‘My own dear love, you make me happier than words can say!’
They came to the sleepy old town of Dol, and beyond it to a house half hidden behind a high white wall. Beatrix opened a green door leading into a garden, and Cyril followed her, full of wonder, into the very garden which had swallowed up the lady in the gray mantle.
That very lady came out, through an open window, to receive Beatrix.
‘My love, how you have given me a beautiful fright!’ she cried, in French; and then, seeing Cyril, stopped and looked confused.
‘Madame Leonard, let me present Mr. Culverhouse. He will stop to breakfast with us, I dare say, if you ask him.’
‘I begin to understand something,’ said Cyril, looking at Beatrix. ‘Madame Leonard was one of my nurses, though she denied it yesterday.’
‘Pardon!’ exclaimed Madame Leonard. ‘I said that I did not belong to a nursing sisterhood. I did not say that I had not nursed you.’
And then the little Frenchwoman gave a joyous laugh, out of pure satisfaction at the new aspect of things, and ran back to the house to order certain savoury additions to the breakfast, in honour of the unexpected guest.
‘Madame Leonard was one of my nurses,’ repeated Cyril. ‘And you were the other. Oh, Beatrix! how could I be so blind?’
‘Dear love, you were in the dark valley of death,’ said Beatrix. ‘It was my sweetest privilege to watch and succour you. I owed all to Madame Leonard. When I read of your dangerous illness in the Bridford paper I was wretched at the thought of your loneliness, your helplessness, and I longed to come to you. Then this dear Madame Leonard suggested that we should come, in the disguise of nursing sisters, and take care of you. I should never have dared such a thing without her help. She arranged all—managed everything—smoothed away every difficulty. I can never be grateful enough to her for her goodness in that sorrowful time.’