Biscay was to burst forth to charm the parish.

The work was put in hand at once, Captain Monk finding the necessary
funds, to be repaid by the proceeds of the rate. Other expenses were
involved, such as the strengthening of the belfry. The rate was not
collected quickly. It was, I say, one of those times of scarcity that
people used to talk so much of years ago; and when the parish beadle,
who was the parish collector, went round with the tax-paper in his hand,
the poorer of the cottagers could not respond to it. Some of them had
not paid the last levy, and Captain Monk threatened harsh measures.
Altogether, what with one thing or another, Church Leet that year was
kept in a state of ferment. But the work went on.

* * * * *

One windy day in September, Mr. West sat in his study writing a sermon,
when a jarring crash rang out from the church close by. He leaped from
his chair. The unusual noise had startled him; and it struck on every
chord of vexation he possessed. He knew that workmen were busy in the
tower, but this was the first essay of the chimes. The bells had clashed
in some way one upon the other; not giving out The Bay of Biscay or any
other melody, but a very discordant jangle indeed. It was the first and
the last time that poor George West heard their sound.

He put the blotting-paper upon his sermon; he was in no mind to continue
it then; took up his hat and went out. His wife spoke to him from the
open window.

"Are you going out now, George? Tea is all but ready."