The village of Northam, which lies on the slope of a high tongue of
land between Bideford Bay and the Torridge, is neither pretty, nor
picturesque, nor romantic, nor anything of the kind. It is a plain,
antiquated, countrified-looking place, with irregular rows of
cottages, representing the style of architecture which prevailed
centuries ago, relieved occasionally by a dilapidated building of
statelier proportions, disclosing signs of former gentility, at a
time when the houses of the poor were at a respectful distance from
it, and it could boast of shrubbery, lawn, and orchard. The
plainness of the village, however, by no means detracts from its
merit, for historic associations of no small interest have gathered
round this little hamlet, from the days of Ubba, the Danish chieftain
and robber, to the days of James Stauncy; and warriors of note,
seamen of renown, friars of doubtful reputation, have in their turn
given Northam a name, and made it, 'for the nonce,' a small lion. It
is not of these, however that we have now to write. Had the
captain's dwelling been elsewhere, the village would have been left
alone in its quietude; but there, in the street which lies at right
angles to the main road, and which leads to the Appledore Causeway,
is the selfsame cottage he once called his home. Time has not
changed it greatly. The huge chimney projects where it always
projected, supporting the front wall, and wasting its comfortable
warmth upon the front air. The window by its side is somewhat
modernized, indeed, and instead of the double hatch there is a
panelled door. In all other respects it is the same cottage still.
[Illustration: CAPTAIN STAUNCY REPORTS PROGRESS AT HOME.]
By the side of a bright fire in that happy home sat Mary Stauncy,
waiting the return of her husband. The children were settled for the
night, and everything in the little sitting-room was made to wear an
air of cheeriness, that would have brightened a cloudy brow had it
darkened the door. But Stauncy's brow was not clouded when he
stepped in lightly, and saluted his smiling wife. On the contrary,
his manner was unusually lively, and, being quite himself again,
having shaken off the effects of his morning potations, he laughingly
said, 'The old boy was in good cue for once, Mary, and I'm a richer
man than I was yesterday. He has come out handsome.'
Now, Mary Stauncy, who was a woman of a penetrating mind, and
thoroughly sterling in character, had a marvellous contempt for the
said Mr. Phillipson. She mistrusted and scorned him, and her dislike
was the barbed arrow of a woman's aversion. She therefore replied,
in a tone which showed that strong feelings were on the instant
awakened, 'And not before it was time, James. He has often promised
to do something; but his promises, like himself, are worthless. Here
are your best years running out, and what do you get for it? Depend
upon it, when you answer his purpose no longer, he'll send you adrift
with as little compunction as he turned Nanny Heale out of house and
home--the poor old creature!'
'Cut the painter, eh, Mary?' he replied, smiling.
'Yes--cut the painter, James, and no joke in it either. It'll be a
serious thing to get older and poorer at the same time, living, as I
may say, from hand to mouth, and letting time go by us until every
opportunity for bettering ourselves has passed away, because your
unprincipled employer is pleased to keep us off and on, promising and
promising, without ever intending to perform.'
'Nonsense, Mary!' replied the captain; 'we're young enough yet, and
all our spring tides are not done with. Though you think so ill of
the merchant, it isn't all breath he deals in;' and, laying the
fifty-pound note on the table, he added, 'Look, there's a hansel.'
The little woman coloured scarlet. Surprise, pleasure, hope,
suspicion, marshalled themselves hastily in her bosom; and, as there
are times when the whelming tide of the heart keeps back the
faculties of thought and utterance, she remained for a few moments
silent. But as the blood stole gradually from her cheeks, and a
pallor all the more death-like spread over them, she gave utterance
to her uppermost thought--the offspring of that intuition which is
woman's surest and safest logic, and said, 'Well, James, that's a
fine prize surely; but I'm certain there's roguery in it.'
'Roguery?'
'Yes, roguery, James. That covetous, dishonourable old man would as
soon part with his blood as with his money, unless he had some bad
scheme in his mind. It's no little would make him hand over a
fifty-pound note; and, to my eyes, every letter of it spells a
warning.'
'Come, come, Mary! you are too hard upon him; and really you might
have been gossiping with that old croaking witch, Betty Eastman, you
speak so solemnly about warning. The worst thing of the kind I know
of is the warning to pack up and go over the bar the first tide.'
'To-night, James?'
'To-night, Mary; and a fine wind we shall have for it, I reckon. But
you're all out at sea yourself, and look as melancholy as if you were
going to a funeral. The note, which I thought would raise your
spirits, has put a damper on them, sure enough.'
'And no wonder,' she replied, with tears in her eyes. 'I've had a
weight on my mind all day, and a presentiment that something
unfortunate would happen. I dreamt about you last night, James; and,
though our sleep-thoughts may be nothing but airy fancies most times,
we cannot always dismiss them as such. They hang about our minds
like living realities, and there's no reason why they shouldn't now
and then be true warnings. I have no wish to make too much of my
dream, but it haunts me whether I will or not. I saw you, as plain
as could be, walking among the sandhills, and soon the sky grew
suddenly dark--so dark that I lost sight of your form, until, by the
glare of a vivid flash of lightning, I beheld you sinking in a
quicksand. A wild shriek sounded above the roaring wind, drowned
only by the pealing thunder, and when the cloud passed away, and the
sun shone out brightly again as before, you were gone--lost to me, I
thought, for ever. As soon, therefore, as you showed me the note, it
flashed across my mind in a moment--_that's_ the quicksand: old
Phillipson will make us sup sorrow yet.'
'I hope not, Mary,' the captain replied, with as cheerful and easy a
manner as he could assume in the face of an upbraiding conscience;
'things are brighter than you think for. Get my traps together, and
all will be right, you'll see.' And when the church clock tolled out
the hour of eleven, the captain, who had talked himself into a
comfortable state again, rose to depart.
'James,' said his wife, who was still struggling with her misgivings,
'you haven't told me where you're bound, and when I may expect you
again.'
'You know, my love,' he answered, 'that Phillipson always gives his
orders the last thing. You shall hear from me as soon as possible;
so don't be down-hearted.' And, folding her in his arms, he bade her
farewell, with a warmth of true affection which did but make the pang
more poignant which apprehension had inflicted.
'God bless you and keep you!' she said, sobbing; and before those
strange emotions which were conflicting within could express
themselves further he was on his way to Appledore.
She watched him down the street, as he walked briskly along,
encountering the frosty night air; and when his footfall no longer
resounded on the hard causeway she clasped her hands, and said, 'Lead
us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil!'