How different was the home coming to that to which he had looked forward.
Even now, though he knew what pain the awakening would cost him, he allowed himself to imagine for a few moments what it might have been—to picture his sweet wife standing at the door to welcome him, to feel her in his arms again, to kiss her dear forehead, eyes, lips once more. Only half an hour might have been standing between him and her—as it was, five, ten, perhaps twenty years might be between them. He groaned audibly.
His face blanched as suddenly the carriage turned in at the gate, and he caught sight of his three boys standing in the open doorway, with a row of servants behind. For a moment he felt utterly unable to control his feelings, and trembled.
Then with a desperate effort, he turned the handle of the door and sprang out, to find his eldest boy fling himself into his arms.
Geoffrey's self-control gave way at last.
"I couldn't, couldn't keep her alive for you, Father," he sobbed, thinking of little Dodie, who lay so still and sweet in the nursery upstairs.
Major Fortescue, with his thoughts full of his wife, grew a shade paler with his effort to keep calm.
"My poor lad," he said, stroking the rough curly head of the boy.
Geoffrey, supposing from his Father's words that Thomas had informed him of Dodie's death, gave a sigh of relief and grew calmer, as his Father kissed his other little boys, and shook hands warmly with faithful old nurse, who stood sobbing in a corner, and with the other servants.
He had a kind word for each, and no one could have guessed what an effort it cost him. He showed no sign of inward agitation at all, except his exceeding paleness.