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He knocks at the door, and asks if Master Reuben Pemberthy can be seen at a moment’s notice. 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.”

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.

A young woman in deep widow’s weeds rises as he enters, and makes him one of those profound courtesies which were considered appropriate for the fair sex to display to those in rank and honour in the good old days when George was king. Surely a young woman still, despite the fifteen years that have passed, with a young supple figure and a pleasant unlined face. Eighteen years and fifteen only make thirty-three, and one can scarcely believe in time’s inroads looking upon Sophie Pemberthy. The man cannot. He is surprised and he looks at her through tears in his dark eyes.

“You asked to see Mr. Reuben Pemberthy,” she says, sadly. “You did not know that–“

“No, I did not know,” he says, a little huskily; “I am a stranger to these parts; I have been long abroad.”

“May I inquire the nature of your errand, Sir Richard?” she asks, in a low voice. “Though I am afraid I cannot be of any service as regards any business of the farm.”

“How is that?” he asks, steadily keeping gaze upon her.

“The farm passes to Mr. Pemberthy’s cousin in a few days’ time.”

“Indeed! Then you–“

He pauses half-way for a reply, but it is long in coming. Only the humming of the bees disturbs the silence of the room.

“Then you leave here?” he concludes at last.

“Yes. It is only the male Pemberthys who rule,” she says.

“Your–your children?”

“My one little boy, my dear Algy, died before his father. It was a great disappointment to my husband that he should die. We female Pemberthys,” she says, with a sudden real bright little smile that settles down into sadness again very quickly, “do not count for a great deal in the family.”

“How long has Mr. Pemberthy been dead?”

“Six months.”

“You are left poor?” he says, very quickly now.

“I–I don’t think you have a right to ask me such a question, sir.”

“I have no right,” he replies. “These are foreign manners. Excuse them, please; don’t mind me.”

Still he is persistent.

“From son to son’s son, and the women left anywhere and anyhow–that is the Pemberthy law, I expect. I have seen the workings of such a law before. Not that I ought to complain,” he adds, with a forced laugh,–a laugh that Mrs. Pemberthy seems suddenly to remember,–“for I have profited thereby.”

“Indeed!” says the farmer’s widow, for the want of a better answer at the moment.

“I am a younger son; but all my brothers have been away by wars or pestilence, and I am “sent” for in hot haste–I, who had shaken the dust of England from my feet for fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years?”

“Almost. Don’t you recollect the last time I was in this room?”

“You–in this room, Sir Richard?”

“Yes; try and remember when that was. I only come to look at the old place and you, just for once, before I go away again. Try and think, Mistress Pemberthy, as I used to call you.”

She looks into the red, sunburnt face, starts, blushes, and looks away.

“Yes, I remember. You are–“

“Well?”

“Captain Guy!”

“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.”