It perhaps did not surprise the parish to find that its owner and
master, Captain Monk, intended to persist in his resolution of
embellishing the church-tower with a set of chiming-bells. They knew him
too well to hope anything less. Why! two years ago, at the same annual
feast, some remarks or other at table put it into his head to declare
he would stop up the public path by the Rill; and his obstinate will
carried it out, regardless of the inconvenience it caused.
A vestry meeting was called, and the rate (to obtain funds for the
bells) was at length passed. Two or three voices were feebly lifted in
opposition; Mr. West alone had courage to speak out; but the Captain put
him down with his strong hand. It may be asked why Captain Monk did not
provide the funds himself for this whim. But he would never touch his
own pocket for the benefit of the parish if he could help it: and it was
thought that his antagonism to the parson was the deterring motive.
To impose the rate was one thing, to collect it quite another. Some of
the poorer ratepayers protested with tears in their eyes that they could
not pay. Superfluous rates (really not necessary ones) were perpetually
being inflicted upon them, they urged, and were bringing them, together
with a succession of recent bad seasons, to the verge of ruin. They
carried their remonstrances to their Vicar, and he in turn carried them
to Captain Monk.
It only widened the breach. The more persistently, though gently, Mr.
West pleaded the cause of his parishioners, asking the Captain to be
considerate to them for humanity's sake, the greater grew the other's
obstinacy in holding to his own will. To be thus opposed roused all the
devil within him--it was his own expression; and he grew to hate Mr.
West with an exceeding bitter hatred.
The chimes were ordered--to play one tune only. Mr. West asked, when the
thing was absolutely inevitable, that at least some sweet and sacred
melody, acceptable to church-going ears, might be chosen; but Captain
Monk fixed on a sea-song that was a favourite of his own--"The Bay of
Biscay." At the end of every hour, when the clock had struck, the Bay of
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."
Turning back on the path, he passed into the sitting-room. A cup of tea
might soothe his nerves. The tea-tray stood on the table, and Mrs. West,
caddy in hand, was putting the tea into the tea-pot. Little Alice sat
gravely by.
"Did you hear dat noise up in the church, papa?" she asked.
"Yes, I heard it, dear," sighed the Vicar.
"A fine clashing!" cried Mrs. West. "I have heard something else this
afternoon, George, worse than that: Bean's furniture is being taken
away."
"What?" cried the Vicar.
"It's true. Sarah went out on an errand and passed the cottage. The
chairs and tables were being put outside the door by two men, she says:
brokers, I conclude."
Mr. West made short work of his tea and started for the scene. Thomas
Bean was a very small farmer indeed, renting about thirty acres. What
with the heavy rates, as he said, and other outgoings and bad seasons,
and ill-luck altogether, he had been behind in his payments this long
while; and now the ill-luck seemed to have come to a climax. Bean and
his wife were old; their children were scattered abroad.
"Oh, sir," cried the old lady when she saw the Vicar, the tears raining
from her eyes, "it cannot be right that this oppression should fall upon
us! We had just managed--Heaven knows how, for I'm sure I don't--to pay
the Midsummer rent; and now they've come upon us for the rates, and have
took away things worth ten times the sum."
"For the rates!" mechanically spoke the Vicar.
She supposed it was a question. "Yes, sir; two of 'em we had in the
house. One was for putting up the chimes; and the other--well, I can't
just remember what the other was. The beadle, old Crow, comes in, sir,
this afternoon. 'Where be the master?' says he. 'Gone over to t'other
side of Church Dykely,' says I. 'Well,' says he, upon that, 'you be
going to have some visitors presently, and it's a pity he's out.'
'Visitors, for what, Crow?' says I. 'Oh, you'll see,' says he; 'and then
perhaps you'll wish you'd bestirred yourselves to pay your just dues.
Captain Monk's patience have been running on for a goodish while, and
at last it have run clean out.' Well, sir----"
She had to make a pause; unable to control her grief.
"Well, sir," she went on presently, "Crow's back was hardly turned, when
up came two men, wheeling a truck. I saw 'em afar off, by the ricks
yonder. One came in; t'other stayed outside with the truck. He asked me
whether I was ready with the money for the taxes; and I told him I was
not ready, and had but a couple of shillings in the house. 'Then I must
take the value of it in kind,' says he. And without another word, he
beckons in the outside man to help him. Our middle table, a mahogany,
they seized; and the handsome oak chest, which had been our pride; and
the master's arm-chair---- But, there! I can't go on."
Mr. West felt nearly as sorrowful as she, and far more angry. In his
heart he believed that Captain Monk had done this oppressive thing in
revenge. A great deal of ill-feeling had existed in the parish touching
the rate made for the chimes; and the Captain assumed that the few who
had not yet paid it _would_ not pay--not that they could not.
Quitting the cottage in an impulse of anger, he walked swiftly to Leet
Hall. It lay in his duty, as he fully deemed, to avow fearlessly to
Captain Monk what he thought of this act of oppression, and to protest
against it. The beams of the setting sun, sinking below the horizon in
the still autumn evening, fell across the stubbled fields from which the
corn had not long been reaped; all around seemed to speak of peace.
To accommodate two gentlemen who had come from Worcester that day to
Leet Hall on business, and wished to quit it again before dark, the
dinner had been served earlier than usual. The guests had left, but
Captain Monk was seated still over his wine in the dining-room when Mr.
West was shown in. In crossing the hall to it, he met Mrs. Carradyne,
who shook hands with him cordially.
Captain Monk looked surprised. "Why, this is an unexpected pleasure--a
visit from you, Mr. Vicar," he cried, in mocking jest. "Hope you have
come to your senses! Sit down. Will you take port or sherry?"
"Captain Monk," returned the Vicar, gravely, as he took the chair the
servant had placed, "I am obliged for your courtesy, but I did not
intrude upon you this evening to drink wine. I have seen a very sad
sight, and I am come hoping to induce you to repair it."
"Seen what?" cried the Captain, who, it is well to mention, had been
taking his wine very freely, even for him. "A flaming sword in the sky?"
"Your tenants, poor Thomas Bean and his wife, are being turned out of
house and home, or almost equivalent to it. Some of their furniture has
been seized this afternoon to satisfy the demand for these disputed
taxes."
"Who disputes the taxes?"
"The tax imposed for the chimes was always a disputed tax; and----"
"Tush!" interrupted the Captain; "Bean owes other things as well as
taxes."
"It was the last feather, sir, which broke the camel's back."
"The last feather will not be taken off, whether it breaks backs or
leaves them whole," retorted the Captain, draining his glass of port
and filling it again. "Take you note of that, Mr. Parson."
"Others are in the same condition as the Beans--quite unable to pay
these rates. I pray you, Captain Monk--I am here to _pray_ you--not to
proceed in the same manner against them. I would also pray you, sir, to
redeem this act of oppression by causing their goods to be returned to
these two poor, honest, hard-working people."
"Hold your tongue!" retorted the Captain, aroused to anger. "A pretty
example _you'd_ set, let you have your way. Every one of the lot shall
be made to pay to the last farthing. Who the devil is to pay, do you
suppose, if they don't?"
"Rates are imposed upon the parish needlessly, Captain Monk; it has
been so ever since my time here. Pardon me for saying that if you put up
chimes to gratify yourself, you should bear the expense, and not throw
it upon those who have a struggle to get bread to eat."