When he had first seen his son, Desmond was unconscious, and the end
was hourly expected. He remembered telegraphing to a famous surgeon
at home to come over; he recalled the faces of the consultants round
Desmond's bed, and the bald man with the keen eyes, who had brought
him the final verdict:
'Awfully sorry!--but we can do nothing! He may live a little
while--and he has been begging and praying us to send him home.
Better take him--the authorities will give leave. I'll see to
that--it can't do much harm. The morphia will keep down the
pain--and the poor lad will die happy.' And then there was much talk
of plaster bandages, and some new mechanical appliance to prevent
jolting--of the surgeon going home on leave who would take charge of
the journey--of the nurses to be sent--and other matters of which he
only retained a blurred remembrance.
The journey had been one long and bitter endurance. And now Desmond
was here--his son Desmond--lying for a few days in that white
bed--under the old roof. And afterwards a fresh grave in Fallerton
churchyard--a flood of letters which would be burnt unread--and a
world without Desmond.
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