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Updated: May 16, 2025
The maid-servant looks surprised, but says, "My mistress is within, sir." "Reuben Pemberthy's wife, that is," he mutters, pulling thoughtfully at his long moustache; "ah, well, perhaps she will see me." "What name shall I say?" "Sir Richard Isshaw; but she will not know the name."
And folks do say, Finchley way, that pretty Mistress Pemberthy will be Lady Isshaw before the winter sets in, and that it will be exactly fifteen years since these two first set eyes upon each other. The events which I am about to relate took place between nine and ten years ago.
"Yes, that is it; Richard Guy Isshaw, younger son, who went wholly to the bad who turned highwayman whom you saved. The only one out of the eight, the rest were hanged at Tyburn and Kennington, poor devils, and thought I would ride over and thank you, and see you once more. Your husband would have hanged me, I dare say but there, there, peace to his soul." "Amen," whispers Sophie Pemberthy.
He stands in the hall, looking about him critically; his man-servant, still mounted, goes slowly back toward the roadway with his master's horse and his own, where he remains in waiting. Presently, Sir Richard Isshaw is shown into the farm parlour, very cool and full of shadow, with great green plants on the broad recesses of the open window, and bees buzzing about them from the outer world.
And," he adds, "I find only you and you just the same fair, bright girl I left behind me long ago." "Oh no." "It is like a dream; it is very remarkable to me. Yes, it's another call, Mistress Pemberthy, depend upon it." And it is not the last call, either. The estate of Richard Isshaw lies not so many miles from Maythorpe Farm that a good long ride cannot overcome the distance between them.
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