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.'"