The little rectory stood on the other side of the road. It also was minute and absolutely exposed to the elements; here lived the Rev. Mark Anstey, aged eighty-two, quite alone except for the company of five dogs, six cats, three pigeons, a parrot, two tame rabbits, a hedgehog and a great many frogs, these last in a pond near by.
When Maradick came up the road he saw the old man standing in his garden watching the sea. The mist had been drawn back, as a veil is drawn back by a mysterious hand, until it lay only on the horizon. The sea was still grey, but it hinted, as it were, at wonderful colours. You fancied that you could see blue and gold and purple, and yet when you looked again it was still grey. It was as though a sheet of grey gauze had been stretched over a wonderful glittering floor and the colours shone through.
The old man was a magnificent figure of enormous height. He had a great white beard that fell almost to his waist and his snow-white hair had no covering. Three of his dogs were at his side and the five cats sat in a row on his doorstep. He was standing with his hands behind his back and his head up as though to catch the wind.
Maradick introduced himself and stated his errand. The old man shook him warmly by the hand.
“Ah, yes; come in, won’t you? Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Maradick. Come into my study and I’ll just take down details.”
His voice was as clear as a bell, and his eyes, blue as the sea, looked him through and through.
“Here, this is my room. Bit of a mess, isn’t it? But a bachelor can’t help that, you know; besides, I like a mess, always did.”
Whatever it was, it was the right kind of mess. The fireplace was of bright blue tiles; there were books, mostly, it seemed, theological, fishing tackle cumbered one corner, guns another, a writing-desk took up a good deal of the room. The old man filled the place. He really was enormous, and he had a habit of snapping his fingers with a sharp, clicking noise like the report of a pistol. Two deerhounds were lying by the fireplace, and these came to meet him, putting their noses into his hands.
“Ah, ha! Hum—where are we? Oh! yes! Sit down, Mr. Maradick, won’t you? Oh, clear those things off the chair—yes—let me see! Anthony Gale—Janet Morelli—what? Morelli? How do you spell it? What? M-o-r-e—oh! yes, thanks! Thursday—1.30. Yes, I know the boy; going to be married, is he? Well, that’s a good thing—can’t start breeding too young—improves the race—fill the country with children. Married yourself, Mr. Maradick? Ah! that’s good.”
Maradick wondered whether the name, Morelli, would seem familiar to him, but he had obviously never heard it before. “We don’t have many weddings up in this church here, nowadays. They don’t come this way much. Just the people down at the cove, you know. . . . Have some tea—oh, yes! you must have some tea.”