The Blue Flower [54]
the young man's eyes. An icicle of pain darted through them;
every nerve in his body was drawn together there in a knot of
agony.
Then all the tangle of pain seemed to be lifted out of
him. A cool languor of delight flowed back through every
vein, and he sank into a profound sleep.
III
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