Ben Hur (68 page)

As Esther started in return to the summer-house, 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 may be saved;
not so a man in love."

"But you have influence with him. He is alone in the world. Show him
his danger. Tell him what a woman she is."

"That might save him from her. Would it give him to you, Esther? No,"
and his brows fell darkly over his eyes. "I am a servant, as my
fathers were for generations; yet I could not say to him, 'Lo,
master, my daughter! She is fairer than the Egyptian, and loves
thee better!' I have caught too much from years of liberty and
direction. The words would blister my tongue. The stones upon the
old hills yonder would turn in their beds for shame when I go out
to them. No, by the patriarchs, Esther, I would rather lay us both
with your mother to sleep as she sleeps!"

A blush burned Esther's whole face.

"I did not mean you to tell him so, father. I was concerned for
him alone—for his happiness, not mine. Because I have dared love
him, I shall keep myself worthy his respect; so only can I excuse
my folly. Let me read his letter now."

"Yes, read it."

She began at once, in haste to conclude the distasteful subject.

"Nisan, 8th day.

"On the road from Galilee to Jerusalem.

"The Nazarene is on the way also. With him, though without his
knowledge, I am bringing a full legion of mine. A second legion
follows. The Passover will excuse the multitude. He said upon
setting out, 'We will go up to Jerusalem, and all things that
are written by the prophets concerning me shall be accomplished.'

"Our waiting draws to an end.

"In haste.

"Peace to thee, Simonides.

"BEN-HUR."

Esther returned the letter to her father, while a choking sensation
gathered in her throat. There was not a word in the missive for
her—not even in the salutation had she a share—and it would have
been so easy to have written "and to thine, peace." For the first time
in her life she felt the smart of a jealous sting.

"The eighth day," said Simonides, "the eighth day; and this, Esther,
this is the—"

"The ninth," she replied.

"Ah, then, they may be in Bethany now."

"And possibly we may see him to-night," she added, pleased into
momentary forgetfulness.

"It may be, it may be! To-morrow is the Feast of Unleavened Bread,
and he may wish to celebrate it; so may the Nazarene; and we may
see him—we may see both of them, Esther."

At this point the servant appeared with the wine and water.
Esther helped her father, and in the midst of the service Iras
came upon the roof.

To the Jewess the Egyptian never appeared so very, very beautiful
as at that moment. Her gauzy garments fluttered about her like a
little cloud of mist; her forehead, neck, and arms glittered with
the massive jewelry so affected by her people. Her countenance
was suffused with pleasure. She moved with buoyant steps,
and self-conscious, though without affectation. Esther at the
sight shrank within herself, and nestled closer to her father.

"Peace to you, Simonides, and to the pretty Esther peace," said Iras,
inclining her head to the latter. "You remind me, good master—if
I may say it without offence-you remind me of the priests in Persia
who climb their temples at the decline of day to send prayers after
the departing sun. Is there anything in the worship you do not know,
let me call my father. He is Magian-bred."

"Fair Egyptian," the merchant replied, nodding with grave politeness,
"your father is a good man who would not be offended if he knew I told
you his Persian lore is the least part of his wisdom."

Iras's lip curled slightly.

"To speak like a philosopher, as you invite me," she said, "the
least part always implies a greater. Let me ask what you esteem
the greater part of the rare quality you are pleased to attribute
to him."

Simonides turned upon her somewhat sternly.

"Pure wisdom always directs itself towards God; the purest wisdom
is knowledge of God; and no man of my acquaintance has it in
higher degree, or makes it more manifest in speech and act,
than the good Balthasar."

To end the parley, he raised the cup and drank.

The Egyptian turned to Esther a little testily.

"A man who has millions in store, and fleets of ships at sea,
cannot discern in what simple women like us find amusement.
Let us leave him. By the wall yonder we can talk."

They went to the parapet then, stopping at the place where,
years before, Ben-Hur loosed the broken tile upon the head
of Gratus.

"You have not been to Rome?" Iras began, toying the while with
one of her unclasped bracelets.

"No," said Esther, demurely.

"Have you not wished to go?"

"No."

"Ah, how little there has been of your life!"

The sigh that succeeded the exclamation could not have been
more piteously expressive had the loss been the Egyptian's own.
Next moment her laugh might have been heard in the street below;
and she said "Oh, oh, my pretty simpleton! The half-fledged birds
nested in the ear of the great bust out on the Memphian sands know
nearly as much as you."

Then, seeing Esther's confusion, she changed her manner, and said
in a confiding tone, "You must not take offence. Oh no! I was
playing. Let me kiss the hurt, and tell you what I would not
to any other—not if Simbel himself asked it of me, offering a
lotus-cup of the spray of the Nile!"

Another laugh, masking excellently the look she turned sharply
upon the Jewess, and she said, "The King is coming."

Esther gazed at her in innocent surprise.

"The Nazarene," Iras continued—"he whom our fathers have been
talking about so much, whom Ben-Hur has been serving and toiling
for so long"—her voice dropped several tones lower—"the Nazarene
will be here to-morrow, and Ben-Hur to-night."

Esther struggled to maintain her composure, but failed: her eyes
fell, the tell-tale blood surged to her cheek and forehead, and she
was saved sight of the triumphant smile that passed, like a gleam,
over the face of the Egyptian.

"See, here is his promise."

And from her girdle she took a roll.

"Rejoice with me, O my friend! He will be here tonight! On the
Tiber there is a house, a royal property, which he has pledged
to me; and to be its mistress is to be—"

A sound of some one walking swiftly along the street below
interrupted the speech, and she leaned over the parapet to see.
Then she drew back, and cried, with hands clasped above her head,
"Now blessed be Isis! 'Tis he—Ben-Hur himself! That he should
appear while I had such thought of him! There are no gods if it
be not a good omen. Put your arms about me, Esther—and a kiss!"

The Jewess looked up. Upon each cheek there was a glow; her eyes
sparkled with a light more nearly of anger than ever her nature
emitted before. Her gentleness had been too roughly overridden.
It was not enough for her to be forbidden more than fugitive dreams
of the man she loved; a boastful rival must tell her in confidence
of her better success, and of the brilliant promises which were
its rewards. Of her, the servant of a servant, there had been no
hint of remembrance; this other could show his letter, leaving her
to imagine all it breathed. So she said,

"Dost thou love him so much, then, or Rome so much better?"

The Egyptian drew back a step; then she bent her haughty head
quite near her questioner.

"What is he to thee, daughter of Simonides?"

Esther, all thrilling, began, "He is my—"

A thought blasting as lightning stayed the words: she paled,
trembled, recovered, and answered,

"He is my father's friend."

Her tongue had refused to admit her servile condition.

Iras laughed more lightly than before.

"Not more than that?" she said. "Ah, by the lover-gods of Egypt,
thou mayst keep thy kisses—keep them. Thou hast taught me but
now that there are others vastly more estimable waiting me here
in Judea; and"—she turned away, looking back over her shoulder—
"I will go get them. Peace to thee."

Esther saw her disappear down the steps, when, putting her hands
over her face, she burst into tears so they ran scalding through
her fingers—tears of shame and choking passion. And, to deepen
the paroxysm to her even temper so strange, up with a new meaning
of withering force rose her father's words—"Thy love might not
have been vainly given had I kept fast hold of all I had, as I
might have done."

And all the stars were out, burning low above the city and the
dark wall of mountains about it, before she recovered enough to
go back to the summer-house, and in silence take her accustomed
place at her father's side, humbly waiting his pleasure. To such
duty it seemed her youth, if not her life, must be given. And,
let the truth be said, now that the pang was spent, she went not
unwillingly back to the duty.

An hour or thereabouts after the scene upon the roof, Balthasar and
Simonides, the latter attended by Esther, met in the great chamber
of the palace; and while they were talking, Ben-Hur and Iras came
in together.

The young Jew, advancing in front of his companion, walked first
to Balthasar, and saluted him, and received his reply; then he
turned to Simonides, but paused at sight of Esther.

It is not often we have hearts roomy enough for more than one of
the absorbing passions at the same time; in its blaze the others
may continue to live, but only as lesser lights. So with Ben-Hur,
much study of possibilities, indulgence of hopes and dreams,
influences born of the condition of his country, influences more
direct—that of Iras, for example—had made him in the broadest
worldly sense ambitious; and as he had given the passion place,
allowing it to become a rule, and finally an imperious governor,
the resolves and impulses of former days faded imperceptibly out
of being, and at last almost out of recollection. It is at best
so easy to forget our youth; in his case it was but natural that
his own sufferings and the mystery darkening the fate of his family
should move him less and less as, in hope at least, he approached
nearer and nearer the goals which occupied all his visions. Only let
us not judge him too harshly.