In the year one thousand seven hundred and fifty-four there stood on the old quay at Appledore—a maritime village in the north of Devon—a sombre-looking abode of respectability, with an air of faded greatness about it, which towered above its more humble neighbours, and commanded an unbroken view of the so-called 'Pool.'
That self-same 'Pool' is not unworthy of notice; for there the tidal waters of the Torridge and the Taw form a spacious basin, in which shipping of no mean tonnage may swim and swing. It is there that those waters assume the hue and mimic the mien of their capricious stepmother, the ocean, becoming greener and more wavy; and when the old lady, rushing in over Bideford Bar, takes these children in her arms, the swelling and dancing and splashing of that Pool in the pride of its heart is beyond all common belief. It is there, too, that, having parted company for a time, and sailed miles into the country, they return again, and, bidding their tidal convoy farewell for a season, allow her to glide out by the side of the Burrows, until she joins once more with the Atlantic in Bideford Bay.
There are not a few who leave smoky cities, and breezeless plains, and monotonous landscapes, during the summer months, for seaside air and scenery; and to such we would say, Search out this meeting of the waters. Make acquaintance with North Devon, and pay your respects to Northam, the birthplace and the resting-place of that valiant adventurous knight Sir Amyas Leigh. Run down from thence to the Burrows, with its thousand acres of greensward like a bowling-green, studded with grazing cattle, and fenced by a long sea-wall of innumerable pebbles, beyond which is a strand that would amaze Ilfracombe or Weston. Inhale there the strong sea-breezes fresh up from the Atlantic. Walk fearlessly out into the surf, to meet the breakers rolling majestically, and harmless withal as the ripples on a mill-pond. Creep over the slaty rocks with oarweed strewed, surveying thence the frowning head of Hartland, or the burnt turf slopes and beetling cliffs of Baggy, and you will meet with marine enjoyments which few of the more fashionable resorts have ever dreamt of, and can never hope to supply.
In one of the front rooms of that sombre abode of respectability sat the wealthiest and most renowned of Appledore's merchants—and then they were princes indeed. Mr. Phillipson was a shrewd and determined man. Descended from ancestors who had contributed much to the commercial prosperity of Devon, when Bideford was one of the most stirring and thriving of British trading ports, he inherited their business habits, their passion for speculation, their greed for gain, and consequently their remorseless rapacity; and, at the time of which we write, he was busily engaged in the American and Russian trade, which yielded him a handsome income. Though well educated, and accustomed to good society, his manners were anything but refined; and so rough and coarse was his language at times that the common people honoured him with epithets not very flattering to his respectability. It was said by those who pretended to know that he was a hard drinker. There were whispers, too, that he had so far departed from the line of rectitude as to traffic in contraband goods, and that some of his craft were in fact no better than out-and-out smugglers. These rumours, however, were attributed by all genteel inhabitants to the tongue of scandal; for true it is that evil-speaking, lying, and slandering were very strong-handed in that maritime village. And so it came to pass that money and station did then what they have always done, and will always do—stave off suspicions, make the possibility of crime a hard thing to be believed, and keep a fence around the character which it is next door to sacrilege to touch.
It was a winter morning. The fire which burned brightly on the hearth was clear and glowing as a frosty air could make it; and as the merchant gazed on the ruddy mass and flickering flame, he seemed absorbed in some dreamy reverie; but, recovering occasionally from the fit of abstraction into which his musings had thrown him, he cast his eyes hurriedly and anxiously on the papers that lay on the table before him.
His reverie was interrupted at the moment he had apparently come to some definite conclusion. A servant entered and announced that Captain Stauncy wished to speak with him.
'Show him in,' he said smartly, as though annoyed at being interrupted and intruded on just then; adding, in a more self-possessed tone, 'See that no one is admitted whilst the captain is here.'
James Stauncy entered, and a goodly specimen of a British tar was he. His manly, open, sunburnt countenance, his broad and strong-built figure, his smart and jaunty air, his bold and sparkling eye, his spruce and expensive fittings, proclaimed him a worthy son of Neptune. Under other circumstances, and with opportunities more favourable, he would have become an extraordinary man. Generous and............