Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

Two years before he had had sudden and unexpected word of his mother’s death on Easter Day—and the approaching Sunday would be Easter again. On that day, because she had been dear to him, and because he had been across the seas from her, he had written upon the page a renewal of his ordination vows. When he had been a little boy she had told him that some day she wanted him to be a minister of the Scottish Church, the Free Kirk of Scotland, in which she had been brought up. It had hurt her that he had wanted to go away to America, and though he had several times during the succeeding years crossed the ocean to see her, she had never quite recovered from the disappointment. On a strange impulse, that Easter Day, two years ago, knowing that he could never in this world see her face again, he had taken up his pen and written upon the blank space these words:

Beloved Mother:

This is the most precious thing I have in the world. I give it to you this Easter Day of your entrance into Heaven. These words were used at my ordination. I have said them over again to-day, because of your love for me, and my love for you. I shall keep them always.

Robert.

These, then, were the irrevocable words he could not take back. He had vowed to his God—he had promised his mother—— How shall a man take back such words? He had known all along it was unthinkable that he should, but his fight had been none the less tremendous for that—perhaps the more, for that. The tighter one feels the bonds that bind him, the harder is the struggle against them.

Black fell upon his knees before the old red-cushioned rocker which still held its place among the more dignified furnishings of the study. Somehow, it was this chair which was to him his Throne of Grace. He had not yet given up—it seemed to him he couldn’t give up—but he had come to this, that he could take the attitude of prayer about it, instead of striding blindly through the silent streets, his own fierce will driving him on. And even as he knelt, there came before him with new and vivid colour, like a fascinating portrait on a screen, the face of Jane Ray. Thus far, to-night, he had succeeded mostly in keeping her in the background, at least till he should have decided his great question. But with her sudden return to the forefront of his mental images came a new and startling thought: “If you went as she wants you to go, you might marry her before you went. You might go together. But as a chaplain—you can only be her friend. Make love to her—wild love, and take her off her feet! Be human—you’ve every right.”

At this he fairly leaped to his feet. And then began the very worst conflict of all, for this last thought was more than flesh and blood could stand. In his present mood, the exhaustion of the night’s vigil beginning to tell heavily against his endurance, he was as vulnerable as mortal could well be. Since the night when he had seen Jane act in Cary’s play and had taken her for the walk in the rain, her attraction for him had grown apace. He had not understood quite how it had grown till Red’s words to-night had set his imagination aflame. The vision of his going soldiering had somehow kindled in him new fires of earthly longing, dropping his priesthood out of sight. Now, suddenly, he found himself all but a lover, of the most human sort, thinking with pulses leaping of marriage in haste, with the parting which must inevitably soon follow keying the whole wonderful experience to the highest pitch. It was the sort of imagining which, once indulged in for a moment, goes flying past all bounds and barriers, while the breath quickens and the blood races, and the man is all man, with other plans, other hopes, other aspirations forgot, in the rush of a desire so overwhelming that he can take no account of anything else in heaven or earth.

Small wonder, then, that Black should find he must have it out with himself all over again, nothing settled, even the little black-bound book in one mad moment dropped into a drawer and the drawer slammed shut. Not fair—not fair—to have to keep that book in sight! God Himself knew, He must know, that when He made man he made him full of passions—for all sorts of splendid things—and perhaps the greatest of these were war—and love! How should a man be satisfied to be—a priest? No altar fire could burn brightly enough for him to warm his cold hands. As for his heart—it seemed to him just then that no priest’s heart could ever be warm at all!

Could it not? Even as Black raged up and down his room, his hands clenched, his jaw hard set, his eyes fell upon a picture in the shadow—one he knew well. There had been a time when that picture had been one of his dearest possessions and had hung always above his desk. When he had come to his new church, and had been setting his new study in order, Tom had helped him hang his few pictures. It had been Tom who, glancing critically at this one, and seeing in it nothing to himself appealing—it was to him a dim and shadowy thing, of little colour and no significance—had hurriedly placed it over here, in this unlighted corner. Several times since Black had noted it there, and had said to himself that it was a shame for the beautiful thing to be so obscured—he must remove it to a better place and light, because he really cared much for it. But he had been busy—and careless—he had not removed it. And now, suddenly, it drew him. He went to it, took it from the wall, went over to the desk light with it. And then, as he looked, once again the miracle happened, and the spirit, the spirit which God Himself has set in every human creature, leaped up and triumphed over the flesh, and Black’s fight was over—for that time. Not over forever, perhaps, but over for that time—which was enough.

Perhaps you know the picture—it is well known and much loved. A great cathedral nave stretches away into the distance, the altar in the far background streaming with light, the choir gathered, the service on. The foreground of the picture is all in shadow, and in the depths of that shadow kneels one prostrate form in an abandon of anxiety or grief. Behind it, unseen, stands a wondrous, pitying, strongly supporting figure with hand outstretched, an aura of light about it, love and understanding emanating from it. Not with the crowd at the altar, but with the lonely human creature in the darkness, lingers the figure of the Lord. The words below are these: “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.”