“I marry! My dear major, when have I been pronounced insane?”
“Insane—no—no—parson says it’s an honourable estate—bound to take his word. But I wish to God you would get your worthy uncle to put a few slates upon the stable—horse running at the nose, this morning, as if he had the glanders—Air, excellent thing but, d—n me, half the roof off, too much. I’ll just toddle down to the postoffice—coach by this time in”—and Major Belcher took himself off.
Of course, when he was gone, I requested Captain O’Boyle to tell me what he had been hinting at; and I had the agreeable satisfaction to learn that my immediate union with Miss Maginniswas pronounced certain. Aunt Packer, on being assured by him, the captain, that I was not a confirmed drunkard, as she had heard formerly, observed that “Flora had got out of bed with her right foot foremost, the morning that she met me,” insinuating thereby, that Flora had been in luck; and, after our departure, Mr. Packer, in a neat and complimentary speech, had proposed our health and happiness, with an other, on his part, to bet five pounds that he would be a grand-uncle within the twelve month.—“But here’s the serjeant, with the letters. Any news, Jones?”
“Nothing,” responded the serjeant, “but a draft of a captain, two subalterns, and sixty rank and file, for first battalion—off immediately—transports waiting at Cork.”
This unexpected intelligence changed the current of our conversation. O’Boyde went out to ascertain what names were first upon the roaster—and I retired to my barrack-room, to inquire whether I was really on the eve of matrimony, or not.
I had been for above an hour in a state of dreamy confusion, when a light tap was heard at the door. I announced myself at home—and in came Sibby Callaghan.
“Ah! pretty one—is it you? Come here—give me a couple of kisses first, and then tell me how your mistress is.”
“Be quiet, captain. Oh! murder—if Miss Flora only knew it. Feaks—joking apart, it’s a shame and scandal, and you going to be married in a week or two.”
“Married! Sibby.—Who the devil put that folly in your head?”
“Oh, I know it all. Isn’t Mr. Dominick, the master’s brother, and Tom, and Peter Blake, and their sister Emily, and Julia Dwyer—they call her Julia, but her right name’s Judy—ay, faith, and a dozen more blood relations—arn’t they all written for? But I must run down to Miss Byan’s, the milliner; and maybe you’ll have an answer for this note ready for me, at my return.” And off went Sibby Callaghan.