Chapter VI: Their Mother's Christmas Present

It was Christmas Eve. The London express was late on account of the heavy storm of snow that had fallen during the day. Thomas, the coachman, muffled up, though he was in his fur cape, felt another quarter of an hour's waiting would freeze him to his seat, and his hands to the reins.

He had been walking the horses up and down for at least an hour outside the station, and the signal was still up.

He had not, however, much longer to wait.

A few minutes more and the red light of the approaching train came into sight, and before long the homeward journey had begun.

Thomas was thankful that his master's enquiries on seeing him, had been after his coachman's wife and family, and not after his own children.

He had been dreading the interview at the station, and was glad when he found himself driving the horses towards home, with his master safely inside the carriage.

Major Fortescue, was a man in the prime of life, with hair nevertheless slightly tinged with grey. He sat leaning back in the carriage, his hand over his eyes. He was passing through deep waters during that drive, and he was thankful that in passing them, he was alone and in the dark, with no eye but that of God upon him.

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.

"Will you come and see Dodie?" whispered Geoffrey at last, taking him by the hand.

Major Fortescue had missed Dodie from the beginning, but it being late in the evening, he took for granted the child had been sent to bed and he was not sorry. He was glad that he could look upon his little girl, whom everyone had described to him, as being the living likeness of her mother, with no curious eyes upon him. He had dreaded, yet longed to see her, and of all his children, he had thought most often of seeing little Dodie.

He therefore followed Geoffrey without a word towards the nursery.

Geoffrey opened the door softly, and walked on tip-toe across the dimly-lighted room, towards the little crib in the corner.

There was something about the general aspect of the room, and the strong smell of sweet flowers, that made Major Fortescue's heart suddenly stop beating.

He stood on the threshold perfectly still, as if he had received a blow, and then followed his little son, whose head was now reverently bent over the crib, and stood by his side without a word.

Dodie had her little hands crossed over her breast, holding a beautiful white flower. There was still the sweet smile on her lips, and her curly hair lay in clusters over her forehead.

It struck Geoffrey at that moment that after all Dodie was dressed in white to see her Father, and was looking her sweetest and best.

Then Geoffrey looked up at his father, to his dying day he never forgot the look he saw on his face, nor the sound of his voice as he said quietly:

"The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the Lord."

* * * * *

They gave away the Christmas presents next morning after breakfast.

"Father," said Geoffrey, as afterwards they stood round the fire, "I was thinking last week that we couldn't give Mother a Christmas present, but after all, she has our best, for she has Dodie."

THE END.