“Mother has told me everything,” he said simply, going straight to the point. “It's—it's been rather a facer.”
Maurice pointed to the narrow ribbon—the white, purple, white of the Military Cross—upon the breast of the khaki tunic flung across a chair-back—a rather disheveled tunic, rescued with other odds and ends from the wreckage of Tim's room at Sunnyside.
“It needn't be, Tim,” he said, “with that to your credit.”
Tim's eyes glowed.
“That's just it—that's what I wanted to see you for,” he said. “I hope you won't think it cheek,” he went on rather shyly, “but I wanted you to know that—that what you did for my mother—assuming the disgrace, I mean, that wasn't yours—hasn't been all wasted. What little I've done—well, it would never have been done had I known what I know now.”
“I think it would,” Maurice dissented quietly.
Tim shook his head.
“No. Had my father been cashiered—for cowardice”—he stumbled a little over the words—“the knowledge of it would have knocked all the initiative out of me. I should have been afraid of showing the white feather. . . . The fear of being afraid would have been always at the back of me.” He paused, then went on quickly: “And I think it would have been the same with Dad. It—it would have broken him. He could never have fought as he did with that behind him. You've . . . you've given two men to the country. . . .”
He broke off, boyishly embarrassed, a little overwhelmed by his own big thoughts.
And suddenly to Maurice, all that had been dark and obscure grew clear in the white shining of the light that gleamed down the track of those lost years.