If he could have read her thoughts, he might, however, have felt differently. She had given him no reason for her sudden desire to settle down in a quiet seaside village, and he had been too glad of the suggestion for the boy’s sake to ask any explanations. But now it seemed to her that his departure was arranged as conveniently as everything else had been; she had known very well when she chose their holiday resort that Lord Barfield’s yacht would be anchored in the neighbouring bay, and on board the yacht were people for whose society she cared far more than she did for that of her husband or child, people whom he distrusted, and had forbidden her to visit.
Mr. Beresford was ignorant of all this, however, and he tried to comfort his little son with parting injunctions; it was useless, alas, to hope that his mother would take any care of him, but perhaps it might console his loneliness to tell him to take care of her.
“But mother won’t let me take care of her,” said Lion piteously.
“That must only make you try all the more,” said his father, speaking out of the depths of his own bitter experience. “You must be very careful not to worry her, because you know that sometimes you talk too loud when she has a headache, or even slam the doors. Will you promise me that you will be very good while I am away?”
“Yes, I will, I truthfully will!” said Lion, drying his eyes with a brave attempt at a smile.
“I shall soon come back,” said Mr. Beresford, “and I shall write you long letters while I am away, and tell you all about the shells and the snakes and the little black boys.”
“And you’ll write it like print, won’t you?” said Lion, “so as I needn’t bother mamma to read it, because that’s just one of the things that vexes her so, when I ask her to read your letters.”
He spoke innocently, little knowing the wounding power that his words contained, but Mr. Beresford was well used to hiding his feelings, and he made the required promise in an unshaken voice.
“That’s all right, then,” said Lion joyfully. “But oh, daddy dear, you won’t have me to curl your moustache for you, and you don’t look a bit nice when it hangs all down like that,” and throwing himself against his father, he proceeded to curl the offending moustache with his small fingers, while Mr. Beresford laughed at the sight of his earnest frown.
“I wish you would not let that child make so much noise,” said a querulous voice at this moment, and leaving their play with a start, both father and son were hushed in a moment. Lion slipped down to the floor and took up his book, and Mr. Beresford went across to the sofa and tried to soften his wife’s displeasure with his attentions.