CHAPTER XXXIX.
THOUGHTS UPON MATRIMONY IN GENERAL, AND IN THE ARMY IN PARTICULAR—THE KNIGHT OF KERRY AND BILLY M’CABE.
“So,” thought I, as I closed the door of my room behind me, “I am accepted—the die is cast which makes me a Benedict: yet heaven knows that never was a man less disposed to be over joyous at his good fortune!” What a happy invention it were, if when adopting any road in life, we could only manage to forget that we had ever contemplated any other! It is the eternal looking back in this world that forms the staple of all our misery; and we are but ill-requited for such unhappiness by the brightest anticipations we can conjure up for the future. How much of all that “past” was now to become a source of painful recollection, and to how little of the future could I look forward with even hope!
Our weaknesses are much more constantly the spring of all our annoyances and troubles than even our vices. The one we have in some sort of subjection: we are perfectly slaves to the others. This thought came home most forcibly to my bosom, as I reflected upon the step which led me on imperceptibly to my present embarrassment. “Well, c’est fini, now,” said I, drawing upon that bountiful source of consolation ever open to the man who mars his fortune—that “what is past can’t be amended;” which piece of philosophy, as well as its twin brother, that “all will be the same a hundred years hence,” have been golden rules to me from my childhood.
The transition from one mode of life to another perfectly different has ever seemed to me a great trial of a man’s moral courage; besides that the fact of quitting for ever any thing, no matter how insignificant or valueless, is always attended with painful misgivings. My bachelor life had its share of annoyances and disappointments, it is true; but, upon the whole it was a most happy one—and now I was about to surrender it for ever, not yielding to the impulse of affection and love for one without whom life were valueless to me, but merely a recompense for the indulgence of that fatal habit I had contracted of pursuing with eagerness every shadow that crossed my path. All my early friends—all my vagrant fancies—all my daydreams of the future I was now to surrender—for, what becomes of any man’s bachelor friends when he is once married? Where are his rambles in high and bye-ways when he has a wife? and what is left for anticipation after his wedding except, perhaps, to speculate upon the arrangement of his funeral? To a military man more than to any other these are serious thoughts. All the fascinations of an army life, in war or peace, lie in the daily, hourly associations with your brother officers—the morning cigar, the barrack-square lounge—the afternoon ride—the game of billiards before dinner—the mess (that perfection of dinner society)—the plans for the evening—the deviled kidney at twelve—forming so many points of departure whence you sail out upon your daily voyage through life. Versus those you have that awful perversion of all that is natural—an officer’s wife. She has been a beauty when young, had black eyes and high complexion, a good figure, rather inclined to embonpoint, and a certain springiness in her walk, and a jauntiness in her air, that are ever sure attractions to a sub in a marching regiment. She can play backgammon, and sing “di tanti palpiti,” and, if an Irishwoman, is certain to be able to ride a steeple-chase, and has an uncle a lord, who (en parenthese) always turns out to be a creation made by King James after his abdication. In conclusion, she breakfasts en papillote—wears her shoes down at heel—calls every officer of the regiment by his name—has a great taste for increasing his majesty’s lieges, and delights in London porter. To this genus of Frow I have never ceased to entertain the most thrilling abhorrence; and yet how often have I seen what appeared to be pretty and interesting girls fall into something of this sort! and how often have I vowed any fate to myself rather than become the husband of a baggage-waggon wife!
Had all my most sanguine hopes promised realizing—had my suit with Lady Jane been favourable, I could scarcely have bid adieu to my bachelor life without a sigh. No prospect of future happiness can ever perfectly exclude all regret at quitting our present state for ever. I am sure if I had been a caterpillar, it would have been with a heavy heart that I would have donned my wings as a butterfly. Now the metamorphosis was reversed: need it be wondered if I were sad?
So completely was I absorbed in my thoughts upon this matter, that I had not perceived the entrance of O’Leary and Trevanion, who, unaware of my being in the apartment, as I was stretched upon a sofa in a dark corner, drew their chairs towards the fire and began chatting.
“Do you know, Mr. Trevanion,” said O’Leary, “I am half afraid of this disguise of mine. I sometimes think I am not like a Pole; and if she should discover me”—
“No fear of that in the world; your costume is perfect, your beard unexceptionable. I could, perhaps, have desired a little less paunch; but then”—
“That comes of fretting, as Falstaff says; and you must not forget that I am banished from my country.”
“Now, as to your conversation, I should advise you saying very little—not one word in English. You may, if you like, call in the assistance of Irish when hard pressed?