull away, Lantas!” screamed the girls, who were crowding down to the
edge of the water.
Nearer,--nearer,--the rear boat is pressing the other more and more
closely,--a few more strokes, and they will be even, for there is but
one length between them, and thirty rods will carry them to the line.
It looks desperate for the Atalantas. The bow oar of the Algonquin turns
his head. He sees the little coxswain leaning forward at every stroke,
as if her trivial weight were of such mighty consequence,--but a few
ounces might turn the scale of victory. As he turned he got a glimpse of
the stroke oar of the Atalanta. What a flash of loveliness it was! Her
face was like the reddest of June roses, with the heat and the
strain and the passion of expected triumph. The upper button of her
close-fitting flannel suit had strangled her as her bosom heaved with
exertion, and it had given way before the fierce clutch she made at it.
The bow oar was a staunch and steady rower, but he was human. The blade
of his oar lingered in the water; a little more and he would have caught
a crab, and perhaps lost the race by his momentary bewilderment.
The boat, which seemed as if it had all the life and nervousness of a
Derby three-year-old, felt the slight check, and all her men bent more
vigorously to their oars. The Atalantas saw the movement, and made a
spurt to keep their lead and gain upon it if they could. It was of
no use. The strong arms of the young men were too much for the young
maidens; only a few lengths remained to be rowed, and they would
certainly pass the Atalanta before she could reach the line.
The little coxswain saw that it was all up with the girls' crew if she
could not save them by some strategic device.
“Dolus an virtus quis in hoste requirat?”
she whispered to herself,--for The Terror remembered her Virgil as she
did everything else she ever studied. As she stooped, she lifted the
handkerchief at her feet, and took from it a flaming bouquet. “Look!”
she cried, and flung it just forward of the track of the Algonquin. The
captain of the University boat turned his head, and there was the lovely
vision which had a moment before bewitched him. The owner of all that
loveliness must, he thought, have flung the bouquet. It was a challenge:
how could he be such a coward as to decline accepting it.
He was sure he could win the race now, and he would sweep past the line
in triumph with the great bunch of flowers at the stem of his boat,
proud as Van Tromp in the British channel with the broom at his
mast-head.
He turned the boat's head a little by backing water. He came up with the
floating flowers, and near enough to reach them. He stooped and snatched
them up, with the loss perhaps of a second in all,--no more. He felt
sure of his victory.
How can one tell the story of the finish in cold-blooded preterites?
Are we not there ourselves? Are not our muscles straining with those of
these sixteen young creatures, full of hot, fresh blood, their nerves
all tingling like so many tight-strained harp-strings, all their life
concentrating itself in this passionate moment of supreme effort? No! We
are seeing, not telling about what somebody else once saw!
--The bow of the Algonquin passes the stern of the Atalanta!
--The bow of the Algonquin is on a level with the middle of the
Atalanta!
--Three more lengths' rowing and the college crew will pass the girls!
--“Hurrah for the Quins!” The Algonquin ranges up alongside of the
Atalanta!
“Through with her!” shouts the captain of the Algonquin.
“Now, girls!” shrieks the captain of the Atalanta.
They near the line, every rower straining desperately, almost madly.
--Crack goes the oar of the Atalanta's captain, and up flash its
splintered fragments, as the stem of her boat springs past the line,
eighteen inches at least ahead of the Algonquin.
Hooraw for the Lantas! Hooraw for the Girls! Hooraw for the Institoot!
shout a hundred voices.
“Hurrah for woman's rights and female suffrage!” pipes the small voice
of The Terror, and there is loud laughing and cheering all round.
She had not studied her classical dictionary and her mythology for
nothing. “I have paid off one old score,” she said. “Set down my damask
roses against the golden apples of Hippomenes!”
It was that one second lost in snatching up the bouquet which gave the
race to the Atalantas.
III. THE WHITE CANOE.
While the two boats were racing, other boats with lookers-on in them
were rowing or sailing in the neighborhood of the race-course. The scene
on the water was a gay one, for the young people in the boats were, many
of them, acquainted with each other. There was a good deal of lively
talk until the race became too exciting. Then many fell silent, until,
as the boats neared the line, and still more as they crossed it, the
shouts burst forth which showed how a cramp of attention finds its
natural relief in a fit of convulsive exclamation.
But far away, on the other side of the lake, a birchbark canoe was to be
seen, in which sat a young man, who paddled it skillfully and swiftly.
It was evident enough that he was watching the race intently, but the
spectators could see little more than that. One of them, however, who
sat upon the stand, had a powerful spy-glass, and could distinguish his
motions very minutely and exactly. It was seen by this curious observer
that the young man had an opera-glass with him, which he used a good
deal at intervals. The spectator thought he kept it directed to the
girls' boat, chiefly, if not exclusively. He thought also that the
opera-glass was more particularly pointed towards the bow of the boat,
and came to the natural conclusion that the bow oar, Miss Euthymia
Tower, captain of the Atalantas, “The Wonder” of the Corinna Institute,
was the attraction which determined the direction of the instrument.
“Who is that in the canoe over there?” asked the owner of the spy-glass.
“That's just what we should like to know,” answered the old landlord's
wife. “He and his man boarded with us when they first came, but we could
never find out anything about him only just his name and his ways of
living. His name is Kirkwood, Maurice Kirkwood, Esq., it used to come
on his letters. As for his ways of living, he was the solitariest human
being that I ever came across. His man carried his meals up to him. He
used to stay in his room pretty much all day, but at night he would be
off, walking, or riding on horseback, or paddling about in the lake,
sometimes till nigh morning. There's something very strange about that
Mr. Kirkwood. But there don't seem to be any harm in him. Only nobody
can guess what his business is. They got up a story about him at one
time. What do you think? They said he was a counterfeiter! And so they
went one night to his room, when he was out, and that man of his was
away too, and they carried keys, and opened pretty much everything; and
they found--well, they found just nothing at all except writings and
letters,--letters from places in America and in England, and some with
Italian postmarks: that was all. Since that time the sheriff and
his folks have let him alone and minded their own business. He was a
gentleman,--anybody ought to have known that; and anybody that knew
about his nice ways of living and behaving, and knew the kind of wear he
had for his underclothing, might have known it. I could have told those
officers that they had better not bother him. I know the ways of real
gentlemen and real ladies, and I know those fellows in store clothes
that look a little too fine,--outside. Wait till washing-day comes!”
The good lady had her own standards for testing humanity, and they were
not wholly unworthy of consideration; they were quite as much to be
relied on as the judgments of the travelling phrenologist, who sent his
accomplice on before him to study out the principal personages in the
village, and in the light of these revelations interpreted the bumps,
with very little regard to Gall and Spurzheim, or any other authorities.
Even with the small amount of information obtained by the search among
his papers and effects, the gossips of the village had constructed
several distinct histories for the mysterious stranger. He was an agent
of a great publishing house; a leading contributor to several important
periodicals; the author of that anonymously published novel which had
made so much talk; the poet of a large clothing establishment; a spy of
the Italian, some said the Russian, some said the British, Government;
a proscribed refugee from some country where he had been plotting; a
school-master without a school, a minister without a pulpit, an actor
without an engagement; in short, there was no end to the perfectly
senseless stories that were told about him, from that which made him out
an escaped convict to the whispered suggestion that he was the eccentric
heir to a great English title and estate.
The one unquestionable fact was that of his extraordinary seclusion.
Nobody in the village, no student in the University, knew his history.
No young lady in the Corinna Institute had ever had a word from
him. Sometimes, as the boats of the University or the Institute were
returning at dusk, their rowers would see the canoe stealing into the
shadows as they drew near it. Sometimes on a moonlight night, when a
party of the young ladies were out upon the lake, they would see the
white canoe gliding ghost-like in the distance. And it had happened more
than once that when a boat's crew had been out with singers among them,
while they were in the midst of a song, the white canoe would suddenly
appear and rest upon the water,--not very near them, but within hearing
distance,--and so remain until the singing was over, when it would steal
away and be lost sight of in some inlet or behind some jutting rock.
Naturally enough, there was intense curiosity about this young man. The
landlady had told her story, which explained nothing. There was nobody
to be questioned about him except his servant, an Italian, whose name
was Paolo, but who to the village was known as Mr. Paul.