Red and Black

by Grace S. Richmond

The absolute simplicity of this little speech—for this was all he said—coupled with the touching appeal of the baby in his arms, was what did it; Mrs. Burns and Nan and Jane all said so afterward. With the instinct for the right course at the right moment which is the peculiar gift of the public speaker, Black divined, at the instant that he came upon the platform, that the fewer his words the more loudly would the tiny, silent figure do its own soliciting. And so it proved.

“Please show the Belgian posters, Doctor Burns,” Black suggested, and Red, taking them from Jane’s hands, held them up one by one without comment. And one by one they were bid off, while Black stood and held the baby and looked on, his eyes eloquent of his interest. Bid off at sums which ranged higher and higher, as the company, now as ardent in the cause of the living, breathing baby before them as they had been apathetic in that of his small compatriots across the sea of whom they had only heard, vied with each other to prove that they could be generous when they really saw the reason why.

“I’d certainly like a picture of Mr. Black and that baby at this minute,” murmured Fanny Fitch in the ear of Nan Lockhart, as she returned from a trip to the front of the room, where she had recklessly emptied a gold mesh-bag to buy that for which she did not care at all. She had looked up into Robert Black’s face as she stood below him, and had received one of those strictly impartial smiles which he was now bestowing upon everybody who asked for them; and she had come away thoroughly determined to secure for herself, before much more time had passed, a smile which should be purely personal.

“He does look dear with the baby,” admitted Nan, heartily. “He holds him as if he had held babies all his life. Oh, it’s splendid, the way things are going now. How was he inspired to get that child?”

“Eye for the dramatic, my dear,” suggested her friend. “All successful ministers have it. The unsuccessful ones lack it, and go around wondering why their schemes fail. It’s perfectly legitimate—and it makes them much more interesting. The Reverend Robert looks as innocent as the child in his arms, but he’s really a born actor.”

“Fanny Fitch! How ridiculous!”

“If he weren’t he would have rushed up there with the baby and harangued us for fifteen minutes about the needs of the Belgians. But he has the dramatic sense just to stand there looking like a young father angel, with those dark brows of his bent on the poor child, and we fall for him like the idiots we are—as he knew we would. I never dreamed of spending that last ten dollars. I didn’t spend it for the Belgians at all. I spent it for Robert Black!”

“I’m glad you’re frank enough to admit it.”

“What’s the use in trying to conceal anything from you, Sharp Eyes?” And Miss Fitch returned to her occupation of observing the events now transpiring up in front, with a pair of lustrous eyes which missed no detail.

Jane’s receptacle for the money handed her was nearly full now. It was a beautiful big bowl of Sheffield plate, one of the best in her collection, and it had called forth much admiring comment. Red sold his last poster—not all were for sale. This last one was the great “man on the horse,” galloping with sword upraised and mouth shouting—the most vivid and striking of all, though to the eye of the connoisseur worth far less than some of quieter and more subtle suggestion. It was promptly bid in by the rotund gentleman who had challenged Red half an hour before, and he named so high a figure that he had no contestants. He received his purchase with a large gesture of triumph and pleasure with himself, and Jane, accepting his check, written with a flourish, gave him the expression of gratitude he had coveted.