THE FIRE OF LOVE.
ByMARY BRADFORD WHITING.
“Comehere, Lion.”
It was not a dog that obeyed the summons, but a child, a sweet-faced, curly-headed child, with big, pathetic eyes, and soft smiling mouth.
Treading on tip-toe, so as not to disturb the sleeping figure on the sofa, Lion made his way across the room and crept up to his father’s chair.
“What were you crying for?” asked Mr. Beresford, as he lifted the little fellow to his knee.
“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 pierceThe darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”
“My own hope is a sun will pierceThe darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”
“My own hope is a sun will pierceThe darkest cloud earth ever stretched.”
“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.
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.
The morning came all too soon, and Lion had hard work to keep a bright face through their hurried breakfast. Greatly to his relief Mrs. Beresford had chosen to remain upstairs, so that he had his father all to himself and could hang lovingly about him until the carriage came to take him to the station.
“Don’t forget your promise,” said Mr. Beresford as he drove away.
He spoke cheerfully, but his eyes were moist as he looked back at the lonely figure of the little six-year-old boy at the gate. Ifonly his mother’s arm had been round him, he could have far better borne to leave him; but it was useless to indulge in such thoughts, and taking out his pocket-book he was soon deep in calculations.
Lion, for his part, tried quite as practical a cure for his grief.
“I’ll pick some flowers for mamma,” he said to himself manfully, and having rubbed the tears out of his eyes, he set off round the flower-beds of their hired house, picking a rose here, and a geranium here, until he had as large a bunch as he could hold.
“Mamma, I’ve brought you some flowers,” he said, as he ran into her bedroom and laid the straggling nosegay on her lap.
Mrs. Beresford was lying on the couch, a novel in her hand and a breakfast tray on the table by her side.
“Oh, you bad boy!” she exclaimed, brushing the flowers hastily on to the floor, “how dare you put those dirty things on my new white wrapper. And there’s an earwig running over me! Go away this minute, I tell you! Lettice, Lettice, come here!”
Her screams brought the maid, who succeeded in catching the earwig; but Lion had not waited to see the end of his escapade; a sudden sharp pain had stabbed his baby breast, pain, not so much at his mother’s anger, as at the thought that he had already disobeyed his father’s command.
“Oh, daddy, daddy, I didn’t mean to be naughty!” he cried, and throwing himself down on the grass, he sobbed as if his heart would break.
“I am going out this afternoon,” said Mrs. Beresford at lunch-time, “so you must amuse yourself in the garden.”
“Mayn’t I come with you,” said Lion timidly. “Daddy said I was to take care of you while he was away.”
“Nonsense!” said Mrs. Beresford sharply, as though the words stung her. “Do you think I can have you always after me? You must stay at home, and see that you don’t get into any more mischief.”
It was very lonely for Lion that afternoon. Lettice slipped out as soon as her mistress had disappeared, and the servants of the house did not consider it part of their business to look after other people’s children. By-and-by it began to rain, and the little boy stood sadly counting the falling drops until a sudden thought seized him. His mother’s cloak was hanging in the hall; how wet she would get unless he took it to her! To trot out into the hall and put on his hat was the work of a moment, and seizing the cloak, he sallied forth.
Far and wide the poor little fellow wandered, while the driving rain soaked him through and through; but no trace of his mother could he see, and at last he turned back to the house. Just as he reached the gate a carriage drove up, however, and he saw his mother alight, and heard her parting words, “On Thursday, then; I will be sure not to fail.”
“You naughty boy, what have you been doing?” were her next words, as she espied the dripping child at the gate. “Look at my cloak, all messed and spoilt. Go upstairs at once; didn’t I tell you not to get into mischief?”
Weary and heart-broken, Lion attempted no explanation, but creeping sadly up to his room, cried himself to sleep on the floor.
At breakfast-time next morning Lettice rushed into her mistress’s room exclaiming, “Oh, ma’am, Master Lionel’s dying!”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Beresford. “I daresay he has eaten something that has disagreed with him; but you can send for the doctor.”
She had forgotten all about it in five minutes, but when the doctor came he insisted upon seeing her.
“Your child has acute inflammation,” he said, “and his life will depend upon the nursing.”
“Then you must send for a nurse,” she said coolly, though she felt an inward qualm at the thought of her husband.
“I shall do so, of course, but she cannot be here until to-morrow morning, and in the meantime you must be responsible; your maid is perfectly useless.”
Mrs. Beresford assented resignedly. She was glad now that they could not take her on the yacht till Thursday. The nurse would have come by then, and she could leave without trouble, and with this consoling prospect in view she even agreed to sit up with Lion that night.
Some people would have been touched by the child’s piteous cries for his father, and by the way in which he constantly checked himself with the reminder, “Daddy’s gone away; I must take care of mamma now.” But Mrs. Beresford only found it wearisome, and tried to bury herself in her book.
She knew, however, that it would not do to forget the nourishment that the doctor had ordered, and rousing herself at last she tried to light the spirit-lamp. The most simple things of everyday life were mysteries to her, and as she bent over it, candle in hand, there was a flare and a scream, and Lettice rushed into the room to find her mistress’s hair in flames.
Help was summoned, and the doctor sent for, but he made short work of her complaints.
“There’s not much harm done,” he said bluntly. “I daresay your hair will grow; your skin will never look the same again, but, after all, that doesn’t matter.”
And this to one whose chief joy in life had been the beauty of her complexion! Mrs. Beresford hid her bandaged face in the pillows and gave herself up to despair. No hope of going on the yacht now. They would sail away and forget all about her, or, worse still, make ill-natured remarks about her misfortune. At any rate, no one should see her altered appearance, and she had the blinds pulled down, and admitted no one but Lettice into her room.
But the day came when the hospital nurse forced an entrance into the forbidden precincts. She and the doctor had held many an indignant conclave over their little patient, and when his perpetual inquiries for his mother could be silenced in no other way, she made up her mind to fetch her.
Her words were few, but they made an impression that Mrs. Beresford could not resist, for however indifferent she might appear, she knew that she should not dare to face her husband if the child should die without her seeing him.
Her resolution almost failed as she caught a glimpse of herself in the glass that had once reflected such a lovely vision, but it was too late to turn back now, and she crossed the passage and entered the sick-room. There on the bed lay Lion, his curls gone, his face hollow and deathlike, but when he saw her he held out his hands with a cry, “Oh, please say forgive!”
“What does he mean?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said the nurse, “he has been saying it ever since I came. You had better speak to him.”
“What do you want, Lion?” she said, repressing a shudder as she went up to the bedside.
“Oh, mamma, I did promise daddy to be good, and you said I was so naughty, and then you got your face burnt, and it was all my fault. Oh, please say forgive!”
Forgive? If anyone needed forgiveness it was not Lion, and as if a veil had suddenly been lifted from her eyes, Mrs. Beresford saw herself in the true light at last, worldly-minded, selfish-hearted, far, far different from the pure and loving nature before her!
“Oh, my child, my little child!” she said, bending down to take him in her arms.
There was silence for a few moments, while Lion lay wonderingly in the embrace that had never enfolded him before, then raising his hand to her bandaged face he whispered—
“Poor mamma, you’re much worser than I am; but you’ll tell daddy I was sorry, won’t you?”
“No, no; you shall tell him yourself,” she exclaimed with sudden vehemence; “you are going to get well, you must, you shall!”
The nurse looked at her warningly, and she was silent again while Lion’s excitement subsided into a drowsy state which lasted till the doctor came.
He looked in amazement at the strange figure by the bed, but for once in her life Mrs. Beresford had no thoughts for herself.
“He is better, is he not?” she said eagerly, but the doctor shook his head.
“No,” he said, “I shall telegraph for your husband to-night.”
The days passed on, and one evening a carriage dashed up to the door and springing out almost before it had stopped, Paul Beresford seized upon the doctor, who came forward to greet him.
“How is he?” he asked.
“Better,” was the answer, and waiting to hear no more he dashed upstairs and opened the door of his boy’s room.
“How are you, my darling?” he said eagerly.
His wife turned away with a sudden pang. It was not likely that he would recognise her for she had sent him no news of her accident, but for the first time she felt that he was dearer to her than the friends for whom she had once sacrificed his happiness.
But Lion did not forget her.
“Daddy,” he said, “mamma has forgiven me, but you must forgive me too; it was all my fault, you know, that she was burnt.”
“Lena!” cried Paul in astonishment, as he gazed at the white-capped figure by the window.
“You told me to take care of her,” said Lion mournfully; “but she has had to take care of me all the time!”
Lena had hidden her face in her hands, but in a moment she felt her husband’s arms round her and knew that a new life had begun for them both.
“Are you so very sorry that mamma was burnt?” asked Lion wistfully, as he saw the tears in his father’s eyes.
“No, dear, he is glad,” said his mother softly, “because there is a fire in my heart that will, I hope, burn up all the selfishness.”
“What fire comes in people’s hearts?” asked Lion in wonder, and with a look that made her scarred face more beautiful than it had been in all the perfection of its bloom, his mother answered—
“The fire of love!”