revealed to view. He observed thousands of people assembled, composed
almost exclusively of the middle and upper classes of society. They
were congregated round a vast inclosure; they were elevated on
amphitheatrical wooden stands, and they were perched on the roofs of
horseless carriages, drawn up in rows. From this congregation there rose
such a roar of eager voices as he had never heard yet from any assembled
multitude in these islands. Predominating among the cries, he detected
one everlasting question. It began with, “Who backs--?” and it ended in
the alternate pronouncing of two British names unintelligible to foreign
ears. Seeing these extraordinary sights, and hearing these stirring
sounds, he applied to a policeman on duty; and said, in his best
producible English, “If you please, Sir, what is this?”
The policeman answered, “North against South--Sports.”
The foreigner was informed, but not satisfied. He pointed all round the
assembly with a circular sweep of his hand; and said, “Why?”
The policeman declined to waste words on a man who could ask such a
question as that. He lifted a large purple forefinger, with a broad
white nail at the end of it, and pointed gravely to a printed Bill,
posted on the wall behind him. The drifting foreigner drifted to the
Bill.
After reading it carefully, from top to bottom, he consulted a polite
private individual near at hand, who proved to be far more communicative
than the policeman. The result on his mind, as a person not thoroughly
awakened to the enormous national importance of Athletic Sports, was
much as follows:
The color of North is pink. The color of South is yellow. North produces
fourteen pink men, and South produces thirteen yellow men. The meeting
of pink and yellow is a solemnity. The solemnity takes its rise in
an indomitable national passion for hardening the arms and legs, by
throwing hammers and cricket-balls with the first, and running and
jumping with the second. The object in view is to do this in public
rivalry. The ends arrived at are (physically) an excessive development
of the muscles, purchased at the expense of an excessive strain on the
heart and the lungs--(morally), glory; conferred at the moment by the
public applause; confirmed the next day by a report in the newspapers.
Any person who presumes to see any physical evil involved in these
exercises to the men who practice them, or any moral obstruction in
the exhibition itself to those civilizing influences on which the true
greatness of all nations depends, is a person without a biceps, who is
simply incomprehensible. Muscular England develops itself, and takes no
notice of him.
The foreigner mixed with the assembly, and looked more closely at the
social spectacle around him.
He had met with these people before. He had seen them (for instance) at
the theatre, and observed their manners and customs with considerable
curiosity and surprise. When the curtain was down, they were so little
interested in what they had come to see, that they had hardly spirit
enough to speak to each other between the acts. When the curtain was up,
if the play made any appeal to their sympathy with any of the higher and
nobler emotions of humanity, they received it as something wearisome, or
sneered at it as something absurd. The public feeling of the countrymen
of Shakespeare, so far as they represented it, recognized but two duties
in the dramatist--the duty of making them laugh, and the duty of getting
it over soon. The two great merits of a stage proprietor, in England
(judging by the rare applause of his cultivated customers), consisted
in spending plenty of money on his scenery, and in hiring plenty of
brazen-faced women to exhibit their bosoms and their legs. Not at
theatres only; but among other gatherings, in other places, the
foreigner had noticed the same stolid languor where any effort was
exacted from genteel English brains, and the same stupid contempt where
any appeal was made to genteel English hearts. Preserve us from enjoying
any thing but jokes and scandal! Preserve us from respecting any thing
but rank and money! There were the social aspirations of these insular
ladies and gentlemen, as expressed under other circumstances, and as
betrayed amidst other scenes. Here, all was changed. Here was the strong
feeling, the breathless interest, the hearty enthusiasm, not visible
elsewhere. Here were the superb gentlemen who were too weary to speak,
when an Art was addressing them, shouting themselves hoarse with burst
on burst of genuine applause. Here were the fine ladies who yawned
behind their fans, at the bare idea of being called on to think or
to feel, waving their handkerchiefs in honest delight, and actually
flushing with excitement through their powder and their paint. And all
for what? All for running and jumping--all for throwing hammers and
balls.
The foreigner looked at it, and tried, as a citizen of a civilized
country, to understand it. He was still trying--when there occurred a
pause in the performances.
Certain hurdles, which had served to exhibit the present satisfactory
state of civilization (in jumping) among the upper classes, were
removed. The privileged persons who had duties to perform within the
inclosure, looked all round it; and disappeared one after another. A
great hush of expectation pervaded the whole assembly. Something of no
common interest and importance was evidently about to take place. On a
sudden, the silence was broken by a roar of cheering from the mob in
the road outside the grounds. People looked at each other excitedly,
and said, “One of them has come.” The silence prevailed again--and was
a second time broken by another roar of applause. People nodded to each
other with an air of relief and said, “Both of them have come.” Then the
great hush fell on the crowd once more, and all eyes looked toward one
particular point of the ground, occupied by a little wooden pavilion,
with the blinds down over the open windows, and the door closed.
The foreigner was deeply impressed by the silent expectation of the
great throng about him. He felt his own sympathies stirred, without
knowing why. He believed himself to be on the point of understanding the
English people.
Some ceremony of grave importance was evidently in preparation. Was a
great orator going to address the assembly? Was a glorious anniversary
to be commemorated? Was a religious service to be performed? He looked
round him to apply for information once more. Two gentlemen--who
contrasted favorably, so far as refinement of manner was concerned, with
most of the spectators present--were slowly making their way, at that
moment, through the crowd near him. He respectfully asked what national
solemnity was now about to take place. They informed him that a pair
of strong young men were going to run round the inclosure for a given
number of turns, with the object of ascertaining which could run the
fastest of the two.
The foreigner lifted his hands and eyes to heaven. Oh, multifarious
Providence! who would have suspected that the infinite diversities of
thy creation included such beings as these! With that aspiration, he
turned his back on the race-course, and left the place.
On his way out of the grounds he had occasion to use his handkerchief,
and found that it was gone. He felt next for his purse. His purse was
missing too. When he was back again in his own country, intelligent
inquiries were addressed to him on the subject of England. He had but
one reply to give. “The whole nation is a mystery to me. Of all the
English people I only understand the English thieves!”
In the mean time the two gentlemen, making their way through the crowd,
reached a wicket-gate in the fence which surrounded the inclosure.
Presenting a written order to the policeman in charge of the gate, they
were forthwith admitted within the sacred precincts The closely packed
spectators, regarding them with mixed feelings of envy and curiosity,
wondered who they might be. Were they referees appointed to act at
the coming race? or reporters for the newspapers? or commissioners of
police? They were neither the one nor the other. They were only Mr.
Speedwell, the surgeon, and Sir Patrick Lundie.
The two gentlemen walked into the centre of the inclosure, and looked
round them.
The grass on which they were standing was girdled by a broad smooth
path, composed of finely-sifted ashes and sand--and this again was
surrounded by the fence and by the spectators ranked behind it. Above
the lines thus formed rose on one side the amphitheatres with their
tiers of crowded benches, and on the other the long rows of carriages
with the sight-seers inside and out. The evening sun was shining
brightly, the light and shade lay together in grand masses, the varied
colors of objects blended softly one with the other. It was a splendid
and an inspiriting scene.
Sir Patrick turned from the rows of eager faces all round him to his
friend the surgeon.
“Is there one person to be found in this vast crowd,” he asked, “who has
come to see the race with the doubt in his mind which has brought _us_
to see it?”
Mr. Speedwell shook his head. “Not one of them knows or cares what the
struggle may cost the men who engage in it.”
Sir Patrick looked round him again. “I almost wish I had not come to see
it,” he said. “If this wretched man--”
The surgeon interposed. “Don’t dwell needlessly, Sir Patrick, on the
gloomy view,” he rejoined. “The opinion I have formed has, thus far, no
positive grounds to rest on. I am guessing rightly, as I believe, but at
the same time I am guessing in the dark. Appearances _may_ have misled
me. There may be reserves of vital force in Mr. Delamayn’s constitution
which I don’t suspect. I am here to learn a lesson--not to see a
prediction fulfilled. I know his health is broken, and I believe he
is going to run this race at his own proper peril. Don’t feel too sure
beforehand of the event. The event may prove me to be wrong.”
For the moment Sir Patrick dropped the subject. He was not in his usual
spirits.
Since his interview with Anne had satisfied him that she was Geoffrey’s
lawful wife, the conviction had inevitably forced itself on his mind
that the one possible chance for her in the future, was the chance of
Geoffrey’s death. Horrible as it was to him, he had been possessed by
that one idea--go where he might, do what he might, struggle as he might
to force his thoughts in other directions. He looked round the broad
ashen path on which the race was to be run, conscious that he had a
secret interest in it which it was unutterably repugnant to him to feel.
He tried to resume the conversation with his friend, and to lead it to
other topics. The effort was useless. In despite of himself, he returned
to the one fatal subject of the struggle that was now close at hand.
“How many times must they go round this inclosure,” he inquired, “before
the race is ended?”
Mr. Speedwell turned toward a gentleman who was approaching them at the
moment. “Here is somebody coming who can tell us,” he said.
“You know him?”
“He is one of my patients.”
“Who is he?”
“After the two runners he is the most important personage on the ground.
He is the final authority--the umpire of the race.”
The person thus described was a middle-aged man, with a prematurely
wrinkled face, with prematurely white hair and with something of a
military look about him--brief in speech, and quick in manner.
“The path measures four hundred and forty yards round,” he said, when
the surgeon had repeated Sir Patrick’s question to him. “In plainer
words, and not to put you to your arithmetic once round it is a quarter
of a mile. Each round is called a ‘Lap.’ The men must run sixteen Laps
to finish the race. Not to put you to your arithmetic again, they must
run four miles--the longest race of this kind which it is customary to
attempt at Sports like these.”
“Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?”
“Considerably--on certain occasions.”
“Are they a long-lived race?”
“Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men.”
Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick put a question to the
umpire.
“You have just told us,” he said, “that the two young men who appear
to-day are going to run the longest distance yet attempted in their
experience. Is it generally thought, by persons who understand such
things, that they are both fit to bear the exertion demanded of them?”
“You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them.”
He pointed toward the pavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty
clapping of hands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood,
champion of the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the
pavilion steps and walked into the arena.
Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in every
movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute young face,
the man of the north won the women’s hearts at starting. The murmur
of eager talk rose among them on all sides. The men were
quieter--especially the men who understood the subject. It was a serious
question with these experts whether Fleetwood was not “a little too
fine.” Superbly trained, it was admitted--but, possibly, a little
over-trained for a four-mile race.
The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends and
backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can in his hand.
“Cold water,” the umpire explained. “If he gets exhausted, his trainer
will pick him up with a dash of it as he goes by.”
A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena. Delamayn,
champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors, presented himself
to the public view.
The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked into the
centre of the great green space. Surprise at the extraordinary contrast
between the two men was the prevalent emotion of the moment. Geoffrey
was more than a head taller than his antagonist, and broader in full
proportion. The women who had been charmed with the easy gait and
confident smile of Fleetwood, were all more or less painfully impressed
by the sullen strength of the southern man, as he passed before them
slowly, with his head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause
showered on him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to
nobody; concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men who
understood the subject breathless with interest. There it was! the
famous “staying power” that was to endure in the last terrible half-mile
of the race, when the nimble and jaunty Fleetwood was run off his legs.
Whispers had been spread abroad hinting at something which had gone
wrong with Delamayn in his training. And now that all eyes could judge
him, his appearance suggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly
the opposite of the criticism passed on his antagonist. The doubt as to
Delamayn was whether he had been sufficiently trained. Still the
solid strength of the man, the slow, panther-like smoothness of his
movements--and, above all, his great reputation in the world of
muscle and sport--had their effect. The betting which, with occasional
fluctuations, had held steadily in his favor thus far, held, now that he
was publicly seen, steadily in his favor still.
“Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for a
four-mile race.”
“Do you think he sees us?” whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon.
“He sees nobody.”
“Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?”
“He has twice the muscular strength of the other man. His trunk and
limbs are magnificent. It is useless to ask me more than that about his
condition. We are too far from him to see his face plainly.”
The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and the silent
expectation set in among them once more. One by one, the different
persons officially connected with the race gathered together on the
grass. The trainer Perry was among them, with his can of water in his
hand, in anxious whispering conversation with his principal--giving him
the last words of advice before the start. The trainer’s doctor, leaving
them together, came up to pay his respects to his illustrious colleague.
“How has he got on since I was at Fulham?” asked Mr. Speedwell.
“First-rate, Sir! It was one of his bad days when you saw him. He has
done wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours.”
“Is he going to win the race?”
Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him--he had
backed Geoffrey’s antagonist. Publicly he was true to his colors. He
cast a disparaging look at Fleetwood--and answered Yes, without the
slightest hesitation.
At that point, the conversation was suspended by a sudden movement in
the inclosure. The runners were on their way to the starting-place. The
moment of the race had come.
Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited--each with his foot touching
the mark. The firing of a pistol gave the signal for the start. At the
instant when the report sounded they were off.
Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from two to
three yards behind him. In that order they ran the first round, the
second, and the third--both reserving their strength; both watched with
breathless interest by every soul in the place. The trainers, with their
cans in their hands, ran backward and forward over the grass, meeting
their men at certain points, and eying them narrowly, in silence. The
official persons stood together in a group; their eyes following the
runners round and round with the closest attention. The trainer’s
doctor, still attached to his illustrious colleague, offered the
necessary explanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend.
“Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the ‘style’ of the
two men.”
“You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?”
“No. Getting their wind, and feeling their legs. Pretty runner,
Fleetwood--if you notice Sir? Gets his legs a trifle better in front,
and hardly lifts his heels quite so high as our man. His action’s the
best of the two; I grant that. But just look, as they come by, which
keeps the straightest line. There’s where Delamayn has him! It’s a
steadier, stronger, truer pace; and you’ll see it tell when they’re
half-way through.” So, for the first three rounds, the doctor expatiated
on the two contrasted “styles”--in terms mercifully adapted to the
comprehension of persons unacquainted with the language of the running
ring.
At the fourth round--in other words, at the round which completed the
first mile, the first change in the relative position of the runners
occurred. Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front. Fleetwood smiled as the
other passed him. Delamayn held the lead till they were half way through
the fifth round--when Fleetwood, at a hint from his trainer, forced the
pace. He lightly passed Delamayn in an instant; and led again to the
completion of the sixth round.
At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on his side. For
a few moments, they ran exactly abreast. Then Delamayn drew away inch
by inch; and recovered the lead. The first burst of applause (led by the
south) rang out, as the big man beat Fleetwood at his own tactics, and
headed him at the critical moment when the race was nearly half run.
“It begins to look as if Delamayn _was_ going to win!” said Sir Patrick.
The trainer’s doctor forgot himself. Infected by the rising excitement
of every body about him, he let out the truth.
“Wait a bit!” he said. “Fleetwood has got directions to let him
pass--Fleetwood is waiting to see what he can do.”
“Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manly
sport,” said Mr. Speedwell, quietly.
At the end of the seventh round, Fleetwood proved the doctor to be
right. He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow. At the end of the
eight round, he was leading by two yards. Half the race had then been
run. Time, ten minutes and thirty-three seconds.
Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little; and
Delamayn was in front again. He kept ahead, until the opening of the
eleventh round. At that point, Fleetwood flung up one hand in the air
with a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamayn with a shout of
“Hooray for the North!” The shout was echoed by the spectators. In
proportion as the exertion began to tell upon the men, so the excitement
steadily rose among the people looking at them.
At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards. Cries of
triumph rose among the adherents of the north, met by counter-cries of
defiance from the south. At the next turn Delamayn resolutely lessened
the distance between his antagonist and himself. At the opening of the
fourteenth round, they were coming sid e by side. A few yards more, and
Delamayn was in front again, amidst a roar of applause from the whole
public voice. Yet a few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed
him, dropped behind again, led again, and was passed again at the end
of the round. The excitement rose to its highest pitch, as the
runners--gasping for breath; with dark flushed faces, and heaving
breasts--alternately passed and repassed each other. Oaths were heard
now as well as cheers. Women turned pale and men set their teeth, as the
last round but one began.
At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance. Before six yards
more had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose of his running in
the previous round, and electrified the whole assembly, by dashing past
his antagonist--for the first time in the race at the top of his speed.
Every body present could see, now, that Delamayn had been allowed to
lead on sufferance--had been dextrously drawn on to put out his whole
power--and had then, and not till then, been seriously deprived of the
lead. He made another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused
the public enthusiasm to frenzy. While the voices were roaring; while
the hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; while
the actual event of the race was, for one supreme moment, still in
doubt--Mr. Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm.
“Prepare yourself!” he whispered. “It’s all over.”
As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path. His trainer
dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another step or two--swerved
again--staggered--lifted his arm to his mouth with a hoarse cry of
rage--fastened his own teeth in his flesh like a wild beast--and fell
senseless on the course.
A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places, mingling
with the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood in others--as
their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested race. Not the
inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded by the crowd. In the
midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn on to the grass--with Mr.
Speedwell and the trainer’s doctor in attendance on him. At the terrible
moment when the surgeon laid his hand on the heart, Fleetwood passed the
spot--a passage being forced for him through the people by his friends
and the police--running the sixteenth and last round of the race.
Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it? Every body
waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon’s hand.
The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw over his
face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming to life again--he
had survived the race. The last shout of applause which hailed
Fleetwood’s victory rang out as they lifted him from the ground to carry
him to the pavilion. Sir Patrick (admitted at Mr. Speedwell’s request)
was the one stranger allowed to pass the door. At the moment when he was
ascending the steps, some one touched his arm. It was Captain Newenden.
“Do the doctors answer for his life?” asked the captain. “I can’t get my
niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that.”
Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly from the top
of the pavilion steps.
“For the present--yes,” he said.
The captain thanked him, and disappeared.