Amyas nodded his head.
"I thought so. Shame rides post. Now then, Captain Leigh, listen to me. I, being a plain man and a burgher, and one that never drew iron in my life except to mend a pen, ask you, being a gentleman and a captain and a man of honor, with a weapon to your side, and harness to your back—what would you do in my place?"
"Humph!" said Amyas, "that would very much depend on whether 'my place' was my own fault or not."
"And what if it were, sir? What if all that the charitable folks of Bideford—(Heaven reward them for their tender mercies!)—have been telling you in the last hour be true, sir,—true! and yet not half the truth?"
Amyas gave a start.
"Ah, you shrink from me! Of course a man is too righteous to forgive those who repent, though God is not."
"God knows, sir"
"Yes, sir, God does know—all; and you shall know a little—as much as I can tell—or you understand. Come upstairs with me, sir, as you'll drink no more; I have a liking for you. I have watched you from your boyhood, and I can trust you, and I'll show you what I never showed to mortal man but one."
And, taking up a candle, he led the way upstairs, while Amyas followed wondering.
He stopped at a door, and unlocked it.
"There, come in. Those shutters have not been opened since she" and the old man was silent.
Amyas looked round the room. It was a low wainscoted room, such as one sees in old houses: everything was in the most perfect neatness. The snow-white sheets on the bed were turned down as if ready for an occupant. There were books arranged on the shelves, fresh flowers on the table; the dressing-table had all its woman's mundus of pins, and rings, and brushes; even the dressing-gown lay over the chair-back. Everything was evidently just as it had been left.
"This was her room, sir," whispered the old man.
Amyas nodded silently, and half drew back.
"You need not be modest about entering it now, sir," whispered he, with a sort of sneer. "There has been no frail flesh and blood in it for many a day."
Amyas sighed.
"I sweep it out myself every morning, and keep all tidy. See here!" and he pulled open a drawer. "Here are all her gowns, and there are her hoods; and there—I know 'em all by heart now, and the place of every one. And there, sir"
And he opened a cupboard, where lay in rows all Rose's dolls, and the worn-out playthings of her childhood.
"That's the pleasantest place of all in the room to me," said he, whispering still: "for it minds me of when—and maybe, she may
