CHAPTER XX

AGATHA'S WARNING

THAT night Adrienne could not sleep. She lay very still, not wishing to disturb her husband; and she took herself to task for imagining she heard strange noises round the old Château. It was a still, dark night. No moon: owls were hooting at intervals—once she heard the dogs in the stable barking, but she knew that the movements of the cattle sometimes made them do that.

She heard the clocks striking two, then suddenly with no uncertain sound the church bell began to ring. She knew that when that bell rang out, it was a signal of alarm or danger. If there was fire anywhere, or any sudden calamity, the village was roused by the church bell.

She put her hand out, and laid it on her husband's shoulder. He was awake in a moment.

Both of them sprang out of bed and hurriedly got into their clothes. Adrienne made her way across to one of the unshuttered windows to lean out and see if anyone was about. And then Guy heard her give an exclamation, and joined her at her post.

"What is it?"

"Agatha!" gasped Adrienne. "I have seen her standing there before me on the lawn quite distinctly,—standing, Guy! What does it mean? And she looked up at me and pointed to the corner of the house over there."

"Stay here," her husband said; "no, I won't have you come with me. You are to stay indoors. I hear the servants moving."

He was gone. Listening eagerly, Adrienne heard the heavy door open, then leaning out she saw in the east wing of the house smoke coming out of a window, and she smelt the unmistakable scent of fire.

Nothing would keep her indoors then. She found her way to Alain's room, had him out of bed and dressed him, trying to soothe and allay his rising excitement. He thought it great fun. Then with the servants, who were thoroughly roused, she took Alain out on the terrace.

Gaston, running towards the house for buckets, told her that great bundles of straw soaked with paraffin had been laid against the wooden doors and window frames of the Château. They had only just discovered them in time, for they had all been fired. One lower window had been broken, and a lighted bundle of straw had been pushed through into a room which was a lumber room. This bundle of straw Guy had with extreme difficulty drawn out with a pitchfork, and the room was being soused with water, for it was well alight. Adrienne immediately sent the maids to help. She was no longer afraid of the house burning, for only one room was alight, and that was being deluged with hose and buckets. She stayed out on the terrace with her little stepson for a considerable time; then, as light began to dawn in the sky, and the maids returned one by one saying that all danger was over, she sent Alain back to bed with his bonne, and went across the lawn to find her husband.

He came to meet her with blackened face and hands. "Thank God, our home is saved," he said; "I am leaving the men to watch it, and I will wire for the police in the morning. Come along in. How about a cup of coffee? We'll get Pierre to make us one."

They approached the Château together. Suddenly from the thick shrubbery at their side a man darted out and levelled his pistol straight at Guy's heart. In a second Adrienne had flung herself in front of him. She had recognized Dragominsk. He looked dishevelled and wild, but his pistol went off, and Adrienne swayed and fell at her husband's feet. In agony of mind, Guy lifted her up, and bore her into the house.

Dragominsk made off, but all Guy's thoughts were on his unconscious wife. One of the men rode off for the doctor.

The wound was in her shoulder and it was bleeding profusely. With firm, deft hands Guy bandaged it up and stopped the flow of blood. It seemed years to him before the doctor arrived.

After a brief examination, he allayed his worst fears.

"The bullet has escaped the lung. I must get it out. But it isn't in a vital part. We will have her well again. Cheer up!"

In an hour's time the bullet had been extracted, and Adrienne's wound dressed. She had recovered consciousness, but was at first too dazed and confused to remember things. Then, as the morning wore on, she began to ask questions. Guy would not leave her side.

He felt as if nothing in the world mattered now but his wife.

By and by urgent messages reached him, and he was forced to leave her.

When he returned, there was a sad look in his eyes; but fearing to agitate Adrienne, he kept his own counsel, and did not enlighten her as to the cause of his distress.

She had fever for a few days, and had to be kept very quiet. It was a revelation to her to see what a good nurse her husband was. Quiet, tender and deft in every movement, he waited upon her hand and foot, and would hardly allow her maid or Alain's bonne to come near her.

And then one bright May morning, when Adrienne was really convalescent, he broke to her the sad news:

"Our dear little Agatha has been taken from us."

Adrienne burst into tears.

"Oh, how dreadful for us! But lovely for her. Tell me all about it, Guy. What has happened? What shall we do without her?"

"She saved our lives at the cost of her own. Who do you think sounded the alarm bell?"

"Not Agatha!"

"Yes, Agatha; the village consider it a miracle, her sister an amazing and astounding feat. She was found, poor little thing, dead at the foot of the belfry stairs. Her delicate little hands were marked, almost lacerated by the rope."

"How could Marie let her! How could she! Oh, I can't believe it! She was paralysed from her waist downwards."

"Marie had been called out to a case of sudden illness. Wouldn't you like her to come up to you and tell you more than I can?"

"Yes, let her come at once. I must hear all I can. How did Agatha know we were in danger? Oh, Guy, do you remember? I saw her distinctly on the lawn, showing us where the fire was. Was it really her?"

"It could not have been. You must remember, they live close to the Church on the top of the hill. We are nearly a mile away."

"Then it was her spirit. I saw her distinctly. Poor, brave little Agatha! Oh, Guy, are our lives worth saving at such a cost? She is a loss to the whole village. What do they feel about it?"

"They are absolutely dumbfounded! And in a way it has pulled us all together again, and produced better feeling all round. We are mourning together for her. There was quite a scene at her funeral; the men broke down, and sobbed as broken-heartedly as the women. I'll get Marie to come up and see you this afternoon."

Marie came. She looked quite old and stricken, and at first she and Adrienne could only mingle their tears together. Then Marie began to relate the events of that evening.

"My darling had been very troubled for some time, Madame, about the 'evil' in the village. That was what she called it. I know in her heart she associated it with Monsieur Dragominsk, but she will never let herself speak evil of anyone. Ah, Madame! I cannot remember that she is gone, that I must speak of her in the past! She said to me about five o'clock that evening:

"'Marie, I am overpressed with the weight of danger and evil. What does it mean?'

"'You worry too much,' I said to her.

"'But,' she said, 'that is not my way; evils never lie heavily on me, for what my Father allows, I bend my head to. He knows best. But to-day I keep having the Count and the dear Countess before me. And our Château is threatened in some way. I know it is. And I have a feeling that I am called to save it.'

"Then I tried to soothe her, and I told her the way to keep you from evil was to pray for you. Whilst we were talking, I got an urgent summons from Tournet Farm the other side of the village. The woman was expecting her seventh child, and she was taken before her time. They often send for me, as you know, Madame, and I could not but go. Oh, if I only had stayed, I should have had my darling alive to-day! But I went. She wanted me to. She said she would be quite safe and comfortable till I returned. And she looked up at me and smiled in her happy way:

"'You know, my Marie,' she said; 'if I sleep, I shall not miss you, and if I lie wakeful, I shall have happy talks with my Father. He is so very, very close to me in the still hours of darkness. Go and do not give me another thought.'

"We kissed each other. I placed a glass of milk by her bedside, and the lamp, and made her comfortable for the night. How little I thought I had taken a last farewell of her!"

Sobs choked her voice.

"Did anyone run in and tell her that they were going to burn the Château?"

"Nobody went near her. No one told her, except the good Lord Himself. Doubtless He sent an angel to tell her. Doubtless the angel helped her to the belfry and gave her strength to sound the alarm. She could not have done it otherwise. She was given the power of walking, which for fifteen years has been withheld from her. God knew how we need you, Madame, and it was His will to draw up my darling into Heaven after she had saved you. I try to be resigned. But oh, if only I could have sounded the alarm and not her."

"And yet, Marie," said Adrienne slowly, "perhaps you would have refused to do it. You would have thought it was her sick fancy; you would not have liked to take such an extreme step without more proof of it being really necessary. And now let me tell you. Just as the bell ceased tolling, when we were all aroused, I looked out of the window and saw Agatha distinctly upon the lawn. She was warning me and pointing to the room where the fire had commenced to take hold."

"Did you see her, Madame? Then it must have been as she was dying that she came. How did she look? Oh, if only I had seen her!"

"Just as she always looks—sweet and serene."

"Oh, she was so fond of you! The Count and you were always in her thoughts and prayers."

"We both owe the happiness of our souls to her," said Adrienne, wiping away her tears. "Marie, we won't be so selfish as to keep on mourning for her. Think of her joy and gladness! She will never suffer any more, never have nights of pain and weary sleepless days. We must rejoice for her, if we can't for ourselves."

Then Marie began to talk about the village.

The four dismissed farm labourers and Monsieur Dragominsk were considered responsible for the fire, but they had all disappeared, and the police could not trace them.

"My little Agatha has not died in vain," Marie said. "Our village was getting red hot with revolt and revolution. And now they seem softened and repentant. I asked André Gaugy, who had been imbibing all Monsieur Dragominsk's poisonous words, how the poor would get on without our family at the Château, who would look after us and tide us over our bad times, and I asked him if he thought a clever thinking man would have knocked under to a Russian ne'er-do-well, who was befriended out of charity by our merciful Count, and after eating of his salt and receiving kindness from his wife and himself, returned their benevolence by setting fire to their house and shooting the Countess.

"Andre hadn't a word to say except: 'Oh, he had a persuasive tongue, that man; but I never thought he was murderous, never! And he has killed our little Saint! May Heaven keep him off my path! For I dare not trust myself with him!'

"That's Andre now, and a few weeks ago he was thundering against all in the class above him! I cannot tell you, Madame, how all of them have spoken to me of Agatha. They almost looked upon her as a ladder to Heaven, and say that now she is gone, they have none to care for their souls. I tell them the good Curé is still with us, and they say,—

"'Yes, he is our priest; but she was our friend, our little sister, she knew us and loved us. We can have another priest when the Curé goes to his rest, but we can never have another Agatha.'"

"They're right there," said Adrienne.

When Marie had gone. Adrienne and Guy talked over matters together. She was very anxious to put up a marble cross over Agatha's grave, and Guy told her that it could be done later on.

"She has died for us," said Adrienne sorrowfully.

"And you," said Guy, looking at her tenderly, "almost gave your life for me. Did you think of what you were doing?"

"No, I never thought. It was a natural instinct, and Guy, if I hadn't done it, the bullet which went into my shoulder would have gone into your heart. You are just that much taller than I. We were standing together. Oh, don't let us talk about it! It seems like some black, ugly dream. God has preserved us. I like to think that He wants us here on the earth to do His work and fulfil His purposes."

After the storm came the calm. The little village subsided into its normal state; the peasants no longer shrank away when Adrienne passed by. They showed the greatest solicitation over her wounded shoulder, and were continually making inquiries after her health. Adrienne found a young French Protestant girl to teach Alain; she played with him out of lesson hours, and gradually the individuality of Monsieur Dragominsk faded from the boy's memory. He, childlike, lived in the present, and was perfectly happy and content with his new teacher.

When the summer came, Admiral Chesterton invited them over for a month's stay with him. Guy could not go, for business affairs again called him to America; but Adrienne took Alain and thoroughly enjoyed life again in her old home. Phemie had just presented Godfrey with a son and heir. She had adapted herself in a wonderful way to her new life, and had grown quite pretty. She welcomed Adrienne warmly, and the young wives had much to say to each other.

"You are really happy making your home out of England?" Phemie questioned.

"The Château is my home. I love it. I have always done so ever since I first saw it, and as long as I am with Guy, I don't care what country contains me."

"How funny it is," said Phemie thoughtfully, "how one kind of man suits me, and quite another suits you. I think your husband too hard and strong and dour to make a woman happy."

"He may have a hard shell, but his heart is as tender as a child's," said Adrienne emphatically.

Then she looked at the baby in Phemie's arms. "I never thought you would like being a mother," she said.

"No, when I was single and unattached I talked a lot of nonsense," said Phemie, flushing; "but motherhood is very wonderful, Adrienne. You will find it so."

"I'm sure I shall, and if all is well, three months more will bring me to it. I am hoping it may be a girl, and Guy hopes so too. I know he will spoil a little daughter if he gets one."

"You must not let him. Godfrey and I talk a lot about our boy. We mean to bring him up from the beginning in the old-fashioned way. To learn obedience and self-control first of all. Those virtues are lacking in the modern race."

So they talked, compared notes together, and parted; each feeling that their friendship was strengthened and renewed by their time together.

It was in October when Adrienne's little daughter appeared. She was a tiny creature with big blue eyes and soft little curls over her head. She hardly ever cried, and gave everyone a smile who came near her.

Her father watched her with adoring eyes. When Adrienne was quite convalescent, she got her husband to take her one afternoon to the little churchyard.

A beautiful white marble cross was erected over Agatha's grave, and she wanted to see the inscription underneath.

It was very simple and plain:

"SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF OUR BELOVED AGATHA WHO DIED AS SHE LIVED IN SUCCOURING OTHERS.

"Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord."

And then below, Marie had these verses written:

"Her life was lived in Heaven below, And God was with her here; She's only gone a step beyond To clearer, sweeter air.

"Through pain and grief she sang her hymns Of joyous grateful praise; In glory now beyond all ills She sings again her lays.

"The echo of her songs and life With all of us remain; And so we follow in her steps, We know we'll meet again."

"Guy," said Adrienne, looking up at her husband with tears in her eyes, "there is only one name for our little daughter, and I pray God that He may give her some of the grace He gave our little Saint."

"Yes," said Guy, in a tone of quiet content, "she shall be called 'Agatha.'"