There is a slumber so deep that it annihilates time. It is like a
fragment of eternity. Beneath its enchantment of vacancy, a day seems
like a thousand years, and a thousand years might well pass as one day.
It was such a sleep that fell upon Hermas in the Grove of Daphne. An
immeasurable period, an interval of life so blank and empty that he
could not tell whether it was long or short, had passed over him when
his senses began to stir again. The setting sun was shooting arrows of
gold under the glossy laurel-leaves. He rose and stretched his arms,
grasping a smooth branch above him and shaking it, to make sure 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 had
changed, he knew not how. Something that did not belong to him had
dropped away; he had returned to a former state of being. He felt as if
anything might happen to him, and he was ready for anything. He was
a new man, yet curiously familiar to himself--as if he had done 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 servants in
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 the point
of death, and has sent for you. Since the sixth hour 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 him to-day. His
father lay on an ivory couch in the inmost chamber, with shrunken face
and restless eyes, his lean fingers picking incessantly at the silken
coverlet.
“My son!” he murmured; “Hermas, my son! It is good that you have come
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 have changed
everything. Hermas, my son, come nearer--close beside me. Take my hand,
my son!”
The young man obeyed, and, kneeling by the couch, gathered his father’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 my friend. But
now he is gone--where? My soul is empty--nothing beyond--very dark--I am
afraid. But you know something better. You found something that made
you willing to give up your life for it--it, must have been almost like
dying--yet you were happy. What was it you found? See, I am giving you
everything. I have forgiven you. Now forgive me. Tell me, what is it?
Your secret, your faith--give it to me before I go.”
At the sound of this broken pleading a strange passion of pity and
love took the young man by the throat. His voice shook a little as he
answered eagerly:
“Father, there is nothing to forgive. I am your son; I will gladly
tell you all that I know. I will give you the secret. Father, you must
believe with all your heart, and soul, and strength in--”
Where was the word--the word that he had been used to utter night and
morning, the word that had meant to him more than he had ever known?
What had become of it?
He groped for it in the dark room of his mind. He had thought he could
lay his hand upon it in a moment, but it was gone. Some one had taken
it away. Everything else was most clear to him: the terror of death;
the lonely soul appealing from his father’s eyes; the instant need of
comfort and help. But at the one point where he looked for help he could
find nothing; 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 slipped away from
me. I shall find it in a moment. There is hope--I will tell you
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, and
relaxed. The light behind the eyes went out.
Hermas, the master of the House of the Golden Pillars, was keeping watch
by the dead.