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the proprietor of the Adler Hotel； at Meran； he is not at all
different； and he asked about you and about Aloisdo you know；
Chris； to myself I call him Herr Harz； but when I have seen him this
time I shall call him Alois in my heart also。
〃I have a letter from Dr。 Edmund； he is in London； so perhaps you
have seen him； only he has a great many patients and some that he has
'hopes of killing soon'！ especially one old lady； because she is
always wanting him to do things for her； and he is never saying 'No；'
so he does not like her。 He says that he is getting old。 When I
have finished this letter I am going to write and tell him that
perhaps he shall see me soon； and then I think he will be very sad。
Now that the Spring is come there are more flowers to take to Uncle
Nic's grave； and every day； when I am gone； Barbi is to take them so
that he shall not miss you； Chris； because all the flowers I put
there are for you。
〃I am buying some toys without paint on for my niece。〃
〃O Chris！ this will be the first baby that I have known。〃
〃I am only to stay three weeks with you； but I think when I am once
there I shall be staying longer。 I send a kiss for my niece； and to
Herr Harz； my lovethat is the last time I shall call him Herr Harz；
and to you； Chris； all the joy that is in my heart。Your loving
〃GRETA。〃
Christian rose； and； turning very softly； stood； leaning her elbows
on the back of a high seat； looking at her husband。
In her eyes there was a slow； clear； faintly smiling； yet yearning
look； as though this strenuous figure bent on its task were seen for
a moment as something apart； and not all the world to her。
〃Tired？〃 asked Harz； putting his lips to her hand。
〃No； it's onlywhat Greta says about the Spring； it makes one want
more than one has got。
Slipping her hand away； she went back to the window。 Harz stood；
looking after her； then； taking up his palette； again began painting。
In the world； outside； the high soft clouds flew by； the trees seemed
thickening and budding。
And Christian thought：
'Can we never have quite enough？'
December l890。
TO
MY FATHER
A MAN OF DEVON
I
〃MOOR； 20th July 。
。。。。。。。It is quiet here； sleepy； rathera farm is never quiet； the
sea； too； is only a quarter of a mile away； and when it's windy； the
sound of it travels up the combe； for distraction； you must go four
miles to Brixham or five to Kingswear； and you won't find much then。
The farm lies in a sheltered spot； scooped； so to speak； high up the
combe sidebehind is a rise of fields； and beyond； a sweep of down。
You have the feeling of being able to see quite far； which is
misleading； as you soon find out if you walk。 It is true Devon
country…hills； hollows； hedge…banks； lanes dipping down into the
earth or going up like the sides of houses； coppices； cornfields； and
little streams wherever there's a place for one； but the downs along
the cliff； all gorse and ferns； are wild。 The combe ends in a sandy
cove with black rock on one side； pinkish cliffs away to the headland
on the other； and a coastguard station。 Just now； with the harvest
coming on； everything looks its richest； the apples ripening； the
trees almost too green。 It's very hot； still weather； the country
and the sea seem to sleep in the sun。 In front of the farm are half…
a…dozen pines that look as if they had stepped out of another land；
but all round the back is orchard as lush； and gnarled； and orthodox
as any one could wish。 The house； a long； white building with three
levels of roof； and splashes of brown all over it； looks as if it
might be growing down into the earth。 It was freshly thatched two
years agoand that's all the newness there is about it； they say the
front door； oak； with iron knobs； is three hundred years old at
least。 You can touch the ceilings with your hand。 The windows
certainly might be largera heavenly old place； though； with a
flavour of apples； smoke； sweetbriar； bacon； honeysuckle； and age；
all over it。
The owner is a man called John Ford； about seventy； and seventeen
stone in weightvery big； on long legs； with a grey； stubbly beard；
grey； watery eyes； short neck and purplish complexion； he is
asthmatic； and has a very courteous； autocratic manner。 His clothes
are made of Harris tweedexcept on Sundays； when he puts on blacka
seal ring； and a thick gold cable chain。 There's nothing mean or
small about John Ford； I suspect him of a warm heart； but he doesn't
let you know much about him。 He's a north…country man by birth； and
has been out in New Zealand all his life。 This little Devonshire
farm is all he has now。 He had a large 〃station〃 in the North
Island； and was much looked up to； kept open house； did everything；
as one would guess； in a narrow…minded； large…handed way。 He came to
grief suddenly； I don't quite know how。 I believe his only son lost
money on the turf； and then； unable to face his father； shot himself；
if you had seen John Ford； you could imagine that。 His wife died；
too； that year。 He paid up to the last penny； and came home； to live
on this farm。 He told me the other night that he had only one
relation in the world； his granddaughter； who lives here with him。
Pasiance Voiseyold spelling for Patience； but they pronounce； it
Pash…yenceis sitting out here with me at this moment on a sort of
rustic loggia that opens into the orchard。 Her sleeves are rolled
up； and she's stripping currants； ready for black currant tea。 Now
and then she rests her elbows on the table； eats a berry； pouts her
lips； and； begins again。 She has a round； little face； a long；
slender body； cheeks like poppies； a bushy mass of black…brown hair；
and dark…brown； almost black； eyes； her nose is snub； her lips quick；
red； rather full； all her motions quick and soft。 She loves bright
colours。 She's rather like a little cat； sometimes she seems all
sympathy； then in a moment as hard as tortoise…shell。 She's all
impulse； yet she doesn't like to show her feelings； I sometimes
wonder whether she has any。 She plays the violin。
It's queer to see these two together； queer and rather sad。 The old
man has a fierce tenderness for her that strikes into the very roots
of him。 I see him torn between it； and his cold north…country horror
of his feelings； his life with her is an unconscious torture to him。
She's a restless； chafing thing； demure enough one moment； then
flashing out into mocking speeches or hard little laughs。 Yet she's
fond of him in her fashion； I saw her kiss him once when he was
asleep。 She obeys him generallyin a way as if she couldn't breathe
while she was doing it。 She's had a queer sort of education
history； geography； elementary mathematics； and nothing else； never
been to school； had a few lessons on the violin； but has taught
herself most of what she knows。 She is well up in the lore of birds；
flowers； and insects； has three cats； who follow her about； and is
full of pranks。 The other day she called out to me； 〃I've something
for you。 Hold out your hand and shut your eyes！〃 It was a large；
black slug！ She's the child of the old fellow's only daughter； who
was sent home for schooling at Torquay； and made a runaway match with
one Richard Voisey； a yeoman farmer； whom she met in the hunting…
field。 John Ford was furioushis ancestors； it appears； used to
lead ruffians on the Cumberland side of the Borderhe looked on
〃Squire〃 Rick Voisey as a cut below him。 He was called 〃Squire；〃 as
far as I can make out； because he used to play cards every evening
with a parson in the neighbourhood who went by the name of 〃Devil〃
Hawkins。 Not that the Voisey stock is to be despised。 They have had
this farm since it was granted to one Richard Voysey by copy dated
8th September； 13 Henry VIII。 Mrs。 Hopgood； the wife of the bailiff…
…a dear； quaint； serene old soul with cheeks like a rosy； withered
apple； and an unbounded love of Pasianceshowed me the very
document。
〃I kape it；〃 she said。 〃Mr。 Ford be tu proudbut other folks be
proud tu。 'Tis a pra…aper old fam'ly： all the women is Margery；
Pasiance； or Mary； all the men's Richards an' Johns an' Rogers； old
as they apple…trees。〃
Rick Voisey was a rackety； hunting fellow； and 〃dipped〃 the old farm
up to its thatched roof。 John Ford took his revenge by buying up the
mortgages； foreclosing； and commanding his daughter and Voisey to go
on living here rent free； this they dutifully did until they were
both killed in a dog…cart accident； eight years ago。 Old Ford's
financial smash came a year later； and since then he's lived here
with Pasiance。 I fancy it's the cross in her blood that makes her so
restless； and irresponsible： if she had been all a native she'd have
been happy enough here； or all a stranger like John Ford himself； but
the two strains