“Oh, daddy, how much, much too sharp your eyes are! I hid myself all up with my ship book, so as you shouldn’t see.”
“No ship book that was ever made would hide your tears from me!” said Mr. Beresford, in a tone that was evidently more for himself than for the child. “But never mind that now. I did see, and now you must tell me all about it. What were you crying for?”
“I don’t want you to go away,” said Lion, in a trembling voice. “Why must you go, daddy, and leave me alone with——”
The loyal little fellow caught himself up without finishing the sentence, but Mr. Beresford knew only too well what the concluding word would have been, and he sighed heavily.
A wealthy man, with congenial work to occupy him, with a lovely wife and a sweet little son, there were plenty of people who envied him with all their hearts; but Paul Beresford, like many of those who seem the most prosperous, had a secret sorrow that embittered his whole life. He had married young, believing that he had found the embodiment of grace and goodness in the beautiful girl to whom he had given his heart, only to discover too late that she was utterly selfish and cold-hearted. It was a terrible awakening for him, and many a man in his place would have made shipwreck altogether; but Paul Beresford only clung the closer to the hidden faith that sustained him, and solaced himself with the oft-quoted lines—
“My own hope is a sun will pierce
The darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”
That hope seemed to him to be fulfilled when his baby son was first put into his arms and he felt the touch of the tiny fingers, and kissed the soft roseleaf face. Surely no woman could resist such a darling mite as this, and he looked forward confidently to the dawn of better days. But as time went on, the terrible truth was borne in upon him that the child had only widened the breach between his wife and himself. Little as she had cared for his love in the past, she was jealous when she saw it bestowed upon another, and far from lavishing any tenderness on the little Lionel herself, she treated him with an indifference that made her husband’s blood boil.
The child had never been strong, but no one but his father gave him much attention, for the nurse who had brought him through his babyhood was obliged to leave when he was five years old, and his mother’s maid, who was supposed to have the charge of him, was as selfish as her mistress. But there was a courage and pluck in his slender frame that would have done honour to a boy of twice his age, and which well deserved his father’s name of “Lion.” He had early seen that it distressed his beloved “daddy” if he told him of the troubles he had to undergo, and the result was that he tried to keep them to himself with a self-control that was marvellous in so young a child.
But now a terrible trial had come for Lion. They had no sooner settled down in the little Cornish village that had been selected for their summer holiday, than a summons had come for Mr. Beresford to go out to his West Indian property on imperative business, and he was obliged to start as early as possible on the very next day. Somewhat to his surprise, his wife had made no objection to his sudden departure; he had expected a storm of tears and reproaches, but beyond the one cold remark that he seemed to be glad of any excuse for leaving her, she had said nothing, and he had felt thankful at being let off so easily.