I retired to rest with many solemn, touching thoughts. The last night of bachelorhood gives rise to at least as much deep reflection as that of the young maiden’s; more, in fact, so far as the bachelor himself is concerned. I thought over it all so long and deeply I at last got confused, and when I woke, the bright February sun was streaming in on my best clothes and the bells from Nesshaven Church were ringing.
All the morning those bells rang out their happy, irregular peal.
“The village church beneath the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peal shall swell the breeze,
And point with slender spire to heaven!”
Only, to be exact, Nesshaven Church has no spire, but a sunk, old, bird-haunted, ivy-clad tower.
It was Thatcher’s idea to set the bells going early and keep them at it all day; you see, they rang not only for the marriage of his only child, but for his return to their ancestral home; and, when they showed any sign of flagging, Thatcher listened with a pained expression, and cried, “Why, surely they’re not going to stop yet! Run, Bobby, or Harriet, or George, my man!”—or whoever happened to be handy—“and tell ’em to keep ’em going, and give ’em this from me. Here, Vincent, my boy, have you got half-a-crown?”
By ten o’clock we were all dressed and ready, waiting only for Forsyth. Soon after ten he came, and the procession started. It was a lovely day again, mild and sunny, and, in true country-wedding fashion, we all set out to walk. Lucy, looking perfectly sweet in gray, was on her father’s arm, and the old lady, in black silk, on mine; while Brentin, carrying his grip, with the boodle in it, and that good little chap, Forsyth, brought up the rear.
The old lady, who within the last three months seemed to me to have failed a good deal, mentally, at any rate, stepped out right well, hanging lightly on my arm. At first she thought we were going straight to the church, and couldn’t understand why we left it on our right and went on up to the big house. Then she seemed to think it quite natural, and that the place was hers again, and began talking of her early days, when first she was married and came to Wharton as a bride. Once or twice, indeed, she called me “Francis,” her husband’s name, who died in 1850, and drew my attention to the scandalous, weedy state of the walks.