A JUNIOR TAKES IT IN HAND.
IT was a sultry morning in August when David Herschel took his place in
the law-office of Porter & Edmunds.
The sun beat against the tall buildings until the radiated heat of the
streets was sickening in its intensity. Clerks went to their work with
pale faces and languid movements. Everything had a wilted look, and the
watering-carts left a steam rising in their trail, almost as
disagreeable as the clouds of dust had been before.
Miss Caroline had insisted on Jack's remaining at home, and Bethany's
wearing a thin white dress in place of her customary suit of heavy
black. They had both protested, but as Bethany went slowly towards the
office she was glad that the sensible old lady had carried her point.
To shorten the distance, she passed through one of the poorer streets of
the town. Disagreeable odors, suggestive of late breakfasts, floated
out from steamy kitchens. Neglected, half-dressed children cried on the
doorsteps and quarreled in the gutters.
A great longing came over Bethany for a breath from wide, fresh fields,
or green, shady woodlands. This was the first summer she had ever passed
in the city. August had always been associated in her mind with the wind
in the pine woods, or the sound of the sea on some rocky coast. It
recalled the musical drip of the waterfalls trickling down high banks of
thickly-growing ferns. It brought back the breath of clover-fields and
the mint in hillside pastures.
A strong repugnance to her work seized her. She felt that she could not
possibly bear to go back to the routine of the office and the monotonous
click of her typewriter. The longer she thought of those old care-free
summers, the more she chafed at the confinement of the present one.
She sighed wearily as she reached the entrance of the great building.
Every door and window stood open. While she waited for the elevator-boy
to respond to her ring, she turned her eyes toward the street. A blind
man passed by, led by a wan, sad-eyed child. The sun was beating
mercilessly on the man's gray head, for his cap was held appealingly in
his outstretched hand.
"How dared I feel dissatisfied with my lot?" thought Bethany, with a
swift rush of pity, as the contrast between this blind beggar's life and
hers was forced upon her.
There was no one in the office when she entered. After the glare of the
street, it seemed so comfortable that she thought again of the blind
beggar and the child who led him, with a feeling of remorse for her
discontent.
A great bunch of lilies stood in a tall glass vase on the table, filling
the room with their fragrance. She took out a card that was half hidden
among them. Lightly penciled, in a small, running hand, was the one
word--"Consider!"
"That's just like Cousin Ray," thought Bethany, quickly interpreting the
message. "She knew this would be an unusually trying day on account of
the heat, so she gives me something to think about instead of my irksome
confinement. 'They toil not, neither do they spin,'" she whispered,
lifting one snowy chalice to her lips; "but what help they bring to
those who do--sweet, white evangels to all those who labor and are
heavy laden!"
She fastened one in her belt, then turned to her work. She had been
copying a record, and wanted to finish it before Mr. Edmunds was ready
to attend to the morning mail. Her fingers flew over the keys without a
pause, except when she stopped to put in a new sheet of paper. When she
was nearly through, she heard Mr. Edmunds's voice in the next room, and
increased her speed. She had forgotten that this was the day David
Herschel was to come into the office. He had taken the desk assigned
him, and was so busily engaged in conversation with Mr. Edmunds that for
a while he did not notice the occupant of the next room. When, at last,
he happened to glance through the open door, he did not recognize
Bethany, for she was seated with her back toward him.
He noticed what a cool-looking white dress she wore, the graceful poise
of her head, and her beautiful sunny hair. Then he saw the lilies beside
her, and wished she would turn so that he could see her face.
"Some fair Elaine--a lily-maid of Astolat," he thought, and then smiled
at himself for having grown Tennysonian over a typewriter before he had
even heard her name or seen her face.
At last Bethany finished the record, with a sigh of relief. Quickly
fastening the pages, she rose to take it into the next room. Just on the
threshold she saw Herschel, and gave an involuntary little start of
surprise.
As she stood there, all in white, with one hand against the dark
door-casing, she looked just as she had the night David first saw her.
He arose as she entered.
Mr. Edmunds was not usually a man of quick perceptions, but he noticed
the look of admiration in David's eyes, and he thought they both seemed
a trifle embarrassed as he introduced them.
They had recalled at the same moment the night in the Chattanooga depot,
when she had distinctly declared to Mr. Marion that she did not care to
make his acquaintance.
For once in her life she lost her usual self-possession. That gracious
ease of manner which "stamps the caste of Vere de Vere" was one of her
greatest charms. But just at this moment, when she wished to atone for
that unfortunate remark by an especially friendly greeting, when she
wanted him to know that her point of view had changed entirely, and that
not a vestige of the old prejudice remained, she could not summon a word
to her aid.
Conscious of appearing ill at ease, she blushed like a diffident
school-girl, and bowed coldly.
David courteously remained standing until she had laid the record on Mr.
Edmunds's desk and left the room.
Mr. Edmunds glanced at him quickly, as he resumed his seat; but there
was not the slightest change of expression to show that he had noticed
what appeared to be an intentional haughtiness of manner in Bethany's
greeting. But he had noticed it, and it stung his sensitive nature more
than he cared to acknowledge, even to himself.
Nothing more passed between them for several days, except the formal
morning greeting. Then Jack came back to the office. He had gained
rapidly since the new brace had been applied. During his enforced
absence on account of the heat, he found that he could wheel himself
short distances, and proudly insisted on doing so, as they went through
the hall. He was a great favorite in the building. Everybody, from the
janitor to the dignified judge on the same floor, stopped to speak to
him. He was such a thorough boy, so full of fun and spirits, despite the
misfortune that chained him to the chair and had sometimes made him
suffer extremely, that the sight of him oftener provoked pleasure than
pity. He was so glad to get back to the office that he was bubbling over
with happiness. It seemed to him he had been away for an age. The
cordial reception he met on every hand made his eyes twinkle and the
dimples show in his cheeks.
Mr. Edmunds had not come down, but David was at his desk, busily
writing. Bethany paused as they passed through the room.
"Allow me to introduce my little brother, Mr. Herschel," she said. "Jack
is very anxious to meet you."
He glanced up quickly. This friendly-voiced girl, leaning over Jack's
chair, with the brightness of his roguish face reflected in her own, was
such a transformation from the dignified Miss Hallam he had known
heretofore, that he could hardly credit his eyesight. He was surprised
into such an unusual cordiality of manner, that Jack straightway took
him into his affections, and set about cultivating a very strong
friendship between them.
One afternoon Bethany was called into another office to take a
deposition. She left Jack busy drawing on his slate.
David, who had been reading several hours, laid down the book after a
while, with a yawn, and glanced into the next room. The steady scratch
of the slate pencil had ceased, and Jack was gazing disconsolately out
of the window.
As he heard the book drop on the table he turned his head quickly. "May
I come in there?" he asked David eagerly.
David nodded assent. "You may come in and wake me up. The heat and the
book together, have made me drowsy."
Jack pushed his chair over by a window, and looked out towards the court
house. It was late in the afternoon, and the massive building threw long
shadows across the green sward surrounding it.
"I wanted to see if the flag is flying," said Jack. "I can't tell from
my window. Don't you love to watch it flap? I do, for it always makes me
think of heroes. I love heroes, and I love to listen to stories about
'em. Don't you? It makes you feel so creepy, and your hair kind o'
stands up, and you hold your breath while they're a-risking their lives
to save somebody, or doing something else that's awfully brave. And
then, when they've done it, there's a lump in your throat; but you feel
so warm all over somehow, and you want to cheer, and march right off to
'storm the heights,' and wipe every thing mean off the face of the
earth, and do all sorts of big, brave things. I always do. Don't you?"
"Yes," answered David, amused by his boyish enthusiasm, yet touched by
the recognition of a kindred spirit. "May be you will be a hero
yourself, some day," he suggested in order to lead the boy further on.
"No, I'm afraid not," answered Jack, sadly. "Papa wanted me to be a
lawyer. He was in the war till he got wounded so bad he had to come
home. We've got his sword and cap yet. I used to put 'em on sometimes,
and say I was going to go to West Point and learn to be a soldier. But
he always shook his head and said, 'No, son, that's not the highest way
you can serve your country now.' Then sometimes I think I'll have to be
a preacher like my grandfather, John Wesley Bradford, because he left me
all his library, and I am named for him. Jack isn't my real name, you
know."
"Would you like to be a preacher?" asked David, as the boy paused to
catch a fly that was buzzing exasperatingly around him.
"No!" answered Jack, emphasizing his answer by a savage slap at the fly.
"Only except when we get to talking about the Jews. You know we are very
much interested in your people at our house."
"No, I didn't know it," answered David, amused by the boy's
matter-of-fact announcement. "How did you come to be so interested?"
"Well, it started with the Epworth League Conference at Chattanooga.
There was a converted Jew up there on the mountain that spoke in the
sunrise meeting. Cousin Frank went to see him afterwards. He took
Bethany with him to write down what they said in shorthand. O, he had
the most interesting history! You just ought to hear sister tell it. You
know the two old ladies I told you about, that live at our house. Well,
may be it isn't polite to tell you so, but they didn't have the least
bit of use for the Jews before that. Now, since we've been reading about
the awful way they were persecuted, and how they've hung together
through thick and thin, they've changed their minds."
"And you say that it is only when you are talking about the Jews that
you would like to be a preacher," said David, as the boy stopped, and
began whistling softly. He wanted to bring him back to the subject.
"Yes," answered Jack. "When I think how that man's whole life was
changed by a little Junior League girl; how she started him, and he'll
start others, and they'll start somebody else, and the ball will keep
rolling, and so much good will be done, just on her account, I'd like to
do something in that line myself. I'm first vice-president of our
League, you know," he said, proudly displaying the badge pinned on his
coat.
"But I wouldn't like to be a regular preacher that just stands up and
tells people what they already believe. That's too much like boxing a
pillow." He doubled up his fist and sparred at an imaginary foe.
"I'd like to go off somewhere, like Paul did, and make every blow count.
We studied the life of Paul last year in the League. Talk about
heroes--there's one for you. My, but he was game! Thrashed and stoned,
and shipwrecked and put in prison, and chained up to another man--but
they couldn't choke him off!" Jack chuckled at the thought.
"Did you ever notice," he continued, "that when a Jew does turn
Christian he's deader in earnest than anybody else? Cousin Frank told us
to notice that. There's Matthew. He was making a good salary in the
custom-house, and he quit right off. And Peter and Andrew and the rest
of 'em left their boats and all their fishing tackle, and every thing in
the wide world that they owned. Mr. Lessing had even to give up his
family. Cousin Frank told us about ever so many that had done that way.
So that's why I'd rather preach to them than other people. They amount
to so much when you once get them made over."
"You might commence on me," said David.
Jack colored to the roots of his hair, and looked confused. He stole a
sidelong glance at David, and began to wheel his chair slowly back into
the other room.
"I haven't gone into the business yet," he called back over his
shoulder, recovering his equanimity with young American quickness, "But
when I do I'll give you the first call."
David was so amused by the conversation that he could not refrain from
recounting part of it to Bethany when she returned. It seemed to put
them on a friendlier footing.
Finding that she was really making a study of the history of his people,
he gave her many valuable suggestions, and several times brought Jewish
periodicals with articles marked for her to read.
"My Sunday-school class have become so interested," she told him. "They
are very well versed in the ancient history, but this is something so
new to them."
"I wish you knew Rabbi Barthold," he exclaimed. "He would be an
inspiration in any line of study, but especially in this, for he has
thrown his whole soul into it. Ah, I wish you read Hebrew. One loses so
much in the translation. There are places in the Psalms and Job where
the majesty of the thought is simply untranslatable. You know there are
some pebbles and shells that, seen in water, have the most exquisite
delicacy of coloring; yet taken from that element, they lose that
brilliancy. I have noticed the same effect in changing a thought from
the medium of one language to another."
"Yes," answered Bethany, "I have recognized that difficulty, too, in
translating from the German. There is a subtle something that escapes,
that while it does not change the substance, leaves the verse as
soulless as a flower without its fragrance."
"Ah! I see you understand me," he responded. "That is why I would have
you read the greatest of all literature in its original setting. Are you
fond of language?"
"Yes," she answered, "though not an enthusiast. I took the course in
Latin and German at school, and got a smattering of French the year I
was abroad. Afterwards I read Greek a little at home with papa, to get a
better understanding of the New Testament. But Hebrew always seemed to
me so very difficult that only spectacled theologians attempted it. You
know ordinary tourists ascend the Rigi and Vesuvius as a matter of
course. Only daring climbers attempt the Jungfrau. I scaled only the
heights made easy of ascent by a system of meister-schafts and mountain
railways."
He laughed. "Hebrew is not so difficult as you imagine, Miss Hallam. Any
one that can master stenography can easily compass that. There is a
similarity in one respect. In both, dots and dashes take the place of
vowels. I will bring you a grammar to-morrow, and show you how easy the
rudiments are."
Jack was more interested than Bethany. He had never seen a book in
Hebrew type before. The square, even characters charmed him, and he
began to copy them on his slate.
"I'd like to learn this," he announced. "The letters are nothing but
chairs and tables."
"It was a picture language in the beginning," said David, leaning over
his chair, much pleased with his interest. "Now, that first letter used
to be the head of an ox. See how the horns branch? And this next one,
Beth, was a house. Don't you remember how many names in the Bible begin
with that--Beth-el, Beth-horon, Beth-shan--they all mean house of
something; house of God, house of caves, house of rest."
Jack gave a whistled "whe-ew!" "It would teach a fellow lots. What are
you a house of, Beth-any?"
He looked up, but his sister had been called into the next room.
"Would you really like to study it, Jack?" asked David. "It will be a
great help to you when you 'go into the business' of preaching to us
Jews."
Jack tilted his head to one side, and thrust his tongue out of the
corner of his mouth in an embarrassed way. Then he looked up, and saw
that David was not laughing at him, but soberly awaiting his answer.
"Yes, I really would," he answered, decidedly.
"Then I'll teach you as long as you are in the office."
Mr. Marion came in one day and saw David's dark head and Jack's yellow
one bending over the same page, and listened to the boy's enthusiastic
explanation of the letters.
"I wish we could form a class of our Sabbath-school teachers," said Mr.
Marion. "Would you undertake to teach it, Herschel?"
The young man hesitated. "If it were convenient I might make the
attempt," he said. "But I do not live in the city. My home is out at
Hillhollow."
Then, after a pause, while some other plan seemed to be revolving in his
mind, he asked: "Why not get Rabbi Barthold? He is a born teacher, and
nothing would delight him more than to imbue some other soul with a zeal
for his beloved mother-tongue."
"I'll certainly take the matter into consideration," responded Mr.
Marion, "if you will get his consent, and find what his terms are.
Bethany, I'll head the list with your name. Then there's Ray and myself.
That makes three, and I know at least three of my teachers that I am
sure of. I wish George Cragmore were here. Do you know, Bethany, it
would not surprise me very much if the Conference sends him here this
fall?"
"Not in Dr. Bascom's place," she exclaimed.
"O no, he is too young a man for Garrison Avenue, and unmarried besides.
But I heard that the Clark Street Church had asked for him. I hope the
bishop will consider the call."
"Don't set your heart on it, Cousin Frank," she answered. "You know what
is apt to befall 'the best laid schemes of mice and men.'"