WHEN Hera left Pompey’s Theatre, she went directly home. On the way pleasant recollections of her children filled her mind. She recalled Psyche as a little child. Once more she heard with the ear of imagination difficult Greek words childishly syllabled on Psyche’s lips. She heard again her childish voice strained with excessive happiness, singing an old Greek song. She recalled her childish expressions of joy and of sorrow. She thought of the small wooden doll that Psyche had loved like a mother; of the toys and household objects endeared to the whole family by association with Psyche’s childhood. She thought of Psyche in the religious festivals,—a little child, clad in pure white, her face suffused with holy zeal. She thought of her later, when Psyche led the chorus of youths and maidens, all carrying garlands of roses and daisies, and singing sacred melodies to Maia, goddess of spring.
But when Psyche ceased to take part in the festivals, when maidenhood dimmed the radiance of childhood, that was the first vapor which veiled the sun of Hera’s happiness. However, this waning light of childhood merged almost imperceptibly into the silvery light of Psyche’s public career. Now even this was to be shadowed; for womanhood, like a semi-transparent shade of alabaster, would forever obscure the light of maidenhood.
As she walked along, she was so occupied in contemplation that she passed a shrine of Apollo without offering a prayer. When she became aware of this omission, she was filled with anxious forebodings. To omit praying at Apollo’s shrine was a bad omen.
But again her thoughts reverted to her children. Her heart’s love belonged to them. This time she thought especially of Gannon. Once again she followed him through all the changes of his young life. The first smile, the little outstretched hands, the first trembling footsteps, the loving caresses to her cheek, the tearful eyes,—all these pictures presented themselves to her. She heard his broken words echo in her ears, his complaints, his songs, and cries of joy. How her heart beat with delight when she saw her children in the innocent ecstasies of play! How she had smiled at their childish ideas!
As she walked along, a wan-faced woman who was quieting a sickly child held out her scrawny hand for alms, saying, “For the love of the Mother of God, give me food for my dying child!”
Hera stopped, looked at the wan face of the mother, then at the miserable, sickly child, whose lips were nearly as white as the curds of milk in its half-open mouth. She pressed a piece of money into the mother’s hand. At that moment the babe convulsively moved, gave a feeble cry, rolled its eyes, and then grew rigid. The child died before Hera’s eyes. The poor mother shrieked with anguish. Hera trembled. The unsaid prayers at Apollo’s shrine and the sight of the dead child were the most ominous signs that had ever come into her experience. She silently went her way, deeply impressed by these warnings. She wished for some one to talk to. “Would that Alcmaeon or Psyche were only with me!” she said to herself.
If Hera’s heart beat for her children, her love for Alcmaeon was the power that controlled the pulsations. Her soul belonged to him. But her life was completely wrapped up in her family. Rarely did she see or talk with any one but them. Her life had been one bright summer in the sunshine of their love. No dark cloud had shadowed her life as yet, and no cloud was visible on the horizon of her happiness. To counteract the evil effects of the warnings she had received, she softly sung a hymn as she walked along. So absorbed was she in contemplation that she did not observe two soldiers before her, carrying a litter. She did not even see them when they turned down her street. But when they stopped before her house, she hastened forward in alarm.
While she quickly opened the door and helped them place the litter on the table, she anxiously asked them what had happened. They told her that an accident had befallen Gannon. Thinking that he was only injured, she tremblingly drew back the cover. She beheld the dead face of her dear son. She uttered a piercing shriek of horror and despair. Her cry aroused the neighbors, who collected around the door and curiously looked inside. The distracted mother quickly closed the door. Wringing her hands, she asked, in a voice broken by sobs, how he had died. In a dazed manner she gathered from the replies of the soldiers that at midnight, while on the roof of the camp, he had lost his balance and had fallen to the ground.
The distance between her happy recollections of the past and the tragic events of the present was too great to be traversed by Hera’s mind in so short a time. Her heart felt heavy, like a stone falling into dark waters. Alone with her grief, she felt afraid. In falling, Gannon had broken his neck. The only marks on his body were a gash on the back of his head and bruises around his neck. His uninjured, handsome face was white, but natural in expression. The wretched mother looked into his face. She touched and petted it. She covered it with tears and kisses. She touched his hands, but they were cold and stiff. She hastily drew hers back. Nearly beside herself, she threw her arms around him. Shedding tears and moaning his name, she trembled above him. At last she lost her powers of self-control and swooned away.
While Hera lay over the body of Gannon, Lupa entered. Learning from the gossip of the neighbors that some one was dead, she knocked on Alcmaeon’s door. As no one answered, she opened it and whispered Psyche’s name. Not hearing a reply the second time, she entered, and saw Hera prostrate upon a body which lay on a litter. She quietly approached and lightly touched her. There was no response. She called aloud, “O Hera, Hera!” and shook her. Hera slowly returned to consciousness and looked vacantly around the room. When she saw Lupa’s homely face so full of sympathy, she whispered that Gannon was dead. Lupa made no reply. Throwing her long arms around Hera’s neck, she sobbed aloud. Soon after, they heard some one outside. It was Alcmaeon, coming home from school.