The Press.
London, England, 1855-09-01 00:00:00

838

"ONE MORE

FATE."

So Lady Clara flies from the custody of her tyrant, but
to what a rescue? The very man who loves her, and gives
her asylum, pities and deplores her. She scarce dares to
look out of the windows of her new home upon the world,
lest it should know and reproach her. All the sisterhood
of friendship is cut off from her. If she dares to go
abroad she feels the sneer of the world as she goes through
it; and knows that malice and scorn whisper behind her.
People, as criminal but undiscovered, make room for her
as if her touch were pollution. She knows she has dark-
ened the lot and made wretched the home of the man
whom she loves best; that his friends who see her, treat
her with but a doubtful respect; and the domestics who
attend her, with a suspicious obedience. In the country
lanes, or the streets of a county town, neighbours look
aside as the carriage passes in which she sits splendid and
lonely. Rough hunting companions of her husband's come
to her table: he is driven perforce to the company of flat-
terers and men of inferior sort; his equals, at least in his
own home, will not live with him. She would be kind,
perhaps, and charitable to the cottagers round about her,
but she fears to visit them lest they too should scorn her.
The clergyman who distributes her charities, blushes and
looks awkward on passing her in the village, it he should
be walking with his wile or one of his children. Shall
they go to the Continent, and set up a grand house at
Paris or at Florence ? There they can get society, but of
what a sort! Our acquaintances of Baden—Madame
Schlangenbad, and Madame de Cruchecassee, and Madame
d'lvry, and Messrs. Loder, snd Punter, and Blackball, and
Deuceace will come, and dance, and flirt, and quarrel, and
gamble, and feast round about her; but what in common
with such wild people has this poor, timid, shrinking soul?
Even these scorn her. The leers and laughter on those
painted faces are quite unlike her own sad countenance.
She has no reply to their wit. Their infernal gaiety scares
her more than the solitude at home. No wonder that her
husband does not like home, except for a short while in
the hunting season. No wonder that he is away all day;
bow can he like a home which she has made so wretched?
Jn the midst of her sorrow, and doubt, and misery, a child
comes to her : how she clings to it ; how her whole being,
and hope, and passion centres itself on this feeble infant!
. . . but she no more belongs to our story : with the

new name she has taken, the po-or lady passes out of the
history of the Newcomes.
If Barnes Newcome's children meet yonder solitary lady'
do they know her? if her once•husband thinks upon the
unhappy young creature whom his cruelty drove from him,
does his conscience affect his sleep at night ? Why should
Sir Barnes Newcume's conscience be more squeamish than
his country's, which has put money in his pocket for
having trampled on the poor weak young thing, and
scorned her, and driven her to ruin ? When the whole of
the accounts of that wretched bankruptcy are brought up
for final audit, which of the unhappy partners shall be
shown to be most guilty ? Does the right reverend prelate
who did the benedictory business for B trues and Clara his
wife repent in secret? Do the parents who pressed the
marriage, and the fine folks who signed the book, and ate
the breakfast, and applauded the bridegroom's speech, feel
a little ashamed? 0 Hymen Hymensee ! The bishops,
beadles, clergy, pew•openers, and other officers of the
temple dedicated to Heaven under the invocation of St.
George, will officiate in the same place at scores and
scores more of such marriages: and St. George of England
may behold virgin after virgin offered up to the devouring
monster, Mammon k with many most respectable female
dragons looking on)—may see virgin after virgin given
away, just as in the Soldan of Babylon's time, but with
never a champion to come to ti:e rescue!

THE BROKEN SOLDIER.
" Father ! father ! do you remember Orme's ' History
of India ' ?" cries Clive.

" Ormea history ! of course I do, I could repeat whole
pages of it when l was a boy," says the old man, and began
forthwith. " The two battalions advanced against each
other cannonading, until the French coming to a hollow
way imagined that the English would not venture to pass
it. But Major Lawrence ordered the sepoys and artillery
—the sepoys and artillery to halt and defend the convoy
against the Morattoete—Morattoes Orme calls 'em. Ho!
ho ! I could repeat whole pages, air."
" It is the best book that ever was written," calls out
Clive. The Colonel said he had not read it, but he was in-
formed Mr. Mill's was a very learned history ; he intended
to read it. "Eh ! there is plenty of time now," said the
good Colonel. " I have all day long at Grey Friars,—after
chapel. you know. Do you know, sir, when 1 was a boy I
used w hat they call to tib out and run down to a public.
house in Cistercian lane—the Red Cow, air,—and buy rum
there? I was a terrible wild boy, Clivy. Yon wern't so,
sir. thank heaven. A terrible wild boy, and my poor
fat-her flogged me, though I think it was very hard on me.
It wasn't the pain, you know it wasn't ; the pain, but
. . ." Here tears came into his eyes, and he dropped
his head on his hand, and the cigar from it fell on to the
door, burnt almost out, and scattering white ashes.
Clive looked sadly at me. "He was often so at Boulogne,
Arthur," he whispered ; " after a scene with that—that
woman yonder, his head would go : he never replied to
her taunts : he bore her infernal cruelty without an un-
kind word-0 I I can pay her back, thank God I can pay
her I But who shall pay her," he said, trembling in every
limb, " for what she has made that good man suffer?"
He turned to his father, who still sate lost in hia medi-
tations. " You need never go back to Grey Friars, father !"
he cried out.
" Not go back, Clivy ? Must go back, boy, to say Adsum
when my name is called—Newcotne ! Adsum I Hey ! that
is what we used to say—we used to say I"
" You need not go back, except to pack your things, and
return and live with me and Boy," Clive continued, and he
bold Colonel Newoome rapidly the dory of the legacy. The
old men seemed hardly to comprehend it, When he did
N. taem seenel, *Wed hi ati when Clive geld, " ths7

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