Thomas Dixon
Comrades: A Story of Social Adventure in California
CHAPTER I
THE WOMAN IN RED
"Fools and fanatics!"
Colonel Worth crumpled the morning paper with a gesture of rage and walked to the window.
Elena followed softly and laid her hand on his arm.
"What is it, Guardie? I thought you were supremely happy this morning over the news that Dewey has smashed the Spanish fleet?"
"And so I am, little girl," was the gentle reply, "or was until my eye fell on this call of the Socialists for a meeting to-night to denounce the war – denounce the men who are dying for the flag. Read their summons."
He opened the crumpled sheet and pointed to its head lines:
"Down with the Stars and Stripes – up with the Red Flag of Revolution – the symbol of universal human brotherhood! Come and bring your friends. A big surprise for all!" The Colonel's jaws snapped suddenly.
"I'd like to give them the surprise they need to-night."
"What?" Elena asked.
"A serenade."
"A serenade?"
"Yes, with Mauser rifles and Gatling guns. I'd mow them down as I would a herd of wild beasts loose in the streets of San Francisco."
"Merely for a difference of opinion, Governor?" lazily broke in a voice from the depths of a heavy armchair.
"If you want to put it so, Norman, yes. Opinions, my boy, are the essence of life – they may lead to heaven or hell. Opinions make cowards or heroes, patriots or traitors, criminals or saints."
"But you believe in free speech?" persisted the boy.
"Yes. And that's more than any Socialist can say. I don't deny their right to speak their message. What I can't understand is how the people who have been hounded from the tyrant-ridden countries of the old world and found shelter and protection beneath our flag should turn thus to curse the hand that shields them."
"But if they propose to give you a better flag, Governor?" drawled the lazy voice. "Why not consider?"
"Look, Elena! Did the sun ever shine on anything more beautiful? See it fluttering from a thousand house-tops – the proud emblem of human freedom and human progress! Dewey has lifted it this morning on the foulest slave-pen of the Orient – the flag that has never met defeat. The one big faith in me is the belief that Almighty God inspired our fathers to build this Republic – the noblest dream yet conceived by the mind of man. Dewey has sunk a tyrant fleet and conquered an empire of slaves without the loss of a single man. The God of our fathers was with him. We have a message for the swarming millions of the East – "
"Pardon the interruption, Governor, but I must hold the mirror up to nature just a moment – your portrait sketched by the poet-laureate of the English-speaking world. He speaks of the American:
"Enslaved, illogical, elate.
He greets the embarrassed gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.
"Lo! imperturbable he rules,
Unkempt, disreputable, vast —
And in the teeth of all the schools
I – I shall save him at the last!"
The Colonel smiled.
"How do you like the picture?"
"Not bad for an Englishman, Norman. You know we licked England twice – "
"And we kin do it again, b' gosh, can't we?" blustered the younger man with mock heroics.
"You can bet we can, my son!" continued the Colonel, quietly. "The roar of Dewey's guns are echoing round the world this morning. The lesson will not be lost. You will observe that even your English poet foresees at last our salvation.
"'And in the teeth of all the schools
I – I shall save him at the last!'"
"Even in spite of the Socialists?" queried the boy, with a grin.
"In spite of every foe – even those within our own household. War is the searchlight of history, the great revealer of national life, of hidden strength and unexpected weakness. I saw it in the Civil conflict – I've seen it in this little struggle – "
"Then you do acknowledge it's not the greatest struggle in history – that's something to be thankful for in these days of patriotism," exclaimed Norman, rising and stretching himself before the open fire while he winked mischievously at Elena.
"It's big enough, my boy, to show us the truth about our nation. Our old problems are no longer real. The Union our fathers dreamed has come at last. We are one people – one out of many – and we can whip Spain before breakfast – "
"With one hand tied behind our back!" laughed the boy.
"Yes, and blindfolded. It will be easy. But the next serious job will be to bury a half million deluded fools in this country who call themselves Socialists."
The Colonel paused and a look of foreboding clouded his face as he gazed from the window of his house on Nob Hill over the city of San Francisco, which he loved with a devotion second only to his passionate enthusiasm for the Union.
Elena sat watching him in silent sympathy. He was the one perfect man of her life dreams, the biggest, strongest, tenderest soul she had ever known. Since the day she crept into his arms a lonely little orphan ten years old she had worshipped him as father, mother, guardian, lover, friend – all in one. She had accepted Norman's love and promised to be his wife more to please his father than from any overwhelming passion for the handsome, lazy young athlete. It had come about as a matter of course because Colonel Worth wished it.
The Colonel turned from the window, and his eyes rested on Elena's upturned face.
"It will be bloody work – but we've got to do it – "
Elena sprang to her feet with a start and a laugh.
"Do what, Guardie? I forgot what you were talking about."
"Then don't worry your pretty head about it, dear. It's a job we men will look after in due time."
He stooped and kissed her forehead. "By-by until to-night – I'll drop down to the club and hear the latest from the front."
With the firm, swinging stride of a man who lives in the open the Colonel passed through the door of the library.
"Norman, I can't realize that you two are father and son – he looks more like your brother."
"At least my older brother – "
"Yes, of course, but you would never take him for a man of forty-eight. I like the touch of gray in his hair. It means dignity, strength, experience. I've always hated sap-headed youngsters."
"Say, Elena, for heaven's sake, who are you in love with anyhow – with me or the Governor?"
A smile flickered around the corners of the girl's eyes and mouth before she slowly answered:
"I sometimes think I really love you both, Norman – but there are times when I have doubts about you."
"Thanks. I suppose I must be duly grateful for small favours, or else resign myself to call you 'Mother.'"
"Would such a fate be intolerable?"
Elena drew her magnificent figure to its full height and looked into the young athlete's face with laughing audacity.
"By George, Elena, if I'm honest with you, I'd have to say no. You are tall, stately, dignified, beautiful from the crown of your black hair to the tip of your dainty toe – the most stunning-looking woman I ever saw. I never think of you as a girl just out of school. You always remind me of a glorious royal figure in some old romance of the Middle Ages – "
"Now I'm sure I love you, Norman – for the moment at least."
"Then promise to go with me on a lark to-night," he suddenly cried.
"A lark?"
Elena's gray-blue eyes danced beneath their black lashes.
"Yes, a real lark, daring, adventurous, dangerous, audacious."
"What is it – what is it? Tell me quick."
The girl seized Norman's arm with eager, childish glee.
"Let's go to that Socialist meeting and beard the lion in his den."
Elena drew back.
"No. Guardie will be furious!"
"Ah, who's afraid? Guardie be hanged!"
"Go by yourself."
"No, you've got to go with me."
"I won't do it. You just want to worry your father and then hide behind my skirts."
"You can see yourself that's the easiest way to manage it. If he has a fit, I can just say that your curiosity was excited and I had to go with you."
"But it's not excited."
"For the purposes of the lark I tell you that it is excited. There's too much patriotism in the air. It's giving me nervous prostration. I want something to brace me up. I think those fellows can give me some good points to tease the Governor with."
"Tease the Governor! You flatter yourself, Norman. He doesn't pay any more attention to your talk than he would to the bark of a six weeks' old puppy."
"That's what riles me. The Governor's so cocksure of himself. I don't know how to answer him, but I know he's wrong. The fury with which he hates the Socialists rouses my curiosity. I've always found that the good things in life are forbidden. All respectable people are positively forbidden to attend a Socialist – traitors' – meeting. For that reason let's go."
"No."
"Ah, come on. Don't be a chump. Be a sport!"
"I'd like the lark, but I won't hurt Guardie's feelings; so that's the end of it."
"Going to be a surprise, they say."
"What kind of a surprise?"
"Going to spring a big sensation."
Elena's eyes began to dance again.
"The woman called the Scarlet Nun is going to speak, and Herman Wolf, the famous 'blond beast' of Socialism, will preside. They are mates – affinities."
"Married?"
"God knows. A hundred weird stories about them circulate in the under-world."
"I won't go! Don't you say another word!" Elena snapped.
Norman was silent.
"Are you sure it would be perfectly safe, Norman?" the girl softly asked.
"Perfectly. I know every inch of that quarter of the city – went there a hundred times the year I was a reporter."
"I won't go!"
"It's the wickedest street in town. They say it's the worst block in America."
"I don't want to see it." Elena laughed.
"And the hall is a famous red-light dancing dive in the heart of Hell's Half Acre."
"Hush! Hush! I tell you I won't —I won't go! But – but if I do– you promise to hold my hand every minute, Norman?"
"And keep my arm around your waist, if you like."
Elena's cheeks flushed and her voice quivered with excitement as she paused in the doorway.
"I'll be ready in twenty minutes after dinner."
"Bully for my chum! I'll tell the Governor we've gone for a stroll."
As the shadows slowly fell over the city, Norman led Elena down the marble steps of his father's palatial home and paused for a moment on the edge of the hill on which were perched the seats of the mighty. Elena fumbled with a new glove.
"Are you ready to descend with me to the depths, my princess in disguise?" he gaily asked.
"Did you ever know me to flunk when I gave my word?"
"No, you're a brick, Elena."
Norman seized her arm and strode down the steep hillside with sure, firm step, the girl accompanying his every movement with responsive joy.
"You're awfully wicked to get me into a scrape of this kind, Norman," she cried, with bantering laughter. "You know I was dying to go slumming, and Guardie wouldn't let me. It's awfully mean of you to take advantage of me like this."
He stopped suddenly and looked gravely into her flushed face.
"Let's go back, then."
"No! I won't."
Norman broke into a laugh. "Then away with vain regrets! And remember the fate of Lot's wife."
Elena pressed his hand close to her side and whispered:
"You are with me. The big handsome captain of last year's football team. Very young and very vain and very foolish and very lazy – but I do think you'd stand by me in a scrap, Norman. Wouldn't you?"
"Well, I rather think!" was the deep answer, half whispered, as they suddenly turned a corner and plunged into the red-light district. His strong hand gripped her wrist with unusual tenderness.
"So who's afraid?" she cried, looking up into his face just as a drunken blear-eyed woman staggered through an open door and lurched against her.
A low scream of terror came from Elena as she sprang back, and the woman's head struck the pavement with a dull whack. Norman bent over her and started to lift the heavy figure, when her fist suddenly shot into his face.
"Go ter hell – I can take care o' myself!"
"Evidently," he laughed.
Elena's hand suddenly gripped his.
"Let's go back, Norman."
"Nonsense – who's afraid?"
"I am. I don't mind saying it. This is more than I bargained for."
The woman scrambled to her feet and limped back into the doorway.
Elena shivered. "I didn't know such women lived on this earth."
"To say nothing of living but a stone's throw from your own door," he continued.
"Let's go back," she pleaded.
"No. A thing like this is merely one more reason why we should keep on. This only shows that the world we live in isn't quite perfect, as the Governor seems to think. These Socialists may be right after all. Now that we've started let's hear their side of it. Come on! Don't be a quitter!"
Norman seized her arm and hurried through the swiftly moving throng of the under-world – gambling touts, thieves, cut-throats, pick-pockets, opium fiends, drunkards, thugs, carousing miners, and sailors – but above all, everywhere, omnipresent, the abandoned woman – painted, bedizened, lurching through the streets, hanging in doorways, clinging to men on the sidewalks, beckoning from windows, singing vulgar songs on crude platforms among throngs of half-drunken men, whirling past doors and windows in dance-halls, their cracked voices shrill and rasping above the din of cheap music.
Elena stopped suddenly and clung heavily to Norman's arm.
"Please, Norman, let's go back. I can't endure this."
"And you're my chum that never flunked when she gave her word?" he asked with scorn. "We are only a few feet from the hall now."
"Where is it?"
"Right there in the middle of the block where you see that sign with the blazing red torch."
"Come on, then," Elena said, with a shudder.
They walked quickly through the long, dimly lighted passage to the entrance of the hall. It was densely packed with a crowd of five hundred. Elena closed her eyes and allowed Norman to lead her through the mob that blocked the space inside the door. At the entrance to the centre aisle he encountered an usher who stared with bulging eyes at his towering figure. Norman leaned close and whispered:
"My boy, can you possibly get us two seats?"
"Can I git de captain er de football team two seats? Well, des watch me!"
The boy darted up the aisle, dived under the platform, drew out two folding-chairs, placed them in the aisle on the front row, darted back, and bowed with grave courtesy.
"Dis way, sir!"
Norman followed with Elena clinging timidly and blindly to his arm. In a moment they were seated. He offered the boy a dollar.
The youngster bowed again.
"De honour is all mine, sir. But you can give it to the Cause when they pass the box."
Norman turned to Elena. "Well, doesn't that jar you? A sixteen-year-old boy declines a tip, and says give it to the Cause!"
The boy darted up the steps of the platform and whispered to the chairman:
"Git on to his curves! Dat's de captain o' de football – de bloke dat's worth millions, an' don't give a doggone!"
A woman dressed in deep red who sat beside the chairman leaned close and asked with quiet intensity:
"You mean young Worth, the millionaire of Nob Hill?"
"Bet yer life! Dat's him!"
The woman in red whispered to the chairman, who nodded, while his keen gray eyes flashed a ray of light from his heavy brows as he turned toward Norman.
The woman wheeled suddenly in her chair, and with her back to the audience bent over a girl who was evidently hiding behind her.
"Outdo yourself to-night, Barbara. Young Norman Worth, the son of our multi-millionaire nabob, is sitting in the aisle just in front of you. Win him for the Cause and I'll give you the half of our kingdom."
"How can I know him?" the girl asked excitedly.
"He's not ten feet from the platform in the centre aisle – front row – clean shaven – a young giant of twenty-three – the handsomest man in the house. Put your soul and your body in every word you utter, every breath you breathe – and win him!"
"I'll try," was the low reply.
CHAPTER II
A NEW JOAN OF ARC
The woman in scarlet rose, lifted her hand, and the crowd sprang to their feet to the music of the most stirring song of revolution ever written.
Norman and Elena were both swept from their seats in spite of themselves. Elena's eyes flashed with excitement.
"What on earth is that they are singing, Norman?" she whispered.
"The Marseillaise hymn."
"Isn't it thrilling?" she gasped.
"It makes your heart leap, doesn't it?"
"And, heavens, how they sing it!" she exclaimed.
Norman turned and looked over the crowd of eager faces – every man and woman singing with the passionate enthusiasm of religious fanatics – an enthusiasm electric, contagious, overwhelming. In spite of himself he felt his heart beat with quickened sympathy.
He was amazed at the character of the audience. He had expected to see a throng of low-browed brutes. The first shock he received was the feeling that this crowd was distinctly an intellectual one. They might be fanatics. They certainly were not fools. The stamp of personality was clean cut on almost every face. They were fighters. They meant business and they didn't care who knew it. Some of them wore dirty clothes, but their faces were stamped with the power of free, rebellious thought – a power that always commands respect in spite of shabby clothes. He looked in vain for a single joyous face. Not a smile. Deep, dark eyes, shining with the light of purpose, mouths firm, headstrong, merciless, and bitter, but nowhere the glimmer of a ray of sunlight! He felt with a sense of awe the uncanny presence of Tragedy.
And to his amazement he noticed a lot of men he knew in the crowd – three or four authors, a newspaper reporter evidently off duty, two college professors, a clergyman, three artists, a priest, and a street preacher.
The hymn died away into a low sigh, like the sob of the wind after a storm. The crowd sank to their seats so quietly with the dying of the music that Norman and Elena were standing alone for an instant. They awoke from the spell, and dropped into their seats with evident embarrassment.
A boy of sixteen stepped briskly to the front in answer to a nod from the chairman, and recited a Socialist poem. After the first stanza, which was crude and stilted, Norman's eye rested on the heavy figure of the chairman. He was surprised at the power of his rugged face. Through its brute strength flashed the keenest sense of alert intelligence – an intelligence which seemed to lurk behind the big, shaggy eyebrows as if about to spring on its victim. His heavy-set face was covered with a thick, reddish blond beard and his short hair stood up straight on his head, like the bristles of a wild boar. Of medium height and heavy build, with arms and legs of extraordinary muscle and big, coarse short fingers evidently gnarled and knotted, by the coarsest labor in youth, he looked like a blacksmith who had taken a college course by the light of his forge at night. There was something about the way he sat crouching low in his seat, watching with his keen gray eyes everything that passed, that bespoke the man of reserve power – the man who was quietly waiting his hour.
"By George, a pretty good pet name they've given him – 'The Blond Beast,'" Norman muttered. "I shouldn't like to tackle him in the dark."
The woman in red leaned toward the chairman and said something in low tones. He nodded his massive head, smiled, and looked back over his shoulder at the girl sitting behind them. The movement showed for the first time a long ugly scar on the side of his great neck.
"Look at that fellow's neck!" whispered Elena.
"Yes. He had a close call that time," Norman answered. "But I'll bet the other one never lived to tell the story – "
"Sh! 'The Scarlet Nun' is going to speak."
The woman in red rose and walked to the edge of the platform. She stood silent for a moment, her tall, graceful, willowy figure erect and tense. The crowd burst into a tumult of applause. She smiled, bowed, and lifted her slender hand with a quick, imperious gesture for silence.
Norman was struck by the note of religious fervour which her whole personality seemed to radiate. The peculiar scarlet robe she wore accented this impression perhaps, and its strangeness added a touch of awe. The dress gave one the impression of a nun's garb except that its long folds were so arranged that they revealed rather than concealed the beautiful lines of her graceful figure. The colour was the deep, warm red of the Socialist flag – the colour of human blood, chosen as the symbol of the universal brotherhood of man. The effect of a nun's cowl was given by a thin scarlet mantilla thrown over the head, the silken meshes of its long fringe mingling with the waves of her thick black hair. Her face was that of a madonna of the slender type, except that the lips were too full, round, and sensuous and her long eyelashes drooped slightly over dark, lustrous eyes.
"Comrades," she began, in slow, measured tones, "after to-night I retire from the platform to take up work for which I am better fitted. I promised you a big surprise this evening, and you shall not be disappointed – "
A murmur rippled the audience and she paused, smiling into Norman's face with a curious look. She spoke with a decided foreign accent with little moments of coquettish hesitation as though feeling for words. Norman felt an almost irresistible impulse to help her.
"I am going to in-tro-duce to you to-night," she continued, "a new leader, whose tongue the God of the poor and the outcast and the dis-in-herited has touched with divine fire. She is no stran-ger. Twenty years ago she was born beneath the bright skies of Cal-i-for-nia at Anaheim, in the little Socialist colony of Polish dreamers led by Madame Modjeska, Count Bozenta, and Henry Sienkiewicz, the distin-guished author of 'Quo Vadis.' As you know, the colony failed. Her mother died in poverty and she was placed in an orphan asylum until eight years of age, when she was taken back to Poland by her foolish kins-men. Four years later I found her, a ragged, homeless waif, in the streets of Warsaw, alone and star-ving. Since then she has been mine. Amid the squalor and misery of the old world her busy little tongue never tired telling of the glories of Cali-for-nia! Always she sighed for its groves of oranges and olives, its dazzling flowers, its luscious grapes, its rich valleys, its cloud-kissed, snow-clad mountains and the mur-mur of its mighty seas! It was her tiny hand that led me across the ocean to you. I have sent her to school in one of your Western colleges where a great Socialist professor has taught her history and e-con-omics. I have the high honour, comrades, of intro-ducing to you the child of genius who from to-night will be the Joan of Arc of our Cause, Comrade Barbara Bozenta!"
She quickly turned and drew forward a trembling slip of a girl whose big brown eyes were swimming in tears of excitement. A moment of intense silence, and the crowd burst into cheers as the dazzling beauty of their new champion slowly dawned on their understanding. The woman in red resumed her seat, and the girl stood bowing, trembling, and smiling.
The young athlete watched her keenly. Never had he seen such a bundle of quivering, pulsing, nervous, ravishing beauty. He could have sworn he saw electric sparks flash from the tips of every eyelash, from every strand of the mass of brown curls that circled her face and fell in rich profusion on her shoulders and across her heaving bosom. He felt before she had uttered a word – felt, rather than saw – the remarkable effectiveness of the simple, girlish dress which enhanced her dark beauty. She wore the same deep red as the older woman, but the bottom of the skirt was relieved by a row of ruffles edged with white lace. A scarf of white embroidered at the ends with scarlet flowers, was thrown gracefully around her shoulders and hung below the knees. Her round young arms were bare to the elbows, her throat and neck bare to the upper edge of the full bust.
The girl's eyes sought Norman's for an imperceptible instant and a smile flashed from her trembling lips. The cheering ceased and she began to speak. He watched her with breathless intensity, and listened with steadily increasing fascination. Her voice at first was low, yet every word fell clear and distinct. Never had he heard a voice so tender and full of expressive feeling – soft and mellow, sweet like the notes of a flute. There was something in its tone quality that compelled sympathy, that stole into the inner depths of the soul of the listener, and led reason a willing captive.
In simple yet burning words she told of the darkness and poverty, the crime and shame, hunger and cruelty of the old world in which she had spent four years of her childhood. And then in a flight of poetic eloquence, came the story of her dreams of California, the Golden West, the land of eternal sunshine and flowers. And then, in a voice quivering and choking with emotion, she drew the picture of what she found – of Hell's Half Acre, in which she stood, with its brazen vice, its crime, its hopeless misery, its want and despair. With bold and fierce invective she charged modern civilization with this infamy.
"Why do strong men go forth to war?" she cried, looking into the depths of Norman's soul. "Here is the enemy at your door, gripping the soft, white throats of your girls. Watch them sink into the mire at your feet and then down, down into the black sewers of the under-world never to rise again! I, too, call for volunteers. For heroes and heroines – not to fight another – I call you to a nobler warfare. I call you to the salvation of a world. Will you come? I offer you stones for bread, the sky for your canopy, the earth for your bed, and for your wages death! None may enter but the brave. Will you come – ?"
The last words of her appeal rang through Norman's heart with resistless power. Her round, soft arms seemed about his neck and his soul went out to her in passionate yearning. He gripped the chair to hold himself back from shouting:
"Yes! I'm coming!"
She sank to her seat before the crowd realized that she had stopped. A shout of triumph shook the building – wave after wave, rising and falling in ever-increasing intensity. At its height the Scarlet Nun sprang to her feet, with a graceful leap reached the edge of the platform, and again lifted her hand. A sudden hush fell on the crowd.
"Now, comrades, the battle-hymn of the Republic set to new music! Mark its words, and remember that we sing it not as a mem-ory, but as a proph-esy of the day our streets may run red with the blood of the last struggle of Man to break his chains of Slav-ery – a proph-esy, remember, not a mem-ory! Read it Barbara!"
The girl was by her side in an instant, and read from memory, her clear sweet voice tremulous with passion:
"Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord;
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He has loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His truth is marching on!
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening's dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps:
His day is marching on!
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat;
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer them, be jubilant my feet!
Our God is marching on!"
The crowd burst again into triumphant song, and Norman looked at their faces with increasing amazement. The immense vitality of their faith, the rush of its forward movement, the grandeur and audacity of their programme struck him as a revelation. They proposed no half-way measures. They meant to uproot the foundations of modern society and build a new world on its ruins. Their leaders were fanatics – yes. But fanatics were the only kind of people who would dare such things and do them. Here was a movement, which at least meant something – something big, heroic, daring. His face suddenly flushed and his heart leaped with an impulse.
"In heaven's name, Norman, what's the matter?" Elena asked.
The young poet-athlete looked at her in a dazed sort of way and stammered:
"Did you ever see anything like it?"
"No, and I don't want to again," she replied with a frown. "Let's go home."
"Wait, they are taking up a collection. At least we must pay for our seats."
When the usher passed he emptied the contents of his pocket in the collection-box.
As the meeting broke up, the boy who placed their seats touched Norman on the arm.
"Let me introduce ye to her. I wants ter tell 'er ye er my friend – I've yelled my head off for ye many a day on de football ground. Jest er minute. I'll fetch 'er right down."
The boy darted up on the platform, and Norman turned to Elena:
"Shall we please the boy?"
"You mean yourself," she replied. "I decline the honour."
She turned away into the crowd as the boy returned leading Barbara.
Norman hastened to meet them at the foot of the platform steps.
"Dis is me friend, Worth, de captain of de football team, Miss Barbara," proudly exclaimed the boy.
Barbara extended her soft hand with a warm, friendly smile, and Norman clasped it while his heart throbbed.
"I congratulate you," he said, "on your wonderful triumph to-night."
"You were interested?" she asked, quietly.
"More than I can tell you," was the quick response.
"Then join our club and help me in my work among the poor," she urged, with frank eagerness. "We meet to-morrow afternoon at three o'clock. Won't you come?"
A long, deep look into her brown eyes – his face flushed and his heart leaped with sudden resolution.
"Thank you, I will," he slowly answered.
He joined Elena at the door and they walked home in brooding silence.
