The Lost Word
IV. Love In Search Of A Word
THE break with the old life was as clean as if it had been cut with a knife. Some faint
image of a hermit's cell, a bare lodging in a back street of Antioch, a class-room full of
earnest students, remained in Hermas' memory. Some dull echo of the voice of John the
Presbyter, and the murmured sound of chanting, and the murmur of great congregations,
still lingered in his ears; but it was like something that had happened to another person,
something that he had read long ago, but of which he had lost the meaning.
His new life was full and smooth and rich--too rich for any sense of loss to make itself
felt. There were a hundred affairs to busy him, and the days ran swiftly by as if they were
shod with winged sandals.
Nothing needed to be considered, prepared for, begun. Everything was ready and waiting
for him. All that he had to do was to go on with it. The estate of Demetrius was even
greater than the world had supposed. There were fertile lands in Syria which the emperor
had given him, marble-quarries in Phrygia, and forests of valuable timber in Cilicia; the
vaults of the villa contained chests of gold and silver; the secret cabinets in the master's
room were full of precious stones. The stewards were diligent and faithful. The servants
of the magnificent household rejoiced at the young master's return. His table was spread;
the rose-garland of pleasure was woven for his head, and his cup was already filled with
the spicy wine of power.
The period of mourning for his father came at a fortunate moment, to seclude and
safeguard him from the storm of political troubles and persecutions that fell upon Antioch
after the insults offered by the mob to the imperial statues in the year 887. The friends of
Demetrius, prudent and conservative persons, gathered around Hermas and made him
welcome to their circle. Chief among them was Libanius, the sophist, his nearest
neighbour, whose daughter Athenais had been the playmate of 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? To see the uncertain lines of-youth rounded into firmness
and symmetry, to discover the half-ripe, merry, changing face of the girl matured into
perfect loveliness, and looking at you with calm, clear, serious eyes, not forgetting the
past, but fully conscious of the changed present--this is to behold a miracle in the flesh.
"Where have you been, these two years?" said Athenais, as they walked together through
the garden of lilies where they had so often played.
"In a land of tiresome dreams," answered Hermas; "but you have wakened me, and I am
never going back again."
It was not to be supposed that the sudden disappearance of Hermas from among his
former associates could long remain unnoticed. At first it was a mystery. There was a
fear, for two or three days, that he might be lost. Some of his more intimate companions