Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

She was keyed to a high pitch of expectation during every moment of that walk. She was so near now—so near! She was actually in the same great city. It was almost unbelievable, but it was true. There was a chance—it couldn’t be more than the millionth part of one, but it was a chance—that at any moment she might turn a corner and see coming toward her the tall figure which she had last seen a year ago in August. How would he look? What would he say? Would he be—different? Oh, he must be different! He couldn’t have been through it all and not have suffered some change. But—she knew as well as she knew anything in the world that in the way that mattered most to her he would not be different, he would be absolutely the same. As for herself, was she not different too? And was she not—absolutely the same? Oh, no—oh, no! With the development of her experience and the growth of her sacrifice had not the thing within her heart and spirit which was his become a thousand times more his? No doubt of that. Then—might not that which he had for her have been augmented too? The thought was one she had to put away from her. Enough, if he could but give her so much of his heart as he had given before. That of itself, she thought, would be all that she could bear—to-day.

The old green door with the shining brass knocker she so well remembered came into view as she turned into the quaint little street not far from Westminster Abbey where lived her English friend. On the first of her visits to England, in search of rare objects for her shop, she had met Miss Stoughton, an Englishwoman in the late thirties, who had an established reputation as a connoisseur and collector of rare antiques. Business dealings with this woman had resulted in a permanent friendship between the two. Miss Stoughton was separated from her family, all of whom were strongly opposed to her independent establishment in business, a departure from all the family traditions of birth and education. She had chosen nevertheless to live her own life, and when the Great War came to England she had a well developed business experience to back her in giving her services to her country. At the moment when Jane came to her she had just returned to the little house, after a long period of absence.

The green door opened at the first fall of the knocker, and the tall Englishwoman herself welcomed Jane with hearty hospitality.

“My dear—this is most awfully jolly—to see you again! How well you are looking! A trifle thin, perhaps—and no wonder—but such a fine colour! Come in—come in! The house is still a bit upset, you know, but you won’t mind that.”

“It doesn’t look upset,” Jane commented, after one glance about the little drawing room, where a bright fire burned on the diminutive hearth, and a tea-table beside it offered refreshment, as if it had been waiting for the guest. “It looks just as I remember it—the prettiest room I ever saw in England.”

“Oh, my dear Jane—you are the same extravagant admirer of my simple things. But I always appreciated your praise of them, for you are not only a connoisseur but an artist. And you have put aside all that to do this nursing! Do sit down and tell me all about it, while we have tea. But first——” she interrupted herself with a gesture—“let me not fail to give my message—a most important message. Morning, noon, and night for three days now, have I been besieged by a tall Scotsman in uniform with the cross of a regimental chaplain. He had what I may call a determined chin, and the finest pair of black eyes I ever saw. It seems he also is expecting you, but he fears you may in some way find it difficult to reach him, or may lose an instant of time in doing so. He is likely to receive orders to sail for the States at any time; and I gather from his quite evident anxiety that if he should be forced to leave without having seen Miss Ray it would be to him a calamity.”

“It would be one to me too,” Jane answered, with a rising colour but a steady meeting of her friend’s quizzical look. “How, please, can I let him know?”

“A messenger waits within call,” Miss Stoughton assured her, gaily. “Our war-time telephone service is still frightfully crippled, so we provide ourselves with substitutes. A small boy is ready to run post-haste through the streets of London to carry the news of your arrival to”—she picked up a card lying upon a priceless small table of an unbelievable antiquity of which Jane had long envied her the possession, and read the name with distinctness—“‘Mr. Robert McPherson Black.’ A very good name, my dear, and one which well fits the man. I should judge he is accustomed to have his own way in most things, at the same time that an undoubted spirit of kindness looks out of that somewhat worn face of his. I will despatch the messenger at once. Shall we make an appointment for the evening, or are you prepared to see your friend within the hour? He will most certainly return with the boy who goes for him—if he is not already on his way, on the chance of finding you.”

Jane came close to her hostess, and laid her hands upon her shoulders. “Dear Miss Stoughton,” she said, “I’m sure you understand. If military orders weren’t such startling things and likely to arrive sooner than one expects them, I would put Mr. Black off until evening and just have the visit with you I so much want. But——”

“I do perfectly well understand,” replied Miss Stoughton, decidedly, “and I should be most awfully cross with you if you put off that very fine man an hour longer than necessary. He has two service chevrons and two wound stripes on his arm, and he walks with a cane; I should not be in the least surprised if within his blouse he wears concealed some sort of decoration. In any case he deserves every consideration. A chaplain with wounds has done something besides read the prayer book to his men behind the lines.”