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Page 63
"Take him!"
She would not touch the child.
"I must go at once," she cried; for the tears--the wrong
tears--were hurrying to her eyes.
"Who would have believed his mother was blonde? For he
is brown all over--brown every inch of him. Ah, but how
beautiful he is! And he is mine; mine for ever. Even if he
hates me he will be mine. He cannot help it; he is made out
of me; I am his father."
It was too late to go. She could not tell why, but it
was too late. She turned away her head when Gino lifted his
son to his lips. This was something too remote from the
prettiness of the nursery. The man was majestic; he was a
part of Nature; in no ordinary love scene could he ever be
so great. For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to
the children; and--by some sad, strange irony--it does not
bind us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could
answer their love not with gratitude but with equal love,
life would lose much of its pathos and much of its squalor,
and we might be wonderfully happy. Gino passionately
embracing, Miss Abbott reverently averting her eyes--both of
them had parents whom they did not love so very much.
"May I help you to wash him?" she asked humbly.
He gave her his son without speaking, and they knelt
side by side, tucking up their sleeves. The child had
stopped crying, and his arms and legs were agitated by some
overpowering joy. Miss Abbott had a woman's pleasure in
cleaning anything--more especially when the thing was human.
She understood little babies from long experience in a
district, and Gino soon ceased to give her directions, and
only gave her thanks.
"It is very kind of you," he murmured, "especially in
your beautiful dress. He is nearly clean already. Why, I
take the whole morning! There is so much more of a baby
than one expects. And Perfetta washes him just as she
washes clothes. Then he screams for hours. My wife is to
have a light hand. Ah, how he kicks! Has he splashed you?
I am very sorry."
"I am ready for a soft towel now," said Miss Abbott, who
was strangely exalted by the service.
"Certainly! certainly!" He strode in a knowing way to
a cupboard. But he had no idea where the soft towel was.
Generally he dabbed the baby on the first dry thing he found.
"And if you had any powder."
He struck his forehead despairingly. Apparently the
stock of powder was just exhausted.
She sacrificed her own clean handkerchief. He put a
chair for her on the loggia, which faced westward, and was
still pleasant and cool. There she sat, with twenty miles
of view behind her, and he placed the dripping baby on her
knee. It shone now with health and beauty: it seemed to
reflect light, like a copper vessel. Just such a baby
Bellini sets languid on his mother's lap, or Signorelli
flings wriggling on pavements of marble, or Lorenzo di
Credi, more reverent but less divine, lays carefully among
flowers, with his head upon a wisp of golden straw. For a
time Gino contemplated them standing. Then, to get a better
view, he knelt by the side of the chair, with his hands
clasped before him.
So they were when Philip entered, and saw, to all
intents and purposes, the Virgin and Child, with Donor.
"Hullo!" he exclaimed; for he was glad to find things in
such cheerful trim.
She did not greet him, but rose up unsteadily and handed
the baby to his father.
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