Way Down East | Page 2

It was said by the uncharitable that the secret of the lady's youth was
the fact that she always surrounded herself with young people, their
pleasure, interests, entertainments were hers; she never permitted
herself to be identified with older people.
To-day, besides several young men who had been out of college for a
year or two, she had her husband's two nieces, the Misses Tremont,

young women well known in Boston's inner circles, her own daughter,
a Mrs. Endicott, a widow, and a very beautiful young girl whom she
introduced as "My cousin, Miss Moore."
Miss Moore was the recipient of more attention than she could well
handle. Mrs. Tremont's cavaliers tried to inveigle her into betting
gloves and bon-bons; they reserved their wittiest replica for her, they
were her ardent allies in all the merry badinage with which their party
whiled away the time waiting for the game to begin. Miss Moore was
getting enough attention to turn the heads of three girls.
At least, that was what her chaperone concluded as she skilfully
concealed her dissatisfaction with a radiant smile. She liked girls to
achieve social success when they were under her wing--it was the next
best thing to scoring success on her own account. But, it was quite a
different matter to invite a poor relation half out of charity, half out of
pity, and then have her outshine one's own daughter, and one's
nieces--the latter being her particular protégés--girls whom she hoped
to assist toward brilliant establishments. The thought was a disquieting
one, the men of their party had been making idiots of themselves over
the girl ever since they left Boston; it was all very well to be kind to
one's poor kin--but charity began at home when there were girls who
had been out three seasons! What was it, that made the men lose their
heads like so many sheep? She adjusted her lorgnette and again took an
inventory of the girl's appearance. It was eminently satisfactory even
when viewed from the critical standard of Mrs. Standish Tremont. A
delicately oval face, with low smooth brow, from which the night-black
hair rippled in softly crested waves and clung about the temples in tiny
circling ringlets, delicate as the faintest shading of a crayon pencil.
Heavily fringed lids that lent mysterious depths to the great brown eyes
that were sorrowful beyond their years. A mouth made for kisses--a
perfect Cupid's bow; in color, the red of the pomegranate--such was
Anna Moore, the great lady's young kinswoman, who was getting her
first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon.
"You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomes
you go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what you

need to bring out the color in your cheeks," said Arnold Lester, rather
an old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott's devoted cavaliers.
"Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy," gallantly answered
Robert Maynard. He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl's
face since he met her.
Anna looked down at her roses and smiled. Her gown and gloves were
black. The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color that
she had worn for over a year. She was still in mourning for her father,
one of the first great financial magnates to go under in the last Wall
Street crash. His failure killed him, and the young daughter and the
invalid wife were left practically unprovided for.
Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance. She had met her
young cousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a
fancy to her; she exacted a promise from the girl's mother that Anna
should pay her a visit the following autumn. But she reckoned without
the girl's beauty and the havoc it would make with her plans. The
discussion as to the roses outvieing Anna's cheeks in color was abruptly
terminated by a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides
of the field as the two teams entered the lists. Cheer upon cheer went up,
swelled and grew in volume, only to be taken up again and again, till
the sound became one vast echoing roar without apparent end or
beginning.
From the moment the teams appeared, Anna Moore had no eyes or ears
for sights or sounds about her. Every muscle in her lithe young body
was strained to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure. She had little
difficulty in singling him out from the rest. He had stripped off his
sweater and stood with head well down, his great limbs tense, straining
for the word to spring. Anna's breath came quickly, as if she had been
running, the roses that he had sent her heaved with the tumult in her
breast.