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.