Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

He was withdrawing, that they might act upon his resignation according to custom, and he had all but reached the narrow door beside the pulpit when an impressive figure, that of Mr. Samuel Lockhart, in his well-fitting frock coat of formal wear, rose in his pew. He motioned to Mr. William Jennings, who sat near this door, and Jennings took a few steps after the departing minister and laid a hand upon his arm.

“Don’t go just yet,” Jennings warned him, in an excited undertone.

Black turned. Mr. Lockhart spoke his name, and he turned still farther and looked back at his chief officer. Why in the world wasn’t he allowed to take himself away at this juncture? Must he be detained to hear a conventional farewell, a speech expressing hope that he would come through unscathed, and thanks for what he had done for the church in the short time that he had been with them? There wasn’t much run-away blood in Black’s make-up, but he was certainly wishing at that instant that they hadn’t thought it necessary to hold him up, and that he had taken those steps toward the door fast enough to get through it and close it behind him before he could be stopped. And then for the hillside and his open-air talk. That was what he wanted most—and next! It seemed to him he couldn’t breathe any longer, here with the flowers and the people and the organ music and the stained-glass windows! It was his church no longer.... Suddenly he knew that his heart was even sorer than he had thought it was.

But there was nothing to do but face it. So he did turn about, and came forward a few steps, and stood waiting. They were all looking at him—all those people—and some of them—why, yes, he could see spots of white all over the church, which grew momently thicker. Could it be that so many people as that were—crying? That sore heart of his gave a queer little jump in his breast. Why, then—they cared—or some of them cared—because he wasn’t coming back!

“Mr. Black”—Samuel Lockhart cleared his throat—“we have something to say to you before you go. We want you to know that we deeply appreciate all that you have done for this church in the short time you have been with us”—(yes, Black had known that was what he would say)—“and that though some of us have not always agreed with you in your views on certain points, we have been unable not to respect you. You yourself can testify that we have listened to you, as we have listened to-day, with close attention, always—you have compelled it. But to-day we have listened with a new respect, not to say a deep admiration for you.” (Black braced himself. His eyes were fixed steadily upon those of his chief officer. He told himself that it would be over sometime, and then he could get away.) “And we have listened with something else—with a sense of possession such as we have never had before.”

Mr. Lockhart cleared his throat again. Evidently this speech was tough on him, too. What in the world did the man mean? A sense of possession—of what?

“You see, we are not merely saying good-bye to you, Mr. Black. That of itself would be enough to make this occasion one long to be remembered. In fact, we are not saying good-bye at all, we are saying ‘Till we meet again!’ For—if you will have it so—though you are leaving us for the time being, you are going over to do what you consider your part in the war—as our representative. The Stone Church refuses your resignation, sir. Instead, it grants you a year’s leave of absence which it will extend if you ask it at the end of that period. And it says to you: Godspeed to Our Minister!”

There was a stir, a murmur throughout the big audience. Handkerchiefs were held suspended in mid-air while everybody tried his or her best to see the face of Robert Black. In his pew Redfield Pepper Burns had grown redder and redder, till his face rivalled his hair in vividness. Behind her pillar Jane Ray had grown whiter and whiter, as she tried to stifle her pounding heart. At the back of the church young Perkins, usher, all but gave out an ecstatic whoop, and pinched the arm of a neighbouring usher till it was an inflamed red, the victim only grinning back joyfully.

“You surely know,” said Robert Black, when he could command his voice, which it took him a full minute to do—“that a man must go with a braver heart in him if he goes—for others, than if he goes by himself. I thank you—and I accept the commission. God help me to be worthy of your trust.”

Of course he couldn’t get off till he had had his hand wrung by several hundred people, during which process, as he had expected, Jane slipped away. They wept over him, they smiled tearfully at him, they all but clung to him, but he could bear it now. If he suspected that it was Red who had done this thing for him at the last—the new member already beginning to make himself felt with a vengeance!—it was impossible not to see that now that it was done everybody was immensely glad and satisfied over it. The hardest heads he had ever encountered here were among those who were now proud to have him go from the old Stone Church, the first chaplain in all that part of the country to offer himself from the ministry. Oh, yes—no doubt but it was all right now, and Black would have been a man of iron if that sore heart of his had not been somewhat comforted.