Dr. Reynolds kept his promise to Louise.
In a private nursing-home in London the deed of mercy and of
ruthlessness was accomplished. The pitiable spark of life was quenched.
Out of the depths of darkness and despair Louise, after wavering for
many days on the threshold of death, came slowly back to life once more.
During the many weeks she was in the nursing-home she saw neither Chérie
nor Mireille; but Mrs. Yule came nearly every day and brought good news
of them both, saying how happy she and her husband were to have them at
the Vicarage.
For Mr. Yule himself had gone to the Whitakers' house, an hour after
Louise had left it with Dr. Reynolds, and had taken the two forlorn
young creatures away. Their stricken youth found shelter in his house,
where Mireille's affliction and Chérie's tragic condition were alike
sacred to his generous heart.
The little blind girl, Lilian, adored them both. She used to sit between
them--often resting her face against Mireille's arm, or holding the
child's hand in hers--listening to Chérie's tales of their childhood in
Belgium. She was never tired of hearing about Chérie's school-days at
Mademoiselle Thibaut's _pensionnat_; of her trips to Brussels and
Antwerp, and the horrors of the dungeons of Château Steen; of her
bicycle-lessons on the sands of Westende under the instruction of the
monkey-man; and above all of her visits to Braine l'Alleude and the
battle-field of Waterloo, where she had actually drunk coffee in
Wellington's sitting-room, and rested in his very own armchair....
Lilian, with her closed eyes and intent face--always turned slightly
upward as if yearning towards the light--listened eagerly, exclaiming
every now and then with a little excited laugh, "I see ... I see...."
And those words and the sweet expression of the small ecstatic face made
Chérie's voice falter and the tears suffuse her eyes.
One day a letter came. It was from Claude. He had almost completely
recovered from his wound and was leaving the hospital in Dunkirk to go
to the front again. He sent all his love and all God's blessings to
Louise and to his little Mireille and to Chérie. They would meet again
in the happier days soon to come. Had they news of Florian? The last he
had heard of him was a card from the trenches at Loos....
And that same day--a snowy day in December--Louise at length returned
from her ordeal and stood, a pale and ghostly figure, at the Vicarage
door. To her also it opened wide, and her faltering footsteps were led
with love and tenderness to the firelight of the hospitable hearth.
There in the vicar's leather armchair, with the vicar's favourite collie
curled at her feet, sat Mireille; her soft hair parted in the middle and
tied with a blue ribbon by Mrs. Yule; a gold bangle, given her by
Lilian, on her slim wrist. With a cry of joy and gratitude Louise knelt
before her, kissing the soft chill hands, the silent mouth, the eyes
that did not recognize her.
"Mireille, Mireille! Can you not say a word to me? Not a word? Say,
'Welcome, mother!' Say it, darling! Say, '_Maman, bonjour_.'"
But the child's lips remained closed; the singing fountain of her voice
was sealed.
The door opened, and Chérie entered the room--a Chérie altered and
strange in her new and tragic dignity.
Louise involuntarily drew back, gazing in amazement at the significant
change of form and feature; then with a sob of passionate pity she went
to her and folded her in her arms.
Chérie, with a smile and a sigh, bowed her head upon Louise's breast.