In League with Israel: A Tale of the Chattanooga Conference

Strange as it may seem, Bethany's interpretation of that Scripture had always been in a temporal sense. More than once, when a child, she had watched her mother feed some poor beggar, with the virtuous feeling that that condemnation could not apply to the Hallam family. But now Lessing's impassioned appeal had awakened a different thought. Who so hungered as those who, reaching out for bread, grasped either the stones of a formal ritualism or the abandoned hope of prophecy unfulfilled? Who such "strangers within the gates" of the nations as this race without a country? From the brick-kilns of Pharaoh to the willows of Babylon, from the Ghetto of Rome to the fagot-fires along the Rhine, from Spanish cruelties to English extortions, they had been driven – exiles and aliens. The New World had welcomed them. The New World had opened all its avenues to them. Only from the door of Christian society had they turned away, saying, "I was a stranger, and ye took me not in."

In the pause that followed, Bethany's heart went out in an earnest prayer: "O God, in the great day of thy judgment, let not that condemnation be mine. Only send me some opportunity, show me some way whereby I may lead even one of the least among them to the world's Redeemer!"

Mr. Marion came back from his interview, looking at his watch as he did so. It was so near time for services to begin at the tent, that he did not resume his seat.

"We may never meet again, Mr. Lessing," said Bethany, holding out her hand as she bade him good-bye. "So I want to tell you before I go, what an impression this conversation has made upon me. It has aroused an earnest desire to be the means of carrying the hope that comforts me, to some one among your people."

"You will succeed," he said, looking into her earnest upturned face. Then he added softly, in Hebrew, the old benediction of an olden day – "Peace be unto you."

All that day, after the sunrise meeting, David Herschel had been with Major Herrick, going over the battle-fields, and listening to personal reminiscences of desperate engagements. A monument was to be erected on the spot where nearly all the major's men had fallen in one of the most hotly-contested battles of the war. He had come down to help locate the place.

"It's a very different reception they are giving us now," remarked the major, as they drove through the city.

Epworth League colors were flying in all directions. Every street gleamed with the white and red banners of the North, crossed with the white and gold of the South.

"Chattanooga is entertaining her guests royally; people of every denomination, and of no faith at all, are vying with each other to show the kindliest hospitality. We are missing it by being at the hotel. I told Mrs. Herrick and the girls I would meet them at the tent this evening. Will you come, too?"

"No, thank you," replied David, "my curiosity was satisfied this morning. I'll go on up to the inn. I have a letter to write."

The major laughed.

"It's a letter that has to be written every day, isn't it?" he said, banteringly. "Well, I can sympathize with you, my boy. I was young myself once. Conferences aren't to be taken into account at all when a billet-doux needs answering."

The next day David kept Marta with him as much as possible. He could see that she was becoming greatly interested, and catching much of Albert Herrick's enthusiasm. The boy was a great League worker, and attended every meeting.

David took Marta a long walk over the mountain paths. They sat on the wide, vine-hung veranda of the inn, and read together. Then, as it was their Sabbath, he took her up to his room, and read some of the ritual of the day, trying to arouse in her some interest for the old customs of their childhood.

To his great dismay, he found that she had drifted away from him. She was not the yielding child she had been, whom he had been able to influence with a word.

She showed a disposition to question and contend, that annoyed him. The rabbi was right. She had been left too long among contaminating influences.

It was with a feeling of relief that he woke Sunday morning to hear the rain beating violently against the windows. He was glad on her account that the storm would prevent them going down into the city. But toward evening the sun came out, and Frances Herrick began to insist on going down to the night service in the tent.

"It is the last one there will be!" she exclaimed. "I wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Neither would I," responded Marta. "There is something so inspiring in all that great chorus of voices."

When David found that his sister really intended to go, notwithstanding his remonstrances, and that the family were waiting for her in the hall below, he made no further protest, but surprised her by taking his hat, and tucking her hand in his arm.

"Then I will go with you, little sister," he said. "I want to have as much of your company as possible during my short visit."

Albert Herrick, who was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, divined David's purpose in keeping his sister so close. He lifted his eyebrows slightly as he turned to take his mother's wraps, leaving Frances to follow with the major.

The tent was crowded when they reached it. They succeeded with great difficulty in obtaining several chairs in one of the aisles.

"Herschel and I will go back to the side," said Albert. "The audience near the entrance is constantly shifting, and we can slip into the first vacant seat; some will be sure to get tired and go out before long. They always do."

It was the first time David had been in the tent, and he was amazed at the enormous audience. He leaned against one of the side supports, watching the people, still intent on crowding forward. Suddenly his look of idle curiosity changed to one of lively interest. He recognized the face of the Jew who had attracted him in the mountain meeting. Isaac Lessing was in the stream of people pressing slowly towards him.

Nearer and nearer he came. The crowd at the door pushed harder. The fresh impetus jostled them almost off their feet, and in the crush Lessing was caught and held directly in front of David. Some magnetic force in the eyes of each held the gaze of the other for a moment. Then Lessing, recognizing the common bond of blood, smiled.

That ringing cry, "I am a converted Jew," had sounded in David's ears ever since it first startled him. He felt confident that the man was laboring under some strong delusion, and he wished that he might have an opportunity to dispel it by skillful arguments, and win him back to the old faith.

Seized by an impulse as sudden as it was irresistible, he laid his hand on the stranger's arm.

"I want to speak with you," he said, hurriedly, and in a low tone. "Come this way. I will not detain you long."

He drew him out of the press into one of the side aisles, and thence towards the exit.

"Will you walk a few steps with me?" he asked; "I want to ask you several questions."

Lessing complied quietly.

The sound of a cornet followed them with the pleading notes of an old hymn. It was like the mighty voice of some archangel sounding a call to prayer. Then the singing began. Song after song rolled out on the night air across the common to a street where two men paced back and forth in the darkness. They were arm in arm. David was listening to the same story that Bethany and Frank Marion had heard the day before. He could not help but be stirred by it. Lessing's voice was so earnest, his faith was so sure. When he was through, David was utterly silenced. The questions with which he had intended to probe this man's claims were already answered.

"We might as well go back," he said at last. As they walked slowly towards the tent, he said: "I can't understand you. I feel all the time that you have been duped in some way; that you are under the spell of some mysterious power that deludes you."

Just as they passed within the tent, the cornet sounded again, the great congregation rose, and ten thousand voices went up as one:

"All hail the power of Jesus' name,

Let angels prostrate fall!"

The sight was a magnificent one; the sound like an ocean-beat of praise. Lessing seized David's arm.

"That is the power!" he exclaimed. "Not only does it uplift all these thousands you see here, but millions more, all over this globe. It is nearly two thousand years since this Jesus was known among men. Could he transform lives to-night, as mine has been transformed, if his power were a delusion? What has brought them all these miles, if not this same power? Look at the class of people who have been duped, as you call it." He pointed to the platform. "Bishops, college presidents, editors, men of marked ability and with world-wide reputation for worth and scholarship."

At the close of the hymn some one moved over, and made room for David on one of the benches. Lessing pushed farther to the front. David listened to all that was said with a sort of pitying tolerance, until the sermon began. The bishop's opening words caught his attention, and echoed in his memory for months afterward.

"Paul knew Christ as he had studied him, and as he appeared to him when he did not believe in him – when he despised him. Then he also knew Christ after his surrender to him; after Christ had entered into his life, and changed the character of his being; after new meanings of life and destiny filled his horizon, after the Divine tenderness filled to completeness his nature; then was he in possession of a knowledge of Christ, of an experience of his presence and of his love that was a benediction to him, and has through the centuries since that hour been a blessing to men wherever the gospel has been preached.

"It is such a man speaking in this text. A man with a singularly strong mind, well disciplined, with great will-power; a man with a great ancestry; a man with as mighty a soul as ever tabernacled in flesh and blood. He proclaimed everywhere that, if need be, he was ready to die for the principles out of which had come to him a new life, and which had brought to his heart experiences so rich and so overwhelming in happiness, that he was led to do and undertake what he knew would lead at the last to a martyr's death and crown. Why? Hear him: 'For the love of Christ constraineth us.'"

There was a testimony service following the sermon. As David watched the hundreds rising to declare their faith, he wondered why they should thus voluntarily come forward as witnesses. Then the text seemed to repeat itself in answer, "For the love of Christ constraineth us!"

He dreamed of Lessing and Paul all night. He was glad when the conference was at an end; when the decorations were taken down from the streets, and the last car-load of irrepressible enthusiasts went singing out of the city.

Albert Herrick went to the seashore that week. David proposed taking Marta home with him; but her objections were so heartily re-enforced by the whole family that he quietly dropped the subject, and went back to Rabbi Barthold alone.

CHAPTER V.

"TRUST."

"Alas! we can not draw habitual breath in the thin air of life's supremer heights. We can not make each meal a sacrament." – Lowell.

IT had seemed to Bethany, in the experience of that sunrise on Lookout Mountain, she could never feel despondent again; but away from the uplifting influences of the place, back among the painful memories of the old home, she fought as hard a fight with her returning doubts as ever Christian did in his Valley of Humiliation.

For a week since her return the weather had been intensely warm. It made Jack irritable, and sapped her own strength.

There came a day when everything went wrong. She had practiced her shorthand exercises all morning, until her head ached almost beyond endurance. The grocer presented a bill much larger than she had expected. While he was receipting it, a boy came to collect for the gas, and there were only two dimes left in her purse. Then Jack upset a little cut-glass vase that was standing on the table beside him. It was broken beyond repair, and the water ruined the handsome binding of a borrowed book that would have to be replaced.

About noon Dr. Trent called to see Jack. He had brought a new kind of brace that he wanted tried.

"It will help him amazingly," he said, "but it is very expensive."

Bethany's heart sank. She thought of the pipes that had sprung a leak that morning, of the broken pump, and the empty flour-barrel. She could not see where all the money they needed was to come from.

"It's too small," said the doctor, after a careful trial of the brace. "The size larger will be just the thing. I will bring it in the morning."

He wiped his forehead wearily as he stopped on the threshold.

"A storm must be brewing," he remarked. "It is so oppressively sultry."

It was not many hours before his prediction was verified by a sudden windstorm that came up with terrific force. The trees in the avenue were lashed violently back and forth until they almost swept the earth. Huge limbs were twisted completely off, and many were left broken and hanging. It was followed by hail and a sudden change of temperature, that suggested winter. The roses were all beaten off the bushes, their pink petals scattered over the soaked grass. The porch was covered with broken twigs and wet leaves.

As night dropped down, the trees bordering the avenue waved their green, dripping boughs shiveringly towards the house.

"How can it be so cold and dreary in July?" inquired Jack. "Let's have a fire in the library and eat supper there to-night."

Bethany shivered. It had been the judge's favorite room in the winter, on account of its large fireplace, with its queer, old-fashioned tiling. She rarely went in there except to dust the books or throw herself in the big arm-chair to cry over the perplexities that he had always shielded her from so carefully. But Jack insisted, and presently the flames went leaping up the throat of the wide chimney, filling the room with comfort and the cheer of genial companionship.

"Look!" cried Jack, pointing through the window to the bright reflection of the fire in the garden outside. "Don't you remember what you read me in 'Snowbound?'

'Under the tree,When fire outdoors burns merrily,There the witches are making tea.'

This would be a fine night for witch stories. The wind makes such queer noises in the chimney. Let's tell 'em after supper, all the awful ones we can think of, 'specially the Salem ones."

As usual, Jack's wishes prevailed. Afterward, when Bethany had tucked him snugly in bed, and was sitting alone by the fire, listening to the queer noises in the chimney, she wished they had not dwelt so long on such a grewsome subject. She leaned back in her father's great arm-chair, with her little slippered feet on the brass fender, and her soft hair pressed against the velvet cushions. Her white hands were clasped loosely in her lap; small, helpless looking hands, little fitted to cope with the burdens and responsibilities laid upon her.

The judge had never even permitted her to open a door for herself when he had been near enough to do it for her. But his love had made him short-sighted. In shielding her so carefully, he did not see that he was only making her more keenly sensitive to later troubles that must come when he was no longer with her. Every one was surprised at the course she determined upon.

"I supposed, of course," said Mrs. Marion, "that you would try to teach drawing or watercolors, or something. You have spent so much time on your art studies, and so thoroughly enjoy that kind of work. Then those little dinner-cards, and german favors you do, are so beautiful. I am sure you have any number of friends who would be glad to give you orders."

"No, Cousin Ray," answered Bethany decidedly; "I must have something that brings in a settled income, something that can be depended on. While I have painted some very acceptable things, I never was cut out for a teacher. I'd rather not attempt anything in which I can never be more than third-rate. I've decided to study stenography. I am sure I can master that, and command a first-class position. I have heard papa complain a great many times of the difficulty in obtaining a really good stenographer. Of the hundreds who attempt the work, such a small per cent are really proficient enough to undertake court reporting."

"You're just like your father," said Mrs. Marion. "Uncle Richard would never be anything if he couldn't be uppermost."

It had been nearly a year since that conversation. Bethany had persevered in her undertaking until she felt confident that she had accomplished her purpose. She was ready for any position that offered, but there seemed to be no vacancies anywhere. The little sum in the bank was dwindling away with frightful rapidity. She was afraid to encroach on it any further, but the bills had to be met constantly.

Presently she drew her chair over to the library table, and spread out her check-book and memoranda under the student-lamp, to look over the accounts for the month just ended. Then she made a list of the probable expenses of the next two months. The contrast between their needs and their means was appalling.

"It will take every cent!" she exclaimed, in a distressed whisper. "When the first of September comes, there will be nothing left but to sell the old home and go away somewhere to a strange place."

The prospect of leaving the dear old place, that had grown to seem almost like a human friend, was the last drop that made the day's cup of misery overflow. The old doubt came back.

"I wonder if God really cares for us in a temporal way?" she asked herself.

The frightful tales of witchcraft that Jack had been so interested in, recurred to her. Many of the people who had been so fearfully tortured and persecuted as witches were Christians. God had not interfered in their behalf, she told herself. Why should he trouble himself about her?

She went back to her seat by the fender, and, with her chin resting in her hand, looked drearily into the embers, as if they could answer the question. She heard some one come up on the porch and ring the bell. It was Dr. Trent's quick, imperative summons.

"Jack in bed?" he asked, in his brisk way, as she ushered him into the library. "Well, it makes no difference; you know how to adjust the brace anyway. He will be able to sit up all day with that on."

He gave an appreciative glance around the cheerful room, and spread his hands out towards the fire.

"Ah, that looks comfortable!" he exclaimed, rubbing them together. "I wish I could stay and enjoy it with you. I have just come in from a long drive, and must answer another call away out in the country. You'd be surprised to find how damp and chilly it is out to-night."

"I venture you never stopped at the boarding-house at all," answered Bethany, "and that you have not had a mouthful to eat since noon. I am going to get you something. Yes, I shall," she insisted, in spite of his protestations. Luckily, Jack wanted the kettle hung on the crane to-night, so that he could hear it sing as he used to. "The water is boiling, and you shall have a cup of chocolate in no time."

Before he could answer, she was out of the room, and beyond the reach of his remonstrance. He sank into a big chair, and laying his gray head back on the cushions, wearily closed his eyes. He was almost asleep when Bethany came back.

"The fire made me drowsy," he said, apologetically. "I was quite exhausted by the intense heat of this morning. These sudden changes of temperature are bad for one."

"Why, my child!" he exclaimed, seeing the heavy tray she carried, "you have brought me a regular feast. You ought not to have put yourself to such trouble for an old codger used to boarding-house fare."

"All the more reason why you should have a change once in a while," said Bethany, gayly, as she filled the dainty chocolate-pot.

The sight of the doctor's face as she entered the room had almost brought the tears. It looked so worn and haggard. She had not noticed before how white his hair was growing, or how deeply his face was lined.

He had been such an intimate friend of her father's that she had grown up with the feeling that some strong link of kinship certainly existed between them. She had called him "Uncle Doctor" until she was nearly grown. He had been so thoughtful and kind during all her troubles, and especially in Jack's illness, that she longed to show her appreciation by some of the tender little ministrations of which his life was so sadly bare.

"This is what I call solid comfort," he remarked, as he stretched his feet towards the fire and leisurely sipped his chocolate. "I didn't realize I was so tired until I sat down, or so hungry until I began to eat." Then he added, wistfully, "Or how I miss my own fireside until I feel the cheer of others'."

The doubts that had been making Bethany miserable all evening, and that she had forgotten in her efforts to serve her old friend, came back with renewed force.

"Does God really care?" she asked herself again. Here was this man, one of the best she had ever known, left to stumble along under the weight of a living sorrow, the things he cared for most, denied him.

"Baxter Trent is one of the world's heroes," she had heard her father say.

There were two things he held dearer than life – the honor of the old family name that had come down to him unspotted through generations, and his little home-loving wife. For fifteen years he had experienced as much of the happiness of home-life as a physician with a large practice can know. Then word came to him from another city that his only brother had killed a man in a drunken brawl, and then taken his own life, leaving nothing but the memory of a wild career and a heavy debt. He had borrowed a large amount from an unsuspecting old aunt, and left her almost penniless.

When Dr. Trent recovered from the first shock of the discovery, he quietly set to work to wipe out the disgraceful record as far as lay in his power, by assuming the debt. He could eradicate at least that much of the stain on the family name. It had taken years to do it. Bethany was not sure that it was yet accomplished, for another trial, worse than the first, had come to weaken his strength and dispel his courage.

The idolized little wife became affected by some nervous malady that resulted in hopeless insanity.

Bethany had a dim recollection of the doctor's daughter, a little brown-eyed child of her own age. She could remember playing hide-and-seek with her one day in an old peony-garden. But she had died years ago. There was only one other child – Lee. He had grown to be a big boy of ten now, but he was too young to feel his mother's loss at the time she was taken away. Bethany knew that she was still living in a private asylum near town, and that the doctor saw her every day, no matter how violent she was. Lee was the one bright spot left in his life. Busy night and day with his patients, he saw very little of the boy. The child had never known any home but a boarding-house, and was as lawless and unrestrained as some little wild animal. But the doctor saw no fault in him. He praised the reports brought home from school of high per cents in his studies, knowing nothing of his open defiance to authority. He kissed the innocent-looking face on the pillow next his own when he came in late at night, never dreaming of the forbidden places it had been during the day.

Everybody said, "Poor Baxter Trent! It's a pity that Lee is such a little terror;" but no one warned him. Perhaps he would not have believed them if they had. The thought of all this moved Bethany to sudden speech.

"Uncle Doctor," she broke out impetuously – she had unconsciously used the old name – as she sat down on a low stool near his knee, "I was piling up my troubles to-night before you came. Not the old ones," she added, quickly, as she saw an expression of sympathy cross his face, "but the new ones that confront me."

She gave a mournful little smile.

"'Coming events cast their shadow before,' you know, and these shadows look so dark and threatening. I see no possible way but to sell this home. You have had so much to bear yourself that it seems mean to worry you with my troubles; but I don't know what to do, and I don't know what's the matter with me – "

She stopped abruptly, and choked back a sob. He laid his hand softly on her shining hair.