Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

With the belief that a long talk together will do away with the need for a further exchange of letters just now, I am, as always,

Faithfully and affectionately yours,
Marie L’Armand Devoe.

Sitting on the edge of his study desk Black had eagerly read this letter, written in a firm hand full of character, not at all indicative of its being the penmanship of “an old woman.” His face had lighted with pleasure, and he had laid the letter down only to turn to consult his schedule of work for the week. This was Monday, the only day he was accustomed to try to keep free for himself—usually with small success, it must be acknowledged. But at least there was no engagement for the evening, and it was the only evening of the week of which that could be said.

During the next half-hour he did some telephoning, held a brief interview with Mrs. Hodder, wrote a short letter, then was off for his train. He had decided to take a local into the city earlier than was necessary to make his connection, in order that he might be safely away before anything happened to detain him. This would give him an hour to spare there before he could get the second train, which would bring him within walking distance of the little seaside village and his friend’s new summer home. He would call her up from the city; he had not yet had time to do it. He was glad of the extra hour in which to draw breath and congratulate himself that this Monday was to be a real day of rest. He was obliged to admit to himself that it would taste rather good. What with preaching and parish work doggedly kept up to the customary standard, while he had been at the same time deep in the involved details of securing his chance to go overseas—which now was practically assured—he was feeling just a trifle played out on this warm July morning.

Turning a corner just before he reached the station, he came suddenly upon Jane Ray. Though her answering smile was bright enough, he thought he saw in her face a reflection of the weariness of which he himself was momently more conscious. The heat for several weeks now had been unusually trying. Jane had been quite as busy as Black himself with the arranging to dispose of her business preparatory to going abroad. She, too, had found—or made—her chance. It looked as if she might get off before any of them—except Cary, who was due to go now at any time.

Black stopped short, in the shade of a great elm.

“I haven’t seen you for two weeks,” he said. “That ought to be excuse enough for stopping you now? I suppose you know I’ve been around twice—only to find the shop locked, and the bell apparently out of commission, for it produced nobody.”

“I’m sorry,” protested Jane. “I found your card both times. If I hadn’t been so busy——”

“I know.” He looked searchingly down into her face, and it seemed to him it certainly looked a little worn. Perhaps it was the lavender of the crisp linen dress which sent trying reflections into her usually warm-tinted cheeks. Perhaps it was the excessive heat, which incidentally was doing its best to make her smooth hair curl riotously about her ears in a particularly girlish fashion. “Yes, we’ve both been busy,” he agreed. “But that doesn’t make two weeks seem any shorter to me. I’m going out of town for the day, but with your permission I’ll try that doorbell soon again. All at once, some day, either you or I will get that call, and then—think of all the things we’ll wish we had had time to say!”

“Perhaps! Meanwhile, if you’re catching the 9:30, Mr. Black, let me warn you that the station clock is two minutes slow. I lost a train by it only yesterday.”