Gregorio felt a little bit ashamed of himself next morning. The
excitement had passed, and the full meaning of his words came back to
him and made him shudder. The sun, already risen, sent shafts of light
between the lips of the wooden lattice. A faint sound of life and
movement stole upward from the street below. But Xantippe and the boy
still slumbered, though the woman’s form shook convulsively at times,
for she sobbed in her sleep.
Gregorio looked at the two for a minute and then raised himself with
an oath. The woman’s heavy breathing irritated him, for, after all, he
argued, it was her duty as well as his to sacrifice herself for the lad.
Moreover, the Jew must be paid, and to-day was that appointed by Amos
for the settling of their account. There was no money to pay it with,
and they must lose their furniture, so much at least was certain. But
Amos would not have the best of the bargain, thought the Greek as he
looked round the room with a grin, and the certainty that he had got
the better of Amos for the moment cheered his spirits. Then, too, after
to-day there would be plenty to eat, for his wife could manage to earn
money; nor was the man so mean in his villainy as to shirk any effort to
earn money himself. After first looking at his wife critically and with
a satisfied smile, he touched her on the shoulder to wake her.
“I am going out for work,” he said, as Xantippe opened her eyes.
“All right.”
“Good-bye.”
But Xantippe answered not. She turned her face to the wall wearily as
Gregorio left her.
Entering the street he made straight for Amos’s house, and told the
porter, who was still lying on the trestle before the door, that he
could not pay the Jew’s bill. Then without waiting for an answer, he
hurried off to the quay.
With better luck than on the previous day, he managed to obtain
employment for some hours. The Greek mail-boat had arrived, and under
the blazing sun he toiled good-humouredly and patiently. The work
was hard, but it gave him no opportunity of thinking. He had to be
continually dodging large bales of fruit and wine, and if he made a
mistake the officer on duty would shout at him angrily, “Lazy dog! you
would not have left Greece were you not an idle fellow.” Such words
wounded his pride, and he determined to do so well that he should earn
praise. But the little officer, his bright buttons flashing in the
sunlight, who smoked quietly in the intervals of silence, never praised
anybody; but he left off abusing Gregorio at last, and when work ceased
for the day bade him come again on the morrow.
At sunset Gregorio pocketed his few hard-earned piastres and wandered
cityward. He did not care to go back to his home, for he knew there
would be miserable stories to tell of the Jew’s anger, and, moreover,
he was terribly thirsty. So he went into a little cafe--known as the
Penny-farthing Shop--opposite his house and called for a flask of
kephisa. As he sipped the wine he glanced up nervously at his window and
wondered whether his wife had already left home. Were he sure that she
had, he would leave his wine untouched and hasten to look after his
son and give him food. But until he knew Xantippe had gone he would not
move. The sobs of yesterday still disturbed him, and he was more than
once on the point of cancelling his resolves. But as the wine stirred
his blood he became satisfied with what he had done and said. The little
cafe at Benhur that was to make his fortune seemed nearly in his grasp.
Had he not, he asked himself, worked all day without a murmur? It was
right Xantippe should help him.
As he sat dreamily thinking over these things, and watching the shadows
turn to a darker purple under the oil-lamps, a woman spoke to him.
“Well, Gregorio, are you asleep?”
“No,” said he, turning toward his questioner.
The woman laughed. She was a big woman, dressed in loose folds of red
and blue. Her hair was dishevelled, and ornamented with brass pins
fastened into it at random. Her sleeves were rolled up to her armpits,
and she had her arms akimbo--fat, flabby arms that shook as she laughed.
Her eyes were almost hidden, she screwed them up so closely, but her
wide mouth opened and disclosed a row of gigantic, flawless teeth.
Gregorio frowned as he looked at her. He knew her well and had never
liked her. But he dare not quarrel with her, for he owed her money, and
“for the love of his black eyes,” as she told him, she had ever a bottle
of wine ready for him when he wished.
“Well, my good woman,” he blurted out, surlily, “you seem to be amused.”
“I am, Gregorio. Tell me,” she continued, slyly, seating herself beside
him and placing her elbows on the table, “how is she?”
“Who?”
“Xantippe. She came to me to-day, and I saw she had been crying. But I
said nothing, because it is not always wise to ask questions. I thought
she wept because she was hungry and because the baby was hungry. I
offered her food and she took some, but so little, scarcely enough to
cover a ten-piastre piece. ‘That is for the baby,’ I said; ‘now some for
you.’ But she refused.”
“Perhaps she had food for herself,” said Gregorio, shifting uneasily in
his chair.
“Perhaps,” said the woman, and laughed again, more loudly than ever,
till the table shook. “But she asked me for something else,” she
continued, when her merriment languished for want of breath; “she asked
me to let her have an old dress of mine, a bright yellow-and-red dress,
and she borrowed some ornaments. It is not right of you, Gregorio, to
keep an old friend on the door-step when you have a fantasia.”
Gregorio scowled savagely. After a pause he said, “I don’t know why my
wife wanted your dress and ornaments.”
“Oh yes, you do, friend Gregorio.” And she laughed again, this time
a suppressed, chuckling laugh that threatened to choke her; and she
supported her chin on her hands, while her eyes peered through the
enveloping fat at the man who sat opposite to her. Suddenly she stood
up, and taking Gregorio by the arm dragged him to the door.
“See, there she goes. My garments are cleverly altered and suit her
finely, don’t they? Ah, well, my friend, a man who cannot support a wife
should marry a woman who can support him.”
Gregorio did not stop to answer her, but pushed past her into the
street. The woman watched him enter the house opposite, and then
returned quietly to her work. But there was a smile hovering round her
lips as she murmured to herself, “Ah, well, in time.”
Gregorio meanwhile had run up to his room and entered it breathless with
excitement. The first glance told him that Amos had seized all he
could, for nothing remained save a wooden bench and one or two coarse,
half-disabled cooking utensils.
Gregorio swore a little as he realised what had happened. Then he saw in
a corner by the window his son and Ahmed.
“She has gone,” said Ahmed, as Gregorio’s gaze rested on him. But she
might have gone merely to market, or to see a neighbour, for all the
imperturbable Arab face disclosed. As soon as he had spoken the man bent
over the child, laughing softly as the youngster played with his beard.
For the Arab, as he is miscalled, is fond of children, and there are
none to whom children take so readily as to the Egyptian fellahin.
Gregorio watched the two for a moment, and then placing his remaining
piastres in the man’s hand bade him bring food and wine. As soon as
he was left alone with his son, he flung himself down on the floor and
kissed, “You shall be a great man, ay, a rich man, my son.”
He repeated the sentence over and over again, punctuating it with
kisses, while the two-year-old regarded him wonderingly, until Ahmed
returned.
When the meal was ended Gregorio took the boy in his arms and sang to
him softly till at last the infant slept. Then he placed him gently on
the floor, having first made of his coat a bed, and went to the window
and flung back the shutters. He smoked quietly as the minutes went by,
waiting impatiently for his wife to return. It seemed to him monstrous
that the boy who was to inherit a fortune should be sleeping on the
dirty floor wrapped in an old coat; that an Arab, a mere fellah, should
amuse his son and play with him, when Greek nurses were to be hired in
Alexandria had one only the money. Long after midnight he heard a step
on the stairs, and a minute after the door opened. He recognised his
wife’s footsteps, and he rose to meet her. As she came into the room she
looked quickly round, and seeing her son went toward him and kissed him.
Gregorio, half afraid, stood by the window watching her. She let her
glance rest on him a minute, then she turned round and laid her cloak
upon the floor.
“Xantippe!”
But she did not answer.
“Xantippe, I have fed our son. The good days are coming when we shall be
rich and happy.”
But Xantippe was too busy folding out the creases of her cloak to
notice him. The moonlight streamed on to her, and her face shone like an
angel’s. Gregorio made one step toward her, ravished, for she had never
appeared so beautiful to him. For the moment he forgot the whole hideous
history of the last few days and the brief, horrible conversation of the
night before. Fired with a desire to touch her, to kiss her, to
whisper into her ear, in the soft Greek speech, all the endearments and
tendernesses that had won her when he wooed her, he placed his hand upon
her arm. As if stung by a venomous snake, the woman recoiled from his
touch. With a quick movement she sprang back and flung at his face a
handful of gold and silver coins.
“Take them; they’re yours,” she cried, huskily, and retreated into the
farthest corner of the room.
With a savage curse Gregorio put his hand to his lips and wiped away the
blood, for a heavy coin had cut him. Then he ran swiftly downstairs, and
Xantippe, as she lay down wearily beside her boy, heard a woman laugh.