Selling toward eternity.But to-day his heart was a rock that stood motionless. Theflood passed by and left him unmoved.Looking out from his place at the foot of the pillar, hesaw a man standing far off in the lofty bema. Short andslender, wasted by sickness, gray before his time, with palecheeks and wrinkled brow, he seemed at first like a person ofno significance--a reed shaken in the wind. But there was alook in his deep-set, poignant eyes, as he gathered all theglances of the multitude to himself, that belied his meanappearance and prophesied power. Hermas knew very well who itwas: the man who had drawn him from his father's house, theteacher who was instructing him as a son in the Christian faith,the guide and trainer of his soul--John of Antioch, whose famefilled the city and began to overflow Asia, and who was calledalready Chrysostom, 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 sentences moved onward, growing fuller and stronger,bearing argosies of costly rhetoric and treasures of homelyspeech in their bosom, and drawing the hearts of men with aresistless magic, Hermas knew that the preacher had never beenmore potent, more inspired.He played on that immense congregation as a master on aninstrument. He rebuked their sins, and they trembled. Hetouched their sorrows, and they wept. He spoke of theconflicts, the triumphs, the glories of their faith, and theybroke out in thunders of applause. He hushed them into reverentsilence, and led them tenderly, with the wise men of the East, tothe lowly birthplace of Jesus."Do thou, therefore, likewise leave the Jewish people, thetroubled city, the bloodthirsty tyrant, the pomp of the world,and hasten to Bethlehem, the sweet house of spiritual bread.For though thou be but a shepherd, and come hither, thou shaltbehold the young Child in an inn. Though thou be a king, andcome not hither, thy purple robe shall profit thee nothing.Though thou be one of the wise men, this shall be no hindranceto thee. Only let thy coming be to honour and adore, withtrembling joy, the Son of God, to whose name be glory, on thisHis birthday, and forever and forever."The soul of Hermas did not answer to the musician's touch.The strings of his heart were slack and soundless; there wasno response within him. He was neither shepherd, nor king,nor wise man; only an unhappy, dissatisfied, questioningyouth. He was out of sympathy with the eager preacher,the joyous hearers. In their harmony he had no part. Was itfor this that he had forsaken his inheritance and narrowed hislife to poverty and hardship? What was it all worth?The gracious prayers with which the young converts wereblessed and dismissed before the sacrament sounded hollow inhis ears. Never had he felt so utterly lonely as in thatpraying throng. He went out with his companions like a mandeparting from a banquet where all but he had been fed."Farewell, Hermas," they cried, as he turned from them atthe door. But he did not look back, nor wave his hand. Hewas already alone in his heart.When he entered the broad Avenue of the Colonnades, thesun had already topped the eastern hills, and the ruddy lightwas streaming through the long double row of archways and overthe pavements of crimson marble. But Hermas turned his backto the morning, and walked with his shadow before him.The street began to swarm and whirl and quiver with themotley life of a huge city: beggars and jugglers, dancers andmusicians, gilded youths in their chariots, and daughters ofjoy looking out from their windows, all intoxicated with themere delight of living and the gladness of a new day. Thepagan populace of Antioch--reckless, pleasure-loving,spendthrift--were preparing for the Saturnalia. But all thisHermas had renounced. He cleft his way through the crowdslowly, like a reluctant swimmer weary of breasting the tide.At the corner of the street where the narrow, populousLane of the Camel-drivers crossed the Colonnades, astoryteller had bewitched a circle of people around him. Itwas the same old tale of love and adventure that manygenerations have listened to; but the lively fancy of thehearers rent it new interest, and the wit of the improviserdrew forth sighs of interest and shouts of laughter.A yellow-haired girl on the edge of the throng turned, asHermas passed, and smiled in his face. She put out her handand caught him by the sleeve."Stay," she said, "and laugh a bit with us. I know whoyou are--the son of Demetrius. You must have bags of gold.Why do you look so black? Love is alive yet."Hermas shook off her hand, but not ungently."I don't know what you mean," he said. "You are mistakenin me. I am poorer than you are."But as he passed on, he felt the warm touch of her fingersthrough the cloth on his arm. It seemed as if she had pluckedhim by the heart.He went out by the Western Gate, under the golden cherubimthat the Emperor Titus had stolen from the ruined Temple ofJerusalem and fixed upon the arch of triumph. He turned tothe left, and climbed the hill to the road that led to theGrove of Daphne.In all the world there was no other highway as beautiful.It wound for five miles along the foot of the mountains, amonggardens and villas, plantations of myrtles and mulberries,with wide outlooks over the valley of Orontes and the distant,shimmering sea.The richest of all the dwellings was the Houseof the Golden Pillars, the mansion of Demetrius. He had wonthe favor of the apostate Emperor Julian, whose vain effortsto restore the worship of the heathen gods, some twenty yearsago, had opened an easy way to wealth and power for all whowould mock and oppose Christianity. Demetrius was not asincere fanatic like his royal master; but he was bitterenough in his professed scorn of the new religion, to make hima favourite at the court where the old religion was infashion. He had reaped a rich reward of his policy, and astrange sense of consistency made him more fiercely loyal toit than if it had been a real faith. He was proud of beingcalled "the friend of Julian"; and when his son joined himselfto the Christians, and acknowledged the unseen God, it seemedlike an insult to his father's success. He drove the boy fromhis door and disinherited him.The glittering portico of the serene, haughty house, therepose of the well-ordered garden, still blooming with belatedflowers, seemed at once to deride and to invite the youngoutcast plodding along the dusty road. "This is yourbirthright," whispered the clambering rose-trees by the gate; andthe closed portals of carven bronze said: "You have sold it fora thought--a dream."'IIHermas found the Grove of Daphne quite deserted. There was nosound in the enchanted vale but the rustling of the lightwinds chasing each other through the laurel thickets, and thebabble of innumerable streams. Memories of the days andnights of delicate pleasure that the grove had often seenstill haunted the bewildered paths and broken fountains. Atthe foot of a rocky eminence, crowned with the ruins ofApollo's temple, which had been mysteriously destroyed by firejust after Julian had restored and reconsecrated it, Hermassat down beside a gushing spring, and gave himself up tosadness."How beautiful the world would be, how joyful, how easy tolive in, without religion! These questions about unseenthings, perhaps about unreal things, these restraints andduties and sacrifices-if I were only free from them all, andcould only forget them all, then I could live my life as Ipleased, and be happy.""Why not?" said a quiet voice at his back.He turned, and saw an old man with a long beard and athreadbare cloak (the garb affected by the pagan philosophers)standing behind him and smiling curiously."How is it that you answer that which has not beenspoken?" said Hermas; "and who are you that honour me withyour company?""Forgive the intrusion," answered the stranger; "it is notill meant. 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 courteousinclination. "Perhaps also a little to the fact that I am theoldest inhabitant here, and feel as if all visitors were myguests, in a way.""Are you, then, one of the keepers of the grove? And haveyou given up your work with the trees to take a holiday as aphilosopher?"Not at all. The robe of philosophy is a mereaffectation, I must confess. I think little of it. Myprofession is the care of altars. In fact, I am the solitarypriest of Apollo whom the Emperor Julian found here when hecame to revive the worship of the grove, some twenty yearsago. You have heard of the incident?""Yes," said Hermas, beginning to be interested; "the wholecity must have heard of it, for it is still talked of. Butsurely it was a strange sacrifice that you brought tocelebrate the restoration of Apollo's temple?""You mean the ancient goose?" said the old man laughing."Well, perhaps it was not precisely what the emperor 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 I guess from your dress.""You speak lightly for a priest of Apollo.""Oh, as for that, I am no bigot. The priesthood is aprofessional matter, and the name of Apollo is as good as anyother. How many altars do you think there have been in thisgrove?""I do not know.""Just four-and-twenty, including that of the martyrBabylas, whose ruined chapel you see just beyond us. I havehad something to do with most of them in my time. They aretransitory. They give employment to care-takers for a while.But the thing that lasts, and the thing that interests me, isthe human life that plays around them. The game has beengoing on for centuries. It still disports itself verypleasantly on summer evenings through these shady walks.Believe me, for I know. Daphne and Apollo are shadows. Butthe flying maidens and the pursuing lovers, the music and thedances, these are realities. Life is a game, and the worldkeeps it up merrily. But you? You are of a sad countenancefor one so young and so fair. Are you a loser in the game?"The words and tone of the speaker fitted Hermas' mood asa key fits the lock. He opened his heart to the old man, andtold him the story of his life: his luxurious boyhood in hisfather's house; the irresistible spell which compelled him toforsake it when he heard John's preaching of the new religion;his lonely year with the anchorites among the mountains; thestrict discipline in his teacher's house at Antioch; hisweariness of duty, his distaste for poverty, his discontent withworship."And to-day," said he, "I have been thinking that I am afool. My life is swept as bare as a hermit's cell. There isnothing in it but a dream, a thought of God, which does notsatisfy me."The singular smile deepened on his companion's face. "Youare ready, then," he suggested, "to renounce your new religionand go back to that of your father?""No; I renounce nothing, I accept nothing. I do not wishto think about it. I only wish to live.""A very reasonable wish, and I think you are about to seeits accomplishment. Indeed, I may even say that I can put youin the way of securing it. Do you believe in magic?""I do not know whether I believe in anything. This is nota day on which I care to make professions of faith. I believein what I see. I want what will give me pleasure.""Well," said the old man, soothingly, as he plucked a leaffrom the laurel-tree above them and dipped it in the spring, "letus dismiss the riddles of belief. I like them as little as youdo. You know this is a Castalian fountain. The Emperor Hadrianonce read his fortune here from a leaf dipped in the water. Letus see what this leaf tells us. It is already turning yellow.How do you read that?""Wealth," said Hermas, laughing, as he looked at his meangarments."And here is a bud on the stem that seems to be swelling.What is that?""Pleasure," answered Hermas, bitterly."And here is a tracing of wreaths upon the surface. Whatdo you make of that?""What you will," said Hermas, not even taking the troubleto look. "Suppose we say success and fame?""Yes," said the stranger; "it is all written here. Ipromise that you shall enjoy it all. But you do not need tobelieve in my promise. I am not in the habit of requiringfaith of those whom I would serve. No such hard conditionsfor me! There is only one thing that I ask. This is the seasonthat you Christians call the Christmas, and you have taken up thepagan custom of exchanging gifts. Well, if I give to you, youmust give to me. It is a small thing, and really the thing youcan best afford to part with: a single word--the name of Him youprofess to worship. Let me take that word and all thatbelongs to it entirely out of your life, so that you shallnever hear it or speak it again. You will be richer withoutit. I promise you everything, and this is all I ask inreturn. Do you consent?""Yes. I consent," said Hermas, mocking. "If you can takeyour price, a word, you can keep your promise, a dream."The stranger laid the long, cool, wet leaf softly acrossthe young man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them;every nerve in his body was drawn together there in a knot ofagony.Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out ofhim. A cool languor of delight flowed back through everyvein, and he sank into a profound sleep.IIIThere is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It islike a fragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment ofvacancy, a day seems like a thousand years, and a thousandyears might well pass as one day.It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove ofDaphne. An immeasurable period, an interval of life so blankand empty that he could not tell whether it was long or short,had passed over him when his senses began to stir again. Thesetting sun was shooting arrows of gold under the glossylaurel-leaves. He rose and stretched his arms, grasping asmooth branch above him and shaking it, to make sure that hewas alive. Then he hurried back toward Antioch, treadinglightly as if on air.The ground seemed to spring beneath his feet. Already hislife had changed, he knew not how. Something that did notbelong to him had dropped away; he had returned to a formerstate of being. He felt as if anything might happen to him, andhe was ready for anything. He was a new man, yet curiouslyfamiliar to himself--as if he had done with playing a tiresomepart 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 confusionof servants in the porch, and the old steward ran down to meethim at the gate."Lord, we have been seeking you everywhere. The master isat the point of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixthhour he calls your name continually. Come to him quickly,lord, for I fear the time is short."Hermas entered the house at once; nothing could amaze himto-day. His father lay on an ivory couch in the inmostchamber, with shrunken face and restless eyes, his leanfingers picking incessantly at the silken coverlet."My son!" he murmured; "Hermas, my son! It is good thatyou have come back to me. I have missed you. I was wrong tosend you away. You shall never leave me again. You are myson, my heir. I have changed everything. Hermas, my son, comenearer--close beside me. Take my hand, my son!"The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gatheredhis father's cold, twitching fingers in his firm, warm grasp."Hermas, life is passing--long, rich, prosperous; the lastsands, I cannot stay them. My religion, a good policy--Julianwas my friend. But now he is gone--where? My soul isempty--nothing beyond--very dark--I am afraid. But you knowsomething better. You found something that made you willingto give up your life for it--it, must have been almost likedying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I amgiving you everything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me.Tell me, what is it? Your secret, your faith--give it to mebefore I go."At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion ofpity and love took the young man by the throat. His voiceshook a little as he answered eagerly:"Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I willgladly tell you all that I know. I will give you the secret.Father, you must believe with all your heart, and soul, andstrength in--"Where was the word--the word that he had been used toutter night and morning, the word that had meant to him morethan he had ever known? What had become of it?He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He hadthought he could lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it wasgone. Some one had taken it away. Everything else was mostclear to him: the terror of death; the lonely soul appealingfrom his father's eyes; the instant need of comfort and help.But at the one point where he looked for help he could findnothing; only an empty space. The word of hope had vanished.He felt for it blindly and in desperate haste."Father, wait! I have forgotten something--it has slippedaway from me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--Iwill tell you presently--oh, wait!"The bony hand gripped his like a vice; the glazed eyes openedwider. "Tell me," whispered the old man; "tell me quickly, for Imust go."The voice sank into a dull rattle. The fingers closedonce more, and relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, waskeeping watch by the dead.IVThe break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cutwith a knife. Some faint image of a hermit's cell, a barelodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full ofearnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echoof the voice of John the Presbyter, and the measured sound ofchanting, and the murmur of great congregations, stilllingered in his ears; but it was like something that hadhappened to another person, something that he had read longago, but of which he had lost the meaning.His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich forany sense of loss to make itself felt. There were a hundredaffairs to busy him, and the days ran swiftly by as if they wereshod with winged sandals.Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun.Everything was ready and waiting for him. All that he had todo was to go on.The estate of Demetrius was even greater than the worldhad supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which theemperor had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forestsof valuable timber in Cilicia; the vaults of the villacontained chests of gold and silver; the secret cabinets inthe master's room were full of precious stones. The stewardswere diligent and faithful. The servants of the householdrejoiced at the young master's return. His table was spread;the rose-garland of pleasure was woven for his head; his cupwas overflowing with the spicy wine of power.The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunatemoment to seclude and safeguard him from the storm ofpolitical troubles and persecutions that fell upon Antiochafter the insults offered by the people to the imperialstatues in the year 387. The friends of Demetrius, prudent andconservative persons, gathered around Hermas and made him welcometo their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, hisnearest neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the playmateof Hermas in the old days.He had left her a child. He found her a beautiful woman.What transformation is so magical, so charming, as this? Tosee the uncertain lines of youth rounded into firmness andsymmetry, to discover the half-ripe, merry, changing face ofthe girl matured into perfect loveliness, and looking at youwith calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the past, butfully conscious of the changed present--this is to behold amiracle in the flesh."Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, asthey walked together through the garden of lilies where theyhad so often played."In a land of tiresome dreams," answered Hermas; "but youhave wakened me, and I am never going back again."It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance ofHermas from among his former associates could long remainunnoticed. At first it was a mystery. There was a fear, for twoor three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimatecompanions maintained that his devotion had led him out into thedesert to join the anchorites. But the news of his return to theHouse of the Golden Pillars, and of his new life as itsmaster, filtered quickly through the gossip of the city.Then the church was filled with dismay and grief andreproach. Messengers and letters were sent to Hermas. Theydisturbed him a little, but they took no hold upon him. Itseemed to him as if the messengers spoke in a strangelanguage. As he read the letters there were words blotted outof the writing which made the full sense unintelligible.His old companions came to reprove him for leaving them,to warn him of the peril of apostasy, to entreat him toreturn. It all sounded vague and futile. They spoke as if hehad betrayed or offended some one; but when they came to namethe object of his fear--the one whom he had displeased, and towhom he should return--he heard nothing; there was a blur ofsilence in their speech. The clock pointed to the hour, but thebell did not strike. At last Hermas refused to see them anymore.One day John the Presbyter stood in the atrium. Hermaswas entertaining Libanius and Athenais in the banquet-hall.When the visit of the Presbyter was announced, the youngmaster loosed a collar of gold and jewels from his neck, andgave it to his scribe."Take this to John of Antioch, and tell him it is a giftfrom his former pupil--as a token of remembrance, or to spendfor the poor of the city. I will always send him what hewants, but it is idle for us to talk together any more. I donot understand what he says. I have not gone to the temple,nor offered sacrifice, nor denied his teaching. I have simplyforgotten. I do not think about those things any longer. Iam only living. A happy man wishes him all happiness andfarewell."But John let the golden collar fall on the marble floor."Tell your master that we shall talk together again, in duetime," said he, as he passed sadly out ofthe hall.The love of Athenais and Hermas was like a tiny rivuletthat sinks out of sight in a cavern, but emerges again abright and brimming stream. The careless comradery ofchildhood was mysteriously changed into a completecompanionship.When Athenais entered the House of the Golden Pillars asa bride, all the music of life came with her. Hermas calledthe feast of her welcome "the banquet of the full chord." Dayafter day, night after night, week after week, month aftermonth, the bliss of the home unfolded like a rose of athousand leaves. When a child came to them, a strong,beautiful boy, worthy to be the heir of such a house, theheart of the rose was filled with overflowing fragrance.Happiness was heaped upon happiness. Every wish brought itsown accomplishment. Wealth, honour, beauty, peace, love--itwas an abundance of felicity so great that the soul of Hermascould hardly contain it.Strangely enough, it began to press upon him, to troublehim with the very excess of joy. He felt as if there weresomething yet needed to complete and secure it all. There was anurgency within him, a longing to find some outlet for hisfeelings, he knew not how--some expression and culmination of hishappiness, he knew not what.Under his joyous demeanour a secret fire of restlessnessbegan to burn--an expectancy of something yet to come whichshould put the touch of perfection on his life. He spoke ofit to Athenais, as they sat together, one summer evening, ina bower of jasmine, with their boy playing at their feet.There had been music in the garden; but now the singers andlute-players had withdrawn, leaving the master and mistressalone in the lingering twilight, tremulous with inarticulatemelody of unseen birds. There was a secret voice in the hourseeking vainly for utterance a word waiting to be spoken."How deep is our happiness, my beloved!" said Hermas;"deeper than the sea that slumbers yonder, below the city.And yet it is not quite full and perfect. There is a depth ofjoy that we have not yet known--a repose of happiness that isstill beyond us. What is it? I have no superstitions, like theking who cast his signet-ring into the sea because he dreadedthat some secret vengeance would fall on his unbroken goodfortune. That was an idle terror. But there is somethingthat oppresses me like an invisible burden. There issomething still undone, unspoken, unfelt--something that weneed 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, have felt it, Hermas, this burden, this need, thisunsatisfied longing. I think I know what it means. It isgratitude--the language of the heart, the music of happiness.There is no perfect joy without gratitude. But we have neverlearned it, and the want of it troubles us. It is like beingdumb with a heart full of love. We must find the word for it,and say it together. Then we shall be perfectly joined inperfect joy. Come, my dear lord, let us take the boy with us,and give thanks."Hermas lifted the child in his arms, and turned withAthenais into the depth of the garden. There was a dismantledshrine of some forgotten fashion of worship half-hidden among theluxuriant flowers. A fallen image lay beside it, face downwardin the grass. They stood there, hand in hand, the boy drowsilyresting on his father's shoulder.Silently the roseate light caressed the tall spires of thecypress-trees; silently the shadows gathered at their feet;silently the tranquil stars looked out from the deepening archof heaven. The very breath of being paused. It was the hourof culmination, the supreme moment of felicity waiting for itscrown. The tones of Hermas were clear and low as he began,half-speaking and half-chanting, in the rhythm of an ancientsong:"Fair is the world, the sea, the sky, the double kingdomof day and night, in the glow of morning, in the shadow ofevening, and under the dripping light of stars."Fairer still is life in our breasts, with its manifoldmusic and meaning, with its wonder of seeing and hearing andfeeling and knowing and being."Fairer and still more fair is love, that draws us together,mingles our lives in its flow, and bears them along like a river,strong and clear and swift, reflecting the stars in its bosom."Wide is our world; we are rich; we have all things. Lifeis abundant within us--a measureless deep. Deepest of all isour love, and it longs to speak."Come, thou final word; Come, thou crown of speech! Come,thou charm of peace! Open the gates of our hearts. Lift theweight of our joy and bear it upward."For all good gifts, for all perfect gifts, for love, forlife, for the world, we praise, we bless, we thank--"As a soaring bird, struck by an arrow, falls headlong fromthe sky, so the song of Hermas fell. At the end of his flightof gratitude there was nothing--a blank, a hollow space.He looked for a face, and saw a void. He sought for ahand, and clasped vacancy. His heart was throbbing andswelling with passion; the bell swung to and fro within him,beating from side to side as if it would burst; but not asingle note came from it. All the fulness of his feeling,that had risen upward like a fountain, fell back from the emptysky, as cold as snow, as hard as hail, frozen and dead. Therewas no meaning in his happiness. No one had sent it to him.There was no one to thank for it. His felicity was a closedcircle, a wall of ice."Let us go back," he said sadly to Athenais; "the child isheavy upon my shoulder. We will lay him to sleep, and go intothe library. The air grows chilly. We were mistaken. Thegratitude of life is only a dream. There is no one to thank."And in the garden it was already night.VNo outward change came to the House of the Golden Pillars.Everything moved as smoothly, as delicately, as prosperously,as before. But inwardly there was a subtle, inexplicabletransformation. A vague discontent, a final and inevitablesense of incompleteness, overshadowed existence from thatnight when Hermas realised that his joy could never go beyonditself.The next morning the old man whom he had seen in the Groveof Daphne, but never since, appeared mysteriously at the doorof the house, as if he had been sent for, and entered like aninvited guest.Hermas could not but make him welcome, and at first hetried to regard him with reverence and affection as the onethrough whom fortune had come. But it was impossible. Therewas a chill in the inscrutable smile of Marcion, as he calledhimself, that seemed to mock at reverence. He was in thehouse as one watching a strange experiment--tranquil,interested, ready to supply anything that might be needed forits completion, but thoroughly indifferent to the feelings ofthe subject; an anatomist of life, looking curiously to seehow long it would continue, and how it would act, after theheart had been removed.In his presence Hermas was conscious of a certainirritation, a resentful anger against the calm, frigidscrutiny of the eyes that followed him everywhere, like a pairof spies, peering out over the smiling mouth and the longwhite beard."Why do you look at me so curiously?" asked Hermas, onemorning, as they sat together in the library. "Do you seeanything strange in me?""No," answered Marcion; "something familiar.""And what is that?""A singular likeness to a discontented young man that Imet some years ago in the Grove of Daphne.""But why should that interest you? Surely it was to beexpected.""A thing that we expect often surprises us when we see it.Besides, my curiosity is piqued. I suspect you of keeping asecret from me.""You are jesting with me. There is nothing in my lifethat you do not know. What is the secret?""Nothing more than the wish to have one. You are growingtired of your bargain. The play wearies you. That isfoolish. Do you want to try a new part?"The question was like a mirror upon which one comessuddenly in a half-lighted room. A quick illumination falls onit, and the passer-by is startled by the look of his own face."You are right," said Hermas. "I am tired. We have beengoing on stupidly in this house, as if nothing were possiblebut what my father had done before me. There is nothingoriginal in being rich, and well-fed, and well-dressed.Thousands of men have tried it, and have not been satisfied. Letus do something new. Let us make a mark in the world.""It is well said," nodded the old man; "you are speakingagain like a man after my own heart. There is no folly butthe loss of an opportunity to enjoy a new sensation."From that day Hermas seemed to be possessed with aperpetual haste, an uneasiness that left him no repose. Thesummit of life had been attained, the highest possible pointof felicity. Henceforward the course could only be at alevel--perhaps downward. It might be brief; at the best itcould not be very long. It was madness to lose a day, anhour. That would be the only fatal mistake: to forfeitanything of the bargain that he had made. He would have it, andhold it, and enjoy it all to the full. The world might havenothing better to give than it had already given; but surely ithad many things that were new, and Marcion should help him tofind them.Under his learned counsel the House of the Golden Pillarstook on a new magnificence. Artists were brought from Corinthand Rome and Alexandria to adorn it with splendour. Its fameglittered around the world. Banquets of incredible luxurydrew the most celebrated guests into its triclinium, andfilled them with envious admiration. The bees swarmed andbuzzed about the golden hive. The human insects, gorgeousmoths of pleasure and greedy flies of appetite, parasites andflatterers and crowds of inquisitive idlers, danced andfluttered in the dazzling light that surrounded Hermas.Everything that he touched prospered. He bought a tractof land in the Caucasus, and emeralds were discovered amongthe mountains. He sent a fleet of wheat-ships to Italy, andthe price of grain doubled while it was on the way. He soughtpolitical favour with the emperor, and was rewarded with thegovernorship of the city. His name was a word to conjure with.The beauty of Athenais lost nothing with the passingseasons, but grew more perfect, even under the inexplicableshade of dissatisfaction that sometimes veiled it. "Fair asthe wife of Hermas" was a proverb in Antioch; and soon menbegan to add to it, "Beautiful as the son of Hermas"; for thechild developed swiftly in that favouring clime. At nineyears of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb andclear of eye. His brown head was on a level with his father'sheart. He was the jewel of the House of the Golden Pillars;the pride of Hermas, the new Fortunatus.That year another drop of success fell into his brimmingcup. His black Numidian horses, which he had been trainingfor the world-renowned chariot-races of Antioch, won thevictory over a score of rivals. Hermas received the prizecarelessly from the judge's hands, and turned to drive oncemore around the circus, to show himself to the people. Helifted the eager boy into the chariot beside him to share histriumph.Here, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchlessson, his brighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory,touching his arm, and balancing himself proudly on the swayingfloor of the chariot. As the horses pranced around the ring,a great shout of applause filled the amphitheatre, andthousands of spectators waved their salutations of praise:"Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success! Hail, littleHermas, prince of good luck!"The, sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift flutteringof innumerable garments in the air, startled the horses. Theydashed violently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The leftrein broke. They swerved to the right, swinging the chariotsideways with a grating noise, and dashing it against thestone parapet of the arena. In an instant the wheel wasshattered. The axle struck the ground, and the chariot wasdragged onward, rocking and staggering.By a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frailplatform, clinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy wastossed lightly from his side at the first shock. His head struckthe wall. And when Hermas turned to look for him, he was lyinglike a broken flower on the sand.VIThey carried the boy in a litter to the House of the GoldenPillars, summoning the most skilful physician of Antioch toattend him. For hours the child was as quiet as death.Hermas watched the white eyelids, folded close like lily-budsat night, even as one watches for the morning. At last theyopened; but the fire of fever was burning in the eyes, and thelips were moving in a wild delirium.Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through thehalls and chambers of the splendid, helpless house, now risingin shrill calls of distress and senseless laughter, nowsinking in weariness and dull moaning. The stars shone andfaded; the sun rose and set; the roses bloomed and fell in thegarden; the birds sang and slept among the jasmine-bowers.But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no bloom, nolight--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful looking-forof desolation.He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapelessterror that was moving toward him, but he was impotent to stayor to escape it. He had done all that he could. There wasnothing left but to wait.He paced to and fro, now hurrying to the boy's bed as ifhe could not bear to be away from it, now turning back as ifhe could not endure to be near it. The people of the house,even Athenais, feared to speak to him, there was something sovacant and desperate in his face.At nightfall on the second of those eternal days he shuthimself in the library. The unfilled lamp had gone out,leaving a trail of smoke in the air. The sprigs of mignonetteand rosemary, with which the room was sprinkled every day,were unrenewed, and scented the gloom with close odours ofdecay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus was tumbled indisorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like a man inwhom the very spring of being is broken. Through the darknesssome 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 growsweaker hour by hour. He moans and calls for some one to helphim; then he laughs. It breaks my heart. He has just fallenasleep. The moon is rising now. Unless a change comes hecannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we can do? Isthere no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity usand spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion andhelp; let us pray for his life!"Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing thatcould bring relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere;to find a greater strength than his own and cling to it andplead for mercy and help. To leave this undone was to befalse to his manhood; it was to be no better than the dumbbeasts when their young perish. How could he let his boysuffer and die, without an effort, a cry, a prayer?He sank on his knees beside Athenais."Out of the depths--out of the depths we call for pity.The, light of our eyes is fading--the child is dying. Oh, thechild, the child! Spare the child's life, thou merciful--"Not a word; only that deathly blank. The hands of Hermas,stretched out in supplication, touched the marble table. Hefelt the cool hardness of the polished stone beneath hisfingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged by his touch, fellrustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint and faroff, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously.The heart of Hermas was like a lump of ice in his bosom. Herose slowly to his feet, lifting Athenais with him."It is in vain," he said; "there is nothing for us to do.Long ago I knew something. I think it would have helped us.But I have forgotten it. It is all gone. But I would giveall that I have, if I could bring it back again now, at thishour, in this time of our bitter trouble."A slave entered the room while he was speaking, andapproached hesitatingly."Master," he said, "John of Antioch, whom we wereforbidden to admit to the house, has come again. He wouldtake no denial. Even now he waits in the peristyle; and theold man Marcion is with him, seeking to turn him away.""Come," said Hermas to his wife, "let us go to him."In the central hall the two men were standing; Marcion,with disdainful eyes and sneering lips, taunting the unbiddenguest; John, silent, quiet, patient, while the wonderingslaves looked on in dismay. He lifted his searching gaze tothe haggard face of Hermas."My son, I knew that I should see you again, even thoughyou did not send for me. I have come to you because I haveheard that you are in trouble.""It is true," answered Hermas, passionately; "we are introuble, desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child isdying. We are poor, we are destitute, we are afflicted. Inall this house, in all the world, there is no one that canhelp us. I knew something long ago, when I was with you,--aword, a name,--in which we might have found hope. But I havelost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from meforever."He pointed to Marcion. The old man's lips curledscornfully. "A word, a name!" he sneered. "What is that, Omost wise man and holy Presbyter? A thing of air, a thingthat men make to describe their own dreams and fancies. Whowould go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It isa prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, theyoung man parted with it of his own free will. He bargainedwith me cleverly. I promised him wealth and pleasure andfame. What did he give in return? An empty name, which wasa burden--""Servant of demons, be still!" The voice of John rangclear, like a trumpet, through the hall. "There is a namewhich none shall dare to take in vain. There is a name whichnone can lose without being lost. There is a name at whichthe devils tremble. Go quickly, before I speak it!"Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. Alamp near him tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. Inthe confusion 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 withwhich you parted so lightly is the keyword of all life.Without it the world has no meaning, existence no peace, deathno refuge. It is the word that purifies love, and comfortsgrief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most preciousword that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart hasconceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life andbreath and all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who,though we may forget Him, never forgets us; the name of Himwho pities us as you pity your suffering child; the name ofHim who, though we wander far from Him, seeks us in thewilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent me thisnight, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart thatis perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all yoursoul to the blessed name of God our Father."The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like afragment of ice that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweetrelease spread through him from head to foot. The lost wasfound. The dew of peace fell on his parched soul, and thewithering flower of human love raised its head again. He stoodupright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven."Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O myGod, be merciful to me, for my soul trusteth in Thee. My God,Thou hast given; take not Thy gift away from me, O my God!Spare the life of this my child, O Thou God, my Father, myFather!"A deep hush followed the cry. "Listen!" whisperedAthenais, breathlessly.Was it an echo? It could not be, for it came again--thevoice of the child, clear and low, waking from sleep, andcalling: "Father!"
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