Down a path between the piles he walked slowly, wondering if the man of whose genius there were here such abounding proofs could have been his father’s slave?
If so, to what class had he belonged?
If a Jew, was he the son of a servant?
Or was he a debtor or a debtor’s son?
Or had he been sentenced and sold for theft?
These thoughts, as they passed, in nowise disturbed the growing respect for the merchant of which he was each instant more and more conscious.
A peculiarity of our admiration for another is that it is always looking for circumstances to justify itself.
At length a man approached and spoke to him.
“What would you have?”
“I would see Simonides, the merchant.”
“Will you come this way?”
By a number of paths left in the stowage, they finally came to a flight of steps; ascending which, he found himself on the roof of the depot, and in front of a structure which cannot be better described than as a lesser stone house built upon another, invisible from the landing below, and out west of the bridge under the open sky.
The roof, hemmed in by a low wall, seemed like a terrace, which, to his astonishment, was brilliant with flowers; in the rich surrounding, the house sat squat, a plain square block, unbroken except by a doorway in front.
A dustless path led to the door, through a bordering of shrubs of Persian rose in perfect bloom.
Breathing a sweet attar-perfume, he followed the guide.
At the end of a darkened passage within, they stopped before a curtain half parted.
The man called out,
“A stranger to see the master.”
A clear voice replied,
“In God’s name, let him enter.”
A Roman might have called the apartment into which the visitor was ushered his atrium.
The walls were paneled; each panel was comparted like a modern office-desk, and each compartment crowded with labelled folios all filemot with age and use.
Between the panels, and above and below them, were borders of wood once white, now tinted like cream, and carved with marvellous intricacy of design.
Above a cornice of gilded balls, the ceiling rose in pavilion style until it broke into a shallow dome set with hundreds of panes of violet mica, permitting a flood of light deliciously reposeful.
The floor was carpeted with gray rugs so thick that an invading foot fell half buried and soundless.
In the midlight of the room were two persons— a man resting in a chair high-backed, broad-armed, and lined with pliant cushions; and at his left, leaning against the back of the chair, a girl well forward into womanhood.
At sight of them Ben-Hur felt the blood redden his forehead; bowing, as much to recover himself as in respect, he lost the lifting of the hands, and the shiver and shrink with which the sitter caught sight of him— an emotion as swift to go as it had been to come.
When he raised his eyes the two were in the same position, except the girl’s hand had fallen and was resting lightly upon the elder’s shoulder; both of them were regarding him fixedly.
“If you are Simonides, the merchant, and a Jew”— Ben-Hur stopped an instant— “then the peace of the God of our father Abraham upon you and— yours.” The last word was addressed to the girl.
“I am the Simonides of whom you speak, by birthright a Jew,” the man made answer, in a voice singularly clear. “I am Simonides, and a Jew; and I return you your salutation, with prayer to know who calls upon me.”
Ben-Hur looked as he listened, and where the figure of the man should have been in healthful roundness, there was only a formless heap sunk in the depths of the cushions, and covered by a quilted robe of sombre silk.
Over the heap shone a head royally proportioned— the ideal head of a statesman and conqueror— a head broad of base and domelike in front, such as Angelo would have modelled for C?sar.
White hair dropped in thin locks over the white brows, deepening the blackness of the eyes shining through them like sullen lights.
The face was bloodless, and much puffed with folds, especially under the chin.
In other words, the head and face were those of a man who might move the world more readily than the world could move him— a man to be twice twelve times tortured into the shapeless cripple he was, without a groan, much less a confession; a man to yield his life, but never a purpose or a point; a man born in armor, and assailable only through his loves.
To him Ben-Hur stretched his hands, open and palm up, as he would offer peace at the same time he asked it.
“I am Judah, son of Ithamar, late head of the House of Hur, and a prince of Jerusalem.”
The merchant’s right hand lay outside the robe— a long, thin hand, articulate to deformity with suffering.
It closed tightly; otherwise there was not the slightest expression of feeling of any kind on his part; nothing to warrant an inference of surprise or interest; nothing but this calm answer,
“The princes of Jerusalem, of the pure blood, are always welcome in my house; you are welcome.
Give the young man a seat, Esther.”
The girl took an ottoman near by, and carried it to Ben-Hur.
As she arose from placing the seat, their eyes met.
“The peace of our Lord with you,” she said, modestly. “Be seated and at rest.”
When she resumed her place by the chair, she had not divined his purpose.
The powers of woman go not so far: if the matter is of finer feeling, such as pity, mercy, sympathy, that she detects; and therein is a difference between her and man which will endure as long as she remains, by nature, alive to such feelings.
She was simply sure he brought some wound of life for healing.
Ben-Hur did not take the offered seat, but said, deferentially,
“I pray the good master Simonides that he will not hold me an intruder.
Coming up the river yesterday, I heard he knew my father.”