Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

“And He, bearing His cross, went forth into a place called the place of a skull, which is called in the Hebrew Golgotha.”

What happens, in the hour when a man gives himself to a task like this; when all that he is, or ever hopes to be, he lays upon the altar of his purpose? Human he may be, and weak, utterly inadequate, as far as his own power goes, to do the thing he longs to do. And yet—well, many a man knows what it is to feel his spirit suddenly strengthen with the hour of need, to feel pour into it something intangible yet absolutely real and definite—and Divine—to know himself able to take the minds and hearts and wills of men into his two human hands and mould them in spite of themselves. And this, as he had hoped and prayed upon his knees, was what happened to Robert Black this last morning of his ministry to these people. He could not have asked for a greater gift—no, not if by putting out his hand he could have taken Jane’s hand and led her away with him. For that hour, at least, as he had wished, the man was lost in the priest; he was consecrated, heart and soul, to his task. How should those before him resist him—the messenger who spoke to them with the tongue of inspiration? For so he spoke.

Christ upon the battle-field—that was his theme. Of itself it was a moving theme; as he made use of it it became a glorious one. Those who listened seemed almost to see a manly, compassionate Figure moving among His young soldiers, living in the trenches with them, facing the fight with them, enduring the long night with them, lifting their hearts, speaking to their spirits—inhabiting the place of the skull as they inhabited it—and when the bullet or the bit of shrapnel had gone home, saying “I am with you, be not afraid.”

Who shall describe the preaching of a great sermon? The pen has not been made which may do more than sketch the various outlines of either experience—that of preacher or that of listener, when God thus speaks to human hearts through human lips. Reporter’s flying pencil may take down the burning words themselves without an error; only the shadow of the mountain falls upon the plane of his notebook. Preacher may only say: “He spoke through me to-day—somehow I know it”; listener may only think: “I heard what I never heard before, or may again.” Only He who inspired the message may know all that it was or half that it accomplished. So it has always been, and so it will ever be—on earth.

The sermon ended; the communion service began. None went away, as ordinarily some were accustomed to do; it was if a spell had been cast upon the audience, it remained so motionless. Only when, at the very first, a tall figure with a flaming red head came forward at the beckoning of Black, did other heads crane themselves to see. The impossible had happened—no doubt of that. It couldn’t be; but yes, it was Doctor Burns who was marching down the aisle, to stand facing Black beside the Table on which were set forth the Bread and Wine.

CHAPTER XVII
NO OTHER WAY

“YOU!” It was Jane Ray’s astonished, all but shuddering thought. “You!—and not—me! Oh, how can it be? You, who I thought would stay outside with me—and the like of me—forever, before you would bind yourself like this. Do you believe the things that he does? You could never be a hypocrite, Redfield Burns. Are you doing it for love of Robert Black? No, you wouldn’t do it, even for that, any more than I would. Then—what is it?”

She sat with a white face and watching eyes which burned darkly beneath her close-drawn, sheltering hat-brim, while Red took upon himself the vows which Black administered. When it was done, and Red stood straight and tall again, and Black looked into his eyes and took his hand, and said the few grave and happy words of welcome which end such a service, Jane’s heart stood still with pain and love—and envy. It seemed to her that she must get away from the place somehow—anyhow—she could endure no more.

But there was no getting away yet. She had to see it through. And what came next was what Black had told Mrs. Hodder was to come. All through the service, far back in her usual place, the gray-haired housekeeper of the manse had sat, still trembling a little now and then, waiting to hear the blow fall. She it was who knew, she said to herself, the dreadful thing which was coming. Nobody else, she thought, knew that the minister meant to resign his charge. She didn’t see why he must resign it, why he shouldn’t come back. He had been here less than a year and a half; he was in the full tide of his success; the big church was his as long as he should choose to keep it. She wondered how they would take it when they knew. As for herself, her heart was very heavy. Who was there, in all the church, who would miss him as she would?

He was speaking. She moved her head and managed to see him through the close-ranged congregation. He had not gone back to the pulpit, he still stood beside the communion table, on the floor below, so it was difficult to get a view of him. He looked very manly and fine, she thought; his face was full of colour, as it always was when he had been preaching, and his black eyes were keen and clear as he looked his people in the face and told them that he was taking leave of them for good. He used few words, and what he said was very simple and direct. He had seen it his duty—and his great, great privilege—to go over to France, and try to do his part. He had preached what he believed with all his heart, and now the time had come to prove that he believed what he had preached. He said good-bye, and God bless them, and wouldn’t their prayers go with him that he might be of all the service to the men of his regiment that he could know or learn how to be?