THE LOST WORD A Christmas Legend of Long Ago By HENRY VAN DYKE New York MDCCCXCVIII "DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND HAMILTON W. MABIE" CONTENTS I THE POVERTY OF HERMAS II A CHRISTMAS LOSS III PARTING, BUT NO FAREWELL IV LOVE IN SEARCH OF A WORD V RICHES WITHOUT REST VI GREAT FEAR AND RECOVERED JOY I THE POVERTY OF HERMAS "COME down, Hermas, come down! The night is past. It is time to bestirring. Christ is born to-day. Peace be with you in His name. Makehaste and come down!" A little group of young men were standing in a street of Antioch, inthe dusk of early morning, fifteen hundred years ago. It was a classof candidates who had nearly finished their two years of trainingfor the Christian church. They had come to call their fellow-studentHermas from his lodging. Their voices rang out cheerily through the cool air. They were fullof that glad sense of life which the young feel when they awake andcome to rouse one who is still sleeping. There was a note offriendly triumph in their call, as if they were exultingunconsciously in having begun the adventure of the new day beforetheir comrade. But Hermas was not asleep. He had been waking for hours, and thedark walls of his narrow lodging had been a prison to his restlessheart. A nameless sorrow and discontent had fallen upon him, and hecould find no escape from the heaviness of his own thoughts. There is a sadness of youth into which the old cannot enter. Itseems to them unreal and causeless. But it is even more bitter andburdensome than the sadness of age. There is a sting of resentmentin it, a fever of angry surprise that the world should so soon be adisappointment, and life so early take on the look of a failure. Ithas little reason in it, perhaps, but it has all the more wearinessand gloom, because the man who is oppressed by it feels dimly thatit is an unnatural and an unreasonable thing, that he should beseparated from the joy of his companions, and tired of living beforehe has fairly begun to live. Hermas had fallen into the very depths of this strange self-pity. Hewas out of tune with everything around him. He had been thinking, through the dead, still night, of all that he had given up when heleft the house of his father, the wealthy pagan Demetrius, to jointhe company of the Christians. Only two years ago he had been one ofthe richest young men in Antioch. Now he was one of the poorest. Andthe worst of it was that, though he had made the choice willinglyand accepted the sacrifice with a kind of enthusiasm, he was alreadydissatisfied with it. The new life was no happier than the old. He was weary of vigils andfasts, weary of studies and penances, weary of prayers and sermons. He felt like a slave in a treadmill. He knew that he must go on. Hishonour, his conscience, his sense of duty, bound him. He could notgo back to the old careless pagan life again; for something hadhappened within him which made a return impossible. Doubtless he hadfound the true religion, but he had found it only as a task and aburden; its joy and peace had slipped away from him. He felt disillusioned and robbed. He sat beside his hard littlecouch, waiting without expectancy for the gray dawn of another emptyday, and hardly lifting his head at the shouts of his friends. "Come down, Hermas, you sluggard! Come down! It is Christmas morn. Awake and be glad with us!" "I am coming, " he answered listlessly; "only have patience a moment. I have been awake since midnight, and waiting for the day. " "You hear him!" said his friends one to another. "How he puts us allto shame! He is more watchful, more eager, than any of us. Ourmaster, John the Presbyter, does well to be proud of him. He is thebest man in our class. When he is baptized the church will get astrong member. " While they were talking the door opened and Hermas stepped out. Hewas a figure to be remarked in any company--tall, broad-shouldered, straight-hipped, with a head proudly poised on the firm column ofthe neck, and short brown curls clustering over the square forehead. It was the perpetual type of vigourous and intelligent young manhood, such as may be found in every century among the throngs of ordinarymen, as if to show what the flower of the race should be. But thelight in his dark blue eyes was clouded and uncertain; his smoothcheeks were leaner than they should have been at twenty; and therewere downward lines about his mouth which spoke of desires unsatisfiedand ambitions repressed. He joined his companions with briefgreetings, --a nod to one, a word to another, --and they passed togetherdown the steep street. Overhead the mystery of daybreak was silently transfiguring the sky. The curtain of darkness had lifted softly upward along the edge ofthe horizon. The ragged crests of Mount Silpius were outlined withpale rosy light. In the central vault of heaven a few large starstwinkled drowsily. The great city, still chiefly pagan, lay morethan half asleep. But multitudes of the Christians, dressed in whiteand carrying lighted torches in their hands, were hurrying towardthe Basilica of Constantine to keep the latest holy day of thechurch, the new festival of the birthday of their Master. The vast, bare building was soon crowded, and the younger converts, who were not yet permitted to stand among the baptized, found itdifficult to come to their appointed place between the first twopillars of the house, just within the threshold. There was somegood-humoured pressing and jostling about the door; but thecandidates pushed steadily forward. "By your leave, friends, our station is beyond you. Will you let uspass? Many thanks. " A touch here, a courteous nod there, a little patience, a littlepersistence, and at last they stood in their place. Hermas wastaller than his companions; he could look easily over their headsand survey the white sea of people stretching away through thecolumns, under the shadows of the high roof, as the tide spreads ona calm day into the pillared cavern of Staffa, quiet as if the oceanhardly dared to breathe. The light of many flambeaux fell, inflickering, uncertain rays, over the assembly. At the end of thevista there was a circle of clearer, steadier radiance. Hermas couldsee the bishop in his great chair, surrounded by the presbyters, thelofty desks on either side for the readers of the Scripture, thecommunion-table and the table of offerings in the middle of thechurch. The call to prayer sounded down the long aisle. Thousands of handswere joyously lifted in the air, as if the sea had blossomed intowaving lilies, and the "Amen" was like the murmur of countlessripples in an echoing place. Then the singing began, led by the choir of a hundred trained voiceswhich the Bishop Paul had founded in Antioch. Timidly, at first, themusic felt its way, as the people joined with a broken and uncertaincadence, the mingling of many little waves not yet gathered intorhythm and harmony. Soon the longer, stronger billows of song rolledin, sweeping from side to side as the men and the women answered inthe clear antiphony. Hermas had often been carried on those "Tides of music's golden seaSetting toward eternity. " But to-day his heart was a rock that stoodmotionless. The flood passed by and left him unmoved. Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, he saw a manstanding far off in the lofty bema. Short and slender, wasted bysickness, gray before his time, with pale cheeks and wrinkled brow, he seemed at first like a person of no significance--a reed shakenin the wind. But there was a look in his deep-set, poignant eyes, ashe gathered all the glances of the multitude to himself, that beliedhis mean appearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well whoit was: the man who had drawn him from his father's house, theteacher who was instructing him as a son in the Christian faith, theguide and trainer of his soul--John of Antioch, whose fame filledthe city and began to overflow Asia, and who was called alreadyChrysostom, the golden-mouthed preacher. Hermas had felt the magic of his eloquence many a time; and to-day, as the tense voice vibrated through the stillness, and the sentencesmoved onward, growing fuller and stronger, bearing argosies ofcostly rhetoric and treasures of homely speech in their bosom, anddrawing the hearts of men with a resistless magic, Hermas knew thatthe preacher had never been more potent, more inspired. He played on that immense congregation as a master on an instrument. He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. He touched their sorrows, and they wept. He spoke of the conflicts, the triumphs, the gloriesof their faith, and they broke out in thunders of applause. Hehushed them into reverent silence, and led them tenderly, with thewise men of the East, to the lowly birthplace of Jesus. "Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, the troubledcity, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world, and hasten toBethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread. For though thou bebut a shepherd, and come hither, thou shalt behold the young Childin an inn. Though thou be a king, and come not hither, thy purplerobe shall profit thee nothing. Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no hindrance to thee. Only let thy coming be to honourand adore, with trembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name beglory, on this His birthday, and forever and forever. " The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch. Thestrings of his heart were slack and soundless; there was no responsewithin him. He was neither shepherd, nor king, nor wise man, only anunhappy, dissatisfied, questioning youth. He was out of sympathywith the eager preacher, the joyous hearers. In their harmony he hadno part. Was it for this that he had forsaken his inheritance andnarrowed his life to poverty and hardship? What was it all worth? The gracious prayers with which the young converts were blessed anddismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow in his ears. Never hadhe felt so utterly lonely as in that praying throng. He went outwith his companions like a man departing from a banquet where allbut he had been fed. "Farewell, Hermas, " they cried, as he turned from them at the door. But he did not look back, nor wave his hand. He was alone already inhis heart. When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, the sun hadalready topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy light was streamingthrough the long double row of archways and over the pavements ofcrimson marble. But Hermas turned his back to the morning, andwalked with his shadow before him. The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with the motley lifeof a huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers and musicians, gildedyouths in their chariots, and daughters of joy looking out fromtheir windows, all intoxicated with the mere delight of living andthe gladness of a new day. The pagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving, spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all this Hermas had renounced. He cleft his way through thecrowd slowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide. At the corner of the street where the narrow, populous Lane of theCamel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, a story-teller had bewitched acircle of people around him. It was the same old tale of love andadventure that many generations have listened to; but the livelyfancy of the hearers lent it new interest, and the wit of theimproviser drew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter. A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, as Hermaspassed, and smiled in his face. She put out her hand and caught himby the sleeve. "Stay, " she said, "and laugh a bit with us. I know who you are--theson of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold. Why do you look soblack? Love is alive yet. " Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently. "I don't know what you mean, " he said. "You are mistaken in me. I ampoorer than you are. " But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingers throughthe cloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had plucked him by theheart. He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubim that theEmperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple of Jerusalem andfixed upon the arch of triumph. He turned to the left, and climbedthe hill to the road that led to the Grove of Daphne. In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful. It woundfor five miles along the foot of the mountains, among gardens andvillas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries, with wide outlooksover the valley of Orontes and the distant, shimmering sea. The richest of all the dwellings was the House of the GoldenPillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had won the favor of theapostate Emperor Julian, whose vain efforts to restore the worshipof the heathen gods, some twenty years ago, had opened an easy wayto wealth and power for all who would mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not a sincere fanatic like his royal master; but hewas bitter enough in his professed scorn of the new religion, tomake him a favourite at the court where the old religion was infashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and a strangesense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal to it than if ithad been a real faith. He was proud of being called "the friend ofJulian"; and when his son joined himself to the Christians, andacknowledged the unseen God, it seemed like an insult to hisfather's success. He drove the boy from his door and disinheritedhim. The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, the repose ofthe well-ordered garden, still blooming with belated flowers, seemedat once to deride and to invite the young outcast plodding along thedusty road. "This is your birthright, " whispered the clamberingrose-trees by the gate; and the closed portals of carven bronzesaid: "You have sold it for a thought--a dream. " II A CHRISTMAS LOSS HERMAS found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was no soundin the enchanted vale but the rustling of the light winds chasingeach other through the laurel thickets, and the babble ofinnumerable streams. Memories of the days and nights of delicatepleasure that the grove had often seen still haunted the bewilderedpaths and broken fountains. At the foot of a rocky eminence, crownedwith the ruins of Apollo's temple, which had been mysteriouslydestroyed by fire just after Julian had restored and reconsecratedit, Hermas sat down beside a gushing spring, and gave himself up tosadness. "How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy to live in, without religion. These questions about unseen things, perhaps aboutunreal things, these restraints and duties and sacrifices--if Iwere only free from them all, and could only forget them all, then Icould live my life as I pleased, and be happy. " "Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back. He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and a threadbarecloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers) standing behindhim and smiling curiously. "How is it that you answer that which has not been spoken?" saidHermas; "and who are you that honour me with your company?" "Forgive the intrusion, " answered the stranger; "it is not illmeant. A friendly interest is as good as an introduction. " "But to what singular circumstance do I owe this interest?" "To your face, " said the old man, with a courteous inclination. "Perhaps also a little to the fact that I am the oldest inhabitanthere, and feel as if all visitors were my guests, in a way. " "Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And have you givenup your work with the trees to take a holiday as a philosopher?" "Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mere affectation, I mustconfess. I think little of it. My profession is the care of altars. In fact, I am that solitary priest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julianfound here when he came to revive the worship of the grove, sometwenty years ago. You have heard of the incident?" "Yes, " said Hermas, beginning to be interested; "the whole city musthave heard of it, for it is still talked of. But surely it was astrange sacrifice that you brought to celebrate the restoration ofApollo's temple?" "You mean the goose? Well, perhaps it was not precisely what theemperor expected. But it was all that I had, and it seemed to me notinappropriate. You will agree to that if you are a Christian, as Iguess from your dress. " "You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo. " "Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is a professionalmatter, and the name of Apollo is as good as any other. How manyaltars do you think there have been in this grove?" "I do not know. " "Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyr Babylas, whoseruined chapel you see just beyond us. I have had something to dowith most of them in my time. They--are transitory. They giveemployment to care-takers for a while. But the thing that lasts, andthe thing that interests me, is the human life that plays aroundthem. The game has been going on for centuries. It still disportsitself very pleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks. Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo were shadows. But theflying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and the dances, these are the realities. Life is the game, and the world keeps it upmerrily. But you? You are of a sad countenance for one so young andso fair. Are you a loser in the game?" The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood as a key fitsthe lock. He opened his heart to the old man, and told him the storyof his life: his luxurious boyhood in his father's house; theirresistible spell which compelled him to forsake it when he heardJohn's preaching of the new religion; his lonely year with theanchorites among the mountains; the strict discipline in histeacher's house at Antioch; his weariness of duty, his distaste forpoverty, his discontent with worship. "And to-day, " said he, "I have been thinking that I am a fool. Mylife is swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There is nothing in it buta dream, a thought of God, which does not satisfy me. " The singular smile deepened on his companion's face. "You are ready, then, " he suggested, "to renounce your new religion and go back tothat of your father?" "No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wish to thinkabout it. I only wish to live. " "A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to see itsaccomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put you in the wayof securing it. Do you believe in magic?" "I have told you already that I do not know whether I believe inanything. This is not a day on which I care to make professions offaith. I believe in what I see. I want what will give me pleasure. " "Well, " said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaf from thelaurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, "let us dismissthe riddles of belief. I like them as little as you do. You knowthis is a Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrian once read hisfortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Let us see what thisleaf tells us. It is already turning yellow. How do you read that?" "Wealth, " said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his mean garments. "And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling. What isthat?" "Pleasure, " answered Hermas, bitterly. "And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. What do you makeof that?" "What you will, " said Hermas, not even taking the trouble to look. "Suppose we say success and fame?" "Yes, " said the stranger; "it is all written here. I promise thatyou shall enjoy it all. But you do not need to believe in mypromise. I am not in the habit of requiring faith of those whom Iwould serve. No such hard conditions for me! There is only one thingthat I ask. This is the season that you Christians call theChristmas, and you have taken up the pagan custom of exchanginggifts. Well, if I give to you, you must give to me. It is a smallthing, and really the thing you can best afford to part with: asingle word--the name of Him you profess to worship. Let me takethat word and all that belongs to it entirely out of your life, sothat you shall never need to hear it or speak it again. You will bericher without it. I promise you everything, and this is all I askin return. Do you consent?" "Yes, I consent, " said Hermas, mocking. "If you can take your price, a word, you can keep your promise, a dream. " The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly across the youngman's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them; every nerve inhis body was drawn together there in a knot of agony. Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of him. A coollanguor of delight flowed back through every vein, and he sank intoa profound sleep. III PARTING, BUT NO FAREWELL THERE is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like afragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a dayseems like a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass asone day. It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. Animmeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that hecould not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over himwhen his senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shootingarrows of gold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretchedhis arms, grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to makesure that he was alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch, treading lightly as if on air. The ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already his life hadchanged, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him haddropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt asif anything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. Hewas a new man, yet curiously familiar to himself--as if he haddone with playing a tiresome part and returned to his natural state. He was buoyant and free, without a care, a doubt, a fear. As he drew near to his father's house he saw a confusion of servantsin the porch, and the old steward ran down to meet him at the gate. "Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master is at thepoint of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour he callsyour name continually. Come to him quickly, lord, for I fear thetime is short. " Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze him to-day. His father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, withshrunken face and restless eyes, his lean fingers pickingincessantly at the silken coverlet. "My son!" he murmured; "Hermas, my son! It is good that you havecome back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong to send you away. You shall never leave me again. You are my son, my heir. I havechanged everything. Hermas, my son, come nearer--close beside me. Take my hand, my son!" The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered hisfather's cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp. "Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the last sands, I--cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julian was myfriend. But now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothingbeyond--very dark--I am afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made you willing to give up your life forit--it must have been almost like dying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you everything. I haveforgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it? Your secret, yourfaith--give it to me before I go. " At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity andlove took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little ashe answered eagerly: "Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladlytell, you all that I know. I will give you the secret of faith. Father, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, and strengthin--" Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter nightand morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had everknown? What had become of it? He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought hecould lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some onehad taken it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terrorof death; the lonely soul appealing from his father's eyes; theinstant need of comfort and help. But at the one point where helooked for help he could find nothing; only an empty space. The wordof hope had vanished. He felt for it blindly and in desperate haste. "Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slipped awayfrom me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tellyou presently--oh, wait!" The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes opened wider. "Tell me, " whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for I must go. " The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closed once more, andrelaxed. The light behind the eyes went out. Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keepingwatch by the dead. IV LOVE IN SEARCH OF A WORD THE break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut witha knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in aback street of Antioch, a class-room full of earnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John thePresbyter, and the murmured sound of chanting, and the murmur ofgreat congregations, still lingered in his ears; but it was likesomething that had happened to another person, something that he hadread long ago, but of which he had lost the meaning. His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for any senseof loss to make itself felt. There were a hundred affairs to busyhim, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were shod with wingedsandals. Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything wasready and waiting for him. All that he had to do was to go on withit. The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the world hadsupposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the emperor hadgiven him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests of valuabletimber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villa contained chests of goldand silver; the secret cabinets in the master's room were full ofprecious stones. The stewards were diligent and faithful. Theservants of the magnificent household rejoiced at the young master'sreturn. His table was spread; the rose-garland of pleasure was wovenfor his head, and his cup was already filled with the spicy wine ofpower. The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment, toseclude and safeguard him from the storm of political troubles andpersecutions that fell upon Antioch after the insults offered by themob to the imperial statues in the year 887. The friends ofDemetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermasand made him welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, his nearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had beenthe playmate of Hermas in the old days. He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman. Whattransformation is so magical, so charming, as this? To see theuncertain lines of-youth rounded into firmness and symmetry, todiscover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl maturedinto perfect loveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the past, but fully conscious of thechanged present--this is to behold a miracle in the flesh. "Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as theywalked together through the garden of lilies where they had so oftenplayed. "In a land of tiresome dreams, " answered Hermas; "but you havewakened me, and I am never going back again. " It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermasfrom among his former associates could long remain unnoticed. Atfirst it was a mystery. There was a fear, for two or three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimate companionsmaintained that his devotion had led him out into the desert to jointhe anchorites. But the news of his return to the House of theGolden Pillars, and of his new life as its master, filtered quicklythrough the gossip of the city. Then the church was filled with dismay and grief and reproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. They disturbed him alittle, but they took no hold upon him. It seemed to him as if themessengers spoke in a strange language. As he read the letters therewere words blotted out of the writing which made the full senseunintelligible. His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them, to warn himof the peril of apostasy, to entreat him to return. It all soundedvague and futile. They spoke as if he had betrayed or offended someone; but when they came to name the object of his fear--the onewhom he had displeased, and to whom he should return--he heardnothing; there was a blur of silence in their speech. The clockpointed to the hour, but the bell did not strike. At last Hermasrefused to see them any more. One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermas wasentertaining Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall. When thevisit of the Presbyter was announced, the young master loosed acollar of gold and jewels from his neck, and gave it to his scribe. "Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a gift from hisformer pupil--as a token of remembrance, or to spend for the poorof the city. I will always send him what he wants, but it is idlefor us to talk together any more. I do not understand what he says. I have not gone to the temple, nor offered sacrifice, nor denied histeaching. I have simply forgotten. I do not think about those thingsany longer. I am only living. A happy man wishes him all happinessand farewell. " But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor. "Tell yourmaster that we shall talk together again, after all, " said he, as hepassed sadly out of the hall. The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivulet that sinksout of sight in a cavern, but emerges again as a bright and brimmingstream. The careless comradery of childhood was mysteriously changedinto a complete companionship. When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars as a bride, all the music of life came with her. Hermas called the feast of herwelcome "the banquet of the full chord. " Day after day, night afternight, week after week, month after month, the bliss of the homeunfolded like a rose of a thousand leaves. When a child came tothem, a strong, beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such ahouse, the heart of the rose was filled with overflowing fragrance. Happiness was heaped upon happiness. Every wish brought its ownaccomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love--it was anabundance of felicity so great that the soul of Hermas could hardlycontain it. Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to trouble him withthe very excess of joy. He felt as if there were something yetneeded to complete and secure it all. There was an urgency withinhim, a longing to find some outlet for his feelings, he knew nothow--some expression and culmination of his happiness, he knew notwhat. Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessness began toburn--an expectancy of something yet to come which should put thetouch of perfection on his life, He spoke of it to Athenais, as theysat together, one summer evening, in a bower of jasmine, with theirboy playing at their feet. There had been music in the garden; butnow the singers and lute-players had withdrawn, leaving the masterand mistress alone in the lingering twilight, tremulous withinarticulate melody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in thehour seeking vainly for utterance--a word waiting to be spoken atthe centre of the charm. "How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas; "deeper thanthe sea that slumbers yonder, below the city. And yet I feel it isnot quite full and perfect. There is a depth of joy that we have notyet known--a repose of happiness that is still beyond us. What isit? I have no superstitious fears, like the king who cast hissignet-ring into the sea because he dreaded that some secretvengeance would fall on his unbroken good fortune. That was an idleterror. But there is something that oppresses me like an invisibleburden. There is something still undone, unspoken, unfelt--somethingthat we need to complete everything. Have you not felt it, too? Canyou not lead me to it?" "Yes, " she answered, lifting her eyes to his face; "I, too, havefelt it, Hermas, this burden, this need, this unsatisfied longing. Ithink I know what it means. It is gratitude--the language of theheart, the music of happiness. There is no perfect joy withoutgratitude. But we have never learned it, and the want of it troublesus. It is like being dumb with a heart full of love. We must findthe word for it, and say it together. Then we shall be perfectlyjoined in perfect joy. Come, my dear lord, let us take the boy withus, and give thanks. " Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned with Athenais intothe depth of the garden. There was a dismantled shrine of someforgotten fashion of worship half hidden among the luxuriantflowers. A fallen image lay beside it, face downward in the grass. They stood there, hand in hand, the boy drowsily resting on hisfather's shoulder--a threefold harmony of strength and beauty andinnocence. Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of thecypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet; silentlythe crystal stars looked out from the deepening arch of heaven. Thevery breath of being paused. It was the hour of culmination, thesupreme moment of felicity waiting for its crown. The tones ofHermas were clear and low as he began, half speaking and halfchanting, in the rhythm of an ancient song: "Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdom of day andnight, in the glow of morning, in the shadow of evening, and underthe dripping light of stars. "Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifold music andmeaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing and feeling andknowing and being. "Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together, minglesour lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river, strong andclear and swift, rejecting the stars in its bosom. "Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Life isabundant within us--a measureless deep. Deepest of all is ourlove, and it longs to speak. "Come, thou final word! Come, thou crown of speech! Come, thou charmof peace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift the weight of our joyand bear it upward. "For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, for life, forthe world, we praise, we bless, we thank--" As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong from the sky, so the song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flight of gratitudethere was nothing--a blank, a hollow space. He looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for a hand, andclasped vacancy. His heart was throbbing and swelling with passion;the bell swung to and fro within him, beating from side to side asif it would burst; but not a single note came from it. All thefulness of his feeling, that had risen upward like a livingfountain, fell back from the empty sky, as cold as snow, as hard ashail, frozen and dead. There was no meaning in his happiness. No onehad sent it to him. There was no one to thank for it. His felicitywas a closed circle, a wall of eternal ice. "Let us go back, " he said sadly to Athenais; "the child is heavyupon my shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go into the library. The air grows chilly. We were mistaken. The gratitude of life isonly a dream. There is no one to thank. " And in the garden it was already night. V RICHES WITHOUT REST NO outward change came to the House of the Golden Pillars. Everything moved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously, asbefore. But inwardly there was a subtle, inexplicabletransformation. A vague discontent--a final and inevitable senseof incompleteness, overshadowed existence from that night whenHermas realized that his joy could never go beyond itself. The next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Grove ofDaphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the door of thehouse, as if he had been sent for, and entered, to dwell there likean invited guest. Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first he tried toregard him with reverence and affection as the one through whomfortune had come. But it was impossible. There was a chill in theinscrutable smile of Marcion, as he called himself, that seemed tomock at reverence. He was in the house as one watching a strangeexperiment--tranquil, interested, ready to supply anything thatmight be needed for its completion, but thoroughly indifferent tothe feelings of the subject; an anatomist of life, looking curiouslyto see how long it would continue, and how it would behave, afterthe heart had been removed. In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certain irritation, aresentful anger against the calm, frigid scrutiny of the eyes thatfollowed him everywhere, like a pair of spies, peering out over thesmiling mouth and the long white beard. "Why do you look at me so curiously?" asked Hermas, one morning, asthey sat together in the library. "Do you see anything strange inme?" "No, " answered Marcion; "something familiar. " "And what is that?" "A singular likeness to a discontented young man that I met someyears ago in the Grove of Daphne. " "But why should that interest you? Surely it was to be expected. " "A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it. Besides, my curiosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping a secret from me. " "You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my life that you donot know. What is the secret?" "Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growing tired ofyour bargain. The game wearies you. That is foolish. Do you want totry a new part?" The question was like a mirror upon which one comes suddenly in ahalf-lighted room, A quick illumination falls on it, and thepasser-by is startled by the look of his own face. "You are right, " said Hermas. "I am tired. We have been going onstupidly in this house, as if nothing were possible but what myfather had done before me. There is nothing original in being rich, and well fed, and well dressed. Thousands of men have tried it, andhave not been very well satisfied. Let us do something new. Let usmake a mark in the world. " "It is well said, " nodded the old man; "you are speaking again likea man after my own heart. There is no folly but the loss of anopportunity to enjoy a new sensation. " From that day Hermas seemed to be possessed with a perpetual haste, an uneasiness that left him no repose. The summit of life had beenattained, the highest possible point of felicity. Henceforward thecourse could only be at a level--perhaps downward. It might bebrief; at the best it could not be very long. It was madness to losea day, an hour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeitanything of the bargain that he had made. He would have it, and holdit, and enjoy it all to the full. The world might have nothingbetter to give than it had already given; but surely it had manythings that were new to bestow upon him, and Marcion should help himto find them. Under his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillars took on anew magnificence. Artists were brought from Corinth and Rome andByzantium to adorn it with splendour. Its fame glittered around theworld. Banquets of incredible luxury drew the most celebrated guestsinto its triclinium, and filled them with envious admiration. Thebees swarmed and buzzed about the golden hive. The human insects, gorgeous moths of pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasitesand flatterers and crowds of inquisitive idlers, danced andfluttered in the dazzling light that surrounded Hermas. Everything that he touched prospered. He bought a tract of land inthe Caucasus, and emeralds were discovered among the mountains. Hesent a fleet of wheat-ships to Italy, and the price of grain doubledwhile it was on the way. He sought political favour with theemperor, and was rewarded with the governorship of the city. Hisname was a word to conjure with. The beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passing seasons, butgrew more perfect, even under the inexplicable shade ofdissatisfaction that sometimes veiled it as a translucent cloud thatpasses before the full moon. "Fair as the wife of Hermas" was aproverb in Antioch; and soon men began to add to it, "Beautiful asthe son of Hermas"; for the child developed swiftly in thatfavouring clime. At nine years of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb and clear of eye. His brown head was on a level withhis father's heart. He was the jewel of the House of the GoldenPillars; the pride of Hermas, the new Fortunatus. That year another drop of success fell into his brimming cup. Hisblack Numidian horses, which he had been training for three yearsfor the world-renowned chariot-races of Antioch, won the victoryover a score of rivals. Hermas received the prize carelessly fromthe judge's hands, and turned to drive once more around the circus, to show himself to the people. He lifted the eager boy into thechariot beside him to share his triumph. Here, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchless son, hisbrighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory, touching his arm, and balancing himself proudly on the swaying floor of the chariot. As the horses pranced around the ring, a great shout of applausefilled the amphitheatre, and thousands of spectators waved theirsalutations of praise: "Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success!Hail, little Hermas, prince of good luck!" The sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering ofinnumerable garments in the air, startled the horses. They dashedviolently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The left rein broke. They swerved to the right, swinging the chariot sideways with agrating noise, and dashing it against the stone parapet of thearena. In an instant the wheel was shattered. The axle struck theground, and the chariot was dragged onward, rocking and staggering. By a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frail platform, clinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy was tossed lightly fromhis side at the first shock. His head struck the wall. And whenHermas turned to look for him, he was lying like a broken flower onthe sand. VI GREAT FEAR AND RECOVERED JOY THEY carried the boy in a litter to the House of the Golden Pillars, summoning the most skilful physician of Antioch to attend him. Forhours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the whiteeyelids, folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watchesfor the morning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever wasburning in the eyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium. Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls andchambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill callsof distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness anddull moaning. The stars waxed and waned; the sun rose and set; theroses bloomed and fell in the garden, the birds sang and slept amongthe jasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, nobloom, no light--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearfullooking-for of desolation. He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror thatwas moving toward him, but he was impotent to stay or to escape it. He had done all that he could. There was nothing left but to wait. He paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as if he couldnot bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could notendure to be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, fearedto speak to him, there was something so vacant and desperate in hisface. At nightfall, on the second of those eternal days, he shut himselfin the library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail ofsmoke in the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with whichthe room was sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented thegloom with a close odor of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocrituswas tumbled in disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair likea man in whom the very spring of being is broken. Through thedarkness some one drew near. He did not even lift his head. A handtouched him; a soft arm was laid over his shoulders. It wasAthenais, kneeling beside him and speaking very low: "Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weakerhour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then helaughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon isrising now. Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Isthere nothing we can do? Is there no power that can save him? Isthere no one to pity us and spare us? Let us call, let us beg forcompassion and help; let us pray for his life!" Yes; that was what he wanted--that was the only thing that couldbring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find agreater strength than his own, and cling to it and plead for mercyand help. To leave that undone was to be false to his manhood; itwas to be no better than the dumb beasts when their young perish. How could he let his boy suffer and die, without an effort, a cry, aprayer? He sank on his knees beside Athenais. "Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity. The lightof our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, the child, thechild! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--" Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas, stretchedout in supplication, touched the marble table. He felt the coolhardness of the polished stone beneath his fingers. A book, dislodged by his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the opendoor, faint and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, movingcautiously. The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. He rose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him. "It is in vain, " he said; "there is nothing for us to do. Long ago Iknew something. I think it would have helped us. But I haveforgotten it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if Icould bring it back again now, at this hour, in this time of ourbitter trouble. " A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approachedhesitatingly. "Master, " he said, "John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admitto the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now hewaits in the peristyle; and the old man Marcion is with him, seekingto turn him away. " "Come, " said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him; for I think Isee the beginning of a way that may lead us out of this dreadfuldarkness. " In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion, withdisdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbidden guest todepart; John silent, quiet, patient, while the wondering slaveslooked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze to the haggardface of Hermas. "My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did notsend for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are introuble. " "It is true, " answered Hermas, passionately; "we are in trouble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is dying. We arepoor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. In all this house, in allthe world, there is no one that can help us. I knew something longago, when I was with you, --a word, a name, --in which we mighthave found hope. But I have lost it. I gave it to this man. He hastaken it away from me forever. " He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curled scornfully. "Aword, a name!" he sneered. "What is that, O most wise and holyPresbyter? A thing of air, an unreal thing that men make to describetheir own dreams and fancies. Who would go about to rob any one ofsuch a thing as that? It is a prize that only a fool would think oftaking. Besides, the young man parted with it of his own free will. He bargained with me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasureand fame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which was aburden--" "Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rang clear, like atrumpet, through the hall. "There is a name which none shall dare totake in vain. There is a name which none can lose without beinglost. There is a name at which the devils tremble. Depart quickly, before I speak it!" Marcion had shrunk into the shadow of one of the pillars. A brightlamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In theconfusion he vanished, as noiselessly as a shade. John turned to Hermas, and his tone softened as he said: "My son, you have sinned deeper than you know. The word with which you partedso lightly is the key-word of all life and joy and peace. Without itthe world has no meaning, and existence no rest, and death norefuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comforts grief, andkeeps hope alive forever. It is the most precious thing that everear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has conceived. It is thename of Him who has given us life and breath and all things richlyto enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget Him, neverforgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your sufferingchild; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him, seeks usin the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent methis night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart thatis perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soulto the blessed name of God our Father. " The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment ofice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spreadthrough him from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of adivine peace fell on his parched soul, and the withering flower ofhuman love lifted its head again. The light of a new hope shone onhis face. He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven. "Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my God, bemerciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God, Thou hastgiven; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God! Spare the life ofthis my child, O Thou God, my Father, my Father!" A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whispered Athenais, breathlessly. Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--the voice ofthe child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling: "Myfather, my father!"