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.
