Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

He was silent for a minute, studying her. In the bright light of the Sabbath morning, there in the garden, she had never seemed to him a more perfect thing. Every little chestnut hair that grew away from her brow, curving upward in an exquisite sweep from her small ear, stood out in that light; the texture and colour of her cheek, the poise of her head upon her white, strong neck—somehow he couldn’t help noting these lovely details as he had almost never noted them before. It was as if he saw her through eyes sharpened already by absence and loneliness. He tried to fix the image of her upon the tablet of his mind—just the sheer physical image of her, as he might have put away a photograph in his pocket, to carry with him. Yet it was something far more subtle than that that he was trying to fix—her whole personality, body and mind and spirit—this was what he found himself wanting to take with him in a way that he could never let go, no matter how far away from her he might be.

“I’m sorry you don’t think you can,” he said at last, gently. “Do you know that I never even asked it of you before?”

“Do you ask it now? You only said—‘are you coming?’”

“Didn’t that tell the story? I don’t see how I can quite—bear it—if you don’t.”

“Then—I will. But I shall sit very far back, and you may not even see me.”

“I shall see you—if you are there at all.”

He had to hurry away then. There was no time to lose if he would do half the things that must be done that day. But long afterward in dark and dreadful scenes, the very antitheses of this one, he could close his eyes and see the little old garden, with its rows of pink and white and deep rose hollyhocks against the vine-covered wall, and see Jane standing in the bright sunlight. He must always remember, too, what it cost him to stand there beside her, and watch her, and know that, as with everything he looked upon that day, it might be for the last time. It had taken every particle of will he had to leave her. Fortunate for him that that will had had a long schooling in doing what it must, not what it would!

Ten o’clock—and Red at the vestry door. Within that door a strange Red, grave and quiet, facing a circle of surprised and deeply interested men, wondering within themselves how it had ever come about. A dignified candidate was this, who answered questions, as Black had bidden him, in his own abrupt and original way, and more than once startled his questioners not a little. It was at least three times that Black had to use all the tact and discretion at his disposal to prevent a clash of arms when it came to some technicality which to some man’s mind was an important one. But in the end they were satisfied. Not one of them but knew that if Dr. Redfield Pepper Burns had come to the point where he was willing to call the old Stone Church his own, it could only be because some deep antagonism had given way—and that, of itself, was enough to commend him to them. Such a power as Red was in the whole community, he could be in the church, if he would. And now that he would, they must let him in, if they were not fools. And fools they were not—and some of them were of those whose knowledge is not wholly of earth, because it has been taught of heaven. So they accepted Red, as well they might, though he was as far from being a saint as any one of themselves, nor ever would be one, while he remained below the stars. The Church Militant is no place for saints, only for human beings who would keep one another company on a difficult road—and the company of One who went before and knows all the hardships—and the glories—of the way.

Eleven o’clock, and Black in his pulpit. He faced a congregation which filled every nook and cranny of the large audience room, and stretched away into the distance in rooms beyond opened for the emergency. News travels fast, and this news had gone like lightning about the town, for a very good reason. Black had summoned only two of his young men, despatching them to the hills to go from house to house there. But these two, before they went, had done a little despatching on their own initiative, with the result to be expected. It was a great hour, and too great honour could not be done.

As he rose to speak Black’s heart was very full. Jane was there—he knew, because he had deliberately watched both doors until he had seen her come in. And she was not far away in a back seat, as she had said she would be. Instead, she had permitted an eager young usher, in search of a place in the already full church, to lead her away down to the very front, though at one side and almost behind a tall pillar. He had seen her slip into this pew, evidently asking to change places with a child who had the pillar seat, one well screened from the rest of the congregation. Once Black had seen her safely in this place, so near him, he breathed more deeply. He could forget everything now, except this, his last chance, with that molten metal he had been making ready for this hour.