Toward the evening of a day a fortnight later, Gregorio found himself
seated in Madam Marx’s cafe, idly watching the passers-by. He was
feeling happier, for that was being amassed which alone could insure
happiness to him. Each day some golden pieces were added to the amount
saved, and the cafe at Benhur seemed almost within his grasp. The
feeling of security from want acted as a narcotic and soothed him, so
that the things which should have troubled him scarcely interested him
at all. He was intoxicated with the sight of gold. When he had first
seen Xantippe and the Englishman together his anger had been violent;
but when at last the futility of his rage became certain, his aggressive
passion had softened to a smouldering discontent that hardly worried
him, unless he heard some one speak a British name. His prosperity had
destroyed the last vestiges of shame and soothed his illogical outbursts
of fury. He was contented enough now to sit all day with Madam Marx,
and returned to his home in the evening when Xantippe was away. He had
spoken to her only once since she had told him she hated him. He had
strolled out of the cafe about midday and entered his room. Xantippe was
there, talking to her child, and quietly bade him go away.
“It’s my room as well as yours,” Gregorio had answered.
“It is my money that pays for it,” was the reply.
A long conversation followed, but Xantippe met the man’s coarse anger
with quiet scorn, and told him that if he stayed she would grow to
dislike her son since he was the father.
Gregorio was wise enough to control his anger then. For he knew that if
she were really to lose her love for the boy, all his chances, and the
boy’s chances, of ease and prosperity would be destroyed. It was, of
course, ridiculous to imagine she would supply him with money then.
That she thoroughly loathed him, and would always loathe him, was very
certain. So great, indeed, seemed her contempt for him that it was quite
possible she might come to hate his child. So he did not attempt to
remain in the room, but as he closed the door after him he waited a
moment and listened. He heard her heave a sigh of relief and then say
to the little fellow, “How like your father you grow! My God! I almost
think I hate you for being so like him.” Gregorio shuddered as he ran
noiselessly downstairs. He never ventured to speak to her again. He
argued himself out of the disquiet into which her words had thrown him.
He knew it was difficult for a woman to hate her child. The birth-pains
cement a love it requires a harsh wrench to sever. He easily persuaded
himself, as he sipped Madam Marx’s coffee, that if he kept in the
background all cause for hatred would be removed. As for her feelings
toward himself, he had ceased, almost, to care. The money was worth the
cost paid in the attainment of it, and a woman’s laugh was less sweet to
him than the chink of gold and silver pieces. On the whole Gregorio
had little reason to be troubled; only unreasoning dislike for
the Englishman--why could not he be of any other nation, or, if an
Englishman, any other Englishman?--hurt his peace of mind. And for the
most part his discontent only smouldered.
Madam Marx brought her coffee and sat beside him. Her face betokened
satisfaction, and she looked at Gregorio with a possessive smile. She
had gained her desire, and asked fortune for no other gift.
“You have not seen Xantippe since she turned you out? Ah, well, it
is much better you should keep away. You are welcome here, and it is
foolish to go where one is not wanted.”
“I’ve not seen her; I’m afraid to see her.” He spoke openly to madam
now.
“Some women are queer. If she had ever really loved you, she would not
have thrown you over. I should not have complained had I been in her
place. One cannot always choose one’s lot.”
“It’s that damned Englishman who has spoiled her.”
“Ah, yes, those English! I know them.”
“Did I tell you what she said about the boy?”
“Yes, my friend. But as long as you don’t worry her, her words need not
worry you.”
“They don’t, except sometimes at night. I wake up and remember them, and
then I am afraid.”
“Why do you hate the Englishman? To my mind it is lucky for both of you
that this Englishman saw her. There are not men so rich as the English,
and he is a rich Englishman. You are lucky.”
“I hate him.”
“Because he has stolen your wife’s love?” Madam Marx, as she put
the question, laid her fat hand upon Gregorio’s shoulder and laughed
confidently. The movement irritated him, but he never tried to resist
her now.
“No, not quite that. I’m used to it, and the money more than compensates
me. But I hated the man when I first saw him in the Paradise. There
was a fiddler-woman he talked to, and he could scarcely make himself
understood. He had money, and he gave her champagne and flowers. And I
was starving, and the woman was beautiful.”
Madam tapped his cheek and smiled.
“The woman can’t interest you now. Also you have money--his money.”
“Still I hate him.”
“You Greeks are like children. Your hatred is unreasonable; there is no
cause for it.”
“Unreasonable and not to be reasoned away.”
“Well, why worry about him? He won’t follow you to Benhur, I fancy.”
“It doesn’t worry me generally; but when you mention him my hate springs
up again. I forget him when I am by myself.”
“Forget him now.”
And they drank coffee in silence.
Darkness came on, and the blue night mist. Gregorio was impatient to
see his son. He gazed intently at the door of the opposite house,
little heeding madam, who was busy with preparations for the evening’s
entertainment of her customers. Suddenly he saw a woman leave the house,
hail a passing carriage, and drive rapidly down the street toward the
Place Mehemet Ali. Gregorio, with a cry of pleasure, rose and left the
cafe. Madam Marx followed him to the door and called a good-night to
him. Gregorio stood irresolutely in the middle of the road. He had
promised the boy a boat, and he blamed himself for having forgotten to
buy it. Grumbling at his forgetfulness, he hurried along the street,
determined to waste no time. On occasions he could relinquish his lazy,
slouching gait, and he would hurry always to obey the commands of
the king his son. A pleasant smile at the thought of the pleasure his
present would cause softened the sinister mould of his lips, and he sang
softly to himself as he moved quickly cityward.
Before he had gone many yards an oath broke in upon the music, and he
darted swiftly under the shadow of a wall; for coming forward him was
Amos the Jew. But the old man’s sharp eyes detected the victim, and,
following Gregorio into his hiding-place, Amos laid his hand upon the
Greek.
“Why do you try to hide when we have so much to say to one another?”
Gregorio shook himself from the Jew’s touch and professed ignorance of
the necessity for speech.
“Come, come, my friend, the money you borrowed is still owing in part.”
“But you will be paid. We are saving money; we cannot put by all we
earn--we must live.”
“I will be paid now; if I am not, you are to blame for the
consequences.”
And with a courtly salute the Jew passed on. Now Gregorio had not
forgotten his debt, nor the Jew’s threats, and he fully intended to
pay what he owed. But of course it would take time, and the man was
too impatient. He realised he had been foolish not to pay something on
account; but it hurt him to part with gold. He determined, however,
to send Amos something when he returned home. So good a watch had been
kept, he never doubted the child’s safety. But it would be awkward if
Amos got him put in jail. So he reckoned up how much he could afford to
pay, and, having bought the toy, returned eagerly home. He ran upstairs,
singing a barcarole at the top of his voice, and rushed into the room,
waving the model ship above his head. “See here,” he cried, “is the
ship! I have not forgotten it.” But his shout fell to a whisper. The
room was empty.
With a heartbroken sob the man fell swooning on the floor.