The Blue Flower [59]
began to add to it, "Beautiful as the son of Hermas"; for the
child developed swiftly in that favouring clime. At nine
years of age he was straight and strong, firm of limb and
clear of eye. His brown head was on a level with his father's
heart. He was the jewel of the House of the Golden Pillars;
the pride of Hermas, the new Fortunatus.
That year another drop of success fell into his brimming
cup. His black Numidian horses, which he had been training
for the world-renowned chariot-races of Antioch, won the
victory over a score of rivals. Hermas received the prize
carelessly from the judge's hands, and turned to drive once
more around the circus, to show himself to the people. He
lifted the eager boy into the chariot beside him to share his
triumph.
Here, indeed, was the glory of his life--this matchless
son, his brighter counterpart carved in breathing ivory,
touching his arm, and balancing himself proudly on the swaying
floor of the chariot. As the horses pranced around the ring,
a great shout of applause filled the amphitheatre, and
thousands of spectators waved their salutations of praise:
"Hail, fortunate Hermas, master of success! Hail, little
Hermas, prince of good luck!"
The, sudden tempest of acclamation, the swift fluttering
of innumerable garments in the air, startled the horses. They
dashed violently forward, and plunged upon the bits. The left
rein broke. They swerved to the right, swinging the chariot
sideways with a grating noise, and dashing it against the
stone parapet of the arena. In an instant the wheel was
shattered. The axle struck the ground, and the chariot was
dragged onward, rocking and staggering.
By a strenuous effort Hermas kept his place on the frail
platform, clinging to the unbroken rein. But the boy was
tossed lightly from his side at the first shock. His head struck
the wall. And when Hermas turned to look for him, he was lying
like a broken flower on the sand.
VI
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