Part 19 (1/2)
He looked at me so intently and so feelingly while I snuggled the pink ball up to me and kissed it, that it was rather disconcerting. To change the subject, I went straight to the point.
”Tom,” I said, ”I want to ask you about baby's name.”
”Oh, call it anything you like,” he answered.
”But you ought to name her,” I told him.
He was silent a moment; then he turned and walked away to the window again. I thought that he might be considering the name, but when he came back abruptly he said:--
”Ruth, I can't pretend with you. I haven't any love for that child. I wish it weren't here to remind me of what I would give anything to have forgotten. If I have any feeling for it, it is pity that the poor little wretch had to be chucked into the world, and shame that I should have any responsibility about it.”
I told him he would come to love her some time; that she was after all his daughter, and so sweet he couldn't help being fond of her.
”If I ever endure her,” he said, almost doggedly, ”it will be on your account.”
”Nonsense, Tom,” I retorted, as briskly as I could when I wanted to cry, ”you'll be fond of her because you can't help it. See, she has your eyes, and her hair is going to be like yours.”
He laughed with a trace of his old buoyant spirit.
”What idiocy!” was his reply. ”Her eyes are any color you like, and she has only about six hairs on her head anyway.”
I denied this indignantly, partly because it was not true, and partly, I am afraid, with feminine guile, to divert him. We fell for a moment almost into the oldtime boy-and-girl tone of long ago, and only baby in my arms reminded us of what had come between.
”Well,” I said at last, ”it is evident that you are not worthy to give this nice little, dear little, superfine little girl a name; so I shall do it myself. I shall call her Thomasine.”
”What an outlandish name!”
”It is your own, so you needn't abuse it. Do you agree?”
”I don't see how I can help myself, for you can call her anything you like.”
”Of course I shall,” I told him; ”but I thought you should be consulted.”
He shrugged his shoulders with a laugh.
”Having made up your mind,” he said, ”you ask my advice.”
”I shouldn't think of consulting you till I had made up my mind,” was my retort. ”Now I want you to give her her name.”
”Give it to her how?”
”Her name is to be Thomasine,” I repeated.
”It is an absurd name,” Tom commented.
”That's as it may be,” was all I would answer, ”but that's what she's to be called. You're to kiss her, and”--
He looked at me with a sudden flush. He had never, I am sure, so much as touched his child with the tip of his finger, much less caressed her.
The proposition took him completely by surprise, and evidently disconcerted him. I did not give him time to consider. I made my tone and manner as light as I could, and hurried on.