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A Man Of Devon
by
II
“Tuesday.
…. I’ve made a new acquaintance. I was lying in the orchard, and presently, not seeing me, he came along–a man of middle height, with a singularly good balance, and no lumber–rather old blue clothes, a flannel shirt, a dull red necktie, brown shoes, a cap with a leather peak pushed up on the forehead. Face long and narrow, bronzed with a kind of pale burnt-in brownness; a good forehead. A brown moustache, beard rather pointed, blackening about the cheeks; his chin not visible, but from the beard’s growth must be big; mouth I should judge sensuous. Nose straight and blunt; eyes grey, with an upward look, not exactly frank, because defiant; two parallel furrows down each cheek, one from the inner corner of the eye, one from the nostril; age perhaps thirty-five. About the face, attitude, movements, something immensely vital, adaptable, daring, and unprincipled.
He stood in front of the loggia, biting his fingers, a kind of nineteenth-century buccaneer, and I wondered what he was doing in this galley. They say you can tell a man of Kent or a Somersetshire man; certainly you can tell a Yorkshire man, and this fellow could only have been a man of Devon, one of the two main types found in this county. He whistled; and out came Pasiance in a geranium-coloured dress, looking like some tall poppy–you know the slight droop of a poppy’s head, and the way the wind sways its stem…. She is a human poppy, her fuzzy dark hair is like a poppy’s lustreless black heart, she has a poppy’s tantalising attraction and repulsion, something fatal, or rather fateful. She came walking up to my new friend, then caught sight of me, and stopped dead.
“That,” she said to me, “is Zachary Pearse. This,” she said to him, “is our lodger.” She said it with a wonderful soft malice. She wanted to scratch me, and she scratched. Half an hour later I was in the yard, when up came this fellow Pearse.
“Glad to know you,” he said, looking thoughtfully at the pigs.
“You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
“A sort of one,” I said.
“If by any chance,” he said suddenly, “you’re looking for a job, I could put something in your way. Walk down to the beach with me, and I’ll tell you; my boat’s at anchor, smartest little craft in these parts.”
It was very hot, and I had no desire whatever to go down to the beach–I went, all the same. We had not gone far when John Ford and Dan Treffry came into the lane. Our friend seemed a little disconcerted, but soon recovered himself. We met in the middle of the lane, where there was hardly room to pass. John Ford, who looked very haughty, put on his pince-nez and stared at Pearse.
“Good-day!” said Pearse; “fine weather! I’ve been up to ask Pasiance to come for a sail. Wednesday we thought, weather permitting; this gentleman’s coming. Perhaps you’ll come too, Mr. Treffry. You’ve never seen my place. I’ll give you lunch, and show you my father. He’s worth a couple of hours’ sail any day.” It was said in such an odd way that one couldn’t resent his impudence. John Ford was seized with a fit of wheezing, and seemed on the eve of an explosion; he glanced at me, and checked himself.
“You’re very good,” he said icily; “my granddaughter has other things to do. You, gentlemen, will please yourselves”; and, with a very slight bow, he went stumping on to the house. Dan looked at me, and I looked at him.
“You’ll come?” said Pearse, rather wistfully. Dan stammered: “Thank you, Mr. Pearse; I’m a better man on a horse than in a boat, but–thank you.” Cornered in this way, he’s a shy, soft-hearted being. Pearse smiled his thanks. “Wednesday, then, at ten o’clock; you shan’t regret it.”
“Pertinacious beggar!” I heard Dan mutter in his beard; and found myself marching down the lane again by Pearse’s side. I asked him what he was good enough to mean by saying I was coming, without having asked me. He answered, unabashed: