Joseph R. Grismer - \'Way Down East
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Joseph R. Grismer >> \'Way Down East
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8 [Frontispiece: Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. D. W. Griffith's
Production. 'Way Down East.]
'WAY DOWN EAST
A ROMANCE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE
BY
JOSEPH R. GRISMER
Founded on the Very Successful Play of the
Same Title by
LOTTIE BLAIR PARKER
ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM
D. W. GRIFFITH'S MAGNIFICENT
MOTION PICTURE PRODUCTION OF THE
ORIGINAL STORY AND STAGE PLAY
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS -------------- NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1900_
_By Joseph R. Grismer_
_'Way Down East_
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. All Hail to the Conquering Hero.
II. The Conquering Hero is Disposed to be Human.
III. Containing Some Reflections and the Entrance
of Mephistopheles.
IV. The Mock Marriage.
V. A Little Glimpse of the Garden of Eden.
VI. The Ways of Desolation.
VII. Mother and Daughter.
VIII. In Days of Waiting.
IX. On the Threshold of Shelter.
X. Anna and Sanderson Again Meet.
XI. Rustic Hospitality.
XII. Kate Brewster Holds Sanderson's Attention.
XIII. The Quality of Mercy.
XIV. The Village Gossip Sniffs Scandal.
XV. David Confesses his Love.
XVI. Alone in the Snow.
XVII. The Night in the Snowstorm.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. . . . _Frontispiece_
Martha Perkins and Maria Poole.
Martha Perkins tells the story of Anna Moore's past life.
Lillian Gish and Burr McIntosh.
WAY DOWN EAST
CHAPTER I.
ALL HAIL TO THE CONQUERING HERO.
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes.--_Shakespeare_.
It had come at last, the day of days, for the two great American
universities; Harvard and Yale were going to play their annual game of
football and the railroad station of Springfield, Mass., momentarily
became more and more thronged with eager partisans of both sides of the
great athletic contest.
All the morning trains from New York, New Haven, Boston and the smaller
towns had been pouring their loads into Springfield. Hampden Park was
a sea of eager faces. The weather was fine and the waiting for the
football game only added to the enjoyment--the appetizer before the
feast.
The north side of the park was a crimson dotted mass full ten thousand
strong; the south side showed the same goodly number blue-bespeckled,
and equally confident. Little ripples of applause woke along the banks
as the familiar faces of old "grads" loomed up, then melted into the
vast throng. These, too, were men of international reputation who had
won their spurs in the great battles of life, and yet, who came back
year after year, to assist by applause in these mimic battles of their
_Alma Mater_.
But the real inspiration to the contestants, were the softer, sweeter
faces scattered among the more rugged ones like flowers growing among
the grain--the smiles, the mantling glow of round young cheeks, the
clapping of little hands--these were the things that made broken
collarbones, scratched faces, and bruised limbs but so many honors to
be contended for, votive offerings to be laid at the little feet of
these fair ones.
Mrs. Standish Tremont's party occupied, as usual, a prominent place on
the Harvard side. She was so great a factor in the social life at
Cambridge that no function could have been a complete success without
the stimulus of her presence. Personally, Mrs. Standish Tremont was
one of those women who never grow old; one would no more have thought
of hazarding a guess about her age than one would have made a similar
calculation about the Goddess of Liberty. She was perennially young,
perennially good-looking, and her entertainments were above reproach.
Some sour old "Grannies" in Boston, who had neither her wit, nor her
health, called her Venus Anno Domino, but they were jealous and cynical
and their testimony cannot be taken as reliable.
What if she had been splitting gloves applauding college games since
the fathers of to-day's contestants had fought and struggled for
similar honors in this very field. She applauded with such vim, and
she gave such delightful dinners afterward, that for the glory of old
Harvard it is to be hoped she will continue to applaud and entertain
the grandsons of to-day's victors, even as she had their sires.
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 proteges--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. It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight of
seeing him again.
"Look, Grace," said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of her
nieces, "there is Lennox Sanderson."
"Play!" called the referee, and at the word the Harvard wedge shot
forward and crashed into the onrushing mass of blue-legged bodies. The
mimic war was on, and raged with all the excitement of real battle for
the next three-quarters of an hour; the center was pierced, the flanks
were turned, columns were formed and broken, weak spots were protected,
all the tactics of the science of arms was employed, and yet, neither
side could gain an advantage.
The last minutes of the first half of the game were spent
desperately--Kenneth, the terrible line breaker of Yale, made two
famous charges, Lennox Sanderson, the famous flying half-back, secured
Harvard a temporary advantage by a magnificently supported run.
"Time!" called the referee, and the first half of the game was over.
For fifteen minutes the combatants rested, then resumed their massing,
wedging and driving. Sanderson, who had not appeared to over-exert
himself during the first half of the game, gradually began to turn the
tide in favor of the crimson. After a decoy and a scrimmage,
Sanderson, with the ball wedged tightly under one arm, was seen flying
like a meteor, well covered by his supports. On he dashed at full
speed for the much-desired touch-line. The next minute he had reached
the goal and was buried under a pile of squirming bodies.
Then did the Harvard hosts burst into one mighty and prolonged cheer
that made the air tremble. Sanderson was the hero of the hour.
Gray-haired old men jumped up and shouted his name with that of the
university. It was one mad pandemonium of excitement, till the game
was won, and the crowd woke up amid the "Rah, Rahs, Harvard, Sanderson."
Anna's cheeks burned crimson. She clapped her hands to the final
destruction of her gloves. She patted the roses he had sent her. She
had never dreamed that life was so beautiful, so full of happiness.
She saw him again for just a moment, before they left the park. He
came up to speak to them, with the sweat and grime of battle still upon
him, his hair flying in the breeze. The crowds gave way for the hero;
women gave him their brightest smiles; men involuntarily straightened
their shoulders in tribute to his inches.
Years afterwards, it seemed to Anna, in looking back on the tragedy of
it all, that he had never looked so handsome, never been so absolutely
irresistible as on that autumn day when he had taken her hand and said:
"I couldn't help making that run with your eyes on me."
"And we shall see you at tea, on Saturday?" asked Mrs. Tremont.
"I shall be delighted," he answered: "thank you for persuading Miss
Moore to stay over for another week." Mrs. Tremont smiled, she could
smile if she were on the rack; but she assured herself that she was
done with poverty-stricken beauties till Grace and Maud were married,
at least. For years she had been planning a match between Grace and
Lennox Sanderson.
Anna and Sanderson exchanged looks. Robert Maynard bit his lips and
turned away. He realized that the dearest wish of his life was beyond
reach of it forever. "Ah, well," he murmured to himself--"who could
have a chance against Lennox Sanderson?"
CHAPTER II.
THE CONQUERING HERO IS DISPOSED TO BE HUMAN.
"Her lips are roses over-wash'd with dew,
Or like the purple of narcissus' flower;
No frost their fair, no wind doth waste their powers,
But by her breath her beauties do renew."--_Robert Greene_.
The dusk of an autumn afternoon was closing in on the well-filled
library of Mrs. Standish Tremont's Beacon street home. The last rays
of sunlight filtered softly through the rose silk curtains and blended
with the ruddy glow of fire-light. The atmosphere of this room was
more invitingly domestic than that of any other room in Mrs. Tremont's
somewhat bleakly luxurious home.
Perhaps it was the row upon row of books in their scarlet leather
bindings, perhaps it was the fine old collection of Dutch masterpieces,
portraying homely scenes from Dutch life, that robbed the air of the
chilling effect of the more formal rooms; but, whatever was the reason,
the fact remained that the library was the room in which to dream
dreams, appreciate comfort and be content.
At least so it seemed to Anna Moore, as she glanced from time to time
at the tiny French clock that silently ticked away the hours on the
high oaken mantel-piece. Anna had dressed for tea with more than usual
care on this particular Saturday afternoon. She wore a simply made
house gown of heavy white cloth, that hung in rich folds about her
exquisite figure, that might have seemed over-developed in a girl of
eighteen, were it not for the long slender throat and tapering waist of
more than usual slenderness.
The dark hair was coiled high on top of the shapely head, and a few
tendrils strayed about her neck and brow. She wore no ornaments--not
even the simplest pin.
She was curled up in a great leather chair, in front of the open fire,
playing with a white angora kitten, who climbed upon her shoulder and
generally conducted himself like a white ball of animated yarn. It was
too bad that there was no painter at hand to transfer to canvas so
lovely a picture as this girl in her white frock made, sitting by the
firelight in this mellow old room, playing with a white imp of a
kitten. It would have made an ideal study in white and scarlet.
How comfortable it all was; the book-lined walls, the repose and
dignity of this beautiful home, with its corps of well-trained servants
waiting to minister to one's lightest wants. The secure and sheltered
feeling that it gave appealed strongly to the girl, who but a little
while ago had enjoyed similar surroundings in her father's house.
And then, there had been that awful day when her father's wealth had
vanished into air like a burst bubble, and he had come home with a
white drawn face and gone to bed, never again to rise from it.
Anna did not mind the privations that followed on her own account, but
they were pitifully hard on her invalid mother, who had been used to
every comfort all her life.
After they had left New York, they had taken a little cottage in
Waltham, Mass., and it was here that Mrs. Standish Tremont had come to
call on her relatives in their grief and do what she could toward
lightening their burdens. Anna was worn out with the constant care of
her mother, and would only consent to go away for a rest, because the
doctor told her that her health was surely breaking under the strain,
and that if she did not go, there would be two invalids instead of one.
It was at Mrs. Tremont's that she had met Lennox Sanderson, and from
the first, both seemed to be under the influence of some subtle spell
that drew them together blindly, and without the consent of their
wills. Mrs. Tremont, who viewed the growing attraction of these two
young people with well-concealed alarm, watched every opportunity to
prevent their enjoying each other's society. It irritated her that one
of the wealthiest and most influential men in Harvard should take such
a fancy to her penniless young relative, instead of to Grace Tremont,
whom she had selected for his wife.
There were few things that Mrs. Tremont enjoyed so much as arranging
romances in everyday life.
"Pardon me, Miss Moore," said the butler, standing at her elbow, "but
there has been a telephone message from Mrs. Tremont, saying that she
and Mrs. Endicott have been detained, and will you be kind enough to
explain this to Mr. Sanderson." Anna never knew what the message cost
Mrs. Tremont.
A moment later, Sanderson's card was sent up; Anna rose to meet him
with swiftly beating heart.
"What perfect luck," he said. "How do I happen to find you alone?
Usually you have a regiment of people about you."
"Cousin Frances has just telephoned that she has been detained, and I
suppose I am to entertain you till her return."
"I shall be sufficiently entertained if I may have the pleasure of
looking at you."
"Till dinner time? You could never stand it." She laughed.
"It would be a pleasure till eternity."
"At any rate," said Anna, "I am not going to put you to the test. If
you will be good enough to ring for tea, I will give you a cup."
The butler brought in the tea. Anna lighted the spirit lamp with
pretty deftness, and proceeded to make tea.
"I could not have taken this, even from your hands last week,
Anna--pardon me, Miss Moore."
"And why not? Had you been taking pledges not to drink tea?"
"It seems to me as if I've been living on rare beef and whole wheat
bread ever since I can remember----"
"Oh, yes, I forgot about your being in training for the game, but you
did so magnificently, you ought not to mind it. Why, you made Harvard
win the game. We were all so proud of you."
"All! I don't care about 'all.' Were you proud of me?"
"Of course I was," she answered with the loveliest blush.
"Then it is amply repaid."
"Let me give you another cup of tea."
"No, thanks, I don't care about any more, but if you will let me talk
to you about something-- See here, Anna. Yes, I mean Anna. What
nonsense for us to attempt to keep up the Miss Moore and Mr. Sanderson
business. I used to scoff at love at first sight and say it was all
the idle fancy of the poets. Then I met you and remained to pray.
You've turned my world topsy-turvy. I can't think without you, and yet
it would be folly to tell this to my Governor, and ask his consent to
our marriage. He wants me to finish college, take the usual trip
around the world and then go into the firm. Besides, he wants me to
eventually marry a cousin of mine--a girl with a lot of money and with
about as much heart as would fit on the end of a pin."
She had followed this speech with almost painful attention. She bit
her lips till they were but a compressed line of coral. At last she
found words to say:
"We must not talk of these things, Mr. Sanderson. I have to go back
and care for my mother. She is an invalid and needs all my attention.
Bedsides, we are poor; desperately poor. I am here in your world, only
through the kindness of my cousin, Mrs. Tremont."
"It was your world till a year ago, Anna. I know all about your
father's failure, and how nobly you have done your part since then, and
it kills me to think of you, who ought to have everything, spending
your life--your youth--in that stupid little Waltham, doing the work of
a housemaid."
"I am very glad to do my part," she answered him bravely, but her eyes
were full of unshed tears.
"Anna, dearest, listen to me." He crossed over to where she sat and
took her hand. "Can't you have a little faith in me and do what I am
going to ask you? There is the situation exactly. My father won't
consent to our marriage, so there is no use trying to persuade him.
And here you are--a little girl who needs some one to take care of you
and help you take care of your mother, give her all the things that
mean so much to an invalid. Now, all this can be done, darling, if you
will only have faith in me. Marry me now secretly, before you go back
to Waltham. No one need know. And then the governor can be talked
around in time. My allowance will be ample to give you and your mother
all you need. Can't you see, darling?"
The color faded from her cheeks. She looked at him with eyes as
startled as a surprised fawn.
"O, Lennox, I would be afraid to do that."
"You would not be afraid, Anna, if you loved me."
It was so tempting to the weary young soul, who had already begun to
sink under the accumulated burdens of the past year, not for herself,
but for the sick mother, who complained unceasingly of the changed
conditions of their lives. The care and attention would mean so much
to her--and yet, what right had she to encourage this man to go against
the wishes of his father, to take advantage of his love for her? But
she was grateful to him, and there was a wealth of tenderness in the
eyes that she turned toward him.
"No, Lennox, I appreciate your generosity, but I do not think it would
be wise for either of us."
"Don't talk to me of generosity. Good God, Anna, can't you realize
what this separation means to me? I have no heart to go on with my
life away from you. If you are going to throw me over, I shall cut
college and go away."
She loved him all the better for his impatience.
"Anna," he said--the two dark heads were close together, the madness of
the impulse was too much for both. Their lips met in a first long
kiss. The man was to have his way. The kiss proved a more eloquent
argument than all his pleading.
"Say you will, Anna."
"Yes," she whispered.
And then they heard the street door open and close, and the voices of
Mrs. Tremont and her daughter, as they made their way to the library.
And the two young souls, who hovered on the brink of heaven, were
obliged to listen to the latest gossip of fashionable Boston.
CHAPTER III.
CONTAINING SOME REFLECTIONS AND THE ENTRANCE OF MEPHISTOPHELES.
"Not all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,
Nor florid prose, nor horrid lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime."--_Byron_.
Lennox Sanderson was stretched in his window-seat with a book, of
which, however, he knew nothing--not even the title--his mind being
occupied by other thoughts than reading at that particular time.
Did he dare do it? The audacity of the proceeding was sufficient to
make the iron will of even Lennox Sanderson waver. And yet, to lose
her! Such a contingency was not to be considered. His mind flew
backward and forward like a shuttle, he turned the leaves of his book;
he smoked, but no light came from within or without.
He glanced about the familiar objects in his sitting-room as one
unconsciously does when the mind is on the rack of anxiety, as if to
seek council from the mute things that make up so large a part of our
daily lives.
It was an ideal sitting-room for a college student, the luxury of the
appointments absolutely subservient to taste and simplicity. Heavy red
curtains divided the sitting-room from the bedroom beyond, and imparted
a degree of genial warmth to the atmosphere. Russian candlesticks of
highly polished brass stood about on the mantel-piece and book shelves.
Above the high oak wainscoting the walls were covered with dark red
paper, against which background brown photographs of famous paintings
showed to excellent advantage. They were reproductions of Botticelli,
Rembrant, Franz Hals and Velasquez hung with artistic irregularity.
Above the mantel-piece were curious old weapons, swords, matchetes,
flintlocks and carbines. A helmet and breastplate filled the space
between the two windows. Some dozen or more of pipe racks held the
young collegian's famous collection of pipes that told the history of
smoking from the introduction during the reign of Elizabeth, down to
the present day.
In taking a mental inventory of his household goods, Sanderson's eyes
fell on the photograph of a woman on the mantel-piece. He frowned.
What right had she there, when his mind was full of another? He walked
over to the picture and threw it into the fire. It was not the first
picture to know a similar fate after occupying that place of honor.
The blackened edges of the picture were whirling up the chimney, when
Sanderson's attention was arrested by a knock.
"Come in," he called, and a young man of about his own age entered.
Without being in the least ill-looking, there was something repellent
about the new comer. His eyes were shifty and too close together to be
trustworthy. Otherwise no fault could be found with his appearance.
"Well, Langdon, how are you?" his host asked, but there was no warmth
in his greeting.
"As well as a poor devil like me ever is," began Langdon obsequiously.
He sighed, looked about the comfortable room and finished with: "Lucky
dog."
Sanderson stood on no ceremony with his guest, who was a thoroughly
unscrupulous young man. Once or twice Langdon had helped Sanderson out
of scrapes that would have sent him home from college without his
degree, had they come to the ears of the faculty. In return for this
assistance, Sanderson had lent him large sums of money, which the owner
entertained no hopes of recovering. Sanderson tried to balance matters
by treating Langdon with scant ceremony when they were alone.
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