"Amputation of the right leg ... he'll get over it."
Mrs. Aubyn mechanically repeated the words as she followed the nursing sister towards the screened bed. After all, it might have been worse. Throughout the tedious journey the idea that persistently occupied her mind was that her only son had been deprived of his sight. She felt almost inclined to weep with relief. Compared with a life-long existence deprived of the light of day, the lot of a maimed hero—whose sacrifice had been for King and Country—was light indeed. And, besides, he would be invalided out of the Service. She, his devoted mother, would spend no more sleepless nights endeavouring to picture her son somewhere on the wild North Sea, beset by perils that had never, before the present war, threatened the gallant men who defended our shores.
She gave no sign of the emotions that surged within her. Outwardly she was calm and self-possessed—a pattern of a modern Spartan mother.
The nurse moved aside the screen.
On the bed, his forehead swathed in surgical bandages, and with a rest over his injured limb, was an unconscious man. His face was pallid, his closed eyes rimmed with red. His massive features, short turned-up nose, long upper lip and square jaw unmistakably stamped him as a son of the Emerald Isle.
"But this is not my son," said Mrs. Aubyn calmly.
"Not your son?" repeated the nurse. "Why, this is Sub-Lieutenant Terence Aubyn."
"He is some other poor mother's son," declared Mrs. Aubyn; then, with unwonted eagerness she asked, "Were any of the other officers missing?"
"I think not," replied the nursing sister. "If you will take a chair for a few minutes I will make inquiries. Perhaps you would like a cup of tea in my room," she added, noticing the visitor's langour.
"Thank you," was the grateful reply. "I would."