Thank goodness, the merry bells are for our ears in this chapter. The sound comes from a great square tower, that stands up like a beacon in the Lincolnshire cornfields. The clash and clang of the bells comes rushing out through the belfry apertures into the clear air amongst the rooks and the swallows. The dead who lie beneath those gaunt, crumbling, half-buried grave-stones, hear them not, though they rung out joyously at their marriages. The hard, grimy faces in the church porch, and the cherubims that ornament the water-spouts, hear the bells now quite as well as the men and women who passed them by on their way to the altar years and years ago. You would think the birds heard the melody and rejoiced in it; they chirruped, and sung, and flitted to and fro with a gaiety which they rarely exhibit in autumn days; for they knew the year was coming to an end, and that the north wind cometh after harvest. That ancient sluggish river, which had been red in olden times with the blood of the last Saxon warriors, let the bell-music rest upon its bright bosom in which the clouds mimicked each other, and hid themselves amongst spikes of waving rushes and green water flags. They were ringing, these Lincolnshire bells, in celebration of the marriage of Arthur Phillips and Phœbe Somerton, who had walked arm in arm to church to be married, unattended save by Luke Somerton and Paul, and their own true love. It was Arthur’s wish that it should be so; and nobody but those most intimately concerned knew of the marriage until the bells, big with the secret, burst their iron bonds, and gave birth to that joyous melody. And whilst they were ringing out their blithe and hopeful song, the Earl and Countess of Verner were discussing the happy event at Montem Castle, walking by the side of that sunny lake in the park. “The news comes so suddenly,” said her ladyship, “that it is almost tantalising.” “What a sly little fox it is,” said his lordship. “I have pressed her upon the subject several times, but unsuccessfully. Never mind, I will be even with her. It has been in my mind very often to tell you of my idea of a wedding present for these dear friends of ours.” “Yes, yes,” said his lordship; “what is it, dearest?” “Oh, something so dreadfully expensive,” said the Countess; “something almost unheard of as a wedding present.” “You excite my curiosity,” said his lordship, gaily. “It is something belonging to you--a gift in your own possession.” “Our pictures?” said his lordship, eagerly. “No, my love.” “Our pottery, our books, our jewels?” said his lordship, tossing a stone into the lake for the amusement of a water spaniel. “No; I fear you cannot guess,” said Amy. “Then I will give it up at once: whatever it be, Amy, it is yours to bestow upon bride or bridegroom,” said his lordship. “Thank you, my dear George; how good you are,” said the Countess.