“I will ring the bell,” she said to herself, lifting her eyes to see if she were being spied upon from upstairs. Through the open windows first one bird flew and then another, a third chased it; then, as the bell jangled in the hall, a whole covey of sparrows flew out over her head.
“The windows have been taken out so that the birds may fly in.” The change seemed to her a sensible one for her father to have made. She could hear the shuffling of footsteps inside, and at that moment the thought flashed through her mind that if her father’s eccentricities were become such that he could no longer be a clergyman, he would make an admirable bird-watcher on some island sanctuary.
“He would live alone in a hut without seeing anyone for six months of the year, and he would be perfectly happy.” Her project filled her with excitement; she longed to talk of it, to find out if she could put it into execution.
The door was flung open and her father stood before her, glaring up at her, for the floor of the house was sunk below the level of the garden, but he showed no sign of recognition. His cheeks were hollow, his tangled beard full of grey hairs and his black, clerical coat was filthy with the droppings of birds; the shoulders and sleeves seeming as if they had been spattered over with whitewash. An unpleasant dirty smell came through the door; in spite of ventilation the house smelled like an old hen-coop.
Anne waited for her father to speak, watching him silently while the anger died out of his gaze. He coughed once or twice, blinked his eyes as if very tired, and said at last in a mild voice: “Well, Anne, my dear.”
“Did you get my letter? I have come to pay you a visit, father.”
A mischievous, slightly guilty expression came over Mr. Dunnock’s face and he coughed again. “I am afraid I didn’t read it,” he answered. “I hardly know if I can invite you in. You see I am living with the angels now.”
There was a long silence. “It was very sweet of you to write such a kind letter about my marriage,” said Anne at last. “And to send me Mamma’s teapot, and to tell me about the tragedy in the dove house.”
“The swallows have come back,” said Mr. Dunnock. He spoke eagerly, and stepping out of the house, he took his daughter by the arm and led her round the end of the vicarage. A steel-blue bird circled over their heads and swooped into the open door of the dove house.
“Angels,” said Mr. Dunnock, putting a finger to his lips. “They are angels.”