In about three weeks after the cousinship commenced, the Hussars were ordered up the country, to join the main body of the army, and the Marquis remained a few days behind, for the purpose of—what? Why, of making suitable arrangements to carry his fair cousin with him to the regiment, and away from the husband who had behaved so hospitably towards him, and so indulgently to her!
The Marquis took her off to Santarem, where his regiment lay; but, to the everlasting credit of that regiment, (which, by the by, has been so roughly, and perhaps unjustly, handled by public opinion) the Marquis was not permitted to join; for the facts of the cozening had galloped faster than the noble Captain’s horses, and the officers set their faces against the affair. He was obliged to return to Lisbon, with the companion of his trip; when, after some fruitless endeavours to reconcile the disunited couple, he sent the lady to England, and thus patched up the honour of his name with his regiment.
The unhappy husband at first took the matter to heart; but soon overcame his feelings, and learned to despise both the wretched woman and her paramour.
It is but fair to mention, however, that the Marquis was not so much to blame as the lady in this transaction: he laid no siege for years, nor even months, before the citadel—capitulation almost came with the summons—the vanity of the woman was touched, and the spell awakened all her evil passions. Her husband was a man of good sense, (although in this instance he went “beyond his last;”) he possessed a good person, agreeable manners, and an affectionate and sincere heart; yet this wife left him for an acquaintance of an hour! Blame is always readier to fall upon the man than on the woman in affairs of this kind, and often very unjustly,—in this case decidedly so; for although the Marquis acted foolishly and rashly, in taking the wife away; yet the woman was not worth a thought who could be thus won. However, the only real sufferer, at present, is the unfortunate wife.
ALLEMAR AND ELLEN.
“Ah! why was ruin so attractive made?”
Collins.
Love is never so happy—so gay—so delightful—so fascinating, as when he decorates himself in military trappings; and had his little godship been consulted upon how his portrait ought to have been set forth by the poets and the artists, I have no doubt but he would have directed them to have pictured him in the dress of a soldier. He always has delighted in camps and barracks; the clashing of arms sets his heart into a glow, and the sound of the drum makes him flutter his wings like a rising lark. Yet, with all this preference for the profession of the sword, his happiness is seldom long-lived, and he is often—very often, found weeping over his broken joys—or toys, as they may be—in bitterness, as proportionately poignant as his pleasures were vivid. For the truth of this, I appeal to the individuals of the British army who have served with the little deity, and to those who are still better judges—their sweethearts.
Amongst the many instances of romantic and unfortunate love which have fallen under my observation in the service, is the case of a friend of mine—a young officer of the **th regiment of infantry—to which are attached circumstances so interesting, that I feel I shall not be intruding on my readers in sketching a brief history of its light and shade.
Without giving the real names of the parties, in doing which I should not feel myself warranted, I will tell the story; and it will not, I hope, lose its title to credence, by romantic substitutes. Let us then call one Allemar, and the other Ellen.