I was thinking of this, when suddenly the babbling of the water was drowned in the sound of wonderful bells that rose upon the night air. It was not from our village church; that possesses only one bell, whose sound, unfortunately, resembles nothing so much as a cracked iron shovel struck with a pair of tongs: and there is no other bell for miles around.
And yet there was no mistaking it. I could distinctly hear the joyous clashing and clanging of bells in a tall steeple.
It was no brazen banging; rather, some fairy music, like the carillon at Malines (which I am proud to remember I once played, though, alas! I shall never play it again).
I listened in amazement; soon was added the sound of voices, like subdued distant singing in some vast cathedral, while the bells still clashed outside. Yet it was never close at hand; it always seemed to float to me from a distance.
I was sure I was not asleep, for I knew where I was, and decided to get up and go to the window, when—the dog barked—(probably he could hear a fox prowling around outside). Instantly the spell was broken. I opened my eyes; there was no sound but the murmuring and burbling of the brooks.
Like a sensible person, I of course decided that I had been dreaming.
Yet again and again have I heard the clanging bells, with often the sound of an organ and singing wafted through the open window. It always comes when the streams are most impetuous and when I am in that lotus-flowering land that lies between awakeness and sleep.
The music is always enthrallingly happy, and my only regret is that the bells and the singers do not come a trifle nearer, so that I could catch every note and jot it all down for future reference.
I related my experiences to one or two people; but this was all the information they seemed able to give me:
“If I were you, I should run down to Margate for a week or so, and leave all work behind. Go to a nice bright boarding-house, where there are lots of people, and enjoy yourself; and forget about that wretched cottage. You’ve been overdoing it lately. I had another friend just like you—got a little peculiar, you know, and then—well, I won’t tell you any more; don’t want to make you nervous, of course, but—her mother never got over it, and so well-connected, too—kept three motors. You take my advice. I’ll send you the name of a charming boarding-house I know,” etc.