It was Miles who answered that unspoken supplication.
“I think you need never feel shame again,” he said very gently. “Major Durward's splendid death has more than wiped out that one mistake of his youth. Thank God he never knew it needed wiping out.”
A momentary tranquility came into Elisabeth's face.
“No,” she answered simply. “No, he never knew.” Then the tide of bitter recollection surged over her once more, and she continued passionately: “Oh yes, I've been punished! Day and night, day and night since the war began, I've lived in terror that the fear—his father's fear—might suddenly grip Tim out there in Flanders. I kept him out of the Army—because I was afraid. And then the war came, and he had to go. Thank God—oh, thank God!—he never failed! . . . I suppose I am a bad woman—I don't know . . . I fought for my own love and happiness first, and afterwards for my son's. But, at least, I'm not bad enough to let Maurice go on bearing . . . what he has borne . . . now that he has saved Tim's life. He has given me the only thing . . . left to me . . . of value in the whole world. In return, I can give him the one thing that matters to him—his good name. Henceforth Maurice is a free man.”
“What are you saying?”
The sharp, staccato question cut across Elisabeth's quiet, concentrated speech like a rapier thrust, snapping the strained attention of her listeners, who turned, with one accord, to see Kennedy himself standing at the threshold of the room, his eyes fastened on Elisabeth's face.
She met his glance composedly; on her lips a queer little smile which held an indefinable pathos and appeal.
“I am telling them the truth—at last, Maurice,” she said calmly. “I have told them the true story of the court-martial.”
“You—you have told them that?” he stammered. He was very pale. The sudden realization of all that her words implied seemed to overwhelm him.
“Yes.” She rose and moved quietly to the door, then face to face with Kennedy, she halted. Her eyes rested levelly on his; in her bearing there was something aloofly proud—an undiminished stateliness, almost regal in its calm inviolability. “They know—now—all that I took from you. I shall not ask your forgiveness, Maurice . . . I don't expect it. I sinned for my husband and my son—that is my only justification. I would do the same again.”