Ben Hur Lew Wallace (black male authors .TXT) 📖

name. Passing the time in the labors of preparation in Galilee, he waited patiently the action of the Nazarene, who became daily more and more a mystery to him, and by prodigies done, often before his eyes, kept him in a state of anxious doubt both as to his character and mission. Occasionally he came up to the Holy City, stopping at the paternal house; always, however, as a stranger and a guest.

These visits of Ben-Hur, it should also be observed, were for more than mere rest from labor. Balthasar and Iras made their home in the palace; and the charm of the daughter was still upon him with all its original freshness, while the father, though feebler in body, held him an unflagging listener to speeches of astonishing power, urging the divinity of the wandering miracle-worker of whom they were all so expectant.

As to Simonides and Esther, they had arrived from Antioch only a few days before this their reappearance⁠—a wearisome journey to the merchant, borne, as he had been, in a palanquin swung between two camels, which, in their careening, did not always keep the same step. But now that he was come, the good man, it seemed, could not see enough of his native land. He delighted in the perch upon the roof, and spent most of his day hours there seated in an armchair, the duplicate of that one kept for him in the cabinet over the storehouse by the Orontes. In the shade of the summerhouse he could drink fully of the inspiring air lying lightly upon the familiar hills; he could better watch the sun rise, run its course, and set as it used to in the far-gone, not a habit lost; and with Esther by him it was so much easier up there close to the sky, to bring back the other Esther, his love in youth, his wife, dearer growing with the passage of years. And yet he was not unmindful of business. Every day a messenger brought him a despatch from Sanballat, in charge of the big commerce behind; and every day a despatch left him for Sanballat with directions of such minuteness of detail as to exclude all judgment save his own, and all chances except those the Almighty has refused to submit to the most mindful of men.

As Esther started in return to the summerhouse, the sunlight fell softly upon the dustless roof, showing her a woman now⁠—small, graceful in form, of regular features, rosy with youth and health, bright with intelligence, beautiful with the outshining of a devoted nature⁠—a woman to be loved because loving was a habit of life irrepressible with her.

She looked at the package as she turned, paused, looked at it a second time more closely than at first; and the blood rose reddening her cheeks⁠—the seal was Ben-Hur’s. With quickened steps she hastened on.

Simonides held the package a moment while he also inspected the seal. Breaking it open, he gave her the roll it contained.

“Read,” he said.

His eyes were upon her as he spoke, and instantly a troubled expression fell upon his own face.

“You know who it is from, I see, Esther.”

“Yes⁠—from⁠—our master.”

Though the manner was halting, she met his gaze with modest sincerity. Slowly his chin sank into the roll of flesh puffed out under it like a cushion.

“You love him, Esther,” he said, quietly.

“Yes,” she answered.

“Have you thought well of what you do?”

“I have tried not to think of him, father, except as the master to whom I am dutifully bound. The effort has not helped me to strength.”

“A good girl, a good girl, even as thy mother was,” he said, dropping into reverie, from which she roused him by unrolling the paper.

“The Lord forgive me, but⁠—but thy love might not have been vainly given had I kept fast hold of all I had, as I might have done⁠—such power is there in money!”

“It would have been worse for me had you done so, father; for then I had been unworthy a look from him, and without pride in you. Shall I not read now?”

“In a moment,” he said. “Let me, for your sake, my child, show you the worst. Seeing it with me may make it less terrible to you. His love, Esther, is all bestowed.”

“I know it,” she said, calmly.

“The Egyptian has him in her net,” he continued. “She has the cunning of her race, with beauty to help her⁠—much beauty, great cunning; but, like her race again, no heart. The daughter who despises her father will bring her husband to grief.”

“Does she that?”

Simonides went on:

“Balthasar is a wise man who has been wonderfully favored for a Gentile, and his faith becomes him; yet she makes a jest of it. I heard her say, speaking of him yesterday, ‘The follies of youth are excusable; nothing is admirable in the aged except wisdom, and when that goes from them, they should die.’ A cruel speech, fit for a Roman. I applied it to myself, knowing a feebleness like her father’s will come to me also⁠—nay, it is not far off. But you, Esther, will never say of me⁠—no, never⁠—‘It were better he were dead.’ No, your mother was a daughter of Judah.”

With half-formed tears, she kissed him, and said, “I am my mother’s child.”

“Yes, and my daughter⁠—my daughter, who is to me all the Temple was to Solomon.”

After a silence, he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and resumed: “When he has taken the Egyptian to wife, Esther, he will think of you with repentance and much calling of the spirit; for at last he will awake to find himself but the minister of her bad ambition. Rome is the centre of all her dreams. To her he is the son of Arrius the duumvir, not the son of Hur, Prince of Jerusalem.”

Esther made no attempt to conceal the effect of these words.

“Save him, father! It is not too late!” she said, entreatingly.

He answered, with a dubious smile, “A man drowning