They carried the boy in a litter to the House of the Golden Pillars,
summoning the most skilful physician of Antioch to attend him. For
hours the child was as quiet as death. Hermas watched the white eyelids,
folded close like lily-buds at night, even as one watches for the
morning. At last they opened; but the fire of fever was burning in the
eyes, and the lips were moving in a wild delirium.
Hour after hour that sweet childish voice rang through the halls and
chambers of the splendid, helpless house, now rising in shrill calls
of distress and senseless laughter, now sinking in weariness and dull
moaning. The stars shone and faded; the sun rose and set; the roses
bloomed and fell in the garden; the birds sang and slept among the
jasmine-bowers. But in the heart of Hermas there was no song, no bloom,
no light--only speechless anguish, and a certain fearful looking-for of
desolation.
He was like a man in a nightmare. He saw the shapeless terror that was
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 could not
bear to be away from it, now turning back as if he could not endure to
be near it. The people of the house, even Athenais, feared to speak to
him, there was something so vacant and desperate in his face.
At nightfall on the second of those eternal days he shut himself in the
library. The unfilled lamp had gone out, leaving a trail of smoke in
the air. The sprigs of mignonette and rosemary, with which the room was
sprinkled every day, were unrenewed, and scented the gloom with close
odours of decay. A costly manuscript of Theocritus was tumbled in
disorder on the floor. Hermas sank into a chair like a man in whom the
very spring of being is broken. Through the darkness some one drew near.
He did not even lift his head. A hand touched him; a soft arm was laid
over his shoulders. It was Athenais, kneeling beside him and speaking
very low:
“Hermas--it is almost over--the child! His voice grows weaker hour by
hour. He moans and calls for some one to help him; then he laughs. It
breaks my heart. He has just fallen asleep. The moon is rising now.
Unless a change comes he cannot last till sunrise. Is there nothing we
can do? Is there no power that can save him? Is there no one to pity us
and spare us? Let us call, let us beg for compassion and help; let us
pray for his life!”
Yes; this was what he wanted--this was the only thing that could bring
relief: to pray; to pour out his sorrow somewhere; to find a greater
strength than his own and cling to it and plead for mercy and help. To
leave this undone was to be false to his manhood; it was 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, 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, the child, 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. He felt the cool hardness of
the polished stone beneath his fingers. A roll of papyrus, dislodged by
his touch, fell rustling to the floor. Through the open door, faint
and far off, came the footsteps of the servants, moving cautiously. 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 I
knew something. I think it would have helped us. But I have forgotten
it. It is all gone. But I would give all that I have, if I could bring
it back again now, at this hour, in this time of our bitter trouble.”
A slave entered the room while he was speaking, and approached
hesitatingly.
“Master,” he said, “John of Antioch, whom we were forbidden to admit to
the house, has come again. He would take no denial. Even now he waits in
the peristyle; and the old 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 unbidden guest; John, silent,
quiet, patient, while the wondering slaves looked on in dismay. He
lifted his searching gaze to the haggard face of Hermas.
“My son, I knew that I should see you again, even though you did not
send for me. I have come to you because I have heard that you are in
trouble.”
“It is true,” answered Hermas, passionately; “we are in trouble,
desperate trouble, trouble accursed. Our child is dying. We are poor,
we are destitute, we are afflicted. In all this house, in all the world,
there is no one that can help us. I knew something long ago, when I was
with you,--a word, a name,--in which we might have found hope. But
I have lost it. I gave it to this man. He has taken it away from me
forever.”
He pointed to Marcion. The old man’s lips curled scornfully. “A word, a
name!” he sneered. “What is that, O most wise man and holy Presbyter?
A thing of air, a thing that men make to describe their own dreams and
fancies. Who would go about to rob any one of such a thing as that? It
is a prize that only a fool would think of taking. Besides, the young
man parted with it of his own free will. He bargained with me cleverly.
I promised him wealth and pleasure and fame. What did he give in return?
An empty name, which was a burden--”
“Servant of demons, be still!” The voice of John rang clear, like a
trumpet, through the hall. “There is a name which none shall dare to
take in vain. There is a name which none can lose without being lost.
There is a name at which the devils tremble. Go quickly, before I speak
it!”
Marcion shrank into the shadow of one of the pillars. A lamp near him
tottered on its pedestal and fell with a crash. In the 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 with which you parted so
lightly is the keyword of all life. Without it the world has no meaning,
existence no peace, death no refuge. It is the word that purifies
love, and comforts grief, and keeps hope alive forever. It is the most
precious word that ever ear has heard, or mind has known, or heart has
conceived. It is the name of Him who has given us life and breath and
all things richly to enjoy; the name of Him who, though we may forget
Him, never forgets us; the name of Him who pities us as you pity your
suffering child; the name of Him who, though we wander far from Him,
seeks us in the wilderness, and sent His Son, even as His Son has sent
me this night, to breathe again that forgotten name in the heart that is
perishing without it. Listen, my son, listen with all your soul to the
blessed name of God our Father.”
The cold agony in the breast of Hermas dissolved like a fragment of ice
that melts in the summer sea. A sense of sweet release spread through
him from head to foot. The lost was found. The dew of peace fell on his
parched soul, and the withering flower of human love raised its head
again. He stood upright, and lifted his hands high toward heaven.
“Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, O Lord! O my God, 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, 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 of the
child, clear and low, waking from sleep, and calling: “Father!”