"Hm!" said the Viscount, smiling, "howbeit in these next three days, I'd have you teach me all you can of your--unmannerly method."

"And wherefore three days, sir?"

"Why as to that Zeb--er--Lard save me, I'm to ride with the Major to Sevenoaks, he'll be waiting! Here, help me on with this!" And laying by his foil, the Viscount caught up his coat.

"Three days, Master Tom, and wherefore three?" enquired the Sergeant as Viscount Merivale struggled into his tight-fitting garment.

"Take care, Zeb, 'tis a new creation."

"And seems much too small, sir!"

"Nay, 'twill go on in time, Zeb, in time. I shall acquire it by degrees. Ease me into it--gently, gently--so!"

"And wherefore three days, sir?" persisted the Sergeant, as the coat being "acquired" its wearer settled its graceful folds about his slender person.

"Why three is a lucky number they say, Zeb," and with a smiling nod the Viscount hasted serenely away.

"Three days!" muttered the Sergeant, looking after him. "Zounds--I wonder!" So saying, he put away the foils and taking a pair of shears set himself to trim one of the tall yew hedges, though more than once he paused to rub his chin and murmur: "Three days--I wonder?"

This remark he had just uttered for perhaps the twentieth time when, roused by a hurried, shambling step, he glanced up and saw Roger, one of the under-gardeners who, touching an eyebrow, glanced over right shoulder, glanced over left, and spoke:

"Sergeant I do ha' worked here i' the park an' grounds twenty-five year man an' boy, an' in all that length o' days I never knowed it to happen afore, an' now it 'ave happened all of a shakesome sweat I be, hares-foot or no--an' that's what!"

"What's to do, Roger?"

"'Tis the eyes of 'er, Sergeant! 'Tis 'er mumping an' 'er mowing!

'Tis all the brimstoney look an' ways of 'er as turns a man's good flesh to flesh o' goose, 'is bones to jelly an' 'is bowels to water--an' that's what!"

"Nay, but what is't, Roger man?"

"'Ere's me, look'ee, tr.i.m.m.i.n.g them borders, Sergeant, so 'appy-'earted as any bird and all at once, I falls to coldsome, quakesome shivers, my 'eart jumps into my jaws, my knees knocks an' trembles horrorsome-like, an' I sweats----"

"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant.

"Then I feels a ghas'ly touch o' quakesome fingers as shoots all through my vitals--like fire, Sergeant and--there she is at my elber!"

"Who, Roger?"

"And 'er looks at me doomful, Sergeant, an' that's what!"

"Aye, but who, Roger, damme who?"

"'Tis th' owd witch as do be come for 'ee an' that's what!"

"Name of a dog!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "For me?"

"Aye," nodded Roger, glancing over his shoulder again, "'I want the Sergeant,' says she roupysome and grim-like, 'bring me the fine, big, sojer-sergeant,' she says."

"And what's her will wi' me?" enquired the Sergeant, glancing about uneasily.

"Wants to blast 'ee belike, Sergeant," groaned Roger. "Or mayhap she be minded only to 'witch 'ee wi' a b.l.o.o.d.y flux, or a toothache, or a windy colic or--Angels o' mercy, there she be a-coming!"

Turning hastily the Sergeant beheld a bowed, cloaked figure that hobbled towards them on a stick. The Sergeant let fall the shears and thrusting hand into frilled shirt, grasped a small, gold cross in his sinewy fingers.

Being come up to them the old creature paused and showed a face brown, wrinkled and lighted by glittering, black eyes; then lifting her staff she darted it thrice at the trembling Roger:

"Hoosh! Scow! Begone!" she cried in harsh, croaking voice, whereupon Roger forthwith took to his heels, stumbling and praying as he ran while the Sergeant gripped Mrs. Agatha's gold cross with one hand while he wiped sweat from his brow with the other as he met her piercing eyes.

"Good morrow, mam!" said he at last. The old woman shook her head but remained silent, fixing him with her wide-eyed stare. "Mam," he ventured again, "what would ye wi' me? Are you in trouble again, old Betty? If so--speak, mam!"

The old woman, bowed upon her staff, viewed his tall figure up and down with her bright eyes and nodded:

"'Tis my tall, fine sojer!" she said at last, and her voice had lost its shrill stridency. "'Tis my kind sojer so like the one I lost long and long since. I'm old: old and knew sorrow afore the mother as bore ye. Sorrow hath bided in me all my woeful days. Pain, pain, and hardship my lot hath been. They've hunted me wi' sticks and stones ere now, I've knowed the choking water and the scorch o' cruel fire. I mind all the pain and evil but I mind the good--aye, aye! There's been many to harm and few t' cherish! Aye, I mind it all, I mind it, the evil and the good. And you was kind t' old Betty because your 'eart be good, so I be come this weary way to warn 'ee, my big sojer."

"Warn me--of what, mam?"

"A weary way, a woeful way for such old bones as Betty's!"

"Why then come sit ye and rest, mam. Come your ways to the arbour yonder." Moaning and muttering the old woman followed whither he led, but seeing how she stumbled he reached out his hand, keeping the other upon his small gold cross and so brought her into the hutch-like sentry-box. Down sat old Betty with a blissful sigh; but now, when he would have withdrawn his hand, her fingers closed upon it, gnarled and claw-like and, before he could prevent, she had stooped and touched it to her wrinkled cheek and brow.

"'Tis a strong hand, a kindly hand," she croaked, "'tis a sojer's hand--my boy was a sojer but they killed him when the world was young.

I'm old, very old, and deaf they say--aha! But the old can see and the deaf can hear betimes, aha! Come, ope your hand, my dear, come ope your hand and let old Betty read. So, here's a big hand, a strong hand--now let us see what says the big, strong hand. Aha--here's death----"

"Zounds!" exclaimed the Sergeant, starting. "You're something sudden mam, death is our common lot----"

"Death that creeps, my dear. Here's ill chances and good. Here's sorrow and joy. Here's love shall be a light i' the dark. But here's dangers, perils, night-lurkers and creepers i' the gloom. Death for you and shame for her."

"Ha--for her!" cried the Sergeant, his big hand clenching on the feeble, old fingers. "D'ye mean--Mrs. Agatha, mam?"

"No, no, my dear, no no!" answered old Betty, viewing his stern and anxious face with her quick bright eyes. "'Tis not her you love, no, no, 'tis one as loveth him ye serve. 'Tis one with a soul as sweet, as soft and white as her precious body, 'tis one as is my namesake, 'tis----"

"_Sapperment_!" exclaimed the Sergeant. "You never mean my lady Betty, my lady Carlyon----"

"Aye, aye my dear--'tis she!"

"And in danger, d'ye say? Can ye prove it, mam?"

"Come ye to-morrow t' my cottage at rise o' moon and I'll show ye a thing, ye shall see, ye shall hear. Bring him along o' you him--ssh!"

The old woman's clutch tightened suddenly, her bowed figure grew more upright, and she stared wide of eye: "Come," she cried suddenly, in her shrillest tones, "you as do hearken--come! You in petticoats--aha, I can see, I can hear! Come forth, I summon ye!"

A moment's utter silence, then leaves rustled and Mrs. Agatha stood in the doorway, her eyes very bright, her cheeks more rosy than usual.

"Sergeant Tring," she demanded, "what doth the old beldam here?"

Old Betty seemed to cower beneath Mrs. Agatha's look, while the Sergeant fidgeted, muttered "Zounds" and was thereafter dumb. "'Tis an arrant scold and wicked witch," continued Mrs. Agatha, "and should to the brank, or the cucking-stool----"

"No, no!" cried the old woman, shivering and struggling to her feet.

"Not again a G.o.d's love, mistress--not again! I'll be gone! Let me go!"