The Blood Red Dawn 
 
.The 
 
 Blood Red Dawn 
 
 by 
 
 CHARLES CALDWELL DOBIE 
 
 
 Harper & Brothers Publishers 
 
 New York and London 
 
911 
 
 THE BLOOD- RED DAWN 
 
 Copyright 1920, by Harper & Brothers 
 
 Printed in the United States of America 
 
 Published May, 1920 
 
 E-U 
 
To My Mother 
 
 423871 
 
The Blood Red Dawn 
 Book I 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAfFN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 THE pastor s announcement had been swallowed 
 up in a hum of truant inattention, and as the 
 heralded speaker made , his appearance upon the 
 platform Claire Robson, leaning forward, said to 
 her mother: 
 
 "What? . . . Did you catch his name?" 
 "A foreigner of some sort ! " replied Mrs. Robson, 
 with smug sufficiency. 
 
 For a moment the elder woman s sneer dulled 
 the edge of Claire s anticipations, but presently 
 the man began to speak, and at once she felt a 
 sense of power back of his halting words, a sudden 
 bursting forth of bloom amid the frozen assembly 
 that sat ice-bound, refusing to be melted by the 
 fires of an alien enthusiasm. She could not help 
 wondering whether he felt how hopeless it would 
 be to force a sympathetic response from his au 
 dience. In ordinary times the Second Presbyterian 
 Church of San Francisco could not possibly have 
 had any interest in Serbia except as a field for 
 foreign missionaries. Now, with America in the 
 war and speeding up the draft, these worthy people 
 
 3 
 
. RED DAWN 
 
 were too much concerned with problems nearer 
 their own hearthstones to be swept off their feet by 
 a specific and almost inarticulate appeal for an 
 obscure country, made only a shade less remote by 
 the accident of being accounted an ally. 
 
 Claire, straining at attention, found it hard to 
 follow him. He talked rapidly and with unfamiliar 
 emphasis, and he waved his hands. Frankly, peo 
 ple were bored. They had come to hear a concert 
 and incidentally swell the Red Cross fund, but they 
 had not reckoned on quite this type of harangue. 
 Besides, an appetizing smell of coffee from the 
 church kitchen had begun to beguile their senses. 
 And yet, the man talked on and on, until quite 
 suddenly Claire Robson began to have a strange 
 feeling of disquiet, an embarrassment for him, such 
 as one feels when an intimate friend or kinsman 
 unconsciously makes a spectacle of himself. She 
 wished that he would stop. She longed to rise 
 from her seat and scream, to create an outlandish 
 scene, to do anything, in short, that would silence 
 him. At this point he turned his eyes in her direc 
 tion, and she felt the scorch of an intense inner fire. 
 Instinctively she lowered her glance. . . . When she 
 looked up again his gaze was still fixed upon her. 
 She felt her color rise. From that moment on she 
 had a sense that she was his sole audience. He 
 was talking to her. The others did not matter. 
 She still did not have any very distinct idea what 
 it was all about, but the manner of it held her cap 
 tive. But gradually the mists cleared, he became 
 more coherent, and slowly, imperceptibly, bit by 
 bit, he won the others. Yet never for an instant 
 
 4 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 did he take his eyes from her. When he finished, 
 a momentary silence blocked the final burst of 
 applause. But Claire Robson s hands were locked 
 tightly together, and it was not until he had dis 
 appeared that she realized that she had not paid 
 him the tribute of even a parting glance. 
 
 The pastor came back upon the platform and an 
 nounced that refreshments would be served at the 
 conclusion of the next number. A heavy odor of 
 coffee continued to float from the church kitchen. 
 A red-haired woman stepped forward and began to 
 sing. 
 
 Already Claire Robson dreaded the ordeal of 
 supper. The fact that tables were being laid 
 further disturbed her. This meant that she and 
 her mother would have to push their way into some 
 group which, at best, would remain indifferent to 
 their presence. When coffee was served informally 
 things were not so awkward. To be sure, one had 
 to balance coffee-cup and cake-plate with an amaz 
 ing and painful skill, but, on the other hand, table- 
 less groups did not emphasize one s isolation. 
 Claire had got to the point where she would have 
 welcomed active hostility on the part of her fellow 
 church members, but their utter indifference was 
 soul-killing. She would have liked to remember 
 one occasion when any one had betrayed the slight 
 est interest in either her arrival or departure, or 
 rather in the arrival and departure of her mother 
 and herself. 
 
 The solo came to an end, and the inevitable ap 
 plause followed, but before the singer could respond 
 to the implied encore most of the listeners began 
 
 5 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 frank and determined advances upon the tables. 
 The concert was over. 
 
 Mrs. Robson rose and faced Claire with a look of 
 bewilderment. As usual, mother and daughter 
 stood irresolutely, caught like two trembling leaves 
 in the backwater of a swirling eddy. At last Claire 
 made a movement toward the nearest table. Mrs. 
 Robson followed. They sat down. 
 
 The scattered company speedily began to form 
 into congenial groups. There was a great deal of 
 suddenly loosened chatter. Claire Robson sat 
 silently, rather surprised and dismayed to find that 
 she and her mother had chosen a table which seemed 
 to be the objective of all the prominent church 
 members. The company facing her was elegant, 
 if not precisely smart, and there were enough laces 
 and diamonds displayed to have done excellent 
 service if the proper background had been provided. 
 Claire was further annoyed to discover that her 
 mother was regarding the situation with a certain 
 ruffling self-satisfaction which she took no pains 
 to conceal. Mrs. Robson bowed and smirked, and 
 even called gaily to every one within easy range. 
 There was something distasteful in her mother s 
 sudden and almost aggressive self-assurance. 
 
 Gradually the company adjusted itself ; the tables 
 were filled. The only moving figures were those of 
 young women carrying huge white pitchers of steam 
 ing coffee. Claire Robson settled into her seat with 
 a resignation born of subtle inner misery. Across 
 her brain flashed the insistent and pertinent ques 
 tions that such a situation always evoked. Why 
 was she not one of these young women engaged in 
 
 6 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 distributing refreshments? Did the circles close 
 automatically so^as to exclude her, or did her own 
 aloofness shut her out? What was the secret of 
 these people about her that gave them such an 
 assured manner? No one spoke to her with cordial 
 enthusiasm. ... It was not a matter of wealth, or 
 brains, or prominent church activity. It was not 
 even a matter of obscurity. Like all large organiza 
 tions, the Second Presbyterian Church was made 
 up of every clique in the social calendar; the ob 
 scure circle was as clannish and distinctive in its 
 way as any other group. But Claire Robson was 
 forced to admit that she did not belong even to the 
 obscure circle. She belonged nowhere that was 
 the galling and oppressive truth that was forced 
 upon her. 
 
 At this point she became aware that one of the 
 most prominent church members, Mrs. Towne, was 
 making an unmistakably cordial advance in her di 
 rection. Claire had a misgiving. . . . Mrs. Towne was 
 never excessively friendly except for a definite aim. 
 
 "My dear Miss Robson," Mrs. Towne began, 
 sweetly, drooping confidentially to a whispering 
 posture, * I am so sorry, but I shall have to disturb 
 you and your mother! ... It just happens that this 
 table has been reserved for the elders and their 
 wives. ... I hope you ll understand!" 
 
 For a moment Claire merely stared at the mes 
 senger of evil news. Then, recovering herself, she 
 managed to reply : 
 
 "Oh yes, Mrs. Towne! I understand perfectly. 
 ... I am sure we were very stupid. . . . Come, 
 mother!" 
 
 7 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Mrs. Robson responded at once to her daughter s 
 command. The two women rose. By this time 
 the task of securing another place was quite hope 
 less. Claire felt that every eye in the room was 
 turned upon them. Picking their way between a 
 labyrinth of tables and chairs, they literally were 
 stumbling in the direction of an exit when Claire 
 felt a hand upon her arm. She turned. 
 
 "Pardon me," the man opposite her was saying, 
 "but may I offer you a place at our table?" 
 
 Claire said nothing; she followed blindly. Her 
 mother was close upon her heels. 
 
 The table was a small one, and only two people 
 were occupying it the man who had halted Claire, 
 and a woman. The man, standing with one hand 
 on the chair which he had drawn up for Mrs. Rob- 
 son, said, simply: 
 
 "My name is Stillman, and of course you know 
 Mrs. Condor the lady who has just sung for us." 
 
 Claire gave a swift, inclusive glance. Yes, it 
 was the same woman who had attempted to be 
 guile a weary audience from its impending reple 
 tion; at close range one could not escape the in 
 tense redness of her hair or the almost immoral 
 whiteness of the shoulders and arms which she was 
 at such little pains to conceal. 
 
 "Stillman?" Mrs. Robson was fluttering impor 
 tantly. "Not the old Rincon Hill family? " 
 
 "Yes, the old Rincon Hill family," the man 
 replied. 
 
 Mrs. Robson sat down with preening self-satis 
 faction. Wearily the daughter dropped into the 
 seat which Mrs. Condor proffered. The name of 
 
 8 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Ned Stillman was not unfamiliar to any San Fran 
 ciscan who scanned the social news with even a 
 casual glance, and Claire had a vague remembrance 
 that Mrs. Condor also figured socially, but in a 
 rather more inclusive way than her companion. 
 At all events, it was plain that her mother, with un 
 erring feminine insight, had placed the pair to her 
 satisfaction. Already the elder woman was contriv 
 ing to let Stillman know something of her antece 
 dents. She was Emily Carrol, also of Rincon Hill, 
 and of course he knew her two sisters Mrs. 
 Thomas Wynne and Mrs. Edward Finch-Brown! 
 As Stillman returned a smiling assurance to Mrs. 
 Robson s attempts to be impressive, a young woman 
 in white arrived with ice-cream and messy layer- 
 cake. Unconsciously Claire Robson began to smile. 
 She could not have said why, but somehow the pres 
 ence of Ned Stillman and Mrs. Condor at a table 
 spread with such vacuous delights seemed little 
 short of ridiculous. They did not fit the picture 
 any more 1 ian her beetle-browed, red-lipped 
 Serbian who . . . She turned deliberately and 
 swept the room with her glance. Of course he had 
 gone. It was not to be expected that he would 
 descend to the level of such puerile feasting. A 
 sudden contempt for everything that only an hour 
 ago seemed so desirable rose within her, and, in 
 answer to the young woman s query as to whether 
 she preferred coffee to ice-cream, she answered with 
 lip-curling aloofness: 
 
 "Neither, thank you ... I am not hungry." 
 Stillman looked at her searchingly. She returned 
 his gaze without flinching. 
 2 9 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire Robson did not sleep that night. She 
 lay for hours, quite motionless, staring into the 
 gloom of her narrow bedroom, her mind ruthlessly 
 shaping formless, vague intuitions into definite con 
 victions. She could not put her finger upon the 
 precise reason for her inquietude. Was it charge 
 able to so trivial a circumstance as a stranger s 
 formal courtesy or had something more subtle 
 moved her ? If the depths of her isolation had been 
 thrown into too high relief by the almost shameful 
 sense of obligation she felt toward Stillman for 
 his courtesy, what was to be said of the uniqueness 
 of the solitary position which the Serbian awarded 
 her by singling her out for a sympathetic response ? 
 Could it be that a vague pity had stirred him, too ? 
 Had things reached a point where her loneliness 
 showed through the threadbare indifference of her 
 glance? In short, had both men been won to gal 
 lantry by her distress? In one case, at least, she 
 decided that there was a reasonable chance to 
 doubt. And that doubt quickened her pulse like 
 May wine. 
 
 But the humiliation of her last encounter with 
 chivalry stuck with profound irritation. She re 
 called the scene again and again. She remembered 
 her contemptuous silence before Stillman s obvious 
 suavities, the high, assured laugh which his com 
 panion, Mrs. Condor, threw out to meet his quiet 
 sallies, the ruffling satisfaction of her mother, chat 
 tering on irrelevantly, but with the undisguised 
 purpose of creating a proper impression. How 
 easily Stillman must have seen through Claire s 
 muteness and the elder woman s eager craving for 
 
 IO 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 an audience! And all the time Mrs. Condor had 
 been laughing, not ill-naturedly, but with the irony 
 of an experienced woman possessing a sense of 
 humor. 
 
 And at the end, when the four had left the church 
 together, to be whirled home in Stillman s car, the 
 sudden nods and smiles and farewells that had 
 blossomed along the path of her mother s exit! 
 Claire could have laughed it all away if her mother 
 had not betrayed such eagerness to drink this snob 
 bish flattery to the lees. . . . 
 
 Claire s father had never entered very largely 
 into her calculations, but to-night her readjusted 
 vision included him. Stubborn, kind, a bit weak, 
 and inclined to copying poetry in a red-covered 
 album, he had been no match for the disillusion- 
 ments of married life. Her mother s people had 
 felt a sullen resentment at his downfall he had 
 taken to drink and died ingloriously when Claire 
 was still in her seventh year. Claire, influenced 
 by the family traditions, had shared this resent 
 ment. But now she found herself wondering 
 whether there was not a word or two to be said in 
 his behalf. Her father had been a cheap clerk in a 
 wholesale house when he had married. The un 
 certain Carrol fortunes were waning swiftly at the 
 time, and Emily Carrol had been thrown at him 
 with all the panic that then possessed a public 
 schooled in the fallacy that marriage was a woman s 
 only career. The result was to have been expected. 
 Extravagance, debts, too much family, drink, death 
 the sequence was complete. He had been capt 
 ured, withered, cast aside, by a tribe that had 
 
 ii 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 not even had the decency to grant his memory 
 the kindness of an excuse. 
 
 Wide-eyed and restless, Claire Robson felt a sud 
 den pity for her father. Tears sprang to her eyes; 
 it overwhelmed her to discover this new father so 
 full of human failings and yet so full of human 
 provocation. In her twenty-four years of life she 
 had never shed a tear for him, or felt the slightest 
 pang for his failure. If she had ever doubted the 
 Carrol viewpoint, she had never given her lack of 
 faith any scope. She had taken their cast-off 
 prejudices and threadbare convictions as docilely 
 as she had once received their stale garments. 
 She had shrunk from spiritual independence with 
 all the obsequious arrogance of a poor relation at 
 a feast. Her diffidence, her self -consciousness, her 
 timidity, were the outward forms of an inbred 
 snobbery. It was curious how suddenly all this 
 was made clear to her. . . . 
 
 At length she fell into a troubled sleep. . . . 
 When she awoke the room s outlines were reviving 
 before the advances of early morning. For the 
 first time in her life she caught the poetry of the 
 new day at first hand. For years she had reveled 
 vicariously in the delights of morning. But it had 
 always been to her a thing apart, a matter which 
 the writers of romantic verse beheld and trans 
 lated for the benefit of late sleepers. It never 
 occurred to her that the day crawling into the 
 light -well of her Clay Street flat was lit with pre 
 cisely the same flame that colored the far-flung 
 peaks of the poet s song. And instantly a phrase 
 of the Serbian s harangue came to her blood-red 
 
 12 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 dawn ! He had repeated these words over and over 
 again, and somehow under the heat of his ardor 
 and longing for his native land this hackneyed 
 phrase took on its real and dreadful value. In the 
 sudden sweep of this vital remembrance, Claire 
 Robson rose for a moment above the fretful drip 
 of circumstance. . . . Blood -red Dawn! . . . She 
 threw herself back upon her bed and shud 
 dered. . . . 
 
 She rose at seven o clock, but already the morn 
 ing had grown pallid and flecked with gray clouds. 
 
 An apologetic tap came at the door, and the 
 .voice of Mrs. Robson repeating a formula that she 
 never varied: 
 
 " Better hurry, Claire. If you don t you ll be 
 late for the office!" 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 A3 Claire stepped out into the cold sunlight of 
 early November, she smiled bitterly at the 
 exaggeration of last night s mood. After the first 
 hectic flush of dawn there is nothing so sane and 
 sweet and commonplace as morning. The spec 
 tacle of Mrs. Finnegan, who lodged in the flat 
 below, slopping warm suds over the thin marble 
 steps, added a final note of homeliness, which di 
 vorced Claire completely from heroics. 
 
 1 Well, Miss Robson, so you really got home, 
 last night," broke from the industrious neighbor 
 as she straightened up and tucked her lifted skirts 
 in more securely. "I thought you never would 
 come! ... A package came from New York for 
 you. The man nearly banged your door down. 
 I had Finnegan put it on your back stoop. . . . It s 
 from that cousin of yours, I guess. I was so ex 
 cited about it I kept wishing you d get home early 
 so that I could get a peep at all the pretty things. 
 But I ll run up just as soon as I get through with 
 the breakfast dishes." 
 
 Claire smiled wanly. "It was very good of you 
 to take all that trouble, I m sure, Mrs. Finnegan!" 
 
 "Oh, bother my trouble!" Mrs. Finnegan re 
 sponded. "I just knew how crazy I d be about a 
 
 14 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 box. I guess we women are all alike, Miss Rob- 
 son. Anyway, your mother and I are!" 
 
 Mrs. Finnegan bent over her task again with 
 a quick exasperated movement, and Claire passed 
 on. Her neighbor s abrupt rebuke gave Claire a 
 renewed sense of exclusion. She had meant to be 
 warmly appreciative, but she knew now that she had 
 been only coldly polite. But, as a matter of fact, 
 the prospect of delving through a box of Gertrude 
 Sinclair s discarded finery moved her this morn 
 ing to a dull fury. She felt suddenly tired of cast- 
 offs, of compromise, of all the other shabby adjust 
 ments of genteel poverty. And by the time she 
 reached the office of the Falcon Insurance Com 
 pany her soul was seething with a curious and 
 unreasonable revolt. The feminine office force 
 seemed seething also, but with an impersonal, 
 quivering excitement. Nellie Whitehead had been 
 dismissed ! 
 
 This Nellie Whitehead, the stenographer-in- 
 chief, was big, vigorous, blond vulgar, energetic, 
 vivid; and Miss Munch, her assistant, a thin, 
 hollow-chested spinster, who loafed upon her job 
 so that she might save her sight for the manufacture 
 of incredible yards of tatting, never missed an op 
 portunity to lift her eyes significantly behind her 
 superior s back. 
 
 "And what do you suppose?" Miss Munch was 
 querying as Claire stepped into the dressing-room. 
 "She told Mr. Flint to go to hell! . . . Yes, posi 
 tively, she used those very words. And I must say 
 he was a gentleman throughout it all. He told 
 her gently but firmly that her example in the office 
 
 15 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 wasn t what it should be and that in justice to the 
 other girls . . . 
 
 Claire turned impatiently away. The fiction of 
 Mr. Flint s belated interest in the morals of his fem 
 inine office force was unconvincing enough to be 
 irritating. For a man who never missed an oppor 
 tunity to force his attentions, he was showing an 
 amazingly ethical viewpoint. On second thought, 
 Claire remembered that Miss Munch was never 
 the recipient of Mr. Flint s attentions, which to 
 the casual eye might have seemed innocent enough 
 on rainy days gallantly bending his ample girth 
 in a rather too prolonged attempt to slip on the 
 girls rubbers, insisting on the quite unnecessary 
 task of incasing them in their jackets and smooth 
 ing the sleeves of their shirt-waists in the process, 
 flicking imaginary threads where the feminine 
 curves were most opulent. Not that Mr. Flint 
 was a wolf in sheep s clothing; he played the part 
 of sheep, but he needed no disguise for his per 
 formance; he merely lived up to a sort of flock- 
 mind consciousness where women were concerned. 
 
 The group clustered about Miss Munch broke 
 up at the approach of Mr. Flint, who gave a signifi 
 cant glance in the direction of Claire Robson, intent 
 upon her morning work. But the excitement per 
 sisted in spite of the scattered auditors, and the 
 fact was mysteriously communicated that Miss 
 Munch s interest in the event was chargeable to 
 her hopes. It seemed impossible to Miss Munch 
 that any one but herself could succeed to the vacant 
 post of stenographer-in-chief. 
 
 At precisely eleven o clock the buzzer on Claire 
 16 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Robson s desk hummed three times. This an 
 nounced that she was wanted by Mr. Flint. She 
 gathered her note-book and pencils and answered 
 the call. 
 
 Mr. Flint was busy at the telephone when Claire 
 entered the private office. She seated herself at 
 the flat oak table in the center of the room. 
 
 Mr. Flint s office bore all the conventional signs 
 of business commissions of authority from insur 
 ance companies, state licenses in oak frames, an 
 oil-painting of Thomas Sawyer Flint, the founder 
 of the firm, over a fireplace that maintained its 
 useless dignity in spite of the steam-radiator near 
 the window. On his desk was the inevitable pict 
 ure of his wife framed in silver, a hand-illumined 
 platitude of Stevenson, an elaborate set of desk 
 paraphernalia in beaten brass that bore little evi 
 dence of service. In two green-glazed bowls of 
 Japanese origin, roses from Mr. Flint s garden at 
 Yolanda scattered faint pink petals on the Smyrna 
 rug. These flowers were the only concession to 
 esthetics that Mr. Flint indulged. In spite of a 
 masculine distaste for carrying flowers, hardly a day 
 went by when he did not appear at the office with 
 a huge harvest of blossoms from his country home. 
 
 Claire was bending over, intent on picking up 
 the crumpled rose-petals, when Mr. Flint finally 
 spoke. She straightened herself slowly. Her un 
 hurried movements had a certain grace that did 
 not escape the man opposite her. She tossed the 
 bruised leaves into a waste-basket and reached for 
 her pencil. Her heart was pounding, but she faced 
 Mr. Flint with a clear, direct gaze. 
 
 17 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Miss Robson, of course you ve heard all about 
 the rumpus," Mr. Flint was saying. "I had to 
 fire Miss Whitehead. ... I think you can fill 
 the biU." 
 
 Claire rose without replying. Mr. Flint left his 
 seat and crossed over to her. 
 
 "I hope," he said, flicking a thread from her 
 shoulder, "that you re game. . . . Some girls, of 
 course, don t care a damn about getting on ... es 
 pecially if there s a Johnny somewhere in sight with 
 enough cash in his pocket for a marriage license." 
 
 "I am very much taken by surprise," Claire 
 faltered. "You see, the change means a great 
 deal to me." 
 
 Mr. Flint moved closer. His manner was inti 
 mate and distasteful. Sometimes I think we busi 
 ness men ought to get more of a slant on our em 
 ployees. . . . You know what I mean, not exactly 
 bothering about how many lumps of sugar they 
 take in their coffee, or their taste in after-dinner 
 cheese . . . but, well, just how often they have 
 to resole their boots and turn the ribbons on their 
 spring bonnets. . . . Now, in Miss Whitehead s 
 case . . . But of course you re not interested in 
 Miss Whitehead." 
 
 "Why, I wouldn t say that," Stammered Claire. 
 Then, as she reached for her shorthand book she 
 said, more confidently: "To be quite frank, Mr. 
 Flint, I liked Miss Whitehead tremendously. She 
 was so alive . . . and vivid." 
 
 Flint beamed. "Do you know why I picked 
 you instead of that Munch dame? . . . It s be 
 cause you had all the frills of a woman and none of 
 
 18 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the nastiness. For instance, you wouldn t be both 
 ered in the least if I took a notion to overload the 
 office with another pretty girl. ... I ve watched 
 you for some time. It has taken me six months 
 to make up my mind to fire Miss Whitehead and 
 boost you into her job." 
 
 He stood with an air of condescending arrogance, 
 his thumbs bearing down heavily on his trousers 
 pockets, his broad fingers beating a self-satisfied 
 tattoo upon his thighs. Claire shrank nearer the 
 table. s "You mean, Mr. Flint, that you dismissed 
 Miss Whitehead merely to give me her position?" 
 
 Flint smiled. "Well, now you re coming down 
 to br^ss-headed tacks. I m not keen on spelling 
 out the whys and wherefores of anything I do. . . . 
 But one thing is certain enough if Miss Munch had 
 been the only available candidate I could have 
 stood Miss Whitehead . . . There ain t much ques 
 tion about that." 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Flint! I m sorry!" 
 
 He gave a wide guffaw. "That only makes you 
 all the more of a corker!" he answered, rubbing his 
 hands together in narrow-eyed satisfaction. 
 
 She escaped into the outer office, flushed, but 
 with her head thrown back in an attitude of in 
 stinctive defense, and the next instant she literally 
 ran into the arm of a man. 
 
 "Why, Miss Robson, but this is pleasant! I m 
 just dropping in to see Mr. Flint." 
 
 She drew back. Mr. Stillman stood smiling be 
 fore her. 
 
 Greetings and questions flowed with all the genial 
 ease of one who is never quite taken unawares. 
 
 19 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire, outwardly calm, felt overcome with inner 
 confusion. She passed rapidly to her desk and sat 
 down. 
 
 Miss Munch was upon her almost instantly. 
 
 "Do you know Ned Stillman?" Miss Munch 
 asked, veiling her real purpose. 
 
 "Yes," replied Claire, with uncomfortable brev 
 ity. 
 
 "I have a cousin who was housekeeper for his 
 wife s father. . . . You know about his wife, of 
 course." 
 
 Claire lifted her clear eyes in a startled glance 
 that was almost as instantly converted into a look 
 of challenge. 
 
 "Yes," she lied. 
 
 Miss Munch hesitated, then plunged at once into 
 the issue uppermost in her mind. "It s too bad 
 you ve had to be bothered with Flint s dictation, 
 Miss Robson. It just happens I m writing up a 
 long home -office report, otherwise I m sure he 
 wouldn t have annoyed you." 
 
 Claire Robson fixed Miss Munch with a coldly 
 polite stare. "You ve made a mistake, Miss 
 Munch. Mr. Flint has given me no dictation." 
 The speech in itself was nothing, but Claire s tone 
 gave it unmistakable point. Miss Munch grew 
 white and then flushed. She turned away without 
 a word, but Claire Robson knew that in a twink 
 ling of an eye she had gained not only an enemy, but 
 an uncommon one. 
 
 That night Claire took an unusually long way 
 round on her walk home. Her path from the Fal- 
 
 20 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 con Insurance Company s office on California 
 Street to the Clay Street flat was never a direct one, 
 first, because there were hills to be avoided, and, 
 second, because Claire found the streets at twilight 
 too full of charm for a rapid homeward flight. The 
 year was on the wane and the November days were 
 coming to an early blackness. Claire reveled in the 
 light-flooded dusk of these late autumn evenings. 
 To her, the city became a vast theater, darkened 
 suddenly for the purpose of throwing the performers 
 into sharper relief. Most clerks made their way 
 up Montgomery Street toward Market, but Claire 
 climbed past the German Bank to Kearny Street. 
 She liked this old thoroughfare, struggling vainly 
 to pull itself up to its former glory. The Kearny 
 Street crowd was a varying quantity, frankly shabby 
 or flashily prosperous, as far south as Sutter Street, 
 suddenly dignified and reserved for the two blocks 
 beyond. To-night Claire missed the direct appeal 
 of the streets lined with bright shops. They formed 
 the proper background for her breedings, but they 
 scarcely entered into her mood. She could not 
 have said just what flight her mood was taking, or 
 upon just which branch her thought would alight. 
 She was confused and puzzled and vaguely uneasy. 
 She had a sense that somehow, somewhere, a door 
 had been opened and that a strong, devastating wind 
 was clearing the air and bringing dead things to 
 ground in a disorderly shower. She was stirred by 
 twilights of uneasiness. It was almost as if the mo 
 notonous truce of noonday had been darkened by 
 a huge, composite, masculine shadow, made up in 
 some mysterious way of the ridiculous Serbian and 
 
 21 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 his blood-red dawn, and this man Stillman, who 
 had a wife, and Flint, with hands so ready to flick 
 threads from her sloping shoulders. Yesterday her 
 outlook had been peaceful and unhappy; to-day she 
 felt stimulation of an impending struggle. She was 
 afraid, and yet she would not have turned back for 
 one swift moment. And suddenly the words of 
 Mrs. Finnegan recurred, "I guess we women are 
 all alike." Were they? 
 
 At which point she came upon a pastry-shop win 
 dow and she went in and bought a half-dozen 
 French pastries. The thought of her mother s 
 pleasure at this unusual treat brought her in due 
 time smiling to her threshold. 
 
 Mrs. Robson was not in her accustomed place at 
 the head of the stairs; about half-way up the long 
 flight her voice sounded triumphantly: 
 
 1 Oh, Claire, do hurry and see what Gertrude has 
 sent! Everything is perfectly lovely." 
 
 Claire quickened her pace and gained the cramped 
 living-room. Thrown about in a sort of joyous dis 
 order, Gertrude Sinclair s finery quite lit up the 
 shabbiness. Hats, plumes, scraps of vivid silks, 
 gilded slippers, a spangled fan their unrelated viv 
 idness struck Claire as fantastic as a futurist paint 
 ing. Her mother seemed suddenly young again. 
 Claire wondered whether, after the toll of sixty-odd 
 years, she could be moved to momentary youth by 
 the mere sight of the prettiness that was quicken 
 ing her mother s pulse. 
 
 Mrs. Robson held up a filmy evening gown of 
 black net embroidered with a rich design of dull gold. 
 " Isn t this heavenly?" she demanded. "And it 
 
 22 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 will just fit you, Claire. I think Gertrude has 
 spread herself this time." 
 
 "Yes, on finery, mother. But didn t she send 
 anything sensible? What possessed her to load us 
 up with a lot of things we can never possibly get a 
 chance to wear? * 
 
 Claire had not meant to be disagreeable, but 
 there was rancor in her voice. Mrs. Robson cast 
 aside the dress with the carelessness of a spoiled 
 favorite; she always adapted her manner to the 
 tone of her background. 
 
 " Claire Robson!" she cried, good-naturedly. 
 "You re a regular old woman! I m sure I haven t 
 much to be cheerful about, but I just won t let any 
 thing down me! ... If I wanted to, I could give 
 up right now. Where would we have been, I d like 
 to know, if I hadn t held my head up? Goodness 
 knows, my folks didn t help me. If they had had 
 their way, I d been out manicuring people s 
 nails and washing heads for a living. And you in 
 an orphan-asylum! That s what my people did 
 for me! As it is, they shoved you out to work. 
 What chance have you of meeting nice people ? No, 
 Claire, I don t care how they have treated me, but 
 they might have given you a chance. I ll never for 
 give them for that ! . . . I thought last night when 
 I was talking to Mrs. Condor and watching you 
 and Mr. Stillman how nice it would have been if 
 *. . . Oh, that reminds me! Who do you think has 
 been here to-day? . . . Mrs. Towne! She came 
 to apologize about asking us to move our seats the 
 other night. She knows the Stillmans well. The 
 old people were pillars of the Second Church in the 
 
 23 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 sixties. I fancy he is dancing about that Mrs. 
 Condor s heels a bit. Of course, as Mrs. Towne 
 said, she wouldn t be likely to make herself a per 
 manent feature of Second Church entertainments. 
 But now in war-times anything is possible. Mrs. 
 Towne was telling me all about Stillman and his 
 wife. I should have remembered, but somehow I 
 forgot. Get your things off and I ll tell you all 
 about it." 
 
 Claire handed her mother the package of pastries. 
 "I heard about it to-day," she said, coldly. 
 
 4 But Mrs. Towne knows the whole thing from 
 A to Z," insisted Mrs. Robson, genially. 
 
 "I m not interested in the details," Claire re 
 turned, doggedly. 
 
 Mrs. Robson s face wore a puzzled, almost a 
 harried, expression. Claire moved away. Her 
 mother gave a shrug and renewed her efforts to 
 drag further finery from the mysterious depths of 
 the treasure-box. Her daughter cast a last incu 
 rious glance back. The glow on Mrs. Robson s 
 face, which Claire had mistaken for youth, seemed 
 now a thing hectic and unpleasant, and gave an 
 uncanny sense of a skeleton sitting among gauds 
 and baubles. 
 
 A feeling of isolation swept Claire, such as she 
 had never experienced. The person who should 
 have been closest suddenly had become a stranger. 
 . She went into her room and closed the door. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE following week Claire was surprised to find 
 a letter on her desk at the office. The few 
 written favors that came her way usually were ad 
 dressed to the Clay Street flat, so that she was puz 
 zled by this innovation and the unfamiliar hand 
 writing. Glancing swiftly at the signature, she was 
 surprised to see the name "Lily Condor," scrawled 
 loosely at the foot of the note. It seemed that 
 Mrs. Condor was giving a little musicale in Ned 
 Stillman s apartments on the following Friday night, 
 and, if one could believe such a thing, the lady im 
 plied that the evening would scarcely be complete 
 without the presence of Claire Robson or, to put 
 it more properly, Claire Robson and her mother. 
 
 As Claire had scarcely said a half-dozen words 
 to Mrs. Condor on the night of the Red Cross con 
 cert, this invitation seemed little short of extraor 
 dinary. But, as Claire thought it over, she re 
 called that there had been some general conversation 
 about music, in which she had admitted a discreet 
 passion for this form of entertainment, even going 
 so far as to confess that she played the piano her 
 self upon occasion. Her first impulse, clinched by 
 the familiar feminine excuse that she had nothing 
 suitable to wear, was to send her regrets. At once 
 3 25 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 she thought of the scorned finery that Gertrude 
 Sinclair had included in her last box, and the more 
 she thought about it the more convinced she be 
 came that she had no real reason for refusing. 
 But a swift, strange regret that her mother had been 
 included in the invitation took the edge off her 
 anticipations. She tried to dismiss this feeling, 
 but it grew more definite as the morning pro 
 gressed. 
 
 For days Claire had been striking at the shackles 
 of habit with a rancor bred of disillusionment. 
 She had been on tiptoe for new and vital experi 
 ences, and yet, for any outward sign, her life bid 
 fair to escape the surge of any torrential circum 
 stance. Particularly, at the office, things had gone 
 on smoothly. The other clerks had accepted 
 Claire s advancement without either protest or 
 enthusiasm. Even Miss Munch had veiled her 
 resentment behind the saving trivialities of daily 
 intercourse. She had gone so far as to introduce 
 Claire to her cousin, a Mrs. Richards, who had 
 come in at the noon hour for a new tatting design. 
 This cousin was a large, red-faced woman, with an 
 aggressively capable manner. She had the quick, 
 ferret -like eyes of Miss Munch and the loose mouth 
 of a perpetual gossip. 
 
 " She s the one I told you about the other day," 
 Miss Munch had explained later "the house 
 keeper for your friend Stillman s father-in-law." 
 She gave nasty emphasis to this trivial speech. 
 
 Flint had been direct and business-like almost 
 to the point of bruskness. But Claire knew that 
 such moods were not unusual, so she took little 
 
 26 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 stock in the ultimate significance of his restrained 
 manner. 
 
 Perhaps the most indefinable change had come 
 over Claire s home life. Her mother s unfailing 
 string of trivial gossip, formerly not without a cer 
 tain interest, now scarcely held her to even polite 
 attention. Indeed, her self-absorbed silence, while 
 Mrs. Robson poured out the latest news about Mrs. 
 Finnegan s second sister s husband s mother who 
 was suddenly stricken with some incurable dis 
 ease, made all the more mysterious by the fact 
 that its nature was not divulged was so apparent 
 that her mother, goaded on to a mild exasperation, 
 would ask, significantly: 
 
 "What s the matter, Claire? Have you a head 
 ache?" 
 
 Mrs. Robson was never so happy as in the dis 
 covery of some one with a mysterious disease, 
 particularly if the victim s relatives were loath to 
 discuss the issue. 
 
 "They think they fool me!" she would say, tri 
 umphantly, to Claire, "but I guess I know what 
 ails her. . . . Didn t her mother, and her uncle, 
 and her sister s oldest child die of consumption? 
 I tell you it s in the family. The last time I saw 
 her she nearly coughed her head off." 
 
 Not that Mrs. Robson was unsympathetic ; brought 
 face to face with suffering, she blossomed with every 
 impulsive tenderness, but her experiences had con 
 firmed her in pessimism, and every fresh tragedy 
 testified to the soundness of her faith. Her pride 
 at diagnosing people s ills and pronouncing their 
 death-sentences was almost professional. And she 
 
 27 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 had an irritating way of making comments such 
 as this: 
 
 "Well, Claire, I see that old Mrs. Talbot is dead 
 at last! ... I knew she wouldn t live another 
 winter. They ll feel terribly, no doubt; but, of 
 course, it is a great relief. * 
 
 Or: 
 
 "Why, here is the death notice of Isaac Rice! 
 I thought he died years ago. My, but he was a trial ! 
 What a blessing!" 
 
 This was the type of conversation that Claire 
 was finding either empty of meaning or illumi 
 nating to the point of annoyance. What amazed 
 her was the fact that she had remained blind so 
 long to the slightest of the conversational food upon 
 which she had been fed. 
 
 Claire did not tell her mother about the invita 
 tion to Mrs. Condor s musical evening. 
 
 "I ll wait/ she said to herself. "Thursday will 
 be time enough. Although why delay would prove 
 advantageous was not particularly apparent. 
 
 On Wednesday night at the dinner-table, Mrs. 
 Robson. as if still puzzled at her daughter s altered 
 mood, said, rather cautiously: 
 
 "There s to be a reception at the church on Fri 
 day night." 
 
 "For whom?" inquired Claire, with pallid interest. 
 
 "I didn t quite catch the name. . . . Some 
 woman back from France. She s been nursing in 
 one of the British hospitals. She s to get Red Cross 
 work started at the church. It seems San Fran 
 cisco is a bit slow over taking up the work, but, 
 then, you know, we re poked off here in a corner and 
 
 28 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 I suppose we don t quite realize yet. . . . Anyway, 
 Mrs. Towne wants us to help with the coffee. She 
 says you should have been in the church-work long 
 ago. You look so self-contained and efficient. . . . 
 I told her we would be there at half past seven and 
 get the dishes into shape." 
 
 Claire s heart beat violently. " Friday night? 
 I m sorry, mother; I have another engagement." 
 
 Another engagement ? Why, Claire, how funny ! 
 You never said anything about it. I don t know 
 what to say to Mrs. Towne." 
 
 Claire felt calm again. "Just tell her the truth." 
 
 "But she ll think so strange that I didn t know 
 . . . that I ..." 
 
 "You shouldn t have spoken for me until you 
 found out whether I was willing." 
 
 "Willing! Willing! I didn t suppose you d be 
 anything else. I ve been trying to get you in with 
 the right people at the church for the last fifteen 
 years. I ve tried so hard ..." 
 
 "Yes, mother, I know," said Claire, patiently. 
 "But don t you see? That s just it. You ve tried 
 too hard." 
 
 Mrs. Robson began to whimper discreetly. 
 "How you do talk, Claire! I declare I don t know 
 what to make of it. I suppose you re bitter about 
 Mrs. Towne the other night. I felt so at first, but 
 I can see now we were at the wrong table. And, 
 after all, everything came out beautifully. We sat 
 with Mr. Stillman, and that had a very good effect, 
 I can tell you. Especially when everybody saw 
 us leave with him. Why, it brought Mrs. Towne 
 to her feet." 
 
 29 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Yes, and that s the humiliating part of it." 
 
 "Well, Claire, when you ve lived as long as I have 
 you won t be so uppish about making compromises," 
 flung back Mrs. Robson. "Of course, if you ve 
 got another engagement, you ve got another en 
 gagement, but if ..." 
 
 "I wouldn t have gone, anyway. I m through 
 with that sort of thing." 
 
 "Why, Claire, how can you! It s your duty, 
 now! with your country at war and . . . and 
 . . . Even that dreadful Serbian the other night 
 made that plain." 
 
 "I ll go with you to church on Sundays, of course, 
 but" 
 
 "What am I to do?" wailed Mrs. Robson. "At 
 least you might think of me! I ve not had much 
 pleasure in my life, goodness knows, and now just 
 as I . . ." 
 
 Mrs. Robson broke off abruptly on a flood of 
 tears. Two weeks ago these tears would have over 
 whelmed Claire. As it was, she sat calmly stir 
 ring her tea, surprised and a little ashamed of her 
 coldness. The truth was that Claire Robson was 
 feeling all the fanatical cruelty that comes with 
 sudden conviction. The forms of her new faith 
 had hardened too quickly and left outlines sharp 
 and uncompromising. 
 
 For years Claire had found shelter from the glare 
 of middle-class snobbery beating about her head, 
 by shrinking into her mother s inadequate shadow 
 as a desert bird shrinks into the thin shadow of a 
 dry reed by some burned-out watercourse. Now a 
 full noon of disillusionment had annihilated this 
 
 30 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 shadow and given her the courage of necessity. 
 And there was something more than courage there 
 was an eagerness to stand alone in the common 
 place words with which she sought to temper her 
 refusal to assist at the coming church reception : 
 
 "I can t see any good reason, mother, why you 
 shouldn t go and help Mrs. Towne. . . . What have 
 my plans to do with it?" 
 
 To which her mother answered : 
 
 "I do so hate to be seen at such places alone, 
 Claire." 
 
 Claire made no reply. She did not want to give 
 her mother s indecision a chance to crystallize into 
 a definite stand. She knew by long experience 
 that if this happened it would be fatal. But in 
 a swift flash of decision Claire made up her mind 
 for one thing she would either go to Mrs. Condor s 
 evening alone or she would send her regrets. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BY a series of neutral subterfuges and tactful 
 evasions Claire PvObson won her point she 
 went to the Condor musicale at Ned Stillman s 
 apartments alone, and on that same night her 
 mother wended a rather grudging way to the 
 Second Presbyterian Church reception. 
 
 Acting under her mother s advice, Claire timed 
 her arrival for nine o clock, an hour which seemed 
 incredibly late to one schooled in the temperate 
 hour of church socials. Mrs. Condor herself 
 opened the door in answer to Claire s ring. 
 
 "Oh, my dear, but I am glad to see you!" burst 
 from the elder woman as she waved her in. But 
 she did not so much as mention the absence of Mrs. 
 Robson, and Claire was divided between a feeling 
 of wounded family pride, and gratification at the 
 intuition which had warned her to leave her mother 
 to her own devices. More people arrived on Claire s 
 heels, and in the lively bustle she was left to shed 
 her wraps in one of the bedrooms. Her heart was 
 pounding with reaction at her outwardly self- 
 contained entrance. She let her rather shabby 
 cloak slip to the floor, revealing a strange, new 
 Claire resplendent in the gold-embroidered gown 
 that had once so stirred her rancor. For a brief 
 
 32 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 instant she had an impulse to gather the discarded 
 wrap securely about her and make a quick exit. 
 A swooning fear at the thought of meeting a room 
 ful of people assailed her. But there succeeded 
 a courage born of the realization that they all would 
 be strangers. With a sense of bravado she stepped 
 out into the entrance hall again. 
 
 Ned Stillman came forward. She halted and 
 waited for him. His face had lit with a suJden 
 pleasure, which told Claire that for once in her life 
 her presence roused positive interest. He in 
 quired after her health, why her mother had not 
 come, whether the abominable fog was clearing. 
 His easy formality put her, as usual, completely at 
 ease. 
 
 It was only when he asked her, with the most 
 inconsequential tone in the world, "whether she 
 could read music at sight" that a sinking fear came 
 over her. And yet she found courage enough to 
 be truthful and say yes. 
 
 "That s fine!" he returned. "Our accompanist 
 hasn t come yet and we want to start off with a 
 song or two." 
 
 From this moment on the evening impressed 
 itself on Claire in a series of blurred hectic pict 
 ures. . . . She knew that Stillman was leading 
 her toward the piano, but the living-room and its 
 toned lights gave her a curious sense of unreality. 
 She seated herself before the white keyboard and 
 folded her hands with desperate resignation while 
 she waited for Stillman to dictate the next move. 
 
 "My dear Mrs. Condor," Stillman explained, 
 as that lady came up to them, "we sha n t have to 
 
 33 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 wait for Flora Menzies. Miss Robson will accom 
 pany you." 
 
 Claire sat unmoved. She was beyond so trivial 
 a sensation as anxiety. Stillman drifted away; 
 Mrs. Condor began to run through the sheet music 
 lying on the piano. 
 
 "Of course you know Schumann, Miss Robson. 
 Shall we start at once? How is the light? If 
 you xnoved your stool a little so. There, that s 
 better." 
 
 Claire did not reply. She looked at the music 
 before her. She was conscious that it was a piece 
 she knew, although its name registered no other 
 impression. She began to play. The opening bars 
 almost startled her. She felt a hush fall over the 
 noisy room. Her fingers stumbled she caught 
 the melody again with staggering desperation. 
 Mrs. Condor was singing. . . . The room faded; 
 even the sound of Mrs. Condor s voice became 
 remote. Claire had a desire to laugh. 
 
 All manner of strange, disconnected thoughts 
 ran through her head. She remembered a doll 
 she had broken years ago and buried with great 
 pomp and circumstance, a pink parasol that had 
 been given her as a child, the gigantic and respect 
 able wig which had incased the head of her old 
 German music-teacher, Frau Pfaff. And as she 
 played on and on the music further evoked the 
 memory of this worthy lady who had given her 
 services in exchange for lodgings in an incredibly 
 small hall bedroom, with certain privileges at the 
 kitchen stove. And pictures of this irritating 
 woman rose before her, stewing dried fruit, or pre- 
 34 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 paring sour beef, or borrowing the clothes boiler 
 for a perennial wash. What compromises her 
 mother had made to give her child the gentle ac 
 complishments that Mrs. Robson associated with 
 breeding! It came to Claire that it was almost 
 cruel to have denied this mother a share in the 
 triumphs of that evening. And with that, she real 
 ized that Mrs. Condor had ceased singing. A hum 
 broke loose, followed by applause. Claire grew 
 faint. Her head began to swirl. She clutched 
 the piano stool and by sheer terror at the thought 
 of creating a scene she managed to keep her con 
 sciousness as she felt Mrs. Condor s hand upon her 
 shoulder and heard a voice that just missed being 
 patronizing : 
 
 "My dear, you did it beautifully." 
 
 Claire longed to burst into tears. . . 
 
 The concert was over shortly after eleven o clock. 
 Besides Mrs. Condor, there had been a cellist, very 
 masculine in his looks but rather forceless in his 
 playing, and a young, frail girl who brought great 
 breadth and vigor to her interpretations at the 
 piano. But Claire was really too excited for calm 
 enjoyment. Supper followed creamed minced 
 chicken and extraordinarily thin sandwiches, and 
 a dry, pale wine that Claire found at first rather 
 distasteful. Claire sat with a little group composed 
 of Mrs. Condor, Ned Stillman, a fashionable young 
 man, Phil Edington, who frankly confessed bore 
 dom at all things musical except one-steps and fox 
 trots, and two or three artistic-looking souls who 
 pretended to be quite shocked by young Edington s 
 frankness. 
 
 35 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Conversation veered naturally to the subject of 
 the war. Edington had tried for a commission in 
 an officers training-camp and failed. He was ex 
 traordinarily frank about it all, and good-natured 
 at the chaffing that Mrs. Condor and Stillman threw 
 at him. 
 
 "I m going to wait now and be drafted," he an 
 nounced. "As long as I failed to make a high grade 
 I want to begin at the bottom and see the whole 
 picture." 
 
 Claire rather waited for a word from Stillman as 
 to his convictions on the subject. Of course one 
 could see that he was over the draft age, still . . . 
 For the most part she was silent, but happy and 
 content. By contributing her share to the evening s 
 entertainment she had justified her presence. Wine 
 as a factor in midnight suppers was a new but 
 not a revolutionary experience to Claire Robson, 
 but she gasped a bit when the maid passed cig 
 arettes to the ladies. And yet she felt a delicious 
 sense of being a party to something quite daring 
 and outre, although she did not have either cour 
 age or skill to enjoy one of the slender, gold- 
 tipped delights. 
 
 The time for departure finally came. Claire 
 rose reluctantly. Mrs. Condor, slipping one arm 
 in Phil Edington s and the other in Claire s, saun 
 tered with them toward the entrance hall. 
 
 "I say," ventured Edington as Stillman caught 
 up to the group. "What s the matter with just 
 us four dropping down to the Palace for a whirl 
 or two?" 
 
 Claire stared. She had not grown used to the 
 36 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 novelty of being included, but any instinctive ob 
 jections to the plan were promptly silenced by 
 Mrs. Condor s enthusiastic approval. 
 
 They arrived at the Palace Hotel shortly before 
 midnight. The Rose Room was crowded. All the 
 tables seemed filled, and Claire had a moment of 
 disappointment caused by the fear that their party 
 would be unable to gain admittance. But young 
 Edington s presence soon set any uneasiness on 
 that score at rest, and a place was evolved with 
 deftness and despatch. The novelty of the situ 
 ation to Claire was nothing compared with her 
 matter-of-fact acceptance of it. She was neither 
 self-conscious nor timid. Her three companions 
 had a way of tacitly including her in even their triv 
 ial chatter that was unmistakable, though hard to 
 define. She felt that she was one of them, and she 
 blossomed in this strange new warmth like a chilled 
 blossom at the final approach of a belated spring. 
 All evening her starved sense of self-importance had 
 been feeding greedily upon the compliments that 
 had come her way. There had been her mother s 
 rather apologetic words of approval at her appear 
 ance, to begin with, then Mrs. Condor s appreci 
 ation at the piano, and finally a word dropped by 
 one of the women who had shared a mirror with 
 her at the hour of departure. 
 
 How do you manage your hair, Miss Robson?" 
 the other had said, digging viciously at her shifting 
 locks with a hairpin. * * I do declare you re the only 
 woman in the room that looks presentable." 
 
 But it was Edington s words to Stillman while 
 they stood waiting for the hotel attendants to pre- 
 37 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 pare the table that brought a quickened beat to 
 her heart. The conversation was low and not 
 meant for her ears, but her senses were too sharp 
 ened to miss Edington s furtive words as he whis 
 pered to Stillman: 
 
 "Where did . . . amazing . . . Miss Robson?" 
 
 Claire did not catch the reply which must have 
 also been something of a query, but she heard Ed- 
 ington continue. 
 
 "Well ... a little too silent, I must admit. 
 . . . No, I don t dislike em that way . . . but 
 I m afraid of them." 
 
 Stillman answered with a low laugh. 
 
 They sat down. Edington ordered wine. The 
 crowd at the tables was rather a mixed one. There 
 was plenty of elaborate gowning among the groups 
 of formal diners who had prolonged their feasting 
 into the supper hour, but many casuals, drift 
 ing in for a few drinks and a dance or two, robbed 
 the scene of its earlier brilliance. 
 
 The orchestra struck up a one-step. Claire de 
 nied Stillman the dance, explaining that she knew 
 none of the new steps, and he whirled away with 
 Mrs. Condor. Edington, robbed of his chance, 
 pouted unashamed. 
 
 "I say, Miss Robson, can t you do a one-step 
 really? There isn t anything to it! Come on 
 try; I ll pull you through." 
 
 Claire s knowledge of dancing was instinctive, 
 but not a matter of much practice, yet his distress 
 was so comic that she relented. She wondered if 
 he could feel her trembling as they swung into the 
 dance. She stumbled once or twice from timidity, 
 
 38 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 but Edington guided unerringly. Half-way round 
 she suddenly struck the proper swing. 
 
 "There that s it," cried Edington, enthusi 
 astically. "Now you ve got it! Fine!" 
 
 His praise mounted to her brain like a heady 
 wine, and suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, all 
 the repressed youth within her awoke with a sweet 
 and terrible joy. . . . They danced madly, per 
 fectly, the rhythm entering into them like some 
 thing at once fluid and flaming. Her ecstasy 
 awoke a vague response in her partner, who bent 
 forward as he kept repeating, monotonously: 
 
 "And you said you couldn t, Miss Robson! 
 Fancy, you said you couldn t!" 
 
 The music stopped abruptly with a crash. Some 
 of the dancers made their way leisurely back among 
 the tables, but the most of them wandered about 
 the polished floor, clapping insistent hands for an 
 encore. In this brief interlude, groups arrived and 
 departed. The musicians lifted their instruments 
 to chin and lip, struck an opening chord; couples 
 began to whirl and glide. Claire Robson, palpi 
 tant and eager, followed Edington s lead, but almost 
 at the first moment of their rhythmic flight they 
 came crashing into the overcoated bulk of a man 
 cutting across the corner of the ballroom in an 
 attempt at a swift exit. A smothered protest es 
 caped Edington, and Claire detached herself from 
 her partner long enough to see the offender bow 
 very low and hear his apology in a voice and manner 
 that seemed curiously familiar: 
 
 1 I beg your pardon. Pray forgive me ! I should 
 have known better." 
 
 39 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 In the twinkling of an eye the interrupted dan 
 cers were sweeping on again, and the apologetic 
 stranger, hat in hand, turning for a farewell look 
 at the pair. Claire Robson felt an up-leap of the 
 heart; a fresh ecstasy quickened her. It was the 
 Serbian! 
 
 They finished the dance almost opposite their 
 table and were met by a patter of applause from 
 Mrs. Condor and Stillman, who were already seated. 
 
 Claire was flaming with embarrassment as she 
 faced Stillman. 
 
 "I hope you ll understand, Mr. Stillman," she 
 faltered. "But Mr. Edington seemed willing to 
 risk my ignorance." 
 
 Mrs. Condor turned Claire s plaintive apology 
 into a covert attack upon Stillman s courage, but 
 Stillman rescued Claire from further confusion by 
 laughing back: 
 
 "Well, I ll have my revenge on Edington. I ll 
 grant him all the one-steps, but he can t have any 
 of the waltzes, Miss Robson." 
 
 The waiter began to pour out the champagne. 
 Claire settled back in her seat with a feeling of de^ 
 lightful languor. The dance had released all the 
 pent-up emotions that a night of vivid sensations 
 had called into her life. She had come into the 
 Rose Room of the Palace Hotel quivering in the 
 leash of a restrained enjoyment; it had taken the 
 quick lash of opportunity to send her spirits hurtling 
 forward in wild and headlong abandon. She lifted 
 her wine-glass in answer to the upraised glasses of 
 her companions, and the thought flashed over her 
 that it would be impossible for her to have quite 
 
 40 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 her old vision again. In every life there are culmi 
 nating moments of joy or sorrow which either clear 
 or dim the horizon, and Claire felt that such mo 
 ment was now hers. 
 
 Stillman rose promptly in his seat at the first 
 strains of the waltz, which proved to be the next 
 number. Claire stepped out upon the floor with 
 confidence. 
 
 She did not need any word of reassurance this 
 time to tell her that her dancing was more than 
 acceptable, and, true to her brief experience with 
 Stillman, he refrained from voicing the obvious. 
 They had begun the dance promptly and for the 
 first whirl about they had the floor almost to them 
 selves. Claire s discreet sidelong glances detected 
 many approving nods in their direction; people 
 were noticing them and making favorable comment. 
 . . . The floor filled, but even in the crowd Claire 
 had a sense that she and her partner were standing 
 out distinctly. 
 
 The very nature of the waltz contrasted sharply 
 with the one-step. There was less abandon and 
 more art. The first dance had expressed a primi 
 tive emotion; the present slow and measured whirl 
 a discriminating sensation. And slowly, under the 
 spell of Stillman s calm and yet strangely glowing 
 manner, Claire recovered her poise. All night she 
 had been inhaling every fresh delight rapturously 
 with the closed eyes and open senses that one brings 
 to the enjoyment of blossoms heavy with perfume. 
 It took Stillman s influence to rob the hours of 
 their swooning delight by recapturing her self -con 
 sciousness. Things became at once orderly and 
 4 41 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 reasonable. And as he led her back to their table 
 she felt the flame within cease its flarings and be 
 come steady, with a pleasurable glow. For a mo 
 ment she felt uneasy, as if she were being trapped 
 by something sweetfully insidious. Slowly, almost 
 cautiously, she withdrew her arm from his. He 
 made no comment; it was doubtful if he really 
 noticed her recoil. 
 
 Long past its appointed time the hall light in the 
 Robson flat continued to burn dimly. Mrs. Rob- 
 son, sleepless and a bit anxious, waited alertly for 
 the sound of Claire s key in the door. The welcome 
 click came finally, succeeded by the unmistakable 
 slam of an automobile door and the sharp, quick 
 note of a machine speeding up. 
 
 "She s come home in Stillman s car," flashed 
 through Mrs. Robson s mind, as she sat up in bed. 
 At that moment Mrs. Finnegan s cuckoo clock, 
 sounding distinctly through the thin flooring, 
 warbled twice with a voice of friendly betrayal. 
 "Mercy! it s two o clock!" she muttered. "I won 
 der if Mrs. Finnegan is awake? ... I do hope 
 she heard the automobile! ..." 
 
 Seated at the foot of her mother s bed, Claire 
 tried her best to give a satisfactory report of the 
 evening, but she found that she had overlooked most 
 of the details that her mother found interesting. 
 Who was there? What did Mrs. Condor wear? 
 Did they have an elaborate spread? the questions 
 rippled on in an endless flow. 
 
 Under the acceleration of Claire s recital, Mrs. 
 Robson found her experiences at the church re- 
 
 42 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ception left far behind. Even with scant details, 
 Claire had managed to evolve a fascinating pict 
 ure of a life robbed sufficiently of puritanism to 
 be properly piquant. There was a tang of the 
 swift, immoral, fascinating seventies in Claire s still 
 cautious reference to champagne and cigarettes. 
 It was impossible for any San Franciscan who had 
 lived through those splendid madcap bonanza days 
 to deny the lure of gay wickedness. At least it 
 was hard to keep one s eyes on a prayer-book while 
 the car of pleasure rattled by. And a coffee-and- 
 cake social was, after all, a rather tame experience 
 in the face of beverages more sparkling and eat 
 ables distinctly enticing. ... Of course, if Claire 
 had been introduced to any of these questionable 
 delights by anybody short of a survivor of the 
 Stillman clan, Mrs. Robson might have had a mis 
 giving. As it was, she was not above a certain 
 forewarning sense that made her say with an air 
 of inconsequence as Claire finished her recital: 
 
 "Mrs. Towne tells me that there is a chance that 
 Mr. Stillman J s wife may get well. She s in a pri 
 vate sanitarium, at Livermore, you know." She 
 stopped to draw up the bedclothes higher. "I do 
 hope it s so! ... But I m always skeptical about 
 crazy people ever amounting to anything again. 
 Seems to me they re better off dead." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 FOR Claire Robson, there followed after the mem 
 orable Condor-Stillman musicale a period of 
 slack-water. It seemed as if a deadly stagnation 
 was to poison her existence, so sharp and empha 
 sized was her boredom. On the other hand, Mrs. 
 Robson seemed to have contrived, from years of 
 living among arid pleasures, the ability to conserve 
 every happiness that she chanced upon to its last 
 drop. Claire s invitation to be one of a distin 
 guished group fed her vanity long after her daughter 
 had outworn the delights of retrospection. The 
 memory of this incident filled Mrs. Robson s 
 thoughts, her dreams, her conversation. Gradu 
 ally, as the days dragged by, bit by bit, she gleaned 
 detached details of what had transpired, weaving 
 them into a vivid whole, for the entertainment of 
 herself and the amazement of her neighbor, Mrs. 
 Finnegan. 
 
 Formerly Mrs. Finnegan s information regarding 
 what went on in exclusive circles was confined to 
 society dramas on the screen and the Sunday sup 
 plement. The personal note which Mrs. Robson 
 brought to her recitals was a new and pleasing 
 experience. After listening to the authentic gos 
 sip of Mrs. Robson, Mrs. Finnegan would return 
 
 44 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 to her threshold with a sense of having shared state 
 secrets. On such occasions Mrs. Robson s frank 
 ness had almost a challenge in it; she exaggerated 
 many details and concealed none. 
 
 "Yes," she would repeat, emphatically, "they 
 served cigarettes along with the wine. They always 
 do." 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Robson," Mrs. Finnegan inevitably 
 returned, "far be it from me to criticize what your 
 daughter s friends do. But I don t approve of 
 women smoking." 
 
 As a matter of fact, neither did Mrs. Robson, but 
 she felt in duty bound to resent Mrs. Finnegan s 
 narrow attacks upon society. 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Finnegan, that s only because you re 
 not accustomed to it. Now, if you had ever ..." 
 
 "Did Claire smoke?" 
 
 "Why, of course not! How can you ask such 
 a thing? I hope I ve brought my daughter up 
 decently, Mrs. Finnegan." 
 
 And with that, Mrs. Robson would deftly switch 
 to a less exciting detail of the Condor-Stillman mu- 
 sicale, before her neighbor had a chance to pick 
 flaws in her logic. But sooner or later the topic 
 would again verge on the controversial. Usually 
 at the point where the scene shifted from Ned 
 Stillman s apartments to the Palace Hotel, Mrs. 
 Finnegan s pug nose was lifted with tentative dis 
 approval, as she inquired: 
 
 "How many did you say went down to the 
 Palace?" 
 
 "Only four Mr. Stillman, Claire, Mrs. Condor, 
 and a young fellow named Edington." 
 
 45 
 
THE BLOOD REDRAWN 
 
 "I suppose that Mrs. Condor was the chaperon. 
 Finnegan knows her well! She used to hire hacks 
 when Finnegan was in the livery business years 
 ago. She s a gay one, I can tell you. When only 
 the steam-dummy ran out to the Cliff House. ..." 
 
 1 That s nothing. Everybody who was anybody 
 had dinners at the Cliff House in those days. I 
 remember how my father . . ." 
 
 "Yes, Mrs. Robson, maybe you do! But I ll 
 bet you never went to such a place without your 
 husband . . . and . . . with a strange man." 
 
 Mrs. Robson never had, and she would tell Mrs. 
 Finnegan so decidedly. This always had the effect 
 of switching the subject again and Mrs. Robson 
 found her desire to know the real details of Mrs. 
 Condor s questionable gaieties offered up on the 
 altar of class loyalty. For it never occurred to 
 Mrs. Robson to doubt that her social exile had noth 
 ing to do with the inherent rights of her position. 
 
 When everything else in the way of an irritating 
 program failed to rouse Mrs. Robson s dignified ire, 
 her neighbor fell back upon the fact that Stillman 
 was a married man. Mrs. Finnegan really wor 
 shiped Mrs. Robson to distraction, but she had a 
 natural combative tendency that was at odds with 
 even her loyalty. 
 
 "Mr. Stillman is a married man," Mrs. Finnegan 
 would insist, doggedly. "And I don t approve of 
 married men taking an interest in young girls. 
 Who knows? he may spoil your daughter s 
 chances." 
 
 This statement always had the effect of dividing 
 Mrs. Robson against herself. She resented Mrs. 
 
 46 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Finnegan s insinuations concerning Stillman, be 
 cause it was not in her nature to be anything but 
 partizan, and at the same time she was mollified 
 by her neighbor s recognition of the fact that Claire 
 had such things as chances. She always managed 
 cleverly at this point by saying, patronizingly: 
 
 "Why, how you talk, Mrs. Finnegan! Mr. Still 
 man is just like an old friend. Not that we ve 
 known him so long . . . but the family, you know 
 . . . they re old-timers. Everybody knows the 
 Stillmans! Really one couldn t want a better 
 friend." 
 
 Thus did Mrs. Robson take meager and colorless 
 realities and expand them into things of blossom 
 ing promise. She was almost creative in the artis 
 try she brought to these transmutations. In the 
 end she convinced herself of their existence and she 
 was quite sure that Mrs. Finnegan shared equally 
 in the delights of her fancy. 
 
 Meanwhile November passed, and the first weeks 
 of December crowded the old year to its death. 
 November had been shrouded in clammy fogs, but 
 no rain had fallen, and everybody began to have 
 the restless feeling engendered by the usual summer 
 drought in California prolonged beyond its ap 
 pointed season. The country and the people needed 
 rain. Claire, always responsive to the moods of 
 wind and weather, longed for the cleansing flood 
 to descend and wash the dust-drab town colorful 
 again. She awoke one morning to the delicious 
 thrill of the moisture-laden southeast wind blow 
 ing into her room and the warning voice of her 
 mother at her bedroom door calling to her: 
 
 47 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 " You d better put on your thick shoes, Claire! 
 We re in for a storm." 
 
 She leaped out of bed joyously and hurried with 
 her dressing. 
 
 As she walked down to work the warm yet cu 
 riously refreshing wind flung itself in a fine frenzy 
 over the gray city. Dark-gray clouds were clos 
 ing in from the south, and in the east an ominous 
 silver band of light marked the sullen flight of the 
 sun. People were scampering about buoyantly, 
 running for street-cars, chasing liberated hats, bat 
 tling with billowing skirts. It seemed as if the 
 promise of rain had revived laughter and motion to 
 an extraordinary degree. At the office this ecstasy 
 of spirit persisted; even Miss Munch came in hair 
 awry and blowsy, her beady eyes almost laughing. 
 
 Mr. Flint had not been to the office for two days. 
 A sniffling cold had kept him at home. Claire had 
 rather looked for him to-day, and had prepared 
 herself for a flood of accumulated dictation. But 
 the threat of dampness evidently dissuaded him, 
 for the noon hour came and went and Mr. Flint did 
 not put in an appearance. At about three o clock 
 in the afternoon a long-distance call came on the tel 
 ephone for Miss Robson. Claire answered. Flint 
 was on the other end of the wire. He wanted to 
 know if she could come at once over to Yolanda and 
 take several pages of dictation. His cold was un 
 certain and he might not get out for the rest of the 
 week. He realized that it was something of an 
 imposition on her good nature, but she would be 
 doing him a great favor if ... She interrupted 
 him with her quick assent and he finished : 
 
 48 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "I ll have the car at the station, and of course 
 you ll stay for dinner." 
 
 Claire hung up the receiver and looked at her 
 watch. It was just half after three. The next 
 ferryboat connecting at Sausalito with the electric 
 train for Yolanda left at three-forty-five. She had 
 no time to lose; it was a good ten mintues walk 
 from the office to the ferry and little to be gained 
 by taking a street -car. She managed her prepara 
 tions for departure successfully, but in the end she 
 had to ask Miss Munch to telephone her mother. 
 Miss Munch assented with an alarmingly sweet 
 smile. 
 
 Claire walked briskly down California Street 
 toward the ferry - building. No rain had fallen, 
 but the air was full of ominous promise. The wind 
 was even brisker than it had been in the morning, 
 and its breath almost tropically moist. 
 
 "At sundown it will simply pour," thought Claire, 
 as she exchanged fifty cents for a ticket to Yolanda. 
 
 She presented her ticket at the entrance to the 
 waiting-room and passed in. The passageway to 
 the boat was already open; she went at once and 
 found a sheltered corner outside on the upper deck. 
 A strong sea was running and already the ferryboat 
 was plunging and straining like a restless blood 
 hound in leash. The air was full of screaming gulls 
 and the clipped whistling of restless bay craft. 
 Claire was so intent on all this elemental agita 
 tion that she took no notice of the people about 
 her, but as the boat slid lumberingly out of the 
 slip she was recalled by a voice close at hand 
 saying: 
 
 49 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Why, Miss Robson, who would think of seeing 
 you here at this hour!" 
 
 Claire turned and discovered Miss Munch s cousin 
 sitting beside her, intent on the inevitable tatting. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Richards, how stupid of me! Have 
 you been here long?" 
 
 "About ten minutes. But I get so interested 
 in my work I never have eyes for anything else. 
 How do you put in the time? A trip like this is 
 so tiresome!" 
 
 Claire delved into her bag and brought out knit 
 ting-needles and an unfinished sock. 
 
 "I m trying a hand at this," she admitted, hold 
 ing her handiwork up ruefully. "But I m afraid 
 I m not very skilful." 
 
 Mrs. Richards inspected the sock with critical 
 disapproval. 
 
 "Oh, well," she encouraged, "you ll learn . . . 
 practice makes perfect. I ve just finished a half- 
 dozen pairs. I suppose I m laying myself out for 
 a roast doing tatting in public these war days ! But 
 it s restful and I m not one to pretend. As long as 
 my conscience is clear I can afford to be perfectly 
 independent . . . You don t make this trip every 
 night, do you?" 
 
 "Oh my, no! I m going over to Mr. Flint s to 
 take some dictation. He s home sick." 
 
 "I saw Mrs. Flint and the children coming off the 
 boat just as I got on." Mrs. Richards s voice took 
 on a tone of casual directness. 
 
 "You know Mrs. Flint?" 
 
 "My dear girl, a trained nurse knows everybody 
 and everything about them. too. You never get 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a real line on people until you live with them. I ve 
 never nursed any of the Flint family, but I wouldn t 
 have to to get their reputation or perhaps I should 
 say, old Flint s." 
 
 "Old Flint s?" echoed Claire. 
 
 "Well, of course he isn t so awfully old, but men 
 like him always give that impression. They re so 
 awfully wise about some things. I was so relieved 
 when Gertie didn t get that dreadful Miss White- 
 head s place. Being in the general office is bad 
 enough, but in his private office ..." Mrs. Rich 
 ards lifted and dropped her tatting-filled hands 
 significantly. 
 
 Claire felt the blood rush to her face. "I m in 
 the private office, Mrs. Richards. f . . No doubt 
 you forgot it." 
 
 "Well now, you know I had . . . lor the mo 
 ment. But with a girl like you it s different. Some 
 women can handle men, but Gertie would be so 
 helpless!" 
 
 The humor of Mrs. Richards s remark saved the 
 situation for Claire. She changed the subject de 
 liberately. But somehow, with the conversation 
 forced from the particular to the general, Miss 
 Munch s cousin lost interest, and by the time the 
 boat had passed Alcatraz Island Claire was deep 
 in her thoughts again and the other woman follow 
 ing the measured flight of the tatting-shuttle with 
 strained attention. 
 
 The boat was romping through the stiff sea like 
 a playful porpoise, dipping and plunging. A half- 
 score of adventuresome gulls were still following 
 in the foam-churned wake. In the face of all the 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 pitching about, Mrs. Richards had quite a battle to 
 direct her shuttle to any efficient purpose, and Claire 
 was almost amused at the grim determination she 
 brought to the performance. 
 
 Presently a warning whistle from the ferryboat 
 betrayed the fact that they were nearing Sausalito. 
 Mrs. Richards began to gather up her numerous 
 bundles, and Claire and she made their way down 
 the narrow stairs to the lower deck. Their progress 
 was slow and uncertain. The southeaster was tear 
 ing across the open spaces and bending everything 
 before it; the lumbering boat dipped sideward in 
 a stolid encounter with its adversary. 
 
 Mercy ! What a night ! gasped Mrs. Richards, 
 clutching at Claire s arm. 
 
 A gust of wind struck them with its force just as 
 they reached the lower deck. Mrs. Richards stag 
 gered and wrestled vainly with tatting-bag and 
 bundles and a refractory skirt. For the moment 
 both women were stalled in a desperate effort to 
 retain their equilibrium. 
 
 "Come!" gasped Claire. "Let s get over there 
 in the shelter of that automobile." 
 
 They made the leeward side of the automobile 
 in question, and while Mrs. Richards began to re 
 cover her roughly handled dignity Claire turned 
 her attention to the car. It was a huge dark-red 
 affair, evidently fresh from the shop. Claire knew 
 none of the fine points of automobiles, but this one 
 had unmistakable evidences of distinction. She 
 was peering in at its opulent depths when who should 
 surprise her but Ned Stillman. 
 
 "My dear Miss Robson!" he cried, in a tone of 
 
 52 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 delight, as he faced her from the opposite side of the 
 car. "What do you think of it?" 
 
 "Yours?" she queried. 
 
 "Just out of the shop to-day. I couldn t wait 
 until it cleared. I just had to get out with it. And 
 this kind of weather always puts me up on my toes. 
 Where are you going to Ross? If you are, don t 
 bother with the train. Come along with me." 
 
 He circled about the machine and came up to 
 her with a frank, outstretched hand. "Oh, I beg 
 your pardon!" he murmured as Mrs. Richards came 
 into view. 
 
 Claire began an introduction, but Mrs. Richards 
 cut in with her odd, challenging way. 
 
 "Oh, I know Mr. Stillman! But I guess he s 
 forgotten me. It s been some years, of course. At 
 Mr. Faville s your wife s father s house." 
 
 Stillman paled for the briefest of moments, but 
 he recovered himself cleverly. "Mrs. Richards of 
 course ! How do you do ? It has been some years. 
 
 "I m going to Mr. Flint s at Yolanda," said 
 Claire, "to take some dictation. He s been ill, 
 you know." 
 
 "111? No, I hadn t heard it. Nothing serious, 
 I hope." 
 
 Not serious enough to keep Mrs. Flint at home, 
 anyway," volunteered Mrs. Richards, in her charac 
 teristically disagreeable way. 
 
 "Mrs. Richards saw Mrs. Flint and the children 
 coming off the boat . . " 
 
 "As I got on," interrupted the lady again. 
 
 "Oh, indeed, is that so?" Claire fancied that 
 Stillman s tone held something more than polite 
 
 53 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 acceptance of what he had just heard. "I can 
 take you ladies to Yolanda if you d like a spin in 
 the open better than a stuffy ride in the train." 
 
 " Thank you," Mrs. Richards returned, "but I 
 get off at Sausalito. I ve no doubt Miss Robson 
 will be delighted." 
 
 "I think I d better not," said Claire. "Mr. 
 Flint is sending his car to the train for me. I 
 shouldn t want to change my program and cause 
 confusion. But I d like nothing better! The air 
 is so bracing!" 
 
 "You can excuse me!" put in Mrs. Richards, 
 moving toward the forward deck. "It s going to 
 pour in less than ten minutes. I m not one of those 
 amphibious creatures who like to get wringing wet 
 just for the fun of it!" 
 
 Stillman lifted his hat. Claire stood for a mo 
 ment undecided whether to follow Mrs. Richards 
 or remain for a chat with Stillman. 
 
 "I m an awful fool, I suppose," Stillman smiled 
 at Claire, "bringing the car out on a night like this. 
 But the truth is Edington promised to catch this 
 boat and I wanted him to try out the new play 
 thing. I might have known he wouldn t make it. 
 We re running over for dinner with Edington s 
 sister." 
 
 At this moment the boat crashed clumsily against 
 the Sausalito ferry-slip, and in the sudden confusion 
 of landing Claire was swept along without further 
 ado. 
 
 She looked back. Stillman waved a genial good- 
 by to her. She felt glad that he was behind her, in 
 a vague, impersonal, thoroughly inexplainable way. 
 
 54 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 was disappointed that Mrs. Flint was 
 not to be at home. She had caught glimpses 
 of her now and then coming into the office and she 
 was interested in the hope of seeing her at closer 
 range. Mrs. Flint was a rather frumpish individual, 
 who always gave the impression of pieced-out dress 
 making. 
 
 "She must subscribe to the Ladies Home Jour 
 nal" Nellie Whitehead had commented one day. 
 "You know that go-up-into-the-garret-and-get- 
 five-yards-of-grandmother s-wedding-gown column. 
 Well, she s a walking ad. for it. She s no raving 
 beauty, but if she would throw out her chest and 
 chuck those flat-heeled clogs of hers, and put a mar 
 cel wave in her hair, maybe the old man would sit 
 up and take notice." 
 
 To which Miss Munch had replied: 
 
 "Well, she s a mighty sweet woman, anyway!" 
 in a tone calculated to freeze the irrepressible Nellie 
 Whitehead into silence. 
 
 "Who says she isn t? And at that, a good tailor- 
 made suit and a decent-looking hat won t spoil her 
 disposition any. ..." 
 
 The children, too, were what Nellie Whitehead 
 had termed "perfect guys." On warm days Mrs. 
 
 55 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Flint would drag these two daughters of hers into 
 the office, dressed in plaid suits and velveteen hats ; 
 and when a cold north wind blew it seemed inevi 
 table that they would appear in gay and airy cos 
 tumes up to their knees, with impossible straw 
 bonnets trimmed with daisies and faded corn 
 flowers, reminiscent of the white-leghorn-hat era. 
 
 "Men don t marry women for their clothes," 
 Miss Munch used to say, challengingly, to Nellie. 
 
 "Oh, don t they, indeed! Well, I ve lived longer 
 than sixteen and a half years and I ve noticed that 
 it s the up-to-the-minute dame that gets away with 
 it and holds onto it every time, just the same. And 
 any woman silly enough to work the rag-bag game 
 when her husband can afford seven yards of taffeta 
 and a Butterick pattern is a fool!" 
 
 Claire knew women who looked dowdy on dress- 
 parade and yet managed to be quite charming in 
 their own houses. She was wondering whether 
 this might not be Mrs. Flint s case; anyway, she 
 had hoped for a chance to decide this point, and now 
 Mrs. Flint was not at home. 
 
 As she settled into her matting-covered seat in 
 the train she began to wonder just who would be 
 home at the Flint establishment. And she thought 
 suddenly of the disagreeable emphasis that Mrs. 
 Richards had seen fit to give the fact that Mrs. 
 Flint was bound cityward. At this stage she be 
 came lost in discovering so many points of contact 
 between Mrs. Richards and her cousin, Miss Munch. 
 Then the train started with a quick lurch, and a 
 view of the rapidly darkening landscape claimed 
 her utterly. 
 
 56 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire always took a childish delight in watching 
 the panorama of the countryside unroll swiftly 
 before the space-conquering flight of a train. And 
 to-night the quick close of the December day 
 warned her to make the most of her opportunity. 
 The wind was whipping the upper reaches of the bay 
 into a shallow fury, and the water in turn was beat 
 ing against the slimy mud and swallowing it up in 
 gray, futile anger. This part of the ride just out 
 of Sausalito was always more or less depressing un 
 less a combination of full tide and vivid sunshine 
 gave its muddy stretches the enlivening grace of 
 sky-blue reflections. Worm-eaten and tottering 
 piles, abandoned hulks, half-swamped skiffs, all 
 the water-logged dissolution of stagnant shore lines 
 the world over, flashed by, to be succeeded by the 
 fresher green of channel-cut marshes. The hills 
 were wind-swept, huddling their scant oak covering 
 into the protecting folds of shallow canons. At 
 intervals, clumps of eucalyptus-trees banded to 
 gether or drew out in long, thin, soldier-like lines. 
 
 Presently it began to rain. There was no pre 
 liminary patter, but the storm broke suddenly, 
 hurling great gray drops of moisture against the 
 windows. Claire withdrew from any further at 
 tempt to watch the whirling landscape. It was now 
 quite dark, the short December day dying even 
 more suddenly under a black pall of lowering clouds. 
 
 She began to have distinctly uncomfortable 
 thoughts about her visit to the Flints . But the 
 more uncomfortable her thoughts became, the more 
 reason she brought to bear for conquering them. 
 Surely one was not to be persuaded into a panic 
 5 57 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 by any such person as Mrs. Richards! And by the 
 time the brakeman announced the train s approach 
 to Yolanda, Claire had recovered her common 
 sense. What of it if Mrs. Flint had gone to town? 
 There must be other women in the household at 
 least a maid. It was absurd! The train stopped 
 and Claire got off. 
 
 Flint s car was waiting, and Jerry Donovan, the 
 chauffeur, stood with a dripping umbrella almost 
 at Claire s elbow as she hopped upon the platform. 
 
 As they swished through the inky blackness, 
 Claire said to Jerry, with as inconsequential an air 
 as she could muster: 
 
 "I thought I saw Mrs. Flint get off the boat in 
 town. But I guess I was mistaken. She wouldn t 
 be leaving Mr. Flint alone . . . when he s ill." 
 
 "111?" Jerry chuckled. "Well, he ain t dead by 
 a long shot. Just a case of sniffles, and a good ex 
 cuse for hitting the booze. He s in prime condition, 
 I can tell you." 
 
 Claire had never seen Flint in "prime condition," 
 but she had it from Nellie Whitehead that there 
 were moments when the gentleman in question 
 could "go some," to use her predecessor s precise 
 terms. 
 
 "About twice a year," Nellie had once confided 
 to Claire, "the old boy starts in to cure a cold. I 
 helped him cure one . . . but never again!" 
 
 Jerry s observations aroused fresh anxiety, but 
 they did not settle the issue for Claire. She felt 
 that she could not turn back at the eleventh hour. 
 There was nothing else for her to do but go through 
 with the game. Yet she still hoped for the best. 
 
 58 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Did Mrs. Flint go to town to-day? * she finally 
 asked, point-blank. 
 
 "Sure thing," said Jerry, swinging the car past 
 the Flint gateway. 
 
 Claire refused to be totally lacking in faith. 
 
 "There must be a maid," flashed through her 
 mind, as Jerry stopped the car and swung down to 
 help her out. 
 
 A Japanese boy threw open the door as they 
 scrambled up the rain-soaked steps. But the fine, 
 orderly, Colonial interior reassured Claire. The 
 few country homes she had seen had been of the 
 rambling, unrelated bungalow type, with paneled 
 redwood walls either stained to a dismal brown or 
 quite frankly left to their rather characterless pink. 
 This home was different. Even the pungent oak 
 logs crackling in the fireplace did so with indefinable 
 distinction. The general tone of the surroundings 
 was as little in keeping with the patchwork per 
 sonality of its mistress as one could imagine. It was 
 as if the singular completeness of Mrs. Flint s home 
 left no time nor energy for a finished individuality. 
 Claire got all this in the briefest of flashes, just a 
 swift, inclusive glance about the entrance hall and 
 through the doorways leading into the rooms be 
 yond. Particularly did she sense the severe opu 
 lence of the dining-room, twinkling at a remoter 
 distance than the living-room its perfectly pol 
 ished silver, its spotless linen, its wonderfully blue 
 china, not to mention the disconcerting fact that 
 the table in the center was laid for but two. 
 
 And then Flint himself came forward with a very 
 red face and an absurdly cordial greeting. 
 
 59 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Well, I began to wonder whether you d risk it. 
 This will be a storm and no mistake. . . . Here, 
 let me have your coat. Come, you re quite wet. 
 . . . Shall you warm up on a hot toddy or some 
 thing cooler a cocktail?" 
 
 She felt his hand sliding down her arm as she 
 released the coat to his too-eager fingers. "Oh 
 no, Mr. Flint! Thank you, nothing. It s only a 
 bit of rain on the surface. I m quite dry." 
 
 "Quite dry!" He echoed her words with a guf 
 faw. "Well, then, we ll have to moisten you up. 
 I always say everything s a good excuse for a drink. 
 If you re cold you take a drink to warm up ; if you re 
 warm you take one to cool off. You dry out on 
 one, and you wet up on one. I don t know of any 
 habit with so many good reasons back of it. I m 
 dry, too. ... We ll have a Bronx ! That s a nice, 
 ladylike drink." 
 
 Claire weighed her reply. She did not want to 
 strike the wrong note; she wanted to let him have 
 a feeling that she was accepting everything in a 
 normal, matter-of-fact way, as if she saw nothing 
 extraordinary in the situation. 
 
 "You re very kind, but really you know ... if 
 I m to get my dictation straight ..." 
 
 "Well, perhaps there won t be any dictation. 
 We re not slaves, you and I. Maybe it will be 
 much pleasanter to sit before the fire and listen to 
 the storm. What do you say to that?" 
 
 She turned from him deliberately, under the 
 fiction of fluffing up her hair before a gilt mirror 
 near the door. She was thinking quickly and with 
 a tremendous, if concealed, agitation. "Why," she 
 
 60 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 laughed back, finally, "that would be pleasant. 
 But I came to take dictation, Mr. Flint. And 
 women . . . women, you know, are so funny! If 
 they make up their minds to one thing, they can t 
 switch suddenly to another idea." 
 
 He was paying no attention to her remark, a 
 remark which she felt would have fallen flat in any 
 event, since it was so palpably studied. 
 
 "The living-room is in there," he said, pointing. 
 "Make yourself at home." 
 
 She went in and sat before the fire. Flint dis 
 appeared. She tried hard to analyze the situation. 
 It was unthinkable that Mr. Flint had deliberately 
 planned this piece of foolishness. He must have 
 had some idea of work when he had telephoned 
 her; perhaps he still had. It was his way of being 
 facetious, she argued, this fine pretense that it was 
 all to be a pleasant lark, or it may have been his 
 idea of hospitality. Of course he had been drinking, 
 but she took comfort in the thought that there 
 must be instinctive standards in a man like Flint 
 that even whisky could not swamp. At least he 
 must respect his wife surely it was not possible 
 for Flint, drunk or sober, to offer such an affront 
 to her, however little he respected the women in 
 his employ. She dismissed Mrs. Richards s ex 
 aggerated insinuations with their well-deserved 
 contempt, but she could not thrust aside quite so 
 readily the eye-lifting tone with which Stillman 
 had met the announcement of Mrs. Flint s absence 
 from home. 
 
 This was the first time that Claire had seen Still 
 man since the musicale. She had thought a great 
 
 61 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 deal about him and particularly about his problem. 
 She felt a great desire to know everything all the 
 details of the unfortunate circumstance that had 
 driven his wife into a madhouse, and yet whenever 
 her mother broached the subject Claire changed 
 the topic with curious panic. She seemed to dread 
 the hard, almost triumphant manner that her 
 mother assumed in tracking misfortune to its lair 
 and gloating over it. She began to wonder whether 
 Stillman would be swinging back to the city on a 
 late boat ... or would the storm keep him at 
 Edington s sister s home all night? 
 
 She was in the midst of this speculation when 
 Flint came into the room. 
 
 " We ll eat early and have that off our minds," 
 he announced. His manner was brusk and busi 
 ness-like again. Claire felt reassured. 
 
 But she was disturbed to find a cocktail at her 
 place at the table. 
 
 "Well, here s glad to see you!" Flint raised 
 his glass and tilted it ever so slightly in her direction. 
 Claire lifted the cocktail to her lips and set it down 
 untasted. "What s the matter? Getting unsocia 
 ble again?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Flint. I don t care for cocktails." 
 
 "Oh, all right! We ll send down-cellar and get 
 some wine." 
 
 "Thank you, not for me." 
 
 I suppose you don t care for wine, either ?" His 
 voice had a bantering quality, with a shade of 
 menace in it. "Or maybe the right party isn t 
 here. I ve noticed that makes a difference. Fe 
 males are damned moral with the wrong fellow." 
 
 62 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 His attack was so direct and insolent that Claire 
 missed the trepidation that might have come with 
 a more covert move. She was no longer uncertain. 
 There was a sharp relief in realizing that all the 
 cards were on the table. She felt also that there 
 was no immediate danger. Flint was far from 
 sober, but he was in his own home. She had the 
 conviction that he was merely skirmishing, test 
 ing the strength or weakness of the line he hoped 
 to penetrate. Her reply was rather more of a 
 challenge than she could have imagined herself 
 giving under such a circumstance. 
 
 "And if I were to tell you that I don t care for 
 wine, Mr. Flint?" 
 
 He threw open his napkin with a flourish. 
 "You d be telling me a damned lie! You drink 
 wine at the Palace with Stillman and Edington." 
 
 She had felt that he was going to say some such 
 thing and for a moment it amused her. It was so 
 ridiculous to find this rather wan and wistful in 
 discretion assumingd amaging proportions. But a 
 nasty fear succeeded her faint amusement. Could 
 it be possible that Stillman had gossiped? 
 
 "Who told you?" she demanded. 
 
 "Oh, don t be afraid; it wasn t Stillman! You re 
 like all women, you moon about sentimentalizing over 
 Ned until it makes a man like me sick ! I like Ned ; 
 I always have. But even when we went to college 
 together it was the same way. Everybody . . . 
 yes, even the men . . . always gave him credit for 
 a high moral tone. Not that he ever took it ... 
 I ll say that for him. . . . Ned Stillman didn t tell 
 me, for the simple reason that he didn t have to, 
 
 63 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Nobody told me. I go to the Palace myself under 
 pressure, and I ve got two eyes. As a matter of 
 fact, there isn t any reason why Edington or Still- 
 man or the waiter who drew the corks shouldn t 
 have mentioned it. A glass of wine is no crime. 
 But the thing that makes me hot is to see any 
 one pretending. If you drink with Stillman, you 
 haven t any license to refuse a glass with me." 
 
 There was something more than wine-heated 
 rancor back of his harangue. Claire guessed in 
 stinctively that he both loved and hated Stillman 
 with a curious confusion of impulses. It was a feel 
 ing of affection torn by the irritating superiority of 
 its object. One gets the same thing in families 
 . . . among children. It was at once subtle and 
 extremely primitive. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Flint, this isn t quite the same 
 thing. I ve work to do for one thing and, and. . ." 
 
 "And . . . and . . . Why don t you say it? 
 You re alone with me and all that sort of rubbish ! 
 Want a chaperon, I suppose. Mrs. Condor, for 
 instance. . . . Good Lord!" 
 
 Claire dipped her spoon into the steaming 
 bouillon-cup in front of her. She was growing 
 quite calm under the directness of Flint s attack. 
 
 "It isn t the same," she reiterated, stubbornly. 
 "I ve work to do, Mr. Flint." 
 
 "I tell you that you haven t!" Flint brought 
 his fist down upon the table. 
 
 "Well, then, why did you send for me?" 
 
 "I had something to say to you. . . . Gad! one 
 can t talk in that ramping office of mine. We ve 
 never even settled the matter of an increase in 
 
 64 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 salary for you. By the way, how much money do 
 you get?" 
 
 Claire had never seen any man look so crafty 
 and disagreeable. He gave her the impression of 
 a petty tyrant about to bestow largess upon an 
 obsequious and fawning slave. 
 
 "Sixty-five dollars a month. * 
 
 "Well, I don t exactly know. . . . I ve been try 
 ing to figure out just how valuable you are to me, 
 Miss Robson. Or, rather, how valuable you re 
 likely to be." He thrust aside his soup and leaned 
 heavily upon the table. "That s why I invited 
 you over to-night. I wanted to see you at a little 
 closer range. You live with your mother, don t you ? 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Flint." 
 
 "You . . . you support your mother, I believe?" 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Flint." 
 
 "Well, sixty-five dollars don t leave much mar 
 gin for hair ribbons and the like, does it, now?" 
 
 "No, Mr. Flint." 
 
 "No, Mr. Flint. . . . Yes, Mr. Flint . . ." he 
 mocked. "Good Lord! can t you cut that school- 
 girl-to-her-dignified-guardian attitude. I m hu 
 man. Dammit all, I m as human as your friend 
 Ned Stillman. I ll bet you don t yes-sir and no-sir 
 him. . . . You know, that night I saw you at the 
 Palace you quite bowled me over. I d been think 
 ing of you as a shy, unsophisticated young thing. 
 But you were hitting the high places like a veteran. 
 Even old lady Condor didn t have anything on you. 
 Except, of course, that she looks the part. By the 
 way, where did you meet Stillman?" 
 
 "At . . . at a church social," Claire stammered. 
 
 6s 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "At a church social! Say, I wasn t born yester 
 day. Ned Stillman doesn t go to church. Tell 
 me something easy." 
 
 "It was really a Red Cross concert. He went 
 with Mrs. Condor," Claire found herself explaining 
 in spite of her anger. "We sat at the same table 
 when the ice-cream was served." 
 
 Flint was roaring with exaggerated laughter. 
 Even Claire could not restrain a smile. What made 
 the statement so ridiculous, she found herself won 
 dering. Was she unconsciously reflecting Flint s 
 attitude or had she herself changed so tremendously 
 in the last few weeks ? 
 
 "Stillman at a church social! But that is good! 
 And eating ice-cream. . . . How long ago did all 
 this happen, pray?" 
 
 "Sometime in November." 
 
 He stopped his senseless guffawing and looked 
 at her keenly. "Where did you get the church- 
 social habit?" 
 
 "I ... why, I guess I formed it early, Mr. 
 Flint. As you say, sixty-five dollars a month 
 doesn t leave much for hair ribbons or anything 
 else. Going to church socials is about the cheapest 
 form of recreation I can think of." 
 
 The bitterness of her tone seemed to pull Flint 
 up with a round turn. "Well, we re going to get 
 you out of this silly church-social habit. Dammit 
 all, Stillman isn t the only possibility in sight. 
 That s just what I wanted to get at your view 
 point. I take an interest in you, Miss Robson 
 a tremendous interest. Good Lord! I can dance 
 one-steps and fox-trots and hesitations as well as 
 
 66 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 anybody! I danced every bit as well as Ned Still- 
 man when we went to dancing-school together. But 
 he always got most of the applause. He has an air, 
 I don t deny that, but he s working it overtime. . . . 
 And he s not in any better position for being 
 friendly to you than I am he s married." 
 
 The talk was sobering him a little. Claire was 
 amazed to find that she did not feel indignant. 
 His tone was offensive, but at least it was forth 
 right. Besides, she had known instinctively that 
 some day he would force the issue, and she was 
 rather glad to get it settled. And she began to 
 hope that she could persuade him skilfully against 
 his warped convictions. She was trembling in 
 wardly, too, at the thought that she might make a 
 false step and find herself out of a position. Posi 
 tions were not easy to land these days. She knew 
 a half-score of girls who had tramped the town over 
 in a desperate effort to find a vacancy. Two or 
 three months without salary meant debts piling 
 up, clothes in ribbons, and no end of hectic worries. 
 
 "I think you ve got a decidedly wrong impression 
 of my friendship for Mr. Stillman," she said, after 
 some deliberation. "I really know him only 
 slightly. He was good enough, or rather I should 
 say Mrs. Condor was good enough, to include me 
 in a little musical evening. That was on the night 
 you saw me at the Palace. We dropped down for 
 a dance or two after the music was over. I d never 
 been to such a place before, and I dare say I ll never 
 go again. It was just one of those experiences that 
 come to a person out of a clear sky. It s over as 
 quickly as a shower." 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Oh, don t you worry! There ll be other show 
 ers. I m going to see to that. You know, the more 
 I talk to you the more amazing you are. . . . Fancy 
 your graduating from dinky church things into 
 Stillman musicales, and Palace dansants, and 
 young Edington, and old lady Condor, all of a sud 
 den . . . and getting away with it as if you were 
 an old hand at the game. Say, if you re that apt 
 I ll give you a post-graduate course in high life 
 that 11 make your hair curl forty-seven ways. I 
 don t mean anything vulgar or common . . . you 
 understand. I m a gentleman, Miss Robson, at 
 that." 
 
 He stopped for a moment to ring the bell for the 
 Japanese boy. Claire maintained a discreet si 
 lence. She had a feeling that it would be just as 
 well to let him take his full rein. The servant came 
 in and cleared away the empty bouillon - cups. 
 Fish was served. 
 
 Flint took one taste of the fish and shoved it 
 away impatiently. "You know, a fellow like me 
 gets awfully bored at all this sort of thing." He 
 swept the room with an inclusive gesture. "Not 
 that my wife isn t the best little woman in the 
 world, but you know. She s got standards and con 
 victions and all that sort of rot. I can t bundle 
 her off for dinner and a little lark at the Red Paint 
 or Bonini s or some other Bohemian joint like 
 them. . . . You know what I mean, no rough stuff 
 . . . but a good feed, and two kinds of wine, and 
 a cigarette with the small black. Just gay and 
 frivolous. ... Of course I can get any number 
 of girls to run around and help eat up all the 
 
 68 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 nourishment I care to provide. But, good Lord! 
 that isn t it ! I m looking for somebody with human 
 intelligence. Not that I want to discuss free verse 
 and the Little Theater movement. But I like to 
 feel that if I took such a crazy notion the person 
 sitting opposite me could qualify for a good come 
 back. ... I like my home and everything, but . . . 
 Oh, well, what s the use in pretending? I m just 
 as human as your friend Ned Stillman and I ve 
 got just as keen an eye for class." 
 
 He sat back in his seat with an air of satisfaction, 
 waiting for Claire s reply. She had been calm 
 enough while he talked, but under the tenseness 
 of his silent expectancy she felt her heart bound. 
 
 "Dammit all! Why don t you say something?" 
 he blurted out. "I know, you need a little wine. 
 I m going down-stairs and pick out the best in the 
 cellar . . . myself" 
 
 She did not attempt to dissuade him; as a matter 
 of fact, she felt relieved to be left alone for a moment. 
 She must leave as soon as dinner was over. She 
 began to wonder about the trains. The storm was 
 raging outside. She could hear the frenzied trees 
 flinging their branches about and a noisy flood of 
 rain against the windows. She spoke to the Jap 
 anese boy as he was carrying away Flint s unfinished 
 fish course. 
 
 "Do you know what time the next train leaves?" 
 
 He laid the tray on the serving-table. "Please 
 . . . I telephone. Please!" He bobbed at her ab 
 surdly and went out into the hall. She listened. 
 He was ringing up the station-master. He came 
 back promptly. 
 
 69 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 " Please," he began, sucking in his breath, "please 
 ... no train to-night." 
 
 "No train to-night? Why, what do you mean?" 
 
 "Please . . . very much water. Train track 
 washed out. No train to-night. To-morrow morn 
 ing, maybe." 
 
 "Oh, but I must go home to-night! I really 
 must! I ..." 
 
 She broke off suddenly, realizing the futility of 
 her protest. 
 
 "To-morrow morning," replied the Japanese, 
 blandly. "All right to-morrow morning. You 
 stay here. ... I fix a place. You see ... I fix 
 a very nice place for young, lady." 
 
 He went out with the tray and Claire rose and 
 walked to the window. Flint broke into the room 
 noisily. She turned he had two dusty bottles in 
 his hand, and an air of triumph. 
 
 "Mr. Flint, it seems that there has been a wash 
 out. I understand that no trains are running. 
 What can I do? I must get back; really I ..." 
 
 "Who says so?" Flint laid the bottles down 
 with an irritating calmness. 
 
 "The station-master. Your . . . your servant 
 just telephoned for me." 
 
 "Oh, well, we should worry! Sit down." 
 
 "Mr. Flint, really, I must . . . You know I 
 can t . . . I . . ." 
 
 "Sit down!" 
 
 His tone was a dash of cold water thrown in the 
 face of her rising hysteria. She sat down. Flint 
 ignored the bottles on the table and, crossing over 
 to the Sheraton sideboard, poured himself a stiff 
 
 70 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 drink of whisky. His hair-towsled condition stood 
 out sharply against the precise background. 
 
 He made no further comment, but he began to 
 open the bottles of wine deliberately. Then he 
 rummaged in the china-closet for the wine-glasses 
 and set four, two at his place and two at Claire s, 
 upon the table. 
 
 "White wine with the entree and red wine with 
 the roast," he muttered. And he poured out the 
 white wine without further ado. 
 
 The servant came in with creamed sweetbreads. 
 Claire forced herself to make a pretense of eating, 
 although her appetite had long since deserted her. 
 She was thinking, and thinking hard. 
 
 She should never have come, in the first place 
 at least she should have turned back upon the 
 strength of Jerry s announcement. But she saw 
 now, with a clearness that surprised her, that the 
 situation had really challenged her imagination. 
 She had been too calm, too collected, too well- 
 poised, full of smug over-confidence. She had 
 read in the current novels of the day how hysteri 
 cally unsophisticated heroines conducted them 
 selves in tight corners and she had followed their 
 writhings with ill-concealed impatience. She never 
 had really put herself in their place, but she had had 
 a vague notion that they carried on absurdly. Her 
 fear all evening had been not what Mr. Flint would 
 do or say or even suggest she had been anxious 
 merely to have the impending storm over, the air 
 cleared, and her position in the office assured upon 
 a purely business-like basis. She had really wel 
 comed the forced issue ; for weeks her mind had been 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 entertaining and dismissing the idea that Mr. Flint 
 had any questionable motives in yielding Nellie 
 Whitehead s place to her. With this fleeting trepi 
 dation had come the realization of her dependence, 
 the importance her sixty-five dollars a month in the 
 scheme of things, the compromises that she might 
 be forced into accepting in order to insure its con 
 tinuance; not definite and soul-searing compromises, 
 it was true, but petty, irritating trucklings which 
 wear down self-esteem. 
 
 It had been the primitive violence of Flint s 
 commanding, "Sit down!" to thrust the issue from 
 the economic to the elemental. For the first time 
 in her life Claire was face to face with unstripped 
 masculine brutality. She had wondered why 
 women of a lower order took men s blows without 
 striking back, without at least escaping from fur 
 ther torment. But she was beginning to see, as 
 her spirits tried to rise reeling from Flint s verbal 
 assault, the fawning submission, half admiration, 
 half fear, that could follow a frank, hard-fisted blow. 
 And she had a terror, sitting there trying to thrust 
 food between her trembling lips, that the sheer 
 physical force of the male opposite her might shatter 
 in one blow a will that could have withstood any 
 amount of spiritual or material attrition. She had 
 never seen Flint so clearly as at this moment; in 
 fact, she had never seen him at all. Formerly, he 
 had been a conventionalized masculine biped in a 
 blue-serge covering who paid her salary and struck 
 attitudes that were symbols of predatory instincts 
 rather than an indication that such instincts existed. 
 Life had, after all, been peopled by the precisely 
 
 72 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 labeled puppets of a morality play; they came on, 
 and declaimed, and made gestures but they re 
 mained abstractions, things apart from life, mere 
 representations of the vices and virtues they im 
 personated. She had entertained this idea particu 
 larly with regard to Flint. She had felt that the 
 day would come when he and she would occupy the 
 stage together. He would speak his part with a 
 great flourish of the hands and much high-sounding 
 emphasis, and when he had finished she would reply 
 with a carefully worded retort, setting forth the 
 claims and rewards of virtue. Thus it would con 
 tinue, argument succeeding argument, a declama 
 tory give and take, dignified, passionless, theatrical. 
 
 They were occupying the stage now, it was true, 
 but there was something warm and human and rag 
 ged about the performance. Flint was not a mere 
 spiritless allegory in red-satin doublet and hose to 
 give flame to his conventionality. Instead, she 
 saw sitting opposite her a ponderous, quick-breath 
 ing, drunken male, handsome in a coarse, rough- 
 hewn way, speaking in the quick, clipped speech of 
 passion and striking her to the ground with the 
 energy of his stage business. She was afraid, al 
 most for the first time in her life, with a primitive, 
 abandoned fear. And suddenly her vista of woman 
 hood narrowed to include the ugly foreground of 
 life that youth had looked over in its eager, far- 
 flung scanning of the horizon beyond. Suddenly 
 she felt all the oppression and sorrow of the sex 
 bear down upon her and mark her with its relentless 
 finger. Because she was a woman she would pay 
 for every joy with a corresponding sorrow; receive 
 
 6 73 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a blow for every caress; know courage and fear 
 with equal intimacy. . . . She stopped eating and 
 she began to realize with a vivid terror that Flint 
 was looking at her fixedly and beginning to speak. 
 
 "What s the matter with the sweetbreads? 
 Don t you like em? . . . And the wine? . . . Say, 
 I m going to get peeved in a minute. You don t 
 suppose we serve this French-restaurant style of 
 meal every day do you? I should say not! That s 
 another one of the frau s convictions. Plain living 
 at home so as to set the right example to the girls!" 
 Flint threw his head from side to side, mincing out 
 his last statement. "Gad! I m tired of setting a 
 good example! . . . And even Sing gets tired. 
 Chinks, you know, like to cook a bang-up meal 
 once in a while. They like a chance to show their 
 speed and put in all the fancy trimmings." 
 
 His mood, during this speech, had changed with 
 drunken facility from irritability to good humor. 
 Claire, still attempting to marshal her wits, picked 
 up her fork again and murmured: 
 
 "Oh, you have a Chinese cook, then? I had no 
 idea . . . The Japanese boy, you know. They say 
 that the two never get along." 
 
 "That s a fairy-tale. Besides, it s next to im 
 possible, these days, to get a Chinese second-boy. 
 And the missus won t hire a girl." He winked 
 broadly. "Can t get one ugly enough, I guess. 
 Sing s a wonder. I copped him from the Tom 
 Forsythes. You know young Edington s in-laws. 
 They ve never quite forgiven me. Though they 
 will come back and tuck away one of his dinners 
 occasionally." 
 
 74 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire s mind closed nimbly over Flint s state 
 ment. "The the Tom Forsythes of Ross?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He nodded and tossed a glass of wine off in one 
 gulp. The Tom Forsythes of Ross . . . E ding- 
 ton s sister . . . Ned Stillman! The sequence of 
 ideas flashed through Claire s mind with flashing 
 detachment. She leaned back in her seat and raised 
 the wine-glass in obvious pretense to her lips. 
 Flint was watching her keenly: an ugly gleam was 
 in his eyes. 
 
 "Well, Miss Robson, you might just as well make 
 up your mind to finish that glass of wine first as 
 last. We re not going to have the next course 
 until you do." 
 
 She measured him deliberately. She knew now 
 that it was to be a fight to a finish. She was hon 
 estly afraid and full of the courage of realization. 
 
 "I ve had enough as it is, Mr. Flint. Besides, 
 we must either be getting to work or figuring how 
 I am to make the boat at Sausalito. I suppose 
 you could send me in the car . . . with Jerry." 
 
 "Oh, with Jerry? So that s it! ... No, not 
 on your life! He s too good-looking a boy for a job 
 like that. No, Miss Robson, you are going to stay 
 right here. . . . Now, understand me, I m not a 
 damn fool! You seem to have an idea that because 
 I ve had a glass or two that I ve lost my reason. 
 You re an attractive girl and all that, Miss Robson, 
 and I am interested in you! But please don t 
 flatter yourself that I m staking everything on a 
 throw like this. As a matter of fact, I ll see that 
 you are properly chaperoned. We ve plenty of 
 
 75 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 neighbors. You ve got the best excuse in the world 
 for staying here and ..." 
 
 But, my dear Mr. Flint, can t you see, I ..." 
 
 "No, I can t. I want you to stay here. My 
 reasons are as good as yours. Now let s get that 
 off our mind and enjoy the meal." 
 
 His manner struck her protests to the ground 
 again. She was no longer fearing the immediate 
 outcome, in fact, she never had, but she knew that 
 if he broke her to his will now, all the safeguards, 
 all the chaperons, all the conventions in the world 
 wouldn t save her from ultimate consequences. 
 This was the try-out that was to establish her pace 
 in the final contest; she would stand or fall upon 
 the record she made at this moment. For she was 
 trying out something more than Flint s temper, 
 something greater than a mechanical adjustment 
 of human relationships she was trying out herself. 
 She sat for some moments, thinking hard, one hand 
 fingering the slender base of the wine-filled glass in 
 front of her, the other dropped in pensive limpness 
 at her side. Flint had cleared the space in front 
 of him of everything but his two wine-glasses. He 
 had slipped down in his seat and his two bloodshot 
 eyes were fixing her with a level stare. 
 
 She stirred finally and rose. 
 
 He was on his feet in an instant. 
 
 "I m going to telephone," she said, calmly. 
 
 "Telephone . . . where? . . . What s the idea?" 
 
 "Mr. Flint," she answered, a bit wearily, "at 
 least I m a guest in your house, am I not?" 
 
 He settled back in his seat with a grunt of ac 
 quiescence. She stood dazed for a moment, sur- 
 
 76 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 prised at the chance that had put such telling words 
 into her mouth. She had been fingering timidly 
 for the key to his chivalry; quite by accident she 
 had hit upon it in the shape of this appeal to her 
 expectations of him in the r61e of host. She could 
 have lied, of course, and told him that she wished 
 to telephone her mother, but she had not yet been 
 cornered sufficiently to resort to so distasteful a 
 weapon. . . . As she left the room she found her 
 self wondering whether Stillman had by any chance 
 left the Tom Forsythes. She looked at the clock. 
 It was not quite eight o clock. She felt reassured, 
 yet she was tremendously frightened. . . . Especially 
 as she realized that the telephone was in the en 
 trance hall within earshot of the dining-room. . . . 
 
 She was decidedly more frightened when she 
 got back from her telephoning, and looked at Flint. 
 He was clutching at the table with both hands, 
 his body tilted slightly forward, his lips ominously 
 thin. 
 
 "You telephoned to the Tom Forsythes, didn t 
 you?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And you asked for Stillman. . . . Did you get 
 him?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "What did you want with him?" 
 
 "If you heard that much, I guess you heard the 
 rest, Mr. Flint." 
 
 Claire stood at her place at the table. She de 
 cided not to sit. Flint bore down on both hands 
 until things began to creak. 
 
 "Yes, I heard everything, but, dammit all, I 
 77 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 couldn t believe my own ears. You re like every 
 woman I ever knew . . . you don t play fair. You 
 appeal to my instinct as host and then you go and 
 outrage every privilege you ve got me to concede. 
 You re a pretty guest, you are! And I sit here and 
 let you play me for a fool. Let you ring up Ned 
 Stillman and, ask him to fetch you away from my 
 house in his car! * He stopped and took a deep 
 breath; his words were no longer passionate; in 
 stead, they were precise and cool and venomous. 
 "Understand me, young lady, I m through with 
 you. I wouldn t care, if I thought you were really 
 virtuous. But you re too clever for a virtuous 
 woman. . . . Oh, I dare say you subscribe to the 
 letter of the law, all right. For instance, you take 
 care not to run around with married men whose 
 incumbrances are in plain view of the audience . . . 
 Oh, I ve seen lots of clever women in my time, but 
 in the end they always took too much rope. Re 
 member, you ll have your bluff called some day." 
 
 He pushed back his chair noisily and rose. The 
 Japanese servant came bobbing along. 
 
 "Clear away the things!" Flint bellowed. "We re 
 through! . . . Good night, Miss Robson, and a 
 pleasant journey to you you and your immaculate 
 friend Stillman." 
 
 He left the room with a melodramatic flourish. . . . 
 Presently Claire heard him mounting the stairs. 
 
 "He s drunk!" flashed through her mind, as if the 
 idea had just struck her. "Of course, he must be 
 drunk, otherwise he wouldn t have dared to . . ." 
 
 She went out into the entrance hall and put on 
 her hat. 
 
 78 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 MIDWAY between Yolanda and Sausalito Still- 
 man s machine died with disconcerting sud 
 denness The rain was coming down in sheets. 
 Stillman got out. 
 
 "It s no use," he announced, lifting himself back 
 into his seat "I can t do anything in this deluge." 
 
 This was the first word that had been said since 
 he and Claire had left Flint s. 
 
 "The worst will be over in a few moments," re 
 plied Claire, easily. But she was far from reassured. 
 
 The deluge was not over in a few moments. It 
 kept up with an ever-increasing violence, until it 
 seemed that even the stalled car would be compelled 
 to yield to its force. Claire had never seen it rain 
 harder; the storm had a vindictive fury that re 
 minded her of the dreadful tempest in "King Lear." 
 
 Stillman maintained his usual well-bred calm 
 and smoked cigarettes while he chattered. He 
 touched on every conceivable subject but the one 
 uppermost in Claire s mind, until she began to 
 wonder whether delicacy or contempt veiled his 
 conversation. A half -hour passed . . . an hour . . . 
 two. Still the rain swept from the sullen sky. 
 Twice Stillman made a futile attempt to remedy the 
 trouble with his engine, and twice he retired de- 
 
 79 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 feated to the shelter of the car. Claire was relieved 
 that she was in the company of a man who did not 
 emphasize the monotonous hours by indiscriminate 
 raillery against the tricks of chance. At first he 
 dismissed the situation with the most casual of 
 shrugs; later he acknowledged his annoyance by 
 an expression of regret at his companion s dis 
 comfort, but he stopped there. 
 
 As the hours went on, with no abatement of the 
 storm s devastating energy, Claire grew less and 
 less pleased at the prospect. She began to wonder 
 whether the shelter of Flint s roof had not been, 
 after all, the discreet thing. Was not her head 
 long flight in company with Stillman more open 
 to criticism than the frank acceptance of her em 
 ployer s hospitality? But these vagrant questions 
 were the spawn of a colorless spirit of social ex 
 pediency which fastens itself on weak natures, and 
 in Claire s case they died still-born. She had been 
 too well schooled in loneliness to lean heavily on the 
 crooked stick of public opinion. Accustomed to 
 standing alone, she had something of the spiritual 
 arrogance that goes with independence. People 
 could think what they liked. And it was more a 
 realization of her mother s anxiety than any thought 
 of self which made her suggest to Stillman that they 
 might get out and walk into Sausalito. 
 
 "I think the last boat leaves there at twelve- 
 thirty," she finished. "Surely we could make it 
 if we keep going." 
 
 Stillman thrust his arm out into the drenching 
 rain, and withdrew it instantly. "I m afraid that s 
 out of the question, so long as the rain keeps up, 
 
 80 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Miss Robson," he said, in a tone of implied objec 
 tion. "Perhaps if it should stop ..." 
 
 Claire settled back in her seat. Stillman was 
 right. The storm was too furious to be lightly 
 braved. 
 
 It was eleven o clock before a quick veering of 
 the wind brought a downpour so violent that 
 what had gone before seemed little better than a 
 rather weak rehearsal. 
 
 "It will clear presently," Stillman assured Claire. 
 "Southeaster always break up in a flurry like this 
 from the west." 
 
 In ten minutes the stars were peeping brilliantly 
 through rents in the torn clouds. Pungent odors 
 floated up from the rain-trampled stubble of the 
 hillsides, the air was cleared of its stifling oppres 
 siveness, the first storm of the season was over 
 
 Both Claire and Stillman clambered out at the 
 first signs of the storm s exhaustion. Stillman 
 switched on his pocket-light and began to investi 
 gate the trouble with the engine. His decision was 
 swift and conclusive. 
 
 "It s hopeless," he announced, turning to Claire 
 with a slight grimace. "We re stalled absolutely 
 and no mistake. I guess we d better strike out and 
 walk. No doubt we ll get a lift into Sausalito 
 before we ve gone very far, but I dare say it s well 
 to be on the safe side." 
 
 They rolled the machine to one side of the road 
 way and struck out hopefully. The rain had made 
 a thin chocolate ooze of the highway, and before 
 they had gone a hundred yards their shoes were 
 slimy with mud. It appeared that Stillman had 
 
 81 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 been something of an aimless wanderer for many 
 years, and as he talked on and on, giving detached 
 glimpses of the remote places he had visited, Claire 
 had a curious sense of futility. 
 
 She read between his clipped and vivid sentences 
 the tragedy of a personality worsted by the soft 
 hands of circumstances. This man might have 
 done things. As it was he was an idler. He gave 
 her the impression of a man waiting vaguely for op 
 portunity like some traveler pacing restlessly up 
 and down a railway station platform in expectation 
 of the momentary arrival of a delayed train. She 
 tried to imagine him as she felt sure he must once 
 have been youthful, eager, ardent, a man of charm 
 ing enthusiasms that just missed being extrava 
 gances, who could bring zest to his virtues as well 
 as to his follies. 
 
 "Surely," she thought, "something more than 
 inclination must have pushed him into this deadly 
 stagnation." 
 
 And at once Miss Hunch s insinuating question 
 leaped up to answer: 
 
 "You know about his wife, of course!" 
 
 Were men put out of countenance by such im 
 personal tricks of fortune? Impersonal? . . . this 
 domestic tragedy? . . . Yes, Claire felt that it 
 must be, otherwise the man tramping at her side 
 would have wrestled so passionately against fate 
 as to have come away at least spattered with the 
 mud of defeat. No, Stillman was not defeated, 
 he was merely arrested, restrained, held for orders. 
 
 He had been in London when the war broke out. 
 He had stayed long enough to watch the stolid^ 
 
 82 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 easy-going British public awake to the seriousness 
 of the encounter, coming home after the first air 
 raids. 
 
 "I didn t mind being killed," he laughed, in ex 
 planation of his sudden flight. "But I didn t like 
 being so frightfully messed up in the process. I 
 want a chance to strike back when I m cornered. 
 The Zeppelin game was too much like a rabbit- 
 drive to suit me." 
 
 As he spoke of these experiences, Claire listened 
 with a quickening of the spirit. The prospect of 
 finding Stillman vibrant was too stirring to be de 
 nied. But he was still sober on this colossal sub 
 ject of war ... a bit judicial, always well poised. 
 He had his sympathies, but they did not appear 
 vitalized by extravagances of feeling. Yet here 
 and there Claire was conscious of truant warmths, 
 like brief flashes of sunlight through a somber 
 forest. 
 
 "And the draft what do you think of that?" 
 The question rose to her lips as if his answer might 
 unlock the door to something deeper in the way of 
 convictions. 
 
 He began with a shrug that chilled her; then his 
 reply broke with sudden refreshment: 
 
 "It helps . . . some of us. There are many who 
 can t decide for themselves. The obvious duty 
 isn t always the correct one. In my case ..." 
 
 He did not stop speaking suddenly, but his voice 
 trailed off into a dim region of musing. They both 
 fell silent. But Claire knew. There was that 
 haunting hope, almost like a fear, that his wife 
 might some day get better. That was what he was 
 
 83 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 waiting for! It might come to-morrow . . . next 
 week ... in a year . . . never! But when it 
 did come he felt that he must be there, ready. She 
 wondered whether he loved his wife very much, 
 and she found herself hoping that he did. ... It 
 would help, somehow . . . yes, if that were so his 
 sacrifice gained point. On the other hand . . . 
 She put the thought away with a quick thrust, feel 
 ing that she had no right to such a speculation, and 
 presently she was aware that they were swinging 
 into Sausalito. 
 
 Stillman looked at his watch. Twelve-thirty-five 
 . . . just five minutes late for the boat! She could 
 see that he was disturbed. 
 
 "I thought sure we d get a lift," he railed, toss 
 ing aside a mangled cigar. "This is luck! ... I 
 guess we ll have to rout out the Sherwins. It s 
 something of a pull up the hill, but any safe port 
 in a storm, you know." 
 
 "The Sherwins?" 
 
 "Another one of the Edington girls. They have 
 a bungalow at the very dizziest point in Sausalito." 
 
 But Claire objected and held firm. "I couldn t 
 think of it, Mr. Stillman. No, really! . . . Please 
 don t insist." 
 
 They agreed on a lodging for Claire in a freshly 
 painted but otherwise rather decrepit lodging-house, 
 just north of the ferry-slip. Its chief advantage 
 was that it seemed quite too stagnant to be any 
 thing but respectable, and the suppressed grumbling 
 of the old shrew whom they routed out confirmed 
 their estimate. She didn t approve of couples who 
 dragged God-fearing old women out of bed at un- 
 
 84 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 holy hours in the morning, and it was only the 
 generous tip from Stillman and the assurance that 
 he intended looking elsewhere for quarters for him 
 self that reconciled her to her loss of sleep and the 
 compromise with her convictions. 
 
 For a good half-hour Claire sat with folded hands 
 peering out from her room upon the damp hillside 
 to the west. From across the street came the bawdy 
 thumping of a mechanical piano and the swish of 
 a sluggish tide. Her encounter with Sawyer Flint 
 had forced the door of her virginal seclusion and 
 thrust her at once into the primitive and elemental 
 open. She felt like one who was coming out of 
 voluntary exile to the pathos of a deferred heritage. 
 Before her stretched the eagle s horizon, but she 
 had only the fledgling s strength of wing. She 
 longed for the faith and courage and daring to take 
 life at its word, longed with all the dangerous fierce 
 ness of one who had fed too long upon the husks 
 of existence. And, longing, she fell asleep, sitting 
 in a chair before the open window, without thought 
 or preparation. . . . 
 
 The morning broke cloudless. All traces of the 
 night s fury were obliterated as completely as sorrow 
 from the face of a smiling child. The sun touched 
 the open spaces with a tender, caressing warmth, 
 but the shadows held a keen-edged chill. 
 
 Claire decided upon an early boat to town. 
 
 "I ll be less likely to meet any of the California 
 Street crowd," she said to herself, as she picked her 
 brief way toward the ferry. 
 
 The boat was crowded, especially the lower cabin. 
 85 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 It was the artisans boat and the air was heavy with 
 the smoke of pipe-tobacco. Claire passed rapidly 
 to the dining-room. Perched upon the high re 
 volving chairs surrounding a horseshoe counter, 
 a score or more of soft-shirted men sat devouring 
 huge greasy doughnuts and gulping coffee. The 
 steward, taking note of Claire s hesitation, came 
 forward and led her to a seat at one of the side 
 tables. She was about to take advantage of the 
 chair which he had drawn out for her when she 
 heard her name called. She turned. Miss Hunch s 
 cousin, Mrs. Richards, was sitting alone at the table 
 just behind. Claire s first feeling was one of re 
 lief she was glad to discover an acquaintance. 
 She thanked the steward for his trouble and aban 
 doned the proffered seat for the one opposite Mrs. 
 Richards. Almost at once she regretted her im 
 pulsive decision. 
 
 "I didn t know you intended staying at Flint s 
 all night," Mrs. Richards began, fixing Claire with 
 a challenging gaze. 
 
 "I didn t intend to," returned Claire, her voice 
 sharpened slightly. 
 
 Mrs. Richards took the lid off the sugar-bowl and 
 powdered her grapefruit sparingly. "Have they a 
 nice home?" she questioned. 
 
 "Yes, very nice." 
 
 "They gave you an early start, didn t they? . . . 
 It s almost impossible to get servants these days 
 to consider such a thing as serving breakfast much 
 before eight o clock." 
 
 Claire glanced at the bill of fare. Mrs. Richards s 
 tone was a trifle too eager. "I suppose it is," 
 
 86 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire assented, placing the menu-card back in its 
 place between the vinegar and oil cruets. 
 
 Mrs. Richards remained unabashed at her vis 
 a-vis s palpable indirectness. "I guess I m old- 
 fashioned, but, servants or no servants, I don t be 
 lieve I could let a guest of mine leave the house 
 without breakfast. It seems to me that if I d been 
 Mrs. Flint I d have gotten up and made you a cup 
 of coffee myself." 
 
 Claire s growing annoyance was swallowed up 
 in a feeling of faint amusement. " Perhaps Mrs. 
 Flint wasn t home," she said, beckoning the waiter. 
 
 "Oh!" Mrs. Richards exclaimed with shocked 
 brevity. 
 
 It was not until the arrival of Claire s order of 
 toast and coffee that Mrs. Richards found her voice 
 again. 
 
 "This business of wives staying from home all 
 night gets me," Mrs. Richards hazarded, boldly. 
 "Why, I never remember the time when my mother 
 remained away overnight . . . not under any cir 
 cumstances. My father expected her to be there, 
 and she always was" 
 
 Claire distributed bits of butter over the surface 
 of her toast. She felt that in justice to the Flint 
 family it was not right for her to give Mrs. Rich- 
 ards s dangerous tongue any further scope, however 
 tempting was the prospect of leaving such venomous 
 inquisitiveness ungratified. 
 
 "I think you misunderstood me, Mrs. Richards. 
 I didn t say that Mrs. Flint remained away from 
 home last night. As a matter of fact I didn t stay 
 at Yolanda, so I don t know anything about it." 
 
 87 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Oh!" faintly escaped Mrs. Richards for the 
 second time that morning, but Claire was con 
 scious that there was more incredulity than sur 
 prise registered in the lady s tone. 
 
 "As a matter of fact," Claire continued, stung 
 to incautious exasperation, "I spent the night in 
 Sausalito." 
 
 Mrs. Richards met this information with a dis- 
 armingly bland smile. "I didn t know you had 
 friends in Sausalito," she said, letting a spoonful 
 of coffee trickle back into her cup. 
 
 "I haven t. I spent the night in a lodging-house 
 ... on the water-front. ..." 
 
 "My dear Miss Robson, really I ... Why, I 
 hope you don t think I was inquisitive!" 
 
 It was the simplicity of the challenge that made 
 it impossible to be ignored. Claire knew that she 
 was trapped, but she was angry enough to decide 
 on some reservation. 
 
 "The storm put the track between Yolanda and 
 Sausalito out of commission," Claire found herself 
 snapping back too eagerly at her tormentor. "We 
 tried to make the last boat by auto, but we got 
 stalled and missed it. We had to walk a good half 
 of the way." 
 
 "I shouldn t think that would have done Mr. 
 Flint s cold any good," Mrs. Richards said, drawl- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Mr. Flint s cold? ... I don t quite see what 
 that has to do with it." 
 
 "Oh, you said we I somehow got the impres 
 sion. . . ." 
 
 "No, Mrs. Richards, you ve misunderstood me 
 88 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 again." Claire threw a cool, even glance at her 
 antagonist. "I made the trip from Yolanda to 
 Sausalito in Mr. Stillman s car." 
 
 1 Oh!" said Mrs. Richards for a third time, and 
 in this instance her voice was warm with grati 
 fication. 
 
 Claire directed her attention to her plate of but 
 tered toast and her cup of coffee. She was cha 
 grined to think that she had fallen so easily into 
 Mrs. Richards s very obvious traps. Not that it 
 mattered. She was quite sure that the truth could 
 not harm Stillman, and she was equally sure that 
 her position in life was too obscure to stand out 
 conspicuously against the darts of Mrs. Richards s 
 vindictive tongue. But she had the pride of her 
 reticences and she did not like to surrender these 
 privileges at the point of insolent curiosity. The 
 two continued to eat in silence. 
 
 It was Mrs. Richards who finished first, and she 
 dipped her fingers hurriedly into the battered metal 
 finger-bowl which the Japanese bus-boy thrust 
 before her. 
 
 "Do you mind if I go along?" she inquired of 
 Claire, with an air of polite triumph. I think I ll go 
 forward where I can get a quick start . . . before 
 the crowd gets too thick. I ve got a million er 
 rands to do before nine o clock. And I do want to 
 run into the office before Gertie settles down to 
 work. I haven t seen her for a week and I ve got 
 more things to tell her!" 
 
 7 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 WHY, Miss Claire, how could you! Where 
 have you been ? And your mother in such 
 a bad way!" Mrs. Finnegan broke into sudden 
 tears. 
 
 Claire, fumbling in her bag for the front-door 
 key, looked up. Mrs. Finnegan had swung open 
 the door to the Robson flat and she stood like a 
 vision of disaster upon the threshold. 
 
 What has happened ?" Claire s voice rose with 
 a note of swift apprehension. 
 
 "Your mother . . . she s paralyzed! She was 
 taken last night. The doctor says it would have 
 happened, anyway. But I say it was worry, that s 
 what it was. With you away all night and never 
 a word!" 
 
 Claire climbed the stairs in silence, aware that 
 Mrs. Finnegan was following at a discreet distance. 
 Already the house seemed permeated with an at 
 mosphere of tragedy and gloom in spite of the 
 morning light pouring in unscreened at every win 
 dow. Mrs. Robson s room was the only exception 
 to this unusual excess of cold radiance unusual, 
 because it was one of Mrs. Robson s prides to keep 
 her window-shades lowered to a uniform and gen 
 teel distance. 
 
 90 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Until Claire came face to face with her mother 
 she almost had fancied that her neighbor was in 
 dulging in a crude and terrible joke, but one look 
 sufficed. Mrs. Robson lay staring vacantly at the 
 ceiling; she could not move, she could not speak, 
 and her spirit showed through the veiled light in 
 her eyes like a mysterious spot of sunshine in a 
 shaded well. Above a swooning sense of calam 
 ity Claire felt the strength of a tender pretense 
 struggling to communicate its vague hope to the 
 stricken form. She raised the window - shade 
 slightly and sat down upon the bed. 
 
 "Why, mother, what s all this?" she began, in a 
 tone of gentle banter, as she stroked the helpless 
 hands. Were you worried? I m so sorry! I 
 asked Miss Munch to let you know. Didn t she? 
 ... I went over to Mr. Flint s to take dictation. 
 The storm washed out the track. I tried to make 
 the boat in Mr. Stillman s car, but we broke 
 down and missed it. ... I had to stay all night in 
 Sausalito." 
 
 Mrs. Robson, stirring faintly, attempted to 
 speak. Claire turned helplessly to Mrs. Finnegan. 
 "I can t make out what she is trying to say." 
 
 Mrs. Finnegan bent an attentive ear. "It s 
 about Stillman," she explained. "Your mother 
 don t understand why ..." 
 
 The speaker stopped with significant discretion. 
 It was plain to Claire that nobody understood, and 
 she felt a dreary futility as she answered both her 
 mother and Mrs. Finnegan with: 
 
 "It s a long story. Some other time, when . . . 
 when you re feeling better." 
 
 91 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 A look of gray disappointment crossed Mrs. Rob- 
 son s face. Mrs. Finnegan s upper lip seemed 
 shaped suddenly with a suspicion that died almost 
 as quickly as it began. There was a ring at the bell. 
 " That s the doctor," said Mrs. Finnegan, and she 
 left to open the door. 
 
 The doctor chilled Claire with his steely non 
 chalance as she stood apart while he went through 
 the usual forms of a professional visit that was ob 
 viously futile. She followed him to the front door. 
 He answered her eager inquiries with the cold tri 
 umph of authority. 
 
 "How long will she last? . . . Well, Miss Rob- 
 son, that is hard to say. She might go off to-night. 
 Then, again, she might live twenty years. She ll 
 scarcely get any better, though. No, a nurse isn t 
 essential, unless you can afford one. But you 
 ought to have another woman about. If you have 
 any relatives you d better send for them and let 
 them help out." 
 
 Claire did not find the doctor s announcement 
 that her mother might die at once nearly so brutal 
 as his assurance that she had an equal chance 
 for existing twenty years. Twenty years! Claire 
 closed the door and sank upon the steps over 
 whelmed. 
 
 But there was scant leisure on this first dreadful 
 day of Mrs. Robson s illness for theatrical exuber 
 ances. Claire, unaccustomed to the routine of 
 household duties, took a thousand unnecessary 
 steps. She tried to work calmly, to bring an ac 
 quired philosophy to her tasks, but she went through 
 her paces with a feverish, though stolid, anxiety. 
 
 92 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 The long night which followed was inconceivably 
 a thing of horror. Her wakeful moments were 
 dry-eyed with despair, and when she slept it was 
 only to come back to a shivering consciousness. 
 
 Mrs. Finnegan found her next morning fresh 
 from an attempt to rouse her mother into accepting 
 a few swallows of milk, which had ended in pathetic 
 and miserable failure. She had thrown herself in 
 an abandon of grief across the narrow kitchen table, 
 and the coffee from an overturned cup was trickling 
 in a warm, thick stream to the floor. But the 
 paroxysm did her good. She rose to the kindly 
 caresses of her neighbor like a flower beaten to 
 earth but refreshed by a relentless torrent. After 
 this, custom and habit began to reassert themselves 
 in spite of the crushing weight of circumstance. 
 She phoned to the office. Mr. Flint had returned, 
 they told her. She explained her trouble to the 
 cashier. "Ill try to be back the first of the week," 
 she finished, in a burst of illogical hope. 
 
 Later in the day Mrs. Robson s two sisters ar 
 rived in answer to Claire s summons. Claire s im 
 pulse to send for them had been purely instinctive 
 an atrophied survival of clan-spirit that persisted 
 beyond any real faith in its significance. Perhaps 
 she had a feeling that her mother wished it; cer 
 tainly she had no illusions as to the manner in which 
 the unwelcome news of Mrs. Robson s illness would 
 be received by these two self-centered females. 
 
 It was Mrs. Thomas Wynne who came in first, 
 bundled mysteriously in her furs and holding a 
 glass of wine jelly as a conventional symbol of the 
 r61e of Lady Bountiful which she had for the mo- 
 
 93 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ment assumed. Claire could almost fancy how 
 conspicuously she had contrived to carry this over 
 worked badge of the humanities, and the languid 
 drawl of her voice as she explained to her friends 
 en route: 
 
 So sorry I can t stop and chat. But, as you see, 
 I m running along to a sick-room. ... Oh no, 
 nothing serious, I hope ! Just my sister. . . . Mrs. 
 yfinch-Brown ? Oh, dear no! A younger sister. 
 I don t think you know her. She s had a great 
 deal of trouble and hasn t been about much for a 
 number of years." 
 
 Mrs. Thomas Wynne had the trick of intrench 
 ing a stubborn family pride by throwing back her 
 head and daring all comers to uncover any of the 
 Carrol clan s shortcomings. But her selfishness 
 had at least the virtue of a live-and-let-live attitude 
 that contrasted with the futile aggressiveness of 
 Mrs. Edward Ffinch-Brown. She asked Claire 
 no questions concerning her life or her prospects; 
 she did not even pry very deeply into the chances 
 that her sister had for an ultimate recovery. Her 
 philosophy seemed to be founded on the knowl 
 edge that uncovered cesspools were bound to be 
 unpleasant, and, since she had no desire to assist 
 in their purification, she was quite content to keep 
 them properly screened. She came and deposited 
 her wine jelly and patted her sister s hand and went 
 away again without leaving even a ripple in her 
 wake. As she departed she gave further proof of 
 her insolent insincerity by calling back at Claire: 
 
 "Remember, Claire, if there is anything I can 
 do, just let me know." 
 
 94 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown s visit was scarcely more 
 comforting, but decidedly more exciting. She had 
 not the suavity of her indifferences. Mrs. Robson s 
 untimely tilt with fate irritated her, and she took 
 no pains to conceal this fact. 
 
 "I suppose your mother is just as she s always 
 been a creature of nerves," she said, as she dropped 
 into a seat for a preliminary session with Claire 
 before venturing upon the unwelcome sight of her 
 stricken sister. "I don t know why it is, but she 
 seems to be one of those people who always has had 
 something the matter with her. Poor Emily! 
 Well, I suppose we are all made differently." 
 
 When she entered the sick-room she found fault 
 with the arrangement of the bed, the manner in 
 which the covers slipped off, the uncovered glass 
 of medicine on the bureau. 
 
 "You should braid your mother s hair, too. And 
 why don t you pull the window down from the top ?" 
 
 Claire stood in sullen silence while her aunt vented 
 a personal annoyance on the nearest objects. But 
 when Mrs. Ffinch-Brown s ill-natured ministra 
 tions brought a dumb but protesting misery to 
 the sufferer s face, Claire found the courage to say, 
 as gently as she could: 
 
 "Why bother, Aunt Julia? Mother is really 
 too sick now to care much about appearances?" 
 
 This was just what Claire s aunt had hoped for. 
 It gave her a chance for escape without any strain 
 upon her conscience. She did not remain long 
 after what she was pleased to consider a rebuff. 
 
 "Well, Claire, I see I can t be of much help," she 
 announced as she powdered her nose before the 
 
 95 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 shabby hat-rack mirror and drew on her gloves. . . . 
 After she was gone Claire found a five-dollar bill 
 on the living-room table. She opened the gilt- 
 edged copy of Tennyson that, together with a calf 
 edition of Ouida s Moths, had stood for years 
 as guard over the literary pretensions of the house 
 hold, and thrust the money midway between its 
 covers, Doubtless a time was coming when she 
 would find it necessary to use this money, but the 
 present moment was too charged with the giver s 
 resentful benevolence to make such a compromise 
 possible. 
 
 For three consecutive days Mrs. Ffinch-Brown 
 swooped down upon the Robson household and gave 
 vent to her pique. She had been divorced so long 
 from these melancholy relations of hers that she 
 had really forgotten their existence, and she dis 
 played all the rancor of a woman who discovers 
 suddenly a moth hole in the long undisturbed folds 
 of a treasured cashmere shawl. Her precisely 
 timed visits had not the slightest suspicion of 
 attentiveness back of them, and Claire guessed 
 almost at once that they were more in the nature 
 of assaults carried on in the hope that she would 
 meet enough opposition to insure an honorable 
 retreat. Unlike Mrs. Thomas Wynne, Aunt Julia 
 inquired minutely into family matters, insisted on 
 knowing Claire s plans, and was aggressively free 
 with advice. 
 
 11 You ought to be making plans, Claire," she said, 
 at the conclusion of her second visit. "You can t 
 go on like this. I d like to be able to do more, but 
 of course I can t spare much time. And next week 
 
 96 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 you ll have to be getting into harness again. You d 
 better think it over." 
 
 And on the next day, finding that Claire ob 
 viously had not thought it over, she threw out a hint 
 that was little save a thinly veiled threat. She 
 came in with a more genial manner than she was 
 accustomed to waste upon the desert air of penury, 
 and Claire, well schooled in reading the significance 
 of proverbial calms, had a misgiving. 
 
 I ve been talking to Miss Morton . . . about 
 your mother," Mrs. Ffmch-Brown began, without 
 bothering to lead up to the subject. "You know 
 Alice Morton. . . . Well, your mother does, any 
 way. I bumped into her yesterday, quite by ac 
 cident ... at a Red Cross meeting. It seems 
 she s one of the directors of The King s Daughters 
 Home for Incurables!" Claire was sitting opposite 
 her aunt, nervously fingering a paper-cutter. Mrs. 
 Ffinch-Brown eyed her niece sharply, and with an 
 obvious determination to drive her thrusts home 
 before her victim recovered from the first vicious 
 stabs she continued: "It seems they haven t a 
 great deal of room out there, but she thinks she 
 could arrange things. They ll raise the price to 
 two thousand dollars after the fifteenth of the 
 month, so I thought that " 
 
 "Oh, not quite yet, Aunt Julia! . . . Mother 
 has a chance. Surely ..." 
 
 "Now, Claire, don t get hysterical. You re a 
 business woman and you ought to be practical if 
 any of us are. The price to-day is one thousand 
 dollars. Think of it! Care for life in a ward with 
 only three others! Now I can t ask your uncle for 
 
 97 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 any more than is necessary in a case like this. If 
 we make up our mind promptly we can save just 
 one thousand dollars." 
 
 For the moment Claire felt the harried despera 
 tion of a cornered animal. She had never seen 
 anything more disagreeable than her aunt s side 
 long glance. She felt herself rise from her seat 
 with cold dignity. 
 
 "I m afraid, Aunt Julia, I can t make up my 
 mind as quickly as you wish. It isn t so simple 
 as it seems. I m not above a plan like this if I m 
 convinced it s necessary. But somehow . . . Oh, 
 I know what you re thinking you re thinking 
 that beggars shouldn t be choosers. Well, I m 
 not quite a beggar yet. But when I am, I won t 
 choose . . . I ll promise you that." 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown rose also. She was in a posi 
 tion to triumph in any case, and she was washing 
 her hands of the situation with eager satisfaction. 
 "Oh, indeed ! I m glad you can say that now. B ut 
 you weren t always so independent. I suppose 
 it never occurs to you to thank me for what I did 
 when you were younger." 
 
 Claire felt quite calm. The events of the past 
 twenty-four hours had wrung her emotions dry. 
 "Yes, Aunt Julia," she said, with an air of cool 
 defiance, "it occurred to me many times. . . . Per 
 haps if I d had any choice ..." 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown grew pale. "It s plain that 
 I m wasting my time here!" she sneered. 
 
 Claire went with her aunt to the door. . . . 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown did not cross the threshold 
 of the Robson home again, and when on the fol- 
 
 98 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 lowing day Claire saw the figure of Mrs. Thomas 
 Wynne outlined against the lace-screened front 
 door she let the bell ring unanswered. 
 
 The dismissal of the last of the Carrol clan from 
 any participation in the Robson destinies gave 
 Claire a feeling at once independent and solitary. 
 There had been a vague hope that this crisis might 
 germinate some stray seeds of kinship, shriveled 
 by the drought of uneventful years. But the poi 
 sonous nettles of memory were the only harvest that 
 had sprung from the presence of Mrs. Robson s 
 sisters, and Claire was glad to uproot the arid 
 product of their shallowness. 
 
 The week came to a close with a rush of visitors. 
 Suddenly it seemed as if everybody knew of Mrs. 
 Robsc : s illness. Fellow church members, old 
 school friends, casual acquaintances began to ring 
 the front-door bell insistently. Knowing her 
 mother s instinctive craving for recognition, it 
 struck Claire that it was the height of irony to see 
 this belated crowd come swarming in on the heels 
 of calamity at the moment when Mrs. Robson was 
 unable to so much as see them. Mrs. Robson 
 would have so liked to sit in even a threadbare 
 pomp and receive the homage of her visitors, but 
 fate had been scurvy enough to withhold this scant 
 triumph. 
 
 Nellie Whitehead breezed in on Saturday after 
 noon just as Mrs. Finnegan s cuckoo clock cooed 
 the stroke of three; immediately the air began to 
 move out of adversity s tragic current. It was 
 impossible to be wholly without hope under 
 
 99 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the impetus of Nellie Whitehead s flaming good 
 humor. 
 
 "I m all out of breath," she began, as she flopped 
 into the first chair that came handy. "I keep for 
 getting I ain t sweet sixteen any more and never 
 been kissed. I hate to walk slow, though. Don t 
 you? Say, but you are up against it, ain t you! I 
 saw that Munch dame on the street and she nearly 
 broke her old neck trying to catch up with me. 
 I wondered what was the matter, because she ain t 
 usually so keen about flagging me. But, you know, 
 she never misses a trick at spilling out the calamity 
 stuff, especially if it isn t on her. . . . Oh, Miss 
 Whitehead, she called out before I had a chance 
 to beat it, have you heard about Miss Robson s 
 mother? . . . When she got through I fixed her 
 with that trusty old eye of mine and I said, I 
 suppose you see her quite often. And what do 
 you think the old stiff said? Oh, I d like to, Miss 
 Whitehead, but I really haven t had time. You 
 know I m doing all Mr. Flint s dictation now. 
 And she had the nerve to try and slip me a hint 
 that she was going to keep on doing it. But I just 
 said to myself: You should kid yourself that way, 
 old girl! When Flint picks a bloomer like you to 
 ornament the back office it will be because his 
 eyesight s failed him. ... By the way, how do 
 you manage to stand him off with religious tracts 
 or a hat-pin?" 
 
 She hardly waited for Claire s reply, but plunged 
 at once into another monologue. 
 
 "Do you know what I m up to? I got my eye 
 on the swellest fur-lined coat you ever saw ... at 
 
 100 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Magnin s. But you can bet I m going to keep my 
 eye on it until after the holidays. They want a hun 
 dred and a quarter for it now, but they ll be glad 
 to take sixty-five when the gay festivities are over, 
 or I miss my guess. I go in every other day to 
 have a look at it, and when the girl s back is turned 
 I hang it back in the case myself way back where 
 everybody else will overlook it. Oh, I know the 
 game all right. I did the same thing with a three- 
 piece suit last summer. But I say, All is fair in 
 war and the high cost of living. Maybe you think 
 I haven t had a time scraping the wherewithal for 
 that coat together. But I brought the total up 
 to seventy the other day by getting Billy Holmes 
 to slip me a ten in advance for Christmas. I 
 never trust a man to invest in anything for me if 
 I can help it. They usually run to manicure sets 
 in satin-lined cases or cut-glass cologne-bottles. 
 Billy Holmes? ... Oh, you know him! He ran 
 the reinsurance desk at the Royal for years. 
 They put him on the road last week. He s some 
 live wire. And what s better, he has no incum- 
 brances. I ll tell you what it is, Robson, I m get 
 ting kind of tired of the goings. I m just about 
 ready to settle down by the old steam-radiator. 
 And as long as I ve got eyesight enough to look 
 the field over, I ve decided on a traveling-man or a 
 sea-captain. They ll be sticking around home just 
 about often enough to suit me. . . . Not that I m 
 a man-hater, but I ve never had em for a steady 
 diet and I m not going to begin to get the habit 
 this late day." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead stayed about an hour, and, 
 
 101 
 
THE BLOOD ED DAWN 
 
 as Claire opened the front door upon her friend s 
 departure the letter-man thrust an envelope into 
 her hands. She opened it hastily and turned sud 
 denly white. 
 
 "Well, Robson, what s wrong now?" inquired 
 Nellie. 
 
 "Flint . . . he s let me out. . . . Miss Munch 
 was right!" 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 ON the selfsame Saturday of Claire s dismissal 
 from the office ranks of the Falcon Insurance 
 Company Ned Stillman was the recipient of an 
 early telephone message from Lily Condor. It 
 appeared that Flora Menzies, the young woman 
 who usually accompanied her in her vocal flights, 
 had been laid low with pneumonia and she wanted 
 Stillman to persuade Claire Robson to succeed to the 
 honorary position. 
 
 "She did so famously on that night of our musi- 
 cale," Lily Condor had explained, "and Flora won t 
 be in shape again for a good three months. Of 
 course, there isn t anything in it but glory. I m 
 just one of those * sweet charity* artists. But I 
 think she is a dear, and I know that you have 
 influence." 
 
 Stillman pretended to be annoyed at Mrs. Con 
 dor s assumption that his word would carry any 
 weight in the matter, but as a matter of fact he 
 felt pleased in secret masculine fashion. Chancing 
 to pass Flint s office at the noon hour, he dropped 
 in. It happened that Miss Munch was standing 
 near the counter, and she answered his inquiries 
 with suave eagerness. 
 
 "Oh, Miss Robson isn t with us any more. She 
 103 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 hasn t been here for over a week not since her 
 mother was taken sick. Oh, I thought you knew. 
 You re Mr. Stillman, aren t you? I ve heard my 
 cousin, Mrs. Richards, speak of you. Miss Rob- 
 son went over to Mr. Flint s on that night of the 
 storm and she missed the boat or something you 
 know! And when she got home next morning she 
 found that her mother had worried herself into a 
 stroke. They say she is quite helpless. ... I m 
 sure I don t know what she intends doing. We 
 mailed her check yesterday. It s always hard to 
 land another position when one is dismissed." 
 
 Stillman escaped quickly. Miss Munch s venom 
 was a thing too crude and unconcealed to face with 
 indifference. Her emphatic "you know" was preg 
 nant with innuendo and malice. Still, it did not 
 occur to Stillman that he had any part in Claire 
 Robson s misfortune. But he did know from Miss 
 Munch s tone that the unfortunate situation, grow 
 ing out of the automobile ride from Yolanda to 
 Sausalito, had received due recognition at the hands 
 of those who made a business of blowing out bub 
 bles of scandal from the suds of chance. It was 
 useless for him to deny that Claire Robson from 
 the first had been of more or less interest. She 
 seemed to rise in such a detached fashion from her 
 environment. 
 
 He had to admit, as later he sat in the cloistered 
 silences of his club library and blew contemplative 
 smoke-rings into the air, that a certain idle curi 
 osity had been the mainspring of his concern for 
 her. He had been like a boy who captured a strange 
 butterfly and clapped it under a glass tumbler 
 
 104 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 where he could watch how easily it would adapt 
 itself to its new surroundings. But, having caught 
 the butterfly and held it a brief captive, the dust 
 from its wings still lingered upon the hands that 
 imprisoned it. He had made the mistake of imag 
 ining that one is always master of casual incidents. 
 To meet a young woman by the most trivial chance, 
 to extend a brief courtesy to her, these were matters 
 which hold scarcely the germs of a menacing situ 
 ation, not menacing to him, of course they never 
 could be menacing to him; he was still thinking 
 of things from the viewpoint of Claire Robson. 
 
 To tell the truth, he was annoyed at having been 
 mixed up in Claire s flight from the Flint house 
 hold. Had Flint been a complete stranger he would 
 not have minded so much. He was still divided 
 by the appeal to his chivalry and the sense of loy 
 alty that a man feels to the masculine friends of 
 his youth. In her telephone message Claire had 
 put the matter very casually the track was washed 
 out and she was wondering whether he contemplated 
 returning to town that evening. But he guessed 
 at once what lay back of her matter-of-fact bold 
 ness. He had guessed so completely that he had 
 decided not only to return to town, but to start 
 at once. 
 
 He wondered now whether he had answered the 
 appeal because a woman was in a desperate situ 
 ation or because that woman was Claire Robson. 
 All through the dinner hour at the Tom Forsythes 
 he had thought about her, had speculated vaguely 
 what mischance or effrontery had been responsible 
 for her ill-timed visit to Flint s. He remembered 
 
 8 105 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 trying to decide whether the young woman was 
 extraordinarily deep or extraordinarily simple and 
 frank. He did not like to concede that he could 
 be influenced by anything so transparently mali 
 cious as Mrs. Richards s statements regarding the 
 absence of Mrs. Flint, but he was bound to admit 
 that they did nothing to render the situation less 
 innocent; what had particularly annoyed him was 
 the fact that he should have given the matter a 
 second thought. To begin with, it was none of 
 his business and he was not a man who presumed 
 to judge or even speculate on other people s indis 
 cretions. Claire Robson was no sheltered school 
 girl. She was a full-grown woman, in the thick of 
 business life. Such women were not taken un 
 awares. He had just dismissed the whole affair 
 from his mind on this basis when Claire s telephone 
 message came to him. Even now he marveled 
 at the sense of satisfaction that her appeal had 
 given. But he had found no savor in a situation 
 that compelled him to interfere in Flint s program. 
 Such a move on his part was contrary to his stand 
 ards, to his training in comradeship, to all his 
 acquired philosophy. He had the well-bred man s 
 distaste for getting into a mess. He abhorred 
 scenes and conspicuous complications. 
 
 He had come through the incident with steadily 
 waning enthusiasm and a decision to wash his hands 
 in the future of all such unprofitable trifling. But 
 the sudden knowledge that the young woman was 
 in desperate trouble revived his interest. He had 
 no idea how serious Mrs. Robson s illness was or 
 whether Claire had any hopes for a new position. 
 
 1 06 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 But Miss Munch s words had been significant. 
 Claire had been dismissed, and Stillman knew 
 enough about present business stagnation to con 
 clude that for the time, at least, Claire Robson 
 faced a bleak outlook. He realized the indelicacy 
 of any definite move on his part, but it occurred to 
 him that it might be well to talk the situation over 
 with some one preferably a woman. As he tossed 
 his cigar butt aside, Lily Condor appealed to him 
 as just the person for the emergency. Therefore 
 he looked her up without further ado. 
 
 He found her at home, curled up among the 
 cushions of a davenport that did service as a bed 
 when the scenes were shifted. She was living in a 
 tiny apartment consisting of one room and a 
 kitchenette that gave Stillman the impression of a 
 juggler s cabinet. Nothing in this room was ever 
 by any chance what it seemed. Things that 
 looked like doors led nowhere; bits of stationary 
 furniture usually yielded to the slightest pressure 
 and revealed strange secrets. He had seen Mrs. 
 Condor deftly construct a card-table out of an easy- 
 chair, and he had no doubt that the oak table in 
 the center of the room could have been converted 
 into a chiffonier or a chassis-lounge at a given signal. 
 
 In repose, it struck Stillman that Mrs. Condor 
 seemed very much like a purring cat. He had never 
 seen her quite so frankly behind the scenes, robbed 
 of both her physical and mental make-up. She 
 was one of those women in middle age who adapt 
 themselves to the tone of their background and 
 while she contrived to strike a fairly vivid note, 
 she took care not to be discordant. She was clever 
 
 107 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 enough to realize that her talents were not sen 
 sational and that she could only hope for an in 
 different success as a professional. But in the r61e 
 of a gracious amateur she disarmed criticism and 
 forced her way into circles that might otherwise have 
 been at some pains to exclude her. For, if the truth 
 were known, there had been certain phases of Mrs. 
 Condor s earlier life which were rather vaguely, and 
 at the same time aptly, covered by Mrs. Finnegan s 
 term of "gay." A perfectly discreet woman, for 
 instance, would have made an effort to live down 
 her flaming hair and almost immorally dazzling 
 complexion, but Mrs. Condor had been much more 
 ready to live up to these conspicuous charms. In 
 fact, she had lived up to them pretty furiously, 
 until time began to take a ruthless toll of her con 
 trasting points. From the concert-platform she 
 still seemed to discount, almost to flout, the years, 
 but in secret she yielded unmistakably to their 
 pressure. 
 
 It was this yielding, pliant attitude that struck 
 Stillman as he came upon her almost unawares on 
 that early December afternoon, a yielding, pliant 
 attitude which gave a curious sense of tenacity 
 under the surface. And he thought, as he dropped 
 into the chair she indicated, that she was a wom 
 an who gained strength in these moments of 
 relaxation. 
 
 "Fancy your catching me like this!" she said, 
 "I thought when the bell rang that you were my 
 dressmaker. ... If you want a highball you ll 
 have to wait on yourself. Phil Edington brought 
 an awfully good bottle of Scotch last night. I 
 
 108 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 declare I don t know what I d do if I didn t have 
 a youngster or two on my staff. Old men are such 
 bores, anyway, and, as a matter of fact, they never 
 waste time on any woman over thirty. Well, I 
 don t blame them. We re a sorry, patched-up mess 
 at best. . . . Tell me, did you get hold of Miss 
 Robson?" 
 
 "I dropped in, but she wasn t at the office," 
 Stillman replied, tossing his hat on the center-table. 
 
 Mrs. Condor withdrew to the relaxation of her 
 innumerable sofa pillows again. " Wasn t at the 
 office? How thrilling! Is she one of the Sultan s 
 favorites? . . . I ve heard Sawyer Flint was an 
 easy mark if you know how to work him. Miss 
 Robson didn t strike me that way, though. But 
 I ought to have known that silent women are always 
 cleverer than they appear." 
 
 Stillman caught the barest suggestion of a sneer 
 in Mrs. Condor s tone the sneer of a woman re 
 linquishing a stubborn hold upon the gaieties. 
 
 "Well, I guess Miss Robson didn t know how to 
 work him, as a matter of fact, " Stillman said, quietly. 
 "She lost her job to-day. I m a little bit worried 
 about her. ... I came here on purpose to talk the 
 situation over with you." 
 
 His directness brought Lily Condor out of her 
 languidness with a sharp turn. She wriggled up 
 and sat erectly on the edge of the davenport, one 
 slippered foot dangling just above the other. 
 "Why, Ned Stillman, what an old fraud you are! 
 I didn t fancy you were interested in anybody. I 
 didn t think that you . . .Oh, well, throw me 
 a cigarette and let me hear the worst in comfort!" 
 
 109 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He opened his cigarette-case and leaned over 
 toward her. She made her choice. He struck a 
 match and she put her hand tightly on his wrist 
 as she bent over the flame and slowly drew in her 
 breath. Even after she had released her grasp 
 his flesh still bore the imprint of the rings on her 
 fingers. For a moment he had an impulse to bow 
 himself out of her presence without further explana 
 tion, but already she seemed to have a proprietary 
 interest in him. Her smile was full of friendly 
 malice. 
 
 He ended by telling her everything, in spite of 
 the conviction that he had approached the wrong 
 person. 
 
 "Of course, " she hazarded, boldly, when he had 
 finished, "you mean to help her out." 
 
 Her presumption annoyed but rather refreshed 
 him. "I d like to do something, but, hang it all, 
 what can be done?" 
 
 What can be done? If that isn t like a man! 
 Or I should say, a gentleman! . . . Why don t you 
 plunge in boldly and damn the consequences? . . . 
 It s just your sort that sends women into the arms 
 of men like Flint. You re so busy keeping an eye 
 on the proprieties that you miss all the danger 
 signals." 
 
 Her tone was extraordinarily familiar, and, to 
 a man who rather prided himself upon his ability 
 to keep people at arm s-length, it was not precisely 
 agreeable. Yet he knew that it would be folly to 
 give any hint of his irritation. 
 
 "Well," he contrived to laugh back at her, "so 
 far as I can see, Miss Robson s problems are quite 
 
 no 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 too simple. After all, it s largely a question of 
 money. ... I can t go and throw gold in her lap 
 as if she were some beggar on a street corner." 
 
 "You mean, I suppose, that you are afraid to 
 risk the outraged dignity of this ward of yours. I 
 think that s a lovely name for her. Don t you? . . . 
 You re acquiring such a benevolent old attitude. 
 The only thing to be done, I fancy, is to adopt some 
 transparent ruse some sort of Daddy-Long- Leggish 
 deception." She closed her eyes thoughtfully 
 " Hiring her as my accompanist, for instance." 
 She rose to dispense Scotch and soda. Stillman 
 sat in thoughtful silence, while Mrs. Condor talked 
 to very trivial purpose. She seemed suddenly to 
 have grown tired of the subject of Claire Robson. 
 The arrival of the expected dressmaker broke in 
 upon the rather one-sided tete-a-tte. 
 
 "You ll have to go," Lily Condor announced 
 with an intimate air of dismissal to Stillman. "It 
 would never do to let a mere man in on the secrets 
 of the sewing-room." 
 
 At the door he hesitated awkwardly over his 
 good-by. "I was wondering," he said, "whether 
 you were serious about . . . about hiring Miss 
 Robson as your accompanist. You know I think 
 the plan has possibilities." 
 
 She threw back her head and smiled with hard 
 satisfaction. "I ve been trying to figure if you had 
 killed your imagination. Think it over." 
 
 She gave him the tips of her fingers. He re 
 turned their languid pressure and departed. 
 
 As he drifted down the hall he heard her calling, 
 half gaily, half derisively, after him : 
 
 in 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Don t decide on anything rash now. . . . Sleep 
 over it! . . ." 
 
 He thought it over for three days and when he 
 called on Lily Condor again he found her divorced 
 from her languishing mood. She was dressed for 
 dinner down-town, and he had to confess she had 
 made the most of what remained of her flaming 
 hair and dazzling complexion. 
 
 He felt that she guessed the reason for his visit, 
 although she took care to let him force the issue. 
 
 "About Miss Robson," he said, finally, "I ve 
 concluded to take you at your word." 
 
 Lily Condor smoothed out her gloves and laid 
 them aside. "Take me at my word? You re wel 
 come to the suggestion, if that is what you mean. 
 As a matter of fact I wasn t serious." 
 
 He was annoyed to feel that he was flushing. He 
 could not fathom her, but he had a conviction that 
 she had been serious and that this attitude was a 
 mere pose. "Nevertheless, I think it can be man 
 aged," he insisted. "And I want you to help me." 
 
 She listened to his plan. "What you will call 
 a Daddy- Long- Leggish pretense," he explained to 
 her with an attempt at facetiousness. "You to do 
 the hiring and . . . and yours truly to provide 
 the wherewithal. Until things look up a bit. Of 
 course then . . . why, naturally, when things look 
 up a bit for her ..." 
 
 But Lily remained lukewarm. She wasn t quite 
 sure that it would be . . . oh, well, he knew what 
 she meant! It seemed too absurd to think that 
 he had given an ear to anything so extravagant. 
 
 112 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 She would like to be of service to Miss Robson, of 
 course, but, after all, she felt that it was taking an 
 unfair advantage of the girl. 
 
 "If she s everything you say she is, she d resent 
 it all tremendously," she put forth as a final 
 objection. 
 
 "But she isn t to know! That s the point of the 
 whole thing," he explained, with absurd simplicity. 
 
 "Oh, my dear man, she isn t to know, but she 
 will, ultimately. You don t suppose the secret of 
 a woman s meal-ticket is hidden very long, do you ? 
 And, besides, you couldn t offer her enough to live 
 on. That would be absurd on the very face of it." 
 
 "Oh, well, I could offer her enough to help out 
 a bit, anyway, and half a loaf you know ..." 
 
 He broke off, amazed at the determination her 
 opposition had crystallized. She looked at him 
 sharply and rose. 
 
 "I must be running along," she commented as 
 she drew on her gloves. "I tell you, 111 go call 
 on Miss Robson some day this week. A woman 
 can always get a better side-light on a situation 
 like this. There are so many angles to be con 
 sidered. She must have relatives. You wouldn t 
 want to make a false move, would you, now?" 
 
 He was too grateful to be suspicious at this 
 sudden compromise with her convictions. 
 
 "You re tremendously good," he stammered. 
 * It will be a favor. And any time that I can ..." 
 
 "You can be of service to me right now," she 
 interrupted, gaily. "Order me a taxi . . . that s a 
 good boy ! I always do so like to pull up at a place 
 in style." 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Stillman paid Lily Condor a third visit that week 
 this time in answer to the lady s telephone mes 
 sage. She had been to see Claire Robson and her 
 report was anything but rosy. 
 
 "Her mother s perfectly helpless and will be for 
 the rest of her life," Lily volunteered almost cheer 
 fully. "And, frankly, I don t see what is going to 
 become of them. It seems that Mrs. Robson is 
 a sister of Mrs. Tom Wynne and that dreadful 
 Ffinch-Brown woman. They both have about as 
 much heart as a cast-iron stove. Miss Robson didn t 
 say so in words, but I gathered that she had called 
 both of them off the relief job. I almost cheered 
 when I realized that fact. I threw out a hint about 
 there being a possibility of my needing an accom 
 panist. I said Miss Menzies was ill and perhaps 
 . . . and I intimated that there was something 
 more than glory in it." 
 
 "And what did Miss Robson say to that?" 
 
 1 1 Oh, she was more self-contained than one would 
 imagine under the circumstances. She said she 
 would like to think it over. She put it that way 
 on the score of leaving her mother alone nights. 
 But, believe me, that young lady is more calcu 
 lating than she seems. Of course I didn t mention 
 terms or anything like that. I left a good loophole 
 in case you had changed your mind." 
 
 For the moment Stillman was almost persuaded 
 to tell Lily Condor that he had changed his mind. 
 Not that he had lost interest in Claire, but already 
 he had another plan and there was something dis 
 agreeably presumptuous in Mrs. Condor s tone. He 
 never remembered having taken anybody into his 
 
 114 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 confidence regarding a personal matter. The 
 trouble was that he had begun the whole affair 
 under the misapprehension that it was a most im 
 personal thing. He still tried to look at it from 
 that angle, but Lily Condor s manner seemed bent 
 on forcing home the rather disturbing conviction 
 that he had a vital interest in the issue. She had 
 cut in upon his reserve and he would never quite be 
 able to recover the lost ground. He felt that she 
 sensed his revulsion, for almost at once she adroitly 
 changed the subject and it did not come to life 
 again during the remainder of his call. 
 
 But when he was leaving she thrust an idle finger 
 into the lapel of his coat and said: 
 
 "I think it s awfully good of you, Ned, to be 
 human enough to want to do something for others. 
 I watched you as a young man, and when you 
 married ..." His startled look must have halted 
 her, for she released her hold upon him and finished 
 with a shrug. 
 
 He said good-by hastily and escaped. But he 
 wondered, as he found his way out into the street, 
 how long it would be before Mrs. Condor would 
 acquire sufficient boldness to discuss with him 
 what and whom she chose. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 /CHRISTMAS DAY came and went with a host 
 V** of bitter-sweet memories for Claire Robson. 
 Not that she could look back on any holiday season 
 with unalloyed happiness, but time had drawn the 
 sting from the misfortune of the old days. Through 
 the mist of the years outlines softened, and 
 she was more prone to measure the results by the 
 slight harvest that their efforts had brought. For 
 instance, they had never been too poor to deny 
 themselves the luxury of a tree. And a tree to 
 Mrs. Robson meant none of the scant, indifferent 
 affairs that most of the neighbors found acceptable 
 strung with a few strands of dingy popcorn and 
 pasteboard ornaments. No, the Robson tree was 
 always an opulent work of art, freighted with burst 
 ing cornucopias and heavy glass balls and yards 
 of quivering tinsel. The money for all this dazzling 
 beauty usually came a fortnight or so before the 
 eventful day in the shape of a ten-dollar bill tucked 
 away in the folds of Gertrude Sinclair s annual 
 letter to Mrs. Robson. As Claire had grown older 
 she had grown also impatient of the memory of 
 her mother squandering what should have gone for 
 thick shoes and warm plaid dresses upon the ephem 
 eral joys of a Christmas tree. But now she sud- 
 
 116 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 denly understood, and she felt glad for a mother 
 courageous enough to lay hold upon the beautiful 
 symbols of life at the expense of all that was hide 
 ously practical. Shoes wore out and plaid dresses 
 finally found their way to the rag-bag, but the 
 glories of the spirit burned forever in the splendor 
 of all this truant magnificence, and the years 
 stretched back in a glittering procession of light- 
 ladened fir-trees. 
 
 Then some time between Christmas and New- 
 Year came the Christmas pantomime at the Tivoli, 
 with its bewildering array of scantily clad fairies 
 and dashing Amazons and languishing princes in 
 pale-blue tights; to say nothing of the Queen 
 Charlottes consumed between acts through faintly 
 yellow straws. How Claire would mark off each 
 day on the calendar which brought her nearer to 
 this triumph ! And what a hurry and bustle always 
 ensued to get dinner over and be fully dressed and 
 down to the box-office before even the doors were 
 opened, so that they could get first choice of the 
 unreserved seats which sold at twenty-five cents. 
 Then there would ensue the long, tedious wait in 
 the dimly lighted cavern of the playhouse, smelling 
 with a curious fascination of stale cigars and staler 
 beer, and the thrill that the appearance of the orches 
 tra produced, followed by the arrival of all the 
 important personages fortunate enough to afford 
 fifty-cent seats, which gave them the security to 
 put off their appearance until the curtain was almost 
 ready to rise. And when the curtain really did 
 rise upon the inevitable spectacle of villagers danc 
 ing upon the village green! And Mrs. Robson 
 
 117 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 carefully picked out in the chorus the stout sister 
 of a former servant who had worked for her mother ! 
 And the wicked old witch swept from the wings on 
 the traditional broomstick! From that moment 
 until the final transformation scene, when scintil 
 lating sea-shells yielded up one by one their dazzling 
 burdens of female loveliness and a rather Hebraic 
 Cupid descended from an invisible wire to wish 
 everybody a happy New- Year in words appropri 
 ately rhymed, there was no halt to the wonders dis 
 closed. With what sharp and exquisite reluctance 
 did Claire remain glued to her seat, refusing to 
 believe that it was all over ! Even at this late date 
 Claire had only to close her eyes to revive the de 
 lights of these rather covert excursions into the 
 realm of fancy covert, because a Tivoli panto 
 mime had not precisely the sanction of such a re 
 spectable organization as the Second Presbyterian 
 Church. Mrs. Robson, while not definitely en 
 couraging Claire to wilful dishonesty, always 
 managed to warn her daughter by saying: 
 
 "I wouldn t tell any one about going to the 
 Tivoli, Claire, if I were you . . . unless, of course, 
 they should ask about it." 
 
 Claire, in mortal terror lest any indiscretion on her 
 part would put a stop to this annual lapse into such 
 delightful immoralities, held her peace in spite of 
 her desire to spread abroad the beauties which 
 she had beheld. She had a feeling that all the 
 participants in the pantomime must of necessity 
 be rather wicked and abandoned creatures, and 
 half the pleasure she had felt in viewing them arose 
 from a secret admiration at the courage which 
 
 zxft 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 permitted human beings to be so perfectly and 
 desperately sinful. Although she was almost per 
 suaded that perhaps it did not take quite such 
 bravado to be wicked in blue-spangled gauze and 
 satin slippers as it did to lapse from the straight 
 and narrow path in a gingham dress and resoled 
 boots. 
 
 The only thrill that the present Christmas Day 
 produced came in the shape of a pot of flaming 
 poinsettias bearing the card of Ned Stillman. 
 These were the first flowers that Claire ever re 
 membered having received. It pleased her also 
 to realize that Stillman had been delicate to the 
 point of this thoroughly unpractical gift, especially 
 as he had every reason to assume that something 
 more substantial would have been acceptable. She 
 was confident that by this time he had heard through 
 Mrs. Condor of her mother s illness and her loss 
 of position. Claire was still puzzled at Mrs. 
 Condor s visit. For all that lady s skill at subter 
 fuge, there were implied evasions in her manner 
 which Claire sensed instinctively. And then Claire 
 was not yet inured to the novelty of being in de 
 mand. To have been forced by circumstance upon 
 Mrs. Condor as an accompanist was one thing; to 
 be desired by her in a moment of cold calculation 
 was quite another; and there had been more un 
 certainty than caution in Claire s plea for time 
 in which to consider the offer. But as the days 
 flew by it became more and more apparent to 
 Claire that she was in no position to indulge in idle 
 speculation. She had long since given up the 
 hope of fulfilling the demands of a regular office 
 
 119 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 position, even if one had been open to her. Mrs. 
 Finnegan s enthusiasm to be neighborly and helpful 
 was more a matter of theory than practice, and it 
 did not take Claire many days to decide that she 
 had no right to impose upon a good nature which 
 was made up largely of ignorance of a sick-room s 
 demands. Claire s final check from Flint was 
 dwindling with alarming rapidity; indeed, she was 
 facing the first of the year with the realization that 
 there would be barely enough to pay the next 
 month s rent, let alone to settle the current bills. 
 She had no idea what Mrs. Condor intended paying, 
 but she fancied that it must be little enough. 
 Surely Mrs. Condor did not receive any great sum 
 for her singing and there must be any number of 
 gratuitous performances. She decided quite sud 
 denly, the day after Christmas, to take Mrs. 
 Condor at her word, and she was a bit disturbed 
 at both the lady s reply and the manner of it. 
 
 "Oh," Mrs. Condor had drawled rather dis 
 agreeably, "I thought you d given up the idea. 
 I spoke to somebody else only this morning. But, 
 of course, I m not certain about how it will turn 
 out. I ll keep you in mind and if the other falls 
 through ... By the way, how is your mother? 
 I keep asking Ned Stillman every day what the 
 news is, but he never knows anything. All men 
 are alike . . . unless they ve got some special 
 interest. Sometimes I marvel that he looks me 
 up so regularly, but then I ve known him ever since 
 . . . But there, I ll be telling more than I should! 
 Do come and see me. I m always in in the morning. 
 . . . Yes, I can imagine you do have a lot to do. 
 
 120 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 I m so sorry you didn t call up sooner. But one 
 never can tell. Good-by. ... I hope you ll have 
 a happy New Year." 
 
 Claire hung up the receiver. Well, she had lost 
 an opportunity to turn an easy dollar or two and 
 she had no one to thank but herself. Why had she 
 delayed in accepting Mrs. Condor s offer? 
 
 Fortunately the unexpected arrival of Nellie 
 Whitehead cut short any further repinings. Claire 
 was frankly glad to see her and at once she thought, 
 "She has come to show me her new coat." 
 
 But Nellie Whitehead was incased in a wrap 
 that showed every evidence of a good six months 
 wear. 
 
 "My new coat?" the lady echoed, in answer to 
 Claire s question. "There ain t no such animal. 
 Somebody else copped it. I didn t shove it back 
 far enough the last time I took a look at it, I guess. 
 Oh, well, I should worry! I can get along very 
 well without it. . . ." 
 
 When Nellie Whitehead rose to leave, dusk had 
 fallen and Claire was fumbling for matches to light 
 the hall gas, when she felt her friend s hand close 
 over hers. There followed the cold pressure of 
 several coins against Claire s palm and the voice 
 of her visitor sounding a bit tremulous in the dusk. 
 
 "You ll need some extra money, Robson, or I 
 miss my guess." 
 
 Claire fell back with a gesture of protest. * * Why, 
 Nellie Whitehead, how could you? It s your coat 
 money, too! Well, I never!" 
 
 And with that they both burst into tears. . . . 
 When Claire recovered herself she found that Nellie 
 
 9 121 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Whitehead had escaped. She lit the gas and opened 
 her palm. Four twenty-dollar gold pieces glistened 
 in the light. 
 
 Next morning Claire received a telephone mes 
 sage from Mrs. Condor. The position of accom 
 panist was hers at forty dollars a month if she 
 desired it. 
 
 "It won t be hard," Mrs. Condor had finished, 
 reassuringly. "Some weeks I ve something on 
 nearly every night. And then again there won t 
 be anything doing for days. . . . How can I afford 
 to pay so much? Well, my dear, that is a secret. 
 But don t worry, you ll earn it. . . ." 
 
 And toward the close of the week there came 
 another surprise for Claire in the shape of a letter 
 from Stillman, which ran: 
 
 MY DEAR Miss ROBSON. I am going to take a little flier 
 at the bean market. 
 
 That was my father s business and I know a few things about 
 it at least to the extent of recognizing the commodity when 
 the sack is opened. Do you fancy you could arrange to give 
 me a few hours a week at the typewriter? If so, we can get 
 together and arrange terms. 
 
 Cordially, 
 
 EDWARD STILLMAN. 
 
 "At last," flashed through Claire s mind, "he s 
 going in for something worth while." 
 
 This time she decided promptly. Over the tele 
 phone she made an appointment with Stillman, 
 in his apartments, for beginning work on the second 
 Wednesday in January. 
 
 122 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 OHORTLY after the first of the year Claire 
 ^ received her initial summons from Lily Condor 
 they were to appear at a concert in the Colonial 
 Ballroom of the St. Francis for the Belgian relief. 
 Mrs. Condor had intimated that the affair was to 
 be smart, and so it proved. It was set at a very 
 late and very fashionable hour, and all through the 
 program groups of torpid, though rather audible, 
 diners kept drifting in. Claire was not slow to 
 discover that Lily Condor was first on the bill, and 
 she remembered reading somewhere in a newspaper 
 that among professionals the first and last place 
 were always loathsome positions. Judging from 
 the noise and confusion that accompanied their 
 efforts, Claire could well understand why this was 
 so, and she expected to find Lily Condor resentful. 
 But to her surprise Mrs. Condor merely shrugged 
 her shoulders and said: 
 
 4 What difference does it make? They don t 
 come to listen, anyway. Besides, I always open the 
 bill. I like to get it over quickly." 
 
 But Claire had reason to suspect, as she followed 
 the remainder of a very excellent program, that 
 the choice of position did not rest with Mrs. Condor. 
 Claire began to wonder how much money Mrs. 
 
 123 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Condor received for an effort like this. And she 
 became more puzzled as she gathered from the 
 conversation of the other artists about her that the 
 talent had been furnished gratuitously. 
 
 "I understand," she heard a woman in front of 
 her whisper to her companion, "that Devincenzi, 
 the cellist, is the only one in the crowd who is get 
 ting a red cent. But he has a rule, you know or is 
 it a contract ? I m sure I don t know. At any rate, 
 they say that the Ffinch-Browns donated his fee 
 . . . The Ffinch-Browns? Don t you know them? 
 . . . See, there they are . . . over there by the 
 Tom Forsythes. She has on turquoise pendant 
 earrings. . . . Oh, they re ever so charitable ! But 
 they do say that she is something of a . . ." 
 
 Claire lost the remainder of this stage whisper 
 in a rather tremulous anxiety to catch a glimpse 
 of her aunt before she moved. Claire had to ac 
 knowledge that at a distance her aunt gave a won 
 derful illusion of arrested youth as she stood with 
 one hand grasping the collar of her gorgeous man 
 darin coat. But Claire was more interested in the 
 turquoise pendants than in her aunt. She had 
 never seen the jewels before, but she had heard 
 about them almost from the time she was able to 
 lisp. 
 
 "They re mine," Mrs. Robson had repeated to 
 Claire again and again. "My father bought them 
 for me when I was sixteen years old. I remember 
 the day distinctly, and how my mother said: 
 Don t you think, John, that Emily is a little young 
 for anything like this? I ll keep them for her 
 until she is twenty. I nearly cried myself sick, 
 
 124 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 but of course mother was right, then. ... But like 
 everything else, I never got my hands on them again. 
 And what is more, Julia Carrol Ffinch-Brown knows 
 that they are mine as well as anybody, because she 
 stood right alongside of me when I handed them 
 over to mother. Not that I care. . . . It s the 
 principle of the thing!" 
 
 Claire felt disappointed in the pendants. They 
 seemed so insignificant to fall very far short of 
 her mother s passionate description of them, and 
 she began to wonder which was the more pathetic, 
 Mrs. Robson s exaggerated notion of their worth 
 or the pettiness that gave Aunt Julia the tenacity 
 to hold fast to such trivial baubles. 
 
 Ned Stillman was in the audience, also. Claire 
 saw him sitting off at the side. Indeed, she spotted 
 him on the very moment of her entrance upon the 
 stage. She had been nervous until his friendly 
 smile warmed her into easy confidence; and though, 
 while she played, her back had been toward him, 
 she felt the glow of his sympathy. As Lily Condor 
 and she swept back upon the stage for their rather 
 perfunctory applause, and still more perfunctory 
 bouquets provided by the committee, Claire could 
 see him gently tapping his hands in her direction, 
 and she was surprised when the usher handed her 
 a bouquet of dazzling orchids. 
 
 "They must be for you," Claire said, innocently 
 enough, to Mrs. Condor. "I don t find any name 
 on them." 
 
 "That shows that you ve got a discreet admirer, 
 at any rate," Lily Condor returned with that banter 
 ing sneer which Claire was just beginning to notice. 
 
 125 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 And the thought struck her at once that Stillman 
 had sent the flowers. She was pleased, but also 
 a little annoyed to think he had so deliberately 
 ignored Mrs. Condor. 
 
 The Flints were there, too; Flint looked un 
 comfortable and warm in his scant full-dress suit 
 and his wife frankly ridiculous in a low-cut gown 
 that exhibited every angle of a hopelessly scrawny 
 neck. Claire did not see them until she was leaving 
 the stage, and she smiled as she saw Flint lean over 
 and pick up the opera-glasses from his wife s lap. 
 But this was not all. In a far corner sat Miss 
 Munch and her cousin, Mrs. Richards, their ferret 
 eyes darting busily about and their tongues click 
 ing even more rapidly. Doubtless Flint had in 
 vested in a number of tickets at the office for busi 
 ness reasons and passed them around for any of the 
 office force who felt a desire to see society at close 
 range. 
 
 Claire had not meant to stay beyond one or two 
 numbers following her own appearance, but she 
 kept yielding to Mrs. Condor s insistent suggestions 
 that she "stay for just one more," until she dis 
 covered, to her dismay, that it was past midnight. 
 The last artists were taking their places upon the 
 stage. Claire resigned herself to the inevitable and 
 sat out the remainder of the performance. She 
 was making a quick exit into the dressing-room 
 when she came face to face with her aunt. Mrs. 
 Ffmch-Brown betrayed her confusion by the merest 
 lift of the eyebrows, and she stepped back as if to 
 get a clearer view of her niece, as she said with an 
 air of polite surprise: 
 
 126 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "You here?" 
 
 Claire carried her head confidently. "I was on 
 the program," she returned, consciously eying the 
 turquoise pendants. 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown rested a closed fan against 
 her left ear as if to screen at least one of the earrings 
 from Claire s frank stare. "Oh, how interesting! 
 I must have missed you I came in late. It s 
 rather odd. I thought I knew everybody on the 
 program. ... I helped arrange it. * 
 
 "Well," Claire smiled, "I wasn t what you would 
 call one of the head-liners. I played Mrs. Condor s 
 accompaniments. 
 
 "That accounts for it ... my not knowing, I 
 mean. I dare say your mother is better, otherwise 
 you wouldn t be here," 
 
 Claire met her aunt s thrust calmly. "No, 
 mother is worse, if anything. As a matter of fact,. 
 I m here . . ." 
 
 She broke off abruptly, realizing suddenly that 
 she had left her orchids behind. She turned to 
 discover Stillman making his leisurely way toward 
 her. He had the orchids in his hand. 
 
 "My dear Miss Robson," he said, gently, "Mrs. 
 Condor came very near appropriating your flowers." 
 
 She could feel the color rising to her forehead, 
 "I see you came to my rescue again," she said, 
 simply, taking them from him. I think you know 
 Mr. Stillman, Aunt Julia." 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown forced a too-sweet smile as 
 she gave Stillman a nod of recognition. "Fancy 
 any girl forgetting so much gorgeousness!" she ex 
 claimed with an attempt at lightness, but Claire 
 
 127 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 caught the covert rancor in her voice, and as her 
 aunt made a movement of escape she "put out a 
 restraining hand and said: 
 
 "I wanted you to know, Aunt Julia, that I m here 
 merely as a matter of business. Mrs. Condor has 
 hired me to play her accompaniments." 
 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown shook off Claire impatiently. 
 Hired you ! she sneered. * * How extraordinary ! 
 
 And with that she swept past, giving Stillman a 
 glance of farewell. 
 
 Claire turned to Stillman. "What must you 
 think of me? Leaving my flowers behind. Con 
 fess it was you who sent them. ... I was in such 
 a rush to get away, though. I shouldn t have stayed 
 so long. My mother is alone. ... Of course there 
 are neighbors just below and they will look in on 
 her, but just the same ..." 
 
 His smile reassured her. "Are you forgetting 
 about to-morrow?" he asked. "Remember we are 
 to begin business promptly at two o clock . I hired 
 a typewriting-machine yesterday. I m really 
 thrilled at the idea of of going into business." 
 
 She looked at him steadily as she gave him her 
 hand: "My dear Mr. Stillman," she said, quite 
 frankly, "you are very kind." 
 
 He answered by pressing her hand warmly and 
 she covered her face with the purple orchids. They 
 were interrupted by Lily Condor sweeping rather 
 arrogantly toward them. 
 
 "Haven t you gone yet?" she asked Claire. "I 
 thought you were in a hurry! I hope you ve per 
 suaded Ned to get us a taxi. I hate street-cars 
 at this hour." And in answer to Claire s embar- 
 
 128 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 rassed protest that she had never given such a thing 
 a thought, Mrs. Condor finished: Well, I ve given 
 it a thought, and don t you forget it. Come, Ned, 
 is it a go?" 
 
 Claire fancied that a flicker of annoyance passed 
 over Stillman s face as he answered, with a dry 
 laugh : 
 
 " You might at least have given me time to prove 
 my gallantry." 
 
 1 I m not taking any chances," was the prompt 
 reply. 
 
 Claire turned away. What had contrived to 
 give Mrs. Condor this disagreeable air of assurance 
 toward Ned Stillman, she found herself wondering. 
 It had not been apparent at the Condor-Stillman 
 musicale. . . . 
 
 She arrived home dismayed to find the front 
 room illuminated, but the rattle of the departing 
 taxi brought Mrs. Finnegan to the top of the stairs 
 with a laughing apology. 
 
 "I just looked in to see how your mother was, 
 Miss Claire, and I found a book on the front-room 
 table" Mrs. Finnegan held up Ouida s Moths 
 "and I got so interested in it that I just naturally 
 forgot to go home. Finnegan s out, anyway. I 
 was telling him about your good fortune. And all 
 he said was: Well, it beats me how an old crow 
 like Mrs. Condor gets paid for singing. I remember 
 five years ago, when she wasn t so uppish, we had 
 her for a benefit performance of the Native Sons, 
 and she didn t get paid then. Her singing may be 
 over my head. Anyway, it didn t get to my ears/ 
 But Finnegan is always like that. He just likes 
 
 129 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 to contradict. I got back at him. I said, Well, 
 if she can afford to pay Miss Claire forty a month 
 for playing the piano, she must get a good piece of 
 money every time she opens her mouth/ . . . Mercy, 
 look at the orchids! Well, you must have had a 
 swell time. I ll bet you wouldn t like to tell who 
 sent them. . . . There wasn t any card? That s 
 not saying you don t know, Miss Claire. ... I 
 hope you won t think I m a meddler, but I m an 
 older woman and . . . Well, just you keep a sharp 
 eye on the feller that sends you orchids, Miss 
 Claire." 
 
 She went down-stairs without further ado. Claire 
 put the orchids in water and set them on a sill near 
 an open window. She did not feel in the least 
 resentful of Mrs. Finnegan s warnings. She was 
 too confident to be anything but faintly amused 
 at her neighbor s middle-class anxiety. But Fin 
 negan s skepticism concerning Mrs. Condor annoyed 
 her and she remembered the disagreeable words of 
 her aunt: 
 
 * Hired you ? How extraordinary ! 
 
 Two o clock sharp! The memory of Stillman s 
 air of delicate banter as he emphasized the hour 
 for beginning his business venture struck Claire 
 ironically the more she pondered his words. She 
 had a feeling that there was something farcical in 
 the prospect, and yet there seemed nothing to do 
 but to go through with the preliminaries. She 
 presented herself, therefore, at the appointed time 
 at the Stanford Court apartments. 
 
 She found StiL^ian quite alone, his hands blue- 
 130 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 black with the smudge from a refractory type 
 writer ribbon which he was vainly endeavoring 
 to adjust. It took some time for him to get his 
 hands clean again, and Claire sharpened her pen 
 cils while she waited. But there really proved 
 to be nothing to do. 
 
 "I m all up in the air over this bean business," 
 Stillman confessed, nonchalantly. "The govern 
 ment, you know . . . they re taking over all that 
 sort of thing . . . regulating food and prices. Of 
 course, in that case ..." 
 
 Claire felt an enormous and illogical relief. 
 "Then you really won t need me," she ventured. 
 
 "Oh, quite the contrary. ... I have a certain 
 amount of business, of a sort. And I m tired of 
 dropping checks along the trail of public stenog 
 raphers. . . . Suppose we talk terms. We haven t 
 fixed on any salary, yet." 
 
 Claire felt a rising impatience. His subterfuge 
 seemed too childish and obvious. "That will 
 depend on how much of my time you expect, 
 Mr. Stillman." 
 
 "Well, three times a week, anyway ... to start 
 with. Say Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays 
 from two to five. ... I was thinking that something 
 in the neighborhood of fifteen dollars a week would 
 be fair." 
 
 He turned a very frank gaze in her direction and 
 she quizzically returned his glance. 
 
 "That s rather ridiculous, don t you think?" 
 she said, trying to disguise her furtive annoyance. 
 "You can hire a substitute through any type 
 writing agency on the basis of three dollars a day " 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Yes, and I can buy two cigars for a nickel, but 
 I shouldn t want to smoke them." 
 
 She clicked the keys of her machine idly. "That 
 is hardly a fair comparison. You can get any num 
 ber of competent girls for three dollars." 
 
 He rested his chin on his upturned palm. "But, 
 my dear Miss Robson, I happen to want you" 
 
 She thought of any number of cheap, obvious 
 retorts that might have been flung back at his 
 straightforward admission, but instead she said, 
 with equal frankness: 
 
 "That s just what I don t understand." 
 
 He threw her a puzzled look and the usual placid 
 light in his eyes quickened to resentful impatience. 
 
 "Is that a necessary part of the contract, Miss 
 Robson?" 
 
 She caught her breath. His tone of annoyance 
 was sharp and unexpected. There was a suggestion 
 of Flint s masculine arrogance in his voice. She 
 felt how absurd was her cross-examination of him, 
 of how absurd, under the circumstances, would 
 have been her cross-examination of anybody ready 
 and willing to give her work to do and an ample 
 wage in the bargain, and yet, for all the force of his 
 reply, she knew it to be a well-bred if not a deliber 
 ate evasion. 
 
 "You mean it is none of my business, don t you?" 
 she contrived to laugh back at him. 
 
 His reply was a further surprise. "Yes, pre 
 cisely," he said, with an ominous thinning of the 
 lips. 
 
 She rose instinctively to meet this thrust and 
 she was conscious that even Flint had never man- 
 
 132 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 aged so to disturb her. She glanced about hastily 
 as if measuring the room in a swift impulse toward 
 escape. Stillman had chosen the dining-room for 
 a temporary office, and upon the polished surface 
 of the antique walnut table the typewriter struck 
 an incongruous note; indeed, it was all incongru 
 ous, particularly Stillman and his assumed business 
 airs. Yes, it was absurd for her to either cross- 
 examine or protest, but it was equally absurd for 
 him to pay her such an outlandish sum for nine 
 hours a week. 
 
 "He s doing it for me," she thought, not without 
 a sense of triumph. Then, turning to him, she 
 said, a bit awkwardly: 
 
 "I guess there isn t any use to dissuade you, 
 Mr. Stillman. If you say fifteen dollars a week, 
 I sha n t argue with you." 
 
 He smiled back at her, all his former suavity 
 regained. She slid into her seat again. Her mind 
 was recalling vividly the one other time in her life 
 when she had grappled vigorously with the mascu 
 line spirit of domination, and come away victorious. 
 This time she had been defeated and she had im 
 pulses toward relief and fear. She looked up 
 suddenly and trapped a solicitous glance from 
 Stillman that rather annoyed her. And it struck 
 her, as she mentally compared Stillman with most 
 of the men of her acquaintance, how far he could 
 have loomed above them if he had had the will for 
 such a performance. As it was he fell somewhat 
 beneath them in a curious, indefinable way. Had 
 he been too finely tempered by circumstances or 
 had the flame of life lacked the proper heat for fus- 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ing his virtues effectively? For the moment she 
 found Flint s forthright insolence more tolerable 
 than Stillman s sterile deference. Suddenly she 
 began to think of home, not with any sense of 
 security, but as something unpleasant, dark, dis 
 quieting. . . . 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 six o clock one afternoon in late 
 1 February Ned Stillman, making his way from 
 the business district at California and Montgom 
 ery Streets toward his club, suddenly remembered 
 a forgotten luncheon engagement for that day 
 with Lily Condor. 
 
 "Well," he muttered at once, "I m in for it now! 
 I guess I might as well swing out and see her and 
 get the thing over with." 
 
 It was curious of late how often he was given 
 to muttering. Previously, petty annoyances had 
 not moved him to these half-audible and solitary 
 comments which he had always found contemptu 
 ously amusing in others. He wondered whether 
 this new trick was the result of his business vent 
 ures, his sly charities, or his approach toward the 
 suggestive age of forty. Associating the name of 
 Lily Condor with his covert charities, he was almost 
 persuaded that they lay back of this preposterous 
 habit. And the more he thought about it the more 
 he muttered and became convinced that Lily 
 Condor was usually the topic of these vocal self- 
 communings. 
 
 Ned Stillman had always prided himself upon 
 his sense of personal freedom concerning the trivial 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 circumstances of life. Of course, like any man of 
 sensibility, he was bound by the chains that deeper 
 impulses forge, but he had never been hampered 
 by any restraints directed at his ordinary uprisings 
 and downsittings. In short, he had answered the 
 beck and nod of no man, much less a woman, and he 
 was not finding Lily Condor s growing presumptions 
 along this line altogether agreeable. 
 
 He would not have minded so much if there was 
 any personal gratification in yielding to the lady s 
 whip-hand commands. There are certain delights 
 in self -surrender which give a zest to slavery, but 
 there is no joy in being held a hostage. Looking 
 back, Stillman marveled at the indiscretion he had 
 committed when he handed over not only his re 
 serve, but Claire Robson s reputation into the safe 
 keeping of Lily Condor. Had he ever had the sim 
 plicity to imagine that a woman of Mrs. Condor s 
 stamp would constitute herself a safe-deposit vault 
 for hoarding secrets without exacting a price? 
 Well, perhaps he had expected to pay, but a little 
 less publicly. He had not looked to have the lady 
 in question ring every coin audibly in full view and 
 hearing of the entire market-place, and yet, if his 
 experience had stood him in good stead, he must 
 have known that this was precisely what she 
 would do. Stillman s hidden gratitude, his pri 
 vate beneficences, did not serve her purpose, but 
 the spectacle of him in the r61e of her debtor was 
 a sight that went a long way to establishing a social 
 credit impoverished by no end of false ventures. 
 
 Her command for him to take her to luncheon 
 and it had been a command, however suavely she 
 
 136 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 had managed to veil it bore also the stamp of 
 urgency. Usually she was content to lay all her 
 positive requests to the charge of mere caprice, , 
 but on this occasion she took the trouble to inti 
 mate that there was a particular reason for wanting 
 to see him. It did not take him long to conclude 
 that this particular reason had to do with Claire 
 Robson. That was why he yielded with a better 
 grace than he had been giving to his troublesome 
 friend s disagreeable pressure. 
 
 Stillman knew that while Lily Condor was not 
 precisely jealous of the younger woman, she was 
 distinctly envious with the impersonal but acrid 
 envy of middle age for youth. The episode of the 
 orchids still rankled. He had to admit that in this 
 instance his course had been tactless, but he had 
 ignored Mrs. Condor as a challenge to the pre 
 sumption which he had already begun to sense. 
 She, while seeming definitely to evade the real 
 issue, had answered the challenge and he had 
 paid for his temerity a hundredfold. She had 
 reminded him again and again in deft but none 
 the less positive terms that she was keeping a 
 finger on the mainspring of any advantage that 
 came her way. Sometimes Stillman wondered 
 whether she would really be cattish enough to be- ! 
 tray his confidence and bring Claire Robson crash 
 ing down under the weight of the questionable 
 position into which his indiscretion had forced her. 
 Would she really have the face to publish abroad 
 the pregnant fact that Ned Stillman was providing 
 what she had been pleased to designate as a meal- 
 ticket for a young woman in difficulty? For him- 
 10 W 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 self he cared little, except that he always shrank 
 instinctively from appearing ridiculous. 
 
 He had been thinking a great deal of late as to 
 the best course to pursue in ridding himself and 
 Claire of this menacing incubus. He had a feeling 
 that Claire, having exhausted the novelties of her 
 position as accompanist to Lily Condor, was be 
 ginning to find the affair irksome. 
 
 The business venture had progressed in quite 
 another direction from his original intention. 
 Suddenly, without knowing how it had all come 
 about, he found his plans clearly defined. The 
 government needed him. Somehow, it had never 
 occurred to him that he could be of service at a point 
 so far from the center of war activities. He had 
 been a good deal of an idler, it was true, but the 
 seeds of achievement were merely lying in fallow 
 soil. 
 
 At first, he had been stung into action more by 
 Claire s accusing attitude than anything else. She 
 used to come every other afternoon at the appointed 
 time and almost challenge him by her reproachful 
 silence to do something, if only to provide her with 
 an illusion. It was as if she said: 
 
 "See, I have given in to you. I know that you 
 are doing this for me, and I am deeply grateful. 
 But won t you please make the situation a little 
 less transparent? Won t you at least justify me 
 in the eyes of those who are watching our little 
 performance? ..." 
 
 It had all ended by his offering his services to 
 the Food Administration. He knew something 
 of his father s business. He felt that he had a 
 
 138 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 fair knowledge of beans, and he could learn more. 
 He merely asked a trial, and it surprised him to 
 find what a sense of humility suddenly possessed 
 him. He was really overjoyed when a place was 
 assured him. But he had to admit that his accept 
 ance was not accorded any great enthusiasm. The 
 newspapers mentioned it in a scant paragraph that 
 was not even given a prominent place. He had 
 received greater recognition for a brilliant play 
 upon the golf-links! Well, in such stirring times 
 he was nobody. He did not complain, even to 
 himself, but the knowledge subconsciously rankled. 
 
 He hired an office down-town, joined the Com 
 mercial Club, religiously attended every meeting 
 that had to do with food conservation, hunted out, 
 absorbed, appropriated all the economic secrets 
 that served his purpose. . . . Suddenly he found 
 himself engrossed, enthusiastic, busy! Finally 
 Claire said to him one day: 
 
 " Don t you think I ought to come to you every 
 afternoon?" 
 
 "If you can arrange it," he almost snapped back 
 at her. 
 
 She did arrange it, how he took no pains to in 
 quire, and a little later she said again: 
 
 "You ought to have some one here all day. I 
 guess you will have to look for another stenog 
 rapher." 
 
 He remembered how menacingly he had darted 
 at her. She was dressed for the street, on her way 
 home, and she had halted at the door. 
 
 "Do you want to desert the work that you ve 
 inspired?" he demanded. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 11 Inspired? ... By me?" Her voice took on a 
 note of triumph. 
 
 "You didn t fancy that / inspired it, did you?" 
 he sneered at her. 
 
 His vehemence confused her. "I hadn t thought 
 . . . Really, you know . . . Well, as you say . . . 
 But, of course, it is absurd when you can get any 
 number of girls to . . ." 
 
 "But suppose I want you?" he demanded of her 
 for a second time. 
 
 She left without further reply. 
 
 When she was gone he found himself in a nasty 
 panic. It was as if the lady who had called him to 
 her lists had suddenly decided upon a new defender. 
 
 "Is she tired of it all ... or is there some one 
 else? Can it be possible that Flint ..." 
 
 He had stopped short, amazed to find his mind 
 descending to such a vulgar level. What had come 
 over him? And he began to fancy things as they 
 once had been empty, purposeless days, and nights 
 that found him too bored to even sleep. It seemed 
 incredible that he could go back to them again. 
 What lay at the bottom of his sudden deep-breathed 
 satisfaction with life? For an instant, the truth 
 which he had kept at bay with his old trick of 
 evasion swept toward him. 
 
 "No . . . no," he muttered. "Oh no! . . . 
 That would be too absurd!" 
 
 But when he had gone to the mirror to brush 
 his hair before venturing on the street he found 
 thick beads of perspiration on his forehead and his 
 hand shook as he lifted the comb. 
 
 The next day he told Claire that in the future 
 140 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 her salary would be twenty dollars a week. He 
 stood expecting her to rail against the increase, to 
 try to put him to rout by explaining that she had 
 received less for a full day s work at Flint s. But 
 to his surprise she thanked him and went on with 
 her work. 
 
 It was shortly after this that he began to haunt 
 the various performances in which Lily Condor 
 and Claire appeared. He always contrived to slip 
 in during the first number, which as a rule happened 
 to be Mrs. Condor s offering, and he sat in a far 
 corner where nobody but that lady could have 
 chanced upon him. But he never knew her to 
 fail in locating him, or to miss the opportunity to 
 sit out the remainder of the program at his side, 
 or to suggest crab-legs Louis at Tait s, particularly 
 if Claire were determined upon an early leave- 
 taking. The effect of all this was not lost upon 
 the general public, and it was not long before men 
 of Stillman s acquaintance used to remark face 
 tiously to him over the lunch-table: 
 
 "What s new in beans to-day? . . . Are reds 
 still a favorite?" 
 
 Stillman would throw back an equally cryptic 
 answer, thinking as he did so : 
 
 "What a wigging I must be getting over the 
 teacups! I guess I ll cut it all out in the future." 
 
 But he usually went no farther than his impulsive 
 resolves. 
 
 Sometimes he wondered what Claire thought of 
 his faithful appearance. Did she fancy that he 
 came to bask in the smiling impertinences of Lily 
 Condor? 
 
 141 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 As he made his way to a street-car on this vivid 
 February afternoon, he called to mind that of late 
 Claire had been bringing a fagged look to her daily 
 tasks. He hoped again that Mrs. Condor s desire 
 to see him had to do with Claire more particularly 
 with her dismissal as accompanist. Miss Menzies 
 had quite recovered and there was really no reason 
 for Claire to continue in her service. It struck 
 him as he pondered all these matters how strange 
 it was to find him concerned about these feminine 
 adjustments he who had always stared down upon 
 trivial circumstances with cold scorn. 
 
 He arrived at Lily Condor s apartments almost 
 upon the lady s heels. Her hat was still ornament 
 ing the center-table and her wrap lay upon a wicker 
 rocker, where, with a quick movement of irritation, 
 it had been cast aside. 
 
 Her greeting was not reassuring. "Oh ..." 
 she began coldly. " Isn t this rather late for 
 lunch?" 
 
 "I m really very sorry," Stillman returned as he 
 took a chair, "but to be frank, I quite forgot 
 about you." 
 
 "Well," she tried to laugh back at him, "there 
 isn t any virtue as disagreeable as the truth. I 
 expected you would at least attempt to be polite 
 enough to lie." 
 
 "I hope you were not too greatly inconven 
 ienced," he said, in a deliberate attempt to ignore 
 her irritation. 
 
 "I waited two hours, if that is what you mean. 
 But then, my time isn t particularly valuable." 
 
 He rose suddenly. "I ve told you that I was 
 142 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 sorry," he began coldly, reaching for his hat. * But 
 evidently you are determined to be disagreeable. 
 I fancied you wanted to see me about something 
 urgent, so I came almost as soon as I remembered." 
 
 She snatched the discarded wrap from its place 
 on the wicker rocker as she glared at him. "You re 
 in something of a hurry, it seems. . . . Well, I 
 sha n t detain you. The truth is there s a pretty 
 kettle of fish stewed up over this young woman, 
 Claire Robson. ... I want you to tell her that she 
 can t play at the Cafe Chantant next Friday night." 
 
 "Want me to tell her? I don t see where I come 
 in. ... Why don t you tell her yourself?" 
 
 "Because I don t choose to. ... Besides, I think 
 you might do it a little more delicately. I can t 
 tell her brutally that she isn t wanted." 
 
 "Isn t wanted? Why, what do you mean?" 
 
 "The committee informs me that she isn t the 
 sort of person they are accustomed to have featured 
 in their entertainments. It seems that Mrs. 
 Flint . . ." 
 
 "Mrs. Sawyer Flint?" 
 
 "Precisely." 
 
 "What is her objection?" 
 
 "Do you really want me to tell you?" 
 
 "Why not?" * 
 
 "It appears that some time last fall Miss Robson 
 tried to get her husband into a compromising 
 position. She came over to the house one night 
 when Mrs. Flint was away. Flint promptly ordered 
 her out. It seems she went ... to be quite frank 
 . . . with you. And what is more, she ..." 
 
 "It isn t necessary for you to go any farther. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Tell me, do you mean to say that you believe this 
 thing? Didn t you lift a hand to defend her?" 
 
 Lily Condor narrowed her eyes. "Oh, come 
 now, Ned Stillman, don t be a fool! You know as 
 well as I do that I m hanging on to my own repu 
 tation by my finger-nails. I m not taking any 
 chances. As to whether it is so . . . well, if I were 
 to tell the committee everything I know it wouldn t 
 help her cause any. I could wreck her reputation 
 like that," she snapped her fingers, "with one soli 
 tary fact. If she hasn t wrecked it already with 
 her senseless chatter. . . . Only last week her aunt, 
 Mrs. Ffinch-Brown, said to me : So you re hiring 
 my niece! I must say that is handsome of you! 
 You were sitting talking to Claire and she looked 
 deliberately at you when she said it. Remember 
 how I warned you, last December. I told you 
 then that the secret of a woman s meal-ticket was 
 never hidden very long." 
 
 During this speech Mrs. Condor s voice had 
 dropped from its original tone of petty rancor to 
 one of petulant self-justification. Stillman knew 
 at once that her ill-temper had caught her off- 
 guard and she was already trying to crawl slowly 
 back into his favor. She had meant, no doubt, to 
 soften her news over a glass or two of chilled white 
 wine which she had counted on sipping during the 
 noon hour. She might even then have gone farther 
 and decided to cast her fortunes with Stillman and 
 Claire if she had seen that her advantage lay in 
 that direction. He was not sure but that she still 
 had some such notion in her mind. But he felt 
 suddenly sick of her past all hope of compromise, 
 
 144 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 and he was determined to be rid of her once and 
 for all. 
 
 "No doubt," he said, frigidly, "you will be glad 
 to be relieved of Miss Robson s presence perma 
 nently. I take it that you don t consider her 
 association exactly . . . well . . . shall we say 
 discreet?" 
 
 Her eyes took on a yellow tinge as she faced him. 
 She must have sensed the finality of his tone, the 
 well-bred insolence that his query suggested. 
 
 "Discreet?" she echoed. "Well, I wouldn t 
 say that that was quite what I meant. Desirable 
 that would be better. I don t find her association 
 desirable. ... I don t want her, in other words." 
 
 He had never been so angry in his life. Had 
 she been a man he would have struck her. He 
 felt himself choking. "My dear Mrs. Condor," 
 he warned, "will you be good enough to take a 
 little more respectful tone when you speak of Miss 
 Robson?" 
 
 "Oh, indeed! And just what are your rights in 
 the matter? You re not her brother . . . you re 
 surely not her husband. And I didn t know that 
 it was the fashion for a ..." His look stopped 
 her. She trembled a moment, tossed back her head, 
 and finished, defiantly, "Yes, that is what I want 
 to know, what are your rights?" 
 
 He took a step toward her. Instinctively she 
 retreated. 
 
 "A woman like you wouldn t understand even 
 if I were to tell you," he flung at her. 
 
 She covered her face with both hands. 
 
 He left the room. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He himself was trembling as he reached the street 
 trembling for the first time in years. As a child 
 he had been given to these fits of emotional tremors, 
 but he had long since lost the faculty for recording 
 physically his intense moments. Or had he lost 
 the faculty for the intense moments themselves, 
 he found himself wondering, as he walked rapidly 
 toward his home. The evening was warm with 
 the perfume of a bit of truant summer that had 
 somehow escaped before its time to hearten a 
 winter-weary world against the bitter assaults of 
 March. Birds of passage sang among the hedges, 
 the sun still cast a faint greenish glow in the ex 
 treme west. 
 
 His first thought was of the cowering woman he 
 had just left. He had meant to lash her keenly 
 with his verbal whipcords, but he had not expected 
 to find her quite so sensitive to his cutting scorn. 
 He remembered the gesture with which she had 
 lifted her hand as if to screen herself from his in 
 sults. There was a whole life of futile compromise 
 in just the manner of that gesture, a growing help 
 lessness to give straightforward thrusts, a pitiful 
 admission of defeat. But he knew that this sur 
 render was temporary a quick lifting of the mask 
 under a relentless pressure. To-morrow, in an hour, 
 in ten minutes, Lily Condor would be her dangerous 
 self again, lashed into the fury of a woman scorned. 
 For a moment he did not know whether to be 
 relieved or dismayed at the prospect of Mrs. 
 Condor for an enemy. How much would she 
 really dare? 
 
 He thought with a lowering anger of Flint. He 
 146 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 had been ready to concede everything but this 
 former friend in the r61e of a cheap and nasty gossip. 
 No gossip was a pale, sickly term. Flint 
 was a malignant toad, a nauseous mud-slinger, 
 a deliberate liar. He had heard of men who had 
 justified themselves with vile tales to their insipid, 
 disgustingly virtuous wives, but he had not counted 
 such among his acquaintances. By the side of 
 Flint, Lily Condor loomed a very paragon of the 
 social amenities. 
 
 Stillman was conscious that his mental process 
 was keyed to the highest pitch of melodrama. 
 It was not usual for him to indulge in mental abuse. 
 He had never quite understood the dark and mov 
 ing processes of red-eyed anger. There had been 
 something absurd in the theatrical hauteur of his 
 manner in this last scene -with Mrs. Condor that 
 is, if it were measured by his own standards. His 
 growing detachments from life had claimed him 
 almost to the point of complete indifference. But 
 now, suddenly, as if Fate had dealt him an in 
 sulting blow upon the face with her bare palm, he 
 felt not only rage, but a sense of its futility, its 
 impotence. 
 
 "Flint!" he thought again. And immediately 
 he spewed forth the memory of this man in a flood 
 of indiscriminate epithets. 
 
 Later, in the refuge of his own four walls and 
 under the brooding solace of an after-dinner cigar, 
 he lost some of the intensiveness of his former 
 humor. But the force of the vehemence which 
 had shaken him filled him with much wonder and 
 
 147 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 some apprehension. He was too much a man of 
 experience to deny questions when they were put 
 to him squarely by circumstances. 
 
 "You re not her brother . . . you re surely not 
 her husband. And I didn t know it was the fashion 
 for a . . ." 
 
 Lily Condor s clipped question struck him 
 squarely now. Just what were his expectations 
 concerning Claire Robson? The thought turned 
 him cold. Essentially he was of Puritan mold, 
 but he had always had a theory that love of illicit 
 pleasures must have been uncommonly strong in 
 a people who found it necessary to fight the flesh 
 so uncompromisingly. Battling with the elements 
 upon the bleak shores of New England contributed, 
 no doubt, to the gray and chastened spirits that 
 these grim folks had won for themselves; spirits 
 that colored and sometimes seeded swiftly under 
 the softer skies of California. San Francisco was 
 full of these forced blooms consumed and withered 
 by the sudden heat of a free and traditionless life. 
 He knew scores of old-timers his father s friends 
 who had been gloriously wrecked by the passion 
 with which they met freedom s kiss. They had 
 pursued pleasure with an energy overtrained in 
 wrestling with the devil and had paid the penalty 
 of all ardent souls lacking the prudence of weakness. 
 There was at once something fine and unlawful 
 about the spirit of adventure: it implied courage, 
 impatience of restraint, wilfulness in short, all the 
 virtues and vices of strength. He had felt at 
 times the heritage of this strength, shorn of its 
 power by the softness of a wilderness that had been 
 
 148 
 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 wooed instead of conquered. His forefathers had 
 found California a waiting, gracious bride, but there 
 had been almost a suggestion of the courtezan in 
 the lavishness of this land s response to the caresses 
 of the invaders. 
 
 There was something fantastic in the memory 
 of his father, fresh from the austere dawns of the 
 little fishing village of Gloucester, transplanted 
 suddenly to the wine-red sunsets of the Golden 
 Gate. He felt that his father must have had the 
 courage for substance-wasting without the tempta 
 tion. Most men in those early days had plunged 
 unyoked into the race Ezra Stillman brought his 
 bride, and therefore his household goods, with him, 
 and unconsciously custom drew its restraining rein 
 tight. Ezra Stillman came from a long line of 
 salt-seasoned tempters of the sea; their virtues 
 had been rugged and their vices equally robust; 
 sin with them had been gaunt, sinewy, unlovely; 
 there was nothing insinuating and soft about the 
 lure of pleasure in that silver-nooned environment. 
 Ezra had been the first of this long line to turn his 
 back upon the sea, and the land had rewarded him 
 lavishly as if determined to make his capture com 
 plete. Yet, he was not landsman enough to wrest 
 a living direct from the soil; instead, he set up his 
 booth in the market-place of the town and trafficked 
 in spoils of the field, in full view of the impatient 
 ships tugging at their anchor-chains. While others 
 dug for gold, or garnered the yellowing grain, or 
 built railroads, Ezra Stillman sat in his modest 
 office and sold beans and potatoes and onions, 
 playing the r61e of merchant, husband, and father 
 
 149 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 with genial and unsensational success a man of 
 potential lawlessness, robbed of all wolfish tenden 
 cies by the sobering influence of domestic responsi 
 bility, after the manner of a shepherd-dog broken 
 to guard the flock. 
 
 Ned Stillman used to wonder how much of this 
 smoldering lawlessness had been transmitted to 
 him; for was not there an added heritage from 
 his thin-lipped mother who came of as hardy and 
 masterful a stock as her husband ? 
 
 Smoldering lawlessness to-night the phrase 
 struck him sharply. He had failed at many points, 
 but he had held uncompromisingly to his duty, 
 almost with a fury of self-conscious puritanical 
 fanaticism. His wife . . . yes, he had always 
 done his duty by her more than his duty. Then, 
 what was to prevent him from gathering such 
 flowers as he might . . . Up to a point he could 
 still play the game squarely. Up to a point! 
 
 He turned in futile anger and weariness from 
 such thoughts to the tinkling refuge of the evening 
 paper. . . . Ah, the Russian Ballet was opening 
 at the Valencia Theater on Friday night! A fra 
 grant memory of Paris blew in upon the breath of 
 this announcement Paris, eternally young and 
 as eternally glamorous! And glancing swiftly at 
 the next column, he chanced upon a full account 
 of this tiresome Cafe Chantant business that had 
 occasioned so much bother . . . for the benefit of 
 the French Tobacco Fimd France again! 
 
 Suddenly he grew thoughtful. 
 
 "A box for the Ballet and a table for the Caf< 
 Chantant. ... I ll ask Edington and his sister 
 
 150 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 . . . that ought to make things look right. . . . 
 Gad! how the old ladies will stare!" 
 
 He threw the paper down and, as he chuckled, 
 little malicious gleams darted from his eyes. He 
 would show them, all of them ! And as for her . . . 
 What did he expect? . . . He wanted her, wanted 
 her, wanted her! And yet. . . . Smoldering law 
 lessness. . . . Yes ... he would chance everything 
 now, even that. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 "THE Russian Ballet opened with what was called 
 A on the program, "A ballet comi-dramatic by 
 Warslav Nijinsky, entitled Till Eulens pie gel. " It 
 would have been more to the point to have sched 
 uled it as a pantomime; at least, such a course 
 would have proved somewhat illuminating to an 
 audience a little in the dark concerning the nature 
 of the entertainment to be set before it. San 
 Francisco, schooled in the memory of hectic opera 
 seasons with their inevitable pirouetting, tarlatan- 
 skirted ballets, had come to the performance with 
 a rather set notion as to what it had a right to expect. 
 True, barefoot dancers by the score had swept in 
 upon the town, and it had been ravished by the 
 combined charms of Pavlova and Mordkin, but 
 all of these novelties at least had ministered to an 
 unsophisticated desire to see the principals starred 
 in big type on the program and constantly in the 
 limelight. Therefore when the curtain fell upon 
 a ballet that was neither danced nor postured, and 
 with the leading dancer of the troupe remaining 
 in the picture instead of an arresting and flamboy 
 ant spot upon it, there was little wonder that the 
 applause was at once perfunctory and puzzled. 
 Neither the dancers nor their new art was any 
 / 152 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 novelty to Ned Stillman. He had seen both in 
 Paris, and again in New York. But he had to 
 confess that this third view was proving the most 
 enjoyable of all, and he was amused and a trifle 
 supercilious at the air of frank disapproval through 
 out the audience. Indeed, he became so interested 
 in analyzing his fellow- townsmen s attitude that 
 momentarily he forgot his box party was a challenge 
 to any and all who cared to interest themselves in 
 discovering his guests. 
 
 So far he had not been conscious of a single pair 
 of opera-glasses turned their way and he began to 
 feel at once cheated, but, if the truth were told, a 
 trifle relieved. He knew almost as soon as he had 
 committed to the venture that it was cheap and in 
 bad taste, and yet he could not bring himself to 
 the point of acknowledging his mistake. He had 
 an uncomfortable feeling also that Claire Robson 
 was facing the ordeal of a box with silent heroism, 
 not that she was a woman vulgar enough to dread 
 a conspicuous position in itself, but because she 
 had an instinctive sense of what was fitting. He 
 had not mentioned a box party when he had first 
 asked her. He merely had said: 
 
 "How would you like a night off Friday?" 
 "A night off? I m scheduled for a turn with Mrs. 
 Condor." 
 
 "Well, and if she should be willing to let you go?" 
 She had assented eagerly, and when he mentioned 
 the Russian Ballet she gave a cry of delight. 
 
 "Edington and his sister, Mrs. Forsythe, are 
 going, too," he explained, rather hastily. "I . . . 
 I got a box this morning." 
 11 53 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "A box?" Her voice had risen dubiously. 
 
 "There s nothing else left that is decent," he 
 had lied to her. 
 
 But he saw that she was far from happy at the 
 prospect, although she was too proud to voice any 
 further protests. 
 
 Curiously enough, even Phil Edington had de 
 murred. 
 
 "A box? What s the big idea? Why don t you 
 get some seats in the orchestra? ... Oh, I don t 
 care a rap! Do as you want, but I thought that 
 perhaps ..." 
 
 At that point he had begun to grow irritated; 
 he decided obstinately that his guests would either 
 go in a box or remain at home. 
 
 Well, they had come in a box, and the audience 
 appeared to be ignoring them. He had expected 
 something more brilliant in the way of an assembly, 
 but the house was dressed, on the whole, rather 
 illy for the occasion, as San Francisco audiences 
 quite often are. To begin with, the Valencia 
 Theater was out of the beaten path, and a heavy 
 rain was falling. This had the effect of making the 
 prudent and frugal, who were denied the comfort 
 of either limousines or taxis, decide on street cos 
 tume instead of evening fripperies. Only the very- 
 smartest people could afford to ignore the elements, 
 and even these were obliged to withstand the chill 
 of a draughty playhouse by snuggling close into 
 their opera cloaks and thus concealing the bare 
 throats and flashing jewels that a more comfortable 
 environment might have disclosed. On the whole, 
 he was disappointed. One of his reasons for de- 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ciding upon a box was to give Claire the treat of a 
 scintillating audience seen from a perfect vantage- 
 point. But he had forgotten that his native town 
 rarely dazzled the spectators except for grand opera 
 at staggering prices, and even then there were 
 always plenty of recalcitrant males in their business 
 suits to spoil the picture. San Francisco had not 
 yet reached the point where its men consciously 
 and as a whole dressed for the occasion ; there was 
 still the sneer of effeminacy directed at those who 
 insisted on taking seriously the matter of suitable 
 raiment. 
 
 To-night Claire had made an effort at extreme 
 simplicity. She was in severe black, open slightly 
 at the throat, and a large artificial pink rose added 
 a single note of color. Having no jewels, she wore 
 none, and her hair fell away from her brow in a grace 
 utterly natural and charming. He had always 
 thought of her hair vaguely as dark to-night, 
 standing just behind her where the light searched 
 out its half-tones, he discovered glinting bits that 
 ran all the way from burnished copper to shining 
 gold. During the first number she sat slightly for 
 ward, intent on letting no detail escape. When 
 the curtain fell upon the whimsical Till dangling 
 from a gibbet in the medieval market-place, Still- 
 man leaned forward and said: 
 
 "What do you think of it?" 
 
 He did not realize how much it meant to have 
 her strike just the proper note, until his heart 
 bounded with satisfaction at her frank and unstud 
 ied answer: 
 
 "I really don t know, Mr. Stillman. It s so 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 different. You see, I was looking for something 
 
 more . 
 
 She stopped suddenly as if it occurred to her 
 that, after all, she could not say precisely just what 
 she had been looking for. "But it s tremendously 
 interesting, of course," she hastened to add. 
 
 He glowed even at her eagerness to make him 
 understand that she was finding her very indecision 
 a joy. 
 
 "Yes, it was the same with me ... at first," 
 he reassured her. "I ve seen this all before, you 
 know . . . abroad and in New York. Not pre 
 cisely this act, but something along the same lines." 
 
 "I almost missed placing Nijinsky," she hesi 
 tated. It was all rather mystical and vague. . . . 
 And those subdued lights. ... I wish I could see 
 it all again, now that I ve caught my breath. 
 It ... it rather . . ." 
 
 "Dazzles one," supplemented Stillman, leaning 
 nearer and nearer. 
 
 A tremor ran through her and he realized with 
 a start that his breath was falling heavily upon 
 her bare neck. He drew back. Mrs. Forsythe 
 had stopped in a casual survey of the house to fix 
 upon an object of interest. She dropped the 
 glasses into her lap as she turned toward Stillman: 
 
 "Who can that be, down there in the lower box, 
 staring so at us?" she asked, indicating the position 
 with an exaggerated glance. 
 
 Stillman stood up. 
 
 "The man with the bald head?" he heard Claire 
 volunteer. "Why, that is Mr. Flint Mr. Sawyer 
 Flint." 
 
 156 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Why, yes, of course," he caught Mrs. Forsythe 
 drawling in a tone of self-confessed stupidity. 
 "Anybody ought to know him." 
 
 "Or his wife," broke in Edington. "One can t 
 miss her. . . . Now, she s getting the habit. I de 
 clare everybody seems to be interested. I guess 
 it s you, Miss Robson. You must be the attrac 
 tion." 
 
 "The orchestra has come back," Stillman an 
 nounced, deliberately. "What s next?" 
 
 " Papillons, a ballet in one act," Edington called 
 out, reading from his program. 
 
 "Music by Robert Schumann," supplemented 
 Mrs. Forsythe. 
 
 "Ah, now we shall see the wonderful Bolm!" 
 Stillman said to Claire. "They say he s the finest 
 pantomimist on the stage." She turned slightly 
 toward him with a movement of appeal. "What 
 is it?" he whispered. 
 
 "Just Flint," she answered, grasping his wrist 
 in a swift, backward gesture. "He keeps on 
 staring." 
 
 "What? Shall we change places?" 
 
 "No. That would be too . . . It s no matter. 
 What did you say the star s name was? . . . There, 
 the curtain is going up!" 
 
 Stillman fell back, but as he did so he took a 
 sweeping survey of the lower box. Flint was still 
 staring, and his wife was doing a great deal of 
 vehement talking and head-shaking to the other 
 women sharing their hospitality. 
 
 " l Papillons" proved more in the conventional 
 manner and it was charmingly danced by a score of 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 pretty girls in early-eighteenth-century costume, 
 and wonderfully acted by Bolm in the character 
 of Pierrot. The audience warmed unmistakably 
 at this number, and, the draughts somewhat sub 
 siding, a few venturesome ladies decided to shed 
 their wraps. Chatter became more general and 
 less controversial; the house began to look about, 
 taking note of itself, assuming the critical airs of a 
 peacock staring at its own reflection. Opera- 
 glasses circled the occupants of the boxes, and 
 Stillman tried to single out all those who let their 
 gaze linger an insolent length of time upon his 
 party. But the occupants of Flint s box kept cast 
 ing furtive glances in Claire s direction, and Flint 
 himself continued to look up every now and then, 
 reaching for the glasses, which always seemed in 
 his wife s possession, every time he did so. Still 
 man felt his anger rising. He knew that Claire 
 was annoyed, but she had recovered her poise and 
 began to talk enthusiastically about the second 
 number. 
 
 "I understood that better." She smiled at Still 
 man. "I know the music, too. That always, helps 
 a great deal, don t you think? . . . What a tragic 
 face Bolm has! I thought his gesture of remorse 
 at having broken the butterfly s wing wonderfully 
 expressive. Didn t you? The costumes were quaint 
 and lovely. Oh, I can t tell you how glad I am 
 that I came!" 
 
 "La Princesse Enchantee," a duet featuring Ni- 
 jinsky, came next, and a gorgeous spectacle entitled 
 "Cleopatra" concluded the performance. By this 
 time the audience had recovered its good-nature 
 
 158 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 and it poured forth into the violent shower with 
 much animation and no end of laughter. Stillman 
 had ordered his car for eleven o clock, but through 
 some mischance it was at least fifteen minutes late 
 in appearing. This meant that his party stood 
 huddled in a little group by the box-office railing, 
 and every one who passed gave them either casual 
 or pointed glances. Claire, lacking a suitable wrap, 
 looked rather disconsolate and dowdy in a long 
 black ulster. Stillman felt annoyed. As luck 
 would have it, the Flints were for some reason in 
 the same predicament. They had swept bravely 
 past to their intended swift departure, only to find 
 the call for their car unanswered, and had fallen 
 back on the opposite side of the foyer. Over the 
 sea of faces the two groups stood and unconsciously 
 glared at one another at least Stillman glared for 
 his party, and Flint, sensing his friend s antagonism, 
 returned the compliment with added insolence. 
 
 Stillman s car came first. 
 
 Mrs. Forsythe, starting on ahead with Edington, 
 called a gay farewell across the now empty entrance- 
 way to Mrs. Flint. The latter responded with 
 freezing politeness. Stillman gave Claire his arm. 
 Flint broke into a laugh and turned with a shrug 
 to his wife. 
 
 Stillman heard the laugh and stopped short. 
 He released Claire s arm and left her standing 
 almost in the drip of the awnings as he turned and 
 walked rapidly toward Flint. 
 
 "Will you be good enough to quit staring?" he 
 said distinctly. "Your attentions to my party 
 have been extremely annoying all evening." 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Flint looked at first stunned, then rather fright 
 ened. Stillman was conscious that Edington had 
 come up to him and was pulling at his coat sleeve. 
 
 Mrs. Forsythe and Claire were just stepping into 
 the machine when the two men followed. Stillman 
 took his place beside Claire and he felt the trembling 
 pressure of her body as he reached over and slammed 
 the door. Mrs. Forsythe made no comment. . . . 
 It was Edington who broke the silence. 
 
 "That Russian stuff may be art," he broke out, 
 4 but I ll take a George M. Cohan rag- time revue 
 any day!" 
 
 Stillman s brush with Flint was only the begin 
 ning of a series of misadventures. At the Cafe 
 Chantant it happened that the Flint table was next 
 to the Stillman party. Flint had recovered his 
 bravado and he ordered another table in unmistak 
 able tones. It followed that every one in the room 
 turned their attention to the late-comers, and it 
 was not long after Flint had been escorted in 
 triumph to a remote location that Stillman became 
 aware how many eyes were being turned at him and 
 Claire Robson. 
 
 Presently Lily Condor sang, accompanied by 
 Miss Menzies. Stillman knew that she had sighted 
 them with her usual keen eye, but he also saw that 
 she was determined to ignore Claire s friendly 
 glances. When she finished she swept from the 
 improvised platform and walked deliberately past 
 Stillman, seating herself at the table which the 
 Flints had deserted. Miss Menzies followed. 
 Claire, turning after them with a wistful look of 
 
 160 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 recognition, bowed to Lily Condor as she took her 
 seat. The lady stared coldly ahead and beckoned 
 a waiter. Claire blushed. 
 
 "What do you suppose," she said in a low voice 
 to Stillman. "Are you quite sure it was all right 
 . . . my deserting Mrs. Condor to-night ? Perhaps 
 I ought to have rung her up myself. But you 
 said . . ." 
 
 Stillman ordered wine. Edington chattered flip 
 pantly. Dancing commenced. Stillman pushed 
 back his chair and said to Claire: 
 
 "Shall we begin?" 
 
 She rose in answer, and they swung into a one- 
 step. He could feel her trembling under the glances 
 which he realized were coming from every part of 
 the room. What was she imagining, he wondered. 
 As they circled about for the second time, Still 
 man became conscious that some one was walking 
 across the floor in a deliberate attempt to waylay 
 them. He stopped. Mrs. Ffinch-Brown stood be 
 fore them. She had a deceitfully sweet smile on 
 her lips and her small eyes were full of malicious 
 determination. 
 
 "My dear Mr. Stillman . . . will you excuse 
 me?" she said. "I want a word with Claire . . . 
 about something important. Otherwise I shouldn t 
 have interrupted. You ll understand." 
 
 He released Claire and she went to the edge of 
 the dancing-space. Mrs. Ffinch-Brown turned her 
 back upon Stillman, but Claire s face was un 
 screened from his gaze. Whatever Mrs. Ffinch- 
 Brown was saying, Claire made no reply. The 
 younger woman paled a trifle, Stillman thought, 
 
 161 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 but otherwise she gave no sign. She returned to 
 Stillman and they finished the dance. As he held 
 her hand, he could feel her pulse beating with some 
 thing more than the exertion of dancing. 
 
 Edington had been taking a turn himself with 
 his sister. 
 
 Did you know," he volunteered by way of 
 conversation, "that there had been a devil of a row 
 among the women running this show? Sis says 
 that she understands they almost pulled one 
 another s hair in committee over some performer 
 that Mrs. Flint didn t think desirable. That 
 woman and her prejudices are a scream! I ll 
 bet it was some pretty girl caught making eyes at 
 the old man. Well, here s looking at you!" 
 
 They all lifted their glasses. Claire s hand 
 trembled. 
 
 After that things grew more and more confused. 
 He was wondering what Mrs. Ffinch-Brown had 
 found to say to her niece, and staring at Claire, 
 when she leaned over toward him with a gesture 
 of apology and said: 
 
 "I don t want to break up your party, Mr. 
 Stillman, but really I think I must be going. My 
 mother, you know. . . . She wasn t so well to-day. 
 It doesn t seem right for me to stay here enjoying 
 myself . . . under the circumstances." 
 
 It had ended in their all leaving, Mrs. Forsythe 
 pleading boredom and Edington insisting that he 
 had planned to get home fairly early to go over his 
 draft questionnaire. 
 
 "When you see me again, Miss Robson, it s just 
 possible that I ll be a very grand party in uniform," 
 
 162 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Edington had announced, lightly, as they rose from 
 the table. 
 
 In the coat-room he said to Stillman: 
 
 / You ought to go slow, Ned. . . . That Miss 
 Robson is a nice girl." 
 
 "Slow? What do you mean?" 
 
 "Just what I say. . . . She s a nice girl, I tell 
 you a damned nice girl!" 
 
 Stillman smiled disagreeably. . . . He remem 
 bered a time when he would have resented E ding- 
 ton s cryptic insinuations, but now he merely 
 smiled, a wide smile, which a betraying mirror du 
 plicated unpleasantly. At the departure of Eding 
 ton and his sister he turned to Claire significantly : 
 
 "Are you really ready to go home?" 
 
 She turned a very candid gaze upon him. "No, 
 I can t say that I am." 
 
 "Where shall it be, then?" 
 
 "Anywhere," she answered, almost passionately. 
 "Anywhere at all." 
 
 "Let s go to Tait s . . . first!" 
 
 She assented indifferently, and presently Tait s 
 was an accomplished pilgrimage. They had chosen 
 to go up-stairs to the Pavo Real. At this hour 
 there was still a fair crush going through the 
 motions of dancing upon a crowded floor and the 
 scene assaulted Stillman s perceptions with a sug 
 gestion of flashy squalor. It seemed an impossible 
 place in which to indulge a mood, but he suffered 
 the steward to find them a small table in a far 
 corner. He ordered a Benedictine and brandy 
 for himself, Claire compromised on a creme de 
 menthe, frappeed. The pale green of this last 
 
 163 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 rather innocuous drink shone out like a bit 
 of liquid jade against the black of Claire s gown 
 as she bent over for a momentary sip. To Still- 
 man there had always been a heavy-lidded sug 
 gestion about the stilly-green beauty of jade, a 
 beauty glamorous with the Orient, white-heated 
 as noon and as cold as the yellow glances of the 
 moon. And, sitting there, he remembered the 
 family tradition of a Stillman in the days when the 
 first ships had come from China, their holds burst 
 ing with strange treasures and the haunting odors 
 of sandalwood, a Stillman who brought a slave-girl 
 back to affront and shock the staid provincials of 
 his native town. . . . Presently the green liquid 
 was gone and only the cool, white trickle of melting 
 ice remained in the tiny glass opposite his. Claire 
 moved this symbol of spent delights to one side. 
 
 "I suppose you know," she said, calmly, "why 
 I left the Palace Hotel to-night." 
 
 He was not sure. 
 
 1 My aunt asked me to leave. . . . She was very 
 polite about it ... and very cutting. It appears 
 I m not quite their sort." 
 
 "No?" Stillman found himself laughing uneasily. 
 "How gratified you must be!" 
 
 She put out a hand across the table, laying it 
 lightly on his arm. 
 
 "Listen. It s really nothing to be flippant about. 
 . . . Not that I care, in a way. But really, you 
 know, you should have told me about about that 
 little arrangement with Mrs. Condor." 
 
 "Ah, then they dragged that in, too!" escaped 
 him. "Your aunt must be a rapid talker!" 
 
 164 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Oh, it doesn t take long to cover the ground 
 when one female relation decides to be nasty to 
 another. . . . And, then, I m not quite a fool 
 now. . . . Understand, I m not blaming you 
 . . . but it would have been fairer if I had 
 known." 
 
 He leaned forward eagerly. "Would you, in 
 that case, have ..." 
 
 "It s possible," she broke in suddenly. "Of 
 course I ve suspected something from the first . . . 
 and . . . well, as a matter of fact ..." She 
 shrugged and reached again for her frappe, sliding 
 a cherry from the crumpled straw, drooping over 
 the glass s rim, toward her mouth. Stillman found 
 the gesture charming, but he was not sure whether 
 her answer suited him or not. Of course, she had 
 seen through and accepted the transparencies of 
 his first business ruse. But she also had subtly 
 urged its justification. In this case ... In other 
 words, she might accept gratuities under pressure! 
 He felt that he was narrowing his spiritual eyes as 
 he watched her cutting the bright red of the cherry 
 with her white lips. 
 
 "And then," she went on, suddenly, touching the 
 soft ice in the glass before her with a shrinking finger, 
 "aside from everything else, what you planned to 
 night was stupid. . . . How could you have im 
 agined that I cared." 
 
 "That you cared !" He felt that he was laughing 
 with sneering bitterness. "Do you always think 
 of yourself? How about me? What if I cared? 
 It s possible, you know just possible!" 
 
 She brought her hands suddenly up in a move- 
 
 165 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ment of clasped defense. He hung on her reply 
 with white-lipped eagerness. 
 
 "Possible? ..." she echoed. "They say any 
 thing is possible, but . . . somehow men ..." 
 
 She threw him a glance of thinly veiled mockery. 
 His tension relaxed. She had merely parried the 
 blow and he felt disappointed. 
 
 "I realize now," she went on, "what a frightful 
 nuisance I ve been. . . . The first time we met . . . 
 I was in trouble then, I remember. That sort of 
 thing grows to be a habit. . . . You meant it for 
 the best, of course, but this time you pushed me 
 in pretty far ... I mean into your debt. I wish 
 I knew how I could repay you." 
 
 "I m willing to accept a deferred payment," he 
 chaffed. "I ll take your note. ... I m very pa 
 tient at waiting." 
 
 She looked at him clearly, almost too clearly, 
 as if in one flashing moment she saw behind the 
 mask of his banter. . . . He began to wonder . . . 
 had he hoped to have her flinch, recoil, or was this 
 cool calm more acceptable? 
 
 "I see," she was saying, "you re determined to 
 plunge me in deeper and deeper, until one day . . . 
 well, one day I ll be a bankrupt, won t I?" 
 
 He leaned across the trivial width of the table 
 and he put two burning hands upon her icy-cold 
 fingers. "Ah, but think how rich I shall be!" 
 
 She said nothing. She did not even draw back 
 from his scorching touch. But this time she 
 lowered her eyes, twisting in her left hand the 
 crumpled straw divested of its gaudy sweetmeat. 
 . . . She was a tired woman, he could see that 
 
 166 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 plainly a tired woman . . . considering. And he 
 was not even moved to pity. 
 
 "Come," he said, roughly. " Let s get out of 
 this ghastly hole." 
 
 She rose with a fluttering movement that gave 
 him the impression of a trapped bird. They made 
 their way out in silence. A great primitive eager 
 ness struck down every acquired virtue within him. 
 He put his hand at her elbow and held it tight. 
 He felt that she had clenched her fist. 
 
 In the doorway she shrank back suddenly as he 
 stood waiting to lift her into the flaming yellow 
 taxi answering their call. He retraced his steps. 
 
 "What ... Are you ill?" 
 
 "No ... for the moment I thought I saw . . . 
 Really it s of no consequence!" 
 
 He narrowed his eyes upon her. She was lying 
 . . . it was of consequence! He felt very ugly. 
 . . . A man had just brushed past and now he 
 stood with a finger upon the elevator bell, waiting. 
 
 Claire darted out and gained the taxi. . . . Still- 
 man followed. As he swung open the door for 
 her he felt her almost leap into its depths. Once 
 inside, she faced him, barring the eagerness of his 
 entrance with a defiant arm. 
 
 "Go away!" she cried, in a sudden terror. "Go 
 away! Can t you see? ... It s all over, I tell you!" 
 
 "All over?" He squared himself doggedly. 
 
 "Yes," she said, thickly. "Go away. . . . You 
 had better go ... to ... to your wife! 1 
 
 He fell back as if she had given him a sharp push. 
 His hat had fallen to the ground. He stooped to 
 pick it up. He heard the door slam and saw the 
 
 167 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 taxi shoot forward into the sadly glamorous beauty 
 of the night. . . . He was alone! 
 
 He strode back into the cafe entrance. The 
 man was still waiting before the door of the tardy 
 elevator. Stillman went up and put an insinu 
 ating hand upon his shoulder. The man turned. 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon," Stillman stammered. 
 "I thought you were ... I see I am mistaken. 
 Pray forgive me!" 
 
 A flash of white teeth answered Stillman s 
 apology. The door of the elevator opened. The 
 stranger entered. 
 
 Stillman turned away. Where had he seen that 
 face before? Where? ... Oh yes, the Serbian 
 who had . . . 
 
 He felt cold. . . . The whole thing was absurd. 
 Yet, she had seen some one who . . . He lit a 
 cigarette. . . . Suddenly he laughed a smothered, 
 choking, unpleasant laugh. 
 
 He decided to go home. 
 
The Blood Red Dawn 
 
 .. ^^ ^ 
 
 Book II 
 
CHAPTER 1 
 
 "TT ain t exactly what you would call a society 
 
 * job, Robson, but it will pay the milkman and 
 the baker, and that s something." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead kicked off a shoe that she had 
 unbuttoned, resting her unshod foot upon a chair 
 as she sighed with luxurious satisfaction. 
 
 Claire Robson began to draw down the shades. 
 A cold March rain was falling outside and Claire 
 felt that her shabby living-room seemed less bleak 
 with the night shut out. For the past three weeks 
 Nellie Whitehead had been the only point of con 
 tact with the outside world and Claire had grown 
 to listen eagerly for the three quick rings at the 
 door-bell which announced her solitary visitor. 
 There was something about Nellie Whitehead which 
 usually revived Claire s drooping spirits to an 
 extraordinary degree, but to-night she felt no re 
 action to the slightly acrid optimism of her friend. 
 
 "A job?" Claire questioned, increduously, seat 
 ing herself. "I m ready for anything in reason. 
 Only . . . Well, the truth is, the Finnegans are 
 moving. I heard about it to-day. I ll have to hire 
 some one to look after mother, and ..." Her 
 hands lifted and dropped in hopeless resignation. 
 
 "It ain t an office job," pursued Miss Whitehead; 
 171 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "it s playing the piano. You know that little 
 friend I told you about who sings at Tait s? . . . 
 Well, she had an offer to sing in the same place. 
 But of course she s in pretty soft where she is." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead was not given to indirectness, 
 and Claire had a feeling that for some reason her 
 friend was finding it advisable to lead up to her 
 project rather cautiously. 
 
 "I m ready for anything," she repeated. 
 
 Nellie Whitehead settled back comfortably. "I 
 suppose I might just as well quit beating around 
 the bush. You see, it isn t such a snap for the real 
 professional . . . otherwise it wouldn t be going 
 begging. It s . . . it s in a Greek cafe on Third 
 Street." 
 
 A Greek cafe on Third Street! Claire Robson 
 stared in amazement at her friend. For a moment 
 she had a feeling that Nellie Whitehead must be 
 joking. Claire Robson had heard of such places. 
 Professional reformers always found them a peren 
 nial source of exploitation when the vice crop in 
 other quarters failed, and every now and then the 
 newspapers discovered, to their horror, that young 
 and tender girls were being hired to serve Turkish 
 coffee and almond syrup to the patrons of the Greek 
 coffee-houses. Indeed, Claire had once listened 
 to an eager young woman describe for the young 
 people s section of the Home Missionary Society 
 all the pitfalls to the weaker sex which lurked in 
 this godless section of the community where 
 men drank thick coffee and smoked cigarettes and 
 even kissed pretty girls on provocation. Claire 
 had never been prone to pass snap judgment, but 
 
 173 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the very word Greek had an outlandish sound, and 
 it seemed quite possible that everything that had 
 been said about the evils of the Greek quarter must 
 have some basis. Even the term Greek labor 
 which she chanced upon again and again in the daily 
 news was full of sinister suggestion. And she had 
 a flashing picture of this cafe in search of a pianist 
 crowded with heavily-booted, sweating humanity 
 fresh from construction-camps and fields. 
 
 "Well ... I don t know," she finally faltered. 
 "I fancy they won t find my playing to their taste." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead sat up challengingly. "You 
 mean you don t find playing in a Greek cafe to your 
 taste. . . . As a matter of fact, I m not keen about 
 suggesting such a thing to you. But lots of girls 
 make a living that way, and even if they don t 
 move in select circles they re pretty human." 
 
 "Oh, it isn t the cafe side of it," Claire protested; 
 "it s the ... the .. ." 
 
 "The Greek side of it, eh? Well, as a matter 
 of fact, Robson, I guess a Greek cafe ain t any worse 
 than what my little friend calls one of them gilded 
 vice-cages. . . . And even at that, any girl who 
 lasted six weeks in the private office of Sawyer 
 Flint, Esquire, has run up against as much fancy 
 roller-skating as she s apt to. If you managed to 
 keep your balance on a slippery floor like that, 
 I guess you ll be good for a spin on the asphalt 
 pavement any day in the week. It may be a little 
 bit rougher, but it ain t a bit more dangerous. In 
 fact, I shouldn t wonder whether there wasn t a 
 good deal more elbow room." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead leaned back again and closed 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 her eyes. Claire was silent. There was no logi 
 cal answer to her friend s shrewd estimate, but 
 prejudice dies hard and Claire was still in the bond 
 age of a vague distrust for the unknown. 
 
 "Good Lord! I know how you feel!" Miss White- 
 head went on with a sudden genial air of under 
 standing. I remember when I had my first Italian 
 dinner at Lombardi s. I thought the man who 
 invited me had a grudge against my appetite. 
 Honest, in those days if you mentioned spaghetti 
 most folks thought you were talking about a deadly 
 disease. And now ..." Nellie Whitehead fin 
 ished with an eloquent and descriptive sweep of 
 hands. 
 
 Claire put a thoughtful finger to her lips and was 
 silent. After all, what did it matter where she 
 worked or what she did? She felt a dangerous 
 indifference, a negative contempt for life. 
 
 "I guess you re right," she said, finally, with a 
 sudden hardening of voice that made Nellie White- 
 head look up quickly. "One can get accustomed 
 to almost anything. Where did you say the cafe 
 was?" 
 
 Claire went next morning before nine o clock 
 to look up the Greek cafe on Third Street. It 
 was a raw, blustering, traditional March day, and 
 she pulled her shabby cloak about her in a vain 
 attempt to shut out a chill which seemed somehow 
 to be clutching at her very heart. It was years 
 since she had ventured south of Market, and she 
 was surprised to find its old atmosphere quite van 
 ished. She remembered the section of the town 
 
 174 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 beyond Mission Street as a squalid mass of tumble 
 down houses out of which issued a perennial stream 
 of shawl-cloaked women carrying empty white 
 pitchers to the nearest corner grocery and retracing 
 their steps with the pitchers half hidden in the folds 
 of the aforesaid shawls, from which dripped be 
 traying flecks of foam. Third Street was now by 
 no means an opulent thoroughfare, but it had the 
 virtue of a certain cheap newness. The frowsy 
 women were no more. It was undeniably a street 
 of men, stretching out in a succession of lodging- 
 houses, saloons, and cheap eating-places. Past 
 Howard Street the Greek coffee-houses began. 
 Claire looked in at them curiously. In the drowse 
 of morning they seemed very lifeless and still. 
 She noted, as she passed, the prim rows of marble- 
 topped tables with their old-fashioned call-bells 
 for signaling the waiter, the window-plants turning 
 sickly green faces toward the sun, the line of Ori 
 ental water-pipes setting in their racks over the 
 coffee-shelves. One cafe seemed very much like 
 another, and in spite of the extreme simplicity of 
 their equipment they contrived to shed an air 
 fascinating and strange. 
 
 Claire hurried on, eager to be through with the 
 suspense of this plunge into bizarre life which she 
 could not realize would ever be her portion. She 
 was carrying the whole thing through in a spirit 
 of bravado, and she was conscious that her hopes 
 leaned unmistakably toward finding the position 
 filled or her qualifications not up to the mark. 
 Her glimpses into the coffee-houses led her to expect 
 that the cafe she was in search of might be some 
 
 i7S 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 such place. She was surprised then to come upon 
 a totally different institution in the shape of what 
 appeared to be a saloon as she halted before the 
 number that corresponded to the address on the 
 card she was carrying. Cafe Ithaca she read 
 the sign twice before venturing through the swinging 
 doors. 
 
 A long mahogany-colored bar ran the full length 
 of the room; small tables fully set for a meal filled 
 the rest of the floor space. Claire decided at once 
 upon retreat. But suddenly at the back of the 
 room a green curtain parted and a man came toward 
 her. He had a pale, round face and a mass of 
 black hair that reminded Claire of pictures of John 
 the Baptist. 
 
 "I am looking for the proprietor," Claire began, 
 desperately. 
 
 The man brought his right hand toward his 
 heart, letting his head fall in salutation. Claire 
 took courage. 
 
 "I understand ... it seems you are looking 
 for a pianist." The man stared and bowed again. 
 "To play, . . . Do you understand ... I play?" 
 She began instinctively to make the proper de 
 scriptive motions with her fingers. 
 
 "Ah, yes! Thank you . . . thank you!" The 
 man continued to keep his hand over his heart 
 and to bow deeply. 
 
 The sound of hammering floated from the space 
 screened by the green curtains. The man called 
 to some one. A waiter appeared. The two con 
 versed long and volubly. Finally the waiter, turn 
 ing to Claire, said, in excellent English: 
 
 176 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Mr. Lycurgus does not understand very well. 
 What is it you want?" 
 
 "I hear he is looking for a pianist," Claire re 
 turned. 
 
 "Oh yes. In the back . . . the piano is there." 
 
 The three passed through the screened opening 
 and Claire found herself in a huge room still in the 
 process of being put into shape as a cafe in the 
 American fashion. 
 
 "Mr. Lycurgus," the waiter explained to Claire, 
 "is fixing up a swell place here. He bought a piano 
 yesterday. After a while, when he gets a permit, 
 we shall have dancing. We want now somebody 
 to play . . . from six o clock to twelve." 
 
 Claire sat down to the piano. It was new and had 
 a good tone. She ran over a simple negro melody. 
 The proprietor smiled and bowed again. "Thank 
 you! Thank you!" he kept repeating. Then he 
 and the waiter began to talk again. Claire waited. 
 . . . She had to admit that the prospects were not 
 so terrible. And she rather liked Mr. Lycurgus 
 with his sweeping and naive bows and his thick 
 clustering black hair. 
 
 Finally the waiter turned to her and said: 
 
 "Do you sing?" 
 
 "Yes ... a little." And she made good her 
 words with a sentimental trifle that her mother had 
 taught her years ago. 
 
 The waiter and the proprietor talked again. 
 
 "He thinks you will do, and he will pay you 
 twenty dollars a week," the waiter finally an 
 nounced. 
 
 Claire rose from the piano stool. 
 177 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Thank you . . . thank you!" said the pro 
 prietor. 
 
 "Thank you replied Claire, at a loss for any 
 thing better to say. 
 
 "Can you begin to-night?" 
 
 Claire hesitated. "Yes," she answered. 
 
 And as she said it she had a feeling that she 
 suddenly had been transported miles from all the 
 familiar scenes and faces that had previously made 
 up her life. 
 
 She returned to the cafe promptly at six o clock. 
 But on this first night there was really nothing to 
 do. The carpenters were still busily laying a tiny 
 hardwood dancing-floor and a smell of fresh paint 
 enveloped everything. Claire contented herself 
 with sitting idly at the piano and peering through 
 the green-curtained entrance into the saloon. The 
 situation was still an extraordinary one for her and 
 she had not yet grasped it. The tables in the sa 
 loon proper were crowded with diners, all men, 
 and a huge orchestrion was grinding out strange 
 and unfamiliar melodies. She was not near enough 
 to get any estimate of the diners as individuals, 
 but she had to confess that the composite impres 
 sion they made was far from unpleasant. They 
 ate frankly and with despatch as men in groups, 
 undisturbed by feminine companionship, do the 
 world over. She noticed two things particularly 
 they all had extraordinary thick black hair and 
 their white teeth flashed pleasantly when they 
 smiled. 
 
 At eight o clock the proprietor came in and stood 
 178 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 before her. The waiter was behind him. Mr. 
 Lycurgus in halting English was inviting her to 
 have something to eat. She was not hungry, 
 but she decided to see what sort of cheer the Cafe 
 Ithaca provided. 
 
 The waiter cleared away some tools which the 
 workmen had scattered on a side-table and began 
 to lay the cloth. Claire sat down and Mr. Lycurgus 
 took a place opposite her. Anchovies and ripe 
 olives with a bitter but fascinating taste came first, 
 followed by a delicious soup flavored with lemon. 
 Claire began to feel hungry. The waiter explained 
 the ingredients of the soup to her as she was fin 
 ishing the last mouthful. 
 
 "Chicken broth and the white of egg with paste 
 and a dash of lemon," he announced. Then he 
 set a huge portion of boiled lamb before her, 
 stewed up with rice and lettuce leaves. It was plain 
 that they were providing something extra in the 
 way of fare for her. 
 
 Mr. Lycurgus, who had eaten earlier in the 
 evening, seemed to be keeping her company from 
 a sense of naive and charming hospitality. Claire 
 tried to think of what to say to him. Finally she 
 hit upon a subject. 
 
 "What part of Greece do you come from?" she 
 asked. 
 
 He was uncertain as to her question, but the 
 waiter translated it quickly. Mr. Lycurgus began 
 to talk. Claire did not understand one-half of 
 what he was saying, but she was conscious that 
 she had struck the proper note. He had come 
 from Athens, he explained to her, and immediately 
 
 179 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 he launched into lyrical praise of his native city. 
 X^laire assumed an air of interest, asked more 
 questions. The waiter brought salad, and fried 
 chicken, and a curd cheese, and finally a cup of 
 thick Turkish coffee. Mr. Lycurgus was called 
 outside to join some patrons in a drink. He left 
 Claire with his hand upon his heart and his head 
 thrown forward in a suggestion of perfect sur 
 render that was almost Oriental. The waiter also 
 grew friendly. It appeared that he came from the 
 mountain districts of Greece from shepherd stock. 
 He described the Greek mountains to her. 
 
 "Birds and flowers and sweet smells!" he told 
 her. He had been a bootblack in New York, at 
 first. But he liked San Francisco better. He 
 talked about America and democracy. 
 
 "We Greeks, you understand, we come from a 
 free people." And he began to revive the glories 
 of ancient Greece. It was plain to Claire that 
 these people were living in retrospection, harking 
 back to a racial past very much in the fashion of 
 her mother trying to gather warmth from the mem 
 ory of a former opulence. 
 
 Claire rose from the table, amazed at the extent 
 of the meal which she had been tempted to eat. 
 But it had all been so frank and friendly and lack 
 ing any savor of condescension. She did not make 
 the mistake of fancying that just this thing would 
 be a regular occurrence, but there was a certain 
 beauty about the humanness of this welcome that 
 had been given her, as if the rite of breaking bread 
 had suddenly made her a part of a large family. 
 
 Since there was nothing to do, she left early, 
 1 80 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 at ten o clock. The waiter followed her to the 
 door. 
 
 "In a day or two things will be different," he 
 assured her. 
 
 "What is your name?" she asked. 
 
 4 Demetrio the same as Jimmy. He threw back 
 his head, smiling. 
 
 She said good night and started off. Third Street 
 was crowded. There was scarcely a woman in 
 sight. Men, men everywhere. And yet she felt 
 not the slightest fear. All evening she had felt 
 detached, remote, cut off from the past, as one is 
 cut off from a familiar view by a sharp turn in the 
 road. But as she swung into Market Street and 
 crossed over to the north side again the chill of 
 reality swept over her. She was coming back to 
 familiar scenes, familiar problems, familiar griefs. 
 She began to think about her mother s hopeless 
 condition, the fact that Mrs. Finnegan was pre 
 paring to move away. 
 
 "She s tired of having mother on her hands so 
 often," flashed through Claire s mind. "She s 
 moving to get out of it gracefully. Why did I per 
 mit such a thing?" 
 
 Her cheeks burned with the shame of it. She 
 would have to talk to Nellie Whitehead about get 
 ting some one to come in and sit with her mother 
 at night. Nellie Whitehead would know of some 
 body ; she always was equal to any emergency. . . . 
 She needed to have her shoes resoled, and her 
 gloves were in a dreadful state. Well, fortunately, 
 she would not have to keep up much of an ap 
 pearance now. Twenty dollars a week eighty 
 
 181 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 dollars a month she began to lay out plans for 
 its expenditure. She owed two months to the 
 butcher, and even the grocery bill had been long 
 overdue. And there was Nellie Whitehead she 
 should have paid Nellie back. But there seemed 
 always to have been something else more pressing. 
 She thought all these things out swiftly, darting 
 from one subject to another in a feverish anxiety 
 to fill her mind with food for impersonal thought. 
 
 When she got home she found a letter awaiting 
 her. It bore a special-delivery stamp and the en 
 velope was in Stillman s handwriting. She felt 
 suddenly weak and she sat down. . . . She sat 
 staring at the envelope a long time before she gath 
 ered courage to open it. When she did, a thin blue 
 slip of paper fluttered out. It was a check for 
 twenty dollars, payment for the last week she had 
 spent in Stillman s service. There was no other 
 word from him, just this brief symbol of what his 
 decision was in regard to her. 
 
 She rose to her feet. She did not move, she stood 
 staring ahead. . . . 
 
 Presently she heard her mother call. She started 
 guiltily. 
 
 "Wliat am I wasting time here for?" she asked 
 herself, with a strange fierceness. She saw Still 
 man s blue check lying on the table. She caught 
 it up and tore it into bits. 
 
 Her mother s voice sounded again, this time 
 querulously. 
 
 Claire Robson pushed her sagging hair from her 
 forehead and went into her mother s room. 
 
 182 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 MRS. FINNEGAN moved on the first of April. 
 Claire, having by this time decided that 
 she was more or less committed to her new life, got 
 track of a Miss Proll, a middle-aged seamstress, 
 who went out by the day, to come and occupy the 
 little hall bedroom, so that Mrs. Robson was no 
 longer alone in the house nights. 
 
 Claire had been ten days at the Cafe Ithaca and 
 the experiment was losing its strangeness. There 
 had been very little piano-playing to do. The 
 new rooms at the rear of the saloon were an experi 
 ment that the regular patrons of the cafe had not 
 yet accepted enthusiastically, and the looked-for 
 patronage from the bastard American bohemian- 
 ism was still a matter of hope and conjecture. The 
 regular diners clung rather shyly to their old 
 quarters opposite the bar, and Claire had to be 
 content with making a long-range estimate of 
 them. But she grew more and more friendly with 
 Jimmy, and even Lycurgus got beyond the point 
 of clasping his right hand over his heart every time 
 he approached her. 
 
 Obviously the Cafe Ithaca was not one of the 
 ordinary Greek cafes that vice-crusaders railed 
 against. Claire discovered this quite early. To 
 
 183 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a superficial observer the Ithaca was nothing more 
 nor less than an American saloon, and, as such, was 
 too well established an institution to merit sensa 
 tional disclosures. But it was the cafes in which 
 the men of the quarter gather to drink coffee, and 
 almond or cherry soda, and to listen to "out 
 landish" music, that aroused the suspicion of Puri 
 tans. To their line of reasoning Greeks who drank 
 in saloons were frankly immoral; those who hid 
 behind a screen of sweetened coffee and innocuous 
 syrups were immoral in a subtle and dangerous way 
 that challenged all the resources of virtue. As a 
 matter of fact, the spectacle of full-grown men in 
 dulging in any pleasure so innocent as coffee-drink 
 ing without being coerced into it was quite too much 
 of an affront for those who won virtue only at the 
 point of battle. Indeed, even Claire had something 
 of this same distrust as she nightly passed these 
 masculine forgathering places and caught glimpses 
 through the unscreened windows of men dancing 
 together between tables with strange solemnity. 
 She, too, had her suspicions, very much in the man 
 ner of an adult who finds an unexplainable childish 
 silence cause for distrust. Her training and her 
 own experiences had confirmed her in the faith 
 that males either singly or in groups were not to 
 be lightly regarded. But she was willing to con 
 cede one point which most of the others left out 
 she was not sure that she saw any essential differ 
 ences between these swarthy males who found 
 grenadine syrup or coffee to their taste and the less 
 vivid masculine bipeds who pretended that ice 
 cream and layer cake was an exciting experience. 
 
 184 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 And she remembered having seen the same side 
 long glances directed at the young women serving 
 refreshments at a church social that she saw nightly 
 cast at the waitresses who placed little cups of 
 sweetened coffee upon the cold marble-topped 
 tables of the Greek cafes. 
 
 It was in her midnight walks through the quarter 
 that Claire got the rush of sudden new lights and 
 values. Alone on the streets after twelve o clock 
 was a new experience, but any timidity was swal 
 lowed up in the sense of personal freedom which 
 she seemed to achieve. She could have boarded 
 a car almost from the Ithaca s doors, and, by trans 
 ferring, arrived at her Clay Street flat without 
 taking more than a dozen steps; but on the first 
 night she had overlooked this possibility and the 
 habit of walking up to Market Street became fixed. 
 In this brief flight she saw not only men, but men 
 of every conceivable stamp and condition. And 
 it struck her how unified these masculine types 
 were, how little they differed in the mass from men 
 that previously she had seen detached, or super 
 ficially divided, from their kind by the varied in 
 trusions of women. It seemed to her now that 
 the other sex presented a solid front which 
 womankind was always attempting to break 
 through, and retreating sooner or later, according 
 to the vigor of the masculine defense. For she had a 
 sudden conviction that each woman battled singly 
 and alone, but that men somehow braced themselves 
 collectively for the struggle. Men were not really 
 ever vanquished a solitary man falling by the 
 wayside did not spell defeat for the main body. 
 13 185 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 But women somehow women were always routed, 
 routed as a whole because they insisted on playing 
 the game in solitary aloofness. She found men 
 presenting this same unbroken front to all the tilts 
 of fortune and women as consistently attempting 
 to hold every trick of fate at bay single-handed. 
 But what she could not determine was the relative 
 values of these contrasting attitudes, which was 
 the more soul-stirring performance. 
 
 At the beginning of the second week of Claire s 
 new life, a handful of the Cafe Ithaca s regular 
 patrons, wishing to indulge in a little celebration, 
 ordered a table laid in the new dining-room. This 
 broke the ice, and there followed no end of dinners 
 and banquets and evening suppers. But so far the 
 patrons were confined to residents of the Greek 
 quarter, and it puzzled Claire to discover that 
 there were never by any chance women present. 
 She questioned Jimmy about this. 
 
 "Greek women stay home," he replied, emphati 
 cally. 
 
 Claire had begun by playing simple and sprightly 
 things on the piano. The patrons responded by 
 applauding her politely, but she could see that they 
 were really not finding her offerings entertaining. 
 When the wheezy orchestrion started up with Greek 
 airs they were much more alert and appreciative. 
 She gave an ear to these melodies, and one night 
 she surprised a company of diners by picking out 
 the national anthem on the piano. The result was 
 unexpected. She was bombarded by a shower of 
 silver coins mostly half-dollar pieces. She rose in 
 her seat, bowing her thanks for the applause, while 
 
 186 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Jimmy scrambled after the coins and Lycurgus 
 came forward with his hand over his heart. She 
 drew back with a gesture of instinctive refusal as 
 Jimmy poured the money upon the keyboard of 
 the piano. But she ended by accepting it there 
 seemed nothing else to do. 
 
 After this she mastered other Greek airs. She 
 learned in time all the slow, melancholy melodies 
 that never failed to set the feet of dancers shuffling. 
 And upon the tiny hardwood floor that had been 
 laid in the hope of luring rag-time patrons to the 
 Cafe Ithaca there was nightly a handful of men 
 moving with graceful precision in the steps of their 
 ancient folk-dances. Jimmy, smiling his satisfaction 
 at Claire, would lean over the piano and say: 
 
 "Look, Miss Robson! Now they are dancing 
 an old shepherd dance. They have danced it so 
 in my part of the country for the last thousand 
 years. It is a dance of greeting. The two men 
 have not seen each other for five years." 
 
 Thus it was with everything symbols running 
 through the every-day experiences of these people 
 like a thread of gold through the woof and warp of 
 some drab garment. They were a people not only 
 living in a past, but carrying this past with them 
 as they stormed the outposts of modern life, and 
 for all their naive Christian piety, which they seemed 
 to practise with a comfortable emotional fervor, 
 they had retained the courage to meet the deposed 
 gods of another day with a friendly and affectionate 
 smile. They still danced the old pagan dances on 
 feast-days of the saints, and ranged pictures of the 
 gods side by side with the holy icons of the church. 
 
 187 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire was in a mood to appreciate all these 
 strange experiences; they removed her so completely 
 from all the soul-crushing memories that were ever 
 struggling to fasten themselves upon her. And 
 every night when the street-car crossed over to the 
 south side of the city she shed her cares like one 
 dropping a dripping coat upon the threshold of a 
 warm room. Between the hours of six and twelve 
 she gathered courage from forgetfulness. But, 
 although she had entered more or less gracefully 
 into the demands of this new life, there were times 
 when the clutch of custom still laid its hand upon 
 her. For one thing, she could never quite get 
 used to her Sunday night appearance at the cafe. 
 This setting of Sunday as a day different and apart 
 was too much of an instinct to be lightly dismissed. 
 It had been one of Mrs. Robson s pet hobbies. 
 
 "Why should I go to the theater or dance on 
 Sunday?" Claire remembered hearing her mother 
 argue time and again with Mrs. Finnegan. "I can 
 do those things any other day in the week." 
 
 Claire had a feeling that her mother s convictions 
 upon this matter had become largely a question 
 of good form rather than of religious belief. She 
 knew in her own case that she could find no logic 
 with which to bolster her emphatic distaste for 
 this cafe life on Sunday night, and yet it was only 
 another proof of the inflexibility of custom. 
 
 There were times, too, when she would halt 
 before the swinging doors of the Cafe Ithaca, in 
 capable of realizing that she, Claire Robson, was 
 a cafe entertainer in the Greek quarter. At these 
 moments she could not imagine anything more 
 
 188 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 removed from the hopes or even the fears which 
 she had held for her future. In her glimpses into 
 life with Stillman and Lily Condor, from the lofty 
 vantage-ground of prejudice, she had looked down 
 upon these women who sang or danced or played 
 their way into the torpid affections of an eating 
 and drinking public. Once at the conclusion of 
 an indifferent concert, Stillman had whirled Claire 
 and Mrs. Condor and Edington out to one of the 
 beach resorts. Claire had been struck by all the 
 tawdry gaiety of that evening, the flagging spirits 
 of the dancers reinforced by sloppy highballs, the 
 rattle and bang of the "jazz" orchestra, the rapa 
 cious horde of entertainers moving from table to 
 table, wrestling dimes and quarters and half-dollars 
 from the open-handed assembly. She recalled the 
 contemptuous way in which the silver gratuities 
 were flung at what seemed to Claire these profes 
 sional fawners. 
 
 Her impulse to refuse the money that had been 
 hurled at her on that night when she had essayed 
 the Greek national anthem carried the sting of 
 memories with it. But there was something open- 
 hearted and childlike about this latter performance 
 that robbed it of unpleasantness. 
 
 She was looking forward with more or less trepi 
 dation to the day when the San Francisco public 
 in its search for a new sensation would swoop down 
 upon the Cafe Ithaca. In a flash she saw all the 
 beach-resort atmosphere duplicated the wine- 
 blowsy dancers, the loose-jointed music, the shower 
 of small change falling significantly at the feet of 
 red-lipped entertainers. Already she had received 
 
 189 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a preliminary warning of its approach from Nellie 
 Whitehead. 
 
 "Don t be surprised, Robson, if you see me and 
 Billy Holmes skate into your joint some night. 
 Billy knows a young Greek doctor. He promised 
 to blow himself for a dinner in our honor any time 
 we say the word. You d better bone up on your 
 rag-time. We don t know any Greek shepherd 
 dances." 
 
 Claire took the hint and "boned up" on her 
 rag-time or, rather, began for the first time in 
 her life really to attempt to play it. And one night, 
 true to her word, Nellie Whitehead came. Early 
 in the evening a table had been set for four, and 
 Lycurgus had gone to the flower-stands in front 
 of Lotta s fountain and bought pink and white 
 carnations for a centerpiece. Claire had wondered 
 at the reason for all this special preparation, but 
 she made no inquiries. Nellie Whitehead breezed 
 in at about seven without any escort. 
 
 "Why don t they have a decent sign out? I 
 almost went by the place," she railed, as she re 
 leased Claire from a hearty embrace. "The men 
 will be here in a minute. But I came on ahead for 
 a chat. It s that doctor I was telling you about 
 . . . he s giving the feed. He isn t a Greek at 
 all ... he s a Serbian or something. But, good 
 Lord! What s the difference? They all look alike 
 to me. Only, this one seems more human ... his 
 hair doesn t fuzz out as much as some of them. . . . 
 The fourth place? Why, that s been set for you! 
 . . . You can t spare the time? Now, don t you 
 worry, little one; it s all been arranged. This 
 
 190 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 doctor fellow has some kind of a pull with the man 
 agement. If he wants the head entertainer to dine 
 with him, all he has to do is to say so." 
 
 "A Serbian!" Claire found herself mentally ex 
 claiming. "Can it be possible that ..." 
 
 And true to the commonplace and thoroughly 
 unexplainable thing called chance" it was possible. 
 For when Billy Holmes arrived at seven- thirty 
 with his Serbian friend, Dr. George Danilo, Claire 
 felt herself scarcely surprised, although for a mo 
 ment she grew suddenly cold. 
 
 Claire had never met Billy Holmes, but she knew 
 him by sight a bluff, genial, open-handed man 
 with hair thinning about the temples and a rather 
 swaggering walk. He was just the proper foil for 
 Danilo s thick-haired, beetle-browed, red-lipped 
 personality. 
 
 After the first chill of surprise, Claire somehow 
 recovered herself. She wondered whether Danilo 
 remembered that tense moment six months ago 
 when he had pulled his audience out of a slough of 
 indifference by fixing his passionate gaze upon her. 
 She had an impulse to ask, but there was something 
 vaguely disturbing about him. Was she fasci 
 nated, or repelled, or overwhelmed? She gave it 
 up. But sitting opposite him, so close that she 
 could have touched his hand if she had dared, she 
 grew to feel that when he smiled nothing else really 
 mattered. It was plain that Lycurgus was his 
 abject slave. 
 
 As the dinner progressed, Claire found that she 
 was to be relieved of her post at the piano by the 
 continuous rumblings of the orchestrion. Between 
 
 191 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 courses, Nellie Whitehead and Billy Holmes danced, 
 while Claire and the doctor talked that is, she 
 let him talk about himself and his work and 
 his native land. It was this last topic that flamed 
 him most completely. Claire listened parted- 
 lipped as he poured out the history of Serbia s 
 wrongs. He pictured his country ravaged, broken, 
 desolate, buffeted like a shuttlecock between the 
 rackets of fate. His own people were scattered 
 like chaff. His mother he merely raised his 
 hand at the mention of her name and let it fall 
 again. 
 
 Boldly, with swift, sure strokes, he gave her 
 glimpses of far-flung horizons, community griefs, 
 national sorrows, the bleeding of people en masse. 
 She had experienced something of this before, six 
 months ago, when he had harangued the Second 
 Presbyterian Church into grudging applause, but 
 now, to-night, he was within reach, warm and 
 personal and palpitant. 
 
 "I am going back ... in the fall ... to ... 
 to . . ." 
 
 He stopped, fumbling for the proper word, as 
 one not to the language born sometimes does. , 
 
 She felt a great courage sweep over her. She 
 wanted him to remember. 
 
 "Yes," she cried, "I know! To a blood-red 
 dawn! You are going back to a blood-red dawn!" 
 
 How he smiled! "Ah," escaped him. "Then 
 you remembered, too! . . . You were the only 
 one at first in the whole room who listened. ... I 
 had never spoken to quite such a crowd before. . . . 
 I saw you twice . . . after. Once you were danc- 
 
 192 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ing. The second time you were alone ... in a 
 doorway. . . . But to-night, here ... I was not 
 prepared to find you here and so . . ." 
 
 She was both pleased and annoyed. Why had 
 she not waited for him to spur he? memory? 
 
 Presently Lycurgus brought champagne. It ap 
 peared that this was a very special date, al 
 though every one had forgotten it except the 
 Greek. 
 
 "A year ago . . . thank you . . . thank you 
 ... a year ago is the war for America." 
 
 "A year ago since we went into the war!" ex 
 claimed some one. "Can it be possible?" 
 
 There followed toasts to Greece, and Serbia, and 
 America, and President Wilson, and finally to 
 Danilo. 
 
 "That Danilo," Lycurgus informed the party 
 "that Danilo he saved my life. Now he can have 
 everything I own. If I were dead, nothing would 
 be of any use. So now I give him everything . . . 
 you understand ? everything ! 
 
 Claire stared she was not yet accustomed to 
 the Oriental extravagances which crept so naturally 
 into the speech of Lycurgus. 
 
 Altogether it was a happy time, in spite of the 
 shadow of world-wide tragedy that lay in wait just 
 beyond the truant light of personal cheer. 
 
 "You ve made a hit, Robson!" Nellie Whitehead 
 assured her at the conclusion of the evening. But 
 how in Heaven s name could you listen to all that 
 Serbia stuff? . . . Dope about the little, old U. S. A. 
 is good enough for me. . . . But say, he isn t so 
 bad-looking. If I didn t have Billy on my staff I 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 do believe ..." She finished with a wink and 
 gave Claire a playful shove. 
 
 On her way home that night Claire said to her 
 self, Til have to look up some books on Serbia 
 at the library." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 TWO days after Nellie Whitehead s invasion of 
 the Cafe Ithaca a group of insurance special 
 agents came for dinner. There were six of them 
 in the party and they were accompanied by as 
 many women. Calling loudly for Lycurgus, the 
 spokesman of the party explained their wishes: 
 
 "The same kind of a feed that you gave our 
 friend Holmes the other night, and all the fancy 
 drinks. . . . You know us!" 
 
 Mr. Lycurgus bowed deeply and began to scurry 
 about. Claire started a tune on the piano. 
 
 "Oh, none of that sad stuff!" called out one of 
 the party. "Give us a little jazz!" 
 
 Claire obeyed to the best of her ability. They 
 scrambled up and began to dance. Appetizers 
 were brought. . . . They downed them greedily 
 and called for more. 
 
 "Give us another dance while we re waiting," 
 they demanded of Claire. 
 
 She sat at her post all evening, grinding out 
 tunes. The party continued to eat and drink and 
 dance until long past eleven o clock. As they were 
 leaving one of the men threw Claire a dollar. It 
 would have been quite as easy for him to have 
 walked over and laid it on the piano. But he 
 threw it at her instead and Claire remembered again 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the beach resorts and the contemptuously flung 
 bits of silver. 
 
 " She s a rotten jazz-player at that!" she heard 
 one of the women say as the party opened the side 
 door and disappeared, followed by the bobbing 
 figure of Lycurgus. 
 
 Jimmy was in great spirits. 
 
 "This is the life eh, Miss Robson? I cleaned 
 up nearly two dollars. These countrymen of yours 
 they spend the money ! Now we shall see plenty 
 of good times." 
 
 For two or three days a reaction set in and Jimmy 
 was disconsolate. As for Claire, she found herself 
 welcoming the return to the simpler life of the 
 quarter. Already she was resenting the intrusion 
 of the outside world. But Saturday night another 
 crop of San Franciscans in search of novelty made 
 the acquaintance of the Cafe Ithaca, and after that 
 there was no stemming the tide. 
 
 Gradually the Greek patrons retired to their 
 former positions in the old barroom, the Greek 
 tunes on the orchestrion were discarded for popu 
 lar successes from the vaudeville houses, and the 
 thin line of men dancing symbolically upon the 
 maple floor as Claire played for them became 
 almost a memory. 
 
 Mr. Lycurgus began to talk about hiring enter 
 tainers, enlarging the dancing-space, getting in an 
 orchestra. Claire figured on dismissal. She knew 
 that as a rag-time performer she was not a success, 
 and her only wonder was that Lycurgus did not 
 let her go at once. She voiced her fears to Jimmy 
 one day. 
 
 196 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Oh, you should worry!" was Jimmy s comment 
 as he flicked a fly with his towel. "The boss he 
 likes you!" 
 
 Claire smiled. She- was becoming accustomed 
 to these naive and simple explanations of conduct. 
 Lycurgus liked her and therefore he would con 
 tinue to retain her. The question of ability was 
 secondary. Lycurgus liked her because she asked 
 him questions about his native land and listened 
 when he answered, because she had learned the 
 Greek anthem on the piano, because she had played 
 peasant dances for his countrymen. The Greek 
 patrons liked her for the same reason, and it was 
 no longer a novelty for her to see Jimmy coming 
 toward her with slices of sesame seed and honey, 
 or a bit of sugar-dusted pastry for her delight, the 
 gift of one of the diners on the other side of the 
 green curtains. 
 
 She had heard in former days such slighting refer 
 ences to the morality of foreigners in general that 
 she was surprised to find how contemptuously some 
 of these Greek patrons of the Cafe Ithaca referred 
 to American women. There was no mistaking the 
 quality of the smiles which they threw after the 
 spectacle of men who permitted their wives to 
 indulge in public dancing. 
 
 "In my country," Jimmy had explained to her, 
 "we do not even touch a woman s hand when we 
 dance with her. We give her the end of our hand 
 kerchief instead of our fingers." 
 
 And another time he said : 
 
 "What is the matter with American mothers, 
 Miss Robson? Last night my wife found a boy 
 
 197 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 and girl sitting on our door-steps long after ten 
 o clock. She opened the door and said to them, 
 Have you no home? It is like that all over. 
 Young girls go about like men. I do not think 
 that is right!" 
 
 Claire found herself blushing, and at once she 
 remembered the eager social - settlement worker 
 who had pleaded before the Home Missionary 
 Society for funds * to help these wards of the nation 
 to a keener appreciation of our institutions." She 
 wondered what the effect would be if Jimmy were 
 to address this organization. 
 
 One night, exhausted by six hours of continuous 
 playing for a hilarious crowd of Americans, Claire 
 crept into one of the coffee-houses and sat down. 
 She was really too tired to go home, and, besides, 
 she had a sudden desire for contrasts while the 
 atmosphere which her own kind had brought to 
 the Greek quarter was already fresh. The ap 
 pearance of a woman in the coffee-house, other 
 than the waitresses, was unusual, but Claire was 
 surprised to find only the most casual of glances 
 directed her way. A man waited on her. She 
 ordered Turkish coffee. On a raised platform an 
 orchestra was performing; in the clear space just 
 below a half-dozen men were dancing one of the 
 folk-dances Claire was beginning to know so well. 
 The music had the sad, minor quality of highland 
 music the world over, and in addition there was 
 an Oriental strain which recalled certain themes 
 that Rimsky-Korsokov had captured and woven 
 into the Scheherazade suite. On the ochestrion 
 at the Cafe Ithaca these tunes had been more or 
 
 198 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 less clipped of their wild freedom adapted to the 
 scale of another set of musical conventions, and 
 Claire had sensed their novelty, but not their lack 
 of precise musical form. Even to-night Claire 
 thought not only the music, but the way in which 
 it was presented, quite outlandish, but as she sat 
 sipping her sweetened coffee the notes and the 
 rhythm gradually assumed a coherence, and un 
 consciously her own feet began to tap the floor. 
 
 She looked about the room. It was crowded 
 and the air was thick with cigarette smoke and the 
 odd, pungent aroma from the Oriental water-pipes. 
 Claire had studied Greek history in her high-school 
 days, and she had always held a classical picture 
 of Greek life flowing garments, marble courtyards, 
 gods and goddesses made flesh. It came to her 
 sharply, as she sat in the coffee-house, that the real 
 flavor had a distinct tang of the Orient and that 
 the picture spread before her was more suggestive 
 of the Arabian Nights than anything else she could 
 call to mind. She tried to fancy the men about 
 her clothed in soft silks, with jeweled turbans on 
 their heads and slippers curving into sharp points. 
 One of the musicians began to sing in a low, mo 
 notonous, whining voice, striking the strings of his 
 zither-like instrument with long, graceful strokes. 
 A girl bearing a tray of grenadine syrup and a box 
 of cigars passed her table. This girl had features 
 extraordinarily regular, and her skin was very clear 
 and firm and provocative. Claire could see that 
 she was a favorite and that she left a vague unrest 
 in her wake. 
 
 "This," flashed through her mind, "is the danger 
 199 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 that they speak of. This is the sort of thing that 
 makes these coffee-houses . . ." 
 
 Abruptly she stopped the course of her thoughts. 
 The memory of Flint s office suddenly recurred. 
 She pictured this girl in a business environment. 
 
 "It would be the same!" she finished to herself, 
 shrugging as she did so. 
 
 And she became aware that the girl was some 
 thing of a danger herself, in a fascinating, ruthless, 
 primitive way a trap set by nature for inscrutable 
 ends. She thought of herself, and a company of 
 pallid, crushed women who passed milestone after 
 milestone with the lagging footsteps that would 
 never know either victory or defeat a company 
 of wan, pallid women who went on and on without 
 even the respite of an occasional falling by the 
 wayside, women sacrificing everything, even life 
 itself, to the arid joy of standards fixed and im 
 movable. . . . The girl emptied her tray and passed 
 Claire again. This time she swaggered consciously 
 as if she realized the measure that another of her 
 kind was taking. Claire felt a sudden envy for all 
 the instinctive courage back of the challenge which 
 this palpitating creature was throwing out. She 
 leaned forward to the next table and said to a man 
 sitting there: 
 
 "This girl who has just passed ... is she Greek?" 
 
 The man rolled a cigarette insolently, and said 
 in almost the precise words of Jimmy: 
 
 "Greek? I should say not! Greek women stay 
 home!" 
 
 He looked squarely at Claire as he said it, and 
 she rose at once. 
 
 200 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "They should thank God that they have a home 
 to stay in," she said, passionately. 
 
 The man stared, shrugged, and laughed. Claire 
 went out into the street. She did not know why 
 she had spoken. The words had risen to her lips like 
 a cry of pain at the pressure of relentless ringers 
 against a new-found wound. Until this moment 
 Claire had always fancied that she had a home. 
 Now she knew that it took something more than 
 a refuge, walled in from the elements, to rise to 
 such a dignity. And in a flash she felt that this 
 mysterious and indefinable something was the 
 lattice upon which the tendrils of a woman s soul 
 climbed toward the light. It was possible, of course, 
 to push forward over the ramparts of life without 
 this aid, but it took all the vigor of a wild unfold 
 ing of the spirit. . . . She remembered very few 
 flashes of beauty in her mother s life, but those few 
 were the blossoming of efforts to create a home 
 for her child, a shield from the wind and weather 
 to only the shallow vision, but something infinitely 
 more when the surface of things was scratched. 
 Mrs. Robson s spirit had climbed the lattice of 
 her sacrifice, but it was not possible for Claire 
 to follow; like all children, she had outgrown 
 the narrow confines that had served her mother s 
 need. 
 
 The night was clear and beautiful, touched with 
 the mystery of spring. Claire fancied that the 
 crowds surging up and down Third Street seemed 
 more restless, more full of desire, more vaguely 
 hopeful of wresting soul-stirring experiences from 
 life. There were many uniforms in the crush, and 
 H 201 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 men wearing them stood out clearly, striking a 
 note of youth at once vibrant and pathetic. But 
 the older men seemed touched with a faded resig 
 nation, like spent pilgrims who see the glistening 
 spires of some holy city in a far distance which they 
 never can hope to attain. And somehow Claire s 
 youth rose up and went out to meet the vision 
 which these weary souls so poignantly glimpsed. 
 She longed herself for these far-flung, golden-topped, 
 opulent duties swimming in the purple twilight of 
 remoteness. She was tired of the drabness and 
 clutter of crowded foregrounds. Ah, how easy it 
 would be to take up a march with the ugly high 
 ways of effort veiled by the softness of a slanting 
 sun! 
 
 She was hurrying across Mission Street when 
 she felt an arm laid gently upon her shoulder. She 
 turned Danilo stood behind her, smiling. 
 
 "Ah, you are late!" he said. 
 
 "I was too tired to go home at once," she ad 
 mitted. "I dropped into one of the coffee-houses 
 to see the sights." 
 
 He stepped back to the curb. She followed him. 
 "I have my car half-way up the block," he ex 
 plained to her. "I walked to the corner to get 
 cigarettes. Which way do you go?" 
 
 She told him. 
 
 "I will take you home, then. I am going in 
 that direction myself. I am to look in on a patient 
 at the Stanford Court apartments." 
 
 "At the Stanford Court apartments?" Claire was 
 conscious that her tone betrayed a surprise bor 
 dering on incredulity. 
 
 202 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He smiled back at her indulgently as he led the 
 way to his car. "A man who got caught in an 
 automobile smash-up early this* evening. I was 
 on the spot and he has asked me to finish the matter. 
 He is rich, so I am very attentive." He laughed, 
 showing his white teeth. "I am taking him out 
 something to make him sleep, otherwise he will 
 have a bad night." 
 
 Claire forced her interest to the point of inquir 
 ing, "Was he seriously hurt?" 
 
 "Oh, not at all! He rode into a street-car and 
 got a nasty blow on the head. But, of course, 
 one can never tell. He is a countryman of yours. 
 Perhaps you have heard of him. His name is 
 Stillman." 
 
 Claire did not reply. She was surprised into 
 silence. She had fancied that the Greek quarter 
 would close the door on any vistas of her former 
 life. 
 
 "I understand that he made a million dollars 
 last week by a trick of fortune," Danilo went 
 on vivaciously. "Shares in a copper-mine ... or 
 something quite as wonderful. ... I must inter 
 est him in the cause." 
 
 "The cause? . . . What cause?" Claire inquired. 
 
 "Why why, the Serbian cause, of course! 
 You do not mean to tell me that you have forgotten 
 our talk already?" 
 
 They had reached the car, and Danilo lifted 
 Claire in. 
 
 "No, I haven t forgotten. As a matter of fact, 
 I ve been intending to look up some books on 
 Serbia." 
 
 203 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 His eyes were glowing. "No! ... Did you, 
 really? I tell you I shall bring you some books 
 to-morrow." 
 
 "If you only would! . . . Yes, I m sure that 
 would be very kind of you." 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 THE next evening when Claire arrived at the 
 Cafe Ithaca she found that the inevitable had 
 happened. Lycurgus had engaged a staff of enter 
 tainers. There were two women, a "professor" 
 who played rag on the piano, and a man with an 
 assortment of percussion instruments, including 
 drums, which he managed to manipulate with ex 
 traordinary dexterity. 
 
 " We re just trying this as a kind of lay-off," 
 explained one of the women to Claire, with pro 
 fessional hauteur. "We ve been doing all the best 
 places, and we re that worn out! What s your 
 line?" 
 
 "I play the piano," returned Claire. 
 
 The woman shifted a gilt hairpin, sweeping the 
 room as she did so with a critical glance. 
 
 "Well, I shouldn t think they d need more n 
 one good rag-player here," she announced, with 
 impartial candor. 
 
 "They don t," said Claire. "I m pretty bad 
 at it myself." 
 
 "Oh, I m sure I didn t mean nothing personal," 
 threw back the other, surprised and mollified by 
 Claire s modest claims. "I guess you must have 
 some sort of class! Otherwise you wouldn t figure 
 at all!" 
 
 205 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Jimmy explained the new condition to Claire. 
 "The boss wants you to play Greek tunes. I told 
 you not to worry." 
 
 Things moved rather furiously this first night, 
 and the noise and bang lured some of the Greek 
 patrons into the back room. The women sang 
 dreadfully the big blonde who had talked to Claire, 
 in a deafening, female baritone; the other woman 
 with the painful self-cnonsciousess of one struggling 
 to retain the remnants of a voice that had once had 
 promise. This second woman had large, appeal 
 ing brown eyes that seemed always on the verge 
 of tears, especially when she sang. 
 
 "She s got two kids and a sick sister to support," 
 Claire s blond friend volunteered during a pause 
 in the evening s entertainment. "Kit s had some 
 pretty tough goings, all right, but then I guess we 
 ain t none of us been brought up in steam-heated 
 go-carts. I ve taken three fliers at getting married 
 myself, so I ought to qualify for a certificate from 
 that old trouble school. Oh, I m nothing if not 
 game! A gentleman friend said to me only last 
 night, Say, Madge, what I like about you is that 
 you re always ready to take a chance/ And I am 
 otherwise I wouldn t be here. What rake-off 
 does the old boy give you on the drinks you sell?" 
 
 "Drinks I sell?" echoed Claire. "Why, I don t 
 sell drinks." 
 
 "Oh, come now, don t get haughty! Of course 
 you don t draw em out at the spigot. You re 
 there with the big suggestion, ain t you, when the 
 boys don t know whether to order beer or White 
 Rock?" 
 
 206 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "No, I can t say that I am. You see, we haven t 
 been running much of a cafe here so far." 
 
 "Well, I should say you haven t! You ve been 
 running a Childs restaurant. But you just watch 
 me wake em up!" And with that Madge crossed 
 over to a table in the corner where six Greeks were 
 having cognac and Turkish coffee, and she sat 
 down. . . . Presently Jimmy flew in with three 
 bottles of beer. Madge waved a triumphant hand 
 to Claire, who had just begun to play a Greek 
 shepherd dance. 
 
 "Didn t I tell you I d wake em up?" she called 
 out, gaily. 
 
 Claire saw Lycurgus coming toward her, rubbing 
 his hands with satisfaction. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Robson, that girl . . . she knows 
 how! I guess now we do a good business, eh?" 
 
 Claire threw him a warped smile as she began 
 to play. But in spite of the fact that a score or 
 more of the old patrons were within earshot, there 
 was no attempt at folk-dancing. 
 
 "This is the end!" thought Claire, as she yielded 
 her place to the "professor." 
 
 At that moment Doctor Danilo came in. 
 
 "Improvements?" he half questioned, lifting his 
 eyebrows significantly to Claire. "Let us sit down 
 and have coffee." 
 
 He had brought her two books on Serbia a brief 
 history and a sketch of modern conditions. Claire 
 bent forward attentively as he opened first one 
 and then the other, explaining the pictures, tracing 
 the war s progress on the inevitable maps. Finally 
 she said: 
 
 207 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Did you interest your patient?" 
 
 "Scarcely. He was not in good condition to 
 day. But then one never cars tell. Knocks upon 
 the head are full of possibilities. He is indifferent. 
 If he were not an American, I would think him in 
 love. But Americans, really, they never have time 
 for foolishness." 
 
 He sat with Claire until long after midnight. 
 When she arose to leave he insisted upon taking 
 her home in his car. 
 
 The next evening Madge said to her: 
 
 "No wonder you don t waste your time on the 
 other guys around here ! Folks who can make home- 
 runs don t figure on stealing any bases." 
 
 There followed a hectic period of prosperity for 
 the Cafe Ithaca. At once it seemed that everybody 
 in San Francisco knew of it and was determined 
 to lay violent hands upon its cut-to-measure gaiety. 
 The entertainers were changed rapidly. Madge 
 departed one evening in a blaze of wrath because 
 some "fresh guy" laughed at her friend Kit s pain 
 ful attempts at song. Kit threw herself upon a 
 chair in the dressing-room and sobbed her heart 
 out. 
 
 "Don t you care, Kit, he wasn t no gentleman!" 
 It had been pathetic to discover what comfort these 
 two women managed to extract from so frugal a 
 solace. 
 
 So this was the gay and frivolous life of the cafe 
 entertainer at close range! It never really had 
 occurred to Claire to fancy that most of these 
 women were meeting the responsibilities of life with 
 
 208 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a ghastly smile. Even Madge had her duties. 
 There was a crippled child in some hospital, the 
 sad spawn of a weak relation, that Madge was 
 sponsoring. Claire had heard of this quite by 
 accident one night when Madge s temper caught 
 her off guard. A party of vaudeville performers 
 had come in for a midnight frolic, and in the 
 course of the hilarity one of the women stood 
 up on her chair and sang a tear-starting ballad 
 about a gray-haired mother and a family mortgage 
 and a wayward son who seemed to continue his 
 course merely to provide a becoming background 
 for his mother s silver hair. Quantities of loose 
 change had met this effort, and the lady gathered 
 up the scant folds of her very red dress as she bent 
 over and picked up every coin, to the last penny. 
 
 "Can you beat that?" Madge had demanded 
 fiercely of Claire. "I m getting kinder tired of the 
 way Lycurgus lets this foreign talent walk away 
 with the goods. I don t care for myself, but I need 
 every extra dime I pick up." And she had ex 
 plained to Claire about this warped fragment of 
 humanity and her responsibility. "I m its god 
 mother, and I come through with all the extra 
 money I rake in." 
 
 After that Claire found the insolently flung coins 
 assuming new values. 
 
 But all the entertainers were not cast in the 
 heroic mold , of self-sacrifice. Claire discovered 
 that there was just as much heartlessness, and 
 greed, and middle-class smugness among these 
 people as there was in any other walk of life. In 
 short, Claire was learning something about the law 
 
 209 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 of average, learning to be unsurprised by a flash 
 of gold in the dullest panful, or as equally unmoved 
 when some dazzling bit proved dross. 
 
 She began to wonder how long she could stand 
 the new atmosphere of the Cafe Ithaca. There 
 was a certain irony in discovering herself on the 
 verge of rout by the intrusion of her own country 
 men. There was no doubt that a corroding in 
 fluence was eating out the simplicity of the old 
 life of the quarter. In the coffee-houses the alien 
 customs still persisted, and the men danced their 
 dances of greeting with all the old fervor, sipping 
 their grenadine syrup and Turkish coffee between- 
 times, but in the Cafe Ithaca rag-time was king, 
 and the Greeks were learning that it was neither 
 necessary nor desirable to leave untouched the 
 fingers of their female partners. 
 
 "That, in itself, means nothing," Danilo had said 
 to Claire one evening, as they sat discus sing the 
 subject; "but it is dangerous for a people to lose 
 its symbols . . . unless there is offered something 
 better, and I cannot say ..." 
 
 He swept the room with a significant glance. 
 
 Claire had to admit that nothing better had 
 been offered, nor anything quite so good. She 
 had practically nothing to do, now. Once in a 
 while some Greek asked her to play one of the old 
 folk tunes, but her efforts fell upon irresponsive 
 ears. She knew, also, that some of the entertainers 
 resented her professional aloofness. Not that she 
 consciously stood apart from them. But they 
 were quick to measure the difference in her atti 
 tude, the fact that she appeared to have very little 
 
 210 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 to do, and that she was not expected to cajole the 
 unattached male frequenters into buying drinks. 
 She could not have said just why this last service 
 was not insisted upon, now that she had so little 
 opportunity to earn her salary, but she concluded 
 it was one of those intangible situations which 
 continually put to rout the theory that cold logic 
 sways the world. Measured by every practical 
 standard, Claire should have either earned her way 
 or been dismissed; but Lycurgus for some myste 
 rious reason saw fit to ignore the claims of expedi 
 ency in Claire s case. 
 
 Danilo had become a frequent almost a nightly 
 visitor at the Cafe Ithaca. He came with books 
 for Claire, about Serbia, about the war, about the 
 place America was playing in the struggle. In 
 the intervals she contrived to learn something 
 about Stillman. His accident had kept him in 
 doors longer than the doctor had expected. It 
 appeared that these two suddenly had become 
 warm friends. 
 
 "I find he has been to my country," Danilo told 
 her one night. "He has been everywhere; but 
 why not? One must pass the time in some 
 way. . . . You are a waster, I said to him yes 
 terday." 
 
 "And what did he say to that?" Claire asked, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "He said: I am a reaction. ... I come of a 
 people who lived hard. The race is resting up 
 after the struggle. For over three hundred years 
 we have been subduing the wilderness. That is 
 why we are willing to let the others step in and do 
 
 211 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the work/ But he is not quite fair to himself, 
 now. ... I understand that he is doing great 
 things for his own government. His friends say 
 he is quite changed. ... He is a fine man. Al 
 ready I think of him as a brother." 
 
 Claire glimpsed a new Stillman in these frag 
 ments which the doctor brought her. It was the 
 man-to-man Stillman, without artifice and reserva 
 tions. And she had an added sense of masculine 
 unity, of the impenetrable circle that men draw 
 about their conduct, so far as the other sex is con 
 cerned. She found that he had been moved to even 
 deeper revelations under the sympathetic intriguing 
 of one of his own kind. He even told the doctor 
 about his wife. 
 
 1 I do not think he is a man who has many confi 
 dants," Danilo explained. "I do not know why he 
 tells these things to me. Perhaps my profession 
 has something to do with it. It is not such a great 
 step from physical to spiritual confessions. And 
 then I am really not a part of his intimate circle. 
 He has nothing to fear from finding himself betrayed 
 in his own house, so to speak. But there is one 
 thing I have not yet learned. And what is more, 
 I do not think I shall from him. There is a woman, 
 somewhere. But a man like Stillman does not 
 speak of the thing near his heart." 
 
 She felt herself tremble. The doctor leaned 
 forward. 
 
 "I am talking too much about this patient of 
 mine," he laughed. "I m stirring your imagination. 
 I keep forgetting that I have my own hand to play." 
 
 Claire drew back. His dark eyes were lit with 
 
 212 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 sudden fire. She trembled again, but this time 
 like a blade of dry grass caught in the hot wind- 
 eddies of a near-by blaze. 
 
 "Ah, doctor! You are like them all!" suddenly 
 escaped her. 
 
 11 All?" His voice quivered with indignation. 
 She had never seen any one so wounded. For a 
 moment she was stunned. She did not reply. 
 
 He rose with a quick, nervous movement. 
 
 "I must be going," he said, harshly. "A doctor, 
 you know . . . yes, a doctor s time is never his 
 
 own." 
 
 She knew that he was lying. His face had lost 
 its glowing color, his full lips had thinned. She 
 had never experienced anything like this before. 
 It was not the grossness of Flint nor the restrained 
 ardor of Stillman; it was desire charmed by the 
 hope of virtue and angered at the possibility of 
 finding this hope a mirage. And it was something 
 even more exacting than this it was desire allied 
 to egotism, a wish to be first in the field. ... So 
 it had come ... at last! It had come and she 
 felt afraid! . . . 
 
 On her way home that night she thought it all 
 over. Yes, somehow ; with joy covering her parted 
 lips tempestuously, she had the will to think calmly 
 on one point. To-morrow she would tell Danilo 
 that she knew Stillman. She must tell him. She 
 had not meant to be deceitful, but for some reason 
 it was not easy for her to discuss even casual mas 
 culine relationships with Danilo. It would be 
 hard, but she must tell him . . . everything! 
 Everything? . . . Even about that last night when 
 
 213 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 . . . Well, perhaps there were some things that 
 still belonged to her . . . some secrets that were 
 her very own. 
 
 Danilo stayed away from the Cafe Ithaca for 
 two days. He came in again, smiling. But he 
 did not mention Stillman s name, and Claire s 
 resolution to tell him that she knew his patient was 
 put to rout. Instead, he talked about Claire s 
 personal fortunes with a direct and puzzling sym 
 pathy. He wanted to know everything about 
 herself, her prospects, her mother. Claire found it 
 impossible to resent his inquisitiveness. There was 
 something bland and childlike about it. At the 
 conclusion of their talk he said : 
 
 "I should like to call on your mother, sometime. 
 Not professionally . . . just as a friend." 
 
 He arrived at the Clay Street flat the next after 
 noon. Claire had prepared her mother for the 
 visit. 
 
 "A new doctor," she had explained, without 
 going into any further details. Mrs. Robson had 
 got to a point where she asked no questions. 
 
 He stepped laughingly into Mrs. Robson s 
 cramped bedroom, and as she turned her face 
 broke into a smile. It was the first laugh and the 
 first smile that this dreary room had seen for months. 
 He talked about the weather, became interested 
 in a picture that hung on the wall, told an amusing 
 story that he had chanced upon that morning. It 
 was as if a window suddenly had been opened to 
 a cleansing breeze. 
 
 After that he came every day. He was never 
 214 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 empty-handed. He brought flowers, or sweetmeats 
 from the Greek quarter, or delicate morsels that 
 he picked up in the markets. Mrs. Robson grew 
 to watch for his coming. He called her "Little 
 Mother" in the Russian fashion. She would 
 smile warmly as she listened to him linger caress 
 ingly over this term of endearment. He seemed 
 to have the greatest respect for Mrs. Robson, but 
 he was brutally indifferent to the poor little seam 
 stress, Miss Proll, whom he ran into once or twice 
 as he was leaving the house. 
 
 "These spinsters!" he would say with scorn, 
 as she passed him on the stairs. 
 
 He seemed to concede anything to a woman 
 who had fulfilled the obligations of motherhood, but 
 he found nothing to excuse the lack. 
 
 His visits quite transformed the atmosphere of 
 the Robson household. It was incredible that ten 
 minutes a day in the thrall of a personality, hearty 
 and masculine, could so change the anemic current 
 of gloom that had encompassed these women. 
 Mrs. Robson began to take a fragmentary interest 
 in life. Indeed, if it had not been for the non 
 committal words of the doctor in answer to Claire s 
 inquiries regarding her mother s chance for im 
 provement, she would have been misled into hoping 
 for better days. 
 
 It was plain that Danilo s own hearthstone was 
 a tradition, something stretching b^ck into a misty 
 past, and that he was finding a stimulation in cross 
 ing the threshold of this far Western home. All 
 his life had been spent in wanderings. There was 
 a touch of the nomad about him. He had starved 
 
 215 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 in Paris, studied relentlessly in Berlin, and walked 
 the streets of New York penniless. He had lived 
 in hospitals, and wretched rooming-houses, and 
 cold, impersonal hotels. The first years of his youth 
 had been surrendered ruthlessly to his profession. 
 There was a shade of cruelty in the pictures which 
 he drew of his relentless ardor for learning, in those 
 soul-thirsty days. One would have thought that? 
 all these years of wandering had taken the edge 
 off any national feeling, but he seemed suddenly 
 to have flamed with the old folk-consciousness, as 
 some bare twig bursts into a white heat of bloom 
 with the coming of spring. Now all the fury that 
 moved him to assault the ramparts of learning was 
 being poured out in the prospect of personal sacri 
 fice for his native land. He was caught up in this 
 cloud of fire and transfigured. When he spoke of 
 these things Claire felt awe. She had never yet 
 beheld a man gripped by an emotional enthusiasm. 
 
 You are wondering, no doubt," he would say 
 again and again, "why I have not gone back . . . 
 before! But it seemed best ... to wait. My 
 country will need men of my profession, later. . . . 
 Later, I shall do things. I shall bind up wounds. 
 Ah, it had not been easy to persuade myself to 
 wait. It is never easy. To move with the crowd, 
 that is easy . . . even when the crowd moves to 
 certain death. But to sit and wait for your ap 
 pointed time . . . with people sneering beneath 
 their smiles ... no, that is not easy!" 
 
 Once she asked him about his parents. His 
 father, it appeared, had been a professor of Greek 
 in the university at Belgrade; his mother from 
 
 216 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 peasant stock, the daughter of a prosperous landed 
 proprietor. He seemed more proud of this peasant 
 stock than of his father s high breeding. Claire 
 was puzzled. To her American ears the very word 
 peasant savored of unequality, of a certain check 
 mated opportunity. 
 
 1 My father saw my mother during the season 
 of fruit blossoms. He was traveling through the 
 country after an illness, and my mother was stand 
 ing in her father s orchard, among the flowering 
 plum-trees. My father was no longer a young man, 
 but it was the spring of the year!" he finished, with 
 an eloquent gesture. 
 
 Now his father was dead. His mother ... he 
 did not know. He had received no tidings for 
 months. But it appeared that news of his people 
 had always been infrequent. It was not precisely 
 neglect Claire was sure that the memory of these 
 kinsfolk was always with him, something almost 
 too real and tangible to call for confirmation in the 
 shape of a formal exchange of greetings. 
 
 "Next fall, if she is still alive, I shall see this 
 mother of mine," he finished. 
 
 Claire had a picture of him enfolding, unashamed, 
 a stooping, wrinkled peasant woman in his eager 
 arms a peasant woman with a gaudy kerchief 
 on her head. But she was surprised when on 
 the next day he brought a picture of his mother 
 to her. 
 
 She had a grave, handsome face, and her cos 
 tume was at once simple and fashionable. And 
 she was anything but bowed with age. 
 
 "And here are my two brothers and a sister!" 
 15 2I 7 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire took the photographs from him. "Oh, 
 then there are others!" 
 
 "Others? Did you fancy that my mother was 
 an American?" He laughed. . . . 
 
 One afternoon early in May he came in with an 
 unusual amount of bundles. 
 
 "See, Little Mother!" he called out, gaily, to 
 Mrs. Robson. "To-day is my name-day and we 
 shall have a feast!" 
 
 Mrs. Robson stared faintly. 
 
 "Ah, you do not understand! It is St. George s 
 Day the saint for whom I am named. In my 
 country there would be a celebration, I can tell 
 you!" 
 
 He was brimming over with good spirits. He 
 had brought a chicken, a small tub of bitter, ripe 
 olives, and three bottles of red wine and a cere 
 monial cake. He had even invested in a cheap 
 icon, and a tiny glass swinging-lamp to burn before 
 it, and he set the holy image up in a corner of the 
 dining-room, much to Mrs. Robson s weak dismay. 
 Even Claire felt a measure of disapproval at this 
 act, as if acquiescence made her subscribe to some 
 thing that she had no faith in. Danilo really had 
 prepared all this good cheer for Mrs. Robson, and 
 he moved a couch from the living-room into the 
 dining-room and carried Mrs. Robson in. 
 
 He had flowers for the center of the table, too; 
 not the flamboyant blossoms of the florist shops, 
 but a shy little bouquet of wild bloom that he had 
 picked only that morning in the sand-hills near 
 Ingleside, where he had gone to see a sick country 
 man. 
 
 218 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "He lives in the most wretched hut imaginable," 
 he told them. "But such a view! Upon a hillside, 
 and the whole Pacific Ocean at his feet. He leases 
 a patch of land from the water company, and grows 
 violets and purple cabbages and rows of pale-green 
 lettuce. It is extraordinary how much he accom 
 plishes in such a small space. And he is in love . . . 
 it is too absurd ! . . . with a little short, squat Italian 
 girl whose father has the bit of land adjoining. 
 She is pretending to be indifferent, the little bag 
 gage ! And he has taken to his bed and fancies he 
 has an incurable disease. After all, there is nothing 
 so foolish as a man when he takes the notion!" 
 
 He helped lay the cloth, tugging in sly, boyish 
 fashion at his end until he brought the smiles to 
 Claire s grave face. 
 
 "There, that is better! Now you look as if it 
 were a feast-day! . . . Come, do you realize that 
 I am thirty-two to-day? Perhaps that is why you 
 look so sad! . . . Yes, there is no mistake, I am 
 getting old. Wait, I will show you how I wish 
 that chicken cooked." 
 
 And he rushed Claire off her feet and into the 
 kitchen. His spirits were contagious. Claire found 
 herself singing, and she heard her mother s laugh 
 echoing like a faint tinkling bell through the gloom 
 of some sunless street. 
 
 By five o clock the feast was over. For the 
 first time since her illness Mrs. Robson had been 
 tempted beyond the mere duty of eating. She 
 had even had some wine about a half-glassful 
 which Danilo had held for her to sip. He had fed 
 her, too, with an unobtrusive, almost matter-of-fact 
 
 219 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 tenderness which carried no suggestion of her help 
 lessness. 
 
 As he was leaving he said to Claire : 
 
 "There will be no end of celebrating at the 
 Ithaca to-night. I shall see you there. I am going 
 to dinner with my rich patient. . . . You remember 
 . . . Stillman. He asked me to have a meal at 
 the St. Francis. I suppose we shall have cham 
 pagne. . . . Perhaps, if he is in the humor, I shall 
 bring him down to the cafe." 
 
 Claire went back into the dining-room and began 
 to clear away the litter. She had an impulse to 
 telephone Lycurgus and tell him that she could 
 not come to the cafe that night. To face Stillman 
 seemed impossible. The afternoon had been so 
 full of cheer, so simple and pleasant. Was it all 
 to end in some dreary complication? Why was it 
 her lot to always feel these sharp reactions when 
 ever she surrendered to happiness? But the more 
 she thought about excusing herself to Lycurgus 
 the more distasteful such a course seemed. To 
 night was a feast-night, and there would, doubtless, 
 be a company of the old patrons looking forward 
 to the familiar dances and national tunes. No, 
 there was nothing to do but go through with it. 
 
 She debated over what to wear. So far, she had 
 appeared at the cafe in the simplest of street cos 
 tumes. Perhaps that was why she had always been 
 able to maintain a certain air of standing out of 
 the gaudy current of cafe life. But she felt to 
 night it might be a graceful act if she went in braver 
 apparel, a tribute to these people who had been her 
 friends. And suddenly she remembered that Ly- 
 
 220 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 curgus s given name was George. Then it was a 
 feast-day for him, too! She threw Gertrude Sin 
 clair s discarded finery on the bed and ran through 
 it. Here was the black gown that she had worn 
 at the Russian Ballet, and the gold-embroidered 
 costume that had done such service during 
 her nights with Mrs. Condor. She passed them 
 by and looked at a pale -blue scrap of a dress, 
 and a lacy trifle all white with a wide pink 
 sash, and a barbaric-looking spangled affair that 
 she had never had quite the courage to wear. She 
 would wear it to-night and startle these friends 
 of hers. She would wear it to-night and play her 
 new rdle to the limit. A cafe entertainer? Well, 
 and why not? 
 
 She put the dress on and found herself startled 
 by the effect. She had drawn back her hair in the 
 exaggerated simplicity that was the itiode, al 
 lowing two formal ringlets to escape and curl their 
 suggestive way just below either temple. At the 
 corner of one eye a beauty patch gave her glance 
 a sinister coquet tishness. She could not have 
 imagined herself so changed. The gown was a 
 shimmering blue-green mass, cut very low, and with 
 the narrowest of shoulder-straps. For a moment 
 Claire had a misgiving. What could she be think 
 ing of to hazard such a costume? But there suc 
 ceeded a tempestuous wish to be daring, to try her 
 feminine lure to its utmost power, to dazzle for 
 once in her life. And Danilo? What would he 
 think of her? He would be surprised! 
 
 She put on her shabby coat and wound a black- 
 lace scarf about her hair. Then she looked into 
 
 22* 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the glass again. Now she might be the old Claire 
 of church social days, for any outside sign to the 
 contrary. She had worn this very cloak and scarf 
 on the night when she had first seen Danilo, less 
 than six months ago! She pushed aside her lace 
 head-covering, and the beauty patch and the in 
 triguing ringlets peeped out. Six months ago she 
 would have been incapable of this deliberate ac 
 centuation of her personality. She would not 
 have lacked the desire, perhaps, but she would 
 have been without the skill to accomplish it. 
 What had been taking place in her soul? She 
 had a feeling, as she stared at herself in the glass, 
 that defiance lay back of most of the broken rules 
 of life. She was defiant defiant! She brought 
 her fist down upon the bureau, and it came to her 
 that she had put this dress on, not to please her 
 Greek friends, not to honor Lycurgus, not to sur 
 prise Danilo! No, she had put it on because she 
 hoped to see Stillman at the Cafe Ithaca. She had 
 put it on out of sheer bravado. She could not 
 bear to have Stillman feel that she was in that 
 place under protest, playing the game half-heart 
 edly. No, she wanted him to think that she liked 
 the life, that she had no regrets, that she was 
 proud and self-contained and reliant. She wanted 
 to wound him. 
 
 Outside, the evening was clear and cool. A wind 
 had been blowing all day the first trade-wind of 
 the season. Presently, she thought, summer would 
 be upon them with its misty, tremulous nights and 
 its wind-swept days. She knew little of the tra- 
 
 222 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 ditional summer of the calendar, warm and opu 
 lent. San Francisco had a trick of ignoring 
 climatic rules, playing the coquette with the sun, 
 drawing a veil from the sea across its gray-green 
 face. But Claire had always liked these wayward 
 summer months, liked the swift changes, the salty 
 tang in the air, the voice of the wind in the after 
 noon among the eucalyptus- trees. There was a 
 certain robust melancholy about all these things, 
 a wind-clean virility. 
 
 As she rode down Third Street it seemed to her 
 that the sidewalks were less crowded than usual. 
 The younger men were already off to war. Only 
 a broken few remained, and summer was beckoning 
 these afield, luring them from the paved streets 
 with glib, false promises. By the end of October 
 they would be drifting back again, disillusioned, 
 betrayed by the wanton countryside, seeking to 
 forget all the fine things that had been their spring 
 time hope. They would be drifting back to the 
 mercenary embraces of the town, like embittered 
 lovers turning to the husks of L ,ed caresses for 
 their solace. But spring would come again, and 
 all the old hope and faith and courage witji it. 
 Was not life, after all, a succession of springs lumi 
 nous with promise, and summers whose harvests 
 must, of necessity, fall far short of all the brave 
 anticipations? What summer could possibly yield 
 the marvelously golden fruits of spring s devising? 
 
 And, thinking of these things, Claire had a pas 
 sionate wish that spring might be forever stayed; 
 that life might be a keen, virgin hope, unrealized, 
 but ever ardent, and blinded with the light of fancy. 
 
 223 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 CLAIRE was late in arriving at the Cafe Ithaca. 
 But in the excitement of preparing a feast her 
 absence had been overlooked. It turned out that 
 St. George s Day was a very special day indeed. 
 Three large banquet-tables had been set, and the 
 general public, by a printed sign at the door, re 
 ceived the news that it was excluded. 
 
 The company was just preparing to sit down as 
 Claire entered. Concealed by the folds of the green 
 curtain which screened the saloon, she stood and 
 glanced curiously about. The walls had been 
 transformed into a green bower of wild huckleberry, 
 the tables strewn with fern fronds and red carna 
 tions. It seemed that all the old patrons were 
 there, either as hosts or guests, and a strange 
 mixture of outsiders had been bidden to the feast. 
 A few of the Greeks who had married American 
 girls had brought their wives with them, and, of 
 course, among the strangers, the women and men 
 were about evenly divided. A Greek orchestra of 
 three pieces was tuning up. 
 
 "They will not need me !" flashed through Claire s 
 mind. 
 
 She felt relieved. All at once it seemed quite 
 impossible for her to face this assembly, in the 
 
 224 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 bizarre costume which had tempted her beyond 
 discretion. As she stepped aside, Lycurgus saw 
 her. He inclined his head and put his hand to 
 his heart. It was plain that the formality of the 
 occasion had revived his old manner. 
 
 "Ah, Miss Robson! I have been waiting!" 
 He bowed again as he spoke. 
 
 "Oh, I am sorry! Shall you want me to play? 
 ... I thought perhaps ..." 
 
 "To play? . . . You are not to play to-night. 
 This is my name-day, and to-night you are to sit 
 with me." 
 
 She was to be a guest, then! A feeling of swift 
 pleasure came over her at the realization that these 
 people had taken thought of such a graceful 
 courtesy. 
 
 She went into the dressing-room and took off 
 her wrap. The other entertainers had been in 
 before her and the scraps of their finery were 
 strewn about, a powder-box was overturned, a jar 
 of lip rouge uncovered. She knew that Lycurgus 
 was waiting for her, so she did not add many 
 calculated touches to her toilet ; but as she tucked 
 a strand of rebellious hair back into place it struck 
 her that her lips were somewhat pale for so vivid 
 a costume. She put her finger into the rouge-pot 
 and deftly drew it across her mouth. Suddenly 
 it seemed as if her whole personality were flaming. 
 She restrained an impulse to rub her lips pale again, 
 and she went into the cafe. 
 
 It was Jimmy who first saw her. He was carry 
 ing a tray of mastieas and he stopped as if arrested 
 
 225 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 by an apparition. He set the tray down upon 
 a serving-table, and said: 
 
 "Whew, Miss Robson! What have you done? 
 You are a different girl! I did not know you. 
 My, but the other women will be sore!" He 
 chuckled gleefully, and returned to his task. 
 
 At this moment Lycurgus came up to her. 
 
 "Miss Robson! . . . Thank you! . . . Thank 
 you! . . ." he kept repeating, in almost inarticu 
 late amazement. "Come, you shall sit next to 
 me now!" 
 
 And to her dismay he routed out his intended 
 guest of honor, a countryman who seemed not to 
 mind the change in position in the least, and set 
 Claire in the place at his right. 
 
 The company began to eat. Claire glanced 
 about. The other entertainers were sitting at a 
 solitary table near the piano. 
 
 1 Can it be possible, " thought Claire, * that Lycur 
 gus expects them to go through their parts to-night ?* 
 
 Almost at once her query was answered, for the 
 piano tinkled and a little French Jewess named 
 Doris, a new acquisition, got up and began to sing. 
 But everybody was too busy eating to give very 
 much attention to any other form of entertainment, 
 and the song ended in apathetic fizzle. Claire s 
 hands came together in instinctive applause. This 
 solitary clapping only emphasized the general 
 indifference, and Claire was rewarded by a malig 
 nant glance from Doris which seemed to say: 
 
 "You don t need to trouble yourself applauding 
 me! I can get my songs over without your help, 
 thank you!" 
 
 226 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 When the Jewess seated herself all the other 
 entertainers glared at Claire also. 
 
 "They re hurt," said Claire to herself as she 
 dropped her eyes. And she felt the same regret 
 she had experienced on the night when Still- 
 man had sent orchids to her and ignored Mrs. 
 Condor. 
 
 Presently the Greek orchestra started up, swing 
 ing into a brave chanting rhythm that started the 
 men dancing. At first there were but three dancers 
 in the swaying line, but gradually the list grew and 
 soon a score were upon their feet. The music 
 continued with hypnotic monotony, and the thread 
 of men moved through the growing complications 
 of the dance like a gliding serpent. 
 
 Soup was brought on; the music stopped. A 
 general scurry took place as the men scampered to 
 their seats again. The entertainers table was 
 animated by sneering laughter. After the soup, 
 the rag-time orchestra had its inning, and the Amer 
 icans in the company danced with an air of sophisti 
 cated superiority. Then came more songs from 
 the entertainers received with a favor and warmth 
 which grew as the dinner progressed. Thus the 
 events of the evening succeeded one another, an 
 incongruous mixture of New and Old World cus 
 toms and diversions. 
 
 Claire was relieved to discover that no one ex 
 pected her to dance. She was beginning to feel 
 conscious of her costume, and it was less embar 
 rassing to brave the thing out in solitary grandeur 
 by Lycurgus s, side than to attract the attention 
 of the entire dancing-floor. 
 
 227 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Lycurgus beamed upon every one and introduced 
 Claire to all comers with an affectionate enthu 
 siasm. Put to the necessity of exercising his 
 English, he had developed quite a vocabulary in 
 the last few weeks. 
 
 "Ah, this is my friend, Miss Robson!" he would 
 announce. "Thank you! Thank you! She has 
 a dress made just for this . . . my name-day! 
 And so I sit here where I can see her always. . . . 
 All the night! She is a girl, I can tell you! In 
 two days she learns the Greek hymn, upon the 
 piano! For me, mind you! For me and no one 
 else! . . . And you should hear her play for the 
 dance. . . . Not to-night! No, some other time! 
 She is my guest to-night. . . . She has had a dress, 
 yes, sir ... yes, sir made just for to-night. She 
 has never worn it before! I tell you I am some 
 body. Eh? Thank you! Thank you!" 
 
 Claire longed to escape, to hide herself in some 
 screened corner. Had she come in simpler clothes 
 she would have found Lycurgus s delight childlike 
 and winning, but she felt embarrassed under the 
 appraising glances which his words called forth. 
 The men measured her with frank pleasure; the 
 women with cold, disturbed disapproval. 
 
 At eleven o clock the green curtains parted, and 
 Danilo came in. Claire felt a sudden faintness 
 that just missed being nausea. . . . She looked 
 down at her plate. . . . When she glanced up 
 again Danilo was making his way toward some 
 vacant seats at one of the side-tables, and Stillman 
 was following. 
 
 "Ah!" cried Lycurgus. "There is Danilo! Ex- 
 228 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 cuseme! . . . Thank you! Thank you !" and with 
 that he rose and rushed over to Danilo. 
 
 The two men embraced, kissing each other on 
 either cheek. Stillman stood apart, a thin, tolerant 
 smile on his lips. Claire had an absurd feeling of 
 wishing to fly to Danilo s defense. The greeting 
 over, Lycurgus drew Danilo to one side. He 
 pointed in Claire s direction, waving his hands and 
 chuckling audibly. He was telling Danilo about 
 Claire s dress. She blushed and tried to look in 
 another direction; but as her gaze hurriedly swept 
 the room for an object on which to fix her attention, 
 she became aware that Stillman was looking at 
 her. His glance was not startled, nor disturbed, 
 nor even surprised. Instead, he seemed to be 
 looking clear through her. She shivered, and un 
 consciously began to feel about her shoulders in 
 a futile effort to locate some scrap of covering with 
 which to screen her bare arms and breast. She 
 was trembling violently. A woman sitting opposite 
 threw her a crepe scarf with an air of triumph that 
 seemed to say: 
 
 "Well, you can see, now, what comes of such 
 foolishness . . . such indecency! You might have 
 known you would catch cold." 
 
 Claire had the impulse to toss the proffered 
 covering back to its owner, but she took it meekly, 
 instead. 
 
 Stillman slowly withdrew his gaze. Claire trans 
 ferred her glance to Danilo and Lycurgus. The 
 doctor was assenting perfunctorily to his friend s 
 animated harangue. He smiled at Claire, but she 
 had a feeling that it was scarcely a smile of approval. 
 
 229 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 She lifted the scarf above her, and as her bare arms 
 stood out whitely against the glare, she fancied 
 that she saw Stillman turn and fix her with a 
 wounded, almost harried stare. Even Danilo s 
 pallid smile faded. Claire dropped the covering 
 on her shoulders and her arms sank down. Danilo 
 was introducing Stillman to Lycurgus. Claire 
 began to make a pretense of eating. 
 
 "I must get away from all this!" she kept repeat 
 ing to herself, as she thrust the food between her 
 lips. "I must get away from this life, or else ..." 
 
 And suddenly she began to wonder whether her 
 position at Flint s was still open to her. She threw 
 back her head and laughed as the realization of 
 what she had been thinking flashed over her. 
 The woman who had loaned her the scarf stared. 
 Claire went on eating more calmly. 
 
 She kept expecting Danilo to bring Stillman over 
 and introduce him. A feeling of curiosity mingled 
 with fright possessed her. But as the evening 
 progressed it became apparent that this part of 
 the feast-day was the men s part. Danilo was 
 being constantly caught up by groups of his male 
 friends, toasted and wined and embraced with 
 fervor. As for Lycurgus, he did not return to his 
 seat after greeting Danilo, and Claire discovered 
 that she was sitting quite alone even the men 
 on her left had deserted the table for the noisier 
 delights of the barroom. She caught glimpses 
 of Stillman, mingling perfunctorily with Danilo s 
 comrades. He wore his thin, tolerant smile during 
 the whole evening. Was he disgusted, or amused, 
 or merely indulgent? He did not look again in 
 
 230 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire s direction. She felt cold and sick and 
 miserable. 
 
 Presently she saw Danilo come out of the tele 
 phone-booth. His eyes caught hers and he walked 
 over and dropped into Lycurgus s seat beside her. 
 
 "I wanted you to meet my friend . . . but now 
 I have been called away to a patient a dying 
 woman. Did you see us come in together? I am 
 sure he thinks this all very queer." 
 
 She had an impulse to tell him then that she 
 knew Stillman and that an introduction was un 
 necessary. But he rose quickly, tossing a clean 
 napkin in her direction as he said : 
 
 "You must have been eating cherries. Your 
 lips are all red/ 
 
 She picked up the napkin and covered her lips. 
 She had never been so humiliated in her life. He 
 stood watching her as she rubbed her mouth clean 
 again. 
 
 "Ah, now you look better!" he said, simply, as 
 she tried to smile. 
 
 He said good-by and left her. She watched 
 him shake hands with Stillman. Evidently Still 
 man had decided to remain. She looked down 
 at the napkin and the red stain upon it. The 
 woman opposite her was eying the discarded nap 
 kin with a look of contempt. 
 
 Claire heard some one pull back the chair that 
 Danilo had just deserted. She looked up. Still 
 man was sitting down beside her. At this mo 
 ment the woman opposite rose. 
 
 "Are you leaving?" Claire felt herself say. 
 
 The woman nodded. Claire slowly unwound the 
 231 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 scarf from her shoulders and returned it, mur 
 muring her thanks. The woman left the table. 
 Claire could feel the chill of Stillman s glance 
 sweeping over her bare shoulders and her white 
 breast. When he spoke she felt no surprise at 
 his words she knew at once what he would say. 
 
 "I didn t expect to see you here!" 
 
 I thought you had experience enough to be 
 prepared for anything!" 
 
 He looked at her sharply. "Well, there are 
 some things . . . Are you a guest?" 
 
 Then Danilo had not spoken of her pointed 
 her out! . . . She toyed with a fern frond. "For 
 to-night, only. Otherwise I earn my living here." 
 
 He was ghastly pale. "Here?" 
 
 "Oh, don t be alarmed! It s respectable enough. 
 I play the piano. It really isn t gay at all. It s 
 very stupid and dull when you get used to it." 
 
 She was conscious that her tone was hard-lipped, 
 playing up to her costume. 
 
 "Every night? Is it possible that you come 
 here every night, in this kind of a place, and play? 
 . . . Good God! No wonder . . ." 
 
 His eyes swept her again. She dropped her 
 glance. 
 
 "No wonder you can dress yourself in this 
 fashion!" was what she knew he meant to imply. 
 She threw back her head defiantly. 
 
 "You re mistaken," she said, coldly. "These 
 people are very good to me. As for playing the 
 piano . . . well, I ve done that before. Only, then 
 I was exhibited on a raised platform!" 
 
 She knew that every word was wounding him, 
 232 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 and yet she could not alter her mood. She was 
 heart-sick, and defiant, and bitter. 
 
 "And do you think that all this is quite fair 
 to ... to your friends?" 
 
 "I have to earn my living, don t I?" 
 
 He brushed a cigarette stub off the table. 
 "Last month I made a fortune. I cleaned up 
 something over a million dollars. And still I must 
 sit here and watch . . . watch these Greeks fling 
 money in your face!" 
 
 He swept the room with an angry gesture. 
 Claire followed the swift flight of his hand. One 
 of the entertainers had finished singing and the 
 usual shower of coins was falling on the hard floor. 
 His lips were quivering with indignation. 
 
 "Oh, Tm not a favorite! They don t bombard 
 me in any such fashion. Once in a while, perhaps, 
 but ..." She raised her hands slightly. 
 
 "Once in a while!" he echoed, with a bitter laugh. 
 "Then they do throw money at you! You . . . 
 you take all this from strangers, but from me . . . 
 from me, who ..." He brought his fist down 
 upon the table. 
 
 She put her hand upon his. "I give these people 
 pleasure and they repay me as they can. . . . There 
 is one thing about & flung coin it is frank and open 
 and honest." 
 
 He glanced down. "And insulting, too," he 
 muttered. "God knows there have been times 
 enough when I forgot myself. ... I m a man, 
 after everything is said and done. The mistakes 
 I made were never deliberate . . . calculating. 
 I did want to serve you!" 
 16 233 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "What did you expect me to do?" she asked, 
 more gently. 
 
 "I don t know. But I fancy it was almost 
 anything but this. It seems that almost anything 
 else would be better." 
 
 "Even taking dictation from Flint?" 
 
 He winced. 
 
 "Oh, I know what you are thinking," she went 
 on, passionately. "You re thinking that it is this 
 life that has given me the courage to be hard and 
 bitter to dress myself in this ... to paint my 
 lips red." She held up the rouge-stained napkin 
 and shrugged. "But you forget Flint and Mrs. 
 Condor and all the nastiness of the life that you 
 seem to think desirable simply because it is famil 
 iar. ... I wouldn t go back to it now even if I 
 could. I d rather take a chance here where they 
 throw money frankly in your face and then 
 promptly forget about it; where they don t demand 
 anything of you beyond just the passing moment. 
 Where one hasn t any standards to live up to and 
 cheat for. Yes, cheat for! Not that these people 
 haven t standards they re full of them. But they 
 don t expect me to live up to them. I can be as 
 virtuous or as immoral as I choose. They are 
 willing to leave my soul in my own keeping!" 
 
 He shaded his face. "Just think," he said, as 
 he raised his eyes to her again. "I made a million 
 dollars last month, and I am moi*e helpless than 
 the meanest person here with ten cents in his 
 pocket. If I were poor and miserable and strug 
 gling, I could at least come and sit opposite you 
 and throw my last penny at you. I could throw 
 
 234 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 my last coin at your feet and go away happy, 
 knowing that I must starve to-morrow, be 
 cause of you. Why is it that others may do 
 what I" 
 
 She stopped him with a quick gesture. "You 
 know why," she said, simply. 
 
 He drew back as if she had dealt him a blow in 
 the face. Claire felt an impulse to rise and flee. 
 Her defiance had spent itself and she was growing 
 weak and tremulous. She glanced about Ly- 
 curgus was coming toward them. 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Stillman thank you! Thank you!" 
 Lycurgus s voice rang out across the table. I see 
 you are here . . . with Miss Robson. Did you 
 see her dress? For me . . . she wears this dress 
 just for me to-night, because it is my name-day. 
 She has never worn it before. She is some girl, I 
 can tell you!" Suddenly he bent across the table 
 and, laying his hand upon Claire s cold fingers, he 
 ran his palm the full length of her arm. 
 
 She shook him off as she rose. But he con 
 tinued to smile with wine-heated indulgence. For 
 me," he repeated again. "She wears this beautiful 
 dress for me only!" 
 
 Claire glanced down at Stillman. His face was 
 gray, his hands clenched at his side. Lycurgus 
 moved away. 
 
 "Good night," she said to Stillman. 
 
 He roused himself. "Then you are going? . . . 
 Which way? ... I have my car here." 
 
 "Some other time," she repeated, mechanically. 
 I am not afraid. I do this every night, you must 
 remember." 
 
 235 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He stood up. "I should be very glad indeed, 
 but if you do not ..." 
 
 "No, I would rather be alone." 
 
 He bowed. "And your mother how is she?" 
 
 "A little better, thank you. We have a new 
 doctor." 
 
 "Is that so? Remember me to her, will you?" 
 
 She said good night again, and escaped. The 
 dressing-room was crowded with women. Claire 
 found her coat and scarf ; she stepped out into the 
 cafe and slipped them on. Stillman had gone. 
 
 The Greek orchestra had started another tune 
 and Lycurgus was leading the dance, this time with 
 great animation. Claire left unnoticed by the side 
 door. The night air was still sharp and rather 
 cutting, and the stars twinkled brilliantly over 
 head. The chill had driven most people indoors. 
 Third Street was as good as deserted. 
 
 She felt very cold, and she decided not to walk 
 to Market Street, but to take a car. Her spangled 
 dress seemed suddenly to have grown heavy. She 
 longed to throw herself prone upon her narrow bed 
 and let the dull longing at her heart escape in a 
 flood of tears. . . . 
 
 She crawled up the long flight of stairs to her 
 cheerless home. The stillness was broken by the 
 faint breathing of the little faded seamstress and 
 the heavy snores of her mother. She caught the 
 flicker of a light from the dining-room. She tiptoed 
 toward it. The tiny lamp before Danilo s icon 
 was still burning fitfully. She stepped into the 
 room. Something mysterious and peaceful seemed 
 to flood her soul. 
 
 236 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Danilo? . . . Until this moment she had not 
 thought of him. Here upon the table lay the 
 simple flowers that he had plucked for his feast. 
 She bent over to smell them. They were full of 
 wild, uncultured perfume. 
 
 And suddenly his face rose before her and she 
 heard the precise tones of his voice as he had said : 
 
 You must have been eating cherries. Your 
 lips are red." 
 
 She tossed aside her coat and her lace scarf, and 
 her imprisoned hair came trembling in a wayward 
 flood about her shoulders. 
 
 She sat down before the table and clasped her 
 hands. In the dimness the holy image seemed to 
 grow palpitant and alive. Hot tears were gather 
 ing in her eyelashes. She bowed her head. 
 
 The light in the lamp gave one brave flicker and 
 went out. Claire Robson dropped her head upon 
 the table and sobs shook her. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 four o clock in the morning Stillman turned 
 his car about and began to return to San Fran 
 cisco. He did not feel tired, but he was chilled 
 through. About him, in the faint mist of early 
 dawn, the prune-orchards of the Santa Clara Valley 
 stretched out in faintly green lines toward the foot 
 hills. 
 
 He had a sudden longing for companionship. 
 If only Danilo were there to flame him with vicari 
 ous enthusiasm! Danilo! . . . What was there 
 about Danilo that never failed to melt the cold 
 forms of indifference and weary contempt? Was 
 it the man himself, his intensity for a cause, or the 
 mere novelty of the unique atmosphere which he 
 radiated that had tempted Stillman beyond the 
 pale boundaries of a formal acquaintanceship? 
 Last night s celebration, for instance, had held 
 very little that was traditionally appealing to a 
 man of Stillman s upbringing, and yet he had been 
 tricked into accepting the curious forms through 
 which a totally strange people expressed them 
 selves. In his travels abroad he had always en 
 joyed the spectacle of foreign life, but he had 
 scarcely felt any desire to enter into it. He found 
 the position of onlooker agreeable, and he was not 
 
 238 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 indifferent to the merit of other traditions, but he 
 had lacked the naivete to surrender to their spell. 
 When he was with Danilo it was different; the 
 Serbian seemed to be a crucible which fused the 
 most diverse elements, investing everything in life 
 with simplicity and coherence. In Danilo s pres 
 ence Stillman found himself capable of the most 
 amazing confidences. He could speak out boldly 
 about his hopes, his fears, even his shortcomings. 
 He could discuss the magnitude of his fortune, 
 his carefully guarded indiscretions, his domestic 
 tragedy. 
 
 And now, at this moment, as Stillman rode back 
 to San Francisco in the faintly spreading dawn, he 
 had a vague feeling that if Danilo had been at his 
 side he would have poured out his soul and yielded 
 up the most precious secret of his heart. Well, 
 perhaps it was best that Danilo was safely out of 
 range. It was not that he felt any precise mistrust 
 concerning Danilo; all his uncertainty had to do 
 with the strange, hard, coldly flaming Claire that 
 he had glimpsed in that terrible moment when he 
 had first come upon her, seated next to Lycurgus 
 at the Cafe Ithaca. He had never felt so impotent, 
 so helpless as he had felt at that moment. He 
 remembered, now, every detail of her costume: 
 the blue-green iridescence that ran through every 
 palpitation of her figure, the black, sinister patch 
 near her eye, the brilliant red of her lips. And 
 against all this color the amazing whiteness of her 
 tapering arms had stood out too clearly. He had 
 sean her arms bared before, to the elbow, but never 
 boldly stripped clear to the shoulders. And her 
 
 239 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 hair that hair which always had graced her head 
 with such unaffected artlessness she seemed sud 
 denly to have found the need to overdo, to strain 
 for effective simplicity. Her words to him had not 
 helped matters. It was not the memory of her 
 defiance that left him cold; it was the indifference 
 in her voice that froze his heart. She was in 
 different she no longer cared! 
 
 He began now to feel not only cold, but weary. 
 What had possessed him to leave the Cafe Ithaca 
 and flee down the peninsula like a thief in the night ? 
 To ride . . . ride furiously, madly, that had been 
 his first impulse. Just motion! It seemed that 
 he could find no other outlet for his tumult. But 
 now trie leaping flames of emotion had died. He 
 was burned out. 
 
 The dawn grew rosier; meadowlarks began to 
 sing; groups of blackbirds rose in ardent, wheel 
 ing flights. The mist upon the hills parted and 
 revealed pastoral secrets. But all this full-blooded 
 pageantry left him unmoved. 
 
 He thought about his wife; not indirectly, eva 
 sively, as had been his habit, but with ruthless 
 honesty. The bulletins from the sanatorium had 
 grown less hopeful. Still, there was always the 
 possibility that the mental fog would clear and leave 
 her at the mercy of a wan sanity. Stillman could 
 imagine nothing more terrible than this return to 
 a chill, stark reason. It would be as if some smiling 
 hillside had paid the toll of a devastating freshet, 
 and was left a scarred and naked waste that a be 
 lated sun could never clothe again. And always 
 there would be the sleeping and waking fear that 
 
 240 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the torrents would descend again with even greater 
 fury. Now, at least, she had the warmth of her 
 hallucinations to make life tolerable. What would 
 be left her when these mirages melted into the dreary 
 void of actual life ? . . . For a moment it seemed to 
 Stillman that reality was the greatest of all trage 
 dies to face. The visions of youth, the ecstasies 
 of the witless, the crooning dreams of old age 
 how they softened the relentless glare of things 
 as they were! How they lured the traveler past 
 the soul-killing monotonies, the bleak disillusion- 
 ments ! 
 
 He left the orchards behind, and came into the 
 region of pretty, artless homes surrounded by gar 
 dens spilling their fragrance into the lap of morning. 
 To the west the land dimpled with laughing hills, 
 green and tremulous in the young light. Eucalyp 
 tus-trees bent gravely in the chance breezes or stood 
 erectly still where the calm of dawn remained in 
 violate. Stillman received the impression of nat 
 ure s calm contentment and took issue with it. 
 He was in no mood to be snared by the false promise 
 of morning. 
 
 He began now to think about himself, and im 
 mediately all his raillery at fate died. What had 
 he ever done to prove his claim to happiness? 
 Had he ever wrestled with God for a blessing? 
 He thought of Danilo, remembering all the details 
 of the doctor s hard-fisted battle with circum 
 stances starving days, shivering nights. There 
 must be a full-blooded joy in giving fate blow for 
 blow; in having to fight for every narrow foothold 
 upon the ledge of fortune! Well, the heights had 
 
 241 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 been his without the toil of scaling, and he had 
 looked down upon the promised land with indiffer 
 ence. What had he been doing all these years, all 
 these months, all these weeks? He had done his 
 duty, perhaps; but scarcely more. Widows who 
 cast their mite into the Lord s treasury did this 
 much. He had never thought of spilling the wine 
 from his brimming cup upon the parched lips of 
 the thirsty, and he had measured the meal of obli 
 gation with too finely balanced a scale. Now had 
 come a time when his greatest wish was to be 
 prodigal, and the hands that should have received 
 his outpouring were tied grimly. What would not 
 he have given to see the fruits of his inheritance 
 replenishing the scant store of the woman he loved ! 
 And yet, as he had said, the veriest beggar could 
 do more could fling his penny at the feet of Claire 
 Robson and go on his starving way with a smile. 
 Perhaps a man more trained in outwitting circum 
 stances would have found a way out of the difficulty, 
 but Stillman could see only blind alleys leading 
 from every desire of his heart. . . . Danilo s ar 
 dent face rose before him. Here was a man who 
 could no doubt feel the ecstasy of personal passion 
 and yet have abundant thrill for bigger things. 
 He had conquered a profession and now he was to 
 surrender to the outpouring of the spirit upon the 
 altars of his native land. His native land! Just what 
 did an expression like this mean to Ned Stillrnan? 
 a smiling country untouched by the stress of nat 
 ure, and only remotely disturbed by the grim expe 
 diency of war; a sky-blue birthright that yielded up 
 the easy harvests which had reduced him to such 
 
 242 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 sleek impotence. He felt suddenly tricked, cheated, 
 as one does who looks back upon indulgent parents 
 with a feeling of accusing scorn. Danilo s native 
 land had made demands, forced the chains of loy 
 alty in the white-heated fires of necessity. Danilo 
 loved his Serbia because he had wept with her 
 because the claims of mutual tears are stronger 
 than the claims of mutual laughter. Stillman felt 
 loyal to the land of his birth. And he had worked 
 hard, too. He had made sacrifices, of a kind, and 
 he was prepared to do more. Yes, he would go 
 the limit . . . the absolute limit. He had every 
 reason to be grateful for his inheritance, and yet, 
 Danilo, penniless and tempered in the fires of a 
 frugal birthright, had the best of the bargain. . . . 
 
 Stillman was nearing San Francisco now. The 
 landscape had the moth-eaten look that landscapes 
 do when they make the transition from country 
 side to paved streets. But at least the morning 
 air was still fresh, as yet unpolluted by the foul 
 breath of drudgery and toil. He began to wonder 
 vaguely whether Danilo would be stirring so early. 
 He felt a sudden desire to see him. Well, why 
 not? He remembered the doctor s address a 
 cheap lodging-house on Third Street. He had 
 never favored Danilo before with a visit. It seemed 
 absurd to burst in upon a man at the ungodly hour 
 of six o clock. But he had a wish to outrage his 
 own sense of conventionality. 
 
 He found Danilo up and stirring. The room was 
 clean and unincumbered with personal effects. A 
 few photographs upon the bureau, a panorama 
 of Belgrade, an American and a Serbian flag inter- 
 
 243 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 twined these were all the evidences of occupation. 
 Danilo himself was in a gay-flowered dressing-gown 
 and he moved toward the door with a graceful 
 gliding movement as he said: 
 
 "Why, my dear fellow, you look ill! What can 
 be the matter?" 
 
 Stillman sank into a chair. It had needed just 
 this word of sympathy to upset his poise utterly. 
 
 I don t know," he answered. "I felt suddenly 
 dizzy when I opened the door. Forgive me for 
 breaking in on you at such an hour!" 
 
 Danilo answered with a laugh, and brought out 
 cigarettes. Stillman took one. They began to 
 smoke. 
 
 "I can t think what is the matter with me," 
 Stillman began, awkwardly. 
 
 Danilo seated himself. "I can. You re in love. 
 You are afraid to talk about it. ... Ah yes, I 
 knew that I was not wrong! You are blushing 
 like a school-boy. Tell me, what is her name?" 
 
 Stillman breathed heavily. He made no answer. 
 
 Danilo rose. "Ah, my friend, forgive me!" he 
 said, quickly. "I didn t realize it was . . ." 
 
 Stillman made a little gesture of "appeal. "I 
 didn t myself until . . . God, it s all so horrible!" 
 
 "Your wife, you mean? . . . Well, perhaps there 
 could be a way out." 
 
 "No, there s no way out! . . . What would you 
 do if you saw the woman you loved going down . . . 
 down . . . down, and you were powerless to save 
 her?" 
 
 "A question of money or morals?" 
 
 "Money first of all ..." 
 244 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 4 That ought not to be much of a problem in 
 your case." 
 
 "Ah, you don t understand! Oh no! can t you 
 see-? In this case it would be impossible!" 
 
 "Then it is a question of morals. ... I know. 
 Sometimes these things happen how do you say 
 it? in the best of regulated families. If I were 
 in your position and it happened to the woman . . . 
 Well, in my country it is all very simple. We call 
 the man out and shoot him. Here ... I suppose 
 here you tell your troubles to a policeman, do you 
 not?" 
 
 Stillman darted a swift, searching look at Danilo. 
 
 "Not always. . . . Sometimes we commit the 
 indiscretion of telling our friends." 
 
 Danilo rose quickly. He went over and put his 
 hand caressingly on Stillman s shoulder. 
 
 "Indiscretion, my brother?" he queried. "Ah, 
 you do not know me, even yet! Well, we are 
 companions in misery, if it comes to that. But in 
 my case I do not think I shall need the pistol. I 
 shall marry the girl. And that will end everything. 
 
 Stillman pressed Danilo s hand. "A girl of your 
 own people?" 
 
 "No one of your American girls. . . . Some 
 day, when it is all settled, I shall invite you to meet 
 her. ... I came very near letting you see her last 
 night. But it happened otherwise, and I am as 
 well pleased." He laughed, showing his teeth 
 pleasantly. "I do not want you as a rival, my 
 brother. That would be a nasty business between 
 friends." 
 
 Stillman rose. "My dear Danilo, I wish you 
 245 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 every happiness," he said. He wanted to say more, 
 to sound a warmer note, but the words would not 
 shape themselves. But Danilo seemed to divine 
 his intent. 
 
 "And you, brother. . . . No, I shall not mock 
 you with a return of the compliment. But I shall 
 hope that it will all come right for you, somehow. 
 That this woman you love shall be worthy of a 
 good man. At least, then you will have your 
 faith. Cold comforts are better than none at all!" 
 
 Stillman smiled grayly. "And what is to be 
 come of the Serbian project, now that you are to 
 be . . ." 
 
 My dear fellow, marriage is not the end of every 
 thing. A man still has his duties his enthusiasms ! 
 Everything will go on as I have planned it." 
 
 "You said she was an American. ... Perhaps 
 she will object to being left. ..." 
 
 "Left? . . . Why, she will go with me! Re 
 member, I am marrying a wife, and, naturally, 
 a wife does what her husband " 
 
 "Oh, of course, of course! That goes without 
 saying." Stillman laughed disagreeably. "Really, 
 I must be running along. I am tired. I have been 
 riding all night." 
 
 "I am afraid my name-day celebration was dis 
 turbing," Danilo said, giving Stillman his hand. 
 
 "Life is so full of unexpected turns," Stillman 
 ventured as he swung open the door. "I didn t 
 think that your life and my life were touched by 
 the same currents." 
 
 "Are they?" 
 
 "Remotely ... by the merest chance." 
 246 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Danilo looked puzzled. "Chance is like a deep 
 pool; you never know what ghastly thing it will 
 yield up." 
 
 Stillman narrowed his eyes. He began to re 
 member things. Again he heard the sharp slam 
 of a taxi door, again he felt his cheeks burn as he 
 leaned forward to pick up his hat, again he laid an 
 inquisitive hand upon the shoulder of a slim, beetle- 
 browed figure standing with one finger upon the 
 call-bell of an elevator. And again that figure 
 turned, fixing him with a red-lipped smile. . . . 
 Yes, at this moment, standing before Danilo, it all 
 came back. 
 
 1 An American girl. ... So he is to marry an 
 American girl! ... I wonder if . . ." 
 
 For a moment he felt the hot coals of smolder 
 ing lawlessness flare within him. But a chill fol 
 lowed ... a bleak, dead, lifeless chill of resigna 
 tion. He put out his hand. 
 
 "I hope everything good for you, my friend," 
 he said, sadly. "Everything good for you . . . 
 and . . . and this woman you are to marry." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 "TT is as I thought ... he is in love. He ad- 
 
 1 mitted as much to me this morning. . . . What 
 do you think of him?" 
 
 Danilo, standing before the kitchen window of 
 the Robson home, looked out across the dreary 
 stretch of back yards and dizzy back stairways. 
 
 Claire stopped folding a dish-towel as she gave 
 Danilo a sharp glance. Here was the opportunity 
 that she had longed for. Now she could tell him 
 simply and naturally that she had seen Stillman 
 before, that she knew him, had worked for him, in 
 fact. But, instead, a sudden awkward silence 
 fell. . . . Something at once definite and intangible 
 had come between these two. 
 
 Danilo fingered his hat and remembered a press 
 ing engagement. 
 
 Claire followed him to the door. 
 
 "My patient died last night the old woman I 
 was called away to attend. I thought of you all 
 the while, wondering how you would get home. 
 Indeed, at one o clock I went back for you, but you 
 had gone." 
 
 "That was very kind," Claire returned, still 
 moved by a vague resentment. "I got home as 
 usual ... on the street-car. I do it nearly every 
 night, you know." 
 
 248 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Danilo looked at her squarely. "But last night 
 was different. You you well, to be frank, you 
 were not dressed for the street." 
 
 She had been expecting some such thing and 
 she decided to meet the issue nonchalantly. "Oh, 
 but you didn t see me leave ! I was the most dowdy 
 and respectable thing imaginable. A shabby coat 
 and a dingy lace scarf work wonders. I assure 
 you nobody looked twice at me." 
 
 Danilo frowned, and he stepped back upon the 
 threshold as he said: 
 
 "Nobody would have looked at you even once 
 if I had been along. ... I do not want you to 
 dress again as you did last night." 
 
 "No?" she gasped. 
 
 "No. It makes me . . . Well, perhaps you 
 would not understand, now. But later later you 
 will see why I take the trouble. ... As a matter 
 of fact, I would have brought my friend Stillman 
 over to meet you, but I decided to wait for another 
 time . . . when you were more like yourself. I 
 wanted him to see you at your best. ... I hope 
 my words do not offend you. But you have no 
 brother and ..." 
 
 He finished with a shrug. His words did not of 
 fend her they struck deeper, so deep that all her 
 pride rose to meet the issue with a smiling accept 
 ance of his rebuke. "Offended? Oh, my dear, no! 
 You are frank about it, at all events." She forced 
 a laugh. "I shall try to be good in the future." 
 
 He did not succumb to her strained mirth. He 
 merely looked at her with a note almost disapprov 
 ing as he gravely said good-by. 
 17 249 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 She went up-stairs into, her mother s room. 
 Mrs. Robson sat propped up in the position that 
 Claire always helped her assume for the doctor s 
 daily visit. Mrs. Robson s dull eyes brightened. 
 She began her illusive mumblings. Claire dropped 
 at attentive ear to her mother s words. 
 
 "The doctor," Mrs. Robson was saying, "he 
 should not come every day. It it is too expensive." 
 
 "I am not paying him, mother." 
 
 "Oh. . . . Then he is not coming to see me?" 
 
 "Why, of course he is coming to see you, mother! 
 What else would ..." 
 
 Mrs. Robson shook her head. "I ve been think 
 ing, Claire. ... Of course, he is not just what I 
 had hoped. . . . But he is a kind man, Claire. 
 I don t know, but perhaps ..." 
 
 She tried to lift her helpless hands and draw her 
 daughter s head toward her lips. Claire met the 
 effort half-way. 
 
 "He is a kind man, Claire, a kind man," Mrs. 
 Robson kept repeating. 
 
 Claire s heart gave a sudden leap. 
 
 "We shall see, mother. We shall see." 
 
 One night toward the end of the week Claire 
 Robson had a surprise. In the midst of all the 
 cut-to-measure gaiety of the Cafe Ithaca who should 
 walk in the side door but Sawyer Flint. Claire 
 stared frankly. Instinctively Flint fell back with 
 a quick screening movement, not only obvious, 
 but futile. His companion proved to be Lily 
 Condor. Claire, who was sitting idly at the piano, 
 
 250 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 turned away her head and began to play. The 
 spectacle of Flint and Mrs. Condor together was not 
 unexpected ; Nellie Whitehead had brought her the 
 news of this latest alliance not two weeks before. 
 
 "They go poking about to all the cheap joints 
 where they re sure nobody will get a line on them. 
 Billy Holmes and I saw them at the Fior d Italia 
 last Saturday." 
 
 Nellie Whitehead had said other things, too, 
 complimentary to neither her former employer 
 nor his latest boon companion. . . . 
 
 Claire did not look up again until she had finished 
 the piece she was playing. Flint and Lily Condor 
 had retreated to an obscure corner where they 
 seemed to be sitting in rather furtive discomfort. 
 Claire was human enough to enjoy her triumph. 
 She knew that the two were taking mental stock 
 of the defenses that they might be called upon 
 to use. 
 
 Mrs. Condor looked older; her hair was losing 
 its luster, and her complexion showed unmistakable 
 first-aid signs. There were about her mouth, too, 
 lines of spiritual rather than of physical fag, fore 
 runners of a complete let-down. Claire could but 
 feel a measure of pity for this woman. She knew 
 enough to realize that in accepting the attentions 
 of Sawyer Flint Lily Condor had reached the 
 ghastly plains of unrestrained compromise. At 
 least there had been always something bold and 
 arresting about Mrs. Condor s indiscretions; she 
 had not been given to shielding her improprieties 
 behind the screen of cheap delights. She reminded 
 Claire of some harried animal snatching joys at 
 
 25* 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the expense of security. After Flint washed his 
 hands of her, what then? 
 
 Flint was making compromises, too. Lily Con 
 dor was not the woman he would have picked for 
 a dining companion if the field had been open to 
 his choice. Flint liked to exhibit his quarry rather 
 openly and with a swagger. But Lily was no con 
 quest to brag of, and Claire could see that already 
 his attitude was anything but deferential. She 
 had a feeling that Mrs. Condor would have been 
 willing to take the chance of dining with Sawyer 
 Flint in the fashionable restaurants of San Fran 
 cisco, and that these shifts to less smart entertain 
 ments were more a matter of Flint s lack of pride 
 in his adventure rather than his companion s desire 
 to be furtive. And as for the discretion of sneak 
 ing in and out of badly lighted side entrances 
 even this was questionable. After all, Flint and 
 Lily Condor could have played an open game to 
 much better purpose, and Claire was sensible that 
 they both were aware "of this fact the lady to her 
 inward chagrin. 
 
 Flint ordered a salad and then rose and went 
 out into the barroom. Mrs. Condor, divesting 
 herself of wraps, deliberately caught Claire s eye 
 and beckoned her. Claire left the piano stool. 
 
 "Claire Robson!" began Mrs. Condor, boldly. 
 "Fancy you here!" 
 
 Claire looked at her with uncomfortable direct 
 ness. All my friends are surprised, she answered, 
 simply. 
 
 This reply left Mrs. Condor without any con 
 versational lead. But she was not inclined to 
 
 252 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 retreat in the face of blocked advance. "I heard 
 somewhere," Lily lied, glibly, "that you were doing 
 cabaret work, but of course it never dawned on me 
 to find you in the Greek quarter. How is it very 
 dreadful?" 
 
 Claire waved her hand. "You can see for your 
 self," she said. 
 
 "Oh, I dare say it is human enough. By the 
 way, I suppose you re very sore at me. But really, 
 you know " 
 
 "Sore at you! Why, my dear Mrs. Condor, I 
 am sore at nobody. Why should I be?" 
 
 "Well, I thought perhaps . . . Oh, well, what 
 is the use of pretending? You know what I m 
 talking about." 
 
 "If you mean that silly tempest about the Cafe 
 Chantant, please dismiss it from your mind. I ve 
 done so long ago. You were put in an awkward 
 position and I don t blame you. You had to 
 choose, of course, between me and your friend, 
 Mrs. Flint. I can t fancy any sane person doing 
 differently." 
 
 Claire had never thought she could put so much 
 cool insolence into a speech. Lily Condor stared, 
 fidgeted, tried to laugh. "Mrs. Flint! Well, my 
 dear, you know as well as I do that she s impos 
 sible. I really feel sorry for Sawyer. He likes 
 a little gaiety now and then . . . just . . . Well, 
 you know what I mean!" 
 
 "Yes ... he told me all about it the night I 
 went over to take dictation. * No rough stuff, but 
 a good feed, and two kinds of wine, and a cigarette 
 with the small black. That was the way he put 
 
 253 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 it, as I remember. It all sounded very gay and 
 exciting then. But I ve seen a good deal since, 
 and now it all strikes me as quite dull." 
 
 Mrs. Condor was measuring Claire with a puzzled 
 air. "Claire, you re getting bitter, I m afraid. 
 I m sorry to see that. I m old enough, Heavens 
 knows, but I try to get peevish. As a matter of 
 fact, you played your cards all wrong. You had 
 Ned Stillman going south. Do you know why I 
 called you over to my table to-night?" 
 
 Claire looked at her purring adversary from head 
 to foot. "Yes, you wanted to make sure that I 
 wouldn t spread the news to Mrs. Flint about 
 seeing you here with her husband. You needn t 
 worry. The news won t get to Mrs. Flint through 
 me. I ve got other things on my mind." 
 
 Claire moved away. Flint was coming back. 
 He had the effrontery to bow to her, but she stared 
 at him coldly and resumed her seat at the piano. 
 Presently she was conscious that Flint had called 
 the waiter. And a little later she saw Flint and 
 Lily Condor go out the side door. 
 
 Flint came back to the Cafe Ithaca the follow 
 ing night, alone. It was after the dinner hour and 
 there was a little lull between gaieties. The enter 
 tainers sat huddled about the piano, but Claire 
 was sitting in a far corner, at one of the obscure 
 tables. Since the St. George s Day celebration the 
 other performers had treated her with cool con 
 tempt, making pointed remarks about "up-stage" 
 airs and the people who indulged in them. Claire 
 felt that it was only a matter of time, now, that 
 
 254 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 she would be forced to leave. Lycurgus had taken 
 to drinking more and more heavily and he had 
 begun to intimate that perhaps it would be a fairer 
 proposition if Claire got in between numbers and 
 hustled drinks with the rest of them. He was still 
 appreciative of the costume she had worn at his 
 feast, but she was finding it difficult to explain why 
 she did not appear in it every night. 
 
 Lycurgus saw Flint come in, and, scenting a 
 generous patron, scurried up to him obsequiously. 
 
 " Thank you thank you! Where will you sit?" 
 
 Flint swept the room with his glance. "Over 
 there," he said, loudly, pointing to where Claire was 
 sitting. 
 
 She was on her feet in an instant, but Flint bore 
 down upon her swiftly. "Here! Don t be in such 
 a hurry! I ve got something to say to you." 
 
 She shrugged wearily and resumed her seat. 
 Lycurgus discreetly retreated. 
 
 Flint threw aside his overcoat and took a chair 
 opposite her. 
 
 "What 11 you have?" he demanded, beckoning 
 the waiter. 
 
 "Nothing," she answered. 
 
 Flint ordered a cognac. 
 
 "Old friend Condor tells me that you insulted 
 her last night. I m glad of it. I m sick of her. 
 I m sick of everything. Cheer up! Have one 
 with me, won t you? ... I say, but you are a nice 
 little tombstone to be ornamenting a place like 
 this. What s the matter, don t you like me?" 
 
 Claire continued to stare dumbly at him. He 
 had been drinking, she could see that plainly, and 
 
 255 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 she felt a remnant of the mixed fascination and fear 
 that she had experienced during that memorable 
 hour at his dinner-table. 
 
 "No, you don t like me," he mused audibly, with 
 an air of drunken melancholy, as if the thought 
 had just struck him. "That s why I m running 
 around with the old girl . . . just out of spite. . . . 
 Say, but this is a hell of a place for you to be in! 
 On the square it is . . . nothing but dirty, drunken 
 Greeks and painted females! Bah! this isn t any 
 place for you! What I wanted to say is this any 
 time you want your job back you can have it. It s 
 there waiting for you. And there ain t any strings 
 on it, either. ... I played you a mean trick and 
 I acknowledge it. Now I ask you, on the level, 
 ain t that fair enough? ... I ain t the man to go 
 crawling on all-fours, begging people s pardon. But 
 you ve been pretty game and I take my hat off to 
 you! I take my hat off to anybody that s game, 
 see? Anybody at all ... anybody that s game, 
 . . . Well, what you staring at? I know I m losing 
 my hair, but I don t have to have you tell me that. 
 ... Is it a go? Your job back and everything 
 nice and comfortable again?" 
 
 Suddenly Claire felt sorry for him. She was be 
 ginning to feel sorry for any one stripped of his 
 illusions. And she had a conviction that this man 
 before her had treasured illusions that were no less 
 poignant merely because they were vulgar. He 
 seemed sincere in spite of his befuddled state. 
 Somehow, somewhere, it had come upon him that 
 he had done her a grave injustice and he was offer 
 ing her such reparation as his lights allowed. Hei 
 
 256 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 job back and everything nice and comfortable again! 
 How simple and naive and masculine! Every 
 thing all the bitter, soul-stirring experiences of 
 the past months to be swept aside by the simple 
 formula of restoring her to her old berth! It was 
 absurd enough for laughter, but tears trembled 
 very near the surface of such a revelation. Yes, 
 it took a man to have the courage of any faith so 
 direct and artless! 
 
 "I m afraid," she said, looking at him clearly, 
 "that it wouldn t be possible . . . to have the slate 
 wiped clean again. And besides ... I have to 
 earn my living now at night, Mr. Flint. I have 
 my mother to look after in the daytime, you know." 
 
 She spoke so gently that she surprised even her 
 self. And it came upon her that she had no reason 
 to feel any rancor against the man before her. It 
 was he that had given her the first opportunity 
 to cross swords with life. And it struck her with 
 added force that she would not recall one moment 
 of the last six months even if she could. 
 
 He did not receive her reply with much grace. 
 His fist came down upon the table as he said: 
 
 "You always were damn full of excuses. . . . 
 You worked in the daytime for Ned Stillman. . . . 
 But you can t get rid of me as quickly as you once 
 did. This is a public place and I ll come here and 
 sit every night and order up drinks until you 
 change your mind." 
 
 Claire rose in her seat. "Sit down!" he com 
 manded, thickly. "Sit down, or by God! I ll start 
 something!" 
 
 His voice had risen so that the entertainers 
 257 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 grouped about the piano heard him. Lycurgus 
 came forward. 
 
 " Thank you! Thank you! . . . What is the 
 matter?" 
 
 "This dame here, * Flint cried, sweeping a sneer 
 ing finger in Claire s direction, "she s about as alive 
 as a broiled pork chop. I come in here for a good 
 time and I can t even get her to drink with me. 
 What kind of a dump is this, anyway?" 
 
 A swooning fear came over Claire. What if 
 Danilo were suddenly to come in the side door? 
 She looked in the direction of the entertainers. 
 They were smiling broadly. Lycurgus rubbed his 
 hands together and fawned. 
 
 "Thank you! . . . Thank you! What is it, Miss 
 Robson? If the gentleman wants to buy a drink, 
 surely ..." 
 
 Claire saw Doris, the French Jewess, coming 
 toward them. "Did I hear something about some 
 one wanting to buy a drink?" She turned a wide 
 smile upon Flint. "Here, let me sit down!" she 
 demanded of Claire, who moved away. 
 
 Claire walked in the direction of the dressing- 
 room. Lycurgus followed her. 
 
 1 Miss Robson, thank you ! Thank you I You see 
 how it is? You spoil my trade! Everybody else 
 . . . they dress gay . . . plenty of color! They 
 order drinks. I am your friend, but you can 
 see ..." , 
 
 "Yes, yes," she answered, hurriedly. "I see. 
 It is all my fault. I shall go home now, and not 
 come back." 
 
 "Not come never ? Lycurgus brought his hand 
 258 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 forward in the old familiar gesture. "Oh, Miss 
 Robson, why do you make me so sorrowful? For 
 just a drink. . . . You would not even have to taste 
 it ! Ah, I do not understand these American women !" 
 
 She escaped swiftly and put on her things. As 
 she passed out through the cafe again, shrill laughter 
 followed her through the door. She hurried along 
 Third Street. At the crossing of Howard Street 
 she was aware that some one had come up to her. 
 She turned. It was Sawyer Flint. His face was 
 very red and his eyes almost swallowed in rolls of 
 puffy flesh. 
 
 "I m drunk/ he said, thickly. "I know that. 
 You don t have to tell me I m drunk! . . . What 
 was the matter? Did I spill the beans? I spilled 
 the beans, I know. You don t have to tell me I 
 spilled the beans. You lost your job, eh? On 
 my account you lost it? Well, do you know I don t 
 give a damn if you did? That ain t any place for 
 you. . . . That other dame . . . she thought I 
 was going to buy her a drink. Well, she had another 
 thought coming. I don t buy drinks for any of 
 them. I buy for you or not at all. . . . For you 
 or not at all! I think I ll go out and see old lady 
 Condor now. I want to get rid of her. No time 
 like the present. That s my motto no time like 
 the present! You don t have to tell me I made 
 you lose your job. I know! But I don t give a 
 damn. Do you understand ? Matter of fact, that s 
 the only decent thing I ve done for twenty years. 
 And remember, whenever you want your job 
 back . . . You know, just because you re game. 
 I take my hat off to anybody ..." 
 
 259 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He gave a sudden lurch and Claire escaped. 
 
 She thought at first of going directly home, but 
 she discovered that it was only nine o clock and she 
 dreaded to think of listening to the pallid chatter 
 of Miss Proll, the little seamstress. Then she would 
 be forced to invent an excuse for her early home 
 coming and she had grown tired of inventing excuses. 
 
 She decided to look up Nellie Whitehead. She 
 found her at home, wielding an electric iron and in 
 a state of comfortable disorder from her straggling 
 hair down to her frayed Japanese straw slippers. 
 
 "Well, Robson, how goes it?" Nellie said, testing 
 the heated iron with a moist finger. "Don t tell 
 me you ve lost your job!" 
 
 "That s what I came to do," Claire returned 
 as she threw her hat and coat to one side. 
 
 Miss Whitehead with fine discrimination changed 
 the sub j ect . "I m going to get married next week, 
 she announced. 
 
 "To ... to Billy Holmes?" 
 
 "The same. I sat down and figured things out 
 the other day. This talk about the independence 
 of females may be all to the good, but I know how 
 independent I am now and how independent I ll 
 be in twenty years from now. Just about as in 
 dependent as a barn-yard fowl. There s an old 
 girl down where I work now, and she s getting on 
 the ragged edge of fifty, and what do you suppose 
 her joy in life consists of? Saving her dimes up 
 so she will have enough money to dig into an old 
 people s home when she s sixty-five. Ain t that 
 a glowing prospect? Oh, she ll be independent, all 
 right. Anybody is who is a guest of a public 
 
 260 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 institution. Say, 1*11 bet the old people s home 
 has more rules than a hockey-game. Of course, 
 I suppose a man can lay down a lot of rules for his 
 frau s conduct, too, but the man who marries me 
 will have the fun of laying em down and that s 
 about all. ... So you ve lost your job? Why 
 don t you sign up a marriage contract? You re 
 not waiting to fall in love, are you? It s too bad 
 old friend Stillman has incumbrances. You and 
 he would make a go of it ! He s a pretty good kid, 
 all right. He s got his drawbacks, like the rest of 
 em, but there must be something fair about a man 
 who stays by a rotten game. . . . Whatever became 
 of that Serbian doctor, Robson? . . . Strikes me 
 you ve kept pretty mum about him. Billy told 
 me the other day he saw him coming out of your 
 house. On the square, why don t you flag him? 11 
 
 Claire tried to smile. "Well, at least wait until 
 he asks me!" she replied. 
 
 And they began to discuss Nellie Whitehead s 
 trousseau. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 IN the Robson flat the lights were still burning 
 when Claire got home. Especially in her 
 mother s room there was an unusual brilliance for 
 so late an hour. Claire was frightened. She 
 scrambled up the stairs. Danilo was leaving the 
 sick-room. "What? . . ." gasped Claire. "Has 
 anything . . ." 
 
 He smiled mysteriously and shook his head. 
 She went in. 
 
 She found her mother propped up and looking 
 more animated than at any time since her illness. 
 Her eyes were glowing and two faint spots burned 
 on either cheek. 
 
 "Claire! . . . Claire!" she whispered, excitedly. 
 "Danilo . . ." 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 "It seems . . . He wants to marry you, Claire. 
 . . . He came to me because ... it appears that 
 is the custom in his country." 
 
 Claire felt the room whirling. 
 
 "Well, mother?" 
 
 "He is a kind man, Claire," she heard her mother 
 say. 
 
 She went out into the hall. Danilo was standing 
 calm and confident at the head of the stairs. 
 
 "Your mother . . . has she told you?" 
 262 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are not ready is that it?" 
 
 "I . . ." She gave a startled look and fell back 
 a trifle. Then more quietly she finished: "Let us 
 go somewhere. . . . This ... I cannot talk to 
 you here!" 
 
 They went down together . . . out into the night. 
 She wondered what she would say . . . what was 
 there to talk about? . . . This was the moment 
 she had been waiting for all her life the moment 
 that every woman waited for . . . and still it ap 
 peared that it was a matter for calm discussion. 
 Perhaps the formality of Danilo s procedure had 
 robbed the incident of its surge and sweep. . . . 
 She did not know. . . . All she knew was that she 
 was trembling. . . . Afraid? . . . Well, perhaps 
 . . . a trifle. Was it always so? 
 
 At the first corner they came upon Danilo s car. 
 Danilo halted. 
 
 "No ... no ... let us walk!" she protested. 
 
 He yielded to her humor with a gracious shrug. 
 She slipped her arm into his and as quickly with 
 drew it he was trembling, too! . . . 
 
 They walked down Clay Street in silence. In 
 stinctively Claire turned toward the quickened 
 pulse of the town. They passed through the gaudy 
 shops of Chinatown into the Latin quarter. . . . 
 Crossing Broadway, they came upon a flight of 
 steps that lost their way in the white fog which 
 shrouded Telegraph Hill. 
 
 "Shall we go up?" said Danilo. 
 
 Claire turned for a moment and looked back at 
 the light-blurred city. 
 
 263 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Yes," she answered, as she gave a little shiver. 
 
 She took his arm and they began to climb; the 
 city fell beneath them, a faintly luminous outline 
 growing more and more remote. Dimmed by the 
 sad and mysterious tears of evening, the squalid 
 hillside lost its harshness; the cold street-lamps 
 mellowed to gold in the still, thick air. 
 
 They reached the crest of the hill. A breeze 
 from the west showered them with a flurry of 
 moisture. They looked up. A wind-tortured tree 
 was bending wearily forward, its dripping leaves 
 trembling before the night s breath. The sound 
 of an accordion rose above the muffled moaning 
 of fog-whistles. 
 
 The street had ended suddenly in rout and was 
 running away in a disorderly succession of aimless 
 paths. 
 
 "Where shall we go now?" asked Danilo, as he 
 halted. 
 
 "Toward the music," Claire replied, vaguely. 
 
 He listened a moment. "It is over on the east 
 side of the hill somewhere," he announced. 
 
 They dipped down. The way became more 
 ragged and full of shifting rocks. The air was 
 warmer, screened from the sea s breath by the 
 yellow hilltop. The sound of the music grew 
 nearer and nearer. A tawny light sprang up just 
 ahead; snatches of laughter reached them. Then, 
 quite suddenly, they came to an abrupt and jagged 
 ledge. 
 
 "See, down there!" cried Danilo. 
 
 Claire looked. Just below them in a bowl-like 
 depression that had once been the clearing for an 
 
 264 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 old-fashioned garden she saw black figures swaying 
 rhythmically about a bonfire. Danilo, taking a 
 newspaper out of his overcoat pocket, spread it 
 on the ground. They sat down. 
 
 The curtain rises on villagers dancing on the village 
 green. Claire remembered the old formula with 
 which the printed synopsis of the Christmas pan 
 tomime inevitably began. It had been to her 
 nothing but an empty phrase like the "once upon 
 a time" of a folk-tale. Claire had never seen a 
 village; she had seen only cities and country towns, 
 peopled by individuals too self-conscious to do 
 anything so naive and simple as to dance open and 
 unashamed upon the bare earth. 
 
 The bonfire blazed up suddenly and the dim 
 figures became more tangible and alive. Claire 
 could even see their faces. Remnants of a feast 
 were scattered about blue-black mussel-shells, 
 soiled tamale-husks, brown crusts of Italian bread 
 that had been baked in huge round loaves. The 
 music stopped. The girls detached themselves 
 from their partners. Jugs of wine were now lifted 
 up. The men drank with heads thrown back, 
 smacking their lips in greedy satisfaction. The 
 women, standing apart, began to smooth out their 
 dresses and straighten their hats. Somebody came 
 forward to the women carrying a demijohn and tin 
 cups. The women drank coquettishly, tossing the 
 last mouthful out upon the camp-fire. Then the 
 music began again. 
 
 Claire leaned forward, her lips parted with a 
 spiritual hunger she could not define. She felt 
 Danilo s hand slowly closing over hers; she made 
 18 265 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 no attempt to withdraw it. As she sat there watch 
 ing these women surrendering to their transient 
 joys She felt a strange envy, mixed with profound 
 pity. These women danced to-night; they would 
 dance to-morrow night . . . for a week, or a month, 
 or a year, as the case might be, but finally the reck 
 oning would come. But at least they danced! 
 At least they would have their memories! 
 
 One brown wisp of a girl stood out from all the 
 rest. She was not so deep-bosomed and broad of 
 hips as the other women, and she danced airily, 
 darting here and there like a blue-winged swallow. 
 Her partner, too, was taller and thinner-flanked 
 than the other men. Her head was tilted back 
 and her man bent forward as if to imprison her 
 very breath in the snare which his smile had set. 
 Whenever the music stopped they drank from the 
 same tin cup, and when the dance began again they 
 whirled off like two leaves in the clutch of the 
 autumn breeze. 
 
 Claire bent forward eagerly; a movement of her 
 foot sent a detached stone tumbling over the cliff 
 into the midst of the dancers. They all halted, 
 looked up in surprise. Then the young woman, 
 catching a glimpse of Claire and Danilo, waved 
 a welcome. 
 
 "Come!" she called, gaily. "Come and have a 
 dance!" 
 
 The music, which had ceased for a brief instant, 
 started up. 
 
 "Shall . . . shall we go down?" asked Claire. 
 
 "Yes. . . . Why not?" 
 
 They circled down the hillside hand in hand. 
 266 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 When they came up to the bonfire wine was being 
 poured and thick slices of bread passed about. The 
 little brown girl came forward, showing her white 
 teeth. 
 
 "Here, Tony! This way with the wine!" she 
 cried. 
 
 Her partner answered her call. He had two tin 
 cups and a demijohn in his hand. He filled both 
 cups to the brim, passing one to Claire and one to 
 the girl at his side. Both women took a sip ; the girl 
 handed the cup back to her companion. 
 
 "You, too!" she said to Claire. "You and your 
 man! You are like us ... lovers! You must 
 drink so ... from the same cup." 
 
 Claire looked at Danilo. He put out his hand 
 and took the cup from her. . . . They brought 
 bread next, not sliced, but in a huge brown loaf. The 
 youth broke through the crisp crust and gave them 
 each a piece. It seemed to Claire as if she were 
 partaking of some strange and beautiful sacrament. 
 She looked away from the firelight the fog had 
 grown whiter and more dense, and the city below 
 them had ceased to exist. It was as if care had 
 died and this pallid mist were a winding-sheet that 
 would forever screen its ghastly face. 
 
 The music started up once more. The little 
 brown girl and her lover whirled away. 
 
 "Come," said Danilo, as he drew Claire gently 
 toward him. 
 
 She tossed aside her hat, throwing it with joyful 
 abandon upon the top of a stunted rose-hedge 
 which bent to receive it. They began to dance, 
 simply, beautifully, naturally, their feet planted 
 
 267 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 firmly upon the yellow clay, their quick, ardent 
 breaths further whitening the evening air. 
 
 Claire ! Claire ! Danilo bent over, in the fash 
 ion of the lean-flanked youth, toward her parted 
 lips. " Claire, do you hear me? ... I love 
 you!" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, smiling back at him, "I 
 hear you!" 
 
 1 From the same cup, Claire . . . joy or sorrow! 
 We shall drink always from the same cup." 
 
 "Yes, joy or sorrow! Joy or sorrow!" she re 
 peated after him. 
 
 When we mounted the stairs to-night, Claire, we 
 did not know that we were climbing to happiness. " 
 
 "Let us stay up here always. . . . Let us never 
 go down." 
 
 Always, Claire, always. We shall never return . 
 
 The music stopped. They, too, stopped, out of 
 breath and bewildered. The musician was folding 
 up his accordion. 
 
 "Ah," cried the little brown girl, running up to 
 them, "it is over too soon! But we cannot dance 
 all night. There is work to-morrow." 
 
 "Yes," assented Claire, slowly. "You are right." 
 
 The wine-jugs were lifted and the wine-cups filled 
 for the last time. Danilo took a perfunctory sip 
 and passed his cup to Claire; she put it to her lips 
 this time the wine had a bitter taste. She thrust 
 the drink from her at arm s-length and poured a red 
 flood upon the tawny, sun-baked ground. 
 
 Already the company was departing. Claire 
 and Danilo stood apart and watched them go. 
 They dipped down the hillside, fading into the mists 
 
 268 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 like a company of devout and penitent pilgrims. 
 The fire had sunk to a heap of red embers. 
 
 "We must be going, too," said Claire. 
 
 They made their way back to the flight of steps. 
 The west wind had risen sharply, and the fog 
 parted in the breeze. The city was emerging from 
 its gloom like a be jeweled woman dropping a scarf 
 from her gleaming shoulders. 
 
 "Must . . . must we really go back?" Claire 
 asked, suddenly, as she drew away from the first 
 downward step. 
 
 He took her hand. "Are you afraid . . . with 
 me?" he said, gently. 
 
 She pressed his hand. "Can it be over so 
 soon?" 
 
 "Over? It has just begun, Claire. Have you 
 forgotten? . . . From the same cup!" 
 
 "Joy or sorrow," she repeated. 
 
 He led her back a short distance. They with 
 drew into the shelter of a twisted acacia that seemed 
 determined to escape from the imprisonment of 
 its squalid garden. She leaned against the fence. 
 
 "Ah, Claire!" she heard him say, and she felt 
 the shadow of his upraised arms fall upon her, 
 "can you not picture our life together? . . . All 
 the brave things to do and accomplish? . . . This 
 is as I have always dreamed it to share even my 
 workday with my wife. To share my poverty 
 with her. To share my aspirations. Come, what 
 is your answer?" 
 
 She raised her brimming eyes to his. "Yes," 
 she answered. 
 
 He put his fingers to her temples and drew her 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 face toward him. "My wife!" he said, simply. 
 And he let his lips fall upon her hair. 
 
 What had she come to talk about? Problems? 
 . . . her mother? . . . her duties? . . . How ab 
 surd, when nothing else mattered but just this . . . 
 nothing else in the whole wide world ! 
 
 They walked slowly to the brow of the hill. 
 
 "If every one could be as happy!" escaped her. 
 
 "Ah yes," he murmured, "but there is an end 
 even to sorrow. . . . To-day my friend Stillman s 
 sorrow ended . . his wife is dead." 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 IT was decided that Claire and Danilo were to be 
 married some time in August. Danilo was for 
 rushing off for a license at once, but Claire pleaded 
 the usual feminine lack of suitable apparel. Upon 
 the question of finances in the mean time, Danilo 
 was extraordinarily frank: 
 
 "I might as well give up my lodgings in that 
 wretched Third Street hotel and come here. Can 
 not you shoo Miss Proll into another corner and let 
 me have the hall bedroom?" 
 
 Claire was on the point of reflecting, but Danilo 
 finished, simply: 
 
 "You must live for the next three months, you 
 must remember." 
 
 And so the thing was decided. 
 
 Mrs. Robson was a bit disturbed at this arrange 
 ment. The excitement of Claire s prospects had 
 revived in her all her old sense of social expedi 
 ency. . . . She wasn t quite sure that people did 
 such things. She could not remember one instance 
 where anybody of her acquaintance had permitted 
 their daughter s fiance to share the same roof, 
 and she was emphatic in her disapproval of allow 
 ing Danilo to foot the bills. But Claire reminded 
 her that Danilo came of different stock and had 
 
 271 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 other standards. At this, Mrs. Robson surrendered, 
 but Claire could see that her mother s old distrust 
 for things foreign" was ready to flare up at the 
 first provocation. 
 
 Miss Proll, established in a corner of the living- 
 room, pleaded for the honor of preparing the trous 
 seau. Claire consented, as she said, with a rueful 
 laugh: 
 
 "You won t have much to work on." 
 
 But a surprise was in store for Claire. In Mrs. 
 Robson s room there had stood for years a huge 
 black trunk concealed under a discarded portiere. 
 Claire had guessed that it was full of relics and 
 memories of the Carrol family s former grandeur, 
 but she had never felt the slightest interest in ex 
 ploring these melancholy fragments of other days. 
 But it proved otherwise. There were memories, 
 plenty of them, but they had to do with the touch 
 ing struggle of a mother who had provided against 
 the day of what she felt to be her daughter s greatest 
 need. The trunk was full of every conceivable 
 material that a bride would find necessary for a 
 brave showing yards of silk, bolts of linen, quan 
 tities of lace. 
 
 "I didn t want my daughter to be a make-over 
 bride," Mrs. Robson explained to Miss Proll, who 
 stood by Claire as she threw up the trunk s heavy 
 lid. "I wanted her to have everything fresh and 
 new . . . except perhaps my wedding-dress." 
 
 Claire, blinded by tears, drew out the heavy 
 white-satin gown, slightly yellowed by the years. 
 She held it up. 
 
 "What do you think?" Mrs. Robson continued 
 272 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 to drawl, thickly. "I m afraid it won t do. They 
 dress differently now . . . fluffy, light things. I 
 guess . . ." 
 
 But Claire had silenced her with a kiss. Miss 
 Proll s cheeks were glowing with vicarious nuptial 
 excitement as she lifted the corded-satin skirt in 
 her capable fingers and said: 
 
 "Oh, you won t know this when I get through 
 with it!" 
 
 There was the veil Mrs. Robson had worn, too, 
 and the artificial orange-blossoms, hoarded care 
 fully in tissue-paper, even the thick, white kid 
 gloves of a bygone day. 
 
 "But mother ... all these other things . . . 
 how ever did you manage?" 
 
 Mrs. Robson smiled and shook her head. She 
 was in no mood for explanations ; she was standing 
 before the altar of all her sacrifices, and it was glow 
 ing with the light of fulfilment. 
 
 From the moment that the old black trunk was 
 opened a suppressed excitement ran quivering 
 through the house. Miss Proll, scorning fatigue, 
 plied her needle after her regular workday with all 
 the enthusiasm of a bride-elect. Her joys in the 
 preparations softened Danilo, who had always ex 
 pressed a contempt for her solitary state. 
 
 Then there was shopping to do of a trivial sort. 
 It seemed that scarcely a day went by without 
 a request from Miss Proll for some trifling but 
 highly important reinforcement to the regular 
 treasure-chest. Claire, slipping on her things to 
 run down to the shops, felt the delicious thrill of a 
 truant spendthrift. 
 
 273 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "For myself," she said one day to Danilo, "I 
 would much rather be married in just a street dress. 
 But mother would be " 
 
 "A street dress!" Danilo echoed, incredulously. 
 "No, your mother is right! I am marrying a 
 bride, remember!" 
 
 And she discovered that a wedding to Danilo 
 meant everything the term implied orange 
 wreaths, and veils, and huge cakes . . . and a feast. 
 There was nothing colorless nor sophisticated about 
 such a ceremony to him. 
 
 Meanwhile, Nellie Whitehead married Billy 
 Holmes. Claire and Danilo were among those 
 bidden to see the knot tied. It happened at the 
 noon hour in the vestry of St. Luke s Church, and 
 a score or more of relations and friends gathered 
 about and sniffled during the performance. Claire, 
 always moved by the sonorous solemnity of the 
 Anglican Prayer-book, was really touched by it 
 all, in spite of her Presbyterian training, and even 
 Nellie Whitehead emerged from the ordeal tremu 
 lously. There followed the usual kissing of the 
 bride and the Anglo-Saxon ignoring of the groom, 
 a bit of half-hearted rice-throwing, and the thing 
 was over. No feast, no rejoicing, no laughter. 
 
 Danilo was puzzled and disapproving. 
 
 "Why did they not say mass for the dead and 
 be done with it?" he snorted. 
 
 Two days later he came in for dinner and an 
 nounced : 
 
 "Now you shall see a real wedding!" 
 
 It appeared that two prominent members of the 
 Greek colony were to be married on the following 
 
 274 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Sunday night, and there was to be a feast at the 
 Cafe Ithaca. Claire had not been near her old 
 haunts since the night when she had dismissed her 
 self. There had been really no excuse. Danilo 
 had brought her the money due from Lycurgus for 
 the half -week she had served him. At first she had 
 an impulse to ask Danilo to excuse her. She did 
 not feel sure that she cared to see the Ithaca again, 
 and she was equally undecided about the wedding. 
 But in the end she made up her mind to go. At 
 the last moment Danilo was called out suddenly 
 to a sick-bed. This meant that they were late 
 for the ceremony at the church. But they arrived 
 in time to see the bride and groom making their 
 triumphal exit from the altar. The air was musky 
 and warm with incense and burning candles, and 
 for all its cheapness the church assumed a blue- 
 veiled atmosphere of mystery for the occasion. 
 Outside, the steps were thronged with the curious, 
 and, instead of hastening coyly to the waiting 
 taxicab, the bride graciously stood for a moment 
 in the doorway so that all the beauty-hungry mob 
 below her could catch a satisfying glimpse of her 
 young loveliness. There was a simple and gener 
 ous pride about this little by-play that made it 
 very charming to Claire. 
 
 Danilo and Claire swung on a passing car and 
 arrived at the Ithaca almost with the bridal party. 
 A pushing, eager mob of children blocked the side 
 entrance and even spilled over into the banquet- 
 hall upon the heels of the bride. The room was 
 arranged as it had been for the St. George s Day 
 celebration and the public was excluded. Lycur- 
 
 275 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 gus, catching sight of Claire, came forward with his 
 old sweeping manner, murmuring his clipped con 
 gratulations. Doris, spying her from a far corner, 
 rushed up with an impulsive kiss. It seemed as 
 if everybody was ready to sink all animosities and 
 feuds before the glamour of Claire s new estate. 
 
 The feast began. Claire looked about ; many of 
 the seats were not taken. She remarked the fact 
 to Danilo. 
 
 "Oh, they will fill up presently," he replied. 
 
 And it turned out that the wedding-supper was 
 not a matter of cool calculation so many places 
 for so many guests but that the feast was spread 
 beyond the known partakers. 
 
 "Suppose some of the guests should bring their 
 friends?" Claire inquired of Danilo. "One must 
 look to that. It would not do to turn any away." 
 
 A feast then was a feast, a thing to be eaten, it 
 did not matter so much by whom; indeed, strangers 
 were better than no guests at all. There was some 
 thing biblical about it, and Claire thought at once 
 of the parable in the New Testament which began : 
 
 "A certain rich man made a great supper . . ." 
 And ended : "Go out into the highways and hedges 
 and compel them to come in, that my house may be 
 filled." 
 
 "This," thought Claire, "is the real hospital 
 ity ... the real democracy." 
 
 And it struck her forcibly that for the first time 
 in her life she sensed in a flash the meaning of equal 
 ity and fraternity. In a Greek restaurant, at a 
 celebration of one of the sacraments of autocracy 
 and authority, she had come upon the underlying 
 
 276 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 principles that she had been taught to murmur 
 mechanically since childhood. 
 
 Looking through the narrow aperture of a par 
 ticular occasion, she had an illuminating glimpse 
 of larger issues, unessential differences, and essential 
 things in common that separated and bound the 
 world together. Danilo ceased to be from a people 
 apart and peculiar. His people would be her 
 people, not merely because she was to become his 
 wife, but because they would make claims upon 
 her sympathy and her love. The table of life was 
 spread for certain feasts that could exclude nobody. 
 
 She had been expecting some outlandish notes 
 to be struck in the celebration, but it all passed off 
 with a certain joyous solemnity. The supper was 
 delicious, the wine abundant, the bride girlish and 
 pleasantly conscious of her importance and the 
 beauty of her snow-white veil. The groom had a 
 place, too, it seemed, in the general spectacle an 
 unheard-of thing in Claire s experience. And in 
 addition to the bride s cake there was a special 
 cake brought in for the bachelors table. It was 
 curious to discover that the unattached males were 
 quite content to sit at a board of their own without 
 the leaven of feminine companionship. 
 
 Later in the evening the entertainers sang, and, 
 of course, it was inevitable that there would be 
 dancing. Danilo and Claire left at midnight. The 
 feast was by no means ended, but Danilo had an 
 early start scheduled for the next day, and Claire 
 was not unwilling to escape before the spirit of the 
 occasion staled. 
 
 On the way home Danilo said : 
 277 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "There, that is what I call getting married! 
 Your people go about it as if it were something to 
 be ashamed of. You have another word for it ... 
 well-bred, that is how you say it. But we should 
 all be natural once in a while. ... I suppose 
 you will not care to have a feast?" 
 
 Claire glanced at him sharply before replying. 
 He looked so wistful, so like a boy trembling before 
 the possibility of finding his fears confirmed, that 
 her lips broke into a smile as she said : 
 
 "I think it would be lovely. Let us do just 
 whatever you would like." 
 
 He rewarded her with a flaming kiss upon her 
 hand. He had never asked Claire for her lips; 
 there was a certain austerity about his attitude 
 that at times filled her with strange awe. 
 
 Every day with unfailing regularity Claire made 
 a resolution. 
 
 "I shall tell Danilo that I know Stillman." 
 
 But it was easier to rehearse the scene than to 
 carry it out. It all seemed so simple in prospect. 
 There was something awkward about forcing the 
 subject, and when Danilo opened the way with 
 some casual reference to his friend, Claire always 
 had a feeling that the moment seemed almost too 
 opportune. 
 
 One night she decided to make the plunge and 
 hazard the truth. Danilo had run m for a moment 
 between professional visits. He had a trick of 
 snatching at these fragments of companionship, 
 and Claire was getting used to his unexpected 
 appearance at all hours of the day. 
 
 278 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 I ve . . . I ve something I want to tell you," 
 she blurted out suddenly, as she stood before 
 him. 
 
 Her melodramatic hesitancy must have made 
 him apprehensive, for he returned, with an uneasy 
 laugh: 
 
 "You re not tired of your bargain already, are 
 you?" 
 
 "No . . . but . . . Well, I hope you won t 
 think it strange. . . . The truth is . . ." 
 
 She stopped in confusion. He gave her a look 
 of puzzled sympathy. It was plain that she was 
 disturbed and unhappy. 
 
 He laid his hand lightly upon her shoulder. 
 Well, if you re not tired, what does the rest matter ? 
 Unless, of course, there is some one else. ... In 
 that case ..." He had stopped breathing and 
 his lips were parted anxiously. 
 
 * How absurd you are ! She found herself laugh 
 ing at him. 
 
 After that the thing seemed impossible, and finally 
 the moment that she had been expecting and dread 
 ing came. Danilo said to her one morning, as he 
 was leaving: 
 
 "What night next week will be convenient for 
 you to go out to dinner? I want you to meet 
 Mr. Stillman." 
 
 "To meet Mr. Stillman? . . . Must I?" 
 
 He flushed. "Well, it never occurred to me 
 that you would object. I have spoken about it 
 to him." 
 
 "Oh, of course! Naturally for the moment I 
 felt surprised. How would Tuesday night do?" 
 
 279 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Tuesday night did perfectly. Danilo decided 
 on dinner at the St. Francis. Claire was admon 
 ished to dress her prettiest. 
 
 They had set the hour at seven-thirty, but at 
 the last moment a telephone message came to the 
 hotel that Stillman was detained. Danilo decided 
 upon going into the dining-room and waiting there 
 rather than in the lobby. 
 
 Stillman came in at eight o clock. Claire saw 
 him standing in the entrance to the dining-room, 
 greeting a woman friend. He looked very well, 
 she thought. 
 
 Danilo was for rushing up and escorting Stillman 
 in triumph to Claire s side, but she restrained him. 
 Presently Stillman detached himself from his femi 
 nine acquaintance and he stepped into the room. 
 He caught Danilo s beckoning ringer; his face lit 
 with a rare smile. Claire knew that he had not 
 yet glimpsed her. 
 
 It was not until he was almost upon them 
 that Claire noticed him start almost impercep 
 tibly. Then she heard Danilo s voice ringing out 
 warmly: 
 
 "Ah, so there you are! . . . Claire, this is the 
 Mr. Stillman that you have heard me speak of so 
 often. . . . Does he come up to your hopes?" 
 
 Claire inclined her head gently. 
 
 "You forget ... I have seen Mr. Stillman 
 before," she chided. 
 
 "Oh yes ... at the Ithaca. I had forgotten," 
 Danilo replied as he waved his guest into a seat. 
 
 As for Stillman, he said nothing, but Danilo 
 went on with vivacity: 
 
 280 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "You see, my brother, it is as I told you I shall 
 not need a pistol." 
 
 "A pistol!" echoed Claire, in a nervous attempt 
 to break the strain of Stillman s silence. "And 
 what use could you have for a pistol, pray?" 
 
 "That was for the other man in the case," Still- 
 man said, suddenly, looking up. 
 
 A quick flush overspread Danilo s face. 
 
 Claire did not know whether Stillman s tone was 
 ironical or bitter, or just thoughtless. But as she 
 turned to help herself to the olives which the waiter 
 held out to her she had a feeling that the last door 
 to the necessary understanding between herself 
 and Danilo concerning Stillman had been sud 
 denly closed. 
 
 19 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 MEANWHILE, among the countless war chari 
 ties that loomed upon the local horizon the 
 name of Serbia began to be heard. There had been 
 fe"tes and kermesses for starving Belgians, and lect 
 ures on Poland, and concerts for English widows 
 and orphans, and grand-opera benefits for the 
 Italians, but so far Serbia seemed to have made 
 either a very faint outcry or to have been pushed 
 into the background by more spectacular petition. 
 But an erstwhile famous dancer adopting the fa 
 mous Red Cross cap and gown in the interest of 
 Danilo s birthplace, there began to be a decided 
 interest in that little country. A permanent or 
 ganization for Serbian relief was formed, and Danilo 
 was made president. 
 
 There followed accounts in the daily press about 
 Danilo; his picture was published; his name even 
 wandered into the social columns. Then, one day, 
 when news was slack and space abundant, an enter 
 prising female reporter discovered that Danilo s 
 father had been a descendant of a famous Serbian 
 king, or archbishop, or some such imposing creature, 
 and Danilo s reputation, social and professional, 
 was made. It seemed that civilization, although 
 perfectly ready to dispense with the empty for- 
 
 282 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 mulas of state, was still hovering with a certain 
 fascination about the flickerings from the untrimmed 
 lamps of the nobility. It appeared that any de 
 scendant of royalty must of necessity have a ro 
 mance hidden away in the folds of his figurative 
 ermine, and so it was not long before Danilo s 
 secret was made public, in a good half -column of 
 social chatterings, together with a photograph of 
 the bride-elect. Suddenly San Francisco seemed 
 to have discovered, or rather the press did for it, 
 that Miss Claire Robson was "talented, accom 
 plished, and a pronounced favorite of the younger 
 set." Claire, reading the glowing account, remem 
 bered that brides always were "pronounced favor 
 ites with the younger set," whenever through 
 accident or design their names became mixed with 
 the socially elect. And not only was she herself 
 all these things, but her mother before her "had 
 been a member of the exclusive Southern set of the 
 seventies," and her two aunts, Mrs. Thomas Wynne 
 and Mrs. Edward Ffmch-Brown, were still "most 
 prominent in social activities." Altogether the 
 alliance was the most distinguished and romantic 
 affair imaginable. Only one figure in the drama 
 came out indifferently, and that was Claire s father. 
 Claire was merely the daughter of the late Mr. 
 William Robson, and the recital of this melancholy 
 fact was accomplished with the haste of a regretful 
 discretion. 
 
 Danilo was as pleased as a child. 
 
 "See," he would cry to Claire, "we are in the 
 paper again ! That is a fine thing for Serbia ! Now 
 San Francisco will know that such a place exists." 
 
 283 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Every day for a week there was fresh gossip 
 concerning Claire in the newspapers. Quite in the 
 American fashion, not even the glamour of Danilo s 
 ancestors could secure for him the amount of space 
 given to the woman he was to marry. The dis 
 covery was made that Miss Robson was "a talented 
 musician ... a pianist of no mean ability ... a 
 familiar figure to concert -goers ... an enthusiastic 
 Red Cross worker. ..." Indeed, it transpired that 
 she offered her talents gratuitously upon the altar of 
 charity. In spite of the money spent upon a dis 
 tinguished musical education, she asked nothing 
 better than to turn her abilities to the account of 
 the distressed. It went without saying that she 
 was in perfect sympathy with her prospective 
 husband s plans for the relief of his native land, 
 so much so that she was scorning all pre-nuptial 
 entertainment so that her time might be free for 
 the broader demands of philanthropy. It was all 
 very smart and entertaining, and the real facts of 
 the case were concealed with a dexterous skill. 
 It would, of course, have been the height of impro 
 priety to set in the column of a young bride s virtues 
 the facts that she had supported an invalid mother 
 for six strenuous months, that she had served her 
 employers well, that she was modest and virtuous, 
 and withal courageous in the face of adversity! 
 No, the truth would have made dull reading for 
 the rank and file who snatch romance and fiction 
 between gulps of morning coffee. 
 
 But the public s interest in kings and archbishops, 
 and Serbian relief, and Claire Robson went the 
 way of all satisfied curiosity, and just at the moment 
 
 284 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 when it seemed that Danilo had ceased to be of 
 any concern this same enterprising reporter made 
 another discovery. Danilo s father may have 
 sprung from a line of kings, but his mother was 
 a product of the backbone of every nation the 
 common people. Now there were more columns of 
 interesting speculation. Democracy came into its 
 own. Here was an alliance between exclusive privi 
 lege and fundamental rights, abstractions made 
 flesh by the glib vagaries of the daily press. And 
 the result, of course, was Danilo, a sort of demigod 
 who had combined all the virtues of both classes. 
 Chief among the items of interest, the most incred 
 ible to a democratic community, seemed to be the 
 fact that his same Danilo was not only unashamed 
 of his peasant stock, but proud of it. But then, he 
 had been basking in the warmth of the free and 
 untrammeled institutions of America for at least five 
 years, and he had learned, no doubt, to revise his 
 standards. Indeed, it was due to the influence 
 of American life, to say nothing of his charming 
 American bride-to-be, that he was bending all his 
 endeavors toward a rehabilitated Serbia. And it 
 was hinted that there was even a possibility that 
 this adopted son of the Golden West might one day 
 sit in the presidential chair of an enlightened and 
 enfranchised Serbian state. With this burst of 
 tentative prophecy, the hectic imaginings of the 
 daily press concerning George Danilo, Claire Rob- 
 son, and their ancestors went out like a spent 
 candle. 
 
 But the dust raised by all this journalistic flight 
 lingered long after the bustle and noise of the per- 
 
 285 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 formance had subsided. Danilo sensed it in an 
 ever-widening circle of wealthy patients, and Claire 
 in a rush of interested visitors. Almost her first 
 caller proved to be her pastor, Doctor Stoddard. 
 He came in one Saturday afternoon. Miss Proll 
 had returned home early, and the living-room was 
 a confusion of dressmaking, so Claire ushered the 
 reverend gentleman into the dining-room. Almost 
 the first thing that engaged his attention was the 
 holy image and swinging lamp before it that Danilo 
 had set up on his name-day. He walked over and 
 examined it rather cautiously. Then he sat down 
 with the air of one determined to meet the devil 
 without delay or compromise. 
 
 "The gentleman you are to marry," he said, 
 looking squarely at the icon as he spoke, "I pre 
 sume he is ... I take it that he is of a different 
 faith." 
 
 "Doctor Danilo is a Greek Catholic," Claire 
 answered. 
 
 There was an awkward pause in which it appeared 
 that Doctor Stoddard was marshaling all his wits 
 for a serious encounter. Finally he said: 
 
 "I hope he is not insisting on your partaking of 
 his communion." 
 
 "We have never even discussed the thing. 
 Really, I hardly know what his views are. As a 
 matter- of fact, it makes no difference." 
 
 "Makes no difference! . . . Why, my dear Miss 
 Robson, it would seem to me that it ought to make 
 a very great difference. You don t mean^to say 
 that you would sacrifice every conviction upon the 
 altar of love?" 
 
 286 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire, who had been standing, took a seat. 
 "My dear Doctor Stoddard, have you really ever 
 met a woman seriously in love?" 
 
 The gentleman coughed and began to polish his 
 finger-nails upon the glossy surface of his coat-sleeve. 
 
 "I have been in the ministry for over thirty 
 years." He stopped a moment, measuring Claire 
 for a supreme thrust as he finished with a certain 
 pompous satisfaction. "And you forget, Miss 
 Robson, I am myself a married man!" 
 
 Here was simple, conceited, masculine faith again ! 
 Claire could not restrain a smile as she changed the 
 subject. But it came to her as she did so that 
 there was something at once pathetic and terrible 
 about so bland an assurance. She thought of 
 Stillman and quite unconsciously she found herself 
 mentally repeating: 
 
 "I must tell Danilo in the morning." 
 
 Doctor Stoddard continued to make other polite 
 inquiries, but in the end the original question came 
 to the fore again. 
 
 "I hope," he hazarded, upon leaving, "that you 
 will ponder seriously the spiritual side of your 
 marriage. One should think twice before deserting 
 the faith of one s fathers. I cannot fancy that 
 Doctor Danilo will expect you to make the supreme 
 sacrifice of being married out of your own fold." 
 
 After he had gone she felt uncomfortable. She 
 had lost all sense of the authority with which Doctor 
 Stoddard felt himself invested, but in an intangible 
 way he did remain the symbol of those things un 
 seen which made faith in life possible. And some 
 how his presence revived the old hopes as well as 
 
 287 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the exquisite spiritual fears of childhood. She had 
 not been trained to refresh a soul wearied by sophis 
 tication by the simple act of lighting a taper before 
 a holy image, and she knew that this never could 
 be her portion. But Doctor Stoddard s presence 
 itself gave her a very real idea of what Danilo had 
 felt when he had set up his little name-day altar 
 in the Robson dwelling. One could deny the pre 
 cise terms of one s inbred faith, but it would still 
 remain the most tangible clue to a larger hope 
 the slender thread which guided one through the 
 maze. 
 
 Only one other person raised the question of 
 what form of ceremony Claire had decided upon 
 for her wedding, and curiously enough that person 
 was Nellie Whitehead Holmes. 
 
 "I say, Robson," she flung out one day, "I hope 
 you ain t going to stand for any three-ringed circus 
 stuff when you get hitched. Just you insist on a 
 straight old-fashioned get-away. . . in plain English." 
 
 Claire made no reply and, Nellie, searching her 
 friend s face sharply, said, with no attempt to con 
 ceal her panic: 
 
 "You ain t thinking of changing your religion, 
 are you?" 
 
 Claire smiled. "Well, why not? I m changing 
 my name. And after all ..." 
 
 "Claire Robson, don t be a fool! . . . Why, I 
 wouldn t change my religion for the. best man in 
 the world!" 
 
 "No? And just what is your religion, Nell?" 
 
 Why, I m an Episcopalian ! You ought to know 
 that! You went to my wedding. You didn t 
 
 288 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 think Holmes had any say about that, did you? 
 Well, I guess not! No, sirree, I wouldn t change 
 my religion for anything!" 
 
 Danilo was very busy now and Claire really saw 
 little of him. He took an early breakfast, almost 
 on the run, and it was seldom that he came in at 
 the dinner hour. But somehow the atmosphere 
 of the Robson flat was tremulous with his presence. 
 
 The month of June passed, unusually clear and 
 unusually warm for early summer in San Francisco. 
 Claire never remembered a time when she had been 
 busier. There was the housework to do and sewing 
 to be accomplished and her mother to attend to. Not 
 that Mrs. Robson was making any great demands, 
 but Claire found herself surrendering every spare 
 moment to the invalid. At such times Claire had 
 a shuddering sense of keeping a watch for the com 
 ing of that thief which was to rob her of the last 
 link binding her to her old life. It was plain that 
 Mrs. Robson was failing fast. Complications were 
 developing, the end could not be far off. 
 
 At night she took long walks while Miss Proll 
 sewed feverishly. The old gray city was like an 
 old intimate friend and she was saying good-by 
 to it as passionately as if it had been a warm and 
 living personality. She would stand for long 
 stretches upon the heights, watching the twilight 
 lay its cloak gently upon the town s curving limbs. 
 And as night came on apace, the hills would twinkle 
 with the shameless gauds of evening. What a 
 wanton, fascinating city it was! And how she 
 loved it! ... All her life she had taken it for 
 
 289 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 granted, as one takes for granted the familiar things 
 that grow commonplace by constant association. 
 And yet for all this new-found appreciation of her 
 native city, she longed to leave it, she wanted to 
 hold the memory of its beauty as an ever-living 
 thing, and she was afraid to trust to the narrowing 
 vision of bitter years. Sometimes in these glow 
 ing moments she thought of Stillman, trying to 
 dismiss the picture of his face, sneering and cold 
 before the realization that she was soon to be lost 
 to him forever. She had not seen him since that 
 night when Danilo had invited him to dinner at 
 the St. Francis. He had recovered his old genial 
 manner after the first lapse, but she knew that the 
 flimsy robes of pretense were at best an indifferent 
 covering for the wounds which were staining his 
 pale contentment. She did not like to remem 
 ber that evening. It smacked of subterfuge and 
 un worthiness. 
 
 She should have told Danilo she must tell him 
 to-morrow that was the thought that flashed over 
 her every time she came face to face with the 
 question. But somehow to-morrow never came. 
 
 "I must tell him to-morrow! ... I must tell 
 him to-morrow!" It became a stereotype formula 
 which she repeated as one repeats a monotonous 
 prayer in the hope of dulling a keen sensation of 
 guilt. She was in the grip of one of those simple 
 situations that grow complicated through con 
 cealment. That was the trouble, it was almost 
 too simple, and she could find no convincing argu 
 ment to explain why she had been silent so long. 
 
 During the days when the papers had been full 
 290 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 of her engagement to Danilo she found her heart 
 beating anxiously every time she opened the news 
 paper to the society column. What if a hint of her 
 friendship for Stillman were to be blazoned forth 
 there? It was just as likely that some such airy 
 fiction as this would grace the feast of gossip: 
 
 "Miss Robson is an unusually graceful dancer 
 and she and Mr. Ned Stillman were the sensation 
 of the St. Francis supper dancers all last season." 
 
 If it were so curiously awkward to approach 
 Danilo with the truth at first hand, what could she 
 say if, hearing the facts of the case from other 
 sources, Danilo were to suddenly demand an ex 
 planation? She could not say: 
 
 "It never occurred to me that it would mat 
 ter. . ." Or, "I really didn t think you would 
 be interested." 
 
 One night Danilo came home, his lips parted in 
 flushed pleasure, his black eyes glowing. 
 
 Have you heard what has happened ? Somebody 
 has donated a million dollars to the Serbian cause." 
 
 "Somebody?" echoed Claire, but her heart stood 
 still as she said it. 
 
 "Well, it is not for general publication, but of 
 course you can guess who has done this thing. . . . 
 There is only one man in San Francisco who would 
 do it." 
 
 Claire said nothing. But the old determination 
 seized her. 
 
 "Now, I must tell him in the morning!" she 
 thought. 
 
 But when next morning came Danilo had risen 
 early and departed. 
 
 291 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A MILLION dollars for the Serbian cause! The 
 newspapers came out with the news in bold 
 head-lines, and interest in Danilo and his fiancee 
 grew keen again. It seemed incredible that a sane 
 person could have given a million dollars to any 
 cause and withhold his name ! It was a method of 
 procedure that was neither modern nor business 
 like nor sound, and after the fury and fun of 
 speculation had died the daily press grew a bit 
 peevish at their balked opportunity to exploit the 
 donor. And not only had a million dollars been 
 left like a love-child at the door-step of charity, but 
 there had been no provision made for the manner 
 of its disbursement. Dr. George Danilo was to 
 have absolute and discretionary power in spend 
 ing this huge sum, and nothing further appeared 
 to be suggested or demanded. 
 
 Only one person ventured to hint to Claire 
 Robson that they were in possession of the secret, 
 and this one person was Nellie Holmes. 
 
 "You can t fool me, Robson!" Nellie said, search 
 ing Claire with her shrewd, kindly eyes. "I know 
 who slipped that million dollars into the poor-box. 
 It was friend Stillman. You don t have to tell me ! 
 And it ain t because he cares a whoop about Serbia 
 or Dr. George Danilo, Esquire, either." 
 
 292 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire paled and then flushed. "Really, Nell, 
 you mustn t! That isn t fair to . . ." 
 
 "Fair nothing! Danilo must have two eyes 
 and a nose, and if . . ." 
 
 Claire cut her short with a quick gesture. "You 
 don t understand. Danilo doesn t know. I mean, 
 I never have told him that . . . that I even knew 
 Ned Stillman." 
 
 A low whistle escaped Nellie Holmes. "My 
 God! Robson, but you were a fool!" . 
 
 " I know, but I mean to soon. As soon as I . . ." 
 
 "Look here, Robson, it s too late now! You ll 
 just have to take a chance. There are some things 
 that cold storage improves, but a secret like that 
 ain t one of them. Now, with Billy it would be 
 different. He d take my word because he knows 
 that there are some things I wouldn t be mean 
 enough to lie about. But your friend . . . well, 
 he s in love up to his eyes. And a man like that 
 is dangerous. It wouldn t take much to bring him 
 up to boiling-point. And you d better not turn on 
 the blue-flame at this stage of the game." 
 
 But Claire was determined that she would get 
 free of this figurative blood-clot which was paralyz 
 ing her will, and that night when Danilo came home 
 she made up her mind to speak out. It was one 
 of the nights when Danilo had denied all other 
 demands, so that he might have dinner with Claire, 
 and after the coffee she settled back in her seat 
 and said: 
 
 "You have really never told me who gave that 
 million dollars." 
 
 "But you know?" 
 
 293 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Well, after a fashion. It ... I presume it 
 was Stillman." 
 
 This was not as she had planned the scene and 
 she had a feeling that she was making slight progress. 
 Yes, you are right ! I have never had anything 
 in my life so touching! Isn t it wonderful, Claire? 
 This is a tribute to me, you understand. After 
 all, he can have no real interest in Serbia." 
 
 She drew back in her seat. His face was eager 
 and full of simple faith and enthusiasm. 
 
 " It is very curious, Danilo went on. * He could 
 have given it to some other cause. He is very 
 fond of Belgium, for instance. But he picked 
 Serbia. Are you not proud of me, Claire?" 
 
 He held his hand out to her across the table. 
 She gave him her fingers and he pressed them 
 warmly. 
 
 "Why do you not tell me that you are proud of 
 me?" he insisted, as she stared at him with silent, 
 almost frightened eyes. "Do you not think that 
 a man who can inspire the gift of a million dollars 
 for his native land has reason to be conceited?" 
 
 "Every reason . . . every reason," she forced 
 herself to murmur. 
 
 "And, as you say in America, it is a very good 
 ad. Why, checks are simply pouring in! And 
 there is to be a concert given next week. I was 
 talking to some of the ladies about it to-day. One 
 of them knew you well. She said you played 
 accompaniments for her last winter. Mrs. . . . 
 Mrs. . . ." 
 
 "Mrs. Condor?" Claire asked, faintly. 
 
 "Yes, that is her name! She is going to open 
 294 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the program. And she was saying how nice it 
 would be if you would consent to play for her. 
 You know I never would have thought of that. 
 I told her yes! Of course! You would be de 
 lighted." 
 
 Claire stared. Lily Condor s audacity was ar 
 resting enough in all conscience, but Danilo s calm 
 disposition of the matter rankled. Had it not 
 occurred to him that she might have something to 
 say about such an arrangement? 
 
 "Well, really, you know," she began to stammer, 
 in spite of a wish to give her words an air of finality. 
 "I don t think that I ..." 
 
 Nonsense!" he returned, genially. "It has all 
 been decided upon. In fact, we have had the 
 announcements put in the hands of the printer 
 already. Mrs. Condor said you had played the 
 same program before, so what was the use in de 
 laying? Remember," he finished, with a laugh, 
 "you are to be my wife, and in my country the 
 first thing a wife learns is obedience." 
 
 It was impossible for her to explain her ob 
 jections they involved too many issues and 
 she could not discuss Danilo s viewpoint without 
 seeming to be turning an inconsequential matter 
 to very serious account. But she did gather courage 
 to say : 
 
 Next time I wish you would speak to me before 
 you make plans of that kind." 
 
 Danilo frowned. 
 
 Lily Condor again! Claire pondered this un 
 expected circumstance all next day. She had been 
 
 295 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 hearing scraps of gossip from time to time con 
 cerning the lady through Nellie Holmes, enough 
 to indicate that her social position was border 
 ing on total eclipse. Capturing Danilo s patronage 
 was a daring and characteristic stroke, but Claire 
 felt that Lily knew that any such move was essen 
 tially futile. Was Mrs. Condor indulging a mere 
 whim or was a subtle revenge back of her latest 
 move? 
 
 Claire had quickly abandoned all hope of deny 
 ing her services in the face of Danilo s obvious dis 
 pleasure. But the prospect of having to face the 
 situation filled her with dread. There was no tell 
 ing where the issue would lead. What if Mrs. 
 Condor were to acquaint Danilo with the secret 
 which Claire had been withholding ? Nellie Holmes 
 was right, as usual there were some things that 
 cold storage did not improve. It was too late now 
 to indulge in the selfish luxury of a confession. 
 
 She felt sorry, too, in a way, for Lily Condor. 
 There was a pathetic note in the lady s very bold 
 ness. After all, what did it matter? Mrs. Condor 
 had lived a hard, reckless life, but who could say 
 what spiritual pressure had driven her down the 
 barren highway of her pitiless pleasures? For 
 Claire had learned another thing, one must have 
 wealth to be a spendthrift, and she was discovering 
 that the greatest spiritual bankrupts were those 
 who had the courage to dare magnificently and lose. 
 And so she sat down and wrote Lily Condor a little 
 note, which read: 
 
 I understand that I am to play for you next week. When 
 shall I see you and talk over the program? 
 
 296 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 And on the same night she wrote to Ned Still- 
 man: 
 
 I must see you and have a talk perhaps for the last time. 
 
 Three days later she met Stillman at mid- 
 afternoon in an obscure Italian restaurant near the 
 foot of Columbus Avenue. She had been some 
 what humiliated by the prospect of this covert 
 meeting, but when the final moment came she 
 felt suddenly calm. As in the old days, his presence 
 engendered confidence. He threw out a golden 
 circle of light like some mellow lamp that disdained 
 a searching brilliance, but was content to soften 
 rather than to betray the secrets of its surroundings. 
 
 He ordered coffee and a pale amber liqueur and 
 for a few moments they talked about things that 
 were of the least possible moment. He seemed a 
 little older, a little less suave and assured ; it was 
 as if the hands of his spirit were trembling a trifle 
 as they lifted life s cup. 
 
 "I have wanted to see you," he said, finally, 
 when the stock of subterfuge was exhausted. 
 "There were so many things that remained unsaid." 
 
 "Perhaps it was as well," she faltered. 
 
 He touched her hand. "Ah no! There is such 
 a thing as a corroding silence. ... I have learned 
 in the past months!" 
 
 He, too! She felt her pulses quickening, but she 
 could not speak, she could only clench her fist 
 under the impulsive pressure of his fingers. 
 
 "What are your plans for the future?" she asked, 
 suddenly. 
 20 297 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He shrugged. "I had hoped to get away into 
 the thick of it. . . . But it seems that my duty is to 
 stick by the home guns. Or, at least, so they tell 
 me. That s gratifying, of course ... to know 
 that one accomplishes the appointed task. The 
 armies must be fed, and California is an opulent 
 storehouse. There s lots to do here. . . . Still . . . 
 Well, you understand, don t you?" 
 
 "Yes ... I think I do. I ve heard you ve done 
 magnificently. And I ve felt proud of you because, 
 after all, in a way, we started on that road together." 
 
 He leaned forward. "It was you who first in 
 spired it. ... And I ve been tremendously grate 
 ful. I ve thrown down a rotten card or two in 
 the course of it all ... but it isn t always easy 
 to play a straight, clean game. But now that 
 everything is over and you ... you are going 
 to try your luck with the very best fellow in the 
 world. It was hard for me to figure it that way 
 at first, but when I saw it right . . . well, I 
 wanted to help in some way ... to do something 
 really big for you both." 
 
 "That million dollars to the cause," she assented. 
 That was magnificent. Danilo is touched . . . 
 you must know that." 
 
 He swept the table with an impatient gesture. 
 "Ah yes, I suppose he is ... but it isn t the per 
 sonal tribute I should have liked ... for you. . . . 
 Forgive me for speaking this way! But to-day 
 for the last time . . . surely you will let me say 
 a few things that are near my heart. That last 
 night we were together alone well, that was a 
 dangerous moment for me. There are times when 
 
 298 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a man lifts up the precious cup that holds his ideal 
 and brings it crashing down into shattered frag 
 ments on the floor. I raised my glass high that 
 night for its destruction, and you . . . you . . . Ah, 
 well, I m getting a bit too poetical . . . but you 
 know! . . . The point is I want you to absolve me 
 ... to wash me clean ... to forget that night." 
 
 She stirred slightly. "I have the same favor 
 to ask," she murmured. "When you met me at 
 the Ithaca . . . my words to you were all very 
 unworthy. . . . And I have put you since in an 
 awkward position. It s hard for me to explain just 
 why I haven t told Danilo. ... I suppose some 
 day I shall . . . but now, well, I ve decided to 
 let it rest as it is for the present. It s all absurd 
 and pointless and feminine. . . . But Danilo is 
 different ! One can t tell him certain things, easily. 
 
 He drew his liqueur-glass toward him and looked 
 down into its amber depths with the air of a man 
 catching his breath. 
 
 "Different! . . ." he returned, musingly. "Yes, 
 you are right. He is a flame that warms everything 
 that comes in contact with him. But I fancy he 
 can wither, too." 
 
 "Yes, he can. . . . That s the reason why . . ." 
 
 He looked at her squarely. 
 
 "Claire ... do you mind if I call you Claire ? 
 ... I am afraid we are playing with fire." 
 
 It was past six o clock when Claire left the 
 restaurant. The warm spell of June was over, 
 and a high ocean fog was drifting in on the breath 
 of the west wind. People hurried by muffled in 
 
 299 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 overcoats and furs, their straw hats incongruously 
 accenting the almost wintry gloom. But Claire 
 was in no mood to take account of wind and weather. 
 
 This last intimate meeting with Stillman was 
 full of irony. For the first time they had met and. 
 talked of what was close to their hearts with per 
 fect frankness, and it was to be the last time! He 
 had even spoken about his dead wife, in a perfectly 
 natural, simple way, as if Claire had known her all 
 her life. 
 
 They had said farewell while the waiter was busy 
 ing himself clearing away their empty glasses. It 
 seemed better so. But as Stillman took her hand 
 he said: 
 
 "Try not to forget me, Claire completely." 
 
 "I shall never forget," she answered. 
 
 She left him standing there while the waiter bowed 
 over the generous tip which lay upon the stained 
 table-cloth. ... At the door she turned fcr a last 
 look. He was smiling at her, but it was a twisted 
 smile. . . . She opened the door and went out. . . . 
 
 When she arrived home Danilo was standing 
 in the hall, slipping on his overcoat. She had a 
 fear that he would make some comment about her 
 late home-coming, but he said nothing he merely 
 nodded to her as he reached for his hat. She stood 
 puzzled at his silence ; there was something ominous 
 about it, and her brain started guiltily as she thought, 
 "Could it be possible that he has seen us together 
 this afternoon?" 
 
 She began to take off her wraps. "Are . . . are 
 you going out?" she asked. 
 
 He stared at her. "Yes." 
 300 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Some one is ill ... I mean have you a sudden 
 call?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 She did not know why she persisted in question 
 ing him. 
 
 "You will be out late, then?" 
 
 "Yes. ... I may not come home at all." 
 
 She moved nearer. The hall light struck him 
 squarely. His look frightened her. There was 
 not a bit of color in his face, and his lips were thinned 
 as upon that first night when he had risen in his 
 seat at the Cafe Ithaca and betrayed his love 
 for her. 
 
 "What is the matter?" she demanded, with des 
 perate boldness. "You . . . Something must have 
 gone wrong?" 
 
 He started back as if she had struck him a blow. 
 "It is nothing. I am not feeling well. That Serbian 
 relief is getting on my nerves. . . . Money, money 
 pouring in ... and they do not care about the 
 cause, either! It is just the fashion, that is all! . . . 
 Bah! Sometimes I hate the whole pretense! . . . 
 I would like to find one honest person!" 
 
 She shrank back. He walked past her quickly 
 and he began to descend the stairs. Half-way 
 down he halted and called up to her: 
 
 "Your friend, Mrs. Condor, was in to see me to 
 day. . . . She will be here to-morrow to talk over 
 the program." 
 
 Claire ran to the head of the stairs. But the 
 door slammed decisively. 
 
 " Your friend, Mrs. Condor," Claire mused. 
 "What a nasty tone!" 
 
 301 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 DANILO did not come home that night, but 
 Claire was not disturbed. Morning brought 
 the usual sanity. She was convinced now that 
 Danilo s manner of the night before was more a 
 matter of her own mood and interpretation than 
 anything else. But she was determined on one 
 thing: she would ask Mrs. Condor quite frankly 
 to say nothing to Danilo about Stillman. Claire 
 was still undecided about the whole question. She 
 had seen that Stillman was against the fine-spun 
 theories back of her silence, but she had not yet 
 acquired the masculine directness of conduct that 
 made it easy for her to be either ruthless or perfectly 
 just. 
 
 Mrs. Condor came in shortly after two o clock. 
 She was dressed with extraordinary lack of spirit 
 for her, in a black street dress that just escaped 
 being dowdy, and her face was incased in a thick, 
 ugly veil. 
 
 "Well, my dear Claire," she said, as she threw 
 back her veil with something of her old spirit, 
 but this is good of you!" 
 
 The warmth of tone repaid Claire s effort to be 
 generous. 
 
 "There is no use in us wasting time talking about 
 the program," she went on. "You play every- 
 
 302 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 thing I m going to sing. I don t know anything 
 new. I m getting too old to learn other tricks. 
 You know, of course, what I ve come for? To 
 see all your pretty clothes. I m still soft about 
 such things." 
 
 Claire took her into the front room. 
 
 You see," she said, "there isn t anything very 
 grand." 
 
 "Oh, but Claire! What does it matter? You 
 are in love. ... If I were a woman in love I 
 wouldn t change places with the Empress of India. 
 I was jealous of you, Claire, once . . . jealous 
 because I thought you were in love . . . because I 
 thought you could be. ... Ah ! You didn t think 
 that I cared for Ned Stillman? ... Oh, I liked 
 his attentions, perhaps every woman likes atten 
 tion. And I was envious of your youth, and nasty 
 because my nerves were frayed. . . . But deep 
 down I was jealous of your ability to fall in love 
 with somebody. . . . Believe me, Claire, the bitter 
 est moment of any woman s life is when she wakes 
 up and finds that she loves no one. At least that 
 was the bitterest moment of my life. . . . I ve 
 tried to bring that feeling back again! But trying 
 doesn t do any good. It either comes or it stays 
 away, and that s all there is to it. ... Oh, I ve 
 been loved, Claire, but that isn t the same." 
 
 Claire, who had been folding her wedding-dress, 
 stopped and looked up in surprise. 
 
 "I don t wonder you look at me that way!" 
 Lily Condor resumed. "I ve played a rotten game, 
 but I ve never acknowledged it to myself, much 
 less to any one else. . . . Don t misunderstand me 
 
 303 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 I m not crawling around on my hands and knees 
 sniffing like a repentant sinner. ... I hate repent 
 ant sinners! But I ve been cheap and small and 
 nasty. Petty that s the word! You may not 
 believe it, but pettiness isn t a part of my original 
 make-up. I ve acquired it ... like a false com 
 plexion. ... I started in life with three things 
 a clear skin, quantities of very red hair, and a 
 decent feeling for others. Well, I lost them all 
 so I powdered my cheeks and touched up my hair 
 and filled in the chinks in my disposition with a 
 hard glaze. Oh, I m not excusing myself! Some 
 people are willing to sit back and let time and mis 
 fortune do their worst, but I wasn t one of them. 
 I kept on fighting. ... I didn t win, but it hard 
 ened me. Fighting always does!" 
 
 Claire dropped her wedding-gown upon the couch 
 and she said, very gently: 
 
 "Yes ... I know. . . . I ve tasted something 
 of that myself." 
 
 "I know you have. ... I realized it that night 
 at the cafe when you had the courage of your bitter 
 ness and insulted me. I was furious, of course! 
 I wanted to strike back, to kick and scream and 
 claw the air. And as a matter of fact, I did . . . 
 after we ... Flint and I ... got home. He 
 let me rave without saying a word. Oh, he s a 
 clever brute in his way, that man! And when I d 
 had it all out he got up and he said: Take a look 
 at yourself in the glass. If that doesn t cure you, 
 nothing will. And he walked deliberately out. 
 ... I went over to the mirror after he had gone, 
 and I took a look, a long, hard look. . . . Next 
 
 304 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 night he came and pounded on my door he was 
 drunk. I did what you told me last night, 
 I called to him. Go away! I m cured! But 
 of course I wasn t! . . . I ve looked in the glass 
 every day since. ... I don t know just what 
 possessed me to go and offer my services to Doctor 
 Danilo. A flash of the old distemper, I fancy. I 
 wanted to create a stir. I smiled when he disposed 
 of you with so much confidence. I thought: Wait 
 until my lady hears; then there will be some fun! 
 . . . This will be the first difference, the first 
 quarrel, I was mean enough to imagine. . . . Then, 
 your note came. . . . My dear Claire, for once in 
 my life I was without a weapon. . . . Why didn t 
 you strike back and give me a chance to fight?" 
 
 "Well, to be frank, I wanted to ... at first. 
 But I was afraid." 
 
 "Of what ... of me?" 
 
 "Oh, not that! But Danilo ... he ... You 
 see, he is a foreigner. He has other ideas about 
 women and their place in the scheme of things. It 
 isn t exactly a feeling that he s superior, but mar 
 riage to him is a partnership ... a partnership 
 with a senior member. And senior members well, 
 they don t relish having their authority questioned. 
 I m explaining it very clumsily. But you under 
 stand I ..." 
 
 "Afraid, Claire? ... So soon? You must be 
 very much in love to ... to ..." 
 
 Claire drew a deep breath. "And I ve a favor 
 to ask of you. ... I hope you won t say anything 
 to Danilo about . . . The truth of the matter is, I 
 have never mentioned Ned Stillman s name to him." 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Well, she had said it and she stood staring, 
 wondering at the look of dismay that seemed to 
 have fastened itself in an arrested flight upon 
 Mrs. Condor s face. 
 
 "You mean that . . . that Danilo knows noth 
 ing absolutely nothing? I thought he was a 
 friend of Ned s? Why, it isn t possible that ..." 
 
 "He knows nothing," Claire repeated, desper 
 ately. "I mean to tell him, of course, but just 
 now . . ." 
 
 Lily Condor tapped her lips with an uneasy 
 finger. "You should have warned me sooner, 
 Claire. ... I said something yesterday. It was 
 a trifle, but I remember now how he stared." 
 
 Yes, yes. What was it ?" 
 
 "I said: You re a lucky man, Doctor Danilo. 
 If Ned Stillman hadn t been married you wouldn t 
 have carried off your prize so easily. It was stupid 
 of me, one of those indelicate things we say for 
 want of sense enough to hold our tongues. I felt 
 for a moment that I had displeased him, but I had 
 no idea . . . But, really, it s just possible that he 
 didn t get my meaning, that ..." 
 
 Claire shook her head. "I must tell him now 
 everything." 
 
 She did not see Danilo for two days. He came 
 in finally at five o clock one afternoon to look up 
 some surgical instruments that he was in need of. 
 She was busy in the kitchen when she heard him 
 come up the stairs. She went quickly to his door 
 and tapped upon it. 
 
 "Mother has not been so well," she began, with- 
 306 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 out waiting for his greeting. "I have been longing 
 to see you." 
 
 He followed her into Mrs. Robson s room. The 
 patient hardly stirred. Her usual interest in 
 Danilo seemed to be eclipsed. Danilo looked 
 grave. . . . When Claire and he were in the hall 
 again he turned to her and said: 
 
 "I suppose you are prepared? . . . Everything 
 will soon be over." 
 
 His tone was dry, professional. He seemed to 
 be making a deliberate effort to wound. Had he 
 been sympathetic Claire would have been over 
 come, but there was something about the scene 
 which chilled her emotions. She felt that the time 
 to speak had come. 
 
 "You have guessed, also," she began, "that I 
 have wanted to see you about other things, too. 
 There are some things which I should like to ex 
 plain ... to ..." 
 
 He shrugged contemptuously. "Explanations are 
 dull affairs. At least I find them so. And they 
 usually never explain." 
 
 She was stunned. She had thought always of 
 Danilo in terms of warmth, even of passion. She 
 had never imagined him capable of such steely 
 malevolence. 
 
 "I have made a mistake," she went on, desper 
 ately. "I am willing to admit that, but . . ." 
 
 "No, not a mistake, Claire. Mistakes are never 
 deliberate." 
 
 She could almost feel herself grow pale. "Have 
 you come to any decision?" she asked. 
 
 "Decision?" 
 
 307 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Well, I suppose that you will wish to be re 
 leased . . . that our . . . that everything between 
 us is finished." 
 
 His eyes flashed. "Finished! It isn t as simple 
 as all that. Oh no! A bargain with me is a bar 
 gain. When I make a deal it either goes through 
 or else there is a reckoning. . . . But I don t act 
 as hastily as one might imagine. I believe in sifting 
 things. When I play a game I know every card 
 I hold." He looked at her steadily. "I am still 
 looking over my hand!" 
 
 She leaned against the wall, overcome by a sudden 
 faint ness. He passed her deliberately and went 
 into his room. When he came out she had recovered 
 herself. 
 
 11 About mother?" she said, with a display of 
 calmness. "What am I to expect?" 
 
 "There is no immediate danger. But in two 
 weeks time at the most . . . However, I shall 
 look in again this afternoon. And every morning. 
 You may count on that." 
 
 "Then you have decided to lodge somewhere 
 else?" 
 
 "Yes . . . for the present." 
 
 She let him go without further questions. 
 
 The week passed in an atmosphere of arrested 
 events. It seemed to Claire as if the currents of 
 life had become ominously frozen, that they were 
 storing up a sinister flood in the icy chains of 
 apprehension. Danilo came twice a day to see 
 Mrs. Robson. He was excessively polite, unbend 
 ing, professional. Claire was powerless before such 
 
 308 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 premeditated cruelty. The night of the concert 
 drew near. Danilo never so much as mentioned 
 it. Finally Claire gathered the courage to tele 
 phone Mrs. Condor. 
 
 "I suppose," she said, that everything is going 
 according to schedule. Really, I haven t had a 
 chance to talk to Danilo about it. He has been 
 so busy." 
 
 The upshot of this telephone message was that 
 Mrs. Condor called in the afternoon. 
 
 Confess!" she said to Claire. "Things have 
 gone wrong." 
 
 "He won t allow me to explain. ... It is hor 
 rible ! I don t know what to do ! And my mother 
 is dying! . . . How much do you fancy he knows?" 
 
 Everything or nothing ! It is hard to say. But 
 you must keep a stiff upper lip now. No falter 
 ing! ... Be as dignified as you can. Men like 
 that are dangerous! It may be that he is merely 
 suffering, that he can t speak out yet! When he 
 does . . ." She gave a significant shrug. 
 
 Claire folded and unfolded her handkerchief, 
 crumpled it into a ball, tore at it with her firm 
 finger-nails. 
 
 "Words . . . insults . . . anything would be 
 better than this silence. I have never been so 
 frightened." 
 
 Mrs. Condor s visit relieved the strain somewhat, 
 but Claire was still strung with a tense emotion 
 that found expression in a restless physical activity. 
 She even helped Miss Proll with the sewing, 
 although there were moments when the absurdity 
 of all this preparation struck her with a force which 
 
 309 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 almost brought the laughter to her lips. But this 
 wedding-trousseau had become a passion with Miss 
 Proll. Claire could not conceive of halting its 
 preparation. 
 
 Once it struck her that there was a decided im 
 propriety about appearing in a concert, with her 
 mother so near the gate of life s solution. Impro 
 priety? She pondered the word. And at once a 
 revulsion swayed her. She was sick of all these 
 pallid phrases of expediency. One could act 
 indifferently or harshly or irreverently at such a 
 crisis, but it was too dreadful and austere a cir 
 cumstance for so smug an indiscretion as impro 
 priety. She knew what her mother would have 
 advised on a like occasion. 
 
 "I wouldn t, if I were you, Claire. People might 
 think it strange." 
 
 This formula, then, was all that was left of the 
 pomp and circumstance of death of even the 
 glowing pageantry of life; love and hate and desire 
 reduced to colorless shadows blown monotonously 
 about the lantern of existence by the steady heat 
 waves of public opinion! 
 
 It would have been so easy to excuse herself, to 
 say to Danilo : 
 
 "You see it is impossible for me to play next 
 Friday night. Please make other arrangements." 
 
 In reality, she was waiting for him to release 
 her, and, since he seemed determined to make her 
 cry for quarter, all her pride rose to meet the issue 
 courageously. It was pride that lifted her head 
 above the choking dust of misfortune arrogant, 
 blind, magnificent human pride. 
 
 310 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "... keep a stiff upper lip." 
 Claire Robson did not need this admonition 
 from Mrs. Condor. 
 
 There were also moments of hectic retrospec 
 tion. Incidents old but vital came surging over 
 Claire in a flood-tide. Looking back, it seemed 
 as if no circumstance was too trivial but that it 
 yielded up some fragment which fitted into the 
 intricate pattern of her life. She had thought of 
 this life of hers always in terms of uneventful- 
 ness, mistaking mere incident for emotional ex 
 perience. But she was surprised to discover what 
 depths she had sounded, what heights she had 
 scaled in the solitary excursions that her spirit had 
 chanced. 
 
 People came and went like noonday ghosts 
 Mrs. Finnegan, Nellie Holmes, Mrs. Towne, Doctor 
 Stoddard. Claire felt their personalities moving 
 about her, but the wings of Death cast too heavy 
 a shadow for her to do more than sense their 
 presence. 
 
 Only Danilo s passionately sneering face had the 
 faculty of bringing Claire up with a round turn 
 to a sudden realization that she had escaped only 
 temporarily into a world of unrealities. It was 
 as if the payment on a note had been suspended 
 with refined cruelty the day of reckoning futilely 
 postponed. 
 
 When she thought of him it was with a quicken 
 ing of the heart, a swooning fear, a feeling of dread 
 ful nausea. Afraid! She knew the meaning of 
 this word now. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Lily Condor ran in again the day before the 
 concert. 
 
 "I called at Danilo s office to-day," she said, 
 "just out of sheer curiosity. ... I don t know 
 . . . perhaps it would be just as well if we didn t 
 go through with this farce of doing a turn to 
 morrow night. . . . What do you think? I could 
 pretend that I was ill?" 
 
 "Why? . . . What is it? Do you think . . ." 
 
 "I don t like his look. He was most polite. . . . 
 I think he could have killed me." 
 
 "Nonsense!" Claire returned, boldly. "You re 
 drawing on your imagination. I want to do it. . . . 
 I have a reason." 
 
 She realized the absurdity of such a statement 
 as soon as Mrs. Condor had departed. A reason! 
 And her mother was dying dying! What would 
 people think? Unconsciously the old question 
 framed itself. 
 
 Danilo came in as usual, close upon the heels of 
 Mrs. Condor. 
 
 "Your mother is slightly better," he said to 
 Claire. "She may last another month." 
 
 Claire tried to ignore the insolence of his brevity. 
 
 "I wish you would do me a favor," she ventured, 
 boldly. "I ve been trying to get Nellie Holmes 
 on the telephone all day. . . . Would you mind 
 asking her if she could come and stay with mother 
 to-morrow night from eight o clock to about ten? 
 I hate to leave Miss Proll all the responsibility." 
 
 He merely bowed his acquiescence. She felt her 
 cheeks burning. He had done none of the things 
 she had expected him to do asked none of the 
 
 312 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 questions. At least she had expected him to 
 say: 
 
 "Oh, then you have decided to appear to 
 morrow ?" 
 
 No, he had insulted her with his silence, pre 
 tending to be neither surprised nor shocked. But 
 his attitude confirmed her in the determination 
 to carry out her part of the program. 
 
 On Friday morning the society columns of the 
 newspapers were twittering with the fact of Claire 
 Robson s appearance upon the concert stage in aid 
 of her fiance s native land. This was the last 
 time the public would have a chance to view her 
 as Miss Robson. In fact, it might be the last time 
 that San Francisco would have a chance to view 
 her publicly at all! These statements carried an 
 air of civic calamity that must have appalled every 
 shop-girl who thrilled to their romantic suggestion. 
 Previously Claire had been able to smile over the 
 transparent fiction of the daily press concerning 
 her obscure self, but now she caught a suggestion 
 of irony, of bitter cruelty, of withering scorn run 
 ning through all this silly chatter. She felt that 
 it had been inspired by Danilo; between the lines 
 she could almost shape his sneering lips, thin and 
 pallid where they had once been full and scarlet. 
 
 That morning when he came to see his patient 
 his eyes were burning like livid coals, his cheeks 
 were sunken, his hand shook as he drew back the 
 covers to look at Mrs. Robson s gray face. And 
 as Claire watched him she saw a tear roll down the 
 full length of his cheek and drop unashamed upon 
 the rumpled linen. She felt a great longing then, 
 
 21 313 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a yearning to go up and put her hands upon his 
 cheeks and draw his face to hers and to sit while 
 he knelt beside her and poured out his full grief 
 in a cleansing flood. But, instead, she stood proudly 
 aloof and the golden moment of opportunity was 
 swallowed up. 
 
 "I will not come this afternoon," he said, at 
 parting. "You may expect a taxi at eight-thirty." 
 
 She felt an impulse to put out her hand to him. 
 But again she could not rise to such humility. 
 
 She watched him go slowly down the steps with 
 the weak tread of one consumed by a fever. He 
 had changed completely overnight. He gave one 
 look back before he closed the door the look of 
 a wounded beast staggering through a welter of 
 heart s blood. 
 
 Claire Robson brought her hands quickly up 
 to her eyes. 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 WHAT would I wear if I were you?" 
 Miss Proll, echoing Claire s question, swept 
 the array of finery upon the bed with a critical eye 
 and finally drew forth the iridescent peacock-blue 
 dress with which Claire had startled even the 
 patrons of the Cafe Ithaca. 
 
 Claire shook her head. * It s cut rather too low, 
 she said. 
 
 But Miss Proll would not listen to any such ar 
 gument. "I ve a black-lace shawl . . . my moth 
 er s. If you put that about your shoulders ..." 
 
 Claire allowed herself to be persuaded. She 
 had very little heart in the adventure, anyway, and 
 Miss Proll seemed to be taking such a tremulous 
 joy in being daring by proxy. In the end the 
 results justified the choice. The black-lace shawl 
 tempered the gown s wanton splendor, and, lacking 
 any exaggeration of hair or complexion, Claire s 
 personality glowed warmly but without flare. She 
 emerged neither the Claire of church-social evenings 
 nor Cafe Ithaca midnights, but a Claire tempered 
 into the crucible of both these divergent experiences. 
 
 Nellie Holmes, answering the message sent 
 through Danilo, arrived in time to put one or two 
 deft touches to the general effect, a twist here and 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 a soft pat there, that added a chic note to Miss 
 Proll s rather prim efforts. 
 
 "Well, Robson," she said, standing off critically, 
 "but you do give swell clothes a chance, don t you? 
 Friend Danilo ought to throw his chest out about 
 twelve inches when he gets his eyes on you to-night. 
 By the way, what is the matter with him? He looks 
 like a sick kitten that s been rained on. I never did 
 see such a sad comedian. The face he s wearing 
 these days ain t much of a compliment to you." 
 
 The taxicab came promptly at half past eight. 
 
 Claire went in to say good-by to her mother. 
 But Mrs. Robson merely opened her eyes, and 
 closed them again. 
 
 "I don t think she knows me," Claire faltered. 
 "I wonder whether I ought to go? What do you 
 think, Nell? The whole thing seems such a farce!" 
 
 Her passionate exclamation brought a question 
 ing lift of the eyebrows to Nellie Holmes s face. 
 "What do you mean, Robson? Your mother is 
 all right. ... I don t think Danilo would let you 
 leave if ... Tell me, have you and Danilo ..." 
 
 "No. I m just tired, Nell. Let me go and have 
 it over with." 
 
 She released herself from her friend s implied 
 embrace and went down to the waiting taxi. 
 
 She met Lily Condor in the hallway of the St. 
 Francis, almost at the door of the dressing-room. 
 
 "I ve just taken a look in at the audience," 
 Mrs. Condor said. "The place is packed. Even 
 the real people have come early to-night. It s 
 plain that you re the attraction." 
 
 316 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire tried to turn this observation off with a 
 laugh, but she knew in her heart that Lily Condor 
 was right. The newspaper chatter had had its effect. 
 
 Mrs. Condor swept on the stage a little ahead 
 of Claire at precisely fifteen minutes past nine. 
 A patter of applause greeted her. But a moment 
 later Claire came into view, and a clapping of hands, 
 out of all proportion to her position as accompanist, 
 rippled through the room. Claire stood for the 
 briefest of moments facing the throng, bending 
 slightly forward in acknowledgment of the recog 
 nition given her. But in that short time it seemed 
 that she had taken note of every familiar face in 
 the crowd below Stillman, Flint without his wife, 
 and, farther back, Miss Munch and Mrs. Richards, 
 Mrs. Finnegan and "the old man," Doctor Stod- 
 dard, Mrs. Towne, even Lycurgus and a half -score 
 of the Ithaca patrons, including a few of the old 
 entertainers headed by Doris, the French Jewess. 
 They were all applauding heartily, except Miss 
 Munch and her cousin. 
 
 "What irony!" flashed through Claire s mind 
 as she took her seat before the piano. 
 
 Six months ago she had been starving for just the 
 recognition that was now her portion. To-night she 
 found applause empty of any real meaning. And the 
 presence of these people who had colored her life 
 made her feel as if all the joys and hopes and fears of 
 her existence had been suddenly made flesh and were 
 sitting in judgment upon her. She began to play. 
 
 Presently Lily Condor s voice came to her 
 remote, unreal, a thin, clear stream of song like 
 the trickling of some screened fountain. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Mrs. Condor is singing well to-night," she 
 thought. 
 
 At the end of three numbers the applause was 
 still insistent, but Mrs. Condor denied the clamor 
 with a smiling shake of the head. Flowers began 
 to be handed up orchids and roses and carna 
 tions and flamboyant peonies. Claire passed Mrs. 
 Condor a share of the bloom and together they 
 bowed their acknowledgments. They came back 
 upon the stage for a fourth and last time. It was 
 then that Claire caught glimpses of others whose 
 presence had escaped her her two aunts, Billy 
 Holmes sitting alone, and back, far back, standing 
 with his hands folded in a sort of dreadful resigna 
 tion, Danilo, his lips still pallid and the hollows 
 in his cheeks showing up even in the distance. 
 
 "You did beautifully," Claire said to Mrs. Con 
 dor as they gained the cloak-room. 
 
 "Yes ... I know . . . Because I realized that 
 it was for the last time. . . . I m through." 
 
 She tossed Claire s flowers upon a lounge and 
 went back to hear the next number. 
 
 Claire looked over the cards attached to the 
 bouquets. The orchids were from Stillman, roses 
 from Nellie Holmes, a flaming bunch of carnations 
 from Lycurgus, and she looked twice at the 
 card the peonies bore Flint s name. . . . Not a 
 sign from Danilo! 
 
 She decided to go home. She looked about for 
 the attendant in charge of the wraps, and discov 
 ered that the room was empty. The sound of a 
 violin floated from the concert platform. She 
 went out and glanced down the passageway. The 
 
 318 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 maid was standing in a screened position by the 
 entrance to the hall, listening. Claire went back 
 and sat down upon the lounge beside her flowers, 
 and as she did so Danilo stepped into the room. 
 She rose with a quick movement of protest. 
 
 "Really you mustn t!" she objected. "This is 
 the ladies dressing-room.* 
 
 He ignored her with a malignant smile; he did 
 not speak. But he walked rapidly toward the heap 
 of flowers and began to snatch at the attached 
 cards with sudden fury. 
 
 "Stillman!" he sneered. "Holmes Lycurgus 
 Flint!" He looked at her with glittering eyes. 
 " Then it is so!" 
 
 "What do you mean?" 
 
 "Flint!" he cried. He tore the card into bits 
 and flung them to the ground. "So we men are 
 all alike? Well, you ought to know! You have 
 had experience enough. What a fool I have been! 
 What a jooll Well, I am not like the rest of them !" 
 
 She drew away. His brow had curdled with bitter 
 intensity. He took her arm in a firm grip and drew 
 a pistol from his pocket. 
 
 "Do you see that?" He held the weapon up 
 to her. "I bought that yesterday to call the man 
 out and shoot him. . . . Then I heard that there 
 was another. Well, in my country we do not 
 waste more than one bullet." 
 
 His eyes fell upon her with a mad fury, yet she 
 faced him calmly, almost unafraid. 
 
 "Why don t I scream?" she asked herself. "He 
 intends to kill me . . . here! And yet I am not 
 even trying to . . ." 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 And suddenly she discovered that he had a great 
 black smudge on his nose. She wanted to laugh. 
 
 "In my country we do not waste more than one 
 bullet!" he was repeating. 
 
 "Yes ... I heard you. You don t have to 
 shout! I m not deaf!" she could hear herself 
 saying. 
 
 He lifted the pistol higher, on a level with her 
 mouth. She could see by the glitter in his eyes 
 that he was in the grip of a dreadful frenzy. 
 
 1 1 Temporary insanity ! That will be his defense ! 
 she thought at once. 
 
 And she pictured herself lying before him in a- 
 crimson pool, saw a black, surging crowd pushing 
 into the dressing-room from the hotel corridors, 
 felt herself lifted up tenderly by some one. Would 
 Ned Stillman pick her up ? Or perhaps Flint? . . . 
 She imagined the trial Danilo pale and grief -worn, 
 incapable of caring whether he lived or died, ob 
 livious to his surroundings. Temporary insanity 
 . . . that would be his lawyer s plea. . . . The 
 black smudge was still there ... it was too ridicu 
 lous! She fumbled with her free hand and, lifting 
 the edge of Miss Proll s lace shawl deliberately, 
 wiped the spot from the tip of Danilo s nose. 
 
 At that moment she heard a sharp report, glass 
 came crashing to the floor. 
 
 "Well, at least his face is clean!" flashed through 
 her mind. . . . She felt herself sinking backward. . . . 
 
 "Yes, a pistol-shot!" the maid was reiterating. 
 Claire opened her eyes. She was lying upon 
 320 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 the lounge and the flowers had been thrown un 
 ceremoniously upon the floor and were being 
 trampled underfoot. The orchids, crushed and 
 abandoned, looked particularly sorry. She had 
 an impulse to rise and rescue them. 
 
 1 Nonsense !" It was Lily Condor s voice. She 
 merely fainted. What you heard must have been 
 falling glass. She struck the mirror as she fell." 
 
 An enormous relief came over Claire. She 
 closed her eyes again. "Where is Danilo?" she 
 asked herself . . . . Suddenly she remembered every 
 detail of what had gone before the pistol, the black 
 smudge, the sharp report, the crash of falling glass. 
 It was the black smudge on Danilo s nose that had 
 saved her. She realized that now. What a ridic 
 ulous thing life was, anyway! And what trivial 
 circumstances determined its issues! The wrong 
 seats at a church social had yielded her Stillman. 
 A black smudge upon the nose of an emotionally 
 shaken man had snatched her from death. What 
 grotesque impulse had moved her to reach forward 
 at the critical moment and flick the tip of Danilo s 
 nose with Miss Proll s lace shawl? Miss ProlVs 
 lace shawl! Suppose she had not worn it? Would 
 she have attempted to remove the speck with a 
 bare finger? She doubted it. Then even Miss 
 Proll s lace shawl had played its part! It was all 
 very puzzling; the pattern of life became too 
 intricate, too full of flaming colors that in the 
 weaving seemed of dullest drab. . . . The muffled 
 talking about her began again. 
 
 11 Excuse me for troubling you," she heard Mrs. 
 Condor say, "but Claire here ... I have looked 
 
 321 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 all over for Danilo. . . . Oh, nothing serious ! . . . 
 Her mother ... A little old maid? It must be 
 the dressmaker who . . . Yes, bring her in, by 
 all means." 
 
 Claire roused herself. She was sitting on the 
 edge of the couch when Ned Stillman came through 
 the door with Miss Proll. Claire understood at 
 once. She rose to her feet. Lily Condor started 
 toward her. 
 
 "Oh no really, I am quite all right. What is 
 the matter? Is my mother ..." 
 
 "Yes," answered Miss Proll. "You had better 
 come at once." 
 
 Stillman went to call a taxicab. Mrs. Condor 
 helped Claire into her wrap. In less than five 
 minutes they were all standing at the curb, ready 
 to step into the vibrating car. Stillman lifted the 
 ladies in. He was drawing back when Claire thrust 
 her head out and said: 
 
 "Won t you please come, too? I am not sure 
 about Danilo, and ..." 
 
 He climbed in, slamming the door. 
 
 Claire went into her mother s room alone. 
 Nellie Holmes was bending anxiously over the 
 sufferer. 
 
 "You have come in time," Nellie was saying 
 as she yielded her place to Claire. 
 
 Mrs. Robson looked up bewildered. For a mo 
 ment her dull eyes roamed restlessly about as if 
 in search of some missing thing. Finally, with 
 a great effort the words shaped themselves. Claire 
 listened attentively. 
 
 322 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Danilo . . . where is Danilo?" 
 "Yes ... in a moment. . . . Presently." 
 Mrs. Robson closed her eyes with a smile of 
 satisfaction. It was her last conscious moment. 
 Slowly she fell into a stupor. . . . Toward mid 
 night she died. 
 
 It was all very simple, Claire thought afterward. 
 Much simpler than living. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 IT was not until people on the street began to 
 stare that Danilo discovered that he had come 
 away from the hotel without his hat. He felt no 
 discomfort, but he was annoyed at being an object 
 of curiosity. As a matter of fact, he was curiously 
 devoid of any emotional excitement; instead, his 
 wits seemed to have been sharpened by a cool cun 
 ning. All his powers of reasoning were reduced to 
 one impulse flight. He decided that he must walk 
 on and on without a halt. His escape from the hotel 
 had been extraordinarily easy. He merely had 
 shoved his smoking pistol into his hip pocket and 
 walked calmly out. If he had attempted to run, 
 or looked about excitedly, or even slunk by the 
 liveried flunky at the revolving door, all would 
 have been lost. But he had done none of these 
 things and he was feeling a certain arrogance at 
 the thought of his bravado. But he realized that 
 he must get a covering for his head. It was ridicu 
 lous to be sauntering along the street hatless. He 
 beckoned a youth who stood near the curb, smok 
 ing a cigarette. 
 
 "I should like to buy your cap," he said, simply. 
 
 The young man stared, then broke into a laugh. 
 4 All right!" he replied, quickly, as if it were the 
 
 324 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 best to humor a madman. "But it will cost you 
 money." 
 
 "How much?" 
 
 "Two dollars/ 
 
 Danilo gravely counted out the money. The 
 youth drew back, instinctively clapping a hand 
 upon his head. 
 
 "Come!" cried Danilo, roughly. "It will not 
 do for you to trifle with me. You set your price. 
 Here is the money. I want that cap!" 
 
 The youth turned pale and attempted to run. 
 Danilo grasped him firmly by the shoulder. 
 
 "Give me that cap!" insisted Danilo. 
 
 The youth obeyed, trembling from head to foot. 
 One or two passers-by halted, stared a moment, 
 and passed on, shrugging their shoulders indiffer 
 ently. 
 
 "Thank you," said Danilo. "You have done 
 me a great favor. Here is the two dollars. May 
 God reward you." As he said this he made the 
 sign of the cross in midair above the boy s head. 
 The boy cowered and began to whimper. Danilo 
 put on the cap and walked away. 
 
 He felt more at ecise now; no one was paying the 
 slightest attention to him. He decided to go into 
 a saloon and buy something to drink. The bar 
 tender, stout and genial and Irish, passed him the 
 Bottle of whisky. Danilo s hand shook as he 
 poured out his drink. The Irishman eyed him 
 quizzically. 
 
 "I have just had r.n unpleasant experience," 
 Danilo began, apologetically, as he spilled some of 
 the whisky. "I saw a woman shot." The bar- 
 
 325 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 keeper seemed unimpressed. Danilo felt annoyed. 
 "At the St. Francis Hotel ... in the dressing- 
 room, off the Colonial Ballroom. . . . She had 
 been fooling a man. I was so excited I walked 
 out of the hotel without my hat. . . . This cap 
 I bought it from a boy on the street. Is it not 
 droll?" 
 
 The Irishman put the cork in the whisky-bottle 
 and set it in its place under the bar. 
 
 "The man was a fool!" he said, bluntly. "I d 
 like to see myself take a chance at swinging for the 
 likes of any woman." 
 
 "Oh, you are mistaken!" Danilo returned, mildly. 
 "The man who shot this woman will not swing." 
 
 "Oh, well, if she gets better, of course ..." 
 
 Danilo leaned forward. "Better? ... Oh no, 
 my friend, she is dead, quite dead. He aimed at 
 her mouth. ... I saw her fall. ... But the man 
 will not swing. He is not that kind. He will shoot 
 himself first." 
 
 "It is all the same," returned the barkeeper. 
 "He was a fool!" 
 
 "You do not know what you are talking about!" 
 Danilo cried, hotly. 
 
 "Neither do you!" said the other, with an indul 
 gent laugh. 
 
 Danilo gulped the whisky in silence and went 
 out with a morose air. 
 
 "A fool? ... A fool? . . ." he kept repeating. 
 
 The issue was at once irritating and impersonal. 
 He felt as if the barkeeper had affronted the whole 
 masculine sex. A man was a fool for allowing him 
 self to be taken in, he was quite ready to grant that. 
 
 326 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 But no man was a fool for collecting the full toll 
 of feminine duplicity. Now this man, in the dress 
 ing-room of the St. Francis Hotel, who had shot 
 down a woman . . . 
 
 Danilo halted. Why, the man was he himself! 
 Somehow it had never occurred to him. He had 
 the same feeling that comes in dreams, when one 
 is in some mysterious way both the actor and the 
 audience. He had been in the picture and out of 
 it. It was all very puzzling. 
 
 He tried to review the incidents of the evening. 
 Nothing was very clear. The sound of a pistol- 
 shot was the most vivid memory; then somebody 
 had fallen. . . . The woman was dead it could 
 not be otherwise! Why had he walked away so 
 calmly? He should have stayed. After all, he 
 was a physician and he had acted unprofessionally. 
 It was a physician s place to remain and serve, even 
 in the face of utter hopelessness. Well, he had 
 come away and it was too late to turn back. He 
 was very tired. He looked about him. He had 
 drifted down to the water-front. 
 
 He went into a cheap lodging-house and paid 
 for a room. The place was frowzy and ill-smelling, 
 but he did not care. He threw himself upon the 
 bed. The dreamlike quality of what had trans 
 pired still persisted. He had added another role 
 to the drama, that of physician. He had been the 
 murderer, the spectator, the physician. But he 
 could not get under the skin of the victim. He 
 seemed to be able to recall every detail but her 
 face the blue-green dress, the black-lace shawl, the 
 white tapering arm upraised as she flicked the end 
 
 327 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 of his nose. It was then, as the murderer, he had 
 pulled the trigger. ... In the r61e of frightened 
 spectator he had walked out of the hotel. . . . 
 As physician he had remembered his duty and 
 chided himself. . . . He took a cigarette from his 
 pocket and began to smoke. He lay there for 
 hours, thinking, thinking. But he could not see 
 the victim s face. . . . 
 
 Suddenly toward morning he sat up. 
 
 "Ah, I have it! The woman was Claire. . . . 
 Yes, it is Claire who is dead! ..." 
 
 He fell back with the satisfaction of one who 
 has solved an irritating puzzle. 
 
 He awoke at noon. He was neither surprised 
 nor dazed at finding himself in a strange environ 
 ment. Sleep had settled all the dust-clouds of 
 thought. He remembered everything perfectly. 
 He was a murderer, and he had killed a woman 
 because he had not been wise or prudent enough 
 to content himself with the fruits of a tempered, 
 frugal passion. He did not rouse himself. He 
 had no wish except to lie still and think. 
 
 Looking back, he could see that he always had 
 felt uncertain about Claire. Somehow she was 
 not altogether a virginal type. She was a woman 
 who, lacking any concrete experiences, would men 
 tally create stimulating situations. Even now 
 he admired her, but love was mysteriously killed. 
 Yet he had loved her last night! And never so 
 ardently, so completely as at that moment when he 
 had brought his pistol upon a level with her lips 
 and done his worst. 
 
 328 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 But this morning he seemed swept clean of all 
 feeling, love and hate and enthusiasm, every sensa 
 tion killed utterly dead! Could it be possible 
 that Claire Robson had absorbed every hope, every 
 expectation, making of them a living thing in her 
 own image that died with her? Had she betrayed 
 not only him, but all his visions? What had be 
 come of the far-flung horizons which he had al 
 ways seen so clearly? One black cloud had eclipsed 
 them all. 
 
 He remembered the serene blueness of the day 
 on which that black cloud had sprung out of the 
 south, a misty-white fledgling of the sky that grew 
 with the hours until the sun was wrapped in a dull 
 gloom. How quickly Mrs. Condor s words had 
 expanded and drawn every drifting rumor to their 
 confirmation! He had heard it all everything. 
 It amazed him to discover how easily the truth was 
 uncovered. Uncovered? No, it had lacked even 
 the virtue of concealment ; it lay, noxious and fester 
 ing and unscreened, a rich feast for the scandal 
 mongers circling vulture-like above. But his flight 
 toward happiness had been like the eagle s, too 
 swift and lofty and disdainful for such unlovely 
 sights; eagerly, blindly he had passed them by. He 
 recalled with a shudder the morning that he had 
 gone and bought the pistol. This he had intended 
 for Stillman. But the very thought of it had cut 
 him to the heart. It was only when he had re 
 flected on that million dollars for the Serbian cause 
 that he found himself submerged in bitterness. 
 This was the crowning insult, the culminating de 
 ception! The wage of Claire Robson s shame 
 22 3 2 9 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 offered in the guise of a free gift ! No wonder that 
 the donor withheld his name! 
 
 "In my country it is all very simple we call 
 the man out and shoot him! * 
 
 How poignantly these words had come back to 
 Danilo in his agony! But it had not been simple. 
 . . . He wondered if he were losing the naive 
 directness of his forefathers. There had been mo 
 ments when he was almost persuaded that it was 
 not his affair, after all. Claire Robson did not 
 belong to him; she never had. There was no logic 
 in exacting a price from any one who had taken 
 unclaimed property. But there had been inso 
 lence and trickery back of the performance. . . . 
 A million dollars for the Serbian cause! Not only 
 he, but his country, was to have been smirched by 
 the patronage of these two moral derelicts. The 
 purity of his passion for Claire Robson had sharp 
 ened his sense of human delinquency and given 
 him the uncompromising judgments of virtue. . . . 
 Well, he had decided upon Stillman. Some one 
 must pay the price and the woman he loved did not 
 yet seem foul enough for the sacrifice. . . . Then 
 it was that his ferretings had hunted out the 
 Flint story. From that moment he had been 
 gripped by a blind fury. His thoughts had grown 
 black, formless, devastating. He had been deliber 
 ately betrayed the woman he loved did not exist, 
 not even potentially. It was not a question of 
 what might have been. One did not gather figs 
 from thistles. And above all this angry tumult 
 within him there rose something cool and malevo 
 lent and sinister, the fruits of wounded vanity and 
 
 330 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 outraged pride. . . . And now it was all over. 
 He wondered whether he would be capable of an 
 emotion again. Would he continue to think with 
 out the respite of being able to feel, to lie and stare 
 unmoved at the mangled form of his dead hopes? 
 At the sound of the pistol he had closed his eyes 
 upon the horrid sight which he knew must follow. 
 Blood was nothing to him, but the vision of Claire s 
 shattered loveliness was too terrible to face. How 
 easy it was to screen the senses from ugliness! 
 Why was it not possible to shut the inner vision 
 as completely? 
 
 He lay for hours, thinking, thinking! He could 
 do nothing else. 
 
 Night came on again. Danilo was still thinking. 
 A tray of untasted food sent in by a water-front 
 chop-house drew a half-score of buzzing flies 
 toward the varnished bureau. He lay, still inert, 
 but disquiet had begun to succeed the first hours 
 of emotional exhaustion. And he felt ill, also. 
 His throat was burning and his breathing labored 
 and choked. 
 
 " I must have caught cold last night," he thought, 
 "running about without a hat." 
 
 Physical discomfort was swinging him back into 
 the paths of every-day experiences. He even had 
 a fleeting impulse to prescribe for himself. 
 
 A fever set in. He began to dream. ... It 
 seemed to him that Claire was moving about the 
 room, waiting on him, serving him. She had on 
 the peacock-blue dress, but the shawl was gone and 
 her white shoulders and tapering arms gleamed 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 coldly in the uncertain light. "Ah," thought he, 
 4 her lips will be red!" He raised his eyes to her 
 face, but he saw only something vague and gray 
 and formless. * She has wrapped her face in a veil, 
 he said, aloud. "What delicacy ! She does not wish 
 to remind me of last night. . . . Yes, that is it ! ... 
 Last night I pointed my pistol at her mouth. But 
 her mouth was not red last night . . . not before I 
 closed my eyes. . . . Her lips were red once, but 
 she wiped them clean again, for me. . . . Why did 
 she do this thing for me? I was not her love?" 
 And suddenly the peacock-blue dress was gone and 
 Claire became a gray figure from head to foot, a 
 gray figure with two red lips. Nothing else was 
 visible. She began to move toward him. He tried 
 to turn from her, to lift his body up, to fling him 
 self downward upon his face. But he could not 
 move. She came nearer. . . . Her lips were widen 
 ing with every step. She halted by the bed . . . 
 she bent over . . . she kissed him. Her lips were 
 warm and moist and horrible. He gave a deep, 
 groan and woke up. 
 
 He fell asleep again. Now he dreamed of Serbia 
 his country, a beautiful woman, golden in the 
 morning light. She lay smiling like a blossom in 
 the dawn and her long hair was spread out on 
 either side. Then suddenly a leprous sun beat 
 down upon her and she tried to lift her arms to 
 screen herself from its fury, but could not. Flies 
 gathered, her body grew loathsome, her lips black. 
 Then, coming down a dust-stung road, he saw a gray 
 figure a gray figure with two smiling red lips show 
 ing through a rent in its drab winding-sheet. And 
 
 332 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 his beloved country stirred faintly and gave a deep 
 cry. The gray figure stopped, bent over gently, and, 
 taking two strands of the flowing hair in its wan 
 hands, drew a covering over the festering body. 
 . . . He looked again. The gray figure was hold 
 ing out her hands to him! He went toward it 
 joyfully. And at that moment the gray winding- 
 sheet fell away and Claire stood before him, smiling. 
 He dropped on his knees beside her. . . . He could 
 feel himself being lifted up. "Claire always 
 Claire!! he cried. ... He awoke again, sobbing. 
 
 Once he dreamed of Stillman, covered with the 
 lizard-like scales of a million dollars, a venomous 
 creature that darted hither and thither and finally 
 grew confused with the personality of Flint and 
 became a two-headed monster. ... In the end the 
 reptile sat calmly down before the cheap varnished 
 bureau and consumed Danilo s untasted meal. 
 
 Thus they came and went, dream succeeding 
 dream. 
 
 He was roused finally by a voice calling for him 
 to get up. He opened his eyes. The hotel clerk 
 stood at the side of his bed. The tray of untasted 
 food still lay upon the bureau. 
 
 "What is the matter," the hotel clerk was saying. 
 "Are you drunk?" 
 
 Danilo stirred. "No. ... I have been ill. 
 What time is it?" 
 
 "Do you realize that you have been here three 
 nights ? It is Monday morning. I began to think 
 you had committed suicide." 
 
 "No. . . . Everything is all right. Presently I 
 shall get up." 
 
 333 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 The man went out, whistling, carrying the tray 
 with him. Danilo felt weak and helpless, but he 
 drew himself to his feet and fell back into a chair. 
 
 Monday morning! He had been there since 
 Friday, then. His patients what about his pa 
 tients? He felt suddenly irritated at himself for 
 this professional lapse. Suppose some of his patients 
 had died meanwhile? The possibility brought a 
 cold sweat to his forehead. He thought of the 
 young mother whose bedside he had quitted to 
 appear at the Serbian Relief concert; a child who 
 had been run over by a street-car; the last man 
 he had operated on; Mrs. Robson. 
 
 "I must see them all, once again," he muttered. 
 "After that . . ." He shrugged. 
 
 For three nights he had slept in his clothes. He 
 had not even removed the pistol from his hip pocket. 
 He stood up and drew it from its place. There 
 was something fascinating and sinister about its 
 cold gleam. The words of the hotel clerk came to 
 him "I began to think you had committed suicide!" 
 
 He put the pistol back in its hiding-place he had 
 duties, duties. He kept repeating this as he tried 
 to gather strength for a supreme effort. He was 
 extraordinarily weak, and the fever still lit his eyes 
 and burned the vivid red of his lips to a dull, dry 
 purple. He washed himself, tried to brush his 
 clothes, ran his trembling fingers through his hair. 
 It was an hour before he felt able to venture on 
 the street. 
 
 It was a dull morning. The fog had mixed itself 
 with the city s smoke, floating like an enormous 
 and malignant black bird whose poised body shut 
 
 334 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 out the sun. Danilo shivered. He still felt very 
 weak. 
 
 He decided to go and call on Mrs. Robson. Not 
 until then had he thought of Claire in any concrete, 
 personal way. Would he see her? He remembered 
 now that she was dead. But the thought that he 
 would see her still persisted. Death and Claire 
 Robson were terms that he could repeat, but not 
 really sense. It was only when he had swung off 
 the car at Larkin Street and turned the corner at 
 Clay Street that the horrid realization struck him 
 with relentless force. A hearse was drawn up to 
 the curb in front of the Robson flat and a knot of 
 curious people were watching the pallbearers lift 
 a flower-smothered casket down the shallow steps. 
 He did not go any farther, but stood, motionless, 
 watching the somber pageant. . . . Presently 
 everything was settled; the hearse began to move 
 forward, followed by three limousines. The pro 
 cession came toward Danilo. The hearse passed 
 the corner. Instinctively he removed his hat. . . . 
 
 When it was all over he turned deliberately 
 toward town. 
 
 "Claire is dead," he repeated. "What does the 
 rest matter?" 
 
 Suddenly his professional consciousness, the last 
 link that bound him to reality, had snapped. 
 
 He went back to his lodgings the old lodgings on 
 Third Street, where he had been staying for a week. 
 
 "Where have you been for three days?" asked 
 the proprietor. "At least a dozen people have 
 been looking for you." 
 
 Danilo smiled grimly and said nothing. 
 335 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "The police are on my trail!" he thought. 
 
 He went up to his room and began to pack. 
 There was really very little to assemble; most of his 
 wardrobe still remained at the Robson flat. After 
 he had finished he sat down. He seemed incapable 
 of forming any plan. What should he do? Where 
 should he go? What did it matter? His thought 
 moved in an irritating circle. . . . Once he rose 
 to his feet and drew the pistol from his pocket. He 
 looked at it a long time. Finally he laid it on the 
 bureau. A beam of sunlight played upon the pol 
 ished barrel. Its glint irritated Danilo. He moved 
 the weapon out of the light. . . . Presently he 
 heard the chimes from St. Patrick s Church. He 
 knew now that it was noon. ... He began to 
 count the money in his pocket. Seven dollars and 
 forty cents! How far would that take him? 
 How much nearer would seven dollars and forty 
 cents carry him to Serbia? ... He began to laugh. 
 
 The telephone tinkled. Danilo hesitated, then 
 walked calmly over and took down the receiver. 
 The voice of the hotel clerk said : 
 
 "This is the office. Mr. Stillman is down-stairs." 
 
 "Mr. Stillman? Oh yes, of course. Tell him 
 to come up." 
 
 This was the end! Well, what was he to do? 
 Stand calmly and let Judas betray him into the 
 hands of his enemies? He fancied Stillman s en 
 trance into the room, the cool cordiality of his 
 manner, the advance with outstretched hands. At 
 that moment the police would dart swiftly for 
 ward! Danilo had seen it all a thousand times 
 at the moving-picture shows. The trick was as 
 
 336 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 old as Gethsemane and as young as the screen 
 drama ! 
 
 He picked up the pistol. This was to have been 
 Stillman s portion. Well, it was not too late ! The 
 outlaw s instinct to barricade himself and defy 
 everybody up to the last moment came over him. 
 A knock sounded upon the door. . . . He flung 
 himself about, bracing his body against the bureau. 
 The pistol was grasped firmly in his hand; he had 
 but to raise it to cover his visitor successfully. 
 He moistened his lips. 
 
 "Come in!" The words snapped out with a 
 command that was also a menace. 
 
 The door swung back. Stillman stood upon the 
 threshold. Danilo felt his senses reeling. He 
 tried to lift the pistol. He had grown frightfully 
 weak. 
 
 "George!" Suddenly Stillman s voice rang out. 
 
 The word echoed through the room. It was the 
 first time that Stillman had ever called Danilo by 
 his Christian name. A great yearning came over 
 Danilo, a sense of futility, the feeling that every 
 thing, even life itself, was a horrible mistake ! 
 
 "George!" Stillman was crying to him again, 
 like a brother from the depths of his heart. 
 
 Danilo roused himself with a supreme effort, 
 crouched low, narrowed his eyes. Claire was dead ! 
 What did it matter? . . . No, it was too late. 
 He lifted the pistol slowly but surely. Stillman 
 gave one startled look and, throwing his head back, 
 seemed to say : 
 
 "Why don t you shoot? I am waiting." 
 
 Danilo looked down at the shining weapon. It 
 337 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 was on a level with his own heart. Claire was dead! 
 Deliberately he turned the muzzle upon himself 
 . . . The noise of the shot sounded far away. He 
 felt Stillman s arms enfold him. 
 
 "What have you done? What have you done? 
 . . . My God! but this is a mistake!" 
 
 He heard Stillman s voice trembling with pas 
 sionate protest. He opened his eyes. 
 
 "My brother!" he said, and he lifted his hand 
 to Stillman s wet brow. . . . "My brother!" he 
 felt himself murmur once more. . . . Suddenly he 
 was swallowed up in a merciful oblivion. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 "T HAVE tried to get you by telephone without 
 * success. Danilo is asking for you. I shall 
 call with the machine at three-thirty." 
 
 Claire Robson dismissed the messenger-boy. 
 Her heart was beating quickly. She folded the 
 note and climbed up-stairs. Danilo is asking for 
 you. . . . What tragedy and pathos lay in these 
 simple words! She had been waiting for just this 
 moment ever since Stillman had said to her : 
 
 "We have found Danilo ... in his old lodg 
 ings. Can you guess what has happened?" 
 
 She had known at once. Had intuition or the 
 look in Stillman s eyes betrayed the dreadful 
 secret? Since then only scant messages had come 
 to her from the sick-room. Danilo still lay in his 
 Third Street lodgings; his doctors had been afraid 
 to risk moving him. Stillman had not left his side. 
 Claire begged to be allowed to go to him, to see 
 him if only for the briefest of moments, but Stillman 
 had been obdurate. 
 
 "He must have no excitement. The doctor 
 would not hear of such a thing. No, you must 
 wait." 
 
 "But you are with him. . . . Do you real 
 ize . . ." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 339 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 She said no more . . . but she had suffered! 
 Three long, unending days! And now he had 
 asked for her. She could not define the emotion 
 which moved her. Was it relief, or fear, or a sad 
 hope ? She dressed herself long before the appointed 
 time, in a cool, pleasant-looking white-serge suit 
 that had been intended for the trousseau. Miss 
 Proll, coming upon her in the hall, gave a disapprov 
 ing glance. 
 
 "I couldn t wear black!" Claire explained. "I 
 simply couldn t! ..." 
 
 Ah yes, of course ! You are right. 
 
 Her lips quivered when she finally faced Stillman. 
 
 "You are in white, I see," he said, with an air 
 of gentle approval. "I am glad of that! It 
 makes everything seem more cheerful." 
 
 They went down the stairs in silence. Stillman 
 lifted her into the car she could feel his hand 
 tremble. After they had started she looked search- 
 ingly at Stillman s face. All his cool complacency 
 was gone, his mouth had the parted expression of 
 a man whose lips could not quite shape the truths 
 that had been revealed to him, and his eyes shone 
 like one who had been walking with visions. This 
 was the look, Claire fancied, that shepherds fresh 
 from solitary upland pastures must have, or a man 
 who had walked into the shrapnel fire and come 
 out unscathed, or a young mother fresh from the 
 crowning experience of her life. . . . 
 
 At the door of Danilo s room they met a priest 
 coming out. He bowed gravely to Stillman and 
 passed on without speaking. They went in. A 
 thick, pleasant odor of incense had killed the smell 
 
 340 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 of antiseptics for the moment. The nurse was 
 washing her hands, an icon opposite the bed 
 reflected unsteady flickerings from the tiny lamp 
 in front of it. 
 
 "You may stay five minutes," the nurse whis 
 pered, and passed out. 
 
 Claire stood back and let Stillman go up to the 
 bed. She had a sudden feeling that she was a 
 stranger, that her presence made no difference, 
 that these two men were sufficient to themselves. 
 She could not see Danilo s face, but she had never 
 imagined anything more gentle and tender than the 
 hand which she saw Stillman lay upon the sufferer s 
 forehead. . . . Presently Stillman turned about and 
 beckoned to her. She went forward. She felt that 
 her heart would burst. . . . Suddenly she was face 
 to face with Danilo! He looked at her and smiled. 
 She sat down upon the bed. 
 
 She could feel Danilo s hand searching for hers. 
 "Claire . . . fancy . . . you!" 
 
 He closed his eyes without another word. They 
 sat in silence. 
 
 Stillman stood the whole time, bending over, 
 his gentle hand hovering above Danilo s black 
 hair. . . . The nurse came back. 
 
 "Come," said Stillman. 
 
 Claire suffered him to withdraw her hand from 
 Danilo s tight clasp. She rose. Danilo opened 
 his eyes again. His lips began to move. She 
 brought her ear on a level with his trembling 
 mouth. 
 
 "Claire . . . will you marry me now?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered. 
 
 34i 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 He gave a contented sigh and turned his face to 
 the wall. Stillman and Claire went out. . . . 
 
 "He is making a brave fight," Stillman said at 
 parting. "The bullet pierced the lung. But there 
 are other complications. Bronchitis has developed. 
 One can never tell." 
 
 She could not speak. She did not even say 
 good-by to him. 
 
 "I shall call again for you to-morrow." 
 
 She acknowledged his words with a brief nod. 
 
 When she got home she filled the swinging-lamp 
 in front of Danilo s name-day icon with oil and lit 
 a floating taper. Miss Proll, who had been watch 
 ing her curiously, looked puzzled. Her glance 
 seemed to imply: 
 
 "Can it be that you believe in such foolishness?" 
 
 Claire found that it was impossible to answer 
 a question at once so simple and so profound. 
 There was every reasonable argument in the calen 
 dar to support Miss Proll s skepticism, but Claire 
 was learning that life upon a reasonable basis was 
 apt to be intolerable. It was the irrational, the 
 impulsive, the imprudent moments that gave 
 existence color and swift movement. 
 
 "Claire . . . will you marry me now? . . ." 
 Danilo s words came back to her with all their beau 
 tiful and daring simplicity. A child acknowledging 
 a fault, and trembling upon the threshold of a joy 
 that was likely to be denied in consequence, would 
 have used the same tone. This was the manner 
 of petition that must swerve even a God of Wrath 
 from his vengeance, she thought, that could wring 
 
 342 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 showers of mercy from the most pitilessly blue 
 skies. 
 
 She thought of Stillman, too this new Stillman, 
 forged in the flame of a perilous spiritual experience, 
 still glowing and warm. He had never seemed so 
 human as at that moment when she had stood apart 
 and watched his hands fluttering above the head 
 of the man they both loved. . . . Loved? Yes, 
 he loved Danilo as Lycurgus loved him, as her 
 mother had loved him. "Where is Danilo?" 
 This had been Mrs. Robson s last question her 
 last words. 
 
 She could not fancy her mother calling for Still 
 man. It was not given to many to be a flint upon 
 which the sparks of affection are readily struck. 
 
 She went every day with Stillman and sat for 
 five minutes at Danilo s bedside, and on the third 
 day Danilo, opening his eyes wide, said to her in 
 a clear voice, so that even Stillman could hear : 
 
 "Claire, will you marry me to-morrow?" 
 
 Instinctively her eyes met Stillman s; he bowed 
 his head for a moment, and she could see that his 
 hands were clenched. 
 
 "If you wish it," she answered. 
 
 Danilo turned to Stillman. "My brother, do 
 you think it will be possible?" 
 
 Stillman smiled doubtfully. "To-morrow? That 
 is rather soon . . . but when you are a little 
 stronger ..." 
 
 Danilo s face fell. At that moment the doctor 
 came in. 
 
 It was not possible. The doctor would not hear 
 343 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 to such a thing, and he scolded Danilo gently as 
 one scolds a sick child. 
 
 That night Danilo s fever increased. He was 
 restless; nothing pleased him. The doctor said 
 next day to Stillman : 
 
 "I don t understand . . . something must have 
 irritated him. He is troubled mentally." 
 
 "It is the wedding. I m afraid he has set his 
 heart upon it." 
 
 "Nonsense! Doctor Danilo has had enough pro 
 fessional experience to know that . . . Why, my 
 dear fellow, he is a full-grown man, you must 
 remember." 
 
 "Yes, and at heart a child. ... He is like all 
 big people." 
 
 Two more days dragged by. Danilo grew no 
 better; in fact, he was worse, if anything. 
 
 "I can t make it out," the doctor admitted. 
 "Physically he seems everything that one could 
 hope for, but his mind is straining at something. 
 . . . Perhaps, after all, you are right. Well, I 
 fancy we will have to risk the excitement." 
 
 When they told Danilo he fell back upon his 
 pillow and his face grew suddenly white. 
 
 "To-morrow!" he murmured. "Fancy! . . . 
 No, it cannot be true!" 
 
 By the time Claire came he was glowing with 
 a strange, new animation. 
 
 "Claire! Claire!" he cried. "Think, we are 
 to be married to-morrow! And you are to wear 
 your wedding-dress ... a real wedding-dress . . . 
 the veil and all! . . . Only there will be no feast. 
 What a pity! . . . But no matter, when I get well 
 
 344 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 again then we will have a feast, Claire. Unless . . ." 
 his voice grew suddenly almost inaudible " unless 
 I die of joy, Claire! ... of joy!" 
 
 Stillman turned away. She fell on her knees 
 beside the white bed. 
 
 1 There, there !" she said, soothingly. You mustn t 
 get so excited. You mustn t think about it!" 
 
 He closed his eyes. "Claire, I cannot wait until 
 to-morrow. Will you kiss me, now?" 
 
 And for the first time their lips met. 
 
 They had planned a daytime wedding at first, 
 but it transpired that the priest in charge of the 
 Greek church had been called out of town and 
 would not be back until evening. When Danilo 
 heard this he said: 
 
 "What is the difference? A priest is a small 
 matter! Cannot Claire s minister ..." 
 
 But Claire was wiser. "No," she said. "Let 
 us wait for the priest." 
 
 And so it was settled for eight o clock that 
 evening. 
 
 At the news, Miss Proll quivered with excite 
 ment. "To think that it would all end this way. 
 . . . But I am so glad that you are to wear your 
 wedding-dress. 
 
 Nellie Holmes flew over in great haste. "And 
 who is to marry you? A priest? . . . Well, I 
 suppose it is best to humor a sick man, but I don t 
 know somehow it seems too outlandish, all that 
 incense and chanting and everything! . . . And 
 I m coming to the wedding! Don t forget that. 
 You can t shut me out. . . . Remember, I intro- 
 23 345 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 duced you. Come now, buck up! Don t look so 
 anxious it s a painless ceremony. And you ll 
 be a stunning-looking bride, Robson. ... I tell 
 you, friend Danilo is going to be mighty glad that 
 he was such a bad shot." 
 
 In the midst of all the excitement Claire suddenly 
 remembered Mrs. Condor. She rang her up. 
 
 I am to be married to-night, she said. Would 
 you like to come and go with us?" 
 
 "No, Claire. But if I might see you before you 
 start ..." 
 
 It was a busy day and almost before Claire 
 realized it was time to dress. 
 
 At eight o clock they heard the toot of Stillman s 
 car, and to Claire s surprise Stillman himself broke 
 in upon them. She was all dressed and ready. . . . 
 He came up the stairs with a jaunty air. "This 
 is Danilo s idea!" he cried out. "It seems in his 
 country a friend is always sent to fetch the bride. 
 ... A Dever they call him. ... I couldn t per 
 suade him to let you come alone and in peace. 
 He said: My brother, let me have an Old World 
 custom or two. . . . You Americans have nothing 
 worthy of the name, except that abominable rice- 
 throwing and old shoes. 
 
 "A Dever!" ejaculated Nellie Holmes, in mildly 
 scandalized tones. "Well, I never!" 
 
 It did seem rather ridiculous. Stillman s per 
 sonality somehow didn t fit the office. But the 
 incident gave a touch of forced gaiety to the oc 
 casion a peg on which to hang the jester s cloak. 
 
 Claire and Miss Proll and Nellie Holmes went 
 346 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 down first to the car, Mrs. Condor and Stillman 
 followed. 
 
 When Lily Condor reached the curb Claire 
 leaned out to her farewell embrace. 
 
 "Claire . . . Claire . . . how foolish we ve all 
 been!" 
 
 "How foolish we are still," Claire whispered 
 back. "Thank God for that! . . ." 
 
 Presently they were off. The yellow street- 
 lamps seemed to Claire to be melting into a con 
 tinuous ribbon of gold. She had expected to suc 
 cumb to all manner of emotions and vivid thoughts, 
 but instead her mind seized upon a childish memory. 
 
 "Once upon a time," she thought, "there lived 
 in a certain city ..." Stillman was looking at 
 her. . . . "And there came riding through the 
 streets a prince. . . . And so they were married 
 and . . . How foolish we are still. . . . Thank 
 God for that. . . . Thank God for that!" 
 
 Come!" Stillman was saying. "We have ar 
 rived." 
 
 They had propped Danilo up as much as they 
 dared and he lay, clean-shaven and hollow-eyed, 
 but burning with a fire that showed through his 
 transparent pallor like a candle set in a paper 
 lantern. The priest had arrived promptly, and al 
 ready an altar had been contrived and set up before 
 the bed, an altar white and gleaming. Holy 
 images were scattered about, reflecting the pale 
 flicker of swinging lamps, and through the haze 
 of smoke from the censer the harsh outlines of the 
 room took on a soft, shadowy remoteness. 
 
 347 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "I had better cover my face," Claire said as she 
 stood upon the threshold of the room. 
 
 Miss Proll drew the veil down for her and they 
 went in. The room was crowded with men, mostly 
 Danilo s countrymen. Lycurgus was there, and 
 Jimmy. Claire felt faint. She clutched at Still- 
 man s arm. "Why, I had no idea!" she said . . . 
 "so many people!" 
 
 "He wished it so. . . . Have courage!" 
 
 She threw her head back. "Yes," she answered. 
 
 They led her to his side. He touched her inert 
 fingers gently. She felt crushed at the passionate 
 purity of his deference. She wanted to fling her 
 self forward on her face. . . . Danilo turned tow 
 ard the priest. "Come!" he called, a bit impa 
 tiently. "Let us begin." 
 
 Claire thought the priest would never end. She 
 had fancied that the ceremony would be cut short 
 for Danilo s benefit, but apparently Danilo had 
 asked for every detail, every symbol. They even 
 exchanged crowns after the fashion of the Greek 
 Catholic ritual. The incense grew thicker, the 
 tapers before the holy icons flared more and more 
 brightly, the sonorous chant of the priest droned 
 on and on and it seemed to Claire as if his fingers 
 were raised continuously in midair for the sign 
 of the cross. She thought of her mother. How 
 scandalized her mother would have been at the 
 altar, at the curling incense, particularly at the 
 sign of the cross ! 
 
 Finally it was all over. Danilo, pale to a point 
 of swooning, his black hair clustering moistly about 
 his pillow, lay with arms outstretched like an ivory 
 
 348 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 crucifix, against which Claire pressed her pallid 
 lips. ... He did not stir at her touch, but a slight 
 color played about his cheek-bones and one hand 
 trembled. . . . She drew away. . . . She could 
 hear the feet of the spectators moving toward the 
 door. She continued to kneel beside the bed. 
 Danilo s hand was in her hair now. . . . Presently 
 she felt some one touch her shoulder. She rose. 
 The nurse stood behind her. The room was empty. 
 She began to weep silently, almost without emotion. 
 Nellie Holmes and Miss Proll were coming back. 
 They led her out. . . . 
 
 Standing in the hall, they waited until the nurse 
 called them in again. Danilo had recovered his 
 animation and his eyes were wide open and glowing. 
 
 "Ah, and so we are to have a feast, after all! 
 Not I, of course . . . but you shall tell me of it to 
 morrow! . . . Come, has he said nothing about it?" 
 
 Stillman laughed. * At the Ithaca, he explained 
 to Claire. "I made arrangements to-day." 
 
 "A feast . . . not really?" she stammered. 
 
 A slight cloud passed over Danilo s face. * There ! 
 She does not approve, my brother. ... I was afraid 
 of that." 
 
 "I was surprised," she said, gravely. "And 
 then you are not to be with us." 
 
 Danilo smiled. "When I am well again. . . . 
 You see, one cannot have too many excuses for 
 a feast." He gave Stillman his hand. "My 
 brother, what should we do without you?" 
 
 The Ithaca was crowded. The long tables had 
 349 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 been set, and the usual decorations, fern fronds 
 and carnations, made splashes of green and red 
 color upon the table-cloths. Lycurgus came for 
 ward, bowing in his old manner. 
 
 "Ah, that Mr. Stillman," he whispered to Claire, 
 "he is a man, I can tell you! Thank you! thank 
 you! . . . He says nothing about prices. Only 
 a feast . . . the best to be had! And everybody 
 invited. ... I have worked myself all day in the 
 kitchen. . . . You shall see! . . . And you are a 
 beautiful bride! Never have I seen one more 
 beautiful! . . . That Danilo is a lucky man . . . 
 and you have made him happy. Let us pray God 
 everything goes right." 
 
 A feeling of chill had succeeded Claire s poignant 
 emotion, but now she felt warmed everything was 
 so simple, so natural, so lacking in all pretense. 
 Lycurgus led Claire to the bride s seat, Stillman 
 followed with Nellie Holmes and Miss Proll. A 
 little ripple of applause ran up and down the tables, 
 but the company was still a little uncertain of what 
 was most fitting to do. A wedding-feast without 
 the groom was hard to sense. But presently 
 mastica was served and the first toast drunk. . . . 
 After that, constraint was banished. 
 
 Now for the first time it came upon Claire that 
 she was at her own wedding-feast, and that Stillman 
 was sitting beside her. It was almost as if he had 
 yielded her up to some austere duty, as if the feast 
 that had been spread for him was one not so much 
 of joy as of renunciation a last supper in the upper 
 chamber of his heart s desire. Before her lay 
 Stillman s tribute a wonderful golden basket of 
 
 350 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 white roses. She had never seen roses so white. 
 What a touching thing this feast was, after all! 
 What a long distance Stillman had traveled in 
 order to appreciate the significance of such a child 
 like thing, of sensing just what it meant to Danilo ! 
 And suddenly she felt how beautiful and how tragic 
 life was, how cleansed and scarred by the wind 
 storms of emotion! Life was like a landscape 
 answering sunshine and cloud in its season, always 
 beautiful, always incomplete, veiled sometimes in 
 the mists of morning and again palpitant and fully 
 revealed in the noonday sun, unchanging and yet 
 never quite the same. . . . 
 
 In the midst of the feast champagne was served, 
 and the guests began to move from table to table 
 with their glasses lifted high and their lips smiling 
 out good will. The men stopped shyly opposite 
 Claire s seat and for the most part toasted her 
 silently, but here and there a patron who had 
 danced to the old tunes that she had once played 
 clasped her by the hand and called gaily to her. 
 Finally a young woman came forward. 
 
 "You do not remember me," she said to Claire. 
 "But you were here, at my wedding-feast. . . . 
 Do you remember? ... I hope your husband will 
 soon be well!" 
 
 Her husband! It took a woman to voice this 
 new estate with calm simplicity. This was the 
 first time the phrase had been used. She turned 
 to Stillman. He looked away. 
 
 Now came music and dancing Old World 
 music and long lines of men swaying to its rhythm. 
 Lycurgus insisted upon Stillman joining them. 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 Claire wondered at him as he rose. It was purely a 
 formality, and Stillman had nothing to do beyond 
 walk through his part, but Claire marveled that he 
 could have been persuaded. Nellie Holmes railed 
 audibly, and even Miss Proll shook her head. But 
 Claire s inner vision pierced beyond the incon 
 gruity of Stillman s performance. And she knew 
 that he had done this thing because he understood. 
 The fruits of a crucial instance lay beneath the sur 
 face of his smiling acceptance of the situation. 
 When he was seated again, flushed and somewhat 
 embarrassed for all his nonchalance, she said, 
 softly : 
 
 "If Danilo could have seen you he would have 
 been very happy." 
 
 The bride s cake was brought on. Claire went 
 through the formality of cutting the first piece, 
 and then Lycurgus bore it away to a serving-table. 
 The company rose to their feet with upraised 
 glasses. It was Stillman s glass that touched 
 Claire s. 
 
 They left soon after this last formality. Lycur 
 gus had gathered a box of sweetmeats and dainties 
 for Danilo, and a bottle of champagne. Stillman 
 and Claire stopped at the hotel. But the nurse 
 denied them admittance to the sick-room. 
 
 "He is tired, as you can imagine," she explained. 
 "And to tell the truth, he has more fever than is 
 good." 
 
 "I wonder if we did the right thing, after all?" 
 Claire asked Stillman as they went toward the 
 elevator. 
 
 "We must believe so," he answered, gravely. 
 352 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 HTHE next day was Sunday. Claire went to 
 1 church. She had thought at first of spending a 
 holy hour wrapped in the misty-blue atmosphere of 
 Danilo s faith, of seeking out the little Greek house 
 of worship on Seventh Street and lighting a taper 
 for the man who had made her his wife. But in 
 the end impulse drew her to the church of her 
 fathers, and, sitting in the harsh, untoned light of 
 Doctor Stoddard s meeting-house, she caught mo 
 ments of cold, austere beauty, veiled and mystic 
 with the incense of her rich experience. 
 
 She saw familiar faces about her faces that had 
 once had the power to draw the fire of her envy, 
 or fill her soul with fluttering dismay, or warm her 
 heart with their patronizing smiles. Could it be 
 possible that there had been a day when her hopes 
 had flown no farther than the promise of a foothold 
 among this group bending their heads in self-satis 
 fied prayer? For a moment the cold rebellion of 
 her childhood had brought to the surface a feeling 
 of fluttering scorn for them, but almost as quickly 
 she repented her rancor. What did she know con 
 cerning the fires that lit their inner life the faiths 
 that supported, the sins that colored, the griefs 
 that cleansed ? How many months had passed since 
 
 353 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 she had sat in cankerous silence and envied the 
 very girls passing coffee and cake at a church social? 
 Was it the fault of these people that she had tuned 
 her desires to so faint and tinkling an ambition? 
 
 The star of Bethlehem no longer burned in flick 
 ering gaslight above the choir-loft, but as Claire 
 prayerfully lifted up her eyes she could feel its 
 almost forgotten presence. It was the one beautiful 
 memory of the religious life of her girlhood. It had 
 burned in sensuous beauty far above all the cold 
 form, the ugly repressions, the wan renunciations. 
 It had made her eager and parted-lipped, and pas 
 sionate for all the brooding joys of existence. 
 Such a star had led wise men to the feet of living 
 revelation, but was it not also possible that such 
 a star had lit the dim myrtle-hedged pathway in 
 Eden down which the first courageous pair had 
 walked to self-respect and freedom? Was it not 
 possible that God had veiled his face in admira 
 tion instead of anger, leaving a yearning eye thus 
 bared to the night? 
 
 And suddenly her thoughts flew to Danilo and 
 that wonderful night when they had pledged their 
 love in thin red wine. During the week she had 
 climbed the tawny slopes of Telegraph Hill and 
 stood in the glare of noonday above the fret of 
 the town. The deserted garden where they had 
 danced their love dance was still there, a little more 
 ragged, a little more rock-strewn, a little more 
 smothered under the litter of accomplished feasts. 
 In the yellow light of midday it lay a ravished 
 husk, its dancing feet stilled, its music a wan mem 
 ory, its young ardent loves hidden like nightin- 
 
 354 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 gales in the cool forests of the day. The strains 
 of the wine-cup made hectic flushes upon its saffron 
 face, and the showering petals of its lingering 
 roses drifted in a melancholy flood before the be 
 traying west wind. She was glad that she had 
 seen it so, glad that the first picture was impossible 
 to duplicate, to repeat. Life was meant to be a 
 progression. 
 
 Presently her musings leaped to wider stretches. 
 The world was trembling upon the threshold of 
 peace, and, about her, people whispered sad hopes 
 and held their breath in a silent terror of expec 
 tation. Something remote, intangible, ominous, 
 hung in the air. She felt a great yearning for love 
 and life and service, a reaching out to meet the 
 kiss of fellowship half-way. And in this hour of 
 consecration the figure of Danilo rose before her. 
 She had never loved him so completely as she did 
 at this moment when the memory of his irrational 
 and human folly swept her like a waking dream. 
 
 "And now may the grace of God ..." Doctor 
 Stoddard s voice was ringing out in the impressive 
 moment of the benediction. Claire bowed her 
 head. . . . Was not life, after all, a succession of 
 springs luminous with promise, and summers whose 
 harvests must of necessity fall far short of all the 
 brave anticipations? . . . What summer could pos 
 sibly yield the marvelously golden fruits of spring s 
 devising? 
 
 That afternoon Stillman came to the Robson 
 flat early. 
 
 355 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "I m afraid, * he began, "that they will not let 
 us see Danilo to-day." 
 
 "What? . . . Was it the excitement?" 
 
 "No. . . . Septic pneumonia has developed. 
 You know he was in a bad condition when . . . He 
 had bronchitis then." 
 
 She turned pale. . . . He pressed her hand. 
 
 "I am going back with you," she said, calmly, 
 as he made a protesting gesture. 
 
 He did not dissuade her further. 
 
 When they arrived at the hotel Danilo was un 
 conscious. The priest had just left and the fra 
 grance of incense hung like a mysterious presence. 
 Upon the table a candle burned feebly. . . . 
 
 The nurse, worn out, left the room at midnight. 
 Claire sat calm and dry-eyed at the bedside, holding 
 Danilo s limp hand in hers. . . . He was very cold, 
 she thought. . . . Suddenly a low, wailing, mourn 
 ful sound broke the somber stillness. Claire sat 
 rigid. 
 
 "A siren!" flashed through her mind. 
 
 And, in a twinkling, bits of broken noises, 
 raucous with dry-throated joy, broke forth 
 whistles . . . the clanging of bells . . . the hoarse 
 cheers of people . . . the quick gasp of windows 
 flung open to the night. 
 
 Danilo stirred. "Claire ... I hear . . . yes, 
 I hear ... a noise a great noise." 
 
 "Yes . . . yes . . ." she soothed. "Be quiet. 
 . . . Everything will soon be right." 
 
 He turned away from her with a weary sigh. 
 She went to the window. So it had come ... at 
 last . . . feace! Below her, in the streets, a great 
 
 356 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 composite, black creature danced and sang and 
 wept and rioted. It beat the air with sticks, and 
 flung its thousand arms up in gestures of abandon, 
 and called upon its new god with passionate sup 
 plications. It was a monster at once terrifying, 
 sublime, ridiculous! Claire shuddered. And as 
 she stood there she had a sense of doubt and faith 
 and tenderness and brutality, such as comes only 
 in swift moments of revelation. She knew now that 
 life could be as horrible and as beautiful as it dared. 
 The monster below was a genial monster for the 
 moment, but who could predict what might come 
 if suddenly Instinctively she covered her eyes 
 with a tremulous hand. . . . Below her the mon 
 ster danced and sang and laughed for hours and 
 hours, and for hours and hours she stood spell 
 bound watching its turbulent antics. 
 
 Gradually a light began to quicken the east . . . 
 the morning star flickered and died . . . the clouds 
 grew wrathful. Was it Danilo who called? 
 
 She went over to the bed. His eyes were open 
 and shining. He knew her now. 
 
 1 Lift me ... up," he faltered. "Lift me 
 up." . . . 
 
 She drew his wasted form upward. A smile 
 was on his lips. . . . Below, the monster still 
 bellowed. 
 
 "Did you know, dearest, that it had come?" 
 she questioned. "It is finished. . . . Peace has 
 come!" 
 
 She went over and pushed back the curtain so 
 he might glimpse the morning. How red, how 
 very red the sky had grown! 
 
 357 
 
THE BLOOD RED DAWN 
 
 "Yes," she said again. "Peace has come. 
 Now we can go back ... to your people . . . 
 and bind up wounds. . . . Life has begun for 
 us . . ." 
 
 He put out his arms. She went to him, 
 
 "Dawn blood -red dawn!" he muttered. 
 "See . . ." 
 
 She felt a sudden terrifying limpness of his body. 
 She drew back. He slipped from her soft caress, 
 opened his eyes wide, drew in one long fluttering 
 breath. And, suddenly it was morning! . . . 
 
 When she raised her eyes Stillman was beside 
 her. 
 
 "Everything is over," she said. 
 -He lifted her up. "No not everything. . . . 
 We must see to it that he lives on . .in us!" 
 
 THE END 
 
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