CHAPTER VIII

LITTLE AGATHA

ADRIENNE was taking a walk through the village. Guy had gone to Paris for a few days on business. The Countess was in the deepest depths of despondency. Adrienne found it quite impossible to cheer her up; she refused to leave her room, said she was ill, and her favourite doctor was in attendance upon her.

Adrienne had interviewed him before she started for her walk.

"No, Mademoiselle," he assured her in fluent French; "there is nothing serious in your aunt's indisposition, except that at no time is her heart very strong, and she seems to be agitating herself unnecessarily over trifles; her mind is acting upon her body, and she cannot sleep. I have given her a sedative, and told her to rest for a few days, and then you will see her up and about again."

So Adrienne, feeling that she herself needed both air and exercise, had come away from the Château. The fresh breeze blowing down from the hills fanned her cheeks, and brought a sparkle to her eyes. She began going over in her mind the events of the last few days. Guy had come to wish his aunt good-bye before he departed for Paris. She had alluded again to the old watch.

"Can't you get it back for me?" she had asked Guy fretfully, and he had made answer:

"Ma mère, it is easy to throw pebbles into the sea; it is difficult to fish them up again. I would suggest that you throw away no more pebbles."

Then fixing her with his eye almost sternly, he had said:

"You have lost a good many things out of the Château. And it is your own concern; but you have lost more than you have gained. There is one heirloom that I must beg you do not meddle with. And that is Van Dyck's portrait of my great-grandfather. That belongs to me, as you know. I have an affection for it, and I will not have it grace the salon walls in Monsieur Bouverie's house!"

"You are very unkind," the Countess had sobbed, and she had parted with her stepson in an injured state of mind.

He had hardly left the village before the little notary arrived for a "business interview."

This had been a very long one, and so far, Adrienne had not been given any particulars of what had transpired in it.

The Countess had taken to her bed immediately afterwards, and though Adrienne had waited upon her most assiduously, she would no longer confide in her; only lay in bed propped up on satin cushions in the daintiest of boudoir caps and tea jackets, declaring that life was over for her, and that death would be welcome at any moment.

"I'm afraid," Adrienne acknowledged to herself, "that I am not equal to the emergency. And the task of keeping Aunt Cecily's spirits up is too much for my own. I don't believe anyone in the world could make her happy!"

As she mused in this despondent way, she happened to glance up, and she saw she was passing the little white house on the knoll outside the village.

A sudden impulse seized her.

"I will go and see this little Agatha, who seems to be a kind of modern saint. I dare say she may drive away my dumps."

So she made her way to the whitewashed cottage with the green shutters, and opened the little green wooden gate which led into a very pretty flower garden. Here she found Marie Berthod, a woman with a round, smiling face. She was seated just outside the door with a bowl in her lap, preparing vegetables for the midday pottage, but she welcomed Adrienne at once.

"You will be the English demoiselle at the Château. We have watched you ride past in the early hours. Come in. I will take you to my little sister. We wondered if we should have the pleasure of a visit from you."

She took her straight into a tidy little kitchen; and from thence into another room leading out of it. In this room was a big couch by the open window.

Adrienne's first impression was of great purity, great restfulness, and great peace. The room was whitewashed. All the furniture, which was of the simplest description, was painted white. Two big pictures hung on the opposite walls. One of Christ as a tiny boy upon His mother's knee; two other children gambolling on the grass at His feet were holding out flowers which they had plucked. His tiny hands were outstretched to take, but also they seemed in the act of blessing them. It was a wonderfully beautiful picture, and when Adrienne looked at it later, she was lost in admiration.

The other picture was of Christ weeping over Jerusalem; the city down below and the walls and pinnacles of the temple were touched with the golden rays of the setting sun. His Figure was in the shadow of a tree above Him, but just one ray of sun was shining upon His Face, and the tender love and longing in His Eyes was depicted by a masterly brush.

Underneath was written just these words:

"Et vous ne voulez pas!"

But for the moment Adrienne did not notice these pictures. Her eyes were upon the couch, and upon little Agatha.

She lay there, a tiny childlike figure, clad in a white woollen gown. Her bright brown hair was twisted like a coronet round her small head. Her face was very pale; she had delicate features, but determined chin, a broad brow and immense dark blue eyes fringed with black lashes. It was her eyes that held and dominated the froward, that melted into tenderness the most obdurate and hardened, that glowed always with a burning fervour. Her lips were sensitive and sweet. Her hands were clasped round a brown leather book with brass edges, and when Adrienne entered, she was gazing out of her open window to the grassy pasture land in front of her. On a small table by her side was a big bowl of wild flowers.

"Here is Mademoiselle, Agatha, come to see us at last," said Marie in her cheery tone; then, drawing a wooden chair close to the couch, she offered it to Adrienne, and left the room.

[Illustration: "Here is Mademoiselle, Agatha, come to see us at last," said Marie in her cheery tone. _Adrienne]_ _[Chapter VIII]_

Adrienne bent over the invalid, who took hold of both her hands, and held them silently in hers, whilst her great eyes regarded her with grave tenderness.

"Ah," she said in a very sweet voice, "you must forgive me for my eagerness. I always want to see people's souls."

"But can you?" asked Adrienne with a smile, meeting Agatha's intent gaze with great equanimity.

"Not always, not entirely; but I see further in than most people do. It makes me understand them so much better; it gives me knowledge and sympathy."

Then she let Adrienne's hands slip out of her grasp.

As she held her, Adrienne had a strange feeling, as if an electric current were running into her from the gentle tenacious grip of those little white hands.

When she seated herself she said:

"I would like to know how far you see through me."

Agatha looked at her with a smile and a flash of her eyes.

"Ah, you are young, you are happy, you have never suffered on your own account; and you do not much like suffering on the account of others. You are very willing, is it not so? But after a time the goodwill and patience wear thin."

"I think you are a fortune-teller," said Adrienne with a little laugh; but she felt uncomfortable, as she was distinctly conscious that day that she was already beginning to be tired and fretted with her aunt's continual depression and discontent.

For a moment there was silence. Agatha was gazing out again, up into the blue sky and her lips were moving, though she did not speak.

Adrienne had an instinct that she was praying.

Then the small hand was laid caressingly on her arm. "And how much do you know of our Father?"

Adrienne gazed at her at first uncomprehendingly, then the colour mounted to her cheeks.

"You mean," she said with embarrassment, "God. I believe in Him, of course."

"Where is the dear Lord in your life?" questioned Agatha. "Outside? Far away. Up yonder in Heaven, or inside and close? Inside the heart which He has made and bought back for Himself?"

"Oh," murmured Adrienne, "you are probing too deeply, too quickly may I say. I hardly know how to answer you."

"But you will answer me later on, when you come again; you will think, and use all the thinking powers that the Good God has given you."

Adrienne bowed her head, and felt the tears rise to her eyes. In two minutes this small sick girl had filled her soul with tumult and confusion. Never had anyone come to such close quarters with her. Godfrey had often talked to her on serious topics, but he had always taken it for granted that she with him had the highest ideals and purposes within her.

Little Agatha seemed quite unaware of having said anything unusual; she lay back on her cushions with a radiant smile upon her face.

As Adrienne glanced at her, she was almost startled at the radiance in her eyes. She had all the joyousness of a child, combined with the deep, glowing joy of an adult.

"You look so happy!" she could not help saying.

"And am I not? How could I fail to be?" responded little Agatha quickly. "Don't you know that we Christians must be—we cannot help ourselves—the very happiest creatures in God's creation?"

"But you," faltered Adrienne—"you lie here, year in, and year out, don't you? You never have any change of scene?"

"No change, Mademoiselle?"

Agatha waved her hand outside:

"Have you ever thought of it? The Good God has no duplicates. He never makes two leaves, or blades of grass, no insect, bird, or animal alike! No human being, and each with a different soul. How then should His days be similar? I look at the sky and find fresh beauty every fresh day, and I see visitors—oh, so many—and all with different lives and difficulties and joys. To-day will be a fresh joy to me. I have made acquaintance with you, and all day after you leave me, I will be thinking of you and talking to my Father about you."

Adrienne was touched.

"'This is the day which the Lord has made,'" went on Agatha, "'we will rejoice and be glad in it!' Every morning I say that to myself. And if we have clouds, and sweeping storms, they come from Him; and if this sweet, sweet sunshine, then also it belongs to Him. And when we have God's sunshine in our hearts, nothing in the world can touch us, or bring anything evil to our souls."

"I suppose," said Adrienne, looking at her a trifle wistfully, "that you have been good all your life, that praying and reading the Bible comes natural to you."

"I never pray," said Agatha serenely.

Adrienne stared at her.

"To pray is to beg, to beseech. There is no need to do that. I talk, ah!—I talk to my Father all the day long. I never want anything for myself; does not David say, 'The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want'? And when I want for others, I tell my Father, and leave it to Him."

Adrienne was silent, and then suddenly through the open window she saw a peasant woman with her apron up to her eyes crying loudly. Marie had gone down the garden path to meet her, and with a backward sign at Agatha's window tried to hush her.

"No," cried the woman, wringing her hands; "it is little Agatha I want! Ah me! What a loss! What a black trouble! How shall we live without her! What can we do? What will become of us?"

Adrienne got up to go.

"I will come another day," she said. "Here is someone in trouble, who wants you. If sounds as if someone is dead."

And almost before the words were out of her mouth, in came the weeping woman who had flung away Marie's restraining arm. She cast herself down on her knees by Agatha's couch.

"Ah, little Agatha, here is black trouble and disaster for us all!"

Adrienne slipped out of the room. Marie drew her out into the garden.

"It is always so," she said; "they come and come all the day. I am sorry, Mademoiselle, but you will come again. We have talked much of you."

"Of course I will come. I shall like to. That poor woman has lost someone dear to her, I suppose?"

"Her cow. It is a great loss. She is a widow and has five children. We will tell the Curé. Madame, your dear aunt is so generous. She will send relief at once. Lately she has helped the village so much. And though, if I may say it, we hear she is so poor, there is always money for the poor and distressed. May Heaven bless her!"

This did not sound like the Countess, and Adrienne felt puzzled.

"Does not your sister get tired with so many visitors?"

"It is her life. She is like a mountain spring, always giving, giving, and refreshing those around her. They all come to her, some with sins on their consciences; those she brings to repentance and then sends to the Curé. But between ourselves, Mademoiselle, she brings them to the feet of the Blessed Saviour first. We have a great many come up our garden path; look how worn the stones are. But I—though I'm only a commonplace woman—I have visitors too. Our Father, Mademoiselle, was a chemist and herbalist, and he was much thought of here. We hardly ever needed a doctor, he knew so much, and he taught me, and left me two valuable medicines. A spring tonic which all the village use in spring, and a cure for rheumatism which is one great foe when we get old and feeble. Perhaps not in every case a cure, but it eases and drives away the pain. They come to me for medicine for their bodies, but to Agatha for healing for their souls."

"What a lot of good you must do!" said Adrienne. "And as for your sweet little sister, she is an angel, she thrills me through when she speaks. She's so intense and real and true!"

"Ah, Mademoiselle, I dare not begin to talk of her, or of what she has done and is doing in the village here. The Curé himself loves and reverences her, he says she has taught him many things, and that in our religion Mademoiselle is something supernatural, for our priests, you know, are the guardians of our souls."

Adrienne had reached the gate. She felt reluctant to leave, but as she walked home her thoughts were busy. First, with her aunt, then with little Agatha, lastly with herself. For the rest of that day the sweet voice rang in her ears:

"Where is the dear Lord in your life? Far away; or inside and close?"

The following day her aunt seemed much better in herself, and in the afternoon she asked Adrienne to take a note to Madame Nicholas for her.

"Do not leave it with anyone. Put it into her hands yourself, and if she is not at home, bring it back to me."

Then Adrienne understood. A few days before, her aunt and she had spent a long afternoon with Madame Nicholas in her beautiful garden. Relays of fruit, cakes, syrups and cooling drinks were served, and there were two tables of Bridge players under the trees. The Countess joined one of these groups. It was after this visit that she became so depressed and retired to bed.

Adrienne guessed that she had lost money over the game, and this note was enclosing the amount due for her debts. She wondered how she had got it, and found herself involuntarily casting her eyes round the Château to see if any of its treasures were missing. She could not discover any blank space on walls or tables. And then on the impulse of the moment she told her aunt about the loss of the peasant woman's cow.

"I thought it was a child she had lost; but I suppose their cows are as precious to them as their children."

The Countess seemed supremely indifferent to the story.

"They are always crying over something or other—these peasants—it is either a bad harvest, or a pig lost, or some epidemic carries off their fowls."

"I was wondering if we could help her at all?"

"Help her! My dear child, I can't help them in my state of poverty. I never heard of such a thing! I've forbidden the Curé to come to me any more with his begging appeals. Now don't lose any more time, but take my note at once."

Adrienne set out for her walk. Her way lay through the woods, and the fresh green loveliness around her, the sheets of bluebells on grassy slopes, and the young bracken, uncurling under her feet, delighted and refreshed her.

Through the woods, across two flowery meadows, and then into the winding lanes she went, finally reaching her destination just as a car of smart people was coming through the gates. Madame Nicholas was one of them. She stopped the car and apologized to Adrienne for not welcoming her to the house.

"We are just off to a friend's place near Orleans."

Adrienne gave her her aunt's note, and saw a gleam of content in Madame Nicholas's eyes.

Then, after the car had left her, she determined to pursue her way farther. She was fond of walking and loved exploring the country. She soon got out of the lane, crossed a steep bit of wild moorland, and then climbed up a green hill.

Suddenly down the steep path came a girl in rough tweed coat and skirt. She was considerably older than Adrienne, and had the unmistakable air of an Englishwoman. But on her face, which was a strikingly handsome one, was an expression of agitation and alarm.

Directly she saw Adrienne she spoke. Her French was fluent.

"Oh, do you know where a doctor lives? I must have one at once. Is there one in the next village? I don't know my way about at all."

"There is one five miles the other side of our village," said Adrienne promptly; "but we're about two miles from this."

If the girl had been French, she would have wrung her hands. As it was she looked at Adrienne in blank dismay.

"What can I do? I have left my brother alone. He has cut his arm seriously, and I cannot stop the bleeding."

Adrienne was noted for her presence of mind. It did not fail her now. She spoke in English, and the girl's face brightened when she heard the familiar tongue.

"You must go back to him, and tie a bandage tight above the wound. Hold it with your fingers if you cannot make a tourniquet. I'll get back as quick as I can, and get my horse. I can ride the five or six miles in no time. May I have your name and address?"

"It is Preston! We live in a cottage away from everyone. It's called 'L'Eglantine,' at the top of Le Sourge, tell him. Thank you. I will do as you say."

She turned, and Adrienne saw her running lightly and swiftly up the narrow path that wound in zig-zag fashion up the hill.

Adrienne began to run too. She was breathless and exhausted by the time she reached the Château. But as she was nearing the stables a message was brought to her by Pierre:

"Madame would see you at once, Mademoiselle."

Adrienne directed Gaston to saddle Sultan, then she ran up to her aunt's room, and told her where she was going.

"But what nonsense," said the Countess; "I have been waiting for you to look at my old black lace dress with a view to altering it. You can't be at the beck and call of every stranger. Let them manage for themselves."

"I couldn't refuse to get help; but if you will let Gaston ride instead of me, I will not go."

"Gaston certainly will not go, nor any of my servants."

Her aunt spoke angrily, and for once Adrienne lost her temper.

"It's a question of life or death," she said; "I can't think how you can be so inhuman, Aunt Cecily!"

Then she left the bedroom, and flew downstairs again.

In three minutes' time, she was galloping down the avenue and on the road towards the doctor's house. She was fortunate to find him at home. He promptly got out his car and was on his way with little loss of time.

Adrienne cantered back to the Château more leisurely than she had come, but she was not surprised to meet with a curt reception by her aunt, who for the rest of the day treated her like a naughty child and preserved a frigid silence till bedtime. Then Adrienne apologized for her hasty words, and was forgiven.

But when she was alone in her room she said to herself:

"I cannot understand Aunt Cecily being so good and generous to the villagers, when to me she appears the most selfish and unsympathetic woman that ever lived! There must be a mistake somewhere."