“‘Twas woman’s falsehood,” returned the “pale lover.”
“Oh—indeed!”
“Yes—Julia, false as thou wert, this widowed heart shall never own another image than thine own.”
“But who was Julia, and what did she do?” inquired the Major, with provoking insensibility.
“Who was she?” returned the desponding Lieutenant,—“that secret shall perish with me.”
“Well—no matter; but what the devil did she do? Had she a kick in her gallop?—or—”
“No,” said the bereaved gentleman; “I loved, and wooed, and won her,—as I fondly fancied. I urged my suit, and pressed her to name the day that should seal our mutual happiness;—I would have wedded her—but, alas! she left me for another. That, Sir,—ay—that fatal visitation, made me the wanderer and the outcast that I am.”
“Bless me,” replied the Major, “how heavily you took it! Now, is it not funny enough, that an occurrence, opposite as the antipodes, actually bundled me into the Peninsula a second time?”
“Indeed! my dear Major,”’ I replied.
“True, sir;—the ease was desperate—and nothing but expatriation could have saved me from the bonds of Hymen. The lady would not be denied; and to escape connubial captivity, I levanted at an hour’s notice.”