a mortal antipathy- 第10部分

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　foundwell；　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。



Mr。　Paul　would　have　seemed　the　easiest　person　in　the　world　to　worm　a

secret　out　of。　　He　was　good…natured；　child…like　as　a　Heathen　Chinee；

talked　freely　with　everybody　in　such　English　as　he　had　at　command；

knew　all　the　little　people　of　the　village；　and　was　followed　round　by

them　partly　from　his　personal　attraction　for　them；　and　partly　because

he　was　apt　to　have　a　stick　of　candy　or　a　handful　of　peanuts　or　other

desirable　luxury　in　his　pocket　for　any　of　his　little　friends　he　met

with。　　He　had　that　wholesome；　happy　look；　so　uncommon　in　our　arid

countrymen；a　look　hardly　to　be　found　except　where　figs　and　oranges

ripen　in　the　open　air。　　A　kindly　climate　to　grow　up　in；　a　religion

which　takes　your　money　and　gives　you　a　stamped　ticket　good　at　Saint

Peter's　box　office；　a　roomy　chest　and　a　good　pair　of　lungs　in　it；　an

honest　digestive　apparatus；　a　lively　temperament；　a　cheerful

acceptance　of　the　place　in　life　assigned　to　one　by　nature　and

circumstance；these　are　conditions　under　which　life　may　be　quite

comfortable　to　endure；　and　certainly　is　very　pleasant　to　contemplate。

All　these　conditions　were　united　in　Paolo。　　He　was　the　easiest；

pleasantest　creature　to　talk　with　that　one　could　ask　for　a　companion。

His　southern　vivacity；　his　amusing　English；　his　simplicity　and

openness；　made　him　friends　everywhere。



It　seemed　as　if　it　would　be　a　very　simple　matter　to　get　the　history

of　his　master　out　of　this　guileless　and