HOW THE SERGEANT TOOK WARNING OF A WITCH
Sergeant Zebedee having pinked the Viscount in every vital part of his
aristocratic anatomy, lowered his foil, shook his head and sighed while
the Viscount panted rueful.
"You reached me seven times I think, that bout, Zeb?"
"Eight, sir!"
"Ha, the dooce! How d'ye do it?"
"'Tis your own self, m' lud. How can I help but pink you when you play
your parades so open and inviting?"
"Hm!" said the Viscount, frowning.
"And then too, you're so slow in your recoveries, Master Pancras--Tom,
sir!"
"Anything more, Zeb?"
"Aye, m' lud. Your hand on your p'int's for ever out o' the line and
your finger-play----" The Sergeant shook his head again.
"Devil burn it, Zeb! I begin to think I don't sound over-promising.
And yet--Gad love me, Sergeant, but you've no form, no style, y' know,
pasitively none! In the schools they'd laugh at your play and call it
mighty unmannerly."
"Belike they would, sir. But 'tis the schools as is the matter wi' you
and so many other modish gentlemen, same be all froth and flourish.
But flourishes though taking to the eye, is slow m' lud, slow."
"Nay, I've seen some excellent fencing in the schools, Zeb, such poise
o' bady, such grace----"
"Grace is very well, m' lud--in a school. But 'tis one thing to play a
veney wi' blunted weapons and another to fight wi' the sharps."
"True, Zeb, though La Touche teacheth in his book----"
"Book!" exclaimed the Sergeant and snorted.
"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, trimming 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 bloody 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 God's love, mistress--not again! I'll be gone! Let me
go!"
"Nay, not yet mam," said the Sergeant gently as he rose; "you are
weary, sit ye and rest awhile. Mrs. Agatha mam, you speak
woman-like----"
"Aye, aye," nodded old Betty, "'tis ever woman is cruellest to woman!"
"As you will, Zebedee Tring!" nodded Mrs. Agatha. "Yonder is Roger
Bent shook with a shivering fit at sight of her while you sit here and
let her scrabble your hand, but as you will!" and crossing her arms
over opulent bosom Mrs. Agatha would have turned away but old Betty
stabbed at her with bony finger.
"Woman," she croaked, "I'm here t' save the man you love. Come sit ye
and list to my telling." Mrs. Agatha faltered, whereupon the Sergeant
caught her hand, drawing her into the arbour: and there, sitting beside
the old woman they hearkened to her story.
"Mam," said the Sergeant, "ha' ye told my lady Carlyon aught o' this?
"Nay, nay," answered old Betty, "I had a mind to--but they wouldna let
me see my lady--the footmen and lackeys laughed at poor old Bet and
turned her from the door--so I did come to tell my brave
sojer-sergeant."
"'Tis just as well, mam," nodded the Sergeant, "for now you shall come
wi' us to his honour, the Major will hear you, I'll warrant me, so come
your ways, mam."
"Aye," said Mrs. Agatha, "and you shall eat and drink likewise and
after the Sergeant shall drive you back to Inchbourne an he will."
Thus Roger Bent, busied in the herb-garden, chancing to lift his head,
stood suddenly upright, staggered back and fell into a clump of
parsley; and propped upon an elbow, stared, as well he might, for into
the sacred precincts of her stillroom went Mrs. Agatha and the Sergeant
but between them tottered the bowed form of old Betty the witch.
"Lord!" exclaimed Roger, ruffling up his shock of hair. "My eyes is
sure a-deceiving of me--an' that's what!"