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IN LEAGUE WITH ISRAEL
A Tale of the Chattanooga Conference
by
ANNIE FELLOWS JOHNSTON
Author of
"Joel: A Boy of Galilee;" "The Story of the Resurrection;"
"Big Brother;" "The Little Colonel."
[Illustration]
Cincinnati: Curts & Jennings
New York: Eaton & Mains
1896
Copyright
By Curts & Jennings,
1896.
TO THE EPWORTH LEAGUE.
What Paul was to the Gentiles, may you, the Young Apostle of our Church,
become to the Jews. Surely, not as the priest or the Levite have you so
long passed them by "on the other side."
Haply, being a messenger on the King's business, which requires haste,
you have never noticed their need. But the world sees, and, re-reading
an old parable, cries out: "Who is thy neighbor? Is it not even Israel
also, in thy midst?"
Nor knowest thou what argument
Thy life to thy neighbor's creed has lent.
--EMERSON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
THE RABBI'S PROTÉGÉ, 7
CHAPTER II.
ON TO CHATTANOOGA, 23
CHAPTER III.
THE SUNRISE SERVICE ON "LOOKOUT," 43
CHAPTER IV.
AN EPWORTH JEW, 65
CHAPTER V.
"TRUST," 86
CHAPTER VI.
TWO TURNINGS IN BETHANY'S LANE, 105
CHAPTER VII.
JUDGE HALLAM'S DAUGHTER, STENOGRAPHER, 115
CHAPTER VIII.
A KINDLING INTEREST, 130
CHAPTER IX.
A JUNIOR TAKES IT IN HAND, 145
CHAPTER X.
THE DEACONESS'S STORY, 163
CHAPTER XI.
"YOM KIPPUR," 186
CHAPTER XII.
DR. TRENT, 189
CHAPTER XIII.
A LITTLE PRODIGAL, 220
CHAPTER XIV.
HERZENRUHE, 241
CHAPTER XV.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, 261
CHAPTER XVI.
A "WATCH-NIGHT" CONSECRATION, 275
* * * * *
SILENT KEYS, 297
IN LEAGUE WITH ISRAEL.
CHAPTER I.
THE RABBI'S PROTÉGÉ.
IT was growing dark in the library, but the old rabbi took no notice of
the fact. As the June twilight deepened, he unconsciously bent nearer
the great volume on the table before him, till his white beard lay on
the open page.
He was reading aloud in Hebrew, and his deep voice filled the room with
its musical intonations: "Praise Him, ye heavens of heavens, and ye
waters that be above the heavens."
He raised his head and glanced out toward the western sky. A star or two
twinkled through the fading afterglow. Pushing the book aside, he walked
to the open window and looked up.
There was a noise of children playing on the pavement below, and the
rumbling of an electric car in the next street. A whiff from a passing
cigar floated up to him, and the shrill whistle of a newsboy with the
evening paper.
But Abraham at the door of his tent, Moses in the Midian desert, Elijah
by the brook Cherith, were no more apart from the world than this old
rabbi at this moment.
He saw only the star. He heard only the inward voice of adoration, as he
stood in silent communion with the God of his fathers.
His strong, rugged features and white beard suggested the line of
patriarchs so forcibly, that had a robe and sandals been substituted for
the broadcloth suit he wore, the likeness would have been complete.
He stood there a long time, with his lips moving silently; then
suddenly, as if his unspoken homage demanded voice, he caught up his
violin. Forty years of companionship had made it a part of himself.
The depth of his being that could find no expression in words, poured
itself out in the passionately reverent tones of his violin.
In such exalted moods as this it was no earthly instrument of music. It
became to him a veritable Jacob's ladder, on which he heard the voices
of the angels ascending and descending, and on whose trembling rounds he
climbed to touch the Infinite.
There was a quick step on the stairs, and a heavy tread along the upper
hall. Then the portiere was pushed aside and a voice of the world
brought the rhapsody to a close.
"Where are you, Uncle Ezra? It is too dark to see, but your fiddle says
that you are at home."
"Ah, David, my boy, come in and strike a light. I wondered why you were
so late."
"I was out on my wheel," answered the young man. "Cycling is warm work
this time of year."
He lighted the gas and threw himself lazily down among the pile of
cushions on the couch.
"I had a letter from Marta to-day."
"And what does the little sister have to say?" answered the rabbi,
noticing a frown deepening on David's forehead. "I suppose her vacation
has commenced, and she will soon be on her way home again."
"No," answered David, with a still deeper frown. "She has changed all
her plans, and wants me to change mine, just to suit the Herrick
family. She has gone to Chattanooga with them, and they are up on
Lookout Mountain. She wants me to meet her there and spend part of the
summer with her. She grows more infatuated with Frances Herrick every
day. You know they have been inseparable friends since they first
started to kindergarten."
"Why did she go down there without consulting you?" asked the old man
impatiently. "You should be both father and mother to her, now that
neither of your parents is living. I wish I were really your uncle and
hers, that I might have some authority. You must be more careful of her,
my boy. She should spend this summer with you at home, instead of with
strangers in a hotel."
"But, Uncle Ezra," protested David, quick to excuse the little sister,
who was the only one in the world related to him by family ties, "at
home there is nobody but the housekeeper. Mrs. Herrick is with the girls
now, and the major will join them next week. Marta is just like one of
the family, and I have encouraged the intimacy, because I felt that Mrs.
Herrick gives her the motherly care she needs. Besides, Marta and
Frances are so congenial in every way that they find their greatest
happiness together. I tell them they are as bad as Ruth and Naomi. It is
a case of 'where thou goest I will go,' etc."
"Heaven forbid!" exclaimed the rabbi, fervently. "Do you remember that
the rest of that declaration is, 'Thy people shall be my people, and thy
God my God?' David, my son, I tell you there is great danger of the
child's being led away from the faith. Your father and hers was my
dearest friend. I have loved you children like my own. You must heed my
warning, and discourage such intimacy with a Gentile family, especially
when it includes such an agreeable member as that young Albert Herrick."
"Why, he is only a boy, Uncle Ezra."
"Yes, but he is older than Marta, and they are thrown constantly
together."
David looked down at the carpet, and began absently tracing a pattern
with his foot. He was thinking of the little sixteen-year-old sister.
The seven years' difference in their ages gave him a fatherly feeling
for her. He could not bear the thought of interfering seriously with her
pleasure, yet he could not ignore the old man's warning.
Rabbi Barthold had been his tutor in both languages and music. Aside
from a few years at college, all that he knew had been learned under the
old man's wise supervision.
"Ezra, my friend," said the elder David, when he lay dying, "take my
child and make him a man after your own pattern. I know your noble soul.
Give his the same strength and sweetness. We are so greedy for the
fleshpots of Egypt, that we forget to satisfy the soul hunger. But you
will teach the little fellow higher things."
Later, when the end had almost come, his hand groped out feebly towards
the child, who had been brought to his bedside.
"Never mind about the shekels, little David," he said in a hoarse,
broken whisper. "But clean hands and a pure heart--that's all that
counts when you're in your coffin."
The child's eyes grew wide with wonder as a paroxysm of pain contracted
the beloved face. He was led quickly away, but those words were never
forgotten.
The rabbi was thinking of them now as he studied the handsome features
of the young fellow before him.
It was a strong face, but refinement and gentleness showed in every
line. There was something so boyish and frank, also, in its expression,
that a tender smile moved the rabbi's lips. "Clean hands and a pure
heart," he said fondly to himself. "He has them. Ah, my David, if thou
couldst but see how thy little one has grown, not only in stature, but
in soul-life, in ideals, thou would'st be satisfied."
"Well," he said aloud, as the young man left his seat and began to walk
up and down the room with his hands in his pockets, "what are you going
to do?"
"I scarcely know," was the hesitating answer. "It would not be wise to
send for Marta to come home, for the reason you suggest, and I have no
other to offer her."
"Then go to her!" the rabbi exclaimed. "You need not tell her that you
have any fear of her being influenced by Gentile society--but never for
a moment let her forget that she is a Jewess. Kindle her pride in her
race. Teach her loyalty to her people, and love for all that is Hebrew."
"But my Hudson Bay trip?" David suggested.
"That can wait. The Tennessee mountains will give you as good a summer
outing as you need, and you can play guardian angel for Marta while you
take it."
David laughed, and took another turn across the room. Then he paused
beside the table, and picked up a newspaper.
"I wonder what connections the trains make now," he said. "There used to
be a long wait at a dismal old junction." He glanced hastily over the
time-table.
"Why, look here!" he exclaimed. "Here is a cheap excursion to
Chattanooga this next week. I could afford to run down and see Marta,
anyhow. Maybe I could persuade her to come back with me, if I promised
to take her to Hudson Bay with me."
"What kind of an excursion?" asked the rabbi.
"Epworth League, it says here, whatever that may be. It seems to be some
sort of an international convention, and says to apply to Frank B.
Marion for particulars."
"Marion," repeated the rabbi, thoughtfully. "O, then it is a Methodist
affair. He is not only the head and shoulders of that big Church on
Garrison Avenue, but hands and feet as well, judging by the way he
works for it. I wish my congregation would take a few lessons from him."
"Is he very tall, with a short, brown beard, and blue eyes, and a habit
of shaking hands with everybody?" asked David. "I believe I know the
man. I met him on the cars last fall. He's lively company. I've a notion
to hunt him up, and find what's going on."
"Telephone out to Hillhollow that you will not be at home to-night,"
said the rabbi, "and stay in the city with me. If you conclude to go to
Chattanooga next week, I have much to say to you before taking leave of
you for the summer."
"Very well," consented David. "I'll go down town immediately, and see if
I can find this Mr. Marion. What is his business, do you know?"
"A wholesale shoe merchant, I believe. He is in that big new building
next to Cohen's furniture-store, on Duke Street. But you'll not find him
Wednesday night. They have Church in the middle of the week, and he is
one of the few Christians whose life is as loud as his profession."
David smiled a little bitterly. "Then I shall certainly cultivate his
acquaintance for the purpose of studying such a rara avis. It has never
been my lot to know a Christian who measured up to his creed."
"Do not grow cynical, my lad," answered the old man, gently. "I have
made you a dreamer like myself. I have kept you in an atmosphere of high
ideals. I have led you into the companionship of all that was heroic in
the past, and held you apart as much as possible from the sordid
selfishness of the age. O, I grow sick at heart sometimes when I stroll
through the great centers of trade, watching the fierce struggle of
humanity as they snatch the bread from other mouths to feed their own.
"You remember our Hebrew word for teach comes from tooth, and means to
make sharp like a tooth. Sometimes I think that primitive idea has
become the popular view of education in this day. Anything that will fit
a man to bite and cut his way through this hungry wolf-pack is what is
sought after, no matter how many of his kind are trampled under foot in
the struggle. I am almost afraid for you to step down from the place
where I have kept you. When you are thrown with men who care for
nothing but material things, who would barter not only their birthrights
but their souls for a mess of pottage, I am afraid you will lose faith
in humanity."
"That is quite likely, Uncle Ezra."
"Aye, but I would not have it so, David. The world is certainly growing
a little less savage, and in every nature smolders some spark, however
small, of the eternal good. No matter how we have fallen, we still bear
the imprint of the Creator, in whose likeness we were first fashioned."
Rabbi Barthold had been right in calling himself a dreamer. The ability
to live apart from his surroundings, had been his greatest comfort.
Because of it, the rigor of extreme poverty that surrounded his early
life had not touched his heart with its baneful chill. He had gone
through the world a happy optimist.
He had been trained according to the most strictly orthodox system of
Judaism. But even its severe pressure had failed to confine him to the
limits of such a narrow mold.
He was still a dreamer. In the new world he had cast aside the shackles
of tradition for the larger liberty of the Reformed Jew.
Now in his serene old age, surrounded by luxuries, he still lived apart
in a world of music and literature.
His congregation, broken loose from the old moorings, drifted
dangerously away towards radicalism, but he stood firm in the belief
that the "chosen people" would finally triumph over all error, and found
much comfort in the thought.
David took out his watch. "It is after eight o'clock," he said.
"Probably if I walk down Garrison Avenue, I may meet Mr. Marion coming
from Church. I'll be back soon."
People were beginning to file out of the side entrance that led to the
prayer-meeting room, by the time he reached the church.
"Is Mr. Frank Marion in here?" he asked of the colored janitor, who was
standing in the doorway.
"Yes, sah!" was the emphatic response. "He sut'n'y is, sah! He am always
the fust to come, an' the last to depaht."
"Why, good evening, Mr. Herschel," exclaimed a pleasant voice.
David turned quickly to lift his hat. An elderly lady was coming down
the steps with two young girls. She came up to him with a smile, and
held out her hand.
"I have not seen you since you came back from college," she said,
cordially; "but I never lose my interest in any of Rob's playmates."
"Thank you, Mrs. Bond," he replied, with his hat still in his hand.
As she passed on, a swift rush of recollection brought back the big
attic where he had passed many a rainy day with Rob Bond. He recalled
with something of the old boyish pleasure a certain jar on their pantry
shelf, where the most delicious ginger-snaps were always to be found.
But the next moment the smile left his lips, as an exclamation of one of
the girls was carried back to him. It was made in an undertone, but the
still evening air transmitted it with startling distinctness.
"Why, Auntie, he's a Jew! I didn't think you would shake hands with a
Jew!"
He could not hear Mrs. Bond's reply. He drew himself up haughtily. Then
the indignant flash died out of his eyes. After all, why should he, with
the princely blood of Israel in his veins, care for the callow
prejudices of a little school-girl?
A crowd of people passed out, laughing and talking. Then he saw Mr.
Marion come into the vestibule with several boys, just as the janitor
began to extinguish the lights.
He turned to David with a hearty smile and a strong hand-clasp,
recognizing him instantly.
"How are you, brother?" he asked. He spoke with a slight Southern
accent. Somehow, David felt forcibly that it was not merely as a matter
of habit that Frank Marion called him brother. Such a warm, personal
interest seemed to speak through the friendly blue eyes looking so
honestly into his own, that he was half-way persuaded to go to
Chattanooga with him before a word had been said on the subject. They
walked several blocks together up the avenue, discussing the excursion.
Then Mr. Marion stopped at the gate of an old-fashioned residence, built
some distance back from the street.
"I have a message to deliver to Miss Hallam, a cousin of mine," he said.
"If you will wait a moment, I'll go with you over to the office."
The front door stood open, and the hall-lamp sent a flood of yellow
light streaming out into the warm, June darkness.
In response to Mr. Marion's knock, there was a flutter of a white dress
in the hall, and the next instant the massive old doorway framed a
picture that the young Jew never forgot. It was Bethany Hallam. The
light seemed to make a halo of her golden hair, and to illuminate her
dress and the sweet upturned face with such an ethereal whiteness that
David was reminded of a Psyche in Parian marble.
"Who is she?" he exclaimed, as Mr. Marion rejoined him. "One never sees
a face like that outside of some artist's conception. It is too
spirituelle for this planet, but too sad for any other."
"She is Judge Hallam's daughter," Mr. Marion responded. "He died last
fall, and Bethany is grieving herself to death. I have at last persuaded
her to go to Chattanooga with us. She needs to have her thoughts turned
into another channel, and I hope this trip will accomplish that
purpose."
"I knew the Judge," said David. "I met him a number of times after I was
admitted to the bar."
"O, I didn't know you were a lawyer," said Mr. Marion.
"Yes, I expect to begin practicing here after vacation," he answered.
"Well, I am going to begin my practice right now," said Mr. Marion,
laughing, "and plead my case to such purpose that you will be persuaded
to take this Chattanooga trip." He slipped his arm through David's, and
drew him around the corner toward his store.