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.
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