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THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 % Newel. 
 
 bV 
 
 WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 FRANKLIN SQUARE. 
 
 1 8 66 . 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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 X 
 
 ' 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A MEETING IN THE CITY. 
 
 In the forenoon of the 25th of December, 
 1816, I was sitting in one of those high, nar- 
 row boxes partitioned off the public room of 
 the old Greek Coffee-house, which then stood 
 in Finsbury Pavement, reading the morning pa- 
 per, and feeling that I was a stranger in Lon- 
 don, having arrived the day before by the Amer- 
 ican ship “ Franklin,” from Baltimore. The 
 coffee-house was empty, the streets were dreary, 
 with a dull, heavy fog and shut-up shops ; every 
 body was at church or at home getting ready for 
 their Christmas dinner ; but while I sat there, 
 seeing that there was no news, and wondering 
 how I should spend the day, two men in earnest 
 conversation entered, and took possession of the 
 box next to mine. I knew they did not see me, 
 and had come there for private talk, but I saw 
 them. One was a tall, gray-haired man, with 
 a large frame, a slight stoop, a sober, intelli- 
 gent look, and features of the Scottish type, but 
 somewhat softened, like the faces one meets with 
 in the north of Ireland. The other was at least 
 twenty years younger, a smaller man, thin, dark, 
 and disagreeable looking; one could not say 
 why, for he had good black eyes and hair, feat- 
 ures of the Jewish mould, and an appearance 
 of wiry strength, but somehow there was an ex- 
 pression in his face of being on the look-out to 
 do somebody mischief, and having accounts to 
 settle with all mankind. He was listening in a 
 friendly manner, however, to the elder — I was 
 going tci say gentleman, but that term did not 
 exactly apply to either of the pair ; though re- 
 spectably dressed, they were both unmistakably 
 clerks, fresh from mercantile offices, and in their 
 holiday trim. 
 
 “It is just sixteen years ago,” said the sen- 
 ior, when coffee had been ordered and the wait- 
 er dismissed; “it happened the very year that 
 Ireland lost her Parliament, the last of the cen- 
 tury, and much about this season. I remember 
 it well; I was in La Touche’s employment — 
 the only clerk he ever kept, so I ought to know 
 a good deal about the family.” 
 
 “No doubt you do,” said his companion. 
 “Did they live in Ireland?” 
 
 “In Armagh, my native place,” said the eld- 
 er man — he spoke with a semi-Scottish accent 
 wonderfully suited to his look — “ a town in the 
 north, not large but very ancient, and of greater 
 note in old times than it is now. They say 
 
 Saint Patrick built his first Christian church 
 there on the site of the present cathedral. They 
 show the hermitage in which he lived and died, 
 a low hut in the church-yard overgrown with 
 ivy, and the old people have fine tales about a 
 college which stood hard by, and students flock- 
 ing to it from France and Spain, when learning 
 was every where scarce but in Ireland. I sup- 
 pose they were partly true, like most fine stories. 
 There was nothing of the kind in my time, nor 
 for hundreds of years before it ; but Armagh 
 was a bishop’s see, the chief town of one of the 
 Ulster counties, foremost in the linen trade, and 
 on the coach road between Dublin and Belfast. 
 It had a good market for corn and flax, linen 
 cloth and yarn. The country round was all 
 gentlemen’s seats and comfortable farms. There 
 were hand-looms and spinning-wheels going in 
 every house ; there were bleach greens beside 
 every stream, with webs spread out and whiten- 
 ing in the summer sun, and there was a deal of 
 safe, steady business done in the town. Small 
 and old as it was, some people made their for- 
 tunes there. We did not expect such great 
 gatherings as they do in England, but we had 
 our rich men, and La Touche was counted one 
 of them. I have heard my father say that his 
 father came from Dublin, and set up the first 
 bank that ever was known in Armagh, the year 
 the new style came in.” 
 
 “Was the family French?” said his listener. 
 What a hard metallic tone his voice had ; how 
 low, and yet how clear it was ! 
 
 “I suppose it must have been, from the name, 
 though it is a known one in Dublin. I am not 
 sure that the race has not relations there to this 
 day, merchants and bankers like themselves, but 
 on a far higher scale, and never familiar with 
 them ; no doubt the relationship was distant. 
 However that might be, the Dublin house and 
 the Armagh one did business together. Mr. 
 La Touche, my employer, was a linen merchant 
 and a banker, as his father had been before 
 him. The old man had but two sons, you see ; 
 one of them got the business, the other went to 
 France to be educated for a priest : it was the 
 only way of making priests at that time, and 
 the La Touches were Roman Catholics. It 
 was thought he should have got the parish, but 
 whether there was any difference between him 
 and his elder brother, as some people said, about 
 Miss O’Neil — the Star of the North they called 
 her — whom the banker afterward married, or 
 whether he took another notion, nobody could 
 
4 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 # 
 
 tell ; but the boy went out to Lower Canada as I 
 soon as his education was finished, and got an J 
 out-of-the-world parish among the French set- 
 tlers there. So my master had the business all 
 to himself ; it was a good and a prosperous one 
 when I came into his service five-and-thirty 
 years ago. 
 
 “A weaver with a loom of his own was well 
 i to do, and a hand for fine spinning was a mar- 
 riage portion not to be overlooked by small farm- 
 ers and their sons. Sound profits were to be 
 made by banking in those days ; private banks 
 were the only things to be found in country 
 towns. La Touche was a shrewd man of busi- 
 ness, but an honest one. I never knew a man 
 who held his honor higher, or showed more of 
 the gentleman in all his dealings. His father 
 had borne the same character before him ; so had 
 his grandfather and great-grandfather among 
 the Dublin people. They were all in the bank- 
 ing line, you see, and it was natural that the 
 whole country should put confidence in him. 
 His business was nothing to what the Dublin 
 house did — nothing to what Mr. Forbes carries 
 on here ; but of its sort and size there was not 
 a more respectable or flourishing concern in all 
 Ireland than La Touche’s Armagh Bank. 
 
 “All the saving fanners deposited their gath- 
 erings there, because the rate of interest was 
 good, and every body believed the Armagh 
 Bank as safe as the Armagh Cathedral. 
 
 “ I have said that, besides being a banker, La 
 Touche was a linen merchant. That was the 
 most genteel business in our country — quite 
 above the reach of common people, on account 
 of the skill and experience, not to speak of the 
 capital, required to carry it on with any chance 
 of success ; but he had served an apprenticeship 
 to it under his own father, and the bank enabled 
 him to buy up half the webs brought to our 
 markets sometimes, and do large transactions 
 with the exporting men in Belfast. 
 
 “Every body thought La Touche wealthy, 
 and he should have been so if his hands could 
 only have kept what they gathered ; but he was 
 not the man to do that. A gentleman every 
 inch of him, as they say in Ireland, with an 
 open hand and open heart, ready to help, ready 
 to spend, easy in his goings, and rather given to 
 sport, keeping a good table and a liberal house 
 — maybe a wasteful one- — never clear of com- 
 . pany, tea and dancing, cards and supper, at least 
 half the evenings in the week, with dozens of 
 old followers coming at all hours to tell their 
 distresses and get relieved. 
 
 “ When I became his clerk, Mr. La Touche 
 had been nearly three years married to the Star 
 of the North — they called Miss O’Neil that for 
 her beauty. She was the handsomest woman 
 in that side of Ulster, and came of a high fam- 
 ily. They traced their descent from the Earls 
 of Tyrone. The castle and estate of Finmore 
 had belonged to them, but tbe castle had been 
 in ruins for nearly a hundred years ; the estate 
 was parted among strangers, and they had noth- 
 ing but an old-fashioned thatched-roofed house, 
 
 standing out among the meadows at the end of 
 Church Lane, and a small income which was to 
 die with the mother. She was a widow, with 
 one son and a daughter ; but till her dying dav 
 she never allowed herself to be called any thing 
 but madame, nor suffered any 7 one to sit down 
 in her' presence till they were bidden. When 
 her son had to do something for his living, she ' 
 shipped him off to America, for fear it should 
 be known that one of the O’Neils had come so 
 low as to follow trade or business. 
 
 “La Touche had to show his pedigree, and 
 prove himself descended from somebody as good 
 as the Tyrones, before he got leave to marry 
 her daughter. I suppose lie did it to the old 
 lady’s satisfaction, for they were married. Such 
 a wedding never was seen in Armagh. The 
 poor people lived for a w'eek on the leavings of 
 the dinner; they got it air among them; and 
 Mrs. La Touche was a fine woman, a pleasure 
 to look at, and a pleasure to speak to ; but, to my 
 knowledge, she never did any 7 thing except read 
 novels and see company. House, children, and 
 servants, all were left to the care of Miss Livy 7 . 
 Miss Olivia was her state name, but she never 
 got it — an aunt of La Touche’s, who had always 
 lived in the house, and had never been married 
 — whether on account of a very particular cast 
 in both her eyes, or a temper of her own, the 
 neighbors could not be certain. However, she 
 took the whole charge, was first up in the morn- 
 ing and last in bed at night, blew them all sky- 
 high when things went too far out of regulation ; 
 and how they would have gone on without her 
 nobody could tell. 
 
 “ Beyond a doubt, Miss Livy had a temper, 
 but it did not come on often ; and when matters 
 were not quite against her mind, she was a 
 good-humored, kindly soul, charitable to the 
 poor, hospitable to all comers, given to none of 
 women’s vanities, always going about in the 
 same old goAvn and cap Saturday and Sunday 
 — maybe she thought there was no use in her 
 dressing — and troublesome about nothing but 
 the honor and glory of her family. 
 
 “ Miss Livy had a complete account of their 
 lineage, cut out of an old book and kept in her 
 best pocket — I think it began with the King of 
 France — and she always insisted that they 7 had 
 better blood than the O’Neils. Yet it was won- 
 derful that she and the young madame, as we 
 call Mrs. La Touche, never had an unfriendly 
 word. The handsome, easy 7 young lady gave 
 ‘her all her own way with the house, the chil- 
 dren, and the servants ; it was Miss Livy’s 
 pride to see her dressed in the newest fashions 
 from Belfast, going to parties and having com- 
 pany at home, while she waited on her in a 
 manner and managed every thing ; and the mas- 
 ter — Mr. La Touche, I mean- — knew his aunt’s 
 value, and left all to her management except 
 just his business. The neighbors said he never 
 expected tbe Star of the North to do any r thing 
 but shine, and was as fond and proud of her to 
 the last as he was the day they were married. 
 
 “ He was a fine man himself, beth in person 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 and manner, and they kept a gay, pleasant 
 house. It was called ‘The Bank;’ his father 
 had built it twice the size of any in the town ; 
 one side was the bank office, with a linen ware- 
 house behind ; the other was the dwelling- 
 house, large and commodious for people in Ar- 
 magh ; and there was a garden in the rear long 
 enough for a London street, with cherry-trees, 
 and roses both red and white. 
 
 . “ I lived hard by, in Church Lane, with my fa- 
 
 ther and mother, being their only son ; but the 
 Bank people were kind to me when the business 
 of the day was done, and the Bank and ware- 
 house closed. You see I was clerk in them 
 both. They asked me to stay among the best of 
 their company, which was pleasant for a young 
 man, and made my poor mother proud. All 
 their friends knew me ; ail their children were 
 fond of me. I was there while they were com- 
 ing and growing up, seven strong — a chain of 
 girls with a boy at each end of it, as Miss Livy 
 used to say. The top link was poor Raymond, 
 the boy that disappeared so unaccountably, and 
 mined his father ; he was learning to walk when 
 I first came to the Bank. Then there were five 
 girls, every one handsome like their mother. I 
 need not go over their names ; they are all on 
 the family tombstone except Ilhoda, the youn- 
 gest — next to Lucien, the last link of the chain 
 — who is coming to your office, and she lives on 
 with Miss Livy. 
 
 “It is strange to remember all their young 
 faces and young ways, that kept the house so 
 lively, and sometimes bothered it, and think that 
 they are all gone but two. Take them one and 
 all, there was not a finer family in the country. 
 The girls took after their mother: they all had 
 her fair complexion and blue eyes, and, they 
 say, her constitution, for the four eldest died of 
 the ‘decay,’ as we say in Ireland, and it was 
 known to run in the O’Neil family. The two 
 boys were fairly divided between their parents. 
 Lucien, when I saw him last, was the image of 
 his father, and that was in his seventh year : he 
 had the same brown complexion, hair and eyes 
 nearly black, and face inclining to be round and 
 rosy. But Raymond was his mother’s son, with 
 her longer face, finely - moulded features, blue 
 eyes, jet-black hair, and complexion that seemed 
 too fine for a boy. To look at him you would 
 have thought he should have been a girl. There 
 was a painter from Belfast who took his likeness 
 for a picture of Kathleen, the lady who tempted 
 St. Kekevin ; but there was a firm look in Ray- 
 mond’s face when any thing called up his cour- 
 age, and he had as brave a heart and as high a 
 spirit as any man in Ireland. Young as he was 
 then, I never knew a better or a wiser boy ; there 
 was no mischief, no troublesomeness in him. 
 At school he carried off all the prizes ; at home 
 he was helping in his father’s business when 
 other boys think only of tops and balls. If there 
 were harmless fun going on, Raymond was sure 
 to be ringleader ; if there were troubles or dis- 
 putes, Raymond was smoothing matters and 
 making peace. When Miss Livy was in the 
 
 height of her tempers — when there was too 
 much to do in the warehouse or the Bank — when 
 any of the children had got into a scrape — when 
 any of the servants got into disgrace, as will 
 happen in every family — when any of the poor 
 neighbors were in hardships or troubles of any 
 sort, Raymond was always ready with a kind 
 word and a helping hand. It was remarkable 
 to hear the old women blessing him as he walked 
 the streets, and to see how rich and poor smiled 
 on the boy as he passed. 
 
 “ His father and mother would not have part- 
 ed with one of the seven for all the wealth in 
 Europe ; but Raymond was their heart’s darling, 
 and no wonder, for he promised to be the staff 
 of their age. 
 
 “Before he was fourteen his father could 
 l trust him with any secret of the concern — and 
 what concern has not the like? — send him on 
 any private business to Belfast, let him look over 
 the books, and answer letters in his name. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Raymond was so clever, so sensible, so pru- 
 dent, one forgot that he was but a boy. His 
 very growth was beyond the common, for at 
 sixteen he looked like a tall, handsome young 
 man of two-and-twenty ; and I am sure the la- 
 dies were taking notice of him, for he handed 
 them about and paid them compliments at 
 dances and parties like the first gentleman in 
 the land. 
 
 “ ‘ Haven’t I cause to be thankful, Wilson ?’ 
 the master would say to me ; ‘ where is the man 
 that has got such an eldfer son. He will carry 
 on the Bank, and keep up the credit of the fam- 
 ily ; and if it’s the Lord’s will to call me before 
 they are all settled, Raymond will be a head to 
 the house, and a comfort to his mother.’ ” 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 THE MYSTERIOUS NARRATIVE CONTINUED. 
 
 Reasons of my own so interested me in the 
 narration to which I was accidentally a listener 
 that I did not stir nor move. The narrator, 
 after a pause, during which he sipped his coffee, 
 continued : 
 
 “Things had been going on with great pros- 
 perity in the eyes of all the neighbors, high and 
 low, for about seventeen years, counting from 
 my coming to the Bank. The La Touches were 
 reckoned among the county gentry, and thought 
 wise people as well as good. They had kept 
 clear of all the troubles in ’98 ; the government 
 never suspected the Armagh banker of disloyal- 
 ty ; the United Men knew he was above inform- 
 ing, and thought he wished well to their cause. 
 They had kept clear of party spirit, too, high as 
 it runs in Ireland. The La Touches had no 
 bigotry, no uncharitableness. I have seen the 
 Catholic dean, the Protestant rector, and the 
 Presbyterian minister all sitting together at their 
 table ; and whether it was a church, a chapel, 
 or a meeting-house that wanted subscriptions, 
 Mr. La Touche came out just as handsomely. 
 You may guess he and his family were well 
 
G 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 liked, and well wished too ; but, as 1 said be- 
 fore, he was both bare and busy. 
 
 ‘‘Nothing overreaching or selfish would the 
 man do under any circumstances ; but as the 
 Chilean grew up, and expenses increased upon 
 him, every honest expedient and resource that 
 he could think of was needful to pay his way 
 and keep a fair show to the world. I was his 
 only clerk, and, next to himself and Raymond, 
 had the best knowledge of his affairs, for he 
 liked and trusted me. Among so few hands 
 things could be kept quiet ; I don’t believe that 
 any body in Armagh had the smallest guess that 
 he was not laying by money for the girls, though 
 every season brought us some push. About the 
 beginning of the year 1800 we had an uncom- 
 mon hard one, owing to a sort of run on the 
 Bank : all the farmers were drawing out their 
 money to buy flaxseed, which was expected to 
 be the profitable crop that year. Mr. La Touche 
 had made a large investment in fine linen for 
 an American house, the first he ever dealt with ; 
 but his brother-in-law, the boy Madame O’Neil 
 shipped out, who had come to be a merchant in 
 Baltimore, recommended it, and they were to 
 pay ten per cent, above the ordinary price. The 
 linen had been packed and shipped, but no 
 money could be got for it for three months to 
 come : that was the condition of the contract ; 
 but the house was thought safe and steady, 
 the profits would be considerable, and Mr. La 
 Touche was pushed by a Quaker firm in Belfast 
 who did not know his difficulties — he never 
 would let man know them if it could be helped. 
 A brother linen-merchant of the name of Clark 
 — by-the-by, he was a Presbyterian, and some 
 relation to Mr. Forbes — had made him sole 
 executor and trustee of certain house property 
 in Armagh ; all he had to leave, and a very de- 
 cent provision for his widow and two dumb girls. 
 The widow', poor woman ! had never been very 
 bright ; of course her husband knew that, and 
 left the entire management of the property in 
 La Touche’s hands. 
 
 “I knew the master had scruples about it, 
 and if the town-rates’ deposit had not been used 
 up, he would not have done it ; but there was 
 nobody to ask him a question' on the subject, 
 nobody to know of it at all till the money came 
 back from America, and things w r ere made right 
 again ; so he took a mortgage on the widow’s 
 houses to their full value, and rather above it, 
 from a Dublin Jew of the name of Reubens. 
 You may have heard of him, sir, for he was 
 famous for such transactions when your firm did 
 business in the royal city, and was known to 
 them, if I do not mistake. Money-lenders are 
 apt to be known to highly respectable houses. 
 Mr. Forbes had dealt with Reubens, to my cer- 
 tain knowledge. I think it was through him 
 that La Touche got acquainted with the Jew. 
 He w r asn’t the worst of his kind, though he took 
 a heavy percentage, and was hard in exacting 
 payment. They said he had no soul to leave 
 his gatherings to but one daughter, and there 
 was a queer story about her. However, it has 
 
 * 
 
 nothing to do with the one I am telling. The 
 master knew Reubens, and took the mortgage, 
 and we got over that push. The run on our 
 bank slackened with the passing of the seed- 
 time ; but as the summer drew on prices began 
 to rise, the season was dry and warm beyond 
 the common' — old people said they never re- 
 membered such a summer — and the crops were 
 parched up at the roots. There was nothing 
 like a harvest except on low-lying marshy 
 grounds, and the flax in which our farmers put 
 such confidence had scarcely any yield. That 
 told on the linen trade, of course ; the rapid rise 
 in the price of materials brought down many a 
 flourishing house in the towns of Ulster, and the 
 dearth of 1800 set in. You’ll remember it, sir, 
 though you must have been young then. Some 
 people said it was a judgment on Ireland for let- 
 ting go her Parliament. That was the year of 
 the Union, and a great fuss there was about it 
 in the south and west ; but between the failure 
 of the flax crop and the rise of grain, the north 
 had matters nearer home to think of : the poor 
 had sore want among them, business was at 
 sixes and sevens, the best-doing people in the 
 country had to draw on their savings, and with 
 the fall of the winter another run on the Ar- 
 magh Bank began. 
 
 ‘ ‘ The American house had not paid yet ; the 
 linen had a long passage — it was nearly three 
 months out at sea ; such passages were not un- 
 common at the time — ships and every thing else 
 go quicker now ; but when it came to hand there 
 was a glut in the Baltimore market ; the house 
 was honorable, but it could not pay, as Mr. La 
 Touche knew. American bills were not thought 
 very safe then, so he did not like to take them ; 
 but they had promised, by high and low, to set- 
 tle the whole account through their Dublin 
 banker within the month of December. 
 
 ‘ ‘ So much money kept out of our hands threw 
 us back every way ; when the run began, Mr. 
 La Touche first parted with all his plate ; he 
 took it to Belfast himself, and sold it privately 
 to a goldsmith he knew in High Street. Then, 
 sir — I know it was desperation made him do it 
 — he took a chest full belonging to Lord Lurgan, 
 and left with him for safe-keeping, and put it in 
 pawn with a broker he could depend on. After 
 that he borrowed from the Catholic dean — good 
 man, he lent him all he had saved up for many 
 a year to put a painted window in the Armagh 
 chapel after his death, and keep himself in mem- 
 ory among his parishionei’s. There was a 
 Scotchman, too, that obliged the master. We 
 never got over wondering at it ; he was a Glas- 
 gow merchant, of the name of Macqueen, who 
 traveled in Ulster to buy up linen for himself, 
 and had been often enough entertained at the 
 Bank. With these desperate expedients we got 
 over the early part of the winter ; but the run 
 increased as the year drew to an end and the 
 times grew harder; still, every order was paid 
 as it came in ; not one of the neighbors imag- 
 ined that we were pressed, for the dean and the 
 Scotchman kept the secret like true friends, and 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 7 
 
 La Touche bore up at home and abroad as if 
 nothing at all was wrong with him. He kept 
 the worst of it even from his wife, not to vex 
 and trouble her — poor woman ! she would not 
 have madfi so many parties or bought so many 
 fine clothes if she had known how things were 
 going — but his hair, which had been as black as 
 a raven at Easter, was more than half gray at 
 Martinmas, and I know the sorest of his con- 
 cerns was the mortgage on the widow’s houses. 
 Nothing else made him bring his spirit down to 
 ask a loan of the La Touches of Dublin. They 
 were his relations, as I have said, but had al- 
 ways given the Armagh Bank the cold shoulder, 
 partly because they thought it interfered with 
 their business in the north, and partly on ac- 
 count of an old quarrel which had happened be- 
 tween them and the master’s father when he 
 split away from the firm. However, La Touche 
 applied to them in his extremity, and knowing 
 they could trust him, besides wishing to keep up 
 the credit of the family, I suppose, they con- 
 sented, after a good deal of consideration and 
 inquiry, to advance him two thousand on the 
 security of his house and stock. I must allow 
 the master did not tell them the exact state of 
 his affairs ; he kept back all about the plate, the 
 mortgage, and the town rates. Yet La Touche 
 was scarcely to blame for that. On the very 
 day their inquiries began, he received a letter 
 from the Baltimore house, stating that Burgess 
 and Co. would pay over to him the full price of 
 his linen on the 21st of December. 
 
 “ £ Wilson,’ said he, ‘that will take the wid- 
 ow’s houses and Lord Lurgan’s plate off my 
 mind; the Dublin people’s two thousand will 
 keep us up in spite of the run, and I will pay it 
 off with the help of Providence and close atten- 
 tion to business.’ 
 
 “We were in the middle of December by this 
 time ; the last of our money was gone ; two or 
 three civil farmers had been promised off ; their 
 drafts were to be paid next week, when we £ ould 
 get coin enough from the Dublin mint, where 
 something had gone wrong with the dies, and 
 the honest peqple believed us. The weather 
 was terribly cold and wet ; Mr. La Touche had 
 a severe cold — he took no care of himself — but 
 the missus would not hear of him going to Dub- 
 lin; besides, there were reasons for his staying 
 at home. Lord Lurgan was daily expected at 
 his seat, and the dean had fallen into what proved 
 his last Sickness. Yet somebody must go for the 
 money. By special agreement it Avas to be got in 
 gold, as that would sen r e the Armagh Bank best. 
 Raymond was his father’s right-hand man ; he 
 knew the desperate position of the house, the 
 mortgage, the plate, the borroAvings — all Avere 
 knoAvn to him ; he was the eldest son and main- 
 stay of the family, next to La Touche himself. 
 Every body kneAv Kaymond’s sense and steadi- 
 ness ; though but eighteen, he looked a respons- 
 ible man, and none Avould have wondered had 
 they knoAvn the errand on which he Avas bound, 
 Avhen the master concluded on sending him to 
 Dublin in his stead. Raymond had been there 
 
 
 before. Burgess and Co. and the La Touches' 
 knew him ; so did Mr. Eorbes ; his house was 
 in Dublin then — by-the-bv, there Avas a Avhisper 
 that the times were telling on it, but that could 
 not have been true, for Forbes extend^ his 
 business and moved to London in the next year; 
 people said he was folloAving the Irish Parlia- 
 ment. I am not sure that the Palivez did not 
 knoAV something of Raymond too — yes, why 
 should that surprise you ? — their house Avas in* 1 
 Dublin then, and had been ever since they came 
 from Amsterdam. Well, they knew him, I 
 think — at least, all La Touche’s friends did ; it 
 seemed a perfectly proper thing, and the boy 
 set out for Dublin, looking as handsome, high 
 spirited, and kinQly as ever I saw him. He 
 started by the coach on Wednesday morning, 
 and Avas to come back on Sunday night, for the 
 sooner the money came the better, and Ray- 
 mond promised his father he would not let the 
 bag out of his hand or sight from when it was 
 locked up till it Avas delivered to him. He took 
 a pair of pistols Avith him, and Raymond Avas 
 not a bad shot. 
 
 “The Dublin mail was ahvay^Avell armed, 
 and had never been stopped within the memory 
 of man. The boy left us with every chance of 
 safety. No letter could be expected Avithin the 
 time, and Ave Avaited in high hope for Sunday 
 evening. It came ;%i clear, starlight, frosty 
 night as one could Avish to see in December. 
 Mr. La Touche went doAvn to the coach-office 
 just at the hour to meet his son. The coacH 
 came into Armagh at eight precisely. I was in 
 the office making up the fire, to have it bright 1 
 and cheerful for receiving the Avelcome traveler 
 and counting out the gold. The coach-office Avas 
 not five minutes walk from the Bank. I heard 
 the guard’s bugle, and the roll of the wheels as 
 it came in through the quiet night. But oh! 
 Mr. Esthers, I Avill never forget the father’s face 
 Avhen he rushed in and cried, ‘Raymond is not 
 there, and the guard and driver knoAV nothing 
 about him !’ It is all, in a manner, burned into 
 my memory like a fearful picture, not to be for- 
 gotten though put out of sight ; but I can’t go 
 over it circumstantially, there is such a confu- 
 sion and mixiifg up of troubles. I believe that 
 from the first minute La Touche ljad got some 
 kind of an impression like the terrible truth. 
 He tried to say Raymond had been too late for 
 the coach, and would come by the next mail ; but 
 Avithin the same hour he took a post-chaise, bid 
 me to break it to the missus the best way I 
 could, and started for Dublin with nothing but 
 the clothes he stood in. 
 
 “ I broke it to her. She stood it wonderfully 
 at first, and said much as her husband had done 
 about Raymond being too late and coming ; but 
 the maid told me her mistress never slept at all 
 that night, and might be seen in all corners of 
 the house wringing her hands and moaning like 
 a ghost. The Aveek passed aAvay — the most 
 dreadful seA r en days I eA'er kneAv. Mr. La 
 Touche came back Avith the Sunday night’s 
 coach looking tAventy years older. 
 
8 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “Raymond had been at the two banks in 
 Dublin ; v got the money paid down ; was seen 
 going toward the coach-office in Castle Street 
 with a leather bag in his hand, but there all 
 trace^f him was lost. No friend of the family 
 had seen or heard of him ; he had not been at 
 Forbes’s or the Palivez, and from that hour to 
 this no word or sign could ever be made out of 
 the boy. Where he went, or what became of 
 
 “ The first sight I got of the master wh^n he 
 came back showed me that the man’s spirit and 
 heart were broken, and that he had given up 
 his son, his money, and himself for lost. He 
 made no concealment, no endeavor to put a fair 
 face on any thing, even to his wife and family, 
 but sent them off to a cousin he had in the 
 county Antrim — their parting would have moved 
 the heart of a stone — closed his bank, told me 
 
 Mr. La Touche went down to the coach-office just at the hour to meet his son. 
 
 him, God only knows. Wherever it was, fully 
 four thousand pounds — his father’s last hope 
 and only chance — went with him; and if it 
 were his own act and deed, may God forgive 
 him ! Mr. Esthers, it is sixteen years ago, knd 
 I was but a clerk in the establishment, yet I can 
 not look back on that time, and all that fol- 
 lowed it, without feeling sick and sore. 
 
 to give up every thing, and went back to Dublin 
 to surrender and go into the Marshalsea. 
 
 “There never tvas such confusion and con- 
 sternation in any town as happened in Arm ag h 
 when La Touche’s bank was known to be closed. 
 The thing was so unlikely — so unlooked for ; 
 there were so many losers who could ill spare it. 
 I shall never forget the congregation of farmers 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 9 
 
 and common people outside, with shieves of 
 guinea-notes in their hands, flourishing them at 
 the windows, and threatening to pull down or 
 burn the house if somebody did not pay them. 
 Having no one else to fall on, the poor souls 
 attacked me for helping the master to deceive 
 and cheat the country. My friends wanted me 
 to fly, and hide in Belfast ; but I stood by my 
 own character and his, telling in public and 
 private how we would have paid every body but 
 for the loss of the money and the boy. I had 
 not a pleasant time of it, but there was need of 
 sbme voice to speak for them. Evil tongues 
 and evil thoughts rose up against the family 
 whose fame had stood so fair till then. There 
 was a report — I think it began with the La 
 Touches of Dublin ; people’s relations forever, 
 you see — that Raymond had acted according to 
 his father’s instructions, and he and the four 
 thousand would be forthcoming when the whole 
 business was over. I knew that to be false, and 
 I told the hottest of the creditors so to their 
 * faces. 
 
 u However, it was a sad and bad bankruptcy. 
 The tradesmen’s bills and the servants’ wages, 
 my own salary — but I didn’t care for that — all 
 were left unpaid. The La Touches of Dublin 
 seized on the house and stock as soon as they 
 possibly could ; the furniture, and even the 
 wearing apparel which the poor family had left 
 behind them — goodness knows they went bare 
 enough — when sold out by' auction, did not 
 fetch a penny in the pound. Lord Luflgan 
 threatened an indictment for the pawning of 
 his plate ; the town council talked of another 
 for embezzlement — they meant the rates, you 
 see ; but the worst of all was the mortgage on 
 the poor widow’s houses. Reubens, the money- 
 lender, came down on them like a raven. I 
 did my best for the sake of the master’s con- 
 science, and my own knowledge of the fact, to 
 get him to allow the widow and her dumb girls 
 some provision. He was a horribly hard, dry 
 old man, who had been dying of consumption 
 from his youth, but it lasted him above seventy 
 years ; there was nothing but skin and bone 
 and love of money in the creature , but I got 
 Dargan the attorney to write to him about a 
 flaw we thought was in the mortgage, and, thank 
 God! the poor family did get a trifle — just 
 enough to keep them in a poor cottage with their 
 own spinning. There is only one of the daugh- 
 ters living now, and Miss Livy has taken her. 
 Oh ! but she — Miss Livy I mean — was the wild 
 woman when it all came to her knowledge. 
 Sometimes her temper and sometimes her grief 
 got the better of her senses. They tell me she 
 has never been the same since. Her belief was 
 what I could never think true — it was so un- 
 like the boy, that Raymond had gone off with 
 the money to spend it in France or America. 
 Fro^that opinion nothing could move her, 
 thougn no advertisement, no search, no offers 
 of reward could ever bring forth the least intel- 
 ligence of his being seen on board a ship or any 
 where after he passed down Castle Street. She 
 
 stood to it that he had bribed ship-captains and 
 disguised himself, and for his sake she took a 
 hatred to all boys. 
 
 “Little Lucien — the child was not seven 
 then — had to be kept out of her sight, in a 
 manner ; and when his uncle O’Neil offered to 
 take and bring him up to his business, by way 
 of providing for one of the children, she packed 
 him off with Denis Dulan’s wife, whom her hus- 
 band had sent for to Baltimore, saying, if he 
 followed his brother’s, example it should not be 
 in Ireland. The poor missus had always been 
 under her fingers, and the only dispute they 
 ever had was about the lost boy. His poor 
 mother would not hear it said that her Raymond 
 had run away with his father’s money. She 
 cried over the shame and sorrow night and day, 
 and would mind nothing else, till one night 
 early in the new year she roused the house, and 
 nearly the - whole neighborhood, though it was 
 the open country, with screams that she had 
 seen Raymond in her room, and that he told 
 her he had been murdered and buried in an old 
 house in Dublin. The nurse, who had gone 
 with them from Armagh, and all the old women 
 about, believed that Mrs. La Touche had seen 
 something ; bqt the poor lady’s brain was just 
 giving up. From that hour she never spoke a 
 sensible word, but raved continually about her 
 son, the old house, and the man that murdered 
 him, and how he should be brought to justice. 
 She lived in .that way for seven years, fteing 
 otherwise quiet and easily managed. It was 
 a dreary house they had, in the midst of a farm 
 which the master had bought for his cousin 
 when he was well off, and the boy could not get 
 married without it. The cousin had no family, 
 and his wife was dead ; but his housekeeper 
 couldn’t agree with Miss Livy. I don’t know 
 what she didn’t say of the woman — nothing 
 tames woman’s tongue, Mr. Esthers — so he gave 
 the La Touches part of his house for old time’s 
 sake, and walled up the door between him and 
 them. Miss Livy made the girls spin, and man- 
 aged carefully what the cousin allowed them 
 off the farm ; but they would have been poor 
 enough if it had not been for a friend that sent 
 them money every quarter; first less, and then 
 more, till it came, to a decent little income. 
 The man who told me heard it from Miss Livy 
 herself. They are getting that money yet, and 
 neither she nor one of the family ever could 
 make out whence it came. Of all the charity 
 and kindness poor La Touche had done in his 
 day, of all the' neighbors he had helped and the 
 strangers he had entertained, there was not one 
 to show the slightest remembrance in the midst 
 of his ruin and disgrace but a man who had 
 very little right, and that was my present em- 
 ployer, Mr. Forbes. He had known the master 
 only in the way of business, and that for a short 
 time ; yet, from the first day of their misfor- 
 tunes, he was never done sending the family 
 presents of goods and money, and, Mr. Esthers, 
 he is sending them still, though I nor nobody 
 ever heard him mention Raymond’s business if 
 
10 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 he could help it ; but he is a sober, serious man, 
 very particular about his words, and it is hard 
 to think of what any one should say on that 
 matter. One thing Mr. La Touche told me 
 when I saw him last, that Forbes had solemnly 
 asserted to him his belief in Raymond’s inno- 
 cence, bad as the case looked. 
 
 “ ‘ And, Wilson,’ said my master when going 
 over the circumstance — ‘ I couldn’t see his face, 
 for it was twilight, and. he sat in the corner, but, 
 judging from his voice, Forbes could not have 
 been more moved if the boy had been his son 
 instead of mine — Wilson, I have the same be- 
 lief, God be praised for it ; my Raymond did 
 not do all that has been done of his own will 
 or wickedness, and Providence will make his in- 
 nocence clear when I am dead and gone.’ 
 
 “My poor master spoke thus to me when he 
 lay sick in the Marshalsea. I think his sick- 
 ness was just heart-break, though the doctors 
 called it decline. At any rate, he got out of 
 the troubles of his bankruptcy and the danger 
 of the indictments, for before the law had gone 
 through half its course he died, in his poor pris- 
 on room, and in a most Christian manner, leav- 
 ing his blessing to his family — it was all he had 
 to leave them — and visited and looked after in 
 all his wants and wishes by Mr. Forbes. It 
 was a thing I never knew till the Dublin under- 
 taker, who has now set himself up in Holborn, 
 told me that Forbes paid the whole expense of 
 his funeral, and such a handsome one never 
 went out of the Marshalsea. Miss Livy says 
 that the money he sent helped to bury the girls 
 too as. became their family. Poor things ! they 
 dropped off one after another as they grew up 
 in that out-of-the-world farm-house : it stands 
 on the Antrim coast, two miles from the Giant’s 
 Causeway. They say their mother never missed 
 
 them, nor her husband either; but she went at 
 lastrlierself, and died saying she was going to 
 get justice for Raymond.” 
 
 “It is a strange story,” said his companion, 
 as the elder man came to a pause — “a very 
 strange story. You say the P«alivezi were in 
 Dublin at the time?” ' L, 
 
 “The Palivezi — is that liow one should call 
 them ? — I never could make out the proper way 
 of Greek names — yes ; they were in DubliP/but 
 tliey had nothing to do with the business.” • 
 
 “Of course not; Madame’s father was alive 
 
 then, but getting old — superannuated, in a man- 
 ner — and she was taking the direction of af- 
 fairs.” 
 
 In what a slow, summing-up fashion that 
 metallic voice spoke. 
 
 “ Yes ; but they could give no intelligence 
 of Raymond — in fact, had not seen him at all ; I 
 heard it from her own mouth, having to wait on 
 Madame to beg her influence with the Jew Reu- 
 bens. How grand and handsome she looked ! 
 They tell me she looks the very same yet. 
 And how handsomely she acted by us ! The 
 Jew stood in fear of her, I understand — from 
 some cause of money, no doubt — and her word 
 went as far as the attorney’s letter. Dear me, 
 
 it is one o’clock, and I promised to be with my 
 sister in Hammersmith at half past,” and the 
 gray-haired man rose. 
 
 “I’ll walk part of the way with you,” said 
 his junior. “Waiter, our bill ;” and, after set- 
 tling their account at the coffee-house, the two 
 walked out, and I sat there alone, pondering on 
 that sad story of misery and sin. I had need 
 to ponder, as the sequel will prove.. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 morton’s grammar-school. 
 
 I sat as I had done for an hour and more, 
 silent and motionless, with the unread paper in 
 my hand. The men who had talked within a 
 few feet of me had not been aware of my pres- 
 ence ; the box I occupied was somewhat out of 
 sight in a corner of that old coffee-house. Had 
 they seen they would not have recognized me, 
 and, under other circumstances, I should not 
 have known them ; but the story to which I 
 listened was that of my own luckless family; 
 the narrator was my father’s old and faithful 
 clerk, Wat Wilson, and I was the little Lucien 
 La Touche, who had been sent so early to his 
 uncle in America. Every particular related 
 had place in my memory, stamped there with a 
 force and vividness no after event could over- 
 lay, for they stood among life’s first impressions 
 — our pleasant old house in Armagh, with its 
 homely business and frequent merrymakings — 
 the faces of my father and mother, the one so 
 manly, the other so beautiful — my young sis- 
 ters, and our plays in house and garden — my 
 granddam, too, with her kindness and her tem- 
 pers ; and, above all, our clever, handsome elder 
 brother, Raymond, of whom we were so proud 
 and fond. Then there was the Sunday night 
 when he did not come back, and we lost him 
 forever; my father’s return from that vain, 
 heartbreaking search ; our sudden poverty in 
 the lonely farm-house, and the night of name- 
 less terror when my mother’s reason gave way 
 — all stood out with terrible distinctness from 
 the misty background of my earliest recollec- 
 tions.' The connecting chain of causes and cir- 
 cumstances, not to be apprehended by the child’s 
 mind, had been partly learned and partly guess- 
 ed at in after years. The honest^Jrk’s .narra- 
 tive made them still clearer, ancT also showed 
 me the extent of my family’s obligations to the 
 Scotch banker, whom I yet knew only by name. 
 From the depths of my soul I blessed the gener- 
 ous man whose sympathy had helped my father 
 through his last desolate days, and given him 
 the handsomest funeral that ever went out of 
 the Marshalsea. Might the blessing promised 
 to those who visited the sick and in prison come 
 upon him ! If fortune ever permitted me, I 
 would acknowledge the deep debt to him ana his. 
 
 In the mean time I had returned from Amer- 
 ica — a stranger to all that ever knew me — a 
 man of twenty-three, strongly resembling my 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 11 
 
 father in person even as my childhood promised, 
 with his strength of bone and muscle, his ruddy 
 brown complexion, rounded face, and dark curl- 
 ing hair ; ay — and in spite of those gloomy 
 shadows cast on the morning sky of my life — 
 with his cheerful temperament and brave will to 
 work my way and get my share of the world’s 
 good things, if it were possible. Excepting that 
 
 end of my seventh year into the guardian hands 
 of Gerald O’Neil, then one of the wealthiest 
 merchants in the capital of Maryland, and my 
 maternal uncle. 
 
 The first glance I got of him brought Madame 
 O’Neil, my grandmother, with all the awe she 
 used to inspire, back on my childish mind. He 
 had the same tall, upright figure, and stern, 
 
 Mrs. Dulan delivered me safely to Gerald O’Neil. 
 
 I had made a voyage in the charge of Denis 
 Dulan’s wife, and that I had been sixteen years 
 with my uncle, the merchant in Baltimore, my 
 existence had no history known to friends or 
 kindred on this side of the Atlantic. It had a 
 story, nevertheless, which must be told, how- 
 ever briefly, for the better understanding of that 
 which was to come. 
 
 Mrs. Dulan delivered me safely toward the 
 
 handsome face; a prince among merchants 
 rather by his manners than his means — trading 
 in a noble, lordly fashion, with high honor in 
 his own transactions, and rigid exaction of his 
 rights from others ; he was half feared, wholly 
 trusted, and held in more than common repute 
 among the ready and rising men of that new 
 world. 
 
 With the destiny that compelled him to trade, 
 
12 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 my uncle had determined to be even by found- 
 ing a house of merchant-princes. With that 
 purpose he had toiled and reckoned ever since 
 the old madame shipped him off ; and he got 
 into the counting-house of an old family follow- 
 er, who had emigrated before the last turret of 
 Einmore Castle fell, and grown rich in America. 
 
 My uncle had been lucky there too — rose to 
 be a partner in the concern, bought out the old 
 follower’s interest, reigned in his stead, and 
 largely increased the business and importance 
 of the house. Nobody called him a screw or a 
 skinflint, but every body knew he could get 
 money and take care of it. To build a mer- 
 cantile firm of the first magnitude was the ob- 
 ject which he did not avow in so many words 
 — my uncle was too proud for such opening of 
 his mind — but he never concealed it. 
 
 His home was an American boarding-house ; 
 his establishment was one black servant. He 
 gave no entertainments ; he took no holidays ; 
 he went to few places of amusement ; he made 
 no intimate friends ; and, though always cour- 
 teous — as became a descendant of Tyrone — he 
 paid no particular attention to the ladies. 
 
 Baltimore contests the prize of beauty with 
 all America, as Limerick does with my native 
 Ireland ; but my uncle had kept clear of its 
 snares. No match sufficiently advantageous to 
 help in the building of his great pyramid had 
 been presented to his view, and he was too bent 
 on the business to regard any other attraction. 
 If there had ever been a soft part in the man’s 
 nature, it was trodden out in the working, reck- 
 oning routine of his life. 
 
 There was nothing when I knew him but 
 worldly prudence, energy, and pride. He*would 
 found the great mercantile house of O’Neil, since 
 no better could be done ; and, not choosing to 
 marry himself, for the reasons specified, he 
 would bring up the son of his only sister, on 
 whom such heavy misfortunes had fallen, to be 
 his heir and successor in the grand design, and 
 take his name and arms if found worthy of them. 
 
 Such, I believe, were the old gentleman’s in- 
 tentions when he received me \yith haughty 
 kindness from the hands of Mrs. Dulan — honest 
 woman, she could not have had more care or 
 concern about her own child — rewarded her 
 fidelity with a five-dollar note, exclusive of all 
 costs, and gave orders for my entertainment in 
 the boarding-house till he could find a school 
 for me. A school was found within the same 
 week in an airy suburb of the town. My uncle 
 gave precise directions what I was to be taught. 
 His curriculum included all the branches of a 
 sound English education, supplemented by 
 French and Latin ; and the head-master was 
 specially requested to let him know if I had any 
 particular talent. I believed the excellent man 
 at first discovered one for poetry and the belles 
 lettres ; but, finding that such abilities were not 
 likely to find appreciation with my uncle, he 
 settled down on arithmetic and general applica- 
 tion. It is to be hoped this last discovery was 
 genuine ; if not an apt, I was a willing scholar. 
 
 My uncle had not' told me so — he was not in the 
 habit of telling — but, with seven-year-old pene- 
 tration, I found out that the acquisition and re- 
 tention of his good graces depended on my get- 
 ting on at school ; and the necessity of pleasing 
 him got so impressed on my mind at the begin- 
 ning of our acquaintance, that it was not fairly 
 worn out at its end. There was nobody else 
 for me to please or look to. Father, mother, 
 Aunt Livy, and sisters— all had been left far off 
 beyond the sea, and I was alone, under the ab- 
 solute government of that stern, busy, unfathom- 
 able man, as he seemed to my childhood, and 
 somewhat also to my later years. My uncle 
 was not harsh or even unkind to me. He 
 brought me up, he paid for my schooling, and 
 would have provided for me handsomely, but I 
 could never feel at home with him, nor he with 
 me, even when increasing years brought us 
 nearer each other’s status in the rational world. 
 Our natures were contrary, and could not come 
 together. 
 
 Morton’s grammar-school, the seminary at 
 which he placed me, was one of the best and 
 oldest institutions of its kind in Baltimore. It 
 had been established by a Scotch family, for the 
 education of Protestant youth, when Maryland 
 was a Roman Catholic colony under the Cal- 
 verts, and had fk unshed ever since, descended 
 from father to son like a patrimony, the ranks 
 of its inferior teachers being always reci’uited 
 from Scotland and the Morton clan. They were 
 three in number, besides the head-master, owner 
 and governor of the establishment — a man above 
 seventy, who held at once the reins and the fer- 
 rule for more than forty years ; he was, by pre- 
 eminence, Mr. Morton. Then there was his 
 nephew, assistant and successor, known to us by 
 • the style and title of Mr. Andrew Morton ; he su- 
 perintended the second form. Next came Mr. 
 Alexander Morton ; I think he was a third 
 cousin, some years younger and very lean; he 
 managed the third and fourth ; and last of all 
 there was Master Melrose Morton, a very young 
 man — almost a boy, indeed — for he was but ten 
 years older than myself, and had the direction 
 of the fifth and sixth forms, being quite a new 
 hand, and not two months imported when I took 
 my seat at the lowest end of the latter. 
 
 I was then the youngest boy in the school, 
 and the last that could be received.^JDhere was 
 a rule in the establishment, laid downby its first 
 founder, and not to be broken under high and 
 mysterious penalties, that no more than forty 
 scholars should be taken under any inducement. 
 The boys were uncertain whether that limit had 
 been fixed in commemoration of Moses’s forty 
 days’ fast, or of Ali Baba’s forty thieves ; but 
 then all agreed in a tradition of the grammar- 
 school having been burnt to the ground, and 
 the greater part of Baltimore with it, nearly a 
 hundred years before, when the reigning Mor- 
 ton was induced to break that mystic rule in 
 favor of the governor’s son. However that 
 might be, no more than forty would the gram- 
 mar-school or its master receive ; and I think 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 13 
 
 his active old dame, Mrs. Morton (by-the-by, 
 she spoke broad Scotch, and always wore a 
 checked apron), found it quite enough to provide 
 for in bed and board — for they kept no day 
 scholars — with the help of her daughter-in-law, 
 Mrs. Andrew, three maids, and one man, who 
 were all growing old in the service, and believed 
 to be Mortons. Contrary to the use and wont 
 of Baltimore, no negroes were employed on the 
 premises. The burning of the school was said 
 to have been effected by one newly brought 
 from Guinea in that slave -trading time. It 
 was not the only particular in which the Mor- 
 tons pleased to differ from current custom ; they 
 were Presbyterians, and we were marched to 
 the meeting-house twice every Sunday, rank 
 and file, with the teachers at the head of their 
 respective divisions, and ranged in three high, 
 narrow pews appointed for our accommodation 
 in that low-pitched, cheerless edifice, which had 
 been built about the time of the Salem' witch- 
 burning, when the first Scotch congregation set 
 up their camp ^n Maryland, and expected to 
 bring not only the colony, but the Indian tribe, 
 who then filled all the forests west of Chesa- 
 peake Bay, over to the Westminster Confession. 
 J don’t know what the old madame would have 
 said about my sitting there for good seven hours 
 every Sunday, but it did not trouble my uncle. 
 In the hot pursuit of wealth and mercantile pre- 
 eminence, he had got free of priestly trammels, 
 if they ever hung much about him. On the 
 subject of religion, I nor nobody else ever heard 
 him speak. He was seen, but not very frequent- 
 ly, in all the churches, Protestant and Catholic, 
 which the city then contained. The grammar- 
 school was a good one, and he sent me to the 
 Mortons without making difficulties about the 
 meeting-house.' I learned to stand up at the 
 extemporary prayers of the old Scotch minister 
 — his name was Renwick, and he was said to be 
 of the family of the last Cameronian preacher 
 who suffered for the Covenant — to sit at the 
 psalm-singing, given out line by line, and guilt- 
 less of organ or pitch-pipe ; to take rank at the 
 foot of my class before the pulpit, and repeat 
 my share of the Assembly’s Catechism ; ay, and 
 to play pins with prudence and circumspec- 
 tion while the long prayer was going forwand, 
 and, thanks to the high woodwork in front, no- 
 body could possibly guess what I and my play- 
 fellows were 4 about but Master Melrose. 
 
 We all knew him to be no strict disciplina- 
 rian. Promising never to do the like again was 
 generally sufficient to get pardon, or, at least, 
 silence for the most heinous of our grammar- 
 school offenses. Whatever could be supposed 
 unseen, Master Melrose did not see — that is to 
 say, did not report it — which would have brought 
 us into trouble, for all the rest of the Mortons 
 were rigidly conscientious teachers. Melrose 
 was conscientious too, but he was kindly with 
 it ; no offender escaped without a rebuke from 
 him in private; no lesson could be left unlearned 
 somehow. 
 
 He had a troop of little boys to govern, and 
 
 got his share of vexation and trouble in that 
 thankless office ; the larger boys found out that 
 his salary was not large, and his relationship to 
 the head-master very distant, on which account 
 they were inclined to make small of him. 
 
 I don’t know whether he found me easiest 
 managed, or whether he took kindly to me from 
 hearing I was a stranger and an orphan, but 
 kindly he did take ; and before I was a week at 
 the grammar-school, my trust and confidence 
 were placed in the patronage and protection of 
 Master Melrose. 
 
 He stood by me, not overtly. Melrose had 
 come from Scotland, and was sub to three, be- 
 sides the old and young Mrs. Morton, who su- 
 pervised him considerably ; but in a private, 
 unnoticeable manner, he maintained my cause 
 and supported my spirits through hard lessons, 
 broken rules, and attempts at fagging by the 
 young tyrants jof the grammar-sdtool. 
 
 The third usher took me by the hand, and I 
 clung to him, having no other friend. Boy or 
 man could not have had a better one, though 
 no two were ever more unlike than we. 
 
 Melrose was serious and thoughtful beyond 
 his years — beyond most people of any age. The 
 boys had a notion that he must have seen a 
 ghost, or met with something extraordinary in 
 Scotland to make him so sober. 
 
 Sober Melrose was in look and manner, but 
 by no means sour or slow, as sober people are 
 apt to be. Every soul about the grammar- 
 school knew him to be thoroughly good-natured ; 
 he was the resource of every one in a scrape or 
 a pickle, as my lost brother Raymond had been 
 far away in Armagh. He was active in person, 
 quick in learning, and keen in observation, par- 
 ticularly of character. A more honestly or sen- 
 sibly conscientious soul I never knew. 
 
 Young as he was, his moral principles were 
 as high and as clear as those of a Christian 
 philosopher. He was deeply and devoutly relig- 
 ious, but after the undemonstrative Presbyterian « 
 fashion ; a studious lover of learning for its own 
 sake ; not endowed with any particular gift or 
 talent, except that rare one, the power of reason- 
 ing well ; and troubled with no particular weak- 
 ness, except a considerable amount 'of honest 
 Scottish pride, which made him careful of what 
 people might think or say. 
 
 In face, Melrose was neither plain nor hand- 
 some ; he had the high cheek-bones and deep- 
 set eyes of the North, a tolerably fair complex- 
 ion, dark brown hair, a little wavy and in fair 
 quantity. His figure was tall, raw-boned, and 
 angular ; but there was a general appearance 
 of strength and firmness about him, which I 
 think were the distinguishing attributes of his 
 character too. A silent, steady youth, wise in 
 his words, upright in his ways, making no ac- 
 quaintances because he felt the want of none, 
 minding his daily duties in the grammar-school, 
 and going home to his mother every night, 
 where she lived in a decent little house on the 
 outskirts of Baltimore. Such was Melrose Mor- 
 ton when I knew him first, and such he con- 
 
14 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 tinued to be through all the years of our friend- 
 ship. 
 
 It thickened every day. I had need of friends 
 then, and Melrose stepped into the place left va- 
 cant in my early world. 
 
 By degrees I got intimate enough to be taken 
 home with him to see his mother, a kindly, gray- 
 haired old lady. Small their house was, and 
 their income must have been. I am not sure 
 that they had much more than the third usher’s 
 earnings, yet nobody could call Mrs. Morton and 
 her son any thing but lady and gentleman, they 
 had such a look of ancient good-breeding. 
 
 I noticed, too, that Mrs. Morton did not speak 
 broad Scotch like the mistress of the grammar- 
 school ; and in one of my visits I heard her 
 speak accidentally, and not meant for my hear- 
 ing, of the time they lived in Dublin. 
 
 Solitary meditations on that subject brought 
 me to tell Melrose, in one of our quiet walks — 
 he used to take me with him up Jones’s Falls, 
 and over the hills, when the school hours were 
 done on Saturday afternoons — the sad, strange 
 family secret which I had been warned to keep : 
 it was the only rule of conduct my uncle ever 
 gave, and the only mention of it I ever heard 
 him make. 
 
 Well, I took the opportunity to tell Melrose 
 all I knew about my brother Raymond, and how 
 he had been lost, with a vague, childish hope 
 that, as he had enlightened me on so many 
 matters, he might be able to clear up that mys- 
 tery too, and a certain trust that he would not 
 betray my confidence. 
 
 We were in a narrow place beside the Falls, 
 far out of sight or hearing of any body; the 
 mossy grass was slippery, for it was autumn 
 time. I remember the dark red flush of the 
 American trees. Melrose was in advance, hold- 
 ing me fast by the hand. I felt his fingers twitch 
 and tremble as if they had been struck by sud- 
 den palsy ; and when I looked up into his face, 
 
 * the expression of fearful memory that was in it 
 made me stop short and say in my simplicity, 
 “Did you see him? Did he tell you why he 
 went away ?” 
 
 Melrose stood still for a minute or more, as 
 if considering what he should say, and then 
 answered, “No, Lucien ; how should I see him 
 here in Baltimore ?” 
 
 “ But you were in Dublin ; Mrs. Morton said 
 so last Saturday ; maybe it was long ago ?” 
 said I. 
 
 “Yes, Lucien, it was very long ago. If I 
 could tell you any thing about your brother, I 
 would do it” — how hardly the words seemed to 
 come! — “but I can not; and your uncle was 
 right in bidding you never speak of him. Take 
 his bidding like a good boy ; if you don’t, it will 
 bring great evil to yourself and your family ; 
 and when you grow up you will know the rea- 
 son why.” 
 
 Melrose said a good deal more in the same 
 strain, as grown people are apt to talk to chil- 
 dren. I promised never to speak of Raymond 
 more, and I never ventured to break that prom- 
 
 ise; but, in spite of his declaration that he could 
 tell me nothing — in spite of my trust in the 
 truth of all his sayings, I had a secret conviction 
 at the time that he knew more than he pleased 
 to tell. It puzzled me ; it was a trouble to 
 think of; it lay in my mind year after year, 
 like a lost key at the bottom of a deep well, not 
 to be got to the lock it could open, and forming 
 the dim, mysterious limit of our friendship. 
 
 In all my after visits to his mother I never 
 heard her mention Dublin again, and the only 
 fragment of his family history Melrose ever re- 
 vealed to me was that he had been an only son, 
 and named in honor of a little town in the 
 south of Scotland, where his father had lived 
 and died a parish schoolmaster. 
 
 I can not tell how or why, but it became 
 clear to my childish understanding that Mel- 
 rose did not like to hear me speak of my old 
 home in Armagh, which I was much inclined 
 to do in the early stage of our acquaintance. 
 I had a great zeal to please the third usher, for 
 he pleased me, so the unwelcome subject was 
 dropped between us. There was nobody else to 
 whom I could talk of it ; the boys of the gram- 
 mar-school would take no interest in it, and I 
 had been warned not to tell them of my brother 
 Raymond, which was the only wonder. My 
 uncle never conversed with me at all ; indeed, 
 he never saw me but for two hours on the first 
 Monday of every quarter, when I was sent for 
 to his boarding-house, strictly examined in his 
 private room on all the branches of my educa- 
 tion, commanded to apply myself steadily to 
 every one of them, presented with two dollars 
 for pocket-money, and dismissed with a sealed 
 note in my hand to the head-master. 
 
 The waiting in the parlor for that to be writ- 
 ten was an awful process to me. It must have 
 contained my uncle’s verdict on my progress, 
 and was probably something like “not guilty;” 
 for, though old Mr. Morton always looked grave 
 and grand when he read it, I don’t remember to 
 have met with any bad consequences. There 
 were no vacations at that school but Thanks- 
 giving Week and the anniversary of American 
 Independence. The boys scattered off then, 
 but, as I was not wanted home to the boarding- 
 house, most of my holiday time was spent with 
 Melrose and his mother. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE IN BALTIMORE. 
 
 So here time wore on. I rose from one form 
 to another ; I took some prizes, I got into some 
 scrapes ; I grew up to boyhood with all its 
 attendant mischief and troublesomeness. I 
 learned to call myself a Marylander, and come 
 out powerfully with squibs and crackers on the 
 4th of July. Things not talked of melt rapidly 
 away from the memory of the young. My' old 
 Irish home grew strange and dim in my recol- 
 lection ; so did the household faces. I heard of 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 15 
 
 the deaths of my sisters and my mother as the 
 successive announcements reached my uncle. 
 He gave the intelligence in due form, as if it 
 had been a piece of sombre news, and I heard 
 it with almost as little feeling. The first death, 
 indeed, was a blow ; it happened only two years 
 after I came ; but for the rest, they had all 
 grown dead and dream-like to me in that long 
 and early absence. I am not sure that I did 
 not come to be ashamed of the family. Time 
 had made me sensible of the ruin and disgrace 
 that fell on them through my brother’s disap- 
 pearance. I had outlived the sorrow, but not 
 the terrible memories, the marvel and mystery 
 of that inexplicable loss. I knew now why it 
 should not be mentioned to strangers — how 
 damaging it would be to my future position 
 and prospects, as my uncle’s mercantile assist- 
 ant and probable heir. The old merchant him- 
 self, with all the blood and honor of the O’Neils 
 to help him, could not have guarded the secret 
 with more anxious care than I did. Nobody 
 about me knew or dreamt of it. The emi- 
 grants who had come from our part of Ulster 
 were poor Irish, and did not come in contact 
 with such young American citizens as were 
 taught and boarded in the large brick house, 
 and played in the wide, meadow-like green be- 
 side the river which constituted the grounds 
 and premises of Morton’s Grammar - school. 
 Melrose had forgotten that I ever told him, that 
 was clear to me, though his look at the time 
 was queer to remember, and always recurred 
 in my bad dreams, which were sure to go back 
 to that Sunday night and my father’s home- 
 coming Well, the family secret was dead and 
 buried in that far-,off country, with new associa- 
 tions, and a world opening before me ; but these 
 graves of the past never keep their trust well. 
 The shadows that could come out of that silent 
 background told on my outward life; it had 
 something to keep from its public, something to 
 be cautious and reserved about. That con- 
 sciousness made me careful of my own goings 
 in the slippery paths of youth. There were 
 pitfalls on every side, into some of which my 
 brother must have slipped, and dragged his 
 family down to ruin. I was bound to take care 
 of my steps, and whether this conviction or my 
 form of character kept me out of harm’s way, I 
 know not, but I grew up a well-conducted and 
 solitary youth. At sixteen my education was 
 pronounced finished. My uncle sent for me to 
 his private room, put me through a final ex- 
 amination, declared himself satisfied with my 
 progress, appointing me to a desk in his own 
 counting-house, with board and a small salary, 
 and gave me a distant intimation that in pro- 
 cess of time, and on proper behavior, I might he 
 elevated to the post of junior partner. 
 
 Of course I made suitable acknowledgments, 
 and set myself to getting qualified for the pro- 
 motion. Hadn’t the grammar-school boys felic- 
 itated me on the prospect of stepping into old 
 O’Neil’s shoes? Had not my uncle made me 
 sensible of the great house he was to found for 
 
 somebody to be the head of in his absence — 
 (that was the old gentleman’s mode of hinting 
 at his mortality) — and should not I get over all 
 the unaccountable blots on my family escutcheon 
 with the name and arms of O’Neil, backed by 
 an unshaken credit and an extensive capital ? 
 My own honor and profit were not the utmost 
 limits of those early calculations. The sister 
 whom death had spared was also the one of all 
 our household to whom my memory clung. The 
 rest w r ere too much my seniors, and in their 
 own sorrows and sickness, poor girls! seemed 
 to have forgotten the absent child. The cloud 
 that darkened my mother’s mind made her place 
 dim in my recollection too. But Rhoda was 
 only one year older than myself — my first play- 
 fellow, the hardest to part from, the longest 
 missed, and the most mindful of me. She had 
 sent book-marks, messages, and latterly letters 
 in large copy-hand, not very well spelt, and 
 manifestly written to the dictation of Miss Livy. 
 Under it she must have grown a young woman 
 by this time, in the end of the solitary farm- 
 house where I left her ; but it was still the face of 
 a fair child, with large blue eyes and light brown 
 curls, that rose to my remembrance. Never 
 mind the ill-spelt letters; Rhoda should have 
 teachers and station when I became a merchant ; 
 we would live all our days together, pension off 
 Miss Livy, and do wonders for Melrose Morton. 
 
 Such were the hopes that cheered me through 
 the long day’s work at the desk and the evening 
 life in the boarding-house. It was a retired 
 and select one, situated at the end of West 
 Street, and kept by an old Quaker lady, who 
 took in only single gentlemen of approved stead- 
 iness, and none of them under fifty except my- 
 self, whom she admitted into her mansion, as I 
 was given to understand, solely on account of 
 my uncle, because he had been with her twenty- 
 six years, and wished to have me in a safe 
 house, otherwise under his eye. The single 
 men were all merchants like himself, devoted 
 heart and soul to their warehouses and to noth- 
 ing else, though some of them did go to church 
 on Sundays. They all remembered the War of 
 Independence, and believed a republic was the 
 thing for trade. They all had their evening 
 papers, their glasses of hot rum and water, a 
 game of backgammon, and rubber of whist ; 
 and I never heard them talking of any thing 
 but business and the money-market. 
 
 With that lively society at home, my daily 
 work with ledgers and accounts, my immovable 
 uncle, and no friend but Melrose, I grew from 
 youth to manhood as lonely as I had been at the 
 grammar-school, and for the same reasons. I 
 did not take to gayety or worse ; my uncle con- 
 sidered company unfit for a man of business, 
 and did not approve of frequenting theatres. I 
 had inherited, with my father’s likeness, his hon- 
 estly social and domestic character : it made me 
 feel the want of home ties and affections, but it 
 kept me out of dissipation such as a young and 
 limited clerk might fall into in a growing com- 
 mercial town. 
 
16 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Still I was always solitary, and often weary 
 of my position, even of my prospects. Rhoda’s 
 letters became less comfort as I grew older and 
 wiser to observe my sister’s want of genteel edu- 
 cation and breeding ; besides, they generally 
 contained a good deal of my grand-aunt’s ex- 
 pectations of what I ought to do for the family, 
 with sidelong warnings against my elder broth- 
 er’s sin. In this state of unsatisfactory proba- 
 tion I passed nearly four years, and obtained 
 some amount of the promised promotion. My 
 uncle, to use his own words, found me capable 
 of business, and elevated me step by step to the 
 post of his chief clerk. 
 
 He did not employ many hands, considering 
 the extent of his transactions, which, I have 
 forgotten to mention, were principally with Le- 
 vantine merchants. He exported tobacco to 
 them, and imported their goods in return ; it 
 was a profitable line of business, and my uncle 
 did the largest of it in Baltimore. Yet there 
 were only three in the counting-house besides 
 myself, and one of them about this time — by- 
 the-by, he was the sub of all — got dismissed for 
 coming too late three times in one week, and 
 was superseded, by a young man recently ar- 
 rived in America, but boasting some experience 
 in our department of trade. “ He has been 
 nearly five years with the Palivez, and ought to 
 know something about Levantine business. I 
 understand his father was in the bank before 
 him ; but he is dead, and the young man has 
 got two sisters to support, probably that made 
 him think of emigration ; when the bank was 
 removed to London, perhaps they did not want 
 Joyce — that is the young man’s name,” said my 
 uncle; “I hear their business is getting quite 
 private and aristocratic under the management 
 of old Palivez’s daughter; she is a wonderful 
 woman, that.” 
 
 My uncle was beginning to take me into con- 
 fidence, my talk and conversation at the board- 
 ing-house having given him an opinion of my 
 discretion. We had dry chats occasionally about 
 the ledgers, the clerks, and the warehousemen, 
 about the mercantile connections of the firm, 
 and often about the said Palivez, or Palivezi, as 
 in Greek fashion they should have been called, 
 for they were of the old Hellenic stock, and said 
 to be descended from Grecian princes, who held 
 sway on the northern shores of the Euxine Sea 
 before Tartar or Muscovite had dominion there ; 
 hut we knew them only as a banking-house 
 which had done business first in Novgorod, then 
 in Amsterdam, next in Dublin, and, at the time 
 of my story, was finally established in Old Broad 
 Street, London. The bank had been cashing 
 bills and receiving letters of credit from Venice 
 before Constantinople became a Turkish city. 
 Ever since, in spite of so many removals, its 
 credit had been growing and its operations ex- 
 tending under successive Palivez, who governed 
 it from father to son, like a line of monarehs, 
 till the year 1801, when its wealth and respon- 
 sibility at once devolved upon a daughter, the 
 last of Her family, and generally acknowledged 
 
 to be equal to the best of them in business abili- 
 ties, for she had virtually managed the concern 
 in the last years of her father’s life. People 
 said the man was not incapacitated, but chose 
 to half retire, either for the purpose of giving 
 his daughter time to practice, or to betake him- 
 self strongly to the devotions and austerities of 
 the Greek Church. At all events, he died in 
 1801, and the heiress signalized her accession 
 by removing the establishment to Old Broad 
 Street, and, as my uncle had remarked, narrow- 
 ing its operations to large and very safe trans- 
 actions with the Levant and Mediterranean 
 towns. 
 
 Our firm had done business with the house . 
 for many a year. My uncle had a high report 
 of its honor and liberality — no other w’as ever 
 given of the Palivez in my hearing ; unlike 
 most Greek houses, they had earned and main- 
 tained a mercantile character of the first order, 
 and their princely descent had not been shamed 
 by the long line of bankers. The family had 
 always been regarded as a kind of nobility even 
 in Dublin. They lived privately, but in consid- 
 erable state ; employed nobody but Greeks in 
 their household service ; Jews or Russians form- 
 ed the staple of their retainers in the bank, but 
 they had always kept a native clerk or two in 
 the city, where they sojourned, and our new sub, 
 Jeremy Joyce, had been the last of their Irish 
 employes. He was a small, harmless, subdued 
 creature, remarkably unlike an Irishman, with 
 light yellow hair and a pale face, which would 
 have been boyishly handsome but for a pinched, 
 sickly, weak-minded expression, which never 
 left it under any circumstances. On the whole, 
 there was something melancholy about Joyce, 
 as if life had not gone well with him ; a look of 
 being cowed and kept down beyond his merits, 
 and knowing there was no use in trying to bet- 
 ter himself. The clerks thought him a sort of 
 acquisition, because it was supposed he could 
 tell them the peculiarities of the Greek house, 
 regarding which two singular traditions had 
 floated out as far as the United States — indeed, 
 they were known wherever the Palivez’ did busi- 
 ness — one was to the effect that none of the 
 family ever survived beyond middle life ; fifty 
 was said to be the utmost limit any of them had 
 reached ; and the other set forth that all their 
 wives were brought from, and all their daugh- 
 ters sent back to, the ancient seats of the race in 
 Eastern Russia. A man who had been’in their' 
 bank for five years, and his father before him, 
 might be supposed to have got some genuine in- 
 formation on those curious subjects ; the proba- 
 bility gave me, and even my uncle, an interest 
 in Joyce, but, to our general disappointment, 
 the little man, though otherwise obliging and 
 communicative, could not be got to speak of the 
 Palivez’ except in monosyllables. “Yes, sir,” 
 “no, sir,” and “I am sure I don’t know, ’’were 
 the utmost that the best aimed question could 
 extract. It was not simplicity, though quiet 
 and submissive to an extraordinary degree for 
 a native of his country ; Joyce was keen to ob- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 17 
 
 serve, shrewd to remark, and very dexterous to 
 discover. The clerks agreed he had reasons for 
 keeping a close mouth. My uncle said those 
 Eastern houses accustomed their servants to dis- 
 cretion, and Joyce went on like the rest of the 
 counting-house. 
 
 Some two months after his settlement, I was 
 taking a stroll through that oldest part of Balti- 
 more which lies along the harbor, in the cool 
 of the summer evening, when, in a narrow 
 thoroughfare called Wharf Street, and leading 
 to the water’s edge, I saw two women walking 
 quickly before me. The one was tall and the 
 other little ; the former was talking in a high- 
 pitched voice, and words that sounded like 
 scolding, and as I passed them close to get a j 
 better view, I discovered that the little one was 
 very pretty, but manifestly under rebuke; while 
 the tall woman, besides being remarkably thin 
 and bony, had her whole countenance brought 
 to that peculiar sharpness of edge popularly 
 known as hatchet-face ; a pair of intensely black 
 eyes, with that indescribable look of wildness in 
 them always indicative of the unsound or unsafe 
 mind, and a quantity of coarse, ill-kept hair of 
 the same intense blackness, but getting sprinkled 
 with gray, completed her most singular and not 
 prepossessing appearance. Moreover, she had 
 on an old dingy gown with a couple of rents in 
 it, a cloak that had once been red, but was now 
 extremely rusty, a battered beaver hat, with a 
 broken feather in it ; yet it was my belief that 
 any connoisseur of female attire would have 
 known that her habiliments had once been fine 
 and fashionable. Never did I see such a con- 
 trast to the gii*l who walked by her side : she 
 did not look more than sixteen ; her small but 
 beautifully rounded figure was shown to ad- 
 vantage by the nankeen pelisse ; a young face, 
 fair and soft as the finest waxwork, with the liv- 
 ing rose-bloom on cheek and lip, her large blue 
 eyes cast down, and shaded by a flow of curls 
 that looked really golden under a pretty silk hat 
 and blue ribttfns, spoke to my mind as such 
 letters of recommendation do to most men, par- 
 ticularly in their twenty-first year. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 somebody’s sister. 
 
 I could not help slackening my pace to look 
 at the young lady I passed, thinking Rhoda must 
 be something like that girl, and wondering how 
 she got into such company. The tall woman 
 had proceeded with her oration — it was of re- 
 proof — and the pretty girl seemed to quail under 
 it ; but she also observed me. I saw her give 
 me a sly glance : it was half curiosity, half en- 
 couragement. At the same moment, her com- 
 panion’s attention was suddenly drawn to me. 
 She stopped abruptly, turned her fierce black 
 eyes upon me, and, unwilling to provoke her 
 animadversions, though there Avas nobody else 
 in the street to hear them, I hurried on. It 
 was not a minute more before I heard the steps 
 B 
 
 of the two Avomen still behind me, and as we 
 were passing a tavern of the lower order, out 
 rushed a band of Danish sailors from St. Thom- 
 as’s, all drunk and in a grand quarrel. Any 
 sober man Avould have been glad to get out of 
 their Avay, and the Avomen seemed frightened 
 out of their senses. The elder uttered a loud, 
 sharp scream, and fled down the street before 
 them ; the younger attempted to folloAv, but the 
 drunken Danes, striking and shouting at each 
 other like so many demons, were upon her, and, 
 in the girl’s terror — I believe it was nothing 
 else — she ran to my side and clung to my arm. 
 Ready, and perhaps glad of the chance of play- 
 ing the knight-errant to so fair a damsel, I dreAV 
 j her into the nearest doonvay, placed myself be- 
 tween her and the fighting sailors, and bid her 
 not to be afraid. 
 
 The Danes AA-ere gone in an instant, but the 
 poor girl seemed almost fainting. I Avas turn- 
 ing to the tavern to get a glass of Avine for her, 
 Avhcn she clung to me once more with, “Oh! 
 sir, don’t leave me. What has become of my 
 sister?” 
 
 “Your sister?” said I, fairly taken by surprise. 
 Did she mean that terrible Avoman ? But here 
 the sharp loud scream came up the street. 
 
 “Oh! she is in a fit — she is killed!” cried 
 the poor little girl, still holding fast. I ran Avith 
 her to the spot from whence the scream pro- 
 ceeded, and there, half sitting, half lying on a 
 door-step, Avith a crowd rapidly gathering round 
 from the neighboring houses and lanes, and 
 evidently in a convulsive fit, we found the elder 
 Avoman. The Danes had rushed by her Avith- 
 out molesting her. “But Sally always takes 
 such fits Avhen she is frightened. Oh ! how will 
 Ave get home? what shall Ido?” and the young 
 girl began to Avring her hands and cry, while she 
 still clung to my side. 
 
 “ Don’t be afraid,” said I, draAving the small 
 rounded arm close into mine. What man Avould 
 not have done so in like circumstances? 
 
 With the help of some of the gathering crowd 
 I got the Avoman lifted from the door-step, called 
 a coach, had her placed in it,, handed in the 
 pretty girl, Avho begged me not to leave them, 
 and said their lodgings Avere in Charles Street 
 — second floor. Of course I did not leave tA\’o 
 women in such distress, but went home with 
 them to Charles Street, and' helped to get the 
 elder sister up stairs and laid on her bed. The 
 convulsions had ceased by this time, and she 
 lay Avithout motion or consciousness ; but Avhen 
 I offered to run for a doctor, the younger sister, 
 Avho recovered her composure Avonderfully now 
 that they were safe at home, assured me there 
 Avas no call for one. Sally always took such 
 fits Avhen she Avas frightened or surprised, but 
 she would soon come round. The best thing 
 was to let her lie still ; doctors did her no good. 
 They had tried a score of the greatest men in 
 Dublin. “But, oh, sir, we will never forget 
 your kindness — never, never,” and she wiped 
 her large blue eyes and looked me in the face. 
 
 “I did nothing but Avhnt any man ought to 
 
18 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 have done and been happy to do, ” said I. “ But 
 shouldn’t you have a nurse or a doctor? Have 
 you any friends whom I could send to you?” 
 
 “No, sir, we are strangers here; but my 
 brother Jeremy will soon be in, and there is no 
 use in getting doctors for Sally.” 
 
 “Your brother Jeremy!” said I; “is your 
 name Joyce ?” Notwithstanding the pretty face 
 and the fashionable pelisse, there was that in the 
 girl’s manner which made me free and easy as 
 with one’s inferior. Her speech was not that 
 of a gentlewoman, neither was her air ; and, in- 
 dependent of the elder sister’s peculiarities, the 
 rooms to which I accompanied them, though 
 well enough furnished for a second floor, seemed 
 in a chronic state of dust and disorder. Be- 
 sides, she had a kind of resemblance to my 
 uncle’s new clerk ; and when she said, with a 
 smile and a blush, “Yes, sir, that is our name, 
 and I think I know yours — are you not Mr. 
 O’Neil, the great merchant’s nephew?” 
 
 I responded, “I am, Miss Joyce.” We were 
 growing very familiar; but the girl had looked 
 at me so archly, I pulled forward one of the 
 dusty chairs, and sat down almost by her side. 
 
 “ Oh ! I thought so,” she said, half hiding be- 
 hind the window-curtain; “Jeremy told us so 
 much about you. Was it not wonderful we 
 should meet and be frightened by those horrid 
 sailors ? I hope Sally will soon wake up. It is 
 dreadful to sit here alone ; but I have to sit so 
 many an evening.” 
 
 “Shall I tell the landlady to come up?” 
 There was something that inwardly warned me 
 to say so at that moment, and get home as soon 
 as I could. 
 
 “Oh no,” said Miss Joyce, “not for the 
 world. She is so old and cross.” 
 
 I couldn’t go just then, and I shook the warn- 
 ing off my mind. It was no harm to sit with a 
 pretty girl in such trying circumstances, so we 
 sat and talked. She told me about her brother 
 Jeremy, what a dear good brother he was, and 
 their only support ; how they had lived in Dub- 
 lin, and had been very happy while father and he 
 were in Palivez’ bank ; but they did not save 
 much — only just a little fortune for her. Jere- 
 my had put it away in some American bank till 
 she was married, and she did not know when 
 that would happen — perhaps never. She didn’t 
 see any body she liked yet. There was a cap- 
 tain who paid her attentions in Dublin, but they 
 had to go away when the bank was removed ; 
 and Sally and Jeremy would go to America, be- 
 cause Madame advised them. She didn’t like 
 that Madame Palivez. No doubt I did my part 
 in the conversation, and took the opportunity to 
 say some acceptable things as to the certainty 
 of her getting married, the captain showing his 
 good taste, and my own satisfaction with Sally 
 and Jeremy for bringing her to Baltimore. But 
 just as I was repeating that statement for the 
 third time, and she declaring that men did noth- 
 ing but fib and flatter, there came a shrill shout 
 from the adjoining room of “ Who are you gig- 
 gling with there, Rosanna?” 
 
 The elder sister had evidently woke up. Ro- 
 sanna flew in, and shut the door so tightly that 
 I could hear nothing but a querulous whisper ; 
 but in a minute or two she came out looking 
 very red, and saying, “Sally sent her compli- 
 ments; she would never forget my uncommon 
 kindness. If Jeremy was at home he would 
 thank me too ; she didn’t know what kept him, 
 but it was growing very late.” 
 
 I took the hint to take my departure, with 
 many assurances that I had done nothing, and 
 a kind shake-hands with Rosanna. How soft 
 and fair her hand was, and how it seemed to 
 rest in mine ! With a second leave-taking at 
 the top of the stairs, and a declaration that Sal- 
 ly would be very glad to see me when she was 
 well enough and could sit by, I went home to 
 my uncle’s boarding-house. 
 
 How dull and frowsy the evening papers, the 
 glasses of hot rum and water, and the company 
 of old bachelor merchants looked ! The disor- 
 derly second floor, the queer, sharp-faced, sharp- 
 tongued elder sister were not inviting objects ; 
 but the pretty face and figure of little Rosanna 
 — the girl who had sought my protection, and 
 clung to me in her terror ; who blushed and 
 smiled when I spoke ; who talked, it seemed, so 
 artlessly, and had so much to be sympathized 
 with — had opened one of those windows of life 
 which looked into the fresh green world of 
 youthful fancy and feeling for me, and I could 
 neither shut nor turn my eyes away from ii. In 
 the counting-house and at the ledger, among 
 the evening papers, in the midst of my uncle’s 
 dry chat, I was thinking of the second floor in 
 Charles Street. 
 
 Jeremy became an object of great interest to 
 me now, though he could tell nothing about the 
 Palivez. The poor fellow thanked me with 
 most sincere-looking gratitude for my kindness 
 to his sisters. Sally was troubled with fits, and 
 a little peculiar ; but she had been a mother to 
 him and to Rosanna, and she would be delight- 
 ed to see and thank me any time I took the 
 trouble to call at their poor place. No wonder 
 he looked cowed and subjugated under the 
 bringing-up of such a monitress; and, by a few 
 judicious questions, I also learned from him 
 that Sally was their step-sister, the only child 
 of his father’s first marriage, and the head of 
 the house from her youth. “For you see,” 
 said Jeremy, “our mother was an easy-going 
 woman, and died early.” 
 
 I thought it but common civility to call and 
 give Sally an opportunity of working off her 
 gratitude one evening in the following week. 
 Rosanna was sewing at the window, with her 
 hair in papers; but she saw me, and ran to 
 open the street door. Sally was there, in the 
 same old gown, with a cap to match, but look- 
 ing a great deal more composed than she had 
 looked in Wharf Street ; and, in spite of the 
 shabby attire, and dusty, littered room, there 
 was a strong appearance of the broken-down 
 gentlewoman about her manner, and even in 
 the profuse acknowledgments she made me for 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 19 
 
 the trouble I had taken. She was sensible of 
 my kindness, and very sorry for giving so much 
 annoyance with her unfortunate nerves, but they 
 had been shaken by severe and early trials, and 
 she rarely went out on that account. 
 
 We talked for some time in a similar strain, 
 I depreciating my services, she exalting them 
 to the very skies. We were both from Ireland ; 
 but Miss Joyce had somehow got higher breed- 
 ing than her younger brother and sister, and in 
 the course of our conversation she gave me to 
 understand, by a few judicious hints, that her 
 mother had been a lady, who lost caste by mar- 
 rying the Palivez clerk. 
 
 At this point, Rosanna, who had disappeared 
 for some minutes, returned with her curls in full 
 array, and a better dress on. That was done 
 for my reception, and the girl seemed half con- 
 scious that I knew it. It was a dull life for one 
 so young and pretty to lead with that queer, ex- 
 citable elder sister, in a second floor in a strange 
 town. They had no friends, no acquaintances ; 
 Jeremy was out at his clerkship all day ; Sally 
 rarely left the house on account of her nerves, 
 and she did not think it proper for her sister to 
 go out alone. They took in plain sewing just 
 to employ their time ; not that it was necessary 
 to them — they had saved something in Dublin 
 — but work kept people out of mischief. Sally 
 told me all that, with a long sigh at the end of 
 it, and Rosanna looked down sorrowfully at her 
 sewing. In a few minutes I got up to her side ; 
 it was to see a remarkable bird in a cage at the 
 opposite window, and there I sat talking with 
 the two sisters about the difference between 
 America and the old country we had left. They 
 knew me now to be Mr. La Touche ; perhaps 
 they knew the worst part of my family history 
 — the Palivez and all their establishment had 
 been inquired at in the search for Raymond — 
 and I enlightened them on my mercantile pros- 
 pects, and my determination to remain and be 
 my uncle’s heir and successor in Baltimore. 
 Sally did the most of th# responding, while she 
 sewed on ; Rosanna listened and made believe 
 to sew till the daylight left us — there is little 
 twilight in those Western skies, but I sat with 
 them till Jeremy came in. Poor fellow! he 
 seemed overwhelmed with the honor of my visit. 
 I was earnestly entreated to come back and see 
 them by the tongue of the one sister and the 
 eyes of the other, and went home feeling that 
 life had a pole-star for me to steer by, and its 
 place was the second floor in Charles Street. 
 
 What need of telling all the particulars at full 
 length ? I went back to see them evening after 
 evening : at first it was once, then twice, theft 
 three times a week. I was pressed to stay for 
 tea, and I staid ; the rooms grew less dusty, less 
 littered to my eyes. Sally seemed less disturbed, 
 Jeremy less overruled ; if Rosanna’s hair hap- 
 pened to be in papers, and her soiled dress on, 
 those disadvantages were speedily removed at 
 my advent. It was far pleasanter there than 
 among the evening papers and the steaming 
 pu»ch. Odd as the family seemed to be, they 
 
 were all Irish, and could laugh and make mer- 
 ry ; at times, even Sally did her share in telling 
 old Dublin anecdotes and doings which she re- 
 membered when the Duke of Leinster was lord 
 lieutenant. I have said that she was singularly 
 genteel compared with the brother and sister : 
 her presiding at the tea-table reminded me of my 
 own mother, unlike as they were ; and though 
 the Joyces were not particular in matters of do- 
 mestic order, they had evidently larger means 
 than one could have expected from the brother’s 
 position. I need not say that my chief attrac- 
 tion to their society was neither Jeremy nor his 
 elder sister. I don’t think it was altogether 
 Rosanna’s pretty face ; but there was a dancing 
 light in her blue eyes which told of joy and 
 gladness at my coming — there was the ever- 
 changing color and the irrepressible smile an- 
 swering to all my words and looks. The girl 
 loved me — I got convinced of that ; maybe it 
 was easily done ; but no glance, no word of af- 
 fection had reached me since I came a stranger 
 to Baltimore in my seventh year. Melrose Mor- 
 ton had been kind to my desolate childhood, 
 and we were friends still ; but the difference of 
 our characters, more than that of years, made 
 it an unequal friendship, like that between the 
 man and the boy. Besides, he had his home 
 and his mother, his love of study, and a natural 
 reserve which I could never break through. 
 
 Here was a young, artless, beautiful girl, as 
 lonely as myself — rather worse situated, for she 
 was a woman — and turning to me with all the 
 unchilled, unmixed affection of her nature. I 
 had a heart to give away in those days, one 
 which nobody had claimed or valued till she 
 came in my way. Was it strange that I took 
 to the second floor, that I became the family 
 friend, that I paid marked attentions, that I 
 asked and obtained leave to take Rosanna out 
 for walks, to lectures, to theatres, to concerts 
 that came off in the evening — for I had no 
 other time ? In looking back now, it becomes 
 visible to me that the younger sister and I were 
 a good deal left together; that frequent hints 
 of exalted relationship and high expectations 
 were given ; that there was no expense spared 
 in dress and other provisions for my coming; 
 but, at the time, the frank innocence of Rosan- 
 na’s talk, her utter ignorance of the world, her 
 evident trust in me, and simple delight in every 
 amusement I found for her, charmed me as I 
 had never been charmed before. It was true 
 that she could scarcely read, and wrote very 
 badly; that she spoke in defiance of all gram- 
 mar, and had to be told about proprieties of 
 table by her superintending sister ; but she 
 pleased me to the heart, as the old song has it, 
 and I had great dreams of making her a lady. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 melrose morton’s advice. 
 
 As a thunder-cloud comes over the summer 
 sky, those dreams were crossed at times by the 
 
20 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 f 
 
 thought of what my uncle would say on the sub- 
 ject if it came to his knowledge. To expect that 
 he would countenance, or even tolerate, such a 
 connection for his intended heir and successor 
 was beyond the force of my imagination ; yet 
 on that heir and successorship the castle of my 
 hope was built. Thereby our family status was 
 to be regained, my sister was to be rescued from 
 , the lonely farm-house, my once kindly but now 
 terrible grand-aunt was to be set aside and pro- 
 vided for, and the transmutation of Rosanna 
 into a gentlewoman was to be effected. I knew 
 myself to be acting unw’isely from the begin- 
 ning ; the two schemes were inconsistent, and 
 could never be made to harmonize. Many an 
 endeavor I made to break the spell — perhaps 
 they w r ere not made soon enough — but the soft 
 blue eyes drew me on, and I was lonely in life. 
 My comings and goings to Charles Street were 
 managed with great circumspection, however ; 
 it was necessary to keep the affair from my un- 
 cle ; and, friends though we had been for many 
 a year, I felt a sort of necessity to keep it from 
 Melrose Morton too. He had always preached 
 prudence and worldly wisdom to me, as became 
 his seniority. He had known or guessed my 
 prospects in the heir and successor line from 
 my first coming to the grammar-school, and 
 that unexplained knowledge of myAmily secret 
 somehow helped to make me shy about con- 
 fiding the secret of my heart to him. He had 
 nothing of the kind himself, as far as I could 
 learn — no friends, scarcely an acquaintance but 
 me. Melrose led a student’s life, though it was 
 also that of a teacher ; but he had his home 
 and his mother, and I had nothing but the even- 
 ing papers and the dry chats. I kept my se- 
 cret from him ; but before the first year of go- 
 ing to Charles Street was out, Melrose knew it. 
 He had asked me to. accompany him to the Bal- 
 timore Theatre one Saturday evening ; it was 
 to see a new star from England — somebody who 
 was to eclipse Mrs. Siddons, but did not. I had 
 made a prospective apology to Rosanna for not 
 taking her. She had looked mortified, but said 
 she would coax Jeremy ; he was always kind, 
 only Sally had to go out with them ; and when 
 we had got ourselves squeezed into the crowded 
 gallery — Melrose would pay for no better seat 
 at a play — there they were in the pit below, and 
 so seated that I could not help seeing them. 
 Rosanna looked and smiled at me ; I had made 
 up my prudent mind not to know her, but it 
 seemed unmanly, and could not be done. 
 
 “*There is a pretty girl, Melrose !” I ex- 
 claimed, taking courage from my position 
 among the Baltimore mob ; but he had sur- 
 veyed the group before the words were spoken. 
 
 “ She is pretty,” he said ; “ the sister of your 
 uncle’s third clerk, I believe.” 
 
 “You know them, then?” 
 
 I felt my own color rising. 
 
 “I know who they are — a family of the name 
 of Joyce, from Dublin. What a singular-look- 
 ing womap that elder sister is! Not quite clear 
 in her mind, I should think. They' say her 
 
 mother was a Jewess, a daughter of old Reu- 
 bens, the noted morfey-lender ; and there was a 
 story concerning her and one of the Palivez, 
 the present Madame’s uncle ; he was the elder 
 brother and head of the house before her father, 
 and is gone this many a year ; but old Joyce 
 married the Jewess a considerable time before 
 his death. They said an annuity had been set- 
 tled on her and her children, and I can't im- 
 agine what has brought the family here.” 
 
 Melrose was trying to talk unconcernedly, 
 and retail the gossip he had heard ; but I knew 
 that every word was meant for my special ad- 
 monition — another oozing-out of his long-hid- 
 den knowledge of Dublin matters and my family 
 misfortunes. The name of Reubens, the Jew 
 and the money-lender, -with whom my father 
 had taken that fatal mortgage on the w r idow r ’s 
 houses, was graven on my memory. 1 knew 
 him to be long dead. There was also an ex- 
 planation of the Joyces’ expenditure — perhaps 
 of why Madame advised their emigration ; but 
 the story did not cling about Rosanna — her 
 mother was no Jewess. 
 
 “That must have been Joyce’s first wife,” 
 said I, gossiping in my turn ; “I understand he 
 had two, and neither the brother nor the youn- 
 ger sister appear to have Jewish blood in their 
 veins.” 
 
 “Oh yes, he married a second time; the 
 Jewess did not live long. He got no annuity 
 nor discreditable tale, that I am aware of, with 
 the second Mrs. Joyce. She was a clear-starch- 
 er’s daughter, and had a terrible time of it with 
 her step-child— that wonderful-looking woman, 
 who superintends the family still, I suppo^. 
 The young girl is pretty,” said Melrose, “but 
 it is with the beauty of the pet squirrel or the 
 lap-dog — there is no mind, no spirit in her face. 
 Whatever that girl is guided and led to be, she 
 will be, and nothing more ; if well guided, so 
 much the better for herself and all concerned 
 with her; but, Lucien, in a world like this there 
 are ten thousand charfces of her being led the 
 contrary way, particularly under her family cir- 
 cumstances ; and, let me tell you, those waxy 
 characters are much easier to send wrong than 
 set right.” 
 
 “You have been studying her, Melrose.” 
 
 I was endeavoring to sneer, for my wrath was 
 boiling up against his concealed censorship, and 
 in defense of my depreciated idol. 
 
 My looks must have told Melrose more than 
 I intended, for he made no reply, and the sub- 
 ject was tacitly dropped between us as the cur- 
 tain rose. The play proceeded, and the star 
 th one out. 
 
 In our subsequent meetings, no reference was 
 made to the Joyces by either party. I am not 
 sure that my visits to Charles Street did not be- 
 come more frequent, by way of convincing my- 
 self that Morton’s insinuations were groundless, 
 and Rosanna was the only woman I could ever 
 love. I had not clearly understood his drift in 
 those comments on her and her family ; the 
 tone of them had displeased me — they implied 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 21 
 
 knowledge of my movements, of all connected 
 with me and mine, and watch over the same, to 
 which Melrose had no right. The friendship 
 cooled on my side ; he took no measures to 
 warm it up, and latterly we rather avoided each 
 other, which our different avocations enabled us 
 to do without any visible rupture. 
 
 Almost another year had passed away. 
 Charles Street had become one of the institu- 
 tions of my life. I had ceased to wonder and 
 rejoice at my own dexterity in avoiding my un- 
 cle’s observation. Melrose, I well knew, would 
 never play the tale-bearer under or above board ; 
 and knowing the business was to be a long one, 
 and myself master of the situation, I managed 
 it with care and caution. There had been 
 small tiffs between Rosanna and me — little 
 suspicions, short-lived jealousies, accusations of 
 not caring for her, tears, protestations, vows, 
 reconciliations, and smiles again ; in short, all 
 the usual accompaniments of a prolonged and 
 hidden courtship ; and in the latest of our mak- 
 ings-up we contrived to get formally engaged. 
 
 It was the only way to quiet her jealous fears, 
 to assure my own conscience that I was acting 
 right by the girl, and to settle Sally’s mind, 
 which, by hints to myself, and by open attacks 
 on her younger -sister, had proved itself rather 
 disturbed of late on the subject of my intentions. 
 The engagement had been made in the usual 
 form, with exchange of vows and rings. I have 
 kept my part of the latter till this day. There 
 were locks of hair also given and taken ; and 
 the whole was transacted one sfimmer evening, 
 when we walked together in our accustomed 
 pjtth leading through the fields to North Point, 
 where they fought a battle since. The business 
 was done, and I regarded it as a new bond to 
 look after my prospects. My uncle was uncom- 
 monly busy that season ; he was getting into 
 the London as well as the Levantine trade, and 
 I was making myself more than commonly use- 
 ful. We had not a dry chat for some time ; but 
 when he sent a request -to see me in his pri- 
 vate room, I thought a particular one must be 
 intended. 
 
 0 . ‘-‘Sit down, Lucien,” said he r pointing to a 
 seat right opposite to him, and a table without 
 letter or paper on it stood between us. “You 
 have reached an age which takes a young man 
 out of guardianship, but I think it my right, as 
 well as my duty, to warn you that you are fol- 
 lowing a dangerous course with regard to my 
 clerk Jeremy Joyce’s sister; no man should 
 trust himself too far, and I could not overlook 
 such a crime as seduction.” 
 
 “Seduction, sir!” said I, all the honor and 
 conscience I had rising to the defense of my 
 own innocence. 
 
 “Yes,” said my uncle, coldly; “what else 
 would the world expect from your intimacy 
 with a girl in her position — I may say, of her 
 appearance ? what else will it infer, whether it 
 get proof or not? Remember that a woman’s 
 reputation may be equally destroyed by suspi- 
 cion as by positive evidence. Besides, Lucien, 
 
 what intentions have you in keeping the girl’s 
 company ?” 
 
 “ No evil ones, sir, I assure you.” 
 
 “Do you mean to marry her, then ?” 
 
 “I do — that is, in process of time, when I 
 have made my way in the world, and can main- 
 tain a wife.” 
 
 “You mean to marry the sister of my under 
 clerk, a girl without fortune, family, or educa- 
 tion.” My uncle spoke calmly, but with a cold 
 emphasis on every word, which roused all the 
 man in me. We were of the same blood ; I 
 looked him steadily in the face and answered, 
 
 “Yes, sir, I mean to marry Rosanna Joyce.” 
 
 “Well, every man has a right to choose for 
 himself in such matters/’ he said, with the same 
 business-like composure. “I think your resolu- 
 tion to provide for a home and a wife before 
 you incur such responsibilities both prudent and 
 praiseworthy. Of course it would be pleasant 
 to neither of us that you should remain here ; 
 when relations happen to differ in opinion on 
 personal questions, distance is always advisable ; 
 but it is fortunately in my powe* to offer you a 
 situation which may be acceptable under the cir- 
 cumstances. The business arrangements which 
 I have lately made with the Palivez in London 
 render it necessary for me to keep an agent resi- 
 dent in their establishment, and as you have 
 some experience, I shall be happy to give you 
 the appointment, should it meet your views.” 
 
 Being unprejudiced in his favor, I never could 
 decide whether my uncle’s morality arose from 
 principle, pride, or prudence ; but strictly moral 
 he was in precept and practice. I knew that 
 an offense against virtue, such as he had named, 
 would draw down his most signal displeasure. 
 I was also aware, though he had never said it, 
 that to marry a girl without family, fortune, or 
 education was in his eyes a crime of far deeper 
 dye ; yet his quiet and coolness on the occasion 
 fairly took me by surprise. He must have 
 made some discovery, either from Jeremy or 
 his own observation ; kept a silent watch on the 
 visits which I managed so dexterously, settled 
 the whole affair in his mind, and prepared him- 
 self for my final decision. However he did it, 
 the old gentleman was far better prepared than I. 
 An explosion of wrath would not have thrown 
 me half so far out of the game ; my heir and 
 successorship, the prospects on which I had been 
 congratulated, and, as it were, built up from my 
 first coming to the grammar-school, all shoved 
 quietly away from me with nothing like a dem- 
 onstration, and I left no alternative but to move 
 far away from Rosanna, or make public ac- 
 knowledgment of my altered position by look- 
 ing for a situation in Baltimore, which would 
 be somewhat difficult to find, as I had no knowl- 
 edge of any thing but my uncle’s peculiar line 
 of business. In the astonishment and confusion 
 of the moment, I could get out nothing but that 
 I would think of it. 
 
 “Make up your mind, then, before Saturday,” 
 said my uncle, looking as if he spoke of a ship- 
 ment of goods ; “ it is requisite to have the ap- 
 
22 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 pointment filled up at once ; my agent must be 
 ready to sail on the first of October ; you observe 
 this day is the second of September, and I forgot 
 to mention that the salary is a thousand dollars, 
 exclusive of expenses, and will be increased ac- 
 cording to duties and desert. Good-morning. 
 I will expect your decision on Saturday.” 
 
 I rose with a silent bow and left the private 
 room. 
 
 That day was Wednesday ; I had three days 
 to decide, arid not a month to prepare for a part- 
 ing with Rosanna, a voyage across the Atlantic, 
 a residence in a strange land, and a getting into 
 a new course of life. 
 
 Had my uncle contrived the whole only to 
 send me away from her and break up the con- 
 nection if time and absence could do it, or did 
 he really intend to cast me off and find another 
 heir? Eoolish pride and natural obstinacy 
 prompted me to stay and look for another sit- 
 uation, by way of spiting him and remaining 
 near Rosanna; but wiser resolutions came as I 
 thought over the matter : let my uncle intend 
 what he would, it was the more prudent, the 
 more manly course to accept the offered appoint- 
 ment, and prove myself worthy of the choice I 
 had made by working honestly and independ- 
 ently for it. 
 
 Early desolation and strangership had taught 
 me to be my own adviser. Melrose Morton 
 had lost caste with me since the observations he 
 made at the theatre ; yet the kindness he had 
 shown me, and the respect I had for him, ren- 
 dered a disclosure requisite. I told him all, in 
 a walk we took for the purpose up the river’s 
 bank, where we used to Avalk in school-time. 
 He listened without a word ; but there was a 
 look of painful memory or concern in his face, 
 like that of the day when he warned me not to 
 speak of my lost brother, and at the close he 
 said, “Lucien, are you really determined to mar- 
 ry the girl ? Is there any promise or engage- 
 ment between her and you ?” 
 
 I felt my own face growing very red — being 
 yet honest and not twenty-three — as I answer- 
 ed, “Yes, I am really determined; Rosanna is 
 the only woman I can ever love ; I believe she 
 loves me, and we are engaged.” 
 
 Melrose looked at me as if I had been an- 
 nouncing my determination to sail in a con- 
 demned ship, but said, with his accustomed kind- 
 ness, “ Well, it is a very good chance, this of- 
 fer of your uncle: his agency in London may 
 be a valuable situation in the course of time, 
 and make you independent of him and every 
 body else. Absence, they say, is the strongest 
 test of affection ; you will see more of the world, 
 and Rosanna will grow older and wiser as well 
 as yourself.” 
 
 The rest of his talk was in the same strain, 
 kindly, sensible, and encouraging, as I always 
 found it, except on that night at the play ; it 
 confirmed my resolution to decide in the affirm- 
 ative, and on Friday morning that fact was com- 
 municated to my uncle with the best grace I 
 could assume. 
 
 “Very well, ’’said he, without looking up from 
 the prices current; “you will be ready to sail 
 on the first of October with the ‘ Franklin, ’ a 
 capital vessel, I understand.” 
 
 The last part of the settlement was telling 
 it to Rosanna. I never looked to her for coun- 
 sel or assistance in any difficulty, and I dreaded 
 the consequences of the disclosure too much to 
 enter on it hastily. When all was arranged 
 and I must go, I told her the true state of the 
 case ; how I had lost my uncle’s favor, and prob- 
 ably would, never be his heir, but should remain 
 faithful and constant to her in spite of time and 
 distance ; should work and save to get a com- 
 fortable house for her in London, and come 
 some day to marry and take her home to it. 
 
 It was a sore trial to see my poor girl’s grief 
 — how she wept, and clung to me, and cried 
 what would become of her when I w r as gone. I 
 got her soothed at last ; we exchanged vows 
 once more, promised never to forget, and al- 
 ways write to each other : I did the most of the 
 promising, for she was jealous of the London 
 ladies, and my thinking small of her when I 
 saw their finery and riches. That happened in 
 our meeting-place under the Sheltering maples 
 in Grove Lane ; but there w T as a far more noisy 
 scene at home on my next visit, when Sally 
 worked herself into a fit, with the certainty that 
 men were all deceivers ; that I was going away 
 to get off with my engagement ; that her sis- 
 ter’s heart would be broken, and their family 
 disgraced before all Baltimore. She, too, was 
 quieted at last, but not till our engagement was 
 solemnly renewed in her presence. She had 
 required either an immediate wedding or a di- 
 rect breaking off; but the impropriety of the 
 first being proved to her, and the second being 
 utterly refused, we got her settled on the renew- 
 al, with the help of brother Jeremy. 
 
 There were similar demonstrations, but of 
 less intensity, under the maples and in the sec- 
 ond floor ; they passed, however, Avith the days; 
 
 I made my preparations, strong in hope and in 
 the faith of that first love. It was hard to part 
 with Rosanna ; but I was going to do a man’s 
 duty, and fill a man’s place in the Avorld — to be% 
 no longer a dependent^and a waiter on an old 
 man’s will. Let me acknowledge it was no 
 hardship to leave her elder sister behind me, 
 yet my own tears fell fast when I clasped the 
 weeping girl to my heart for the last time, un- 
 der the green maple ; we had chosen to part in 
 that trysting-spot, in the soft summer evening, 
 and she sobbed out, “Lucien, dear Lucien, 
 don’t forsake me for one of the fine London la- 
 dies.” 
 
 Melrose Morton would see me on board the 
 “Franklin.” My uncle had bid me good-by 
 before he went to his counting-house that morn- 
 ing, and hoped I would have a pleasant voyage. 
 
 It proved to be a long one, even for that period, 
 but I do not intend to relate its incidents. Ad- 
 ventures there were none ; but we were out 
 nearly three months, being detained by eon- 
 I trarv winds, and I arrived safe in London, with 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 23 
 
 letters of introduction to the house of Palivez, 
 and full powers of agency, but too late to enter 
 on business till the festival was over, so it hap- 
 pened that I sat in the corner of the coffee-room, 
 and heard my own family’s woeful history told 
 to a stranger that Ghristmas-day. 
 
 When I could think over it no more, and aft- 
 ernoon customers began to drop in — they were 
 mostly Russians or Eastern men who frequented 
 that old-fashioned coffee-house — when the fog 
 deepened into that early night which falls upon 
 London in its great pudding- time, I rose and 
 retired to the family hotel in Finsbury Place, 
 
 my good hope of getting on in London, and my 
 unchanging memory of her, in spite of my un- 
 cle’s disfavor and the parting sea. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BANKER-LADY. 
 
 Old Broad Street, where so much Eastern 
 business is still done, and Greek names may be 
 read on every door, as they have been since 
 Elizabeth’s time, looked much the same when I 
 
 We had chosen to part in that trysting-spot. 
 
 which my uncle had assigned for my rest, be- 
 cause it was kept bv a correspondent of the 
 Quaker lady in Baltimore. There I had my 
 solitary Christmas dinner, and wrote a long let- 
 ter to Rosanna, to assure her of my safe arrival, 
 
 pulled the porter’s bell at a building which then 
 stood opposite Gresham House, and was known 
 to all City men as Palivez’ Bank. The prem- 
 ises have been taken down and remodeled so 
 I that their former occupants would not recognize 
 
24 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 them ; hut at the time of my story, though pre- 
 senting an English front with bank office and 
 chambers properly windowed to the public of 
 Old Broad Street, the central and rearward parts 
 remained much as they had been constructed by 
 the original owner, a wealthy Jew, who had the 
 good fortune to remove from Granada in the 
 days of Philip the Second, while the edict of 
 banishment against all his race was yet brew- 
 ing in the mind of the Catholic king and his 
 priestly advisers. That Jew’s family were long 
 extinct in England. Great firms, chiefly in the 
 Eastern trade, had successively occupied his 
 house, lived and done business there, as East- 
 ern firms are apt to do till the present day. 
 
 There was a saying in the City that nobody 
 had ever lost money or reared children within 
 its walls ; the successive firms had died out or 
 removed to their native lands in wealth and age, 
 and now it was tenanted by the last of the Pali- 
 vez, one of the wealthiest spinsters in Europe, 
 and highly reputed among mercantile men for 
 abilities to hold her own, and increase the rich- 
 es and honors of the heirless house. My uncle 
 had sent two letters of introduction with me by 
 way of credentials ; one was addressed to Sam- 
 uel Esthers, Esq., the ostensible manager, and 
 the other to Madame Palivez herself. 
 
 His commands to deliver it first had been 
 stringent. I had also received strict orders to 
 get to business as soon as possible ; so I rang 
 the porter’s bell at the private door on the morn- 
 ing after Christinas, and was admitted by a 
 gray-haired man with a decidedly Greek face, 
 clad in a sort of tunic girt round the waist with 
 a shawl of many colors, and loose pantaloons 
 which were never made in England. To him 
 I presented my card and the letter of introduc- 
 tion to Madame. He took them without a 
 word, touched a bell which rang far away in 
 the interior, and another servant immediately 
 appeared, who, with an Eastern bow, but also in 
 profound silence, opened a door at one side of 
 the wide passage — by-the-by, it was beautifully 
 painted and paved with black and white marble 
 — and showed me into a waiting-room fitted up 
 in the best style of old-fashioned comfort and 
 elegance. There I sat beside the bright fire, 
 looked at some half dozen portraits on the walls 
 — they were full-length, and evidently family 
 pictures, for all had the same cast of features, 
 every one Greek, but of the strongest and stern- 
 est type — that Hercules might have looked when 
 preparing for his twelve labors, for there was 
 something of desperate resolution against un- 
 friendly stars in all their looks ; they appeared 
 to have been taken at middle life, and their 
 semi -Eastern costumes belonged to different 
 ages, but the great preponderance of fur proved 
 that they had been dwellers in the North. I 
 had made these observations when the servant 
 returned. “ Madame Palivez will see the sig- 
 nor,” he said, in a foreign accent. Let me ob- 
 serve that his attire was still more Oriental than 
 that of the porter; he wore a purple tunic and 
 a broad amber sash. I rose and followed him 
 
 through the passage across a central court roofed 
 with glass. There were parterres of beautiful 
 flowers, a marble fountain in the middle, and 
 many windows looking into it ; a broad marble 
 stair with a gilt banister led to the first floor; 
 folding doors, half of painted glass, opened on a 
 lofty hall hung round with portraits similar to 
 those in the waiting-room, but far more numer- 
 ous, and some ladies among them. 
 
 Its mosaic pavement and walls painted in 
 arabesque, the deep silence which seemed to 
 reign throughout the mansion, and the ante- 
 room, all hung with old Byzantine tapestry, into 
 which my guide conducted me, had a new and 
 strange effect on my fancy, which was rather 
 heightened when he«drew aside one of the mass- 
 ive curtains, and ushered me through a carved 
 and gilt archway into a large apartment with 
 high ivindows of stained glass opening into a 
 conservatory, from which I caught the odor of 
 exotic flowers; the walls and ceiling richly paint- 
 ed with scenes from Eastern lands ; the floor 
 covered with Turkish carpeting, a l^ght wood 
 fire burning on a marble hearth ; the furniture 
 composed of large sofas, small tables, bookcases, 
 mirrors, and immense vases filled with flowers. 
 Almost in the centre, on a sofa nearly opposite 
 the fire and full in the window -light, with a 
 richly-carved writing-table before her, there sat 
 a lady dressed in a gown or ] e'isse of purple 
 velvet, closely -fitting and ornamented with gold 
 buttons; hair arranged in long braided bands 
 looped up with gold pins, and a net of the same 
 shining thread. I know not what her age might 
 have been ; she was not young, she Avas not old. 
 The jet-black hair shone without a touch of 
 gray ; the full dark eyes' — I could never settle 
 whether they were black or brown — had a live- 
 ly brightness like that of early youth ; there aa as 
 n’ot a wrinkle, not a trace of Time’s raven foot- 
 steps on the straight open broAv and smooth 
 cheek. She might have been called a fair bru- 
 nette, if such terms can go together, her com- 
 plexion Avas so clearly broAvn. Her features 
 Avere finely chiseled as those of an antique stat- 
 ue, and of the true Grecian mould, without an- 
 gle or depression. Her figure Avas round and 
 full, Avith sloping shoulders and Avell- propor- 
 tioned Avaist, like those of the classic Venus. 
 There was more of the matron than the maid 
 about it, nothing heavy or large. When she 
 rose and bent to me, I saAv that her height Avas 
 about middle size, and there Avas a native grace 
 in all her motions. 
 
 “Good-morning, Mr. La Touche; please to 
 take a seat,” she said, motioning me to a sofa 
 near her OAvn. The voice was feminine and 
 sweet, but there Avas a firm tone in it, and the 
 accent sounded slightly foreign. “Iam obliged 
 to your uncle, Mr. O'Neil, for affording me the 
 pleasure of an introduction. He is an old and 
 valued acquaintance of our house, and I trust 
 you will make yourself at home here.” 
 
 I made my best acknoAvledgments. She in- 
 quired kindly after my uncle’s health ; ex- 
 pressed her great esteem for him, though she 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 25 
 
 had only seen Mr. O’Neil once, and that was 
 many years ago, when* business brought him to 
 Dublin. As far as her memory served, she 
 thought I resembled him, but slightly. My own 
 recollection and the opposite mirror both as- 
 sured me of the fact. I did not resemble my 
 uncle much, and, as the Americans say, did not 
 want to, though he evidently stood on high 
 ground with Madame Palivez. From Mr. O’Neil 
 
 attained evidently known to her. Yet, while 
 she talked so easily and kindly, the lady was 
 taking my measure. I could not say what 
 made me aware of it; she did not scrutinize 
 me, she did not ask me questions ; on the con- 
 trary, she looked and spoke as if we had known 
 each other for years ; yet there was no intima- 
 cy, no partiality in her manner. It was friend- 
 ly, but that of a superior ; not patronizing, not 
 
 Madame Palivez will see the signor. 
 
 the lady passed to his business and Baltimore 
 trade in general, and I will confess never to have 
 been more astonished in my life than I was at 
 her intimate knowledge of the whole matter. 
 
 Had Madame been clerking in my uncle’s 
 counting-house instead of me, she could not 
 have been better acquainted with the transac- i 
 tions of the firm ; indeed, there were some se- 
 crets of my uncle’s policy to which I had never | 
 
 condescending, but something which I had nev- 
 er met before in man or woman, and on which 
 I could never presume. Yet she was taking 
 notes of me, person and mind. It might have 
 been her business-like habit with all men ; but 
 the impression made me confused, and I fear 
 foolish. 
 
 “Your uncle,” she said at length, “mentions 
 that his agency will admit of your taking a 
 
26 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 clerkship here. Our manager, Mr. Esthers — you 
 have brought an introduction to him, I believe 
 — requires an English clerk just now. Should 
 the situation suit you, its duties are not very la- 
 borious ; they will allow you time to transact 
 your uncle’s business; the remuneration may 
 be of use to you, and our clerks generally board 
 on the premises.” 
 
 There was the cause of my being surveyed 
 and canvassed. The Palivez always kept a na- 
 tive clerk, and I was appointed to fill the posi- 
 tion which Jeremy Joyce had occupied in their 
 Dublin establishment. My uncle had told me 
 nothing bf that. It did not consist with Mr. 
 O’Neil’s policy that his discarded nephew should 
 know he was making such interest for him ; but, 
 as Madame had remarked, the remuneration 
 would be of use to me. Board op the premises 
 was something to a man without friends or a 
 home in London, and I gathered sufficient com- 
 posure to say I should be happy to accept the 
 situation, and discharge its duties to the best of 
 my abilities. s 
 
 “No doubt,” said Madame, “you will give 
 our manager every satisfaction. Mr. Esthers is 
 an experienced man of business; punctual and 
 regular himself, he expects similar conduct from 
 all his assistants ; but 1 am sure you have had 
 such excellent training'in Mr. O’Neil’s office as 
 will make you an acquisition to his, and I be- 
 lieve you will find him kind and considerate. 
 Our place of business is in the front, opening on 
 Old Broad Street. This side of the house is 
 my private residence; but you will easily see 
 the bank entrance, and the porter will show you 
 our manager’s room.” 
 
 I was expected to go ; Madame had seen 
 enough of me ; so I rose and took my leave in 
 some haste and some confusion. She rang a 
 bell hard by her sofa ; the same silent servant 
 appeared, conducted me back to the porter’s do- 
 main, the door was noiselessly opened at my ap- 
 proach, and I found myself again in Old Broad 
 Street. 
 
 One ordeal was passed, but there tvas another 
 to get through. The letter of introduction to 
 Samuel Esthers, Esq., still in my pocket, was 
 probably addressed to the very man I had seen 
 in the Greek Coffee-house, hearing the details of 
 my family misfortune from Watt Wilson. Well, 
 many must have heard it besides him, and the 
 letter must be presented ; the clerkship and the 
 agency put together w'ould give good returns, 
 and enable me to marry Rosanna. Strange that 
 I should have come across the Atlantic to fill 
 her brother’s place, and serve the Madame Pali- 
 vez she did not like ! 
 
 It seemed to me that I did not like the wom- 
 an either, as I walked a little way along the 
 pavement to reassure myself and collect my 
 thoughts. 
 
 She had received me courteously, even kind- 
 ly, considering the difference of our positions, 
 yet I felt relieved to get fairly out of her pres- 
 ence. The silent, half Oriental magnificence 
 which surrounded her in those out-of-:he-world 
 
 back rooms — it was somehow impossible to call 
 them that, but who could have imagined they 
 were in the heart of London ? — her singular 
 beauty, her unascertainable age, beyond my own 
 so far, yet not to be thought old ; her knowl- 
 edge of business — it seemed complete mastery 
 j of it— so extraordinary in a woman ; her man- 
 I ner of speech, somewhat antiquated, somewhat 
 scholarly ; her foreign accent, her queenly air 
 — all had made an impression upon me which I 
 could neither shake off nor reconcile myself to. 
 
 The bank entrance was easily seen — it was 
 right in front, while the private door of that 
 great house opened at the corner ; and no 
 greater contrast could have been found in all 
 the world than the place of business presented 
 to the private residence. The former was en- 
 tirely after the London fashion, but newer, 
 larger, and better furnished than private bank- 
 ing establishments were wont to be in those 
 days. The porter showed me the manager’s 
 office, a very comfortable business room, where 
 I waited a few minutes, and took a general sur- 
 vey, till, according to my expectation, in stepped 
 the very man to whom Wilson had told our sto- 
 ry in the coffee-house. Of course we were per- 
 fect strangers, yet I thought he recognized me 
 after the same manner as I did him. I was 
 received civilly, requested to take a seat, and 
 when lie had read my uncle’s letter, which did 
 not occupy him long, Mr. Esthers formally shook 
 hands with me, and said he was happy to see 
 Mr. O’Neil’s nephew. He supposed I under- 
 stood the business well, and would be inclined 
 to take a clerkship in the bank ; my uncle’s 
 agency could not occupy all my time, and any 
 active man could fill the two situations. I de- 
 clared my willingness, on which Mr. Esthers en- 
 tered into particulars. The salary was' one 
 hundred, with board on the premises, but it 
 might be increased. The English clerk worked 
 in his office, himself had a private room of 
 course ; the business hours were from ten till 
 five, but sometimes extra work required extra 
 time. I was aware of that, no doubt from ex- 
 perience in my uncle’s counting-house. Mr. 
 O’Neil was a superior man of business, and he 
 had a great respect for him. The manager 
 talked of “our house” exactly as Madame had 
 clone, but his glory in it appeared to be far 
 greater. His civility to me and his esteem for 
 I my uncle were equally made manifest, but Mr. 
 Esthers patronized us both. He took as much 
 I note of me as his lady-superior did, but it was 
 | taken with keen, scrutinizing looks and probing 
 questions. Did I like business? Did I prefer 
 America or England? How could my uncle 
 spare me? Had he got an assistant in my 
 room ? Had I any acquaintances in London ? 
 And should I go to Ireland in the holidays to 
 visit my relations ? Nobody in their bank got 
 any but three weeks, given some time after St. 
 John’s Day, according as he could spare them. 
 
 Having satisfied the mighty manager’s curi- 
 osity on those subjects, and a good many more 
 bordering on my uncle’s transactions and my 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 27 
 
 own agency, I concluded the interview by agree- 
 ing to all his terms of work and salary, getting 
 three days to see the sights of London and in- 
 troduce myself to my uncle’s brokers. Mr. 
 Esthers gave me hints of their sharpness, and 
 the difficulties I would find in dealing with 
 London people' generally, and wished me a very 
 good morning. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 LUCIES AND MR. ESTHERS. 
 
 I saw the sights, and also the brokers. The 
 latter consisted of two Greeks and one Ameri- 
 can, none of them a whit less sharp than I had 
 been admonished to expect, but indispensable 
 to my uncle. The Levantine merchants with 
 whom he dealt were in the habit of paying him 
 in kind, a practice not uncommon yet in that 
 line of trade. The raw silk, dry fruit, and Tur- 
 key leather which they sent in exchange for his 
 tobacco and other American wares, could be fre- 
 quently sold to better advantage in London than 
 in Baltimore. It was the brokers’ business to 
 manage such transactions ; but my uncle never 
 trusted any body entirely, and entire confidence 
 in those gentlemen might not have been the 
 most prudent course. Some one on the spot 
 to look after his interest, and act as a counter- 
 check, was requisite. Hence my agency, sup- 
 plemented by the clerkship in Palivez’ bank, 
 which also took and kept me away from Ro- 
 sanna. I felt convinced that every thing had 
 been arranged chiefly for that purpose ; but our 
 persecutors — in which category I now reckoned 
 the entire house in Old Broad Street, Madame 
 and her manager included — should see that ourS 
 true love Avould stand the test of time and sep- 
 ai’ation. For her sake I would accept the posi- 
 tion as the best attainable for the present, and 
 be on the look-out for something better and 
 more independent of my uncle and his friends. 
 
 I wrote a great deal to her on that subject. 
 There was a long letter penned every evening 
 for some time, and sent en masse, regardless of 
 the heavy postage which then prevailed, by the 
 first packet. They unburdened my mind and 
 cheered my heart ; and the next American mail 
 brought me one from her, addressed by Jeremy, 
 very ill written and worse spelled, but full of 
 her sorrow for my absence, and warnings not to 
 forget her. 
 
 In the mean time, I entered on the combined 
 duties of agent and clerk, got into business on 
 the appointed morning by sending my trunk to 
 the bedroom assigned to me on the fourth floor 
 above the bank, making my appearance in Mr. 
 Esthers’ office just as the clock struck ten, and 
 signifying that I had come to be his most obe- 
 dient servant. 
 
 Under my uncle’s excellent training, as Ma- 
 dame called it — I never could get that woman’s 
 words out of my mind — habits of business had 
 become as second nature to me, and they are 
 
 much the same in bank or counting-house. I 
 found no difficulty in falling into the new track; 
 Mr. Esthers, though punctual and regular to an 
 extreme degree, was not a hard master; indeed, 
 but for a strong leaning he had to showing peo- 
 ple the worst side of every thing that concerned 
 themselves, and an appearance of secret over- 
 sight and more than requisite reticence, he was 
 easy and even agreeable to work under. From 
 my first coming he showed me a good deal of 
 civility, and very little of his superiority as man- 
 ager ; seemed rather inclined to take me into 
 confidence on the extent of the firm’s ti-ansac- 
 tions, and the heavy responsibility which con- 
 sequently rested on him ; gave me every in- 
 formation, every facility for my own part of the 
 work ; was disposed to chat with me familiarly 
 about City men and matters, on which he had 
 an immense stock of anecdotes and details not 
 generally known. Working in the same office, 
 and well inclined toward each other, Mr Esthers 
 and I could not fail to get tolerably intimate, 
 yet, as it had been with my uncle, so it was with 
 him, I could never feel at home. 
 
 The effect arose from different causes, for Est- 
 hers was a different man. Though some fifteen 
 years my senior, of far larger experience, and in 
 high authority, there was nothing about him to 
 inspire that awe and deference which the mer- 
 chant O’Neil, with his high-bred manner and 
 look of more than princely descent, which he 
 claimed, inspired even American citizens, and 
 kept my youth in fear. The Palivez’ manager 
 was in speech and bearing every inch a mer- 
 cantile clerk, and nothing mor6. Beyond bank 
 and business affairs, his education was extreme- 
 ly limited, except that he had considerable flu- 
 ency in the use of three languages — English, 
 Russiac, and modern Greek. I had no impres- 
 sion of his being my superior in any thing but 
 position; yet something about the man and his 
 ways warned me that there was a side of his 
 character I had not seen, and some circum- 
 stances confirmed me in that belief before we 
 had been long acquainted. 
 
 In the first place, I observed that while he 
 gave me hints at times very dim and distant, 
 but sufficient to let me knotv that he was aware 
 of my family’s peculiar history, Mr. Esthers nev- 
 er so much as mentioned Watt Wilson, with 
 whom he must have been on intimate terms, and 
 appeared to know nothing of Forbes, the banker, 
 whose name occasionally turned up in our busi- 
 ness transactions. Secondly, I found out by the 
 merest accident — by-the-by, it was a bit of a torn 
 letter which he had not completely burned — that 
 the manager was in close correspondence with 
 my uncle, and the fragmentary words I could 
 decipher made me suspect that he had the su- 
 pervision of my agency. Perhaps it was not to 
 be expected that the old gentleman in Baltimore 
 could confide in a nephew whose elder brother 
 had set him such an example of dishonor. At 
 how many points 'of my life would that ruinous 
 remembrance meet me ? It kept me solitary 
 and sober in the British capital, as it had done 
 
28 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 in the American town, and, notwithstanding the 
 change of place and scene, my surroundings 
 seemed to have taken the very same color. 
 
 The establishment in Old Broad Street was 
 not exactly like the Quaker lady’s hoarding- 
 house*, it consisted of six clerks besides myself 
 — two Russians, two Polish Jews, one Arme- 
 nian, and, strange to say, only one Greek. He 
 was the oldest man in the house, and next to 
 Esthers in power and trust. None of the rest 
 were young ; they had been long in the service 
 and could speak English, but all were reserved, 
 taciturn men. When they did converse it was 
 among themselves, in Russiac or modern Greek, 
 and generally in low, monotonous tones. The 
 Jews and the Russians sat apart at table — so 
 did the Armenian and the Greek; and each 
 race, exhibited the observances of their respect- 
 ive rituals as regarded viands and the disposal 
 of them. 
 
 Probably those differences helped to make 
 them an unsocial company, for such they were ; 
 none of them liked the manager, and he liked 
 none of them ; but that was to be guessed at, 
 not seen. I think they did not like me either ; 
 but Esthers informed me they never would like 
 an English clerk ; and I also learned from him, 
 though I can’t say he wished me to know it, 
 that his cherished ambition was to be thought 
 British born, and neither a Jew nor a foreigner. 
 
 The great house accommodated us all well, 
 and we had but the front of it — the ground floor 
 for business, the first for the manager’s private 
 apartments, and our dining and sitting rooms ; 
 above that, three floors of bedrooms — for every 
 clerk had one to himself — and all looking out 
 on Old Broad Street, for we had no back win- 
 dows; there a solid wall divided us from the 
 central court-yard, and prevented the possibility^ 
 of a peep at Madame’s private residence. The 
 Spanish Jew was said to have constructed that 
 mansion out of a nunnery which had occupied 
 the site, and fallen to ruin before the Reforma- 
 tion time. I know the sunk-flat was deep, but 
 apparently well furnished, and inhabited by the 
 housekeeper, with three domestic servants, all 
 discreet women, not young, and rather foreign- 
 looking. Madame Oniga, the matron in au- 
 thority, was a large, tall woman, about fifty, al- 
 ways clad in a gown of black cloth, and a velvet 
 cap trimmed with silver lace; she had a good 
 many silver rings on her fingers, a Greek cross 
 of the same metal, and a black rosary hung at 
 her left side; on the right they were balanced 
 by an immense bunch of keys, which rattled as 
 she moved about. Madame Oniga was a Rus- 
 sian born, and, I think, rather proud of the fact. 
 She had the half Tartar features of the race, 
 and that masculine look which Russian women 
 somehow acquire in advanced life. The woman 
 rarely spoke to any body above ground, whatev- 
 er she did in the sunk-flat. Our domestic af- 
 fairs were well regulated under her manage- 
 ment ; the cooking was considerable and vari- 
 ous, as four creeds had to be suited, and Mr. 
 Esthers would eat nothing but English dishes, 
 
 and I partly followed his example. I am not 
 sure how it came to my knowledge, but he was 
 no favorite with Madame Oniga any more than 
 with the clerks. They were almost equal sov- 
 ereigns, the one having charge of domestic, 
 and the other of business matters. To an out- 
 side observer, Mr. Esthers’ authority would have 
 seemed weighty and extensive ,* it was only 
 through being employed in the house that I 
 came to know the great amount of capital it 
 could command, and the important transactions 
 it had, not alone with commercial firms at home 
 and abroad, but also with princes and cabinets. 
 Its credits and its loans were beyond any thing 
 I had dreamt of ; its management was like clock- 
 work; and its information on mercantile affairs, 
 and all that bordered on the same, most accu- 
 rate, and sent through private channels, the 
 bearings of which I nqver knew. But over the 
 bank and over its managers — yea, over the 
 housekeeper, and over all arrangements public 
 and private — there was the invisible but con- 
 stant and personal superintendence of the lady 
 beyond the wall. She did not come often with- 
 in our view; at times we saw her passing to the 
 manager’s office, or taking a slight survey of the 
 premises, by way of making her presence public- 
 ly known. 
 
 On these progresses she deigned to notice me, 
 but not particularly. Madame Palivez knew 
 all her clerks, after the manner of a lady pro- 
 prietor and head of the house. Sometimes an 
 important client saw her on business in the 
 manager’s room. She did not appear often ; 
 but there was a passage and door of communi- 
 cation, always locked in the inside, and commu- 
 nicating at once with the corridor leading along 
 the side of the court-yard to her apartments, 
 and with a stair shut in by a fire-proof door, 
 and leading down to the vaults, which may have 
 belonged to the ancient nunnery, and now held 
 the archives and pledges kept by the house of 
 Palivez. Esthers told me there was among the 
 latter plate belonging to a Greek Emperor of 
 Constantinople, and jewels that had been worn 
 by the first Czarina of the Vasiliewilsch #hie ; 
 but he did not tell me what I very well knew 
 before a month’s residence in the estalflislmient, 
 namely, that he could not do and scarcely sav 
 any thing without consulting and being directed 
 by Madame. I believe he would have died 
 rather than acknowledge the fact, though every 
 soul about the house was perfectly aware of if? 
 Indeed, when I was yet a fresh man in his office, 
 he almost gave me to understand that the real 
 authority resided with him ; Madame was but 
 the nominal head, being only a woman, and not 
 competent for business ; but something in my 
 look, or in his own shrewd sense, must have 
 shown him that it would not do, for he never 
 returned to the subject, and spoke of his sover- 
 eign lady as seldom as possible. 
 
 Shrewd and sensible Esthers was beyond the 
 wont of cunning people, to which order the man- 
 ager emphatically belonged. Within the limits 
 of his knowledge and understanding, few could 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 29 
 
 have given better council. No knave but him- 1 
 self could have imposed on Esthers, but his life 
 labored under strange and discordant burdens. 
 
 I did not know their full weight then, but our 
 close association in work and living made one 
 thing evident to me. The commonplace, un- 
 derbred little man had in him a hidden hoard 
 of pride and ambition, sleepless and unquench- 
 able as the subterranean fires ; though not very 
 high -pitched, the summits to which they as- 
 pired were mercantile wealth and influence. 
 The acknowledged and uncontrollable head of a 
 first-rate firm was his beau ideal of power and 
 glory. To achieve that position, Esthers would 
 have done any thing; but there was no likeli- 
 hood of his craving after it ever being satisfied, 
 and he appeared to owe all the world ill-will in 
 consequence. I never heard him speak in hearty 
 praise of any body. His countenance indicated 
 that he was no philanthropist; and, except one 
 foolish woman — where is the man who can not 
 find such ? — I never knew a soul who had the 
 smallest liking for Esthers. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MR. WILSON OFFERS A LITTLE EXPLANATION. 
 
 My arrival in London was signalized bv sev- 
 eral angry letters for throwing away good pros- 
 pects, and being able to do nothing for my fami- 
 ly, dictated by my grand-aunt, and written by 
 my sister. The well-disposed but ill-educated 
 girl contrived to slip in at the end of every epis- 
 tle, “deer Lucien, my aunt mad me write this, 
 but I was sorry to do it, and I hope you will ex- 
 cise your effectionate sister.” Poor Rhoda ! 
 her orthography was not worse than that of myj 
 Rosanna, but her rescue from the farm-house, 
 and better schooling, occupied less of my atten- 
 tion now. Things must take their course, and 
 it was a far cry to the Antrim shore. The an- 
 gry letters and the kindly postscript were brief- 
 ly, I fear coldly, answered. I worked for my 
 uncle^and the Palivez. I learned the peculiari- 
 ties of the place and the pbople. I wished to 
 make "acquaintance with Watt Wilson, to ac- 
 knowledge my family debt to his employer, Mr. 
 Forbes, but shrunk from attempting either, on 
 account of the memories it must bring up, and 
 the reflections that might be made on my own 
 altered position. 
 
 Some weeks had gone this way, when, cross- 
 ing the passage to the office one morning — Mr. 
 Esthers was indisposed, and had not come down 
 yet — I saw Wilson himself coming forward to 
 meet me. 
 
 “I beg your pardon, Mr. La Touche,” said 
 the kindly old clerk, looking half glad and half 
 surprised ; “ your name is written in your face, 
 as one may say ; I never saw a son so like a 
 father ” 
 
 “I am glad to see you, Mr. Wilson,” said I, 
 extending my hand. 
 
 “ God bless you, sir !” and he shook it warm- 
 
 [ ly; “<I did not think you would remember me 
 so well • what a fine man you have grown ! I 
 would have called upon you sooner, but I have 
 been in Ireland. Mr. Forbes was kind enough 
 to give me a holiday just after Christmas, and 
 I went to see the old place, and look after an 
 orphan family of nephews and nieces I have 
 there. Mr. Forbes sent his compliments to you, 
 sir,” he continued, when we had sat down in the 
 retirement of the empty office; “he wants you 
 to come to his house and be acquainted with 
 him. He is a good man, and a good friend to 
 you and yours ; you may know that partly, but 
 not so well as I do.” 
 
 “Oh yes, Mr. Wilson, I am sensible of the 
 great kindness he has shown to my family, and 
 would have called to make my acknowledg- 
 ments, but — ” 
 
 “He says it was his part to call on you, sir, 
 and maybe it wits ; I am not up to the high 
 rules of manners, but Mr. Forbes is such a shy, 
 nervous man, though he has been in public busi- 
 ness all his life. They say it was the death of 
 his wife and two sons that gave him such a 
 shake ; it happened the very year before he left 
 Dublin,” said Wilson, but I knew what he had 
 been about to say. ‘ ‘ Mr. Forbes never got the 
 better of that, sir, and I am afraid never will, he 
 is such a feeling man. I wouldn’t speak of it 
 to any body else, but it is my opinion, Mr. La 
 Touche, that gentleman has grieved as much 
 over your family’s trouble as ever one of you 
 did. You can’t think what a frightened look 
 was in his face when he asked me in private if 
 I thought you were at all like the poor boy that 
 was lost — ‘like the eldest brother,’ he said in a 
 kind of a whisper ; he would go ten miles about 
 rather than mention the boy’s name. I suppose 
 it is thoughts of his own sons that come on him, 
 though none of them were so far grown, only 
 ten and twelve I understand, both at school, and 
 taken with the scarlet fever three months after 
 their mother. She died of rapid consumption, 
 poor woman! and he has neither chick nor 
 child but Miss Helen, the best young lady in 
 the world, but not much to look at, which is a 
 pity, for she will be heiress of all his gatherings. 
 They must be considerable, Mr. La Touche, for 
 he lives in a plain, private way, though, except 
 the house you are in, and one or two more, there 
 is not a better banking business in London. 
 It must go to strangers, I suppose, when he is 
 called away.” 
 
 “Has Forbes no relations, then?” I in- 
 quired. 
 
 “ None but distant ones living in Edinburg. 
 He brought up an orphan nephew, the son of his 
 only sister, ■who married an ensign in Dublin, 
 sore against his will, for the boy was not steady, 
 and partly broke her heart, they say : at any 
 rate, she lived only five years after her marriage 
 — and Mr. Forbes has her son to provide for. 
 When the ensign went to Spain with his regi- 
 ment and was killed at Salamanca, he put him 
 to school, and brought him up as if he had been 
 his own child — would have left him the business, 
 
:o 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 I’ll warrant ; but like father, like son ; plaster 
 Charles — that was his name — would settle at 
 nothing but running away to sea, which he did 
 before he was fifteen, got into a man-of-war as 
 a cabin-boy, and couldn’t or wouldn’t be got out 
 again. There he is to this day, a regular sail- 
 or ; Mr. Forbes has made interest for him, and 
 got him promoted to be third mate or something 
 of that kind — a brave, handsome fellow, I afh 
 told — but he can’t be got to come and see them 
 for the best of invites, being ashamed of his do- 
 ings, I suppose ; he says he will never come till 
 he is made a captain, and that is like to be a 
 good while. But I am running on, sir, and for- 
 getting to give you Mr. Forbes’s message : he 
 sends his compliments to you, and will be much 
 obliged if you will come to dine with him on 
 Friday evening, without ceremony. ‘ Tell him, 
 "Wilson,’ said he, ‘my daughter and I are not 
 people of fashion, but we will be happy to make 
 his acquaintance, and do him any service we 
 can.’ Mr. La Touche, he is the kindest man 
 and the best master that ever lived — not to 
 speak of his friendship to your family — and I 
 hope you’ll go ; the house is not far — only two 
 miles from London, on the Uxbridge road ; quite 
 a mansion ; they call it Notting Hill House ; a 
 pretty place, though it is old and rather lonely ; 
 you pass through the village of Notting Hill to it, 
 and any body will show you the way.” 
 
 I expressecftny thanks to Mr. Forbes, and my 
 intention to accept his kind invitation, if the 
 hours of business permitted. 
 
 “ Oh yes, sir,” said Wilson, “I forgot to tell 
 you that they never dine till six ; "Hie coach that 
 goes from the Bank to Tyburn Gate every half 
 hour will take you most of the way ; they don’t 
 keep a carriage, or Mr. Forbes would send it for 
 you.” 
 
 “He is too kind,” said I. 
 
 “ He is kind to every body, sir, qnd more par- 
 ticularly to you and yours ; but — ” and Wilson 
 looked slightly confused — “there is something I 
 ought to tell you about in his mind. You won’t 
 take offense at an old friend — an old follower, I 
 may say ; but when I was in Ireland I went to 
 see Miss Livy and your sister. I should have 
 done it any way, but Mr. Forbes made me prom- 
 ise I would, because the old woman had been 
 writing to him, saying how hard up they were, 
 and that you* could do nothing now ; not that 
 he has let them want, goodness knows; but, 
 between ourselves, Miss Livy is getting very 
 shaky in her understanding, and gives poor Miss 
 Rhoda little life. 
 
 “Is not she the fine, handsome girl, the very 
 model of her mother ? It did my eyes good to 
 see her; and so easy-going and contented like 
 in the midst of her bother, not entirely with 
 Miss Livy, though that would be plenty ; but 
 you see, Mr. Hughes, your father’s cousin, mar- 
 ried that housekeeper of his last year, and when 
 women get married they will have their say. 
 She and Miss Livy never had a good agree- 
 .ment, and now she wants that bit of the house 
 they have for a sister of hers that is left a wid- 
 
 ow, and Mr. Hughes wouldn’t be sorry to see 
 their backs turned either, though it ill becomes 
 him, after your father’s kindness ; but this is a 
 forgetful world. However, Mr. La Touche, I 
 brought word of it all, as I was bound to do by 
 the wishes of both parties, to Mr. Forbes. I 
 know he means to do something particular for 
 them and you. ‘Wilson,’ said he, when I was 
 done telling him, ‘ the best thing for all the 
 family would be to come here and keep a home 
 for Lucien. I’ll engage that none of them will 
 ever want while I have a shilling to spare ; there 
 are nice cheap houses to be got in the neighbor- 
 hood of London, and they could be looked after 
 there better than in Ireland. It is far off, and 
 there are three helpless women.’ 
 
 “He was right there, Mr. La Touche; you 
 see Miss Livy has taken that poor thing, Han- 
 nah Clark, the last of the widow’s daughters ; 
 you would not have her left behind, unprovided 
 for as she is, and I know Mr. Forbes will let no 
 heavy burden lie on your shoulders ; that’s what 
 he is going to speak to you about, sir, and I 
 thought it better to let you know in time.” 
 
 My first feeling was not one of gratitude to 
 the honest clerk and his kindly master for their 
 solution of my family difficulties. With such a 
 household hanging on me, how was my engage- 
 ment with Rosanna ever to be fulfilled? But 
 Wilson’s last words reminded me that it "was 
 my young sister, my poor old aunt, and the last 
 of Widow Clark’s dumb and defrauded daugh- 
 ters who were to be considered. Mr. Forbes was 
 right ; they would be more easily and suitably 
 supported with myself than far off in Ireland. 
 My present salary would be sufficient to keep a 
 home for them in some cheap neighborhood of 
 London without his assistance ; it went agamst 
 my mind, perhaps against my pride, that a stran- 
 ger should help to maintain my relations, friend- 
 ly and generous as he had proved himself. My 
 duty was clear — to take up the burden, and leave 
 the rest to Providence. Besides, like all men 
 of the domestic nature, there Avas comfort in the 
 prospect of a home and household, whatever its 
 discrepancies might be. I was tired of the un- 
 ameliorated barrack life which had been my por- 
 tion in the Baltimore boarding-house and the 
 London bank. I had looked to a different house- 
 keeping, but that could not be for years. What 
 Avould Rosanna — Avhat Avould her sister say? 
 Our affection Avas to be tested in earnest, yet 
 how would it stand the Avear and tear of life if 
 it did not outlast this trial? And once more 
 my duty Avas clear. I told Wilson so on the 
 spot, and thanked him for acquainting me with 
 the matter before meeting Mr. Forbes. 
 
 “I Avould do a deal more than that, sir, for 
 your father’s son, indeed ; he bid me tell you,” 
 said the honest clerk, “it’s himself that is the 
 real friend to your family ; but, Mr. La Touche, 
 you’ll not be offended Avith an old follower — I 
 have saA r ed something, having never married, 
 you see, and it’s quite at your service any 
 time.” 
 
 I thanked Wilson once again. We shook 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 31 
 
 hands over if, and thus made a formal renewal 
 of the old allegiance and sovereignty which had 
 never passed out of Wilson’s memory ; he was 
 still the clerk, and I was his master’s son — his 
 young master in fact, notwithstanding the pres- 
 ent equality of our positions. ‘‘But, dear me,” 
 said the honest soul, as we came to the end of 
 the ceremony, “I am forgetting to inquire after 
 Mr. Esthers ; it’s seldom oite sees the office clear 
 of him in the morning.” 
 
 I explained the cause of the manager’s ab- 
 sence. 
 
 “Ay,” said Wilson, with a sympathizing 
 shake of his head, “his health is delicate with 
 sitting too close at the desk, I judge, Mr. Lu- 
 cien” — there was a sign of confirmed loyalty 
 which Wilson never more dropped— “ he is the 
 steady man, a kind of an example, I may say; 
 between ourselves, if he wasn’t of use, I don’t 
 think Madame would keep him as manager, 
 though he is her cousin. She is a wonderful 
 woman for an eye to business ; Mr. Forbes tells 
 me he has dealt with the house 'these four-and- 
 twenty years, and he will be bound there is not 
 a check paid she don’t know of. for all so^grand 
 and private as she keeps herself. He says she 
 did the very same in her father’s time, when the 
 bank was in Castle Street, in Dublin ; the house 
 they had there was nearly as large as this one ; 
 they built most of it themselves 1 nearly a hund- 
 red years ago, when they first came from Am- 
 sterdam, and the finest part, where they lived 
 in state, and saw no company just as she does 
 here, I am told, was at the back, and opened 
 into Greek Alley. I am not sure that it was 
 not named in their honor ; you can’t recollect 
 it, Mr. Lucien, never having been in Dublin, 
 an*l it is not there now ; they altered and partly 
 pmled down the place, about seven years ago, 
 to build the Royal Hotel — that is the house for 
 charges — but, as I was saying, Greek Alley is 
 closed up and gone, though it was convenient to 
 the Palivez, and, for that matter, to all passen- 
 gers, being a kind of short-cut round their house 
 from Castle Street to the Liberties. Madame 
 used to come and go that way .on her Arabian 
 horse: all the Dublin people talked about her 
 riding, and no wonder, for I never saw a woman 
 so much at home in the saddle. She gallops 
 past Mr. Forbes’s house every day in the sum- 
 mer-time to and from a sort of country seat she 
 keeps down at the end of Kensington Park — a 
 lonely place, but very pretty and foreign like ; 
 no expense spared on it, you see. She is a 
 wonderful woman : have you ever seen her, Mr. 
 Lucien ?” 
 
 “Yes, Madame Palivez received me when I 
 called to deliver a letter of introduction from 
 my uncle.” 
 
 “ Oh ! to be sure, she has a great respect for 
 Mr. O’Neil ; they have had long dealings to- 
 gether. Didn’t you think her very grand and 
 handsome ? — all the young gentlemen do.” 
 
 “ Well, yes” — I wanted to get, not give intel- 
 ligence — “she has a Greek face, of course; is 
 Mr. Esthers her cousin ?” 
 
 “ He told me so once ; it was a kind of a let 
 out,” said Wilson. “I don’t know how it comes; 
 there is not much likeness between them:” and 
 the rest of his reflections were cut short by their 
 subject walking into the office. 
 
 I thought Esthers looked disconcerted at the 
 first sight of Wilson, but he recovered himself 
 instantly, shook hands in a most friendly man- 
 ner, and inquired familiarly after the health of 
 Mr. Forbes and Miss Helen. 
 
 “ They are both well, thank you,” said Wil- 
 son. “ I have been calling Avith their compli- 
 ments to Mr. La Touche here.” 
 
 Once more the manager looked disconcerted, 
 and once more shook it off ; and he was happy 
 to hear of Mr. Forbes and his daughter being 
 well. They were excellent people, though he 
 wondered the young lady wasn’t afraid to live in 
 that lonely place. He hoped Mr. Wilson would 
 mention that he had been inquiring for them, 
 which the clerk promised to do. Then Esthers 
 sounded my praises in his own peculiar style. 
 I was new yet to London business, and had not 
 been accustomed to such a house as theirs, but 
 he was sure I would learn in time ; nothing like 
 expermnce bought. And after some talk on 
 mercantile news, and a declaration that Mr. 
 Forbes would expect me on Friday, Wilson took 
 his leave. 
 
 “ You are going to call on Forbes ?” said the 
 manager, in his inquisitive, patronizing way, as 
 soon as the door closed behind him. 
 
 “He has asked me to dine with them,” said I. 
 
 It was spoken in the pride of rising fortune, 
 for the wealthy banker was an acquaintance for 
 a friendless clerk to boast of. But I was not 
 prepared for the scowl of malignant anger which 
 darkened Esthers’ face, halfi turned away a§ it 
 was, and supposed to be invisible to me. 
 
 “You won’t meet very lively society there,” 
 he continued, in a cool, unconcerned tone, while 
 he unfolded a large paper, and made believe to 
 look over it. “ Forbes is a good sort of a man, 
 but a regular Scotch Presbyterian — strict and 
 sour — and has brought up his daughter to be 
 the same. I don’t know why they live in that 
 out-of-the-world place, nor what he is saving his 
 money for. People say it is to get an earl’s son 
 for Miss Helen. They are both so proud, father 
 and daughter, nobody good enough to associate 
 with them, if there is the least thing to be said 
 against their utmost generation ; I wonder they 
 take notice of you ?” 
 
 “Mr. Forbes has always shown himself a 
 fiiend to my family.” 
 
 “In spite of all that happened! — well, that’s 
 wonderful ! Does he know of your engagement 
 in Baltimore? He will give you good advice 
 about that. There is nobody so set against low 
 matches as these saving Scotchmen. Where is 
 that pocket-book of mine?” and Mr. Esthers de- 
 parted in search of his conveniencv, leaving me 
 in an inward tempest of indignation and amaze- 
 ment, but the latter predominant. What ends 
 had he for ferreting out my private affairs ? I 
 felt sure my uncle had not told him: it was not 
 
32 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Mr. O’Neil’s fashion to tell the like of his neph- 
 ew, and why was he so disturbed and angry at 
 my going to the Forbes’ ? Those questions 
 could not be asked of one’s manager. Mr. Est- 
 hers probably thought he had said enough on 
 the subject, for I heard no more of it, and on 
 the appointed Friday evening took mv way to 
 Notting Hill. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MISS FORBES AND HER FATHER. 
 
 On Friday, as I said, I soon found my way to 
 Notting Hill. The place is now a large and 
 handsome suburb of London — the chosen re- 
 treat of City men, and people who have come 
 home from India. There are streets and roads, 
 squares and crescents, with a more than com- 
 mon allowance of garden ground and noble old 
 trees dispersed among them, showing how the 
 town has overgrown the woodlands. But when 
 I first saw it in the lengthening twilight of a 
 pleasant evening about the middle of February, 
 1817, there was nothing but a hamlet of l^w cot- 
 tages standing on the highest and most shady 
 ground in the Uxbridge Road, between two 
 parks, the largest and most ancient in the neigh- 
 borhood of London, not twenty minutes’ walk 
 from Kensington, where the sunset -light of 
 court and fashion still lingered, and within two 
 miles of Tyburn, where people still talked of 
 seeing executions, yet one of the most secluded 
 and out-of-the-way villages one could wish for 
 when intending to retire from the world and its 
 vanities. 
 
 A bov who had been playing with his fellows 
 in the gutter showed me the way to Notting 
 Hill House. The low-pitched but comfortable 
 old mansion stands where it did, at the east end 
 of Holland Park, on a rapidly rising ground, 
 with lawn in front and garden in the rear, but 
 it is called by another name now ; has been re- 
 paired and remodeled by a city merchant — 
 peace be upon him and his house, for I know 
 him to be a worthy man. They have built a 
 square hard by, with tall houses in it, and much 
 curtailed the garden-ground ; but when I first 
 saw the old place, it stood alone on the slope of 
 the wooded hill where the parks of Holland and 
 Kensington almost met; an avenue of noble 
 trees leading up to its gates; winter flowers 
 blooming in its lawn and garden ; the red fire- 
 light flashing from its windows, through the 
 thick-growing evergreens, and the whole look- 
 ing as if it were situated somewhere in the mid- 
 land counties. 
 
 Our first meeting with any body of whom we 
 have heard or thought is an occasion to be re- 
 membered, and I had thought of Mr. Forbes in 
 no ordinary manner. He was the only friend 
 my family had found in their long adversity ; 
 the man whose generous sympathy with them 
 and me had proved as true as it was uncommon. 
 His wealth and mercantile status should have 
 
 made his acquaintance or patronage a thing to 
 be sought after by any man in my position ; yet 
 his invitation was more of a trial than a triumj h 
 to me. An unaccountable shrinking had always 
 come over me at the thought of meeting him ; 
 perhaps it was an admonitory dread of the ad- 
 vice against which I had been warned; but I 
 chid myself for it determinedly as I rang at the 
 gate. It was opened by an elderly, respectable- 
 looking servant, with no pretensions to livery. 
 He showed me up the lawn, across the oak- 
 floored hall, and into the drawing-room — a 
 ground-floor apartment, with carved wood ceil- 
 ing, rather low, old-fashioned but handsome fur- 
 niture, and a w r ide bay window. 
 
 From behind its hangings of green damask, 
 where she seemed to have been looking out so 
 as not to be seen, there came, slowly and awk- 
 wardly, a lady in a high dress of plain brown 
 silk. Her figure -was small, thin, and slender, 
 with those least attractive characteristics of 
 woman’s form, high square shoulders, and a 
 narrow chest. Her complexion w r as dimly fair, 
 without a tinge of color. Her hair was of a 
 similar hue, thin, and tightly put up. There 
 was nothing striking about her face except that 
 it was of an uncommon size and leanness, with 
 features to match. Yet, as she approached me, 
 and collected all her composure in the fading 
 light, I could see that I had to do with a gentle- 
 woman. She made me a courteous inclination, 
 saying “ Miss Forbes ;” then kindly extended her 
 hand, and added, “I am happy to make your 
 acquaintance, Mr. La Touche, papa has told me 
 so much of } 7 ou. He will be here in a minute.” 
 
 I pressed the offered hand ; it was small and 
 fair as that of my own Rosanna, and there was 
 no awkwardness about the lady now ; she rec- 
 ommended me to a seat close by the bright, 
 blazing fire, asked if I had any difficulty in find- 
 ing my way to their lonely old house — it was 
 rather an out-of-the-way place, but very pleas- 
 ant in the summer-time, and papa liked it ; his 
 health was delicate, and would not agree with 
 living in town. 
 
 While I was expressing my high opinion of 
 the situation, a tall and decidedly Scotch-look- 
 ing gentleman stepped in, withm likeness to my 
 early friend Melrose Morton in his air and man- 
 ner which almost startled me ; but he looked at 
 least thirty years older, had perfectly gray hair, 
 and a face that told of heavy cares, personal 
 suffering, or some great sorrow not to be shaken 
 off or worn away by time ; and she said, “Here 
 is papa.” 
 
 I could believe that Mr. Forbes was a nervous 
 man, for he received me — his deep debtor, and 
 in a manner his liege man — kindly, indeed, but 
 with the look of one who had screwed up his 
 courage to some duty, and would go through 
 with it. His daughter seemed to be aware of 
 his difficulties, and helped him over them, not 
 taking upon herself, but screening, his embar- 
 rassment with gentle, womanly tact. 
 
 In the distribution of Nature’s gifts, little 
 beauty had fallen to Helen Forbes’s share ; yet 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 I thought then, as I did many a time after, not- 
 withstanding my own unlucky part in her his- 
 tory, that a wiser and better man might have 
 lost his heart to her as readily as I did mine to 
 the beautiful girl in Baltimore. I have given a 
 true description of her appearance at first sight ; 
 but I have not described, and no words of mine 
 could do justice tp the feminine grace and dig- 
 nity of her habitual manner, the sweetness of 
 her smile — which, even at its brightest, had 
 something tender and melancholy in it — and 
 the pure, earnest, loving soul that looked out of 
 her deep brown eyes. She had seen little of 
 what is called society — little of the world in any 
 department. Her schooling had been at home, 
 and her travels extended no farther than her 
 father’s removal from Dublin to London ; but 
 a sound English education, some accomplish- 
 ments, and more natural taste and sense, made 
 her an agreeable and interesting companion. 
 Her age was twenty-six — just three years above 
 iny own — but she looked thirty. I think she 
 was quietly cheerful by nature ; but some win- 
 try shadow had fallen upon her youth, making 
 it sad and sober, as her father looked in the 
 midst of his growing wealth and rising position. 
 Whence that cloud had come I could not imag- 
 ine then ; but as one must get an explanation, 
 I set it down to the account of their Scottish 
 Calvinism, for the Eorbes’ were Presbyterians — 
 neither strict nor sour, as Esthers had reported 
 them ; but both father and daughter seemed to 
 have come to that melancholy conviction of 
 life’s being but a task and a trial which appears 
 to me, though I have no reason to give for it, 
 the peculiar characteristic of Scottish piety in 
 modern times. 
 
 There was no company but myself expected, 
 and I had the honor of conducting Miss Forbes 
 to the dining-room. We passed through the 
 library to it : as usual in old mansions, all the 
 rooms communicated, and were all furnished in 
 the same antiquated but elegant style. The at- 
 tendants I saw were all Scotch, elderly and re- 
 spectable, evidently attached to the family, and 
 long in the service. Miss Forbes presided, as 
 she had done over her father’s house and table 
 from her sixteenth year. A better hostess could 
 not have been found in London ; with her as- 
 sistance and our own inclination, Mr. Forbes 
 and I slid quietly into acquaintance. 
 
 Unready as both parties had been to meet, 
 we took kindly to each other as soon as that 
 terrible ordeal to all true Britons, the first en- 
 counter, was fairly over. He was a sensible, 
 courteous, amiable man, with a good deal of 
 Scotch prudence, and, what is not incompatible 
 with it, however Southern men may sneer, gen- 
 uine generosity of practice and opinion. I nev- 
 er heard Forbes speak ill of any body if he could 
 help it. I know that his large but discrimina- 
 ting charity was the stay and the praise of his 
 poorer neighbors. Servants, clerks, and friends, 
 people of every degree who knew him best, could 
 tell of help from his purse, or influence given to 
 struggling men in their sore necessity, and kept 
 C 
 
 33 
 
 from the world more closely than his private ac- 
 counts. 
 
 Forbes had some pride too — I never knew an 
 honest Scotchman who had not ; his walls were 
 covered with the portraits of his ancestors, High- 
 land chiefs, ministers, and, among the rest, Sir 
 William Forbes, the famous Edinburg banker, of 
 whom my host was a lineal descendant. We got 
 into acquaintance — into conversation, first on 
 public views, then on subjects nearer home, and 
 by the time the cloth was removed, and Miss 
 Forbes left us, we were almost on the footing of 
 old friends taking up the threads of their com- 
 panionship after long separation. It was not 
 the wine that did it, at least on the banker’s 
 part. While he pressed the excellent old Port 
 on my attention with sincere hospitality, and I 
 could not help remarking it was good wine, he 
 merely tasted it, said “it is good, lad,” and then, 
 with the look of an anchorite casting temptation 
 from him, filled up the half-empty glass with 
 cold water. I suppose he saw something like 
 surprise in my look, and I wished he had not 
 the next moment, for the troubled, terrified ex- 
 pression of the man’s face at once impressed me 
 with the conviction that there was some peculiar 
 crack or twist in the brain which seemed other- 
 wise so sound, and I took a fixed resolution nev- 
 er to observe any eccentricity of his in future. 
 We were friends, and we talked in a friendly 
 manner. When he had drunk his watered glass 
 and got ovef the small upset, Mr. Forbes entered 
 on my family affairs with equal sense and kind- 
 ness. He cut short my acknowledgments of 
 all we owed him with “Lucien,my lad — I can’t 
 call such young men as you Mr. — and, since 
 you are pleased to think I have been of any use, 
 will you do me one favor in return ?” 
 
 “Any thing in my power, sir.” 
 
 “ Thank you, lad. Well, just never say anoth- 
 er word about the little I have done, or may do, 
 to help folk better than myself, but not so well 
 provided. Won’t you try this Burgundy ?”• 
 
 I declined the wine, and made the promise 
 on which he insisted with such an earnest look ; 
 and we fell to discussing the proposed settle- 
 ment of my relations. The discussion was 
 brief and easy. I had made up my mind to ac- 
 cept his views on every subject except Eosanna. 
 If Mr. Forbes- had heard any thing of that mat- 
 ter, he said nothing. I got good advices, but 
 they were such as my own heart and conscience 
 concurred in, and given in a friendly, confiden- 
 tial manner — not in the tone of the patron or 
 admonisher, which I had been led to expect. 
 
 We grew friendly — we grew familiar. I felt 
 as if Mr. Forbes were no stranger to me, and 
 the cause was plain to my after thinking. It 
 was not alone that he knew the history of my 
 family, and had been their steady, almost their 
 only friend; but his resemblance to my early 
 help and adviser, Melrose Morton, went beyond 
 that of air and general appearance, which struck 
 me at first sight : he had the same sound judg- 
 ment, the same high principles, gravity of 
 thought, earnestness of purpose, honesty of word 
 
34 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 and deed, and consideration, which took in ev- 
 ery tittle of other people’s difficulties. Forbes 
 was an elder and a sadder man ; he had lost a 
 wife and children ; doubtless it Avas that long 
 sorrow which pressed upon him still — health and 
 heart seemed to have bowed under the burden, 
 in spite of worldly prosperity. It was strange 
 to me, young as I was, that time and good for- 
 tune had not closed or covered that rent in his 
 life ; but certain it was that the regret or the 
 memory seemed to me the only difference be- 
 tween him and Melrose Morton. 
 
 We had settled every thing — the removal of 
 the three women to London : they were to 
 march under Wilson’s conduct, as it would not 
 have been expedient for me to quit Palivez’ 
 bank, or ask leave of absence so soon. 
 
 “They are all strangers to you,” said Mr. 
 Forbes ; “ there is no use in opening your fam- 
 ily affairs to them. Wilson is a discreet, re- 
 spectable man ; your grand-aunt knows him long 
 and well ; he will manage every thing as well 
 as you could do, perhaps better, for he is not 
 such a stranger in the country. I can spare 
 him for a fortnight, or longer, if need be ; he 
 will bring them safe ; and, as you have not had 
 time to earn much yet — as I knoAv you will, lad 
 — I will do myself the pleasure of bearing their 
 expenses. I’ll take no denial — no thanks either. 
 Lucien, remember your promise. Where do 
 you think of taking a house ?” 
 
 “I am not quite sure, sir.” My mind was 
 getting confused on the subject of the motives, 
 yet nothing but doAvnright generosity could ex- 
 plain his conduct. 
 
 “Well” — Forbes watered another glass for 
 himself — “ I Avas going to ask you to be my ten- 
 ant. I have got some house-property in that 
 neAV neighborhood of Baysvvater, not a step from 
 this, just through the turnpike gate. Some 
 London speculators took a turn for building 
 there last year, nearly opposite the Palace Gar- 
 dens. They were to make a town of it, and 
 commenced Avith Moscow Road, in Petersburg 
 Place, in honor of the Emperor of Russia, Avho 
 made himself so popular Avhen the allied sover- 
 eigns visited us. They partly built the place, 
 and there it stands — a half square of decent lit- 
 tle houses, with small gardens in front and rear. 
 But the road neAer got finished ; people thought 
 it too far out of toAvn, too lonely, too new ; the 
 chief speculator had gone beyond his depth, and 
 Avas bankrupt before the end of the season ; the 
 place Avas in the market, and I bought it pretty 
 cheap. Some retired quiet people, who partly 
 know me, have come out to live there ; they can 
 do so as economically as in the country : the 
 widoAv of one of our Scotch ministers, a doctor’s 
 family who have lost their father, a lieutenant 
 on half pay with his wife and children, and two 
 or three more equally respectable neighbors, 
 Avould make one vacant house which I happen 
 to have on hand an eligible residence for you 
 and your family. Yes, my lad, you are getting 
 a household about you early ; but there is noth- 
 ing like an apprenticeship to any business, es- 
 
 pecially when it is one’s duty. There is no 
 other w r ay to the blessing Avhich maketh rich 
 and addeth no sprrow, Lucien. But, as I was 
 saying, they could live nicely and quietly there ; 
 you could come out and in to them by any of 
 the coaches from the bank. It is a fine walk 
 for a young man in fair weather, too. You 
 would be near neighbors to Helen and me ; Ave 
 could help one another in any time of emergen- 
 cy — they are ahvays coming in this uncertain 
 life ; and you could come and see us very often. 
 We are lonely people, and not much giA r en to 
 company, neither myself nor Helen, young as 
 she is — maybe I have brought her up too much 
 out of the Avorld ; but it is an evil one, and there 
 Avere family reasons,” said Forbes, with a sort 
 of Avince. 
 
 I saAV the prudence and eligibility of his plan 
 — Iioav much forethought the wealthy banker 
 took for me and mine — and I at once accepted 
 the house in Petersburg Place. He wrote out 
 an order for his agent to let me see the prem- 
 ises on the back of his OAvn card, and as we ad- 
 journed to the draAving-room, said, in a care- 
 less, easy way, “ You need not trouble yourself 
 about furnishing; that is all done to your hand 
 — ‘a melien is nothing Avithout a plenishen,’ as 
 they say in Scotland.” 
 
 I would have thanked him, but he shook his 
 head at me, and Ave entered the large, handsome, 
 well-lighted room, to find Helen sitting alone 
 by the fire knitting, Avith a large snow-Avhite cat 
 by her side. How old, and retired, and settled 
 doAvn she looked ! but how friendly and unem- 
 barrassed we three had grown. I felt myself a 
 kind of a cousin to the Forbes’ — they w§re act- 
 ing a part not common among cousins ; that 
 both father and daughter seemed pleased with 
 my company, and cheered up by my conversa- 
 tion, helped to lighten the weight of so much of 
 unmerited and unaccountable kindness. Be- 
 fore we parted, Forbes himself arranged that I 
 should spend every Saturday evening with them. 
 All banks closed earlier on that day, and the 
 proposal reminded me once more of Melrose 
 Morton and our Saturday afternoons at the 
 grammar-school. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 lucien’s new home. 
 
 In pursuance of the plan agreed on that even- 
 ing, I Avrote to my aunt and sister, earnestly re- 
 questing them to come to me in London, and 
 bring Hannah Clark Avith them, promising that 
 not one of the three should ever Avant, and en- 
 joining them to put themselves and their affairs 
 entirely under the conduct of Watt Wilson, who 
 cheerfully undertook the commission. 
 
 “It’s proud I’ll be,” said our ancient and still 
 loyal clerk, “to bring along the last of the La 
 Touches of Armagh. It minds me of the times 
 Avhen the master couldn’t get away himself, and 
 used to send me to bring the missis home from 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 35 
 
 the salt water” — he meant the sea-side. “I’ll 
 bring them safe and sound, never fear, Mr. Lu- 
 cien ; I wish it was to a castle they were com- 
 ing, or to your own grand establishment that 
 will be seen in the city some day,” and Wilson 
 looked profoundly impressed with the truth of 
 his own prediction. 
 
 Then I presented Mr. Forbes’s order to his 
 agent, the only tradesman in the place. He 
 
 water. There is no traffic, no concourse there. 
 Eyes familiar with London localities will per- 
 ceive that the houses are old-fashioned, intend- 
 ed for, and still occupied by persons of limited 
 respectability, though rather dingy and closely 
 built upon ; but, at the time of my formal sur- 
 vey, they stood like a detached hamlet, in the 
 open fields opposite Kensington Palace Gardens, 
 sheltered on the north side by a few tall trees, 
 
 How old, and retired, and settled down she looked ! 
 
 kept a general shop, consisting of his parlor 
 window at the corner, and I took a formal sur- 
 vey of our intended residence. The small semi- 
 square known as Petersburg Place has still a 
 retired look of country quiet, though the Mos- 
 cow Road which was to lead to it has been long 
 built with many another road and place in the 
 populous and now busy neighborhood of Bays- 
 
 a remnant of Kensington Park, which was first 
 cut into at that quarter, and still gives its name 
 to many a square and terrace, new built, new 
 painted, and with more garden ground than 
 they can boast of now. The place had but one 
 street lamp, an ancient oil one, for gas had not 
 yet shown on London city. The twopenny post 
 did not come ’out so far, no watchman was 
 
36 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 thought necessary to the maintenance of its 
 peace, the inhabitants had not much to lose, but 
 they barred their doors well at nightfall, and 
 went with all their difficulties to Mr. Forbes’s 
 agent. The house he showed me over, number 
 nine, was as well finished as any there, and 
 very respectably furnished. 
 
 “They did it all themselves, sir, he and Miss 
 Helen,” said the agent; “ that is, they gave the 
 orders and looked after the doing of them, for a 
 relation, I think, or some genteel person as 
 changed their minds — the more fools they, 1 can 
 tell them ; there is not such a landlord from this 
 to Mile-end as Mr. Forbes ; no screwing up rents 
 or shuffling out of repairs with him.” 
 
 “I am quite sure of that ; but what is the 
 rent ?” said I. 
 
 “Well, sir, it just astonishes myself; you are 
 the gentleman named in the order — Mr. La 
 Touche, I suppose ?” 
 
 “The very same.” 
 
 “Then, sir, it is forty pound to you; mind, 
 you will never get the like of it.” 
 
 “Never,” said I, endeavoring to keep my 
 composure, for pride and gratitude were striving 
 within me. Mr. Forbes and Miss Helen to look 
 after the furnishing of a house, and let it to 
 me and my relations at a nominal rent ! would 
 Providence ever enable me to return the obliga- 
 tions I owed that man ? I took the house on a 
 seven years’ lease, as the agent said he was in- 
 structed to propose to me. I made some other 
 arrangements requisite for commencing house- 
 keeping in the neighborhood of London — bv- 
 the-by, Mr. Forbes directed my inexperience 
 through the medium of his agent, the man of 
 the general shop in the parlor window ; he gave 
 me sundry suggestions, and I guessed where 
 they came from. The wealthy banker had 
 more Scottish tact, more genuine delicacy, than 
 to meddle overtly with the domestic affairs of 
 the poor family he was assisting at all points. 
 In due time, according to the "postal arrange- 
 ments of that period — what a different world it 
 is ffom eight-and-forty years ago — I got a re- 
 sponse. written and spelled in Rhoda’s usual 
 style, setting forth their difficulties about com- 
 ing, because Miss Livy w r as afraid that I would 
 send for that girl in America and get married ; 
 but come they would, for that woman in the 
 farm-house Avould not let them stay; “and, 
 dear Lucien,” said Rhoda in her P.S., “I hop 
 you will not be asshamed of us before your 
 grand freends in London.” 
 
 About a fortnight after the receipt of that 
 comftiunication, I was at London Bridge, pacing 
 about the pier one clear cold evening, and wait- 
 ing for the arrival of the Belfast packet, which 
 was to bring Wilson and my intended house- 
 hold. The wind had been fair, and the packet 
 came in not an hour after she was due. The 
 custom-house officers had done their duty on 
 board against the unpaying importation of Irish 
 whisky. The passengers began to come ashore, 
 and I saw Watt Wilson conducting an old in- 
 firm woman, thin, wrinkled, much bent by years 
 
 and rheumatism ; and a substantial, rosy rustic 
 — I had almost said vulgar-looking — young one, 
 whose bringing up in a farm-house nobody could 
 doubt. They were dressed in coarse blue gowns 
 of linen, shapeless straw hats, shabby shawds ; 
 and there were my active, high-tempered, bus- 
 tling grand-aunt, Miss Livy, and the pretty child 
 who used to play with me, of whose grown-up 
 resemblance to Rosanna I had quite convinced 
 myself — my long - remembered sister Rhoda. 
 They were followed by a still more shabbily 
 dressed girl, with a half witted, half frightened 
 look, gazing at every thing with open mouth and 
 eyes, and making strange noises, whom Wilson 
 held fast by the hand and vainly endeavored to 
 quiet, as I, feeling that no foreigners could be 
 half so strange to me, came forward to the group, 
 and he said, “Here we are, Mr.Lucien.” 
 
 I remember being kissed and hugged on the 
 spot by my poor old aunt ; being stared at, and 
 then aw’kwardly shaken hands with by my sister; 
 having some trouble to keep the dumb girl from 
 running away for fear of me ; helping Wilson 
 to get a deal chest, two spinning-wheels, and a 
 reel safely landed ; getting the entire party into 
 the Uxbridge coach, which left us close on 
 Petersburg Place, and duly installing them in 
 number nine. I was probably as strange to 
 their sight and memory as they were to mine. 
 I think their expectations were not so far dis- 
 appointed in me. Lucien had been the gentle- 
 man of the family for a considerable time, and 
 the idea seemed to have got an overwhelming 
 confirmation by the first sight of me. On my 
 part, no evidence of disagreeable surprise was 
 permitted to be visible. When the first shock 
 of the meeting was over, I welcomed and almost 
 rejoiced to gather these remnants of a once 
 happy and long-ruined home once more around 
 me ; however unlike what I had expected to see 
 them, they were my nearest living relations — 
 the two that kept me from being alone in the 
 world. Wilson ably assisted in the settlement, 
 staid with us to supper, helped to make us ac- 
 quainted with each other, as sixteen years of 
 separation required, drank our healths, and Avent 
 home to liis sister in Hammersmith, rejoicing 
 that the La Touches had got a house of their 
 own again. 
 
 Days passed, and things worked themselves 
 into their new channels ; so did myself and 
 family. The deal chest was unpacked ; the 
 spinning-wheels established. The beAvilder- 
 ment of their long voyage, the strange place, 
 the strange Lucien, began to wear off my aunt 
 and sister : the one ceased to sit and look at me 
 as if she had never seen the like before; the 
 other gave up speaking in a frightened Avhisper; 
 even the dumb girl got reconciled to my pres- 
 ence, and did not jump away when I opened the 
 door. In short, Ave settled into something like 
 domestic order. All women knoAv Iioav to as-, 
 sume the government within four walls. My 
 aunt took the general oversight, my sister the 
 practical housekeeping, and Hannah Clark de- 
 voted herself to the duties of the maid-of-all- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 37 
 
 work. It was the train of life they had fol- 
 lowed in the end of the Antrim farm-house. I 
 don’t believe that any power or change of cir- 
 cumstances could have kept them out of it, and, 
 situated as we were, it seemed the most prac- 
 ticable. I went out to Palivez’ bank every 
 morning, and c.«me home to them at night, hav- 
 ing arranged to that effect with Esthers. He 
 had first thought it was not according to the 
 rules of the house for me to sleep out of it ; the 
 Palivez always liked to keep their people close 
 about the business ; but when I talked of apply- 
 ing to Madame, he said there was no necessity, 
 and took the opportunity to suppose that, with 
 such a houseful of women on my hands, I would 
 never think of marrying now. 
 
 Well, I had got a house and home, and could 
 earn sufficient to keep it honestly, had there 
 been no generous banker li^g within half a 
 mile. I had a sister to manage the establish- 
 ment, an aunt to keep things proper, a maid 
 whom they could regulate, and the conscious- 
 ness of doing my duty. The uncared-for, un- 
 companionable days of boarding-house and bank 
 life were over ; there was a family to bid my 
 outgoing good-by, and welcome my return — to 
 meet at the breakfast-table, and sit with at the 
 evening fire. This was what my domestic na- 
 ture had pined for through many a solitary 
 year; yet with what drawbacks are our wishes 
 granted and our choices given ! Before the first 
 week had fairly elapsed, I was made sensible, 
 in spite of my best endeavors to think the con- 
 trary, that the days of boarding-house and bank 
 were blest with comfort and quiet never to be 
 attained in number nine. It was not alone in 
 aspect or attire, accent or manner, that my new- 
 found relations differed from me and those with 
 whom I associated. 
 
 The years which I had spent in city life, with 
 all its appliances and civilizations, they had 
 passed in the end of a farm-house on the An- 
 trim shore ; and let me observe that remote 
 farm-houses in the north of Ireland were then a 
 long way behind similar establishments on the 
 London Road. Boiling potatoes, making but- 
 ter, and spinning flax were the three branches 
 of domestic economy with which they were 
 thoroughly acquainted, but beyond these neither 
 their experience nor their knowledge extended. 
 It was not within the scope of my acquirements 
 to alter or enlarge their housekeeping views; 
 but when carpets looked as if chickens had been 
 fed on them — when plates and dishes showed 
 marks of dirty fingers — when chops and steaks 
 were burned to so many cinders, I could not 
 help being aware of the fact, and wishing for 
 some improvement. It was a vexation to see 
 the pretty furniture which Mr. Forbes and Miss 
 Helen had looked after, according to the agent’s 
 account, soiled, scratched, and every way mis- 
 used by hands unaccustomed to any thing capa- 
 ble of injury ; while the glass, china, and all 
 sorts of brittle ware suffered to a frightful ex- 
 tent, from their being habituated to nothing but 
 tin and pewter. Very few meals passed off 
 
 without a smash ; but these were not the only 
 disagreeable noises in our establishment. Like 
 most of what are called deaf mutes, poor Han- 
 nah Clark possessed the power of speech, but 
 not that of hearing, and made it manifest by 
 unintelligible sounds, or rather shouts, which, 
 strange to say, conveyed her meaning to my 
 aunt and sister, and were responded to by an- 
 swering shouts and signs, putting me in consid- 
 erable fear of indictment for nuisance, as their 
 conversation, generally carried on with open 
 doors, was sufficient to disturb a much less quiet 
 neighborhood. 
 
 Poor Hannah was taller and more slender 
 than my sister, but robust and active. She was 
 tolerably handsome, too, though her face had 
 something of Sally Joyce’s edge — keen of eye 
 and of apprehension, but utterly uneducated as 
 regarded mental training. How difficult it is to 
 guess at the powers of thought that are locked 
 from us in perpetual silence, yet speech and 
 hearing are but the instruments of the mind! 
 Hannah had one of her own without them, as 
 after-time made plain to me; for the present 
 she showed but a quick eye for sign and look, 
 a ready hand for all manner of work that was 
 known to her, including fine spinning, and a 
 temper which, though generally good and easy, 
 might be dangerous if overmuch crossed or ex- 
 cited. 
 
 My grand-aunt, the once notable Miss Livy, 
 came next to her in right of peculiarity. She 
 was far altered from the woman I remembered, 
 so upright, active, and wiry; but her ancient 
 affection for old caps and gowns had been con- 
 firmed by time and circumstances ; her long 
 occupation of the corner of a farm-house not 
 particularly kept made the neatly - furnished 
 London rooms irreconcilably uncomfortable to 
 her age ; her long-drawn battle with the cousin’s 
 housekeeper, and perhaps the pressure of years 
 and poverty, had turned the high temper, whose 
 breaking forth was the terror of my childhood, 
 to a sour and continuous grumble, as spirited 
 wine is apt to turn to vinegar; a habit of ob- 
 serving the faults, flaws, and wrong sides of 
 every thing, which Esthers himself could not 
 have rivaled, and of descanting on them with- 
 out cessation to the nearest listener, or, if need 
 were, to herself alone. Poor old woman ! she 
 had not become a pleasant home-companion ; 
 but the consolatory doctrine of the back being 
 fitted to the burden never found a more forcible 
 illustration than in my sister Rhoda. Her fig- 
 ure was short and solid, her face round, rosy, 
 and good-humored, with pretty blue eyes and 
 glossy brown hair ; it was kept strictly tidy, so 
 were her linen gown and check apron (I got her 
 to change them for print and muslin) ; Rhoda 
 liked to be dressed as well as other girls — liked 
 to be admired, I suppose, but nature had blessed 
 her with a disposition so easy, sp acquiescing in 
 every thing that came in her way, that effort 
 or endeavor after improvement were out of the 
 question. It was not resignation to the inevi- 
 table, which most of us learn in process of time, 
 
38 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 but downright contentment and satisfaction with 
 the case as it stood, however that might be. 
 Rhoda had been content spinning in the end of 
 the solitary farm-house ; she was content when 
 the exceeding strangeness wore off, listening to 
 her aunt grumbling in number nine ; and had 
 it been Rhoda’s lot to sweep chimneys, she 
 would have been perfectly contented with the 
 soot. Whoever took the government of her, 
 got it ; whatever statutes were promulgated, she 
 obeyed, always finding a corner of her own to 
 retire fi;om them, and a subject of cheerfulness 
 or consolation under every difficulty. That 
 character had enabled her to live, ay, and thrive, 
 through the misfortune, the successive deaths, 
 the poverty and cheerless years which she had 
 seen. It enabled her to endure Miss Livy, to 
 find companionship in Hannah Clark, and to 
 take no annoyance from what she called my 
 genteel w r ays ; but it also prevented her from 
 ever advancing in manner or appearance. A 
 new bonnet or gown were always welcome to 
 her ; she sat upright at table when told of it, 
 and handled her fork properly when reminded 
 of the same ; she took private lessons from me 
 in writing and spelling, would sit at it diligently 
 while under my eye and command ; but I never 
 knew her to improve in word or letter. Rhoda 
 was my affectionate sister till the end of the 
 chapter — that is to say, about six months’ teach- 
 ing, when I gave it up in despair. Yet, as we 
 came to know each other better, the girl was not 
 without sense and judgment of a sound prac- 
 tical kind ; there w r as nobody one could have 
 consulted on heart or home subjects with a bet- 
 ter chance of getting good counsel: if she did 
 not understand the matter, Rhoda would say so 
 plainly. I think liberation from pride was one 
 of the great causes of her contentment, and, as 
 concerned character of man or woman, she had 
 an insight which certainly came from nature, 
 not from opportunity. Moreover, though she 
 never spelled the word correctly to my knowl- 
 edge, Rhoda was affectionate to her grumbling 
 old aunt, whose converse with her varied be- 
 tween high and low scolding — to poor Hannah, 
 who had been her only companion all the farm- 
 house time, and chiefly to myself ; her memory 
 had remained faithful to her childhood’s love 
 through long years of change and separation ; 
 it was still true to her far estranged brother, in 
 spite of his genteel ways, and the sometimes too 
 evident probability of “his being ashamed of 
 her.” She was proud of Lucien, thought he had 
 a right to be a gentleman, whatever troubles the 
 fact occasioned her, regarded his interests more 
 wisely than he did himself at times, and he has 
 lived to know the value of that sister. 
 
 In the mean time, I tried hard to get my new 
 household into my ways, or bring my mind to 
 put up with theirs for peace and duty’s sake. 
 It was not an easy effort, though Watt Wilson 
 came to my assistance. They knew him best ; 
 he was the one friend with whom they could 
 talk in their own fashion, without being on the 
 height of good behavior, which is not a pleasant 
 
 position for any body. He heard Miss Livy’s 
 complaints and Rhoda’s perplexities with the 
 new state of things ; he advised them on the 
 conduct of domestic matters — the bachelor-clerk 
 had a surprising knowledge of the like ; he 
 made no difficulty in setting them right on the 
 spot ; and, with my grateful concurrence, he 
 brought his sister from Hammersmith to help in 
 their reclamation. 
 
 She was a sensible, honest creature like him- 
 self, but burdened with a large family and a 
 small income, which her brother’s boarding in 
 the house somewhat increased. I knew she 
 would be a congenial acquaintance, and they 
 had need of such, besides the grand object of 
 her introduction, which Mrs. Mason seemed per- 
 fectly to understand, and did her best to accom- 
 plish. It is but fair to acknowledge that some 
 amelioration wa^ffected in the course of time, 
 but number nine^ever could be boasted of as a 
 neat and orderly establishment, and I found my- 
 self as solitary within its walls as ever I had been 
 in boarding-house or bank. Companionship 
 with my grand-aunt was out of the question : 
 at her best days Miss Livy had been intelligent 
 only on Irish housekeeping, and now her re- 
 tirement to bed, which occurred early and often, 
 was a positive relief to the whole premises. 
 Rhoda’s education and mine were too far apart 
 to make association pleasant to either side. 
 The good girl learned to sweep and dust the sit- 
 ting-room before I came home, light two can- 
 dles, and leave me to my books and meditations, 
 while she retired to the litter and liberty of the 
 kitchen, from whence her noisy conversation 
 with Hannah — I never was sure which made 
 the most noise — resounded through the house 
 till I rang the bell, or my aunt shouted down 
 to them from her bedroom on the first floor. 
 
 There was no help for it. But little of my 
 time was passed at home, and the less seemed 
 the better ; besides, one gets used to any thing, 
 and I had a standing invitation to the Forbes’ 
 every Saturday evening, which grew into a reg- 
 ular and customary thing with them and me. 
 It was the only form of society I had, and, be- 
 sides myself, there was very little company at 
 Notting Hill House. They visited number nine 
 in due form, after waiting with Scottish tact, 
 and, let me add, consideration, till we were fair- 
 ly settled. Miss Helen came often after, but 
 they were evidently visits of duty and of chari- 
 ty. She listened to Miss Livy — it was my good 
 fortune to be generally out at the time — she 
 talked to Rhoda as much as possible, and tried 
 to give religious instruction to Hannah Clark ; 
 but the poor girl never could be got to remain 
 quiet long enough, much les§ to comprehend 
 one of the serious truths Miss Forbes endeavor- 
 ed to impress upon her. Helen deplored the 
 fact, so did her father, and often exhorted me 
 to labor for Hannah’s enlightenment as oppor- 
 tunity served. The work was not to my mind, 
 perhaps not within my capacity. I put them 
 off with promises of attempting it some day, 
 then I reasoned myself out of its possibility j 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 39 
 
 Hannah remained untaught, but nevertheless 
 did her work in the world, as most of us do, 
 with or without instruction. 
 
 I had a harder task about this time in dis- 
 closing the new aspect of my affairs to Rosanna, 
 according to the policy which I had instinctive- 
 ly adopted from the dawn of our acquaintance 
 — by-the-by, it was the unconscious counterpart 
 of my uncle’s toward myself — she got precise 
 information when every thing was settled. No 
 help of thought or counsel could be expected 
 from that quarter : I was getting more and more 
 clear-sighted on the subject, and it was easier 
 to tell all when the business was done, and ar- 
 guments and persuasions were useless. How 
 would she bear to hear of such a hinderance to 
 our union? I had said every thing that man 
 could say in a long letter of my unalterable con- 
 stancy and attachment to her alone. I had set 
 the duty I owed to my family before her in the 
 clearest light, and I had given hopes which my 
 own mind scarcely entertained of better days in 
 prospect. Yet I waited with considerable anx- 
 iety for the arrival of the next packet. At 
 length it came, and I was relieved beyond tell- 
 ing by the first reading of Rosanna’s letter. 
 There was a^deal of ill-spelled grief in it — fears 
 that my relations wouldn’t like her, and renewed 
 jealousy of the London ladies ; but Rosanna’s 
 heart was not broken by the intelligence; she 
 wound up with an account of a new bonnet, 
 and how well she looked in it, and an old gen- 
 tleman who had taken to gazing at her from 
 over the way, but she always hid behind the 
 window -curtain, and wouldn’t mind him; and 
 concluded with the announcement that Sally 
 was giving Jeremy no peace to come’ home 
 again, for America didn’t answer her health at 
 all. I read that passage over a second time, 
 and not with the joy of heart which might have 
 been expected. To see my Rosanna again, and 
 read my welcome in her laughing eyes, I would 
 have taken a long journey in any weather; but 
 the prospect of her elder sister coming to my 
 side of the Atlantic had more of fear for me 
 than I would have cared to confess. But the 
 voyage was long, and they were only thinking 
 of it ; Sally thought about many impracticable 
 things, and this might be one of them. I sent 
 back a soothing letter, full of reiterated vows 
 and good advice, both honestly meant ; and I 
 fretted in secret because there was no prospect, 
 no probability of taking my poor girl to myself 
 away from her termagant sister — whom I knew 
 she was so willing to leave — and from the un- 
 safe, uncomfortable life she led in that far-off 
 street in Baltimore. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A SUDDEN APPEARANCE AND A TALK WITH 
 HELEN PORBES. 
 
 Melrose Morton and I had corresponded 
 regularly since my arrival in London — it had I 
 
 been his last stipulation when he left me on 
 board the “Franklin” — and the same packet by 
 which I heard from Rosanna brought me a let- 
 ter from him, warmly commending the course I 
 had taken, and assuring me that the sacrifice 
 would be remembered and rewarded, if not in 
 this world, certainly in that better one to come. 
 
 “You have begun well, Lucien,” he said, “in 
 taking upon yourself the duty most evidently 
 set before you, and I hope, above all things, that 
 you will persevere in it. Remember it is far 
 better never to undertake a thing than to tire of 
 it or stop midway : this can only bring evil to 
 ourselves and to others : the curse pronounced 
 against him that putteth his hand to the plow 
 and looketh back is ratified by reason and expe- 
 rience as well as revelation. But I know you 
 counted the cost before you began to build the 
 tower ; and I also know that He who called you 
 to this duty can find means to reconcile it 
 with your wishes, should they seem good in his 
 sight.” My trust in Morton’s judgment had 
 grown stronger as my own strengthened with 
 man’s estate and experience. I had written ev- 
 ery thing to him — my family difficulties, Mr. 
 Forbes’s unexampled kindness, my intimacy at 
 his house, and opinions of him and his daughter 
 — how good, and yet how sober and sorrow- 
 stricken they seemed. He had passed my ac- 
 count of them with very little remark — they 
 were evidently strangers in whom he took no 
 interest ; my private affairs occupied him too 
 much to think of mere acquaintances ; and I 
 was thinking of the half-prophecy of good days 
 to come, contained in his last letter, by way of 
 consolation under the above-mentioned fret and 
 the household annoyances enlarged on in the 
 last chapter, which happened to be more than 
 commonly demonstrative that Saturday even- 
 ing. I had made my escape from them to Not- 
 ting Hill House, the only city of refuge then 
 known to me. 
 
 The spring was coming fast — violets and the 
 early primroses were blooming in the lawn and 
 at the roots of the old trees in the avenue ; the 
 lengthening day made my. accustomed hour 
 some time before sunset — perhaps I had come 
 early too — and when the servant showed me 
 into the drawing-room Miss Forbes had not 
 come down from dressing, and her father had 
 not come home from business ; but I was no 
 stranger now, and took my seat at the bay win- 
 dow to enjoy the fine prospect of park and pas- 
 ture-land which the early spring was making so 
 freshly green. 
 
 It was a soft, clear evening for that season ; 
 the western sky was red with the setting sun, 
 and a light wind stirred the tops of the tall trees. 
 One could have imagined himself in the heart 
 of the country — a hundred miles from London 
 - — the place looked so sylvan and retired. From 
 the height on which Mr. Forbes’s house stood I 
 could see far into the old Kensington Park, 
 which then covered the opposite slope ; they had 
 begun to cut into it here and there, and there 
 was one wide path straight before my window, 
 
40 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 wild and grassy, growing narrower as it went up 
 among the thick trees, and cheered by a small 
 bright stream, that played and sparkled down 
 the wooded hill -side. It looked like a forest 
 glade. I half expected to see the fallow deer 
 come out of the shade and drink at that wild 
 stream. The place is a broad road now, lead- 
 ing up to the parish church of St.John’s, with 
 small houses on either side, a few tall trees in 
 
 without her train. I had never seen her but 
 once, and in a different trim ; but the air and 
 figure w^ere not to be mistaken, and I recognized 
 Madame Palivez. No groom rode behind her ; 
 she turned up the wild grassy path at a gallop, 
 as if bound for the depths of the park ; but 
 half way up the slope she drew bridle, alighted 
 with an ease and activity I had not thought 
 practicable in a lady’s riding gear, and stood 
 
 The beautiful creature stooped and drank at the stream. 
 
 the centre, and the stream gone out of sight and 
 into the service of the Water Company ; but as 
 I sat and looked on it by £Ve light of the setting 
 day, a lady, mounted on a beautiful bay horse, 
 wearing a dark green riding-habit, with black 
 hat and feather, came up from the Uxbridge 
 Road in a style of rapid but graceful riding 
 which might have served Diana when hunting 
 
 with her hand on the horse’s neck, while the 
 beautiful creature, evidently from the land of 
 the gazelle, stooped and drank at the stream. 
 
 The forest scene never appeared to me so 
 complete as now. The Arab horse curvetted, 
 bowed its graceful neck under its mistress’s 
 hand ; I saw her pull off her glove to stroke it 
 as she stood there and looked about her, up 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 41 
 
 through the tall trees, down the grassy path, 
 and at last at the house and window where I 
 was sitting. Did she see and know me at that 
 distance? I fancied she did. Would it be step- 
 ping out of my poor clerk’s place to bow or give 
 any sign of recognition ? But the next moment 
 her eyes were turned away. Madame Palivez 
 had not seen, had not thought of me at all, but 
 was suddenly charmed by the prospect and the 
 evening. Her hand was on the mane, and 
 with one bound she was in the saddle again, 
 cantering away through the park, and the last 
 flutter of her dark habit fading among the trees, 
 as I heard the sound of approaching steps ; and 
 I know not what made me turn hastily from the 
 window and get absorbed in a book which hap- 
 pened to lie on a side-table quite convenient. It 
 was a collection of Heber’s H} r mns, and on the 
 first blank page, at which it chanced to open, 
 there was written, “To Miss Helen Forbes, from 
 her affectionate friend and cousin, Melrose Mor- 
 ton.” My astonishment was so great that I held 
 the book in my hand, and was palpably reading 
 the presentation, when Miss Forbes came up with 
 her extended hand, sweet, melancholy smile, 
 and kindly greeting. She must have seen the 
 surprise in my face, and I was too curious to 
 postpone the inquiry. 
 
 “ I have taken the liberty to look at your 
 book, Miss Forbes.” 
 
 “Oh, you are quite welcome.” 
 
 “Beautiful Hymns those of Heber. But I 
 see they have been given you by a Baltimore 
 friend of mine, Melrose Morton.” 
 
 “Did you really know him in America? 
 How singular ! ” she said. 
 
 “Yes, I knew him well. Our acquaintance 
 is of more than sixteen years’ standing. I 
 should have told you all about it had I known 
 he was a relation of yours.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, he is my cousin, and was always 
 kind to me. We used to be quite friendly when 
 he was in papa’s bank in Dublin; but” — there 
 was something at once sad and embarrassed in 
 her look — “he and his mother would go to 
 America, and they seem to have forgotten us 
 since. I think there was some dispute between 
 Melrose and papa ; but you will not speak of it, 
 Mr. La Touche — it would vex him so, because 
 Melrose left us just at the time poor mamma 
 and my two brothers died.” 
 
 Could that be the reason Morton had never 
 spoken of the Forbes’ as his cousins? Neither 
 he nor the banker looked like implacable men : 
 what could the nature of their dispute be ? But 
 it was not proper for me to inquire farther, and 
 I could think of no change of subject but Ma- 
 dame Palivez. 
 
 “Oh yes; she passes our house often in the 
 summer-time ; I think this is her first appear- 
 ance ; she is coming out to her country house 
 early,” said Helen, in reply' to my account of the 
 fair equestrian. 
 
 “Does she live in the neighborhood?” I 
 was determined to get information. 
 
 “Yes ; she has built a little villa, a gem of a 
 
 house, quite foreign-like, at the west end of the 
 Park — the most wonderful wild place - you ever 
 saw. She keeps a couple of old servants — I 
 think they are both Greeks — there all the sum- 
 mer ; rides down when she likes, quite alone, 
 though there are grooms and footmen enough 
 about her house in town, I hear; and shuts it 
 up all winter. Papa says the house is so simply 
 furnished that bad people would find nothing to 
 steal.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ That path seems a roundabout way to her 
 villa.” 
 
 “So it is ; but she had it made for herself ; 
 it winds away beautifully through the old trees. 
 I go to walk there sometimes in fine weather. 
 There is no straighter one for her except going 
 down the road, and along the end of Norland 
 Park. It is all parks and plantations here, you 
 see, and that way would be just as long.” 
 
 “I suppose Madame don’t care for long ways, 
 she has such a fine horse, and rides so well.” 
 
 1 ‘ Ay, she does ride beautifully ; I never saw- 
 one look so free and easy in the saddle.” How 
 sincere she looked in the other lady’s praise! 
 “And her horse is such a noble creature- — 
 knows her so well, and is so fond of her. Many 
 a time, when I sit here at work in the summer 
 afternoons, I see her coming home from her long 
 rides. They say she goes away miles into the 
 country, pausing to let it drink at the stream, 
 and stroking its neck just as you saw her ; and 
 the horse w-ill turn from the water, rub its head 
 against her, and stand so quiet till she bounds 
 into the saddle. Is she not active and hand- 
 some ? and papa says Madame is not young at 
 all, but I can’t believe it.” 
 
 “ She has been managing the bank so long,” 
 said I. 
 
 “For sixteen years, they say, since her father 
 died, and nearly four when he was old and re- 
 tired from business. Before that she "was abroad, 
 most of her time traveling in Russia and the 
 East : I suppose it was there she learned to ride 
 so well. Mr. Esthers says her relations are all 
 in those quarters, and she leaves England every 
 second year on long journeys in the same direc- 
 tion to see them, and the houses and agents the 
 Palivez have in all the Eastern towms. Must 
 not Madame be wonderfully clever and capable 
 to manage it all, that great business, as papa 
 says she does, though Mr. Esthers don’t allow it? 
 Yet I think there must be a good deal left to 
 him when she is on her travels every second 
 year, and so much in the fashionable world every 
 season.” 
 
 “In the fashionable world! I thought she 
 lived very retired.” 
 
 “I believe she does, in Old Broad Street, 
 quite in the Eastern style. Papa says they 
 lived the same way in Dublin. But Madame 
 has a fine furnished house in Curzon Street, 
 Mayfair, where she revives company, and goes 
 to balls and parties all the season. I am told 
 all the great people of the West End are hgr 
 acquaintances ; and she is very intimate at the 
 Russian Embassy. Perhaps it is, as Solomon 
 
42 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 tells us, ‘ that the rich have many friends.’ She 
 keeps a box at the opera, too, and one in each 
 of the best theatres ; in short, she sees a deal of 
 gayety in the season, but* always leaves town 
 early ; then her house in Curzon Street is shut 
 up. She fives mostly at her villa in the Park. 
 Nobody is ever asked there, and her fashionable 
 friends know nothing about it. Now I know 
 what you are thinking of,” continued Helen, 
 with a smile of quiet archness — “woman’s cu- 
 riosity ; and how could I find out so much about 
 a stranger?” 
 
 “No, indeed, Miss Forbes, I was thinking no 
 such thing. It is natural you should know a 
 good deal. Your father has been long acquaint- 
 ed with the Palivez, and Madame is a very” — I 
 paused to find the proper word. 
 
 “Very interesting, very remarkable person,” 
 said Helen, helping me out. ‘ ‘ Of course I don’t 
 know her. We never met — never were intro- 
 duced. But seeing her and her horse pass here 
 so often when I sit at work, having little to 
 occupy my attention, perhaps, and hearing so 
 much of her from papa and Mr. Esthers when 
 he happens to call, I must confess to a good 
 deal of interest in Madame and her ways.” 
 “Mr. Esthers could tell you most about them, 
 I suppose. He ought to have the fullest inform- 
 ation, being so long in the bank, and in such a 
 confidential position, though I never found him 
 willing to give any; he rather avoids speaking 
 of Madame to me.” 
 
 “That is strange, for he is always 'talking of 
 Madame when he comes here.” 
 
 “Is Esthers any relation to her?” 
 
 “Papa thinks he is, but how near or distant 
 nobody knows. He came into the bank very 
 young, in her uncle’s lifetime, when her father 
 was only the younger brother there, and she was 
 abroad on her travels.” 
 
 “ Miss Forbes, do you know if it be true that 
 the Palivez always send their daughters to some 
 part of Southern Russia, where they come from, 
 and go there to get married?” 
 
 “I believe it is true. And there is another 
 strange thing which you must have heard about 
 them — none of them ever live to be old ; they 
 all die somewhere about middle age. I have 
 heard Mr. Esthers say so ; every body says it, 
 and he sometimes hints that Madame’s life can 
 not be long now. Papa says her death would 
 be no grief to him. He certainly did not look 
 grieved when he said it; and we think, from 
 some other hints he dropped, that Mr. Esthers 
 must he next heir, for Madame allows herself to 
 be the last of the Palivez.” , 
 
 “ Esthers will be very rich then, and thought 
 a great catch, I’ll warrant.” 
 
 “No doubt he will,” said Helen; “but — ” 
 “But what, Miss Forbes?” 
 
 We were on terms familiar enough for small 
 jesting, but I was surprised to see the swift, 
 bright blush which mantled over her usually 
 pallid face as she said, 
 
 “Perhaps it is not right to think or say, but 
 I never liked Mr. Esthers, though he has been 
 
 friendly to papa in many ways, and rather seeks 
 our acquaintance. I don’t know why, but there 
 is something keen and watchful in his look, as 
 if he were taking notes of every thing, and he 
 has such a habit of seeing people's faults and 
 mischances in the very worst light. I think he 
 would make any body discontented if they lis- 
 tened to him long enough. I never knew him 
 to come here without telling me what a lonely 
 place it was. Do you think it so very lonely ?” 
 
 “ It is rather retired. But, as you told me 
 when I first came here, it must be very pleasant 
 in the summer-time.” 
 
 “ Oh ! very,” said Helen, “ when all the trees 
 are full of leaves ; when the wood-lark sings 
 among them all day, and the nightingale all 
 night, one forgets the dreariness of winter then. 
 I’ll allow the winter is dreary, so far from Lon- 
 don ; but papa likes a quiet place, and I like 
 whatever pleases him.” 
 
 “ That is very good of you !” 
 
 “No, it is only my duty ; besides, retirement 
 is perhaps the best thing for us.” The bright 
 blush had faded away, and the face regained its 
 pale soberness by this time. “ One is more apt 
 to think seriously when out of the noise and 
 bustle of the busy world. Yet, when I was 
 younger, I used to wish sometimes that papa had 
 not taken the loss of my poor mamma and 
 brothers quite so much to heart, or chose to lead 
 such a solitary and very quiet life. He never 
 cared for company or going out any where since 
 then, though before it he was cheerful and so- 
 cial. I can remember him myself, though I 
 was but a child, and every body says he is such 
 an- altered man. Many a time I have tried to 
 cheer him up, but could never well succeed, that 
 sorrow weighs so heavy on him ; yet my father 
 does not repine at the dispensations of Provi- 
 dence. I know his Christian faith and knowl- 
 edge are above that; but it may be I can not un- 
 derstand the greatness of his loss, being so young 
 at the time. At any rate, my duty is clear. — to 
 be as much of a comfort to him as I can ; and 
 there never was a kinder, more considerate, or 
 indulgent father. Here he comes,” she contin- 
 ued, with evident pleasure, catching sight of 
 an approaching figure, which I would not have 
 known to be Mr. Forbes at that distance — “and 
 you will be good enough not to speak to him 
 about Melrose Morton ; it always vexes him. 
 You won’t talk of me feeling the place lonely 
 either, Mr. La Touche — in fact, I don’t know ; 
 one gets used to the 'like — that would vex him 
 too. You Avon’t talk about it?” 
 
 “Not a word,” said I, as Mr. Forbes knocked 
 at the door. 
 
 He seemed pleased to find me sitting there 
 with Helen, and looked in better spirits than 
 usual. 
 
 The quiet evening passed in more than com- 
 mon cheerfulness. Helen sung and played two 
 or three Scotch songs for us. Her voice was 
 sweet and flexible, though of little power or com-, 
 pass. Her playing seemed fine to me, and I 
 did gentleman’s duty by standing behind her 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 43 
 
 chair and turning the leaves of the music-book. 
 We were all pleased with each other’s company, 
 and at the accustomed hour I took my way 
 home, thinking, and not unpleasantly, of Helen 
 Forbes. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE ANCESTRAL SIGNET-RING. 
 
 It was not late. The Forbes’ were early peo- 
 ple, particularly on Saturday night. The Scotch 
 church they attended was a long way off, and 
 required early rising on Sunday. The night 
 was soft and clear, as the evening had been, 
 and the moon, a little past the full, was shining 
 gloriously on park and pasture-land. I turned 
 my gaze instinctively up that woodland path by 
 which Madame Palivez had galloped home to 
 her villa. We had talked no more of her in the 
 course of the evening. Helen’s Scotch songs 
 were still humming through my brain ; but the 
 flutter of the green habit disappearing through 
 the trees was there too. I wondered how her 
 villa looked ; how she passed her time in it ; 
 what a strange life she led between the business 
 and Eastern state of Old Bro^d Street, the fash- 
 ion and gayety of Mayfair in the season, and 
 the' summer solitude of her hermitage at the 
 end of Kensington Park, where nobody was ever 
 invited, and a couple of old Greek servants kept. 
 
 What strange traditions hung about her fam- 
 ily — known to men of business, and believed in 
 banks and counting-houses — their daughters ex- 
 ported, their wives found in the far North, where 
 offshoots of Greece were planted in the lands of 
 the Tartar ; their princely descent — I could be- 
 lieve in that^rom her looks — their deaths at 
 middle age — and she was the last of the Pali- 
 vez ; but Madame could not be of middle age 
 yet. They said she had managed the bank for 
 twenty years, and been long abroad before it; 
 there must be some mistake — she did not look 
 so old. I looked up the path again ; the thick 
 green grass and the glancing stream were clear- 
 ly seen by the moonlight ; the whole scene was 
 wild and silent as the untrodden wilderness, yet 
 no spot ever looked so lovely to me ; in the deep 
 stillness I could catch the murmur of the stream 
 — I could see it like a thread of silver winding 
 down the grassy path ; and to this hour I know 
 not what impulse sent me up the slope to pause 
 beside it at the very spot where I had seen the 
 horse drink and the lady in the green habit strok- 
 ing its neck. She always let it drink there; 
 Helen saw her from the window where she sat 
 at work in summer afternoons. Had Madame 
 seen me at that same window ? I saw her look 
 in that direction. It seemed out of range now; 
 but moonlight was not like day, and the position 
 was a commanding one. Yet what was it to 
 me if the lady of the bank — the last of the Pali- 
 vez, and my employer — could see the window 
 of Notting Hill House, and one of her clerks a 
 humble friend of the family ? I ought to be at 
 home ; but there were not • many inducements 
 
 there, and the night was lovely. What is there 
 in the silvery silence of moonlight to charm 
 aWay from us the worst of our cares, and bring 
 back the best of our memories ? I had walked 
 with Rosanna in such nights in Baltimore — was 
 she thinking of me now ? — but no moon could 
 be shining there : it was daylight still, and the 
 longitude did not make all the difference. Ro- 
 sanna was not the woman to have moonlight 
 dreams, and I knew it ; but the girl was beau- 
 tiful, and. she loved me. Did Madame Palivez 
 i look out upon that moon from her woodland vil- 
 la? Was it far off? Nonsense! I ought to be 
 at home ; another look at the stream — and what 
 was that glancing among the wild primroses that 
 crept down to its waters? A ring — a broad 
 hoop of beaten gold, with an amethyst set in it, 
 larger than common ring-stones, and engraved 
 with the head of Jupiter. At that very spot 
 she had pulled off her glove and stroked the 
 | horse ; the ring belonged to Madame Palivez — 
 I had no doubt of that ; there were Greek char- 
 acters inside which I could not read ; but the 
 ring was hers, and should be properly returned. 
 
 I went home with it in my waistcoat pocket. 
 I showed it to Rhoda — heard her admiration of 
 it. How large and beautiful the purple stone 
 was with that man's face on it! How broad 
 the hoop was, with those queer scores inside ! 
 and how small the lady’s fingers must be — it 
 would go on none of hers farther than the tip ! 
 I wrapped the ring up in paper, slept with it 
 under my pillow, looked at it the first thing in 
 the morning, and took it with me to the bank, 
 determined that Esthers should hear nothing 
 about it till I had the honor of delivering her 
 lost jewel into Madame’s own hands. 
 
 “ Lucien,” said Rhoda, as she set my break- 
 fast, “I dreamt about that great lady all night 
 — that she was coming to our door in her car- 
 riage and taking you with her ; but, somehow, 
 it didn’t seem to be for any good ; however, 
 dreams go by contraries, and I’ll warrant she’ll 
 do something for you on account of finding her 
 ring.” 
 
 I did not expect to be done something for; 
 the service was a small one, and only an honest 
 clerk’s duty ; yet I went with some exultation 
 of heart, and in better than every-day trim, to 
 the private entrance which I had been happy to 
 get out of not three months before. The por- 
 ter was there, as silent and stately as ever. I 
 ; handed him my card, and made my request to 
 ! see Madame Palivez. He rang the bell ; the 
 ’ Eastern-looking servant appeared, and informed 
 me, in his measured words and foreign accent,' 
 that Madame was not at home ; but he was the 
 groom of her chamber,' and would take charge 
 of any message. There was no alternative but 
 to place the ring in his hands, stating Avliere I 
 had found it, my belief that it belonged to Ma- 
 dame Palivez, and my wish that she would have 
 the goodness to let me know whether or not I 
 was correct in my opinion. 
 
 “The signor is perfectly correct,” said her 
 groom, contemplating the ring with reverence 
 
44 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 enough for a relic ; “ this is my lady’s ring, the 
 signet of the Palivezi, made by a Byzantine art- 
 ist and astrologer for Prince Eusebius before the 
 family went northward and settled in Russia ; 
 it is one of the choicest jewels of her house. 
 Madame will give the signor great thanks for 
 restoring it.” 
 
 I expressed my happiness at being able to 
 serve Madame Palivez, mentioned particularly 
 where I had found it, got more Eastern bows 
 than I had ever been treated to before, and 
 went to my work with a considerable feeling of 
 disappointment. 
 
 The day passed, so did many more, and I 
 heard nothing of the ring or its fair owner. 
 Madame Palivez was apparently satisfied with 
 getting back one of the choicest jewels of her 
 house, and thought any notice of the poor clerk 
 who had found and restored it superfluous. It 
 was true I had only done my duty, yet she might 
 have acknowledged it by a civil message ; never 
 mind, I could live without her thanks ; perhaps 
 these were the manners of great ladies in the 
 East. Such had been my reflections evening 
 after evening as I went home ; the non-notice 
 vexed me more than I confessed to myself, much 
 less to Rhoda, who came, poor girl ! with expect- 
 ation in her eyes, to meet me on my first home- 
 coming after the ring had been delivered. I 
 told her all that occurred between ipe and Ma- 
 dame’s servant : my heart drew to that only sis- 
 ter in its difficulties, despite our long separation 
 and far different schooling. “Great people have 
 ways of their own,” said she ; “ I’ll warrant Ma- 
 dame will mind it some time ; and if she don’t, 
 you acted the gentleman, as you always do, I 
 am sure.” 
 
 It might have been about a fortnight after, I 
 was walking home along the Bayswater Road 
 — how quiet and rural it was then ! — wondering 
 why the last packet had not brought me a let- 
 ter from Rosanna; I had made a resolution to 
 think no more of the ring, when the clatter of a 
 horse’s hoofs behind, and the sound of my own 
 name, made me turn, and there was Madame 
 Palivez, in her green habit, mounted on the 
 beautiful Arabian. “Stop, Zara,” she said, 
 lightly tapping the sagacious creature with her 
 gloved hand, for Madame carried no whip. The 
 horse stood still as marble, and she continued to 
 me, as I bowed, and positively felt myself blush- 
 ing, “ Good-morning, Mr. La Touche. I have 
 been puzzled for some days how best to thank 
 you for finding my signet-ring.” 
 
 “No thanks are requisite or expected, I as- 
 sure you, Madame.” 
 
 “Ay, but there should be; where did you 
 find it ?” How anxious she looked on that 
 point. “Among the wild primroses beside the 
 stream,” she said, as if repeating part of my ac- 
 count to herself, by way of making sure that she 
 heard correctly. “How did you know the ring 
 to be mine? I never wore it in your seeing.” 
 
 “I supposed it to be yours, Madame” — my 
 spirit was getting up under the cross-examina- 
 tion — “ because I saw you dismount at that spot, 
 
 and take off your glove, while your horse drank 
 at the stream, from one of the windows of Not- 
 ting Hill House, where I happened to be spend- 
 ing the evening.” 
 
 “You visit the Forbes’ then? Very good 
 people, but rather dull, are they not ?” 
 
 “Excellent people, Madame.” She was go- 
 ing to say something else about them, but 
 paused suddenly, and added, 
 
 “You made a correct guess regarding the 
 ring; it must have fallen from my finger then, 
 though it seems to fit well. There are none of 
 all my family possessions I value- more.” 
 
 “It is a beautiful ring, Madame, and an an- 
 cient one, I presume ; your servant told me it 
 had been made by a Byzantine artist before 
 your family settled in Russia.” 
 
 “Ay, yes, Calixi knows its history; it has 
 been our signet for nine generations — a beau- 
 tiful seal.” She had taken off her glove by this 
 time, after first glancing along the road, as if 
 to see that we were alone, and now the golden 
 circlet and the engraved amethyst shone in the 
 evening light, and on a hand whose symmetrical 
 beauty and marble whiteness had no grace to 
 borrow from gold or gems. It might have 
 served for Homer’s Venus when she drew sword 
 with such ill fortune against Minerva. 
 
 “Beautiful!” said I, meaning both the hand 
 and the amethyst. 
 
 “The head of Jupiter, the god of the old 
 world, the dispenser of greatness and good for- 
 tune still to those that read the stars,” she said, 
 looking at the ring and not at me. 
 
 “ Your servant mentioned that the artist who 
 made it was also an astrologer.” 
 
 “ He was one of the most able professors of 
 that immortal science in his day, and there was 
 then some learning in the world. He made 
 this ring according to hour and sign — the influ- 
 ence of the planet and the gem are united in it 
 for the Palivezi ; they have kept the signet and 
 prospered in spite of their evil stars, which rule, 
 nevertheless.” How seriously earnest and be- 
 lieving she looked ! 
 
 “You have faith in astrology, then, Madame ?” 
 said I. 
 
 “Yes, I can not disbelieve what I know to be 
 true; but I forgot, for the moment, that you 
 knew nothing of the science, and had been 
 taught to call it superstition.” 
 
 “That is the general opinion in our day,” 
 said I; “but, for my own p^rt, I could never 
 venture to say where truth ends and supersti- 
 tion begins.” 
 
 “You speak wisely: their frontiers are more 
 difficult to trace out than those of Sweden and 
 Norway, which have lately given the commis- 
 sioners so much trouble ; and there are neither 
 landmarks nor witness -stones set up for us. 
 Have you read the motto inside the ring?” 
 
 “I have not the good fortune to be a Greek 
 scholar, Madame.” 
 
 “Well, you can be a very good clerk without 
 Greek, and, what is better, a wise man, if that 
 be in you. Language is but the channel of 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 45 
 
 thought, and, as far as I know, any one will 
 serve the purpose as well as another ; but Greek 
 was the language of my ancestors — they spoke 
 it at Marathon and Salamis — for we are of Athe- 
 nian, and not Spartan race : the motto means, 
 in English, ‘ Suffer and reign.’ ” 
 
 “ It is a singular motto.” 
 
 “ It is a true one, my friend ; there is no rul- 
 ing without suffering too ; but I have talked 
 enough about my signet,” and she drew on her 
 gloVe. “You saved it from the hands of some 
 strolling gipsy or prowling boy, and thus served 
 the fortunes of the Palivezi. Is there any way 
 in which I can reward you ?” 
 
 “I wish for no reward, Madame.” She had 
 encouraged me to converse as an equal, and 
 now the great lady was recollecting that I was 
 but her clerk. 
 
 ‘‘But I wish to acknowledge the service : 
 think again ; is there nothing in my power that 
 wo^Jd suit you?” 
 
 It was doubtless pride and folly that made me 
 answer, “ Nothing, Madame,” and doubtless the 
 motive powers were visible, for she responded, 
 “ Something may occur to you in a future day ; 
 in the mean time, accept a thousand thanks. 
 Good evening!” and, tapping her intelligent 
 horse to proceed, Madame Palivez galloped 
 away. I remember watching her till she was 
 out of sight, but the great lady never looked 
 back. I remember going home with a confused 
 crowd of thoughts in my mind — a determina- 
 tion to tell Rhoda nothing of the interview, be- 
 cause there was nothing said that she could un- 
 derstand, except my refusal to be rewarded, 
 which would not have met with family appro- 
 bation. Yet I could have done nothing else 
 were the whole scene to be gone through again ; 
 and for weeks after, all that had been said to 
 me regarding the ring, the astrologer, and the 
 fortunes of the Palivez was coming back word 
 for word, with the looks, tones, and the pres- 
 ence of the speaker ; but I went home. I went to 
 work, and saw nothing of Madame. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 INSIDE A THREE-PAIR BACK. 
 
 Wiiat had become of Rosanna ? and why 
 had I no letter from her? These were the ques- 
 tions that troubled me as weeks wore away, and 
 packet after packet came in. I had written 
 three times, but got no answer. Could my 
 good advice have been ill taken ? It was kind- 
 ly given, and I had been accustomed to advise 
 her. Had any mischance happened? Sally 
 would have been sure to write ; she was more 
 than commonly ready to communicate bad news. 
 I grew anxious ; I grew half jealous, though it 
 was not my nature. Had the old gentleman 
 who gazed from over the way any hand in it ? 
 I would wait one week longer, then write under 
 cover to Jeremy, and demand an explanation. 
 
 About the middle of the said week I was hur- 
 
 rying into the bank with a strong impression of 
 being rather late, when a dirty boy ran up to 
 me and said, “Please, sir, where am I to find 
 Mr. La Touche?” 
 
 There was a large note in his hand, on which 
 I caught sight of my own name in a handwrit- 
 ing which, if not the most beautiful, was then 
 the most welcome in the world to me, for it was 
 Rosanna’s. 
 
 “I am Mr. La Touche,” said I, plucking the 
 note from his fingers, and leaving him astonished 
 over a sixpence. 
 
 There was greater astonishment for me in the 
 communication, which I read before I reached 
 the office. 
 
 “ Dearest and most beloved Lucien, — 
 This is to let you know that we have all ar- 
 rived safe, and got lodgings as directed above. 
 Sally would not stay any longer in Ameriky, 
 and made Jeremy and me come home with her. 
 We were marcifully presarved,but very long on 
 say ; and I am in the greatest of grief and 
 trouble about you, not knowen what you will 
 say, and also having got no letters from you. 
 Dear Lucien, do not forsake your own Rosanna, 
 but come and see me, or I will break my heart.” 
 
 There was one woman that loved and valued 
 me — that would not regard me only as a poor 
 clerk to be paid for services and left unnoticed 
 as the desk at which he sat. What if her letter 
 were ill-spelled and worse indited? The bad 
 spelling did not look so bad in the light by which 
 I read it then. Yet their coming to London 
 surprised me. It was doubtless Sally’s doings. 
 In spite of the fits which kept her so much with- 
 in doors, there was a restless craving for change 
 and excitement in her uncertain brain — a fre- 
 quent concomitant of such uncertainty. But 
 the quarter in which they had established them- 
 selves seemed still more unaccountable : it was 
 No. 5 Bolton Row, Mayfair; and Rosanna had 
 finished what she called the direction above with 
 “Please to ask for the three-pair back.” 
 
 What brought them ? What were they go- 
 ing to do in London, and what was I to do? 
 Nothing but the duty before me. There was a 
 household in number nine to be maintained. 
 The idea of bringing home a young wife to Miss 
 Livy was not to be contemplated, independent 
 of the question of adequate means. Our en- 
 gagement could not be fulfilled, but Rosanna 
 and I could see each other ; our mutual love 
 and sympathy would give us both support under 
 our different trials, and, as Morton had said, 
 how was our attachment to stand the wear and 
 tear of life if it could not outlast the years of 
 probation ? I thought of those matters and. of 
 her all day. I left as soon as business would 
 permit, and made my way through a pouring 
 wet evening to No. 5 Bolton Row. It was a 
 back outskirt of what was at that time the head- 
 quarters of fashion ; the spot which the Prince 
 Regent delighted to honor with his presence at 
 | ball and party ; the quarter into which all the 
 leaders, dependencies, and offscouring of the 
 
46 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 fashionable world crowded in the season ; where 
 small houses were let at enormous rents, and 
 back rooms yielded a revenue to those that let 
 them. Bolton Bow was sacred to that class: 
 its high narrow houses were filled to overflow- 
 ing with the hangers-on of the beau monde ; and 
 when I knocked at No. 5, and asked for Miss 
 Joyce, mentioning the three-pair back as direct- 
 ed, a slatternly maid pointed to the stair, lit 
 by an ill-supplied lamp on the first landing; 
 and through a din of ringing bells and loud 
 talking from every room, through a steam of 
 mingled coffee, dinners, and gin, I stumbled up 
 three flights — narrow, steep, and sharp at the 
 turns — to the utmost attic, where I caught the 
 well-known sound of Sally’s voice in a high key 
 of scolding, and by its help found a door in the 
 darkness, knocked, and saw the first light fall 
 on Rosanna’s face as she opened it. With what j 
 a scream of delighted surprise the girl welcomed 
 me ! With what a flushed cheek and eye of 
 dancing light she led me in with, “ Sally ! Sal- 
 ly! here is Lucien!” The elder sister shrieked, 
 and looked ready for a fit, and Jeremy, who had 
 been probably the subject of her eloquence, rose 
 out of his corner, and said, “Goodness me!” It 
 was a low-roofed room, furnished in the make- 
 shift manner of top rooms at the West End : a 
 ragged bit of carpet, in which one’s feet got en- 
 tangled ; a crazy table, in danger of tilting up 
 if things were not properly set in the centre ; a 
 few ancient and stuffy chairs, a sofa to match, 
 and two half- curtained attic windows. I saw 
 all that after I had seen Rosanna. She looked 
 as pretty, as lively as ever, and had expected 
 me, for her hair was in full flow of curls, and 
 she had a new dress on. Sally looked more 
 disturbed in her mind than I had been accus- 
 tomed to see her in Baltimore — things were not 
 in the settling line with her ; but she had been 
 scolding, and was taken by surprise. There 
 was no change in Jerem 3 r — time or travel could 
 make none on his subjugated soul ; but the 
 brother and sister welcomed me with evident 
 gladness. I heard all about their voyage, which 
 had been a long one, and taken soon after my 
 advising letter came to hand. Sally was clear 
 on it that she must have died if they remained 
 in America; the climate was entirely against 
 her, and Jeremy was sure of a situation in Lon- 
 don. I hinted that situations were not to be 
 found at every step, but perhaps they had some 
 prospect. 
 
 “ Oh yes, a good prospect — a very sure pros- 
 pect,” said Sally, with great authority. 
 
 “Is it in this neighborhood?” I was de- 
 termined to know what brought them there. 
 
 “No, not exactly.” 
 
 “Because you will find it an expensive place 
 to live in — these fashionable quarters always 
 are : this top floor will cost you as much as very 
 nice apartments in a quieter neighborhood.” 
 
 “I can’t live in low corners — I never was 
 brought up to it. Those two” (and Miss Joyce 
 pointed at her brother and sister) “could do it 
 very well, I dare say. Their mother was a 
 
 common person, but mine was a lady, Mr. La 
 Touche, and I take after her. I must see life — 
 I must have society.” 
 
 To attempt reasoning with Sally on her pros- 
 pects of seeing life, and having society in the 
 three-pair back, was an undertaking beyond my 
 courage, particularly as the lady could take fits. 
 It was her whim to settle in an attic of Mayfair, 
 just as it was to come home from Baltimore. 
 Jeremy and Rosanna were mere counters in the 
 game, in right of their mother being only a com- 
 mon person. There Sally was, and there she 
 would stay till her brain took another turn; 
 and I, seeing no promise of peace in it, waived 
 the subject, asking Jeremy how he had left my 
 uncle. 
 
 Mr. O’Neil was well, but there had been a re- 
 port in Baltimore that he was going to get mar- 
 ried ; and Rosanna thought it must be true, for 
 she had seen him at a door in the Virginia Vil- 
 las, quite grand with his gold-headed cane &nd 
 shoe-buckles. Somebody told her that the house 
 belonged to Mrs. Maynard, a senator’s widow, 
 come of one of the first families in the town — 
 a perfect madam. She had a son, a conceited 
 young man, Rosanna thought ; he used to march 
 along Baltimore Street as proud and high as if 
 there was nobody good enough for him to look 
 at. Jeremy added that he had been studying 
 for the law, but changed his mind lately, and 
 came to my uncle’s counting-house, a sort of 
 apprentice like, to learn the business, and Mr. 
 O’Neil thought a deal of him. 
 
 There was the successor to my abandoned 
 prospects, the man destined to occupy the place 
 I had left vacant in my uncle’s scheme. Well, 
 I had chosen my lot and would abide by it. 
 The pretty Rosanna sat by i?iy side in the shab- 
 biest of West End attics, herself in a flush of 
 delight, unconcerned about the shabbiness, and 
 equally unconscious of the sacrifice thus forced 
 on my attention. I would have done any thing 
 to protect her from that consciousness. It 
 pressed heavily on my mind, now that I had 
 additional responsibilities and no dependence 
 but my own earnings, supplemented by the un- 
 repayable friendship or charity of Mr. Forbes. 
 It was perhaps an unnecessary effort to hide 
 that root of bitterness which made me say, with 
 a gayety I did not feel, “No doubt the old gen- 
 tleman will marry the perfect madam, and 
 adopt her son. Who can blame him? We 
 would all marry if we could.” 
 
 “Every one can that wants to do it,” cried 
 Sally, snatching at the words like an opportu- 
 nity, “and I think it is quite time you and Ro- 
 sanna should finish the business, now that you 
 can keep a house.” 
 
 “ There are too many mistresses in it al- 
 ready,” said I, hoping to foil the unexpected 
 attack. 
 
 “ Too many indeed, and of course it is all 
 goodness in you ; but what right have you, Mr. 
 La Touche, to be saddled with such a tribe of 
 women? I don’t speak against keeping your 
 sister — a brother can never value a sister too 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 47 
 
 highly” (and she looked admonishingly at Jere- 
 my) — “but a grand-aunt, and a strange wom- 
 an’s daughter — dumb and mad, isn’t she? — I 
 think some of your relations, or somebody, 
 ought to keep them, and let you fulfill your en- 
 gagement honorably.” 
 
 “I never meant to do otherwise, Miss Joyce, 
 as you know very well ; but my grand-aunt and 
 poor widow Clark’s daughter I am bound to 
 maintain by every feeling of honor and duty. 
 I have no relations who could or would do it ; 
 I can not leave them destitute ; and I love Ro- 
 sanna too well to bring her home to such a 
 family.” 
 
 “Fiddlesticks ! ” cried my intended sister-in- 
 law. “Do you think I would suffer you to put 
 a ring on her finger till the house was clear of 
 them ? No ! She’ll have a hard enough trial 
 in married life, I’ll warrant — her that has been 
 kept like a lady, without having an old woman’s 
 tempers and a mad girl to deal with! But the 
 business must be finished, I tell you, once for 
 all. I’ll have no more hanging on or putting 
 off. You have got a situation and a house, now 
 is the time or never. If you are going to mar- 
 ry Rosanna, do it at once ; and if you are not, 
 say so, and let us understand one another.” 
 
 “Miss Joyce,” said I, “I wish, above all 
 things, to marry your sister ; it is the chief de- 
 sire of my heart, the chief hope of my life, 
 which I would do any thing in conscience to 
 fulfill i but I can not, and I will not cast off 
 my poor aunt and the dumb girl.” 
 
 My last words were drowned in a shriek of 
 “ Oh, you deceiver !” 
 
 “Now, Sally, don’t,” cried Rosanna, and 
 Jeremy echoed that remonstrance ; but it was 
 to no purpose. , Sally continued to rail at me 
 and mine for imposing on her family, beguiling 
 her sister's heart with the worst intentions, and 
 making excuses to keep the girl from getting 
 settled; but she would show me that the Joyces 
 were not to be made fools of. I had better not 
 come there with my pretensions again. She 
 would lock Rosanna up if ever she spoke or 
 wrote to me from that hour; and as I sprang 
 to my feet, feeling the assault past endurance, 
 she uttered a sharper scream, and dropped on 
 the floor in a fit. There was the usual fright 
 and hurry getting her to bed, poor Rosanna and 
 Jeremy all the while begging me not to mind 
 what Sally said. It was just her way to work 
 things up in that manner ; but she would come 
 to herself by-and-by. I gave them what assist- 
 ance I could ; went over the whole subject with 
 the brother, when she was safely out of hearing,- 
 and the younger sister watching by her bedside 
 in the adjoining room. Jeremy was sensible 
 enough to see the difficulties of the case, and 
 fully agreed in my views of duty ; but I knew 
 that he must and would agree with Sally for all 
 practical purposes, and it was with a weary, 
 hopeless heart that I went down stairs, lighted 
 by Rosanna, who took that opportunity to talk 
 with me in private. If my own part of the 
 business was hard, it was nothing to hers, shut 
 
 up with and under the dominion of that unre- 
 sisting, excitable, despotic sister, with her res- 
 olute whims and ever-recurring fits. My poor 
 girl wept sore, leaning on my shoulder at the 
 top of the steep stair, telling me there was no 
 peace, with Sally always going on about my 
 being in no haste to marry her, and meaning 
 nothing but deceit and villainy. “ She says 
 there are plenty of better men I might have, 
 now that your uncle is going to marry; and 
 won’t do any thing for you ; and I am sure 
 I don’t know what she means ; but you won’t 
 forsake me — you won’t break my heart, Lu- 
 cien ?” 
 
 I do not remember half of all I said to com- 
 fort Rosanna. My own heart was sore and 
 heavily laden ; there seemed no outlet from the 
 necessities that hampered us — the troubles that 
 warped and wore away our lives ; and what 
 seemed worse than all, though it lay unuttered 
 in my mind, was a misgiving that our marriage 
 would not bring us happiness, even if the way 
 were clear. I had never felt so before, and I 
 tried to fling off the feeling, for there seemed no 
 reason in it. Sally Joyce was no worse pros- 
 pect for a sister-in-law than she had ever been ; 
 perhaps her whims and fits were on the increase, 
 and the present state of things had given her a 
 gmighty opportunity to be troublesome. Jeremy 
 was no more under her government than usual. 
 It was his destiny, and he fulfilled it, poor fel- 
 low ! Rosanna was as fair, as fond as ever, and 
 my vows and protestations of truth to her were 
 repeated in all honesty. Her face was clothed 
 with smiles again, when Sally began to moan in 
 the inner room, and I knew it was unfitting to 
 stand longer on the stair ; yet, when I got into 
 the street and felt the cool air upon my- brow, 
 it was a positive relief to get away from all the 
 Joyces. 
 
 I walked quickly out of the Row, taking no 
 heed of my direction, and never pausing or look- 
 ing about till I found myself in the middle of 
 Curzon Street. The rain was over, and had left 
 the air full of freshness and the sky full of stars, 
 for it was night by this time — such night as still 
 comes to Mayfair in the height of the London 
 season, with the flare of lamps, the roll of car- 
 riages, the thunder of knockers, and the sight 
 of ladies in full dress. Curzon Street seemed 
 particularly occupied with something of the 
 kind, and I perceived that the chief attraction 
 to its discerning public was a mansion on the 
 opposite side, lighted up from basement to attic 
 as if for a grand gala ; a double line of carriages 
 in front, which every minute increased with 
 new arrivals ; a confused mingling of liveries 
 and flowers half seen through its open door, as 
 the full-dressed ladies and gentlemen swept in ; 
 and a much greater confusion of commands, re- 
 monstrances, and remarks, between the attend- 
 ant lackeys, the order-keeping police, and the 
 crowd of link-boys and lookers-on. I paused, 
 for there was no passing till the fuss subsided. 
 I had no interest in the Countess of This or the 
 Marchioness of That, on whom the crowd were 
 
48 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 making tlieir remarks, loud enough, though not 
 always complimentary, as the great people de- 
 scended and disappeared; yet the mansion be- 
 fore me, blazing with festal splendor, and getting 
 so full of company, caught my mind away from 
 its private troubles, for in a servant who passed 
 me, made his way through the crowd, and got 
 in at the open door, I recognized, in spite of his 
 rich livery, the grave, silent man in Eastern 
 costume who had ushered me into the presence 
 of Madame Palivez. 
 
 “Can you tell me to whom that house be- 
 longs, sir?” I said, addressing a gentleman who 
 stood beside me among the more respectable por- 
 tion of the gathering on the pavement, watching 
 the arrivals, perhaps waiting to pass, but evi- 
 dently in no great hurry, for he stood tapping 
 the flags with his ratan, and humming a theat- 
 rical air to himself. 
 
 “ It belongs to the great banking lady, as I 
 suppose one may call her — Madame Palivez. 
 She owns the Great Bank in Old Broad Street 
 — sole owner, and director too, I understand. 
 They say there is no end of her riches, and she 
 is giving a ball to-night, you see, in honor of 
 the Russian embassador and that old princess 
 who has come to visit him.” 
 
 “Princess Lievan,” said I, having learned so 
 much of the great world from the newspapers, t 
 
 “Yes, that’s her name — a regular old witch 
 to look at. If you had come five minutes soon- 
 er you might have seen her get out of the car- 
 riage. Not much of a sight for one to miss, 
 though ! Do you think it is true that she 
 had a hand in taking off the Russian emperor’s 
 father ?” 
 
 “It is hard to know what may be true about 
 court ladies, ” said I. “Is Madame Palivez sup- 
 posed to be a friend of the princess ?” 
 
 “ Oh ! bless you, yes. She knows all that 
 sort of people. The family came from Russia, 
 I understand, though they are of Greek origin ; 
 but Madame is hand and glove with all the 
 swells — fashionables, I mean — at home and 
 abroad. Money, you perceive, answereth all 
 things and the gentleman did something be- 
 tween a sigh and a swagger, which indicated to 
 me that the article in question was not plentiful 
 with him. 
 
 His appearance had caught my fancy and 
 made me address the man, for my American 
 breeding gave English manners a cold and re- 
 pelling effect, and I found myself yet a stranger 
 in the land. He was some inches less than my-, 
 self, but substantially built, with a fair allow- 
 ance of bone and muscle. He was some years 
 older, too. His complexion might have been 
 fair, but was bronzed with weather and travel ; 
 his hair was decidedly auburn, just escaping the 
 red ; his bushy whiskers had not come within 
 the saving clause. The upper half of his face 
 (that is to say, forehead and eyes) was hand- 
 some and expressive, but the lower was coarse 
 and heavy. On the whole, there was more of 
 breadth and massiveness than beauty. His 
 dress was what young men about town call 
 
 swellish — rings, pins, and chains beyond the 
 common in flash and quantity, but carelessly 
 thrown on, with a wrinkled cravat, and shirt- 
 front out of order. He was no dandy, but he 
 liked finery, and looked a gentleman in spite of 
 it, though to what order, calling, or profession 
 he might belong it were hard to guess. 
 
 There was a look of idleness, of being without 
 occupation, and not knowing what to do with 
 himself, about the man ; there was also an ap- 
 pearance of not being particular where he went 
 or what he did, yet, withal, such an expression 
 of honest, simple frankness, resolute courage, 
 and boundless good-nature in his face, that I 
 felt dratvn to him on first sight. He was the 
 man one could have had good fellowship with 
 in social evenings, good help from in desperate 
 circumstances ; not the best of advisers, not 
 the safest of companions, perhaps, yet far more 
 ready to go than lead astray ; and, at Avorst, 
 given only to play in the puddles or slip into 
 the mires of life, never to dig its pitfalls or 
 spring its mines for others. 
 
 He stood there by my side, talking in an 
 easy, friendly fashion, as if glad to find some 
 one he could talk and linger with, making off- 
 hand strictures on such of the magnificent com- 
 pany as Ave could see getting out of their car- 
 riages ; and Avhen at length the arrivals ceased 
 and the croAvd began to give way, we parted 
 Avith a civil “ good -evening,” and I suav him 
 take the very direction by Avhich I had ccme, 
 and Avalk straight into Bolton Roav. 
 
 It was time to go home, and home I Avent, 
 but sloAvly, and with many a backAvard look at 
 the liglited-up house, and the croAvd of carriages 
 in front of it. That Avas Madame Palivez’s West 
 End mansion, where she Avas at home and Avent 
 out in the season. What wealth it must re- 
 quire to support such an establishment, to give 
 such expensive entertainments ! and how would 
 the mere outlay of that evening, the mere equip- 
 ments of one carriage full, jewelers’ work con- 
 sidered, break doAvn the barrier between Ro- 
 sanna and me, and bring us happily to com- 
 mence housekeeping together ! The unequal 
 division of things never pressed so heavily on 
 my mind before. And then Avhat riches must 
 be at the disposal — in the command of that one 
 solitary Avoman, without heirs or relations, for 
 every body said Madame Avas the last of the 
 Palivez ! 
 
 Why did she live unmarried? It was not 
 for want of offers, Avith her wealth and her 
 beauty, I thought, getting jput of Curzon Street 
 by this time on my Avay home. What made 
 me turn back to get another look at the man- 
 sion? The carriages and the crowd had rather 
 increased with the coming of late but distin- 
 guished guests, I judged by the bustle they 
 made ; and Avhen elboAving nearer to get a bet- 
 ter sight, somebody elbowed me a fierce, sharp 
 thrust, as if the arm-bone had a dagger in it, 
 and there, leaning against a lamp-post, shoving 
 every body off, but looking only at the festal 
 mansion, I suav Mr. Esthers. He did not ob- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 49 
 
 serve me — perhaps did not mean to observe. 
 His mind was preoccupied, and with no pleas- 
 ant thoughts, for a stranger who saw the sharp- 
 eyed little man gazing at his employer’s house 
 v#>uld have been puzzled to say whether he was 
 taking notes to report in some hostile and ma- 
 licious newspaper, or making vituperative ob- 
 servations on the waste of his own patrimony. 
 
 be at home ; and where was Esthers? He had 
 slipped away through the crowd, as if toward 
 Madame’s house, but there I lost sight of him ; 
 and as I entered Bolton Row as the shortest way 
 back to Oxford Street, there was a man knock- 
 ing at No. 5, but the door had closed upon him 
 before I reached it, and there was a bright, and, 
 to me, a mysterious light in the attic. 
 
 And there, looking at the festal mansion, was Mr. Esthers. 
 
 I looked at him in wonder ; I looked at the 
 house too. How did she look among that mag- 
 nificent company? No doubt as queenly as I 
 .had seen her in those silent, harem-like rooms 
 of hers behind the bank in Old Broad Street. 
 How was she dressed? Was there any chance 
 of her being seen at the lighted windows ? 
 What business was that of mine ? I ought to 
 D 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AN ATTEMPTED MURDER. 
 
 I walked home through the cool starlight 
 night, left the bustle and glare of the West End 
 behind me, and reached our own remote neigh- 
 borhood, then silent with country quiet, and 
 sweet with the breath of green fields and bloom- 
 
50 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 ing hawthprn. There was the little house — an 
 honest and respectable, if not attractive home, 
 and there was Rhoda at its door, looking anx- 
 iously out for her gentleman-brother, who hap- 
 pened to be later than usual. 
 
 She had a welcome for me as kindly, though 
 it was not given with Rosanna’s eyes ; and 
 when I got in, there was my grand-aunt, poor 
 old Miss Livy, with her wrinkled face, slowly 
 spinning in her accustomed corner, and Hannah 
 Clark knitting quietly on a low stool by her side. 
 The old woman looked up and smiled as I en- 
 tered, and the dumb gill sprang up with a joy- 
 ful crow. They were all glad to see me — that 
 simple, helpless household missed me when I 
 went out, and waited for my coming home. 
 Yet I was lonely among them, and likely to be 
 so ; they formed a living rampart between me 
 and Rosanna, and there was none whom I could 
 take into confidence on that matter. I had not 
 the heart to let even Rhoda know the cause of 
 my late home-coming, for she, too, was involved ; 
 if it must be told some time, it could be post- 
 poned now, so I gave them to understand that 
 business had detained me, made believe to eat 
 my supper, and undertook to lock the outer 
 door and make things generally safe, when they 
 all retired to bed, and left me with candles and 
 papers by way of excuse for remaining up in our 
 little sitting-room. I had risen early, and been 
 at work all day, but the scenes of the evening 
 had banished sleep from my eyes, and there 
 were restless thoughts, that seemed to have no 
 connection, jostling each other in my mind. 
 Rosanna, her unlucky life, her termagant sister, 
 my solemn engagement, it was taking the shape 
 of a bond ; yet did I not love the girl who had 
 so long loved and trusted me ? Then my poor 
 relations, the impossibility of ever providing for 
 them and being able to marry. I could take 
 counsel of nobody who would approve such a 
 wedding : not Wilson nor Mr. Forbes — they were 
 all the friends I had, and might help me in spite 
 of disapprobation ; but I wanted no more chari- 
 ty. Over and over the subject was turned, and 
 ever through these home troubles of my humble 
 life came the lighted mansion in Curzon Street, 
 with the crowd, the carriages, and the gay com- 
 pany sweeping in. Through the deep silence 
 of the sleeping house and the country neighbor- 
 hood I could hear in fancy the sound of music 
 and dancing from that distant ball. The light 
 and splendor of those brilliant rooms which I 
 had never entered flitted before my eyes : the 
 forms, the dresses, and, chief of all, the lady of 
 the festival — how did she look, how did she 
 dance ? and what was all that to me ? I could 
 not go to bed ; I couldn’t read ; I could not fix 
 on any course of conduct ; I could not write to 
 Melrose Morton, though each expedient was 
 tried in turn as the hours wore away and my 
 candle burned down. It would soon go out, 
 but the gray light of the morning was creeping 
 in through my window-shutters. I opened them 
 and looked out : there was the summer daylight 
 stealing over the sky in its early whiteness, the 
 
 stars were going down behind woods and hills, 
 and there was a rising flush in the east right 
 over London. The last of the carriages would 
 have driven away by this time ; Madame Palivez 
 would have turned out of her deserted ballrooirt, 
 and cast off dress and jewels, weary enough, 
 no doubt, and glad to go to sleep. Was that 
 the lark I heard waking up among the mead- 
 ows ? There was no use in me going to sleep 
 now ; I felt strangely wakeful and active ; and 
 there came, I never could say whence or why, a 
 sudden impulse to go out, and out I went, un- 
 barring the door, and closing it behind me as 
 securely and quietly as possible. The morning 
 air was fresh and cooling ; I walked on through 
 the growing light and dewy fragrance, heard the 
 lark singing far above, envied his free life, un- 
 burdened with thought or care, custom or duty, 
 as many a man has done. He had his love and 
 home without fear of inadequate provision, en- 
 gagements or obligations, and I had a sister, a 
 grand-aunt, and Hannah Clark, not to speak of 
 Jeremy and Sally Joyce, in prospect, if the con- 
 nection could ever become possible. I passed 
 the Notting Hill turnpike, and through the vil- 
 lage street, where the earliest laborer was not 
 yet stirring. I saw Mr. Forbes’s house lying 
 gray and silent among its grounds ; I looked up 
 the hill-side path among the trees where the lady 
 had alighted and the horse had drunk at the 
 stream. I had found the signet-ring there 
 which kept good fortune in her family j strange 
 notion, and strange that I should find it ! My 
 steps had turned in the direction as if by in- 
 stinct ; I was going up to the very spot ; but 
 what sounds were those far up the winding 
 path — growls, scuffling, the tramp of a horse’s 
 hoofs, and at last a human voice ? It was a 
 man saying in a hoarse screech, “You murdered 
 him ! I know you did, and I’ll finish you, you 
 sorceress.” 
 
 I rushed to the spot from whence the voice 
 proceeded, and there, on the steepest part of the 
 hill, where the path was narrowest and the trees 
 grew thickest, was Madame Palivez, green habit 
 and all, mounted on her Arab horse, and urging 
 the noble creature with all her might to strain 
 away from a man who had caught by the bridle, 
 which had partly given way in his grasp, and 
 was lunging at her with a long sharp knife. 
 Another thrust, and he must have reached her ; 
 but I was upon him before he was aware, seized 
 his uplifted arm, wrenched the knife out of his 
 hand, flung it far into the thicket, and hurled 
 him backward to the ground, rending the bridle- 
 rein at the same moment, and setting the Arab 
 free. Away it bounded like an arrow ; but I 
 heard Madame cry, “ Stop, Zara!” and she was 
 again by my side, while I tried to hold the man 
 down. He was a wild, fierce creature, with 
 ragged clothes, tangled hair, and eyes full of the 
 fire of madness, but worn to skin and bone, and 
 not my match in strength. Yet it was a despe- 
 rate struggle for some minutes : he gnashed his 
 teeth, tried to tear me with his long nails, and 
 struck out his heels like a vicious horse. “ For 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 51 
 
 Heaven’s sake keep off, Madame!” I cried, as 
 she approached. Her face* was deadly pale, yet 
 there was more of resolution than fear in it. 
 
 “Hold him if you can,” she said, and then 
 up went a small silver bugle to her lips, and a 
 long shrill blast made the park about us ring; 
 the next moment I heard the sound of horses’ 
 hoofs, and two mounted grooms came galloping 
 up the hill. She made a sign to one of them 
 — it was the silent servant Calixi — they both 
 sprung from their horses, seized on the man, 
 whom I had almost mastered, while he con- 
 tinued to gnash his teeth, and cry, “You mur- 
 dered him ! I know you did, you sorceress.” 
 “Leave him to them,” she said, motioning 
 me away. “You have saved my life ; do me 
 one other service : go home, and speak nothing 
 of this adventure to any one till we meet again.” 
 “ I will obey you to the letter, Madame ; but 
 may I not see you safe to your villa ?” 
 
 “No, no,” she said, impatiently, “there is 
 no danger now ; go home, and do not speak of 
 it — I request — I entreat you !” And with some 
 words — I think they were Greek— to the silent 
 servant, she rode rapidly away. 
 
 They had got the man bound with some of 
 their horse gear, and silenced too, by this time : 
 it was done so quietly and quickly I could not 
 tell how. He was manifestly mad; yet that 
 silent servant had some mode of subduing his 
 fierceness. I had heard him whisper something- 
 in a foreign tongue as they were binding the 
 man, whom they had got up now, and Calixi 
 was marching him away ; I should like to have 
 known where, but he motioned me to go, ex- 
 actly as Madame had done, and, being bound 
 by promise, I left, and soon lost sight of them 
 among the trees. If any body had heard the 
 shrill blast of that silver bugle except those for 
 whom it was intended, they had all gone to 
 sleep again ; the road, the village, all lay silent 
 in the early morning light ; nobody at home 
 seemed to have been disturbed by my going out 
 or coming in, and weary, bewildered, and with 
 some bloody scratches on my face and hands, I 
 crept up to my own bedroom to prevent wonder 
 or observation just as the house-clock struck 
 four. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A SECRET MEETING. 
 
 Thankful to God for having been pre- 
 served, and for being able to serve my bene- 
 factress, I had slept in spite of the daylight and 
 the strange adventure, for nature was worn out 
 — slept too deeply for dream or consciousness 
 of life till somebody called me by name. It 
 was Rhoda at my room door, with “Lucien, 
 dear, it’s half past eight, and I came to call you, 
 for fear of your being too late for the bank.” 
 “ Thank you, Rhoda ; I will be ready in five 
 minutes.” Ready I was, but the glass showed 
 me grievous evidences of that fierce struggle on 
 the hill-side path ; the marks of the wild crea- 
 
 ture’s claws were in my face like those of a 
 mountain cat. I covered them as well as I 
 could with court-plaster which happened to be 
 by me, and I made a point of telling them at 
 breakfast that I had cut myself accidentally 
 with my razor. 
 
 “ Goodness be about us ! but you must have 
 done it in styk^” said Miss Livy, surveying my 
 plastered countenance ; “ that shaving is a dan- 
 gerous business, Lucien ; you ought to take bet- 
 ter care.” 
 
 “Aunt, dear, maybe he couldn’t,” said 
 Rhoda ; at any rate, the cuts will soon get well, 
 as every cut does with him. Don’t you mind, 
 when we were all at home in Armagh, he near- 
 ly took his thumb off' whittling sticks with the 
 carving-knife, and it was well in no time?” 
 
 “Ay, that was the summer before Raymond 
 went off. How he nursed and comforted the 
 child ! Who would have thought he could ever 
 have done as he did !” Miss Livy would have 
 gone on with reflections on that subject ; she 
 was terribly given to turn to it in those latter 
 years of hers ; but Rhoda let the house-keys fall 
 — it was one among many expedients the good 
 girl had for stopping her — the reproof and the 
 defense upon it got over the rest of the break- 
 fast-time, and then my untroubled sister saw me 
 out at the door, with the assurance that nobody 
 could help cutting themselves, and she knew 
 my face would soon be well. 
 
 The girl had sense enough to keep the secret ; 
 but I had promised not to tell it, though it was 
 filling all my thoughts. I hoped the bank peo- 
 ple would believe something about the razor, 
 but as every body kept their distance there, no 
 remarks were made, and Esthers was not in the 
 office. By a City man’s wanting to see him 
 about an hour after, I found out that he was 
 not in the house, and the forenoon passed with- 
 out his appearance. Such absence was very 
 unusual with the manager. I noticed, but did 
 not regret it ; there was more leisure to specu- 
 late on the event of the early morning, which 
 had submerged in my mind all that passed be- 
 fore it. Would Esthers be made acquainted 
 with it, or was the secret to be kept from him 
 too ? Why was it kept at all ? and who could 
 that emaciated maniac be ? What were his 
 mad motives for attacking Madame at such a 
 place and time ? I recalled his features ; they 
 were stamped on my memory ; his evident in- 
 sanity — his strange expressions — “You mur- 
 dered him! I know you did, you sorceress.” 
 That was but' the raving of madness. Nobody 
 believed in sorcery now ; and murder — that fine 
 figure, classic face, and alabaster hand, all tell- 
 ing of refined, luxurious life, had nothing to do 
 with crime : it was clearly madness. Yet why 
 did she utter no cry for help, and only spund 
 the summons to her on-coming servants when 
 his knife was gone and the maniac could do lit- 
 tle harm ? Why did she enjoin me not to speak 
 of it “ till we meet again ?” 
 
 Those words of hers kept ringing in my ears. 
 When would that meeting be, and should I get 
 
52 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 a full explanation then? Come what would, I 
 should try to get one. There was something 
 in the man’s voice and features known to my 
 memory, but how or where they had been met 
 with before I could not imagine. Would it all 
 pass as the finding of her signet-ring had done ? 
 I was determined it should not, however un- 
 handsome the forcing myself into her secret 
 might appear. I had a concern, an interest 
 in it, not possible to explain to myself. She 
 said I had saved her life, and so I had, beyond 
 a doubt. The great lady of the bank and of 
 Mayfair owed me that obligation ; it was but a 
 lucky chance, a thing I. ought to have done, yet 
 my heart swelled with pride at the recollection ; 
 and poverty, my grand-aunt, and Sally Joyce 
 were forgotten. 
 
 Weary with turning over these puzzles, not 
 over-occupied w r ith my work, and actively sleep- 
 less all the preceding night, I had fallen into a 
 doze with my head and hands leant on the desk 
 in the quiet office, sensible only of the heat and 
 hum of the surrounding city in the summer 
 afternoon, when the door creaked and somebody 
 slipped in. It was Esthers coming back with 
 unusual silence. The manager was a common 
 apparition, and I was not afraid to be caught 
 dozing, yet the first look of his face made me 
 spring to my feet with an uncontrollable im- 
 pulse, for it explained one of my puzzles. There 
 was the resemblance I had seen and could not 
 understand in the man on the hill-side. It 
 could not be ; it was not the same face ; the 
 tangled hair, the wild eyes, the rags and ema- 
 ciation made a differerice, but my eye had taken 
 in the likeness and could not get quit of it. 
 Contrary to his general custom, Mr. Esthers 
 made no remark on my confusion. Something 
 seemed to occupy himself, and in no pleasant 
 manner; he said good-day civilly, sat down in 
 his place, began to work on the bank-books 
 with great application ; but I heard him sigh as 
 he turned the pages — by-the-bv he ground 'his 
 teeth also, and muttered to himself “One’s own 
 turn, perhaps.” Toward evening he got into 
 his old way, chatted with me familiarly on 
 matters of business, and gave me to understand 
 in an easy, off-hand manner, that he had 
 been out all the morning on Madame’s affairs. 
 There was no allusion to the ball in Curzon 
 Street, at which I had seen him cast such 
 malign looks — not the slightest to the tragical 
 event that followed it, though every glance and 
 movement reminded me of the man clutching 
 the broken bridle and lunging with the long sharp 
 knife. It was not he, yet it was like him, and 
 Esthers could not be in the secret, or he would 
 have known my part in it, and made some ill- 
 natured remark ; the clerk that saved his supe- 
 rior lady’s life would not have been a pleasing 
 subject to our manager. Let me confess that I 
 lingered on the road that warm bright evening 
 in hopes of hearing the Arab’s hoofs and seeing 
 the green habit, as if that had been her ren- 
 dezvous. I had no notion of her being fright- 
 ened from it or any thing else by her adventure 
 
 on the hill-side path ; there was a look of calm 
 and resolute courage above that of most men 
 mingling with her feminine beauty ; but neither 
 hoof nor habit came. I chid myself for losing 
 time in such foolish expectations, and went 
 home to get a good night’s rest. 
 
 Next day was Saturday, when the bank closed 
 early. I was accustomed to go to Mr. Forbes’, 
 and Esthers and our Jewish clerks to the Syna- 
 gogue ; they kept only the fag end of their own 
 Sabbath, and played ninepins most of the Chris- 
 tian Sunday. The bank was closed, and I was 
 in the middle of Threadneedle Street, looking 
 for a coach to get home quickly and be dress- 
 ed in time for dinner at Notting Hill House, 
 when a voice behind said in my very ear, “ Ma- 
 dame Palivez will be glad to see the signor 
 half an hour hence, if he will go to the Greek 
 Coffee-house in Finsbury Pavement, and wait 
 till her messenger comes.” 
 
 “ Happy to obey Madame’s commands,” said 
 I, looking around at Calixi. He disappeared 
 through the crowd, and I made my way to the 
 old Greek Coffee-house. 
 
 There were only two or three Russians there, 
 smoking and making some bargain. I sat down 
 in the identical box where I had sat on Christ- 
 mas-day, and heard Wilson tilling my own sad 
 family secret. 
 
 It was only Midsummer now, yet what events 
 had thickened around my life since then — the 
 last having far the firmest hold on my mind. It 
 was little more than twenty minutes by the 
 clock, but it seemed hours to me till Calixi 
 came to me. He came with the merest sign, 
 and I rose and followed him out of the coffee- 
 house, and across the Pavement, and into the 
 labyrinth of small narrow streets which lay be- 
 tween the back of Madame’s bank and Finsbury. 
 They were more numerous and intricate in that 
 direction at that period than at present ; fires and 
 improvements have done a good deal to alter the 
 neighborhood, and between them swept away an 
 ancient Greek church and its cemetery which 
 stood at the intersection of Winch and Bloom- 
 field Streets, so closely hemmed in by old 
 houses that only a narrow and almost dark- 
 ened passage between them and the church wall 
 gave entrance to the burying-ground. This 
 was our way, one of whose existence I had 
 never dreamt. The houses were mostly stores 
 belonging to Greeks, Jews, and Russians, who 
 then kept their depots in that quarter: their 
 back windows, which would have lookfed into 
 the church-yard, were all shut, and seemed to 
 have been so for years ; it was overgrown with 
 long grass, weeds, and nettles, as silent and shut 
 out from the world as if it had been in the 
 midst of a forest. Funerals could not have 
 been frequent there, for there were no new 
 graves to be seen ; the church was ruinous, par- 
 ticularly in the rear ; the green moss grew 
 thick upon its walls, and sparrows flew out and 
 in through its broken windows. Right opposite, 
 and bounding the church-yard, there rose a 
 wall high and massive enough to be the out- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 53 
 
 work of a castle. As we approached it, I 
 noticed a beaten path through the thick-grow- 
 ing weeds, which led straight to a narrow door 
 hung on stone lintels and bound with iron ; here 
 my guide paused, inserted a small key in the 
 lock, turned it without noise, and a^nitted me 
 into one of the most beautiful conservatories I 
 have ever seen. 
 
 It must have been a kind of court-yard orig- 
 
 the transition from the old overgrown church- 
 yard was so unexpected and surprising ; but 
 with the same grave, immovable face he con- 
 ducted me up a broad stair, steps and banister 
 of white marble, to an upper conservatory, and 
 thence into the Eastern-like saloon where I had 
 my first audience of Madame Palivez. 
 
 There she sat, not now in purple velvet, but a 
 summer dress of fine India muslin striped with 
 
 “ — when a voice behind said in my very ear — ’ 
 
 inallv, but was roofed with glass of all colors, 
 through which the sunshine fell in broken 
 and brilliant rainbows on the white marble 
 floor, adorned with statues, fountains, and vases 
 of porcelain, Bohemian glass, and alabaster, in 
 which all manner of exotic plants, shrubs, and 
 even orange-trees were growing. I think the 
 silent servant enjoyed my look of amazement — 
 
 gold, made in a fashion which no milliner in 
 Mayfair could have tolerated; I knew that, 
 slight as was my acquaintance with ladies’ ware. 
 It was a classic robe, its folds gracefully fitted to 
 her full but perfect figure' and bound round the 
 waist with a broad purple sash. Her long, 
 abundant hair was more loosely braided for the 
 summer-time, and instead of the gold net and 
 
54 : 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 pins she wore a wreath of the white japonica, 
 which I think was natural. 
 
 “ Good-evening, my friend,” she said, extend- 
 ing her white hand with the signet-ring on it, 
 while the loose Greek sleeve showed me a beau- 
 tifully rounded arm and filigree gold bracelets ; 
 “I may well call you so, after the service ren- 
 dered me so lately. Do be seated,” and she 
 pointed to an opposite sofa. 
 
 I had come determined to get things explain- 
 ed, but the scene, the lady, somehow took me 
 off my guard. I sat down, saying nothing, and 
 feeling that I had nothing to say. But Madame 
 had something, and went on : “ You came most 
 opportunely; the unfortunate man certainly 
 would have killed me ! He is insane, you are 
 aware ; has been in a lunatic asylum for nearly 
 seven years, and made his escape about the 
 middle of last week. Our house, owing to spe- 
 cial family arrangements, is charged with his 
 guardianship ; hence his hatred to myself : it 
 is a common effect of madness to make people 
 hate all in authority over them, is it not?” 
 
 “I believe it is, Madame ; and he is evident- 
 ly mad.”. 
 
 “Yes, it is the misfortune — the heir-loom of 
 his family” — she spoke slowly and with cold 
 composure — “a solemn, silent, melancholy mad- 
 ness, subject to sudden fits of violence, and sure 
 to sink into the lowest type- of idiotcy.” 
 
 “A sad heir-loom indeed, Madame.” 
 
 “ Yes, young man. Would all the wealth of 
 London make you wish to belong to such a fam- 
 ily ?” 
 
 “ Certainly not” — it was from my heart — 
 “but does the insanity descend to them all?” 
 
 “All, to the utmost generation, root and 
 branch, with little modification, except in the 
 matter of time.” 
 
 “He is remarkably like Mr. Esthers,” said 
 I, gathering up my resolution. 
 
 “ He is,” said Madame, without the slightest 
 emotion, and there was something in her eyes 
 I could not question; “it is not possible to 
 account for these resemblances. He has been 
 restored to the asylum — a proper and humanely 
 managed one — to my certain knowledge. Being 
 insane, his attack on me is a matter to be passed 
 over and forgotten, certainly not to be spoken 
 of for the benefit of idle gossips and the vexation 
 of unfortunate relatives. There are few fami- 
 lies that have not some serpent’s nest, as they 
 say in Asia — a skeleton in the closet, as Europe- 
 ans say,” and she looked me keenly in the face. 
 
 My family history was known to that great 
 ladv, and I could only answer, “ It is true.” 
 
 “For that reason, I requested you to keep 
 silence on the subject ; and, now that we have 
 met, I believe that I can depend on your dis- 
 cretion.” 
 
 “ You may, Madame ; if you think it advisa- 
 ble that the matter should not be spoken of, I 
 am not the person who would or should make it 
 public.” 
 
 “ I believe you,” she said, “most sincerely ; 
 but tell me one thing — how did you happen to 
 
 be so early abroad, and in such good time for 
 me ?” 
 
 “ I could not sleep, Madame, and went out 
 to get the air.” 
 
 “Not sleep at your time of life, my friend! — 
 oh, but our sleep is broken early and often be- 
 fore we come to the long one. You walked a 
 good way ; it was a pleasant morning ; I was 
 riding alone to my villa, and had bidden the 
 servants follow, not knowing he was out. It 
 was strange that I could not find my bugle till 
 you came up, and I would not blow till you took 
 the knife ; he might have attacked and killed 
 some of them.” 
 
 “Better than you, Madame.” 
 
 “ No ; they have relations, friends, who would 
 miss them, and nobody would miss me.” 
 
 “Madame, you can not think so, with all 
 your advantages and — ” 
 
 “Wealth you mean.” It was beauty I had 
 been going to say, but I added, “ Yes, that is a 
 great help to one’s being missed.” 
 
 “Oh no, my friend, it remains behind us; 
 all it could buy — all it could bribe for us — hon- 
 or, influence, fashion, luxury, they are left to go 
 with it to others — to enemies ; and we must go 
 to the clay.” 
 
 She spoke in a dreary, hopeless tone, that 
 smote me to the heart. I had known the varied 
 ills of poverty ; was this the one great woe of 
 riches, that people must die and leave them ? 
 They had told me that all the Palivez died 
 at middle age ; yet it was only speaking my 
 thoughts when I said, “There is a long way be- 
 tween you and the clay yet, Madame.” 
 
 “There is not — there can not be ; young 
 man, you do not know that there are evils which 
 make us fly to it — evils which no wealth can 
 bribe away, no success atone for — which cling 
 to us and ours in spite of honor and fortune — 
 black shadows cast over all our days, on all our 
 sunny mornings and festive nights, coming on 
 to meet us in palpable shape as we advance 
 along the path of years, and no turning from 
 them but that which leads down to dust and 
 darkness.” 
 
 Alas ! tjiis woman — beautiful and fair — rich 
 above almost all — learned, revered, beloved — 
 had no other faith than this ! 
 
 She was speaking slowly, calmly, but in such 
 a tone as that in which the night-wind wailing 
 through ruins speaks to one’s fancy. Never 
 were my senses so utterly confounded and set at 
 variance as to hear that beautiful woman, in her 
 gay summer dress and rich surroundings, speak 
 words of such mysterious and terrible import. 
 There was something ghastly and spectral in 
 the contrast — it was the skeleton at the feast, 
 and an indefinite fear came over me ; some- 
 thing like the feeling with which I woke at 
 night from dreams of my lost brother. What 
 black shadows could she mean ? Was the wom- 
 an speaking of herself, of her own experience, or 
 only of things which she had read or heard of — 
 which her imagination dwelt on, in that isolated 
 life she pleased to lead, its hours not all filled 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 55 
 
 up with bank business or fashion ? She sat 
 there before me, wearing the same fixed look 
 with which she had spoken so darkly ; no agi- 
 tation, no excitement in the beautiful intellect- 
 ual face, but it had grown stony and statuesque, 
 reminding me somehow of the sphinx, and 
 gazing at me as if she expected an answer. 
 
 “ I can not understand you, Madame ; there 
 are evils in life which money can not buy off, I 
 know — bad health, personal afflictions, and the 
 like ; but what can you have to complain of — 
 young, handsome, and happily situated as you 
 are ?” 
 
 “ I am not young in the reckoning of one at 
 your years; but we will speak of something 
 more interesting,” she said, with sudden state- 
 liness — the lady of the bank addressing her clerk 
 onctf more ; “ you have done me a great and 
 uncommon service ; it is my desire as well as 
 my duty to reward, that is, to acknowledge it ; 
 tell me in what way I can do so most useful or 
 agreeable to you.” 
 
 I had been thrown back for miles by the first 
 queenly word and look. She had encouraged 
 me to forget myself, and I had done it. Was 
 it for that she had brought me there, and got 
 into familiar talk? The mistress of the bank 
 should see that I had been born a gentleman, 
 and was not to be rewarded or paid for service 
 like her groom ; a free man also, not to be 
 drawn out at her pleasure or sport, and sent 
 back into his corner again, like one of the East- 
 ern slaves to whom she was accustomed. 
 
 “Madame Palivez,” said I, and the opposite 
 mirror showed me that there was full-blown 
 pride and suppressed anger in the look I gave 
 her, straight in the face, “I expect and will 
 receive no reward for what you are good enough 
 to call my service. I did nothing on that occa- 
 sion but what an honest man should have done 
 for any lady — any person in like peril ; mere 
 accident brought me to the spot, and I am glad 
 that my early walk enabled me to be of some 
 use to you.” 
 
 I had risen at the conclusion of my speech, 
 determined to take leave at once, but she held 
 out her hand and said, with a look of arch famil- 
 iarity altogether irresistible, “My dear fellow, 
 you are a fool. Allow me to tell you, you will 
 never get on in this world without putting a 
 proper value on your own performances, and 
 getting profit out of them. Sit down there, and 
 don’t be in such a hurry to take fire when one only 
 wants to acknowledge one’s obligation. We 
 rich people can not allow ourselves to be in such 
 debt without giving a testimonial — an I O U of 
 some sort, you understand. Sit down ; stay to 
 dinner with me, like a good boy.” 
 
 She positively directed me back to my seat 
 with the extended hand which I had taken in- 
 stinctively — what a firm clutch those fine taper 
 fingers had ! — and I sat down, feeling that the 
 world was made new between us ; we were back 
 on the old footing of intimacy, almost of friend- 
 ship ; it was another turn of her game, but I 
 did not see the move. 
 
 I wag engaged to dine with Mr. Eorbes and 
 his daughter; I knew they would expect me bv 
 this time. Helen would be sitting at work and 
 looking out of the bay window, as I had seen 
 her many a Saturday evening ; her father would 
 be wondering, the dinner would be waiting ; but 
 I forgot all that, and when she repeated, “Do 
 stay to dinner,” I merely answered, “Madame, 
 I am not dressed.” It was all that would come 
 out from the tumult of my thoughts. “ Never 
 mind,” said Madame ; “ I have seen people dine 
 in all sorts of dresses, and yours seems as good 
 as the most of them. We are not in Mayfair, 
 thank Heaven ! and need not be afraid of the 
 butler and footman ; you can’t be more fastid- 
 ious than a lady, you know; stay and dine 
 with me ; I really can not part with you this 
 evening.” 
 
 What answer but one of acceptance could be 
 made to that ? I know not in what words mine 
 was given, but I staid. There was no more 
 talk about the service or the reward — no farther 
 allusion to the black shadows. She was gay, 
 friendly, and entertaining; showed me through 
 her rooms — a handsome suite they were, all fur- 
 nished in the same half Oriental fashion, com- 
 paratively empty to an English eye ; the low 
 sofas, small tables, and richly-wrought cushions 
 scattered here and there, would not have been 
 thought sufficient to furnish a well-to-do trades- 
 man’s back parlor, as far as quantity -went ; but 
 every thing was of the finest workmanship and 
 material : mirrors and hangings, pictures and 
 statues were there, not numerous, but of rare 
 excellence y and I remarked that all the objects 
 of art were either antiques or by the old masters. 
 They had been collected from far climes and 
 ages ; there were curtains worked in the old 
 Byzantine looms, when silk was the monopoly 
 of the Greek Empire, and bought for its weight 
 in gold by Western princes ; there were vases 
 from Etruscan tombs, amber cups made in Nov- 
 gorod, with the Palivez crest upon them — a 
 broken crown, and the Greek motto graven on 
 the inside of her ring, she said, “Suffer and 
 reign.” There were ornaments of malachite, 
 opal, and gold from the Uralian mines, ivory 
 images carved in Kamtschatka, and, chief of 
 all, the marble gods and graces of the antique 
 world. My connoisseurship was small, but I 
 alvtays knew the beautiful, and had never seen 
 so much of it before. She showed me all ; told 
 me curious particulars of them and their adven- 
 tures ; how they had come into her hands, what 
 previous owmers and travels they had, the times 
 and countries to which the most ancient, or 
 strange to me, belonged. There w r as something 
 remarkable or amusing repeated about every one 
 except a picture which seemed to me somew-hat 
 out of place : it was a full-length portrait of a 
 woman in an ancient and foreign costume, rich 
 furs, and massive jewels, with a face of the de- 
 cidedly Tartar type, undoubted Calmuck, a high, 
 stiff cap, made of gold plates and black fox- 
 skins, on her head, and a look of silent, solemn, 
 concentrated anger. The picture was hung in 
 
56 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 a conspicuous place in Madame’s largest and 
 handsomest saloon, rich in art, and opening on 
 the conservatory ; close by it stood an antique 
 statue, a draped figure, with a face of which one 
 could hardly say that it belonged to boy or 
 maiden : young it was, but sternly beautiful. 
 The one hand clutched a weapon, and the other 
 a cup half concealed by its robe ; the head was 
 crowned with a garland of cypress; and Ma- 
 dame said, “ It is the Athenian Nemesis, taken 
 from her temple when they made a Christian 
 church of it, in the middle of the fourth century, 
 and saved from destruction with much difficulty 
 — for the new creed was most hostile to that 
 goddess — by an ancestor of mine who lived and 
 died a pagan, and left it, with other heir-looms, 
 to our house.” But she made no remark on 
 the picture, and I could not venture to inquire 
 into its history. 
 
 We went to dinner in the conservatory, for 
 the evening was sultry. Her servants had ar- 
 ranged the orange-trees and foreign shrubs, 
 under which they spread the low table, covered 
 with the whitest linen, and glittering with crys- 
 tal and gold, and fragrant with rich wines, 
 fruits, and flowers. It was a dinner I had never 
 seen the like of; no want of English viands of 
 the best, but most of the dishes were foreign, 
 and I noticed that while she pressed me to every 
 thing, Madame herself dined on pastry and 
 fruit. Calixi and sundry silent servants wait- 
 ed, carved, and retired, till summoned again by 
 a bunch of small silver bells, in the form of so 
 many roses, which lay at Madame’s right hand. 
 We sat opposite to each other on the low, light 
 sofas, which seemed her favorite seats. I did 
 my best to be entertaining, and hope I suc- 
 ceeded sometimes, though the duty of behaving 
 like a gentleman was the only thing that made 
 me speak at all. I felt like Alcibiades in the 
 company of Socrates. I could have sat there 
 forever, and grown old in listening to her talk. 
 How like new wine it was to me, so full of in- 
 tellectual life, of travel, of observation, of 
 knowledge ! how free from care or trammels, 
 as if nothing had ever hampered her in wish or 
 thought, and into what a world of light and 
 gaycty it transported me! We talked of books, 
 of foreign places she had seen, and fashionable 
 people she associated with in Mayfair. She 
 pressed me to the wine, told me anecdotes of its 
 age and quality ; there was some that had been 
 made in Cyprus in the Crusading time — some 
 that a Turkish vizier had drunk too much of at 
 the siege of Rhodes. I drunk because she bid 
 me, and thought the Turk excusable, though 
 his Koran stood in the way, but I did not quite 
 follow his example. She had poured out a glass 
 for me with her own fair hands : “Will you not 
 drink my health?” she said, with a smile which 
 seemed to light up the wine with the sun of its 
 native summers; “you have not done so yet.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ It was not for want of wishing it, Madame.” 
 
 “I believe in your good wishes — you have 
 proved them by good service ; but ladies always 
 demand pledges of their true knights. Will 
 
 I you do me a service more, and we will be 
 | friends — good and faithful friends, without 
 pride or misunderstanding?” 
 
 “I would do any thing — any thing in the 
 world to serve you, Madame.” Was I going to 
 j be trusted with the entire secret ? was I to be 
 sent any where on her service? The words 
 were from my heart out. 
 
 “Well, what I ask is in your power, and will 
 serve me. Will you give me your word of 
 honor as a gentleman, which I know you are bv 
 nature and descent — yes, La Touche is an an- 
 cient name among the nobles of Normandy, and 
 your ancestors came into Ireland with the Fitz- 
 i geralds and De Lacys — all the Palivezi have 
 studied genealogy, but that is not to my pur- 
 pose. Will you promise me never to mention 
 to man or woman, myself included, the chance 
 scene you saw and shared in at the dawn of 
 Friday morning, or any thing concerning it?” 
 Was this all? and why w r as it? I dared not 
 question ; but I said, with a good deal of sur-' 
 prise and disappointment, “I promise you that, 
 Madame, on the honor of a gentleman.” 
 
 “ Give me your hand in pledge,” she said, 
 extending her own. 
 
 Our hands met above the wine, and the clasp 
 went to my heart. How firm and friendly it 
 was ! I felt my fingers lingering upon hers, but 
 she hastily withdrew them, rang for coffee, and 
 asked me whether I preferred the face of the 
 Venus or the Diana which stood, one on either 
 side, among the orange-trees. I think my an- 
 swer was that I did not know; on which she 
 laughed at me, and said many a man did not 
 know his own preferences. The rest of our 
 conversation I can not recall, except that it was 
 about styles of beauty. It is my belief that I 
 was not very bright on it. But at last I saw 
 her looking at the time-piece — by-the-by, it was 
 of old Venetian make, very richly wrought, and 
 of a quaint device: a veiled figure showed the 
 hours ; as they progressed, the veil was slowly 
 withdrawn, but the first half revealed the profile 
 of a beautiful woman, and the second that of a 
 skeleton. She looked at the time-piece. I saw 
 it was late, and rose to go. 
 
 “ Good-night !” she said, giving me her hand 
 without rising; “but one word before we part. 
 We have agreed to be friends without pride or 
 misunderstanding, have we not?” 
 
 “Certainly, Madame.” 
 
 “ Well, then, the first requisite of friendship 
 is plain speaking. Should you like to come and 
 see me on honest, equal terms, for the inter- 
 change of thought and mutual help, to pass the 
 hours that might otherwise be heavy or bar- 
 ren?” 
 
 “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, 
 Madame.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Well, but understand this friendship of ours 
 stands apart and utterly separated from our pub- 
 lic lives : there, you are the bank clerk, and I am 
 Madame Palivez. We were nothing more till 
 within the last month, when the stars brought 
 us nearer — whether for good or evil I know not 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 57 
 
 yet, but I augur well from your finding the sig- 
 net-ring.” 
 
 “Madame, I should be happy to be your 
 friend on any terms.” 
 
 I spoke in all sincerity, though with some 
 surprise at the strange prudence of her arrange- 
 ment. It might not have worked well with 
 every one, but she knew her man, and smiled 
 kindly on me as she answered, “ Those are the 
 only terms I have to offer. We meet here, or 
 in my villa, as friends, honest and equal ; in 
 public, we keep our respective stations. What 
 the world does not understand should never be 
 said before it, and friendship is a sacred thing, 
 not to be wondered about and misinterpreted by 
 common minds. Your face has told me that 
 you understand this, or I should never have 
 spoken it.” 
 
 “I do understand you, and will keep my 
 share of the compact.” 
 
 “Yes, that is a good word for it. You will 
 £eep the compact honorably in spirit and in let- 
 ter, or I have not read your countenance cor- 
 rectly ; and if so, it is the only page of the kind 
 that ever foiled me. But we are friends. Good- 
 night ! for I know it is late, and your way is 
 long.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 RHODA AND LUCIEN. 
 
 It was late when I got home, but the summer 
 night was lovely, and a new life went with me 
 through the busy streets and quiet suburban 
 ways. Madame Palivez, the wonderful woman 
 whom I had heard so much of, whom I had been 
 so curious about, whom I had served and could 
 not take reward from, had chosen, nay, appoint- 
 ed me to be her private friend — to come and see 
 her at her villa, or her secluded Eastern rooms 
 behind the bank, for the interchange of thought 
 or the passing of leisure hours on honest, equal 
 terms, of which the world was to know nothing. 
 Strange as it may appear, there was no part of 
 the arrangement in which my mind acquiesced 
 so fully as the latter clause. I did not then 
 know why, but that friendship seemed to me a 
 fairy treasure not to be profaned by vulgar eyes 
 or comments, and more securely mine because 
 of its secrecy. 
 
 Rhoda opened the door to me with a face of 
 great gladness at my safe return, and much 
 wonder where I could have been. 
 
 “You are come at last, Lucien dear. I have 
 had your supper ready these two hours, and got 
 my aunt and Hannah to bed to keep them from 
 grumbling. You see, my aunt got into quite 
 a bad way when Mr. Forbes sent over, about 
 six o’clock, to know why you were not coming. 
 It was his own footman, Lucien ; and he 
 brought us such a lovely pheasant for to-mor- 
 row’s dinner. I am so sorry I bought that bit 
 of mutton ; howensoever, it will keep till Mon- 
 day ; and the Forbes’ must think a good deal of 
 you to send so. I was very sorry, but I could 
 
 not tell them where you were. My aunt got 
 bothered about it, and in course she bothered 
 the house.” 
 
 “I am sorry too, Rhoda, but I could not help 
 it. I was detained by business ” 
 
 The first part of that speech was as true as 
 the second was false. My heart smote me for 
 having overlooked and broken through the long 
 and friendly engagement of my Saturday even- 
 ings spent at Notting Hill House when no other 
 had a welcome for me, and all the kindness that 
 my family had received from that quarter. The 
 Forbes’ missed me — that was evident ; but I had 
 not missed them. It must be made up for by 
 apologies, and they must be fibs, every word : 
 that was the first consequence of the compact I 
 had made so wdllingly, and was so resolute to 
 keep. 
 
 Poor Rhoda was not quite convinced of my 
 detention by business. The girl had some 
 penetration, though she could never learn to 
 spell ; the reading of her brother’s face was a 
 task more to her mind. She brought up the 
 fat pheasant to display it in the Forbes’ honor ; 
 said she was sure they must have been disap- 
 pointed ; and it was a pity the bank people kept 
 me so late, for I might have gone over and told 
 them all about it. “It is a fine house for you 
 to go to, Lucien dear, and I think Miss Forbes 
 likes to see your face as well as her father,” and 
 Rhoda looked knowing. 
 
 “Miss Forbes is friendly to us all, Rhoda, 
 but she is a rich banker’s daughter, and we are 
 poor folks ; besides, you know, I am engaged to 
 Rosanna Joyce.” 
 
 “ Oh, in course, I didn’t mean any thing but 
 fun ; but my aunt took on dreadful ; and, Lu- 
 cien dear, you would not be going to bad places, 
 and staying out nights, as she says young men 
 do in London?” 
 
 “No, Rhoda, my good sister, I would not, 
 never did, and never will, whatever my aunt 
 may grumble about. You know she is an old 
 woman, and you must try to keep her quiet. I 
 can’t always explain to you what detains me ; 
 there may be causes which you would not un- 
 derstand now, but I will tell you some other 
 time; and be sure of one thing, that however 
 often I go out, or late I may stay, it will not be 
 in low company or bad places.” 
 
 “Oh, I know you are too gentle for that, and - 
 too good, Lucien,” said mv honest, kindly sister, 
 looking all she spoke. What would have been 
 her exultation of heart had she known that my 
 evening was spent, as many were likely to be, 
 with the great lady of the bank in Old Broad 
 Street, the high and mighty Madame Palivez? 
 Our confidence was not far enough advanced 
 for that disclosure ; but she left me with a hap- 
 py look, fully insured against the bad places, 
 and in the conviction that I would make all 
 right with the Forbes’. 
 
 I took early precautions for that purpose. 
 There was a note, containing the same story I 
 had told my sister, but more ceremoniously set 
 forth — unavoidably detained at the bank ; not 
 
58 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 aware that I should be till the last moment, 
 with suitable regrets and acknowledgments, left 
 in the hands of a servant at their door next 
 morning, which being Sunday, I knew they kept 
 after the strictest fashion of Scotland, neither 
 receiving visitors nor going out of doors except 
 to church, and my tale was more easily written 
 than told. I could not rest at home that Sun- 
 day ; I could not go to the Catholic chapel with 
 my aunt and sister. They were still faithful 
 children of Mother Church, particularly Miss 
 Livy, though I had become lax and somewhat 
 of a stray sheep. Many a lecture the old 
 woman read me on it at our Sunday dinners, 
 setting forth where I might expect to go in terms 
 not to be misunderstood ; but my acquaintance 
 with the warring creeds, and their mode of 
 carrying on the long campaigns against each 
 other, together with the habit of thinking for 
 myself, which I had learned in that lonely life 
 of mine, did not contribute to make me sound 
 in my faith. Moreover, Catholic chapels, even 
 in the neighborhood of London, were poor places 
 in those no-Popery days. The scenic accompa- 
 niments must be in good style to save that ritual 
 from becoming ridiculous. I could not stand 
 the ill-served ceremonies, and worse painted 
 saints, which doubtless forwarded my family’s 
 devotion, with the pictures and statues in those 
 grand, silent rooms, and the talk I had heard 
 about them still fresh in my memory. I walked 
 away miles into the country, through lanes and 
 by-ways, among green meadows and growing 
 corn. It was a glorious summer day, and peo- 
 ple were abroad in all the roads and villages. I 
 was alone, as I had always been, but the Satur- 
 day evening went with me, and when I sat 
 down to rest in the hidden nook of a solitary 
 hedgerow, I found myself thinking of Madame 
 Palivez and her strangely offered friendship. 
 
 Next evening I recollected that I ought to go 
 and see Rosanna when the day’s work was done. 
 She had not written to me after all the trouble 
 in which we parted. It was the dread of Sally 
 that kept me away. That she would think of 
 course, yet I ought to go ; so I went and got 
 into Curzon Street, though it was not the 
 shortest way. There was one carriage at the 
 door of the mansion where the ball had been 
 — it was Madame’s own. I knew it by the arms 
 on the panels ; and in the shelter of a con- 
 venient doorway, so as not to be seen watching, 
 I waited till she came out, full dressed for din- 
 ner in the newest and most fashionable style, 
 with floating lace and flashing diamonds ; but 
 the fine face and figure were still the same. I 
 saw her step into the carriage as lightly as she 
 had sprung from her Arab horse, throw herself 
 back with a careless, half-scornful air, like one 
 that knew and did not value her grandeur, and 
 I heard her say to the coachman, “ Carlton 
 House.” The supreme lady of the great bank- 
 ing-house had invitations from the Prince 
 Regent, perhaps had a right to them. The 
 princely purse was known to be more frequently 
 empty than full, and the Palivez had always 
 
 done a good deal of court business. At any 
 rate, there would be no brighter ornament in 
 his select society. Was she a different woman 
 there from what I had found her? There was 
 something in her style of stepping into the 
 carriage which told me she was, and little as I 
 knew of fashionable life I felt it must be so, and 
 felt too, with a chagrin I could not account for, 
 how great was the distance between what she 
 called our public lives. Perhaps I ought to 
 have felt flattered — lifted up and made great in 
 my own esteem, because a lady who went to 
 Carlton House, and owned wealth and influence 
 enough to make her a leader of fashion, if so 
 minded, should have chosen me for her private 
 friend. Yet my feathers fell instead of rising at 
 that gay sight. “ You are the bank clerk, and 
 I am Madame Palivez,” came back upon me 
 with a shocking sense of unfitness and incom- 
 patibility, and I went in a dreary humor to Bol- 
 ton Row. Never did the Joyces’ rooms look so 
 squalid and disorderly; never did Sally appear 
 more dreadful, Jeremy more despicable, or Ro- 
 sanna more uneducated, though her new dress 
 was on, and her hair not in papers, without the 
 slightest intimation of my coming; and the poor 
 girl received me as kindly as if I had not been 
 careless and neglectful in seeing her but once 
 since she came. Her elder sister made up for 
 it by two or three keen snaps, but, on the whole, 
 Sally was a great deal better than might have 
 been expected. She brought up the marriage 
 question only in a modified form, and I took the 
 customary affectionate leave of Rosanna at the 
 top of the stairs, promising to come back soon 
 and take her out some evening to the theatre. 
 
 All that week I had fears that the Forbes’ 
 might be offended. I saw none of them, and 
 did not like to call. Notting Hill House had 
 never been a cheerful mansion, and its gloom 
 deepened of late, to my fancy ; but Mr. Forbes 
 had been the untiring friend of my family. 
 Had he not cheered my father’s dying, broken- 
 hearted days, and given him the handsomest 
 funeral that ever went out of the Marshalsea? 
 Had he not helped to get up a home for my des- 
 titute relations ; and were not his countenance 
 and counsel still the chief help we had? I 
 could not forget these things, and it was hard 
 to think of having put an apparent slight on his 
 friendship. So it seemed like a Godsend when, 
 going home from business on the following Fri- 
 day, we happened to meet- hard by the Mansion 
 House, and he held out his hand to me with the 
 accustomed kindness of look and tone. “ Yo.u 
 are going home,” he said, after friendly inqui- 
 ries for all my household, “ and so am I ; hadn’t 
 we better walk together? it will be pleasant 
 now, in the cool of the evening.” I agreed, 
 and w r e walked on, talking in a serious, kindly 
 way, as was his wont. “We were sorry you 
 could not come to us on Saturday evening to 
 meet my nephew, Charles Barry. His ship has 
 come in from the Mediterranean. They have 
 had a long cruise, and must refit ; so Charles is 
 a sailor on shore, not very well knowing what 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 59 
 
 to do with himself, I believe. He comes to us 
 sometimes, but our house is scarce lively enough 
 for a young naval officer. Charles is promoted 
 to be second lieutenant now. I wish he were 
 more serious — more thoughtful, I should say ; 
 but his company on board ship are not likely to 
 help him forward in that way, though they see 
 the works of God in the deep, and his wonders 
 in the great waters. I think you would like 
 Charles ; I am sure he would like you. Helen 
 and I had set our minds on introducing you that 
 evening, for he is gone to Portsmouth now.” 
 
 I repeated the story of my note with as hon- 
 est a look as I could assume under the circum- 
 stances ; but the banker’s Scottish eye was upon 
 me, and something very like doubt in it as he 
 said, “I did not know you did business so late 
 in the Palivez’ bank, and your manager a Jew. 
 Is it possible that Esthers has so little respect 
 for his people’s Sabbath ?” 
 
 “I believe most Jews regard it very little 
 now ; they are probably getting out of their old 
 superstitions, and feel that they must advance 
 with the rest of the world,” said I, willing to let 
 the small blame rest on the manager ; “ but — ” 
 
 “ Stop, lad,” said Mr. Forbes. “ It was part 
 of the law delivered in thunder on Mount Sinai, 
 and, though they have shown a superstitious re- 
 gard for the letter of it in our Gospel ages, re- 
 member, any Sabbath is better than none. The 
 one day set apart from worldly cares and em- 
 ployments gives man time to think of eternal 
 things, and brings him near to his Maker. The 
 Jews were an example to Christians in their 
 Sabbath-keeping, but I fear tlyit, as you say, 
 they are growing careless of it now in this busy 
 London.” 
 
 We were out of London by this time, and 
 quickening our pace along the Uxbridge Road, 
 for a heavy cloud had come over the evening 
 sky ; there were faint growls of far-off thunder, 
 and great drops of rain beginning to fall. 
 
 “The shower will be heavy when it comes,” 
 said Mr. Forbes ; and at that moment I caught 
 sight of a lady coming quickly toward us: it 
 was his daughter Helen, in the brown silk dress, 
 Paisley shawl, and beaver hat, which formed her 
 sober outdoor dress. One would have taken her 
 for a maiden of fifty but for the rapid step and 
 brightly-tinged cheek with which she came to 
 meet her father. Miss Forbes was certainly 
 looking better of late. What an advantage the 
 heightened color was to her thin face ! how 
 much of the primness and precision had the 
 evening wind and the coming shower taken off! 
 and w'ith what a kindly glance and smile she 
 came up to us ! 
 
 “Gude lass, you will get a wet shawl by 
 meeting me this evening,” said her father, 
 clasping her one hand w’hile I shook the other, 
 and hoped Miss Forbes was well. 
 
 Just at that moment my ear caught the 
 sound of coming hoofs ; and riding at full speed 
 to escape the thunder-shower, but still alone, 
 Madame Palivez swept past us like the very 
 wind. We every one looked at her till she was 
 
 out of sight. I could not help it, though she 
 never looked at me — never seemed to notice 
 that there was any one on the road. 
 
 “How well she rides ! how grand and hand- 
 some she is !” said Helen, a glow of enthusiastic 
 admiration lighting up her whole face. 
 
 “ She is handsome, and she rides well,” said 
 Forbes, with a long look after the disappearing 
 habit; “yet it strikes me that woman has had 
 her troubles. We are born to them as the 
 sparks fly upward, and the worst are those we 
 make for ourselves. But Helen will be drown- 
 ed,” he continued, as the rain came down faster, 
 and was driven upon us by rising gusts from the 
 west. 
 
 “ Come home with me,” said I, drawing Hel- 
 en’s arm within my own, for the wind seemed 
 to whistle through her thin form, and threaten 
 to take her shawl away ; “ we shall reach the 
 house in five minutes ; there will be shelter 
 there, and something to warm us, I’ll be bound.” 
 
 It was no time for parley or consideration ; 
 the storm was up in its fury. I kept fast hold 
 of Helen ; held down her shawl ; saved her hat 
 with my handkerchief ; and, thanks to Rhoda’s 
 haste in opening the door, we three got in with 
 little damage. Rhoda was in a great fluster — 
 I thought at the sight of the unexpected com- 
 pany, but a second look showed me that some- 
 thing still more unusual had occurred. 
 
 “What is it, Rhoda?” said I, as soon as we 
 got into the parlor, knowing that every body 
 saw it as well as myself. 
 
 “It is blood-money!” cried Miss Livy, en- 
 tering in such a state of excitement that she 
 neither saw nor heeded the strangers — “blood- 
 money ! but I’ll never touch a farthing of it. 
 You young folks may do as you please. You 
 are past my advising, with your love of fashions 
 and finery. If you get money for them, you 
 don’t care how it comes ; but I’ll neither eat 
 nor drink the price of Raymond’s blood.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 MISS FORBES WILL BE AN HEIRESS. 
 
 Startled by the energy of Miss Livy, we 
 turned toward her, but even as she spoke a 
 flash of forked lightning shone in among us, 
 filling the room with fire, and a peal of thunder 
 right overhead made the house shake to its 
 foundations. I heard something fall heavily, 
 but my eyes were dazzled into momentary 
 blindness by the glare. Then the screams of 
 Hannah Clark, who had followed her mistress, 
 brought me to my senses, and I saw it was Mr. 
 Forbes. 
 
 I ran and lifted him up — he w T as a light 
 weight for so large a man — and placed him on 
 the sofa, with a fearful impression that the light- 
 ning had struck him on account of a steel watch- 
 guard he wore. His face had taken that blue 
 paleness said to come with deadly fear or cold, 
 but the steel chain was untouched, and before I 
 had well got him up he opened his eyes. 
 
60 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Poor Helen was by his side. What sense and j 
 presence of mind the quiet girl showed in that 
 sudden trial ! She had been the first to rush 
 to her father; helped me to raise him without 
 noise or exclamation, and now, as he returned 
 to consciousness, almost pushed me away ; 
 threw her thin arms about him ; laid his head 
 on her breast, and said in a low, tender tone, 
 
 “ Dear father, can you speak ? Are you hurt?” 
 
 “I am not, Helen. But what was it that 
 came into the room? Did you see it?” and he 
 shook all over as if with sudden palsy. 
 
 “It was a terrible flash of lightning, father; 
 did it strike you ?” 
 
 “No, dear ; but I am getting old and weakly. 
 
 I suppose it must have been an electric shock. 
 Stop, Lucien !” continued the strong-minded 
 man of the North, raising himself as he saw me 
 starting off for a doctor; “there is no want of 
 medical aid, except for your aunt there. What 
 is the matter, Miss Livy?” 
 
 His words directed my attention to the poor 
 old woman, who leant against the opposite wall, 
 gazing vacantly on us like one really thunder- 
 struck, while Rhoda stood hiding her head in 
 the corner where she had taken refuge, and I 
 Hannah Clark renewed her screams behind the 
 door. There was but one way to manage Han- 
 nah in that state of excitement. I pushed her 
 out, shut the door upon her, and not seeing the 
 agitation of others, she settled into silence in the 
 passage, sitting down on the stair, and covering 
 her eyes with her hands. I sat my aunt down 
 on a chair too. She drew a long breath, uttered 
 a pious ejaculation or two, and we saw that Miss 
 Livy had only got a terrible fright. Rhoda 
 came out of her corner ; Mr. Forbes became 
 himself again. He and his daughter repeated 
 a brief thanksgiving with bowed heads and 
 clasped hands. The lightning flashes became 
 less fierce and frequent ; the thunder rolled 
 away eastward to frighten people in London, 
 and I gathered sufficient composure to say, 
 “Now, Rhoda, since we have all heard some- 
 thing of it, tell me what has happened to trouble 
 my aunt so.” 
 
 “ I am sure it is not bad news, Lucien, though 
 Ave don’t understand it, but you will. Here is 
 the lawyer’s letter;” and she brought from the 
 mantelpiece, where it had lain unnoticed, a 
 large, legal-looking epistle, addressed to Miss 
 Olivia La Touche, by Messrs. Kelly and Carson, 
 solicitors, Four Courts Alley, Dublin, informing 
 her, with lawyer-like precision and brevity, that 
 an annuity of two hundred per annum had been 
 purchased for herself and her niece, Miss Rhoda 
 La Touche, during their joint lives, the whole 
 to be enjoyed by the survivor, and to be paid 
 quarterly through their firm. Messrs. Kelly and 
 Carson further declared themselves to be unac- 
 quainted with the name of the purchaser, and 
 professed their readiness to send the requisite 
 documents when they heard from Miss La 
 Touche. 
 
 I read that communication with feelings I 
 could never describe. It was no hoax, no prac- 
 
 [ tical joke, dry and silly as such things generally 
 are. The name and style of Kelly and Carson 
 were well known to me. They were one of the 
 oldest and most respectable firms in Dublin — 
 had done legal business for my father as well as 
 for my uncle. Miss Livy and my sister were 
 provided for, safe from want and dependence, 
 whatever became of me ; but who had done the 
 gracious thing? I did not know my eyes had 
 turned that way as I lifted them from the letter, 
 but Mr. Forbes, looking as much surprised as 
 myself, for I had read it aloud, said, “No, Lu- 
 cien, I solemnly declare to you and your family, 
 I have no hand in this business, and know noth- 
 ing of it, though it is one which no man would 
 disown. Some friend of your father’s — some- 
 body of the many he helped in their adversity — 
 has remembered his child and father’s sister. 
 May the Lord remember it to them, whatever 
 be their motive for concealment!” 
 
 “Amen,” said I. “Rhoda, my girl, you were 
 right ; it is good news for us all. Aunt, dear, 
 why do you trouble yourself with such foolish 
 notions? The money comes from some kind 
 friend who does not wish to be known, lest it 
 I might look like charity. At all events, Rhoda 
 and you are provided for, and you ought to be 
 thankful.” 
 
 “Maybe I ought, Lucien,” said poor Miss 
 Livy — that lightning flash had worked wonders 
 on her temper, which thus came in contact with 
 a fire fiercer than its own — “ maybe I ought; 
 money is a good thing with God’s blessing, no 
 matter who sends it. Rhoda will be provided 
 for. There is 4 no use in talking of me, for I 
 won’t want provision long in this world. Oh, 
 but it is the troublesome place, and full of 
 strange happenings; but I am an old woman, 
 and that thunder has shaken my head. I’ll go 
 and lie down, and you can settle all about the 
 money among yourselves.” 
 
 So Rhoda helped her up stairs, and we sat 
 talking over the news, good and strange as it 
 was. Mr. Forbes was now composed and se- 
 rious as ever. He soberly congratulated me in 
 a manner which seemed conclusive regarding 
 his having no previous knowledge of the trans- 
 action ; what I knew of the man also convinced 
 me that he would not make a solemn and unre- 
 quired declaration except it was strictly true. 
 Helen was even warmer in her congratulations, 
 though the poor girl still looked pale and 
 troubled about her father. He seemed in haste 
 to go. Now that the rain had spent itself, and 
 the sky was clearing fast, no entreaties of mine 
 could make him stay or take any refreshment. 
 “We will go home to dinner,” said he ; “the 
 air is cool and fresh now after the rain ; it will 
 blow the fright and confusion off us, and, 
 though the road is wet, both Helen and I wear 
 thick shoes.” 
 
 Away they went down the deep-running 
 road ; Helen looked back at me with a kindly 
 smile as I watched them from the door through 
 the deepening twilight, filled with the scents 
 that .rise in rural places after summer rain .; and 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 61 
 
 when they were fairly out of sight, I stood there 
 still, till Rhoda crept out to my side, laid her 
 hand on my shoulder, looked up with her rosy 
 face full of contented joy, and said, “Now, 
 Lucien, dear, you will have no more burden of 
 us ; all your earnings will be your own ; you 
 can marry Rosanna and bring her home. We 
 can soon get another house, if she don’t like us 
 to live here, though I would rather stay, if my 
 
 “No, Lucien, how could I, when you did 
 not tell me ?” 
 
 “I did not know myself till one day last 
 week ; but there they are, and we shall have an 
 opportunity of seeing whether my aunt and Ro- 
 sanna could agree or not.” 
 
 “ Maybe they would,’” said Rhoda ; “ but I 
 am glad you told me the Joyces was come; 
 I’ll always know where you be, Lucien, when 
 
 aunt and her could agree, and she could take 
 with poor Hannah — for in course we’ll keep 
 her.” 
 
 “ Do you know that Rosanna has come from 
 America with her sister and brother, and they 
 are living in London?” 
 
 I had no difficulty in telling my sister, now 
 that it involved no fears for herself. 
 
 you stay out late on Saturday evenings, and the 
 Forbes’ send their servant *to look after you.” 
 
 I recognized the full value of the insinuation, 
 but turned my honest sister off with, “So you 
 would like to stay with me, Rhoda — all your 
 life, is it, or only till you see somebody you will 
 like better?” 
 
 “ I’ll never see one I’ll like better than you, 
 
62 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Lucien ; you are all the brother I have. Many 
 a time, when you were in America, and I sat 
 spinning at the lead window of our back room 
 over yonder in Ireland — I wonder if Jenny 
 Short has got a glass one put in, as she said she 
 would when our tails was turned — many a time, 
 when I sat there, and heard the great sighing of 
 the sea coming up through the long quiet days, 
 
 I thought how wide it was between us, and 
 minded the summer times long ago, when we 
 used to play together all by ourselves, building 
 houses at the foot of the woodbine wall, and 
 gathering moss to make carpets for them off the 
 old apple-trees in our father’s garden in Armagh. 
 When the rest went from me, one by one, I 
 never missed them as much as I did you. And 
 yet how strange you looked to me that night on 
 the quay, Lucien ! but that has wore off, and I 
 mind on the old playtimes still when you are 
 out at the bank ; it just keeps me from hearing 
 my aunt grumbling. Howsomever, she is get- 
 ting over that uncommonly. I think Rosanna 
 will be able to stand her; but, goodness me! 
 what could have put that in her head about the 
 money, Lucien ! and what do you think came 
 over Mr. Forbes?” * 
 
 “An electric shock, I think.” 
 
 “ Some stroke of the lightning. Well, maybe 
 it was ; nobody never saw such a flash. I got 
 a glimpse of his face out of that corner, Lucien, 
 and, though I never saw the like, thank God ! it 
 looked to me just what one might be that had 
 died of fright.” 
 
 “ I think the flash did frighten him more than 
 he cared to acknowledge. Mr. Forbes is not a 
 strong man. But as for aunt’s notions about 
 the money, there is no use in minding them ; it 
 has come from some friend of our father — some- 
 body that owed him, perhaps, more than we 
 know of, and had a right to remember you and 
 Miss Livy for his sake ; depend on it, we will 
 find that out in time.” 
 
 “Would it be the great bank lady you found 
 the ring for ?” She had hit on a supposition 
 which occurred to my own mind on -stronger 
 grounds than Rhoda was aware of, but had been 
 discarded more than once. Why should the 
 business be done through a Dublin solicitor ? 
 Madame Palivez had a London firm in regular 
 employment ever since the bank was establish- 
 ed in Old Broad Street ; it was not likely that she 
 would take such a mode of rewarding me, after 
 what had passed between us, and, though I 
 reasoned the impression away, it always returned 
 upon me that there was some truth in my poor 
 aunt’s unaccountable conclusion, and that the 
 mysteriously purchased annuity had something 
 to do with my lost brother — perhaps, indeed, 
 the result of his late repentance, if he had really 
 been the sinner we took him for. 
 
 “That would be a good price for a ring, 
 Rhoda,” I said, as she repeated the question, 
 and I had thought over it for at least the 
 seventh time. 
 
 “ So it would, and it’s to yourself she would 
 give it, not to us; in course she don’t know that 
 
 the like of us is living, but I know she’ll do 
 something for you yet, Lucien. Is not Miss 
 Forbes the nice young lady — not handsome, to 
 be sure, but so good to every body, and not a 
 bit of pride about her ? She comes here and 
 speaks to Hannah and me, wanting me to teach 
 her the Bible, which can’t be done nohow, that 
 I am able to think on, but it’s very good of Miss 
 Forbes, Lucien ; I would rather have her than 
 that bank lady.” 
 
 “What do you know of the bank lady, 
 Rhoda?” The • gathering darkness kept her 
 from seeing my surprise. 
 
 “ Well, nothing ; but I see her ri dinghy here, 
 and away through the fields. I am sure she 
 looks at our house every time she passes, and 
 once I saw her looking at me so mighty sharp 
 that I was ashamed and left the window.” 
 
 “Perhaps you were taking too much notice 
 of her, Rhoda ; Madame Palivez is a great lady, 
 of immense wealth, and in the first society ; the 
 Prince Regent invites her to Carlton House ; he 
 and all the foreign embassadors and people of 
 fashion go to the grand balls and parties she 
 gives at her mansion in Mayfair ; I have seen 
 the street in front of it quite filled with their 
 carriages ; and if she rides about the country 
 alone, it is for her own whim or fancy ; Madame 
 might have half a dozen grooms after her if she 
 pleased.” 
 
 “Oh! I know she is very high and grand, 
 and I am sure I didn’t look at her too forward 
 or curious-like ; but one can’t help looking at 
 her, Lucien, she is so uncommon, and handsome 
 too; but she is proud, Lucien; it is in her eye 
 and in her air, and I would rather have Miss 
 Forbes.” 
 
 “ Miss Forbes is a very good, very kind lady, 
 and .has a fine cousin, a young naval officer, 
 who comes there when his ship is in port, and 
 Miss Forbes will be an heiress.” 
 
 “ Oh, no doubt, and heiresses always gets 
 young men enough ; but I am sure I wish her 
 a good one,” said Rhoda, with a half sigh. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A CONFERENCE. 
 
 Hours after all the household were in bed, I 
 lay awake, thinking of the events of the day and 
 the talk with my sister. It was true what she 
 said — I might marry Rosanna, and bring her 
 home now, without compunction or fear of the 
 future. Rhoda and Miss Livy were independ- 
 ent of me ; but would it be kind to send them 
 from me in the strange country— strange to them 
 as any corner of the world could be — now, when 
 we had learned and become reconciled to each 
 other’s ways? My only sister, whose memory 
 clung so fondly to our early play times, between 
 whom and ine affection and confidence were 
 growing up from the old roots, as wild flowers 
 come when the winters are over — my poor old 
 grand-aunt, who had by this time grown at 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 63 
 
 home in my house as she was not likely to do 
 in another, for the lightning had shown me how 
 far her sands had run — would it be kindly, 
 would it be wise to move them to another home, 
 perhaps by way of making room for Sally Joyce 
 and Jeremy? The terrors of that succession had 
 haunted me at intervals ever since my engage- 
 ment with Rosanna had been formed. There 
 are no barriers against relations in law so sure 
 as born kindred. Would it not be prudent, and 
 one’s duty to wait for some time, get them grad- 
 ually introduced, and see if Rosanna and Miss 
 Livy could agree ? I knew Rhoda would agree 
 with any body ; and it might be well to find out 
 what brought the Joyces from America. 
 
 They could know nothing of the Dublin law- 
 yer’s letter; there was nothing to hinder me 
 from keeping it judiciously to myself. I felt 
 inclined to that course from other motives not 
 so easily put in words. By whomsoever that 
 annuity had been purchased, the moving cause 
 concerned my lost brother. That was a convic- 
 tion which I could neither establish satisfactorily 
 nor reason away. The Joyces would come to 
 the same conclusion ; and it would be no easy 
 task to hear Sally on the subject. How had 
 that boy become the spectre of our house, haunt- 
 ing the last of us through strange lands and al- 
 tered fortunes, one of the black shadows of which 
 Madame Palivez had spoken ! My thoughts 
 reverted to her from every topic and channel. 
 I had heard nothing of or from her since the 
 day she chose me for her friend, and made 
 that queer compact with me — seen nothing ex- 
 cept the flash of her diamonds going to Carlton 
 House, and the flutter of her green habit as she 
 swept past me, without glance or sign of recog- 
 nition, on the road to her villa. Yet Rhoda saw 
 her pass the house and look keenly at its win- 
 dows ; her inquiring glances had frightened my 
 sister from the post of observation, and Rhoda 
 had an abiding conviction of her pride and 
 haughtiness. Perhaps the girl was right ; yet 
 what cause had I to wonder or be displeased? 
 Was not Madame’s whole course of a piece with 
 the terms on which she offered, and I accepted, 
 friendship? Was she not still the great lady, 
 and I the humble clerk? Were we — could we 
 be friends long, or really, on such terms ? I 
 had accepted and could not change them ; had 
 it been in my power, I could not for my very 
 soul have told what change I should make. In 
 the mean time, what ought I to do? Did she 
 expect me to go and visit her unsent for, by that 
 private door in the church-yard wall ? She had 
 not told me so ; but I knew Madame did not. 
 Should I find my way to her villa ? She might 
 not be there — she might not want me. How 
 did I know what kind of an establishment she 
 pleased to keep in that hermitage ? and with the 
 thought there came the sudden memory of the 
 wild ; ragged man, with his long knife and fierce 
 growl about somebody that had been murdered ; 
 and then, by an instinct of the mind which I 
 can not explain, my suspicion of her fearing 
 Esthers, and the tale of his being her cousin, 
 
 crossed me, and again I asked myself the ques- 
 tion, Was my grand-aunt and sister’s annuity 
 purchased with the notes of the Palivez bank ? 
 
 The days that followed that of the thunder- 
 storm must have been long, bright, midsummer 
 ones, but they have grown dim and confused in 
 my recollection, for the thoughts thus sketched 
 went with me through their work and play — if 
 one ever gets the latter after childhood. I re- 
 member writing to Messrs. Kelly and Carson a 
 grateful acceptance of the two hundred per an- 
 num, in Miss Livy and Rhoda’s names ; I re- 
 member observing how quiet and thoughtful my 
 grand-aunt had grown, as if the sight of that 
 terrible flash which struck down the strong man 
 in her presence was still upon her. She rose 
 late next day — according to Rhoda’s report — 
 gave no bother at all, sat spinning slowly in her 
 accustomed corner, welcomed me kindly, and 
 without a grumble, when I came home from the 
 ! bank, and began to take more than usual to her 
 rosary. 
 
 I remember walking slowly home that Satur- 
 day evening, assuring myself I would be in good 
 enough time for going to the Forbes’, and 
 looking around for the most distant sound of a 
 horse’s hoof. Nobody but old gentlemen riding 
 home to dinner at their country houses passed 
 me; but as I approached the very spot where 
 Madame Palivez first stopped and talked to me 
 about her signet-ring, there was a lady evident- 
 ly awaiting my approach. It was not a green 
 habit, but a Paisley shawl she wore, and I quick- 
 ened my pace to salute Miss Forbes. 
 
 “Oh, Mr. La Touche, I have been wishing 
 for an opportunity to thank you for your care 
 and kindness to my father in that terrible storm,” 
 she said, when we had a friendly shake-hands, 
 and the tears were coming into her soft, earnest 
 eyes. 
 
 “I expect and deserve no thanks for any* 
 thing I shall ever be able to do in your father’s 
 service, Miss Forbes, and I only hope that 
 Providence will one day put it in my power to 
 acknowledge the deep debt of gratitude which 
 I and my family owe to him.” 
 
 “ Oh, my father does not consider you his 
 debtor at all ; he is always happy when he can 
 do any thing for any body ; and your father and 
 he were old friends, were they not?” How well 
 and easily she spoke on the subject ! 
 
 “Mr. Forbes was the only friend my father 
 had in his sore adversity. When those he had 
 associated with and served in his prosperous 
 days stood aloof or turned their backs on him, 
 your father came forward, like a generous man 
 and a true Christian as he is, assisted, cheered, 
 and did the last offices of friendship for him. 
 Oh, Miss Forbes, I can never forget, never re- 
 pay that obligation, if it were the only one he 
 had conferred on me and mine.” 
 
 “You are very good to think and speak so 
 well of him ; I know it is partly justice, though 
 my father never will let his good deeds be spo- 
 ken of, especially those you have mentioned. 
 Sometimes I wish he did not think quite so 
 
64 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 humbly of himself ; but no doubt it is his 
 stronger faith and clearer knowledge which 
 teach him that humility I have yet to learn ; 
 but if you knew him as I do, Mr. La Touche, 
 though it may look vain and foolish for me to 
 say so, you would believe that, if ever there was 
 a saint on earth, he must be one — so righteous, 
 so good, so self-denying, leading such a blame- 
 less, pious life, with nothing of the Pharisee in 
 him, and more charitable to every creature than 
 himself.” 
 
 While she heard and spoke her father’s praise, 
 Helen’s thin, colorless face had been lighted up 
 with a glow of honest pride and affection that 
 positively made it beautiful ; but when I an- 
 swered, “I believe it from my heart, Miss 
 Eorbes, and, like you, I sometimes wonder why 
 he so dislikes to hear his good works referred 
 to, particularly by myself, who has most reason 
 to remember them,” the flush suddenly faded, 
 and her eyes drooped, as if with some painful 
 recollection. “It is strange,” she said, after a 
 minute’s pause, “ but no doubt he fears the 
 growth of spiritual pride ; it is a rank and in- 
 sidious weed, as the best divines tell us; perhaps 
 you don’t read their books, Mr. La Touche ? — 
 pardon me, I am forgetting you belong to a dif- 
 ferent church, and I am forgetting my message 
 too. I have been at your house, seeing Miss 
 Livy ; my father made me promise to go over 
 some time to-day ; you see he had to go to Ed- 
 inburg on business this morning — very particu- 
 lar business, I believe, on account of some infor- 
 mation Mr. Esthers sent him last night. He 
 says it was the kindest thing in the world, and 
 what nobody could have expected from a Jew. 
 I am sure I never would have expected any 
 thing very good from Mr. Esthers ; but one is 
 apt to judge uncharitably. I suppose it is a 
 great mistake to estimate people by their looks, 
 and I shall always think better of him for doing 
 such good service to my father.” 
 
 “I am glad to hear of it, though it is the last 
 thing I would have expected of Esthers either : 
 he certainly has it in his power to send correct 
 and early information to any gentleman in your 
 father’s business, if he be only willing; and, for 
 my own part, I also shall think better of the 
 manager for serving Mr. Forbes.” 
 
 There was another reflection arising to my 
 lips — by-the-by, it had been the first in my mind 
 — to the effect that Esthers was solicitous for 
 the banker’s acquaintance as well as that of his 
 daughter, and sincerely envied my intimacy of 
 their house ; but the little discretion I had, to- 
 gether with the dread of appearing envious in 
 my turn, made me change the subject by saying, 
 “ I am rejoiced to hear that your father was well 
 enough to take so long a journey after the shock 
 he suffered.” 
 
 “ Oh, it did not injure him at all ; but how 
 very strange that he should have been so struck ! 
 Does it often happen, Mr. La Touche, that peo- 
 ple are struck by lightning, and yet escape un- 
 injured?” There was something anxious, al- 
 most fearful in her look. How much the girl’s 
 
 serious, solitary life was bound up in the equal- 
 ly lonely and sober one of her father ! She had 
 hit on a query which puzzled myself, and got 
 the only answer I had to give : “lam not aware 
 that it often happens ; but the laws of electricity 
 are but imperfectly known to us; at any rate, 
 Mr. Forbes has escaped, and doubtless will have 
 no bad consequences.” 
 
 “I hope not; he told me he was quite well 
 this morning when we parted, and made me 
 promise to see Miss Livy, and tell you that he 
 would be home on Saturday week, and we should 
 expect you in the evening ; perhaps cousin 
 Charles will be up from Portsmouth by that 
 time.” 
 
 “He won’t stay long in Portsmouth while 
 you are in the neighborhood of London, I sus- 
 pect, Miss Forbes.” It was impertinent curios- 
 ity mingling with some distant influence of the 
 Blarney Stone that originated that speech, but 
 Helen was not flattered ; on the contrary, she 
 looked a little vexed, and said, “Oh, you are 
 entirely mistaken ; the consideration of my be- 
 ing in the neighborhood would weigh very little 
 with Charles ; he is my cousin-german, but does 
 not . care much for our house or company ; he 
 prefers gay life, and finds us rather dull ; but I 
 was going to say how well Miss Livy had got 
 over the fright — it was only a fright in her case, 
 I suppose?” 
 
 “Nothing more ; she is very old, has seen a 
 great deal of trouble, and her peculiar trials have 
 made her a little odd.” 
 
 “ So they do make most of us,” said Helen, 
 sighing, and looking as if she, too, were above 
 seventy. “Miss Livy did not understand the 
 lawyer’s letter, you see, and it disturbed her; I 
 think she does not quite understand it yet ; but 
 your sister does — what a good, sensible girl she 
 is, and what a blessing she may b^ Jo you, Mr. 
 La Touche ; so dutiful to her grand-aunt, and so 
 good to poor Hannah Clark ; perhaps it is tak- 
 ing a great liberty, but I do wish you and she 
 would try to teach that poor girl some of the 
 things that belong to eternity ; but I am keep- 
 ing you standing here, and I know you want to 
 go home.” 
 
 “No, indeed, Miss Forbes; but the dew is 
 falling — won’t you come back to the house with 
 me and take tea ?” 
 
 “ Oh dear, no ; I am very much obliged, but 
 I always like to be at home when my father is 
 absent. I will come over and see Miss Livy 
 some time soon, and talk to your sister about 
 Hannah, if she will let me.” 
 
 “My sister^will be glad to hear you talk about 
 any thing, and so shall we all, Miss Forbes ; but 
 allow me to see ypu home ?” 
 
 “Oh, not for the world ; you must be tired 
 with the long day in the bank, I am sure, and it 
 is not late ; I could not think of giving you so 
 much trouble.” . . 
 
 “ No trouble at all,” said I, drawing her arm 
 within mine, for she was now going, and there 
 was gentleman’s duty to be done — not to speak 
 of her being Mr. Forbes’s daughter. 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 65 
 
 Helen looked pleased and flattered for the 
 first time in all onr acquaintance, reminding 
 me of Rosanna, and as we walked on talking, 
 not as Rosanna and I used to do, but con- 
 cerning my grand-aunt’s age and fright; the 
 merciful dispensation of Providence by which 
 she and Rhoda were provided for ; the praises 
 of the latter, which my heart echoed every 
 word , and the duty and necessity of instruct- 
 ing Hannah Clark. When we reached Notting 
 Hill House, I knew it was proper to take my 
 leave. Helen was far too prudent to ask a gen- 
 tleman in while her father was absent, but she 
 lingered with me at the gate before pulling the 
 bell, glanced along the road, and said, “That’s 
 the way Madame Palivez rides home to her 
 villa, but I have not seen her to-day. Mr. Est- 
 hers said in his note to papa she was so occu- 
 pied with a friend of hers — I forget his name, but 
 he is a Russian prince — that she stays mostly 
 at the West End ; but, good-by, I have de- 
 tained you shamefully; if my father were at 
 home lam sure he would scold me.” I made 
 my declarations of being pleased and honored, 
 and still blaming herself, but with a brighter 
 smile and lighter step than ever I imagined she 
 could exhibit, Helen left me at the open gate 
 and tripped into the house. Far down the 
 avenue of trees and along the open road I look- 
 ed back — it was the villa way — but my eye also 
 caught Mr. Forbes’s bay window ; somebody 
 was standing there, half hidden by the curtain, 
 but the head was turned toward me, and I knew 
 the banker’s daughter was seeing me home. 
 
 What of that ? Miss Forbes had a way of 
 looking after people : it was her only amuse- 
 ment. Church-going and good books, needle- 
 work and visiting the poor, could fill up no- 
 body’s life. It was out of that very window 
 she watched Madame Palivez. How much 
 more information concerning her would Esthers 
 be able to give, now that he had made good his 
 footing in Notting Hill House. There was a 
 long desired object attained at last, and Esthers 
 had shown his discernment by taking the most 
 direct way to it. Ordinary people may be won 
 by flattery or attentions : prudent ones can be 
 bought only by serving their interests. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 POOR MISS LIVY. 
 
 The important information which sent Mr. 
 Forbes off to Edinburg that Saturday morning 
 was made clear to my understanding some 
 three weeks after, when the Lothian bank sud- 
 denly stopped payment, and all who had trans- 
 actions with that long-established house were 
 serious losers except himself. I knew the 
 prudent banker well enough — while only guess- 
 ing it must be something of the kind — to believe 
 that solid, useful service done to his business 
 would insure Esthers a high place in his good 
 graces. I also observed that the manager in- 
 E 
 
 tended to stand well with his daughter. He 
 had particulars of the lady-superior to commu- 
 nicate for her edification which were carefully 
 kept from my ears. I had never heard a 
 syllable about the Russian prince, though Est- 
 her’s civility to me seemed to increase hourly. 
 His private reasons for that silence I could not 
 yet fathom, but the motive of his communica- 
 tions was plain. In Helen’s admiring interest 
 in Madame Palivez and her doings, as sincere 
 as it was undisguised, there appeared to me the 
 one touch of romance in her quiet and method- 
 ical life ; it was so unlike what might have been 
 expected from her opposite nature and habits 
 — such a contradiction of the world’s report 
 regarding the hostility of plain women to hand- 
 some ones. I marveled at, I half admired her 
 for it ; and friendly as we were, it was the only 
 sentiment of hers in which I had any sympathy. 
 Esthers had found it out — the powers of plot- 
 ting best know how — and meant to make it a 
 fulcrum for his lever wherewith to move the 
 heart of Miss Forbes. Yes, that was his drift 
 or design. There was a smirking smile got up 
 whenever her name happened to be mentioned 
 — a familiar tone assumed in his inquiries after 
 the young lady’s welfare — which had become 
 frequent of late. The manager seemed to have 
 forgiven my goings to Notting Hill House, and 
 condescended to converse with me about the 
 Forbes’ family as our mutual friends. He had 
 made good his entrance, and he was an able 
 general. Moreover, there was every induce- 
 ment to employ his powers. Helen was her 
 father’s only heiress. The mercantile wealth 
 and status on which Esthers’ heart and hopes 
 were set might be achieved through her, and I 
 had no doubt of him playing his cards well ; 
 but there was that in Helen’s look when we sat 
 together at the bay w indow, and her pale cheek 
 flushed as she blamed herself for not liking the 
 manager — ay, and that very evening, when she 
 promised to think better of him for serving her 
 father, there was that which assured me that on 
 her gentle, pious, upright nature, the best-laid 
 scheme or acted part could have no power. For 
 all his cunning, Esthers was not the man to win 
 the Scotch banker’s heiress. Helen never could 
 like him, for all his news and service ; but her 
 talk, quiet as it was, always did me a sort of 
 spiritual good. What ought to be done was apt 
 to come into my mind on such occasions ; and 
 when I had seen that all was right at home, it 
 sent me to see Rosanna. 
 
 I went wondering who the Russian prince 
 was, or if Esthers had coined that piece of 
 gossip, having none else to tell ; and I found 
 myself once more in Curzon Street, opposite 
 Madame’s house. It was lighted up for another 
 gala — not a ball this time; there were fewer 
 carriages, fewer gazers ; and I learned, from the 
 passing discourse of an orange-girl and a pastry- 
 cook’s boy that Madame was giving a select 
 dinner-party. The study and worship of high 
 life go down to every grade of the West End ; the 
 costermongers and street-boys around me were 
 
66 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 familiar with the names and titles of the arriving 
 company. I stood there waiting for the mention 
 of the Russian prince, looking out for any in- , 
 dividual who might be his Northern highness ; j 
 but I saw nothing of the kind. There were | 
 turbaned dowagers and old officers with ribbons 
 and stars ; and when the door was finally shut, 
 and the last carriage driven away, I walked into 
 Bolton Row. 
 
 The slatternly maid admitted me as usual, 
 but she was in haste to answer an impatient 
 bell ; and I was making my own way to the 
 attic, though it was getting dark by this time, 
 and the solitary lamp was not yet lighted, when 
 almost at the top a man’s voice reached me 
 from the Joyces’ rooms ; it Avas not Jeremy’s 
 subdued tone. I stopped short, and the next 
 moment saw Rosanna rushing down. 
 
 “Is it you, Lucien dear?” she said, in a 
 frightened Avhisper (how keen the poor girl’s 
 ear had grown regarding my voice and step!). 
 “Don’t come up, for goodness sake! Sally is 
 in a fit — the worst one she ever had, and if 
 she sees you it will make her ten times worser. 
 That notion about us not getting married soon 
 enough runs in her head so. Oh, Lucien ! she 
 gives Jeremy and me no life at all;” and Ro- 
 sanna began to sob at the foot of the third flight, 
 to which we had now got down. 
 
 “Don’t vex yourself, Rosanna,” said I; “per- 
 haps Ave may get married sooner than Sally 
 thinks.” Nothing but my prudent resolution 
 touching the introduction of her and Miss Livy 
 kept me from telling her the good neAvs on the 
 spot. “But why did she work herself into a fit 
 this evening? And is that a doctor I hear 
 talking in your room ?” 
 
 “ Oh yes — we had to send for one,” said Ro- 
 sanna, already giving up her sobs. “But why 
 do you think Ave will get settled so soon ? Have 
 you got a better situation, or somebody to take 
 your aunt and sister? For goodness sake do 
 tell me, my own dear, darling Lucien ; I haven’t 
 a minute to stay, for if she knew you were here, 
 the house would not hold her.” 
 
 “Well, Rosanna, don’t stay; I’ll tell you all 
 some other time, when Sally is better.” 
 
 4 ‘ Oh ! she will be well enough on Monday 
 evening, I am sure; but can’t you tell me now?” 
 
 “ No, Rosanna, I can not ; but I’ll come and 
 see you on Monday evening. Good-night ; be 
 a good girl, and don’t vex yourself Avhatever 
 Sally says. We will be happy yet.” 
 
 “ Oh ! I’ll go down Avith you to the door. It 
 is such a pleasure to see you for a minute longer, 
 my own dear Lucien she clung to my arm. 
 Hoav hard it was to hold on my prudent course ; 
 but it was for the best, and all should be made 
 up to her hereafter. We went down the dark 
 stairs in kindly company. She promised not to 
 grieve ; said she could trust me to the world’s 
 end ; her Lucien never would forsake her. We 
 had our tender leave-taking in the passage, 
 which happened to be left to ourselves. I heard 
 the doctor’s tones rising louder above, and it 
 struck me as something strange that there was 
 
 laughter mingling with them. Perhaps the 
 medical man was not particular in an attic. I 
 promised to come back punctually on Monday 
 evening — promised to be always faithful, ay, and 
 intended it ; yet felt relieved when fairly under 
 the street lamps. 
 
 On the following Sunday it was my duty to 
 escort my grand-aunt and sister on an invitation 
 which had been long pending to the house of the 
 Masons, Watt Wilson’s relations. 
 
 Honest people, they lived in Brook Green 
 Lane, Hammersmith, then a pretty street of 
 small new houses, running out into the com- 
 mon, but now gone doAvn considerably in ap- 
 pearance and respectability. The head of the 
 house and husband of Watt’s sister was a clerk 
 like myself, not indeed in a bank, but in a mer- 
 cantile house. His salary Avas as large as mine ; 
 his responsibilities Avere not much greater, 
 though he had six young children ; but Wilson 
 had impressed the ancient descent and grand- 
 eur of the La Touches of Armagh so deeply on 
 the family mind, that from the father to the 
 baby in long clothes every one of the Masons 
 reverenced us, and put forth all their resources 
 of fare and manners for our suitable entertain- 
 ment. The hard-working, well-doing pair and 
 their six little ones have no place in this story 
 of mine. They were the only society my grand- 
 aunt and sister had : useful and safe acquaint- 
 ances, friends as the world goes. I valued them 
 as such, and made myself at home with them 
 for the time. Our association was long and fa- 
 miliar, cemented by good offices on either side, 
 and with nothing hard or unpleasant to look 
 back on ; but of that particular Sunday after- 
 noon spent under their hospitable roof I re- 
 member chiefly my own deep disgust at the 
 necessary accompaniments of family life, Avith a 
 narrow income and an increasing household. 
 
 The crying baby, for whom there Avas no dis- 
 tant nursery ; the larger and more troublesome 
 children, in evident want of a governess ; the 
 absence of elegance and taste ; the number 
 crowded up in such small spaces, jarred on my 
 mind as they had never done before, and at the 
 same time I recollected that Avith such means 
 Mason could do no better, and neither could I, 
 if in his circumstances. Was that the prospect 
 before me and Rosanna? was that the home we 
 had to expect? I knew she Avould never be 
 such a manager as Mason’s wife. I knew that 
 Jeremy, Sally, and the fits Avere always to be 
 seen in the background, if not in our very front, 
 and I inwardly rejoiced at the prudent reserve 
 Avhich at least insured me a respite from such 
 penalties. I remember Watt Wilson doing the 
 honors. He Avas the director of that house, the 
 Masons being only managers under him, in right 
 of his bachelorhood, and the savings qnce placed 
 at my disposal. Miss LiA r y had always liked 
 him ; he was the last link to her former life, 
 country, and associations, now within the old 
 woman’s reach. Our expedition to his sister’s 
 house had been undertaken partly to cheer her 
 up from that unnatural quiet, superinduced, as 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 67 
 
 we thought, by the fright in the thunder-storm. 
 Wilson was aware of that. He talked to her of 
 the old times that were still good in her memo- 
 ry ; of the Easters and Christmases kept in Ar- 
 magh, when our house was yet unscathed by 
 misfortune, and she was its manager. For once 
 since her coming to London, all that had come 
 and gone since then seemed to slip away from 
 Miss Livy’s mind ; her old face brightened up 
 till it almost lost the wrinkles of nearly four- 
 score years with the recollections of jokes and 
 merry-makings, and friends that had long gone 
 the way of the' roses. I had never seen her so 
 blithe and bright since the spring-time of my 
 seventh year. 
 
 Wilson vowed, she was growing young again. 
 The honest fellow would see us home ; as he re- 
 marked, there was some walking to do. The 
 London and Hammersmith coach set us down 
 at Church Street, qne of the outlying arms of 
 Kensington, from whence, by cross ways, we got 
 to Petersburg Place. 
 
 “Take my arm, Miss Livy,” said Wilson, as 
 he helped her out of the coach. “Let these 
 young folks run on before us ; they don’t mind 
 as much as you and I do.” 
 
 “Thank you, Watt, thank you; but if it is 
 all the same to him, I Would rather take Lu- 
 cien’s arm. Many a time he has helped me 
 over this rough road ; maybe it isn’t so rough 
 neither, only I think it, as I did many a thing. 
 Oh ! but this world is -deceiving. That’s it, 
 Lucien, my boy,” she continued, as I drew her 
 arm into mine; “many a time you helped me 
 along, but this is the last of it.” 
 
 “Nonsense, aunt,” I said, “we will walk 
 here many a day to see the Masons, and home 
 again.” 
 
 “I don’t think it, Lucien. Something tells 
 me my time is nearly come. I haven’t felt so 
 light of heart and cheerful these twenty years. 
 It is just as if nothing at all had happened, 
 though I know it has, and more than ever I 
 knew before ; but we won’t talk of that. The 
 Lord will bring it all to light in His good time, 
 which won’t be within my day, and how should 
 it ? I have lived to see my youngest grand- 
 nephew a tall, handsome man, the image of his 
 father. I hope you’ll be as good, and have bet- 
 ter luck, Lucien. You have been a good boy 
 to us, and you’ll get a blessing for it. You and 
 Rhoda are the last of them all — the family I 
 saw so many and merry. I wake out of sleep 
 here in the long nights with the voices of the 
 children ringing in my ears, as they rang through 
 the old house before trouble came. You and 
 Rhoda are the last of them, and you will be kind 
 to one another when I am dead and gone.” 
 
 / “Aunt, dear,” cried Rhoda, “you are not 
 going to die!” Wilson and I broke in with a 
 similar remonstrance. It was strange to hear 
 Miss Livy talk so on that sweet summer even- 
 ing, when the trees were full of leaves, and the 
 sky in the flush of sunset. The thought of her 
 departure had never come to me as a grief till 
 then ; the old woman seemed so wise, so amia- 1 
 
 ble, so sorely tired, so underrated — my heart 
 smote me for my own share in the last-men- 
 tioned. I made good resolutions for time to 
 come, and declared, in chorus with Wilson and 
 Rhoda, that she would live and walk with us for 
 many a year. 
 
 “I know better, children, and the Lord’s will 
 be done ! Long life is not a desirable thing ; 
 you’ll think so when you come to know it as I 
 do. I remember saying so to your poor sisters 
 when they were going ; but not one of them 
 would believe me. Oh, but this world is de- 
 ceiving, and a poor place to fix our minds on, 
 with its falsehoods and its changes ; there is 
 nothing certain but the sky above and the grave 
 below, children — the grass must be long and 
 green over them this summer, as it grows over 
 all the dead; but up there,” and she pointed to 
 the sky, “what a place it must be above the sun 
 and moon, the clouds and the troubles ! — but, 
 dear me, is this our house ? It looks prettier 
 than ever I thought it before ;” and Miss Livy 
 stepped cheerfully in. We had left Hannah 
 Clark at home, somewhat against Rhoda’s mind; 
 her peculiar mode of conversation offended my 
 gentility, and would not have conduced to the 
 quiet of the Masons’ house. I had therefore 
 installed, by way of care-taker and company, a 
 certain honest charwoman, of Miss Forbes’s rec- 
 ommending, who had been employed about No. 
 9 since our settlement there, was known to be 
 sober and steady — having a husband of the con- 
 trary kind and three small children to keep — 
 and her name was Mrs. Muncy. 
 
 When Hannah opened the door to us with 
 accustomed demonstrations, and the good wom- 
 an stood waiting in the passage till they sub- 
 sided, I knew she had something to say. 
 
 “What is it, Mrs. Muncy?” said I, as soon 
 as hearing could be obtained. 
 
 “ If you please, sir, there has been a gentle- 
 man here, about an hour after you went, inquir- 
 ing in the kindest manner for all the family, and 
 yourself particularly.” 
 
 “Did he leave his name or card?” 
 
 “No, sir, nothing of the kind, though I axed 
 him two or three times, saying how disappointed 
 you would be ; but he said he would call again, 
 and discoursed — I mean, made a deal of signs 
 with his face and fingers — to Hannah. I am 
 sure she understood him, for you never heard 
 or saw how she went on answering like ; but I 
 couldn’t make out a notion of what he was say- 
 ing, though I should have liked to,”s&ys Mrs. 
 Muncy, twisting her apron-string. 
 
 “What was he like?” said I, in hopes of 
 knowing my visitor by description. But, gra- 
 cious reader, did you ever try how many or- 
 dinary people could describe either a person or 
 place so as to let you know one from another ? 
 
 “Well, sir, he was like a gentleman,” said 
 Mrs Muncy, twisting away. 
 
 ‘ ‘ What had he on ?” 
 
 “A coat and a hat, sir.” 
 
 “ Was he tall ?” 
 
 I “ Not very tall, sir.” 
 
68 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “ Was he little?” 
 
 “Not very little, sir.” 
 
 “ What sort of a face had he ?” 
 
 “A middling nice face.” At this point I gave 
 up in despair ; but Rhoda having taken Hannah 
 in hand in the kitchen, now came to my assist- 
 ance with, “Hannah says it was the priest.” 
 
 “Well, maybe it wor a Catholic clergyman,” 
 said Mrs. Muncy, who happened to be a sound 
 Protestant ; “you knows best, miss, and so does 
 Hannah ; but he didn’t look very like it to me. 
 Howsomever, I did all I could with him to leave 
 his name, and when he calls again you’ll see 
 him yourselves.” 
 
 “ Don’t you think Father Connolly would 
 have left his name, Rhoda?” said I, when we 
 were in the parlor and the charwoman out of 
 hearing. Our parish priest did visit us some- 
 times, though never before on Sunday ; and 
 Mrs. Muncy’s declaration that the visitor did 
 not look like a Catholic clergyman weighed on 
 my mind, and I could not help adding, “Are 
 you sure Hannah tells the truth?” 
 
 “I never knowed her to tell stories, and I am 
 sure she knows Father Connolly ; he might have 
 been coming to see after Miss Livy, Sunday as 
 it is. It was queer of him not to leave his 
 name ; but he’ll come some day next week, I’ll 
 warrant. I never thought Father Connolly could 
 sign and talk to Hannah ; the last time he was 
 here he did not understand a word she said ; 
 but is it not the good thing, Lucien ? He’ll be 
 able to teach her all that Miss Forbes wants me 
 to do, and I am sure I can’t, let me try ever so. 
 But, goodness me ! my aunt’s away up stairs 
 herself, and hasn’t nobody to help off with her 
 bonnet,” said Rhoda, as she left me to my med- 
 itations. 
 
 Perhaps it was Father Connolly, and no doubt 
 he would call again to give Hannah religious in- 
 struction, to which the good priest had probably 
 found some key, for he was a laborious and de- 
 voted pastor according to his creed, with a large 
 and poor parish, his part of which consisted 
 chiefly of emigrant Irish. By the way, he was 
 one of them, as his name imported ; and though 
 not from our part of Ulster, his native place was 
 Donegal Bay, I believe ; he knew our family his- 
 tory, and paid us particular attention. 1 had 
 come to the conclusion that he must have been 
 our visitor, after canvassing the subject more 
 than it seemed worth, when I entered the man- 
 ager’s office on Monday morning, and started 
 back involuntarily, as in Esthers’ place, and 
 manifestly looking over his book, I beheld Ma- 
 dame Palivez. 
 
 “ Good-morning, Mr. La Touche,” she said, 
 •with the tone and manner of the bank lady; “do 
 you know if Mr. Esthers be within ? I know he 
 is not,” she continued’, when I had made my 
 bow, stammered out something in reply which 
 was never clear to my mind, and shut the door. 
 “He goes to see a friend of his on Sunday aft- 
 ernoon — at least he went yesterday, and has not 
 got back; the way is rather long. And now, 
 young man, I don’t know whether I ought to 
 
 shake hands with you or not.” She extended 
 her white hand as she spoke, and looked exactly 
 as she did when asking me to stay and dine with 
 her. “ How comes it, after making a league of 
 friendship — an alliance offensive and defensive, 
 as one may say, against the world — that you 
 have never appeared at my back rooms in the 
 bank, or my hermitage in the Park ?” We were 
 shaking hands still, and could get out nothing 
 but “ Madame, you did not send for me.” 
 
 “Do you wait to be sent for?” said she, 
 laughing; “that may be friendship in this age 
 and country, but it would not have passed for 
 such in our ancient Greece.” 
 
 “Madame, you will excuse me ;” I felt my- 
 self wronged and misjudged, yet how hard it 
 was to put the case in words — to express my 
 own feelings on the subject. 
 
 “Perhaps I will ; what is your excuse?” she 
 said ; “ we were to be friends without pride or 
 misunderstanding.” 
 
 “I did not like to trespass upon you when 
 you might have been otherwise engaged ; our 
 positions — what you very properly call our pub- 
 lic lives — are so different. I was aware, though 
 merely from appearances about your house in 
 Curzon Street, which I sometimes pass, that you 
 were much occupied with company, as most 
 fashionable people are at this period of the Lon- 
 don season” — she was positively looking embar- 
 rassed, and that gave me courage to proceed — 
 “I thought that when you wished to see me 
 you would let me know, as you had the good- 
 ness to do before, and I thought it better to 
 wait.” 
 
 “ You are more prudent than I am,” she said, 
 the embarrassment deepening into vexation ; 
 had the incompatibility of things at length oc- 
 curred to her also? “but listen; we can not 
 talk here; you will come and see me at my 
 hermitage in the Park this evening ; there will 
 be time enough after the bank closes ; the way 
 lies up by the stream and through the trees, you 
 remember, and can not miss it if you only keep 
 to the left and follow its windings. Look at 
 this, too,” and she drew from her pocket a small 
 brass key, of old-fashioned but strong workman- 
 ship, “a proof that I will not be the first to 
 break our compact ; take and keep it ; it will 
 admit you to my back rooms by the door in the 
 church-yard wall, to my hermitage by the only 
 gate, it has : Calixi or any of my servants will 
 tell you where I am, and, by the honor of old 
 Greece, there will never be a ‘ not at home’ to 
 you. Good-by for the present.” She shook 
 hands with me once more, and left the key in 
 my fingers; “you will come this evening?” 
 
 “ If I am alive, Madame.” How was it that 
 the promise to Rosanna passed out of my mem- 
 ory for the time ? 
 
 She had stepped to the door and opened it 
 before the words were well out, and with a 
 formal “ Good-morning, Mr. La Touche,” which 
 would have edified any clerk within hearing, 
 swept along the passage, and I heard the inside 
 key turned in her door of retreat. 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 69 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE VISIT TO THE HERMITAGE. 
 
 Charitable souls will say that I differ from 
 the most of mankind ; but fibs and falsehoods, 
 whether black or white, have always gone 
 grievously against my grain. I never could tell 
 one neatly, even to. a woman, however necessary 
 it might be ; and the fear of having to do some- 
 
 forgotten to tell Madame in time, and could not 
 disappoint her now. I would run over and see 
 Rosanna some time to-morrow ; it might be as 
 well to give sister Sally space to recover from 
 her Saturday evening’s performance ; and, bet- 
 ter than all, I knew from past experience there 
 was no lasting indignation to be expected. I 
 could always talk Rosanna over or into any 
 thing, and always would : it was one of the 
 
 thing of the kind kept me away from^Bolton 
 Row that Monday evening, and sent me off, as 
 soon as business would permit, to the west end 
 of Kensington Park, with the weight of a lover’s 
 broken promise hanging like a mill-stone about 
 the neck of my conscience, which, after the 
 manner of men, was enabled to support it, with 
 the help of half a score of apologies. I had 
 
 links that held me in her thrall. I know the 
 like has a similar powfer over most men ; and 
 whether it be a bond to hold good against life’s 
 wear and tear or not, I leave to better judges 
 I had looked at my brass key at intervals 
 throughout the day, as a new-made chamber- 
 lain might look at his gold one. There were 
 opportunities, for Esthers did not appear till the 
 
70 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 forenoon was pretty well spent ; then he slipped 
 into the office as quietly as he had done before ; 
 wherever those absences took him, he was not 
 desirous that they should attract observation. 
 
 It was both my policy and inclination to suit 
 the manager exactly in this respect. The Blue- 
 beard chamber in my own life kept me from 
 prying overtly into other people’s, but I private- 
 ly remarked that Esthers had come back as 
 thoughtful and preoccupied as from his former 
 trip ; that, in like manner, he pretended to be 
 deeply engaged with the bank-books, while 
 merely sitting over them, and occasionally 
 muttering to himself about one’s own turn ; 
 that toward evening he brightened up again, 
 took special occasion to let me know that his 
 absence was entirely on Madame’s service, busi- 
 ness of great importance being hinted at; and 
 Esthers was not only himself, but more civil 
 and communicative than usual ; yet there was 
 never a word of his friendly doings to Mr. Forbes, 
 or his gossip about the Russian prince. 
 
 We were playing our respective games ; I 
 felt sure that Esthers knew nothing of mine, and 
 doubtless he thought the same ; but somehow, 
 thinking of him brought to my recollection, 
 when just passing Tyburn Gate’ that if I went 
 straight up the path by the stream, and Helen 
 Forbes happened to be sitting by the bay win- 
 dow doing her needlework, and looking out for 
 Madame Palivez, she might wonder, and watch, 
 and surmise where I was going. Madame did 
 not want me to be seen, and neither did I ; our 
 public lives were different, and my heart was 
 true to the spirit as well as the letter of our 
 compact ; so I crossed Hyde Park to the Kens- 
 ington side, went down the Hammersmith Road, 
 passed Holland House and lawn, then the 
 parade of Whig literature, skirted Holland 
 Park, entered the Norland one by a path which 
 is now a street of houses thickly inhabited — I 
 think they call it Prince’s Road ; it was a wild 
 grassy glade among old trees at that time ; 
 the Norland and Kensington parks met there. 
 Helen had told me it was a way Madame some- 
 times took, and I was resolved to find her villa. 
 
 My resolution was crowned with success. At 
 some distance along the lane I saw the tracks 
 of hoofs in the mossy grass — Zara had been 
 there — and it led me through a narrower and 
 more tangled path to the left, going deep into 
 the heart of that ancient royal woodland, where 
 the first George had done his last hunting, and 
 was said” to have seen the spectre of his long- 
 imprisoned wife, who died at the Castle of Zell, 
 beckoning to him out of one of the darkest 
 thickets. 
 
 My way was growing so narrow and tangled 
 that I thought I must be losing myself in the 
 park, which was still of great extent, when sud- 
 denly it opened on a clear green space, a forest 
 dell it seemed, shut in by great trees, beyond 
 which there was no seeing, but open to the 
 evening sun, which, now almost on the edge of 
 the horizon, cast broad gleams of golden light 
 on the walls and windows of a small solitary 
 
 house, which stood there silent, but sweet to 
 look upon as a fairy bower. Its height was but 
 two low stories ; all round the lower was a 
 veranda, all round the upper a balcony; the 
 roof was slightly arched, and it had no chimney ; 
 some of the windows were stained glass, some 
 painted lattice-work. The house stood in the 
 midst of a garden of flowers, which seemed to 
 be indigenous ; the most of them were known 
 to my childhood, but such a wealth of bloom I 
 never saw ; there was nothing there but flowers ; 
 no fence, but a low green paling and a hedge of 
 hawthorn, from which the white blossoms were 
 still falling; the light pillars of the veranda, 
 the railings of the balcony, the walls, the win- 
 dows, and the very roof were wreathed with 
 climbing roses, honey-suckle, and jessamine, 
 and the whole was sheltered on the north and 
 east by a high bank, or rampart of earth, clothed 
 with luxuriant ivy, and planted with the tallest, 
 thickest laurels I ever saw. That was her villa, 
 her hermitage — nobody else could have planned 
 or built the like ; but was there any living crea- 
 ture about it? The thrush was singing his last 
 upon the neighboring trees, the earliest nightin- 
 gale had commenced among the thick laurels 
 her hymn to the summer night ; but I saw no- 
 body, heard no human voice. The key had been 
 given me, and I would try it, however; I did 
 try it on the one gate there was for entrance or 
 egress, got easy admission, stepped up a white 
 sanded walk, entered the veranda — it was paved 
 with white marble, which the summer wind had 
 strewn over with rose-leaves — -saw’ a window, or 
 rather glass door, half open ; it gave me entrance 
 to a hall or outer room, also marble floored, but 
 that was mosaic, furnished only with a group of 
 the Lares guarding an antique hearth, a kind 
 of settle made of cedar and beautifully carved, 
 a low covered table before it, but nobody to be 
 seen. 
 
 I turned out again ; there was a marble stair 
 leading up from the veranda, the jessamine 
 twining all along its banister ; I ascended first 
 to a vestibule, then into a room adjoining, the 
 glass door of which also stood open ; the floor 
 was of inlaid wood, polished and shining, the 
 furniture like that of Madame’s back rooms, as 
 she called them, but slighter, more summer-like, 
 and far less costly ; and on one of the low sofas 
 at the farther end, half hidden by a great myrtle 
 in full flower — for many such like shrubs grew 
 in large vases ranged around the painted walls 
 and in the balcony — there sat or rather reclined 
 Madame Palivez herself, in a plain loose white 
 dress, fastened with a purple ribbon, the heavy 
 braids of her rich hair hanging free from net or 
 pins, her hands folded in her lap, a half-open 
 book lying by her side; and I discovered she 
 was fast asleep. I suppose in most dilemmas 
 a man’s first resource is to hem ! I took to it 
 instinctively on that occasion, having just taken 
 time to notice how rigid and sternly resolved 
 the otherwise beautiful face looked while she 
 i slept. Madame did not start, nor even seemed 
 I surprised, but opened her eyes, passed her white 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 71 
 
 hand over them, then extended it to me, with 
 “Welcome, my friend! you have found me 
 sleeping after a long ride ; perhaps the jessa- 
 mine tells on one in this warm evening, or the 
 weight of years begins to press down the eyelids 
 in broad day. Is it not a curious fact that even 
 in the East, where the heat makes it a universal 
 custom, young people do not sleep so much in 
 the daylight as their elders ? That’s right, find 
 yourself the best seat you can ; I hope they are 
 not all too low for you. Did you find the way 
 easily up by the stream ?” 
 
 “ I didn’t come that way, Madame.” What 
 made me let it out? she comprehended the 
 whole by one glance in my face. 
 
 “You wanted to avoid Mr. Forbes’s window ; 
 his daughter sits there; good, industrious girl, 
 always at needlework ; many a time I see her 
 looking after me. It is a dull life for a young 
 person to lead in that solitary house ; they see 
 very little company, I believe ; yet Mr. Forbes 
 is rich, and nothing peculiar about the family.” 
 There was a keen and curious inquiry in her 
 look. 
 
 “Nothing that I know of, but the early loss 
 of his wife and two sons, and Scotch Calvinism,” 
 said I. 
 
 “Don’t despise that, my friend ; Calvinism is 
 but Christian fatalism, the only faith -which 
 every age and all research confirms. Does that 
 astonish you ? Perhaps you have not thought 
 on the subject, yet it is one that must occur to 
 every thinker.” 
 
 “ You believe in predestination, then?” said I. 
 
 “Yes, in the ancient philosophic sense. The 
 inexorable, unalterable Fate, fixed forever above 
 all power, beyond all wisdom, independent of 
 all merit, never to be avoided or overstepped, 
 never to be accounted for or reasoned on, with- 
 out justice, without mercy, and without change, 
 seems to me, as it seemed to the thinkers of old 
 on the shores of the Nile, the Aegean, and the 
 Tjber, the one certainty, lying cold, dark, and 
 immovable at the root of all our belief, doctrines, 
 and speculations, as the primeval rock lies be- 
 neath the cultivation, the graves, and the debris 
 of the world. It was the Parcas of the Greek 
 tragedy, a threefold representation as governing 
 the birth, the life, and the death of mortals. 
 Probably from it came the idea of the Triad, 
 which runs through all Eastern mythology, and 
 has descended to its latest offshoots, the very 
 troublesome creeds of Christendom. The old 
 Fate has found name and place among them 
 too, and to do the stiff Picard Calvin justice, he 
 seemed to have the clearest understanding of it : 
 that eternal election and reprobation of his come 
 the nearest to the classic notion, and are fitted 
 most ingeniously into the Christian framework. 
 I \:an’t help thinking they gave strength to his 
 system as well as hardness, and helped him to 
 found the rigid theocracy which held its own, 
 and more, in the watchmaking city so many a 
 year, against the whole of Catholic Europe. At 
 least you will allow that the Calvinists of France 
 and Holland showed a tougher courage, and 
 
 I passed through a fiercer ordeal, than the Lu- 
 theran men of Germany and England. The 
 same doctrines struck deep root in Scotland; 
 they were fitted for the national mind, which 
 may be narrow, but is never shallow. Calvinism 
 fought a tough battle there, lived through it, and, 
 what is far more wonderful, has lived on in spite 
 of religious peace, increasing wealth and trade, 
 and the prevalence of schools. Your friends 
 the Forbes’, and thousands of Scotch families at 
 home and abroad, hold fast by the decrees from 
 all eternity ! Observe, it is not they alone that 
 have made them serious and sober; there is 
 something in the banker’s face that tells me he 
 has had experience of a kind to confirm the 
 faith he was reared in. I mean what I say,” 
 she continued, in answer to my look of involun- 
 tary amazemen t ; “ there are experiences which 
 prove the election and reprobation doctrines to 
 be true, independent of divines with their for- 
 mulas and texts.” 
 
 “ What kind of experiences, Madame ?” 
 “What thousands meet with, my friend. 
 The circumstances, the surroundings, the neces- 
 sities all setting one way, like so many concur- 
 rent tides for good or for evil — no matter which, 
 they are equally strong — generally strongest for 
 the latter course — not to be turned, not to be 
 run against, and sure to bear us on to their OAvn 
 inevitable goal, however opposed to our inclina- 
 tions, our efforts, and our hopes.” 
 
 “ I can not believe in such doctrines,” said I, 
 speaking plainly out my thoughts, for they had 
 followed every word she uttered with a deeper 
 and more personal interest than mere specula- 
 tion could ever command. “This fixed, unal- 
 terable fate of yours, Calvin’s eternal decrees, 
 and all the rest of it, leave no room for free 
 will, and consequently none for accountability.” 
 “ My friend,” and she smiled compassionate- 
 ly, “ when you have inquired, observed, and ex- 
 perienced more, you will discover that the notion 
 of free will among men is like that of liberty 
 among nations — a thing much talked about, 
 much sacrificed for, often dreamt of, but never 
 realized. The deeper we search into life and 
 its workings — social, domestic, and individual 
 — the farther it recedes from us. Most men 
 think themselves agents when they are only in- 
 struments. None of us ever can, or ever could, 
 do otherwise than we do.” 
 
 “Is there no blame, no retribution, then?” 
 “There is plenty of both, my friend, partic- 
 ularly the first-mentioned. Is not the whole 
 world blaming every body who does not suc- 
 ceed? Hasn’t it been going on in the same 
 fashion, blaming away from one generation to 
 another, since Adam was unlucky enough to eat 
 that apple ? And as for retribution, had not the 
 Nemesis her altars, on which my ancestors of- 
 fered sacrifices in the Athenian night, to propi- 
 tiate the goddess of darkness and revenge, that 
 she might not come to levy her tribute off their 
 houses ? They have been long overturned, or 
 given to other gods; but she reigns still; and we 
 have made her more costly offerings in these 
 
72 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Christian times than man ever made in her ac- 
 knowledged temples. Ay, the Nemesis reigns 
 still ; there is revenge, but there is no justice, 
 no prevention, no escape for the innocent. The 
 retribution comes by fixed laws, which have 
 no variation and no reasonableness in them — 
 comes, but not in proportion to the guilt, not 
 heaviest on the head of the wrong-doer. The 
 corner-stone removed, no matter by what power 
 or for what purpose, brings down the tower on 
 innocent infancy as well as on guilty manhood. 
 The ship goes to pieces with a Jonah on board, 
 but honest hands and faithful hearts go with it. 
 Yes, my friend, there is retribution and blame 
 enough, but these are only other names for des- 
 tiny.” 
 
 “I will go farther than that with you,” said 
 I, feeling for the first time on equal terms ; “ I 
 will allow that Jonah may swim safe to shore, 
 while some far better man gets his inside place 
 in the whale. Limited as you justly think my 
 experience, it has been sufficient to let me know, 
 by something like practical proofs, Madame, that 
 our good and ill fortunes are not measured by 
 our merits. To the worst and the best, the 
 chances are probably pretty equal in this world. 
 But is there not another life to adjust the bal- 
 ance — the hereafter, to which wise men of all 
 times and races — Confucius, Zoroaster, and So- 
 lon — have looked for the solution of the moral 
 problems which still perplex us all, and the jus- 
 tice not to be expected on this side of the grave ? 
 Do not the conflicting creeds of mankind, which 
 agree in nothing else, come to one on the doc- 
 trine of future rewards and punishments?” 
 
 “They do, my friend, with a considerable 
 difference on the subjects of them ; for instance, 
 according to your Roman teaching, the most 
 dreadful doom may be expected for doing de- 
 spite to a consecrated wafer : from my Greek 
 instructors, a seat in the heaven may be reckon- 
 ed on for the destruction of well-chiseled im- 
 ages, and the putting up of dingy daubs in their 
 room. That is the agreement of creeds in the 
 matter of final judgment. As for Zoroaster, 
 Solon, and Confucius, time has left us but faint 
 and fragmentary outlines of their philosophy, 
 much overlaid, and ill-reported too. It is proba- 
 ble that they taught the populace of their re- 
 spective nations somewhat as you have stated ; 
 so did sages since and before them — it was a 
 useful dogma, and might help to keep the mul- 
 titude in some sort of order — but did they not 
 always think so, my friend ? I doubt if philos- 
 ophers could. All things, as far as our knowl- 
 edge or investigation extends — and remember, 
 there is no reasoning except on ascertained data, 
 no seeing but by the light we have got — all 
 things, then, are governed by fixed laws, in the 
 moral as well as the material world. The rev- 
 olutions of both may be predicted and calculated 
 with equal certainty ; what people call accidents 
 in both are equally the product of unvarying 
 rules. Under given circumstances, certain vir- 
 tues will prevail — so will fair weather; and 
 crimes may be counted on as surely as storms.” 
 
 What a stony, statuesque look her face took 
 while she spoke ! In spite of the finely-mould- 
 ed features and soft clear complexion, there was 
 something positively repulsive in its hard, cold 
 expression — something that chilled and terri- 
 fied, but yet led me on with the discussion, as 
 if I had a personal interest in it, and a discov- 
 ery to make. 
 
 “But are not those fixed laws the product of 
 Divine wisdom, and is it to be imagined that 
 the Divinity is not just and good?” 
 
 “I know not,” she said, quickly ; “the far- 
 ther we search into Nature, the more the Divin- 
 ity recedes from us. Perhaps there are many 
 powers equally supreme in their provinces, as 
 my classic ancestors believed. Perhaps there 
 is only mind and matter, both subject to neces- 
 sity, as Plato thought ; or, more likely, the two 
 eternal principles of the Manichseans — but here 
 comes Marco with the coffee.” 
 
 The opportunity thus caught to turn the sub- 
 ject was given her by the entrance of an old 
 Greek — nobody could have taken the man for 
 any thing else, though his beard was white, and 
 long enough to have served a Turkish dervish. 
 It streamed down upon his breast; his hair, 
 equally straight and snowy, flowed over his 
 shoulders. He was tall and erect, and brought 
 in a tray, with a service of plain white china on 
 it, with more dignity than all the silent serv- 
 ants arranging gold and silver plate in those 
 richly-furnished rooms behind the bank. Ev- 
 ery thing in her woodland villa was in striking 
 contrast to what went on there and in Curzon 
 Street : those were the residences of her wealth 
 and fashion — here she lived with summer and 
 Simplicity ; perhaps it was Madame’s Arcadia. 
 
 “You are admiring Marco,” she said, when 
 the old man had served us with the coffee and 
 gone out; “he is a noble specimen of Greek 
 age ; handsome to the last — at least I think so 
 — and without failure or infirmity, though now 
 in his eighty-first 3'ear. Yes, you may wonder, 
 but that man is Calixi’s father. He was born 
 in my family’s service ; his father and mother 
 came with the Palivezi from Amsterdam, and 
 rest in a Dublin church-yard. Their ancestors 
 served mine in Eastern Russia ; and Marco and 
 his old wife Zoe are the guardians of my her- 
 mitage, and will suffer no other servants to wait 
 on me here.” 
 
 While she spoke, it just crossed me, though 
 not for the first time, how few female servants 
 must be kept in her establishments. There were 
 maids in Curzon Street ; I had seen them look- 
 ing out by chance from the attic and basement 
 windows. Madame Oniga and .her discreet sub- 
 ordinates looked after the necessities of the bank 
 people ; but in the lady-superior’s rooms only 
 men were to be seen, and here there were none 
 but Marco. 
 
 “ Does the old woman wait upon you too ?” 
 I inquired, by way of a probe at that curious 
 subject. 
 
 “No,” said Madame, stirring her coffee, and 
 positively guessing my thought, “she manages 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 73 
 
 domestic matters behind the scenes ; it is an 
 Asiatic custom, perhaps, hut one that takes my 
 fancy, to have only men-servants about me. 
 Between ourselves, I have no great liking for 
 women in general, neither had any of the Pali- 
 vezi. Their restless curiosity, their love of gos- 
 sip, their ready instrumentality to all sorts of 
 men, and priests in particular, make them more 
 troublesome than useful to the head of a house 
 like ours. Of course one must have maids, but 
 I keep as few as I can. Laugh if you like, my 
 friend ; it is all true, though not a chivalrous 
 lesson for a fine young man ; but we won’t waste 
 our time with the world’s shams; you know it 
 as well as I do, or you will in time.” 
 
 “Is it not a pity,” said I, “that the educa- 
 tion of women, both in Asia and Europe, should 
 be so defective ? for I presume that is the cause 
 of the disqualifications you have mentioned, and 
 many more.” 
 
 “I don’t think it is,” said Madame; “the 
 cause lies far deeper, namely, in Nature. It is 
 one of the fixed laws of which we have been 
 talking — ay, and a law of necessity too. Do 
 you imagine women would ever do the duties 
 Nature imposes on them if they had the intel- 
 lectual capacity of men ? Would they be moth- 
 ers and nurses, with all the lowering concomi- 
 tants and wretched rewards of those offices? 
 No, no, my friend ; the world would come to its 
 close, or rather never would have gone forward. 
 No schooling, no training can make them other 
 than they are, differing of course with climates 
 and ages, but still in the background, as the 
 necessity of things requires.” 
 
 “ It is not an encouraging doctrine for those 
 who have hopes of human progress,” said I. 
 “ If the mothers, and consequently fqrst teachers 
 of mankind, must be always gossips and instru- 
 ments, what chance is there for their sons to be- 
 come wiser or better?” 
 
 “Once again, I know not,” said Madame. 
 “But doubtless that is one of the causes which 
 make human progress such a very circuitous af- 
 fair.” 
 
 “Yes, Madame” — let me observe, I did not 
 intend to flatter — “but I think there are some 
 proofs in existence against your fixed law. 
 What do you account yourself?” 
 
 “ Simply an exception” — she spoke as coolly 
 as if it had been about the coffee-cups — “ there 
 are such to every rule. There is no law of 
 Nature without them ; they also exist by laws. 
 It was my destiny to be one of them, and being 
 such, can never be the work of favorable stars.” 
 “ Is it then your opinion that you would have 
 been happier without the better intellect or ca- 
 pacity which you think an exception to the or- 
 dinary rate of women ?” I felt that the question 
 was too much of a home-thrust the moment it 
 was uttered, but she looked me quietly in the 
 face, and said, 4 4 1 can not tell ; at the worst, it 
 was only part of my ill luck.” 
 
 “Your ill luck, Madame?” 
 
 “Yes, my friend. Did you never hear of a 
 person rich and unlucky ? What about the 
 
 Fates we have just spoken of? What about 
 the election and reprobation — having to do the 
 thing one hates and shrinks from ; having the 
 memory of its like done long ago, to darken 
 one’s days, and mingle with one’s dreams? 
 Lucien, Lucien” — she had never called me by 
 my name before — “you know not what terri- 
 ble work those Parcse do in the dark places of 
 life ; what fearful threads they spih for us, and 
 leave us no escape but by using their scissors.” 
 She was wringing her hands and looking so 
 desperately miserable, that, without knowing 
 what I did, I sprung to my feet and was at her 
 side in an instant. But the next she had recov- 
 ered herself by a sudden and powerful effort ; 
 the face grew calm, even careless ; while she 
 motioned me to my seat, and said, as if nothing 
 more particular had passed, “ You and I shall 
 never agree in our views except to differ, I be- 
 lieve ; but as for the education question, trust 
 me, you will not think so much of it when you 
 are ten years married.” 
 
 It was an instinctive sympathy, and not the 
 hope of surprising her secret, that made me rise and 
 rush to her side, and, though Madame had check- 
 ed herself, from pride or prudence — I never could 
 be sure which was strongest in that woman — she 
 evidently knew and did justice to my motives. 
 Her eye rested kindly, almost gratefully, on me. 
 How tender and confiding that glance could be- 
 come for one who had spoken out such bold opin- 
 ions — not with the weakness of the sex to which 
 she belonged, and despised so cordially, but, as 
 it seemed to me, with the feminine element, so 
 called for want of a better name, the feeling, 
 the sentiment, inseparable from all imaginative 
 characters. Her thoughts were not with her 
 words ; neither were mine, though I answered, 
 “ I don’t know what I may think when I am 
 ten years married, but Heaven forbid that my 
 companion for that space of time should be one 
 of the kind you have described so graphically as 
 instruments and gossips.” 
 
 44 If I did say so, those terms include a large 
 portion of creation’s fairer part,” said Madame, 
 laughing. She was herself again, but we had 
 come nearer each other by some miles, if mind- 
 distance can be so measured, and could never 
 more fall back to our former remoteness. 
 
 “ No doubt it does ; but how could a man 
 think Of spending his life in such company ?” 
 
 “ There would not be much pleasure or profit 
 in it, certainly, if the gossip and instrumental- 
 ity were at your expense ; but might they not 
 be turned to your benefit ? if not, remember, it 
 will be your own fault. Take my advice, Lu- 
 cien, it is that of an older observer, and obser- 
 vation serves us sometimes as well as direct ex- 
 perience. Take care to secure the affections 
 and the respect, perhaps I ought to say the rev- 
 erence, of the woman you wed. Yes, it may 
 be very true that any sort of reverence is a good 
 deal beyond your merits — it is beyond that of 
 most men,” said Madame, answering my amused 
 look — 44 but if you can get some simple, proper, 
 housekeeping girl to think you the greatest man 
 
74 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 in all creation — the most worthy to be attended, 
 cooked for, and listened to — you will insure a 
 happy home in the ordinary sense of that word. 
 Never mind intellect and education ; they are 
 not wanted for getting ready a good dinner, or 
 warming one’s slippers. The nursery can be 
 kept clean and noisy without them ; the shirt 
 buttons can be put on, the holes in the stockings 
 darned, the children taught their catechism, the 
 maids scolded into good behavior, the back par- 
 lor kept in good order, and the tea-parties prop- 
 erly managed. These are the tangible things 
 which make life run smoothly on in the domes- 
 tic groove.” 
 
 “Very necessary things, no doubt,” said I ; 
 “but is there nothing more wanted in one’s life 
 companion ? The stockings might be darned, 
 the dinners cooked, and the catechism taught 
 in the most unexceptionable manner, and the 
 unfortunate man for whom all was done so 
 properly be as solitary as I have been in the old 
 bachelor’s boarding-house in Baltimore. What 
 pleasure or pi’ofit could there be in such a life ? 
 What real attachment could one have to a wom- 
 an with whom one cuold not exchange a single 
 thought except on the quality of the mutton or 
 the amount of the Christmas bill, suppose she 
 did think one th^greatest man in all creation, 
 or warmed one’s slippers as dutifully as the 
 evening fell?” 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 REVELATIONS . 
 
 “Men were deceivers ever,” says the old 
 song; strange to say, involuntary deceivers 
 sometimes. I had no intention, no cause for 
 playing the hypocrite to Madame Palivez just 
 then ; yet while I said this and a great deal 
 more about the bond of common sentiments and 
 the companionship of mind, I was perfectly aware 
 that between my plighted bride Rosanna and 
 myself there was not a link of taste or thought, 
 not a sentiment or aspiration in common. How 
 well I maintained my position, nevertheless ; 
 how earnestly I argued for the absolute indis- 
 pensability of kindred tastes and modes of think- 
 ing in married life — ay, and believed what I 
 was saying; it was the voice of the doubt re- 
 garding our future which had crossed me many 
 a time in Rosanna’s presence, though I knew it 
 not, and went on waxing more and more elo- 
 quent on my subject, till Madame stopped me 
 with, “ My dear fellow, men’s wives are not al- 
 ways their companions, nor intended to be so in 
 the sense of which you speak. The domestic 
 offices require far different qualifications from 
 those which gild the social hour or brighten up 
 the converse of intellectual friendship. Believe 
 me, it is nothing but the inconsistency of human 
 selfishness that expects the union of such incom- 
 patible things. It is that makes the homes of 
 Europe, and particularly those of England, so 
 full of small disquiet and petty strife. The 
 
 wife’s world is not kept distinct enough from 
 that of the husband. It is naturally narrower, 
 and its bounds can not be much enlarged with 
 safety : so the man has pressed down to it, the 
 requisitions of the family absorb his life, domes- 
 tic necessities and proprieties force every thing 
 else out of their way, they make continual inroads 
 on all social liberty, lay continued embargoes on 
 thought ; the art, the literature, and the intel- 
 lect of the nation are befamilied, and made to 
 fit into the corners of nurseries and back parlors, 
 and a general dwindling and dullness, except in 
 matters merely mechanical, is the evident con- 
 sequence. My Greek ancestors knew better 
 how to manage life. With them the house and 
 family were necessary, but private institutions, 
 which did not go abroad with the man to festive 
 board and philosophic school. Thought was 
 free, art was glorious, and life was large and 
 liberal. The domestic world had rights, immu- 
 nities, and enjoyments of its own, on which those 
 of the outer circle did not trespass. The matron 
 reigned over maid and distaff without fear of 
 being behind the times; kept her proprieties, 
 and fulfilled her duties. The master of a house 
 did not lose his friends, his tastes, and his social 
 existence when he happened to get married. I 
 am talking a good deal on this subject, you see, 
 because I have heard that you are about to enter 
 into the happy state, and also because I under- 
 stand you have chosen wisely, Lucien, foolishly 
 as you talk, to put me off the scent, I suppose,” 
 and she laughed again with all her heart. 
 
 What was it that made me sit confounded and 
 silent for almost a minute ? It was natural that 
 Madame should have known my engagement to 
 Rosanna, for Esthers knew it ; yet her plain 
 speaking qn the subject took me by surprise, 
 and I could only stammer out, “ I hope I have 
 chosen wisely ; but indeed I did not mean to put 
 you off at all.” 
 
 “Well, I thought you did, partly because I 
 was told that your intended, Miss Joyce — is not 
 that her name ? — was quite the simple sprt of 
 girl who would think you the greatest man, and 
 all the rest of it. Very domestic, is she not — 
 likely to be an excellent housekeeper, and very 
 pretty into the bargain?” 
 
 Madame was quite serious now, and I had to 
 give a serious answer. 
 
 “Rosanna Joyce is pretty, and we have been 
 engaged for some time. About her housekeep- 
 ing abilities I am not so certain ; she has been 
 in a manner brought up by an elder sister, a 
 rather eccentric and not very orderly person.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Oh, she is any thing but orderly. I know 
 something about that Sally Joyce — in fact, about 
 the vfiiole family. The father, and afterward 
 the son, was employed in our bank when it was 
 in Dublin. I forget how many years they served 
 us honestly and faithfully ; but we had no use 
 for the son — Sally’s brother, I mean — when the 
 house removed to London, and I thought it my 
 duty to give the family a sort of pension ; it is 
 bestowed on them jointly, and will descend from 
 the one to the other ; Jeremy and Rosanna may 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 75 
 
 come to share it between them, as Sally’s life is 
 not a certain one, but in the mean time she has 
 the first right over it. As you say, Sally brought 
 up her younger brother and sister; they were 
 left early orphans, and she was many years their 
 senior.” 
 
 “ Can you tell me who Sally’s mother was?” 
 said I; “she boasts of her as having been a 
 lady.” 
 
 “ Sally’s mother was the daughter of a Jew 
 money-lender of the name of Reubens,” said 
 Madame, without the slightest change of look ; 
 your family knew something of him, I think — 
 most business people* in Ireland did. He lent 
 money and he made money, but, unlike a Jew, 
 he contrived to lose it again ; indeed, if it had 
 not been for our house — but I say so in confi- 
 dence — the*old man must have ended his days 
 in the Marshalsea, as many a better man did. 
 The Palavezi were friends to him first and last; 
 perhaps you will say they had some right ; for 
 his daughter Esther — a large, handsome, full- 
 blooded Jewess, who got no education or school- 
 ing of any kind but the general impression that 
 she was to be an heiress ; that her father was 
 a miser, and it was her privilege to spend as 
 much as she could — became the fair friend— mis- 
 tress is your English term for it — of my uncle, 
 Alexis Palivez, the only one of our house who 
 lived and died unmarried. Mr. Esthers is their 
 child; according to Jewish custom, he takes 
 his mother’s name, though in the Saxon form, 
 and of course the house provides for him ; 
 but, by a special agreement some time before 
 my uncle’s death, they separated, and she mar- 
 ried our Irish clerk, Jeremy Joyce. The son is 
 called after him, and our friend Sally was the 
 only child of that marriage — born, not to the 
 inheritance of her mother’s beauty, but to that 
 of a peculiar and unsafe constitution, both of 
 body and mind, which may have been the re- 
 sult of a great affection for strong waters which 
 the poor woman took some time before she and 
 my uncle parted, and continued in, to the short- 
 ening of her own days.” 
 
 “Esthers the half-brother of Sally Joyce!” 
 said I, as soon as astonishment would let me 
 speak. “How strange that neither of them 
 should have ever hinted the fact to me !” 
 
 “ It was owing to a rule of our house,” said 
 Madame, with immense composure. “ No ille- 
 gitimate connections are ever permitted to claim 
 relationship with the Palivezi ; but as we are 
 friends, and you are engaged to the younger 
 sister, I thought it better to let you know. Re- 
 member, Sally’s mother had nothing to do with 
 Rosanna’s, except as her predecessor in old 
 Jeremy’s heart and home. By-the-by, he was 
 not much older than yourself when they were 
 married. Come, now, what are you in such a 
 brown study about?” 
 
 “Just wondering what brought the Joyces 
 from America.” I could speak plainly to her 
 now. “Rosanna told me it was by your ad- 
 vice they went.” 
 
 “ So it was; and it might have been well if 
 
 the3*had remained there. Sally, poor soul! is 
 constitutionally troublesome, like most women 
 with strong muscles and weak brains. Her ab- 
 sence would have been a great relief to her 
 brother. Of course it was only on his account 
 that I took any notice of their family arrange- 
 ments ; but the Atlantic between them was too 
 quiet a state of things for Sally to permit any 
 longer ; besides, she had her sister’s fiance to 
 look after and keep steady, I presume. Lucien, 
 my friend, don’t be so ready to kindle up at a 
 jest. I know the looking after was unneces- 
 sary, whatever that disturbed and capricious 
 mind might imagine. There is faith and con- 
 stancy in you, if ever they were in man ; it was 
 the brave look of them in your face that first 
 drew my mind to you before I dreamt of your 
 doing me such good service.” 
 
 How nobly sincere the woman looked — above 
 disguise or conventionality ! The words seem- 
 ed to come from her heart, and went to my head 
 like new wine ; but she left me no time to 
 answer her. 
 
 “ I know you will keep true and loyal to the 
 choice your own heart made and sacrificed so 
 much for. It was bravely done, Lucien, and 
 foolishly too. There is no love, no beauty 
 w r orth the loss of wealth and position — at 
 least, people think so at my years, and an old 
 woman will speak out her mind ; but it was a 
 brave, romantic kind of folly, such as we don’t 
 meet with every day — such as every man is not 
 capable of — such as one dreamt of in one’s 
 youth ; and therefore I respect it. Mr. O’Neil 
 himself told me the particulars in a letter, poor 
 man ! but he was angry about it, and no wonder. 
 Lucien, your uncle is of good family, and so are 
 you. But the choice was made, and I know you 
 will abide by it honestly and courageously, with- 
 out regret for the loss or shrinking from the 
 consequences. We never could agree on the 
 matter of the heavy sacrifice — I mean your 
 uncle’s good graces and testament ; but, leaving 
 that aside as a settled question, I think you 
 chose wisely as to the woman. I have seen 
 Rosanna Joyce ; she is just the sort of girl to 
 make a good, useful, manageable wife. Her 
 domestic education may not have been of the 
 most regular kind under Sally’s governance, but 
 she is not too old to learn better ; the instruc- 
 tion and example of your friends the Masons, 
 or even of their brother-in-law, Watt Wilson — • 
 he is great in housekeeping, I understand — ■ 
 would do wonders for her. And you are won-, 
 dering how I happen to know so much of these 
 people. Oh, my fine young man ! a lonely, 
 loveless, graceless life like mine affords great 
 opportunities for studying one’s neighbors of all 
 classes. In short, I think you may marry with 
 a very fair chance of happiness, as that article 
 goes among us ; but there is one provision ab- 
 solutely necessary for its security, and that is, 
 to get your excellent sister-in-law — why does 
 that startle you? I mean Sally Joyce — fixed 
 somewhere at a proper distance ; and remem- 
 ber, the farther off the better. If she could be 
 
76 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 persuaded to go back to Dublin, or the county 
 Mayo — the native seat of the family, I believe ; 
 or if — you will set me down for a hardened sin- 
 ner, I fear — her head went a little farther off 
 the balance, she might be placed with advan- 
 tage to herself and every body else in some 
 private, well-managed asylum. I should take 
 care that the charges of her sojourn there would 
 not fall on you.” 
 
 Her eyes were fixed on my face with a look 
 hard, keen, and piercing as cold steel. She was 
 as calm as one of the marble vases. She was 
 speaking entirely for my interest — advising, as 
 it were, out of pure friendship ; but the ragged 
 man, with his hoarse growl and long knife, 
 turned up in my memory as she spoke. I knew 
 it was not on Esthers’ account that she had 
 taken notice of their family arrangements, and 
 I knew that it was not on mine that she advised 
 Sally’s removal to a proper distance, or a pri- 
 vate, well-managed asylum. For all the wealth 
 she owned — for all I had sacrificed, as she said, 
 so foolishly — I could not have put those thoughts 
 in words, or asked her the direct question, 
 “What interest have you in getting rid of Sally 
 Joyce ?” But some instinct — for it could have 
 been nothing else — prompted me to look her 
 fairly in the face, and say, 
 
 “ Madame Palivez, was it you who purchased 
 the annuity for my grand-aunt and sister?” 
 
 “It was, Lucien,” she said, with no appear- 
 ance of being taken by surprise, “though I did 
 not wish you to think that I had done so. Re- 
 member, it was not intended for any form of 
 recompense ; but I knew your family circum- 
 stances, I believed in your constancy, and I did 
 myself the great pleasure of removing the only 
 obstacle which stood between you and the ful- 
 fillment of your engagement. Let me hope 
 that you will recollect our compact of friendship 
 sufficiently to give me no thanks or acknowl- 
 edgments ; allow the matter to rest as if it 
 were known only to Messrs. Kelly and Carson, 
 and go on your way to domestic peace and 
 comfort. But you know what an old woman’s 
 curiosity is ; so please to tell me, When do you 
 propose finishing the little business ?” 
 
 I can not remember in what words I answer- 
 ed ; they must have been rather vague, for my 
 mind was in a hazy turmoil of conflicting 
 thoughts ; but I got them shoved aside for the 
 time, and by a few more questions Madame 
 made out and highly approved of my prudent 
 arrangements in the matter of making Rosanna 
 acquainted with my aunt and sister, and seeing 
 if there was any possibility of the parties living 
 agreeably together. She seemed to enter at 
 once into my feelings on the subject of keeping 
 these only relations with me. 
 
 “ It is wise and worthy of you, Lucien. Your 
 poor old aunt is too hear the final removal, by 
 all appearance — for I have seen her — to get well 
 established in another home ; and your sister 
 has qualities in her, or I am mistaken, too rare 
 and good to be parted with. If Rosanna and 
 she can fall into each other’s ways, and I think 
 
 they will, you will have in the one exactly what is 
 wanting in the other, and so build a treble bul- 
 wark against the tides and storms of life. It 
 is well planned, and I hope will be well ex- 
 ecuted, my friend. But it grows late, and there 
 was one special reason for which I wished to 
 see you this evening. I am leaving town — 
 leaving England. How long or short my ab- 
 sence may be, I can not tell. The affairs of 
 our house require my presence in Russi I 
 will not remain there for the winter, if possible ; 
 it is the only climate I have any dread of. My 
 return may be very soon, perhaps at the begin- 
 ning of autumn ; but you have the key I gave 
 you ; call and inquire at the end of a month if 
 you do not see me here, or at the back rooms 
 in Broad Street. My servants will give you an 
 honest answer. And there was another thing 
 I wanted to say to you. You go to the Forbes’ 
 mostly on Saturday evenings. It was an old 
 friendly arrangement made before you knew 
 me. I have been the cause of your breaking 
 through it once ; not a good turn, Lucien, 
 for they are worthy people and true friends to 
 your family, though some darkening shadow 
 has fallen upon their lives. Yes, I know there 
 has, and it is that as well as the note she takes 
 of me which gives me such an interest in that 
 poor, plain, sober-looking girl. There is strange 
 worth in her too; something that makes one 
 half willing to believe in prayers and Bible 
 reading in spite of one’s knowledge and reason. 
 And sometimes I have caught myself wishing 
 — I won’t say what — on your account, Lucien.” 
 “ On my account, Madame ? Miss Forbes is 
 an heiress, and I am a clerk.” 
 
 “ I know you are, and I know she is. I also 
 know that Helen Forbes is not by a long way so 
 pretty as Rosanna Joyce ; but you go there on 
 Saturday evenings, and you ought to go ; but 
 Sunday is their penitential day. I should like 
 to know what Forbes has to do special penance 
 for. Let that evening be sacred to my service, 
 if you have no better use for it. Seeing Rosan- 
 na and doing duty at home will be taxes 
 enough on the rest of your leisure.” 
 
 I agreed to the arrangement, as I did to every 
 thing she proposed. We had some talk about 
 the judiciousness of my introduction scheme. 
 The expediency of getting Sally and her brother 
 Jeremy, for he was now included, out of Lon- 
 don — in short any where far enough off — was 
 once more insisted on. I agreed to it with all 
 my heart, but could not see how it was to be 
 effected ; on which she passed from the subject 
 to the surrounding flowers — to the summer 
 night which now hung over us, soft, dewy, and 
 starlit, filling the open room with woodland 
 scents, and the long gushes of the nightingale’s 
 song. “It sings there among the laurels,” said 
 Madame, “as it sang in the Delphian groves 
 where Apollo gave his oracles, and unlucky man 
 had a chance of seeing Pan and nymphs. The 
 song has not changed like the creeds and na- 
 tions ; it belongs to nature, to beauty, and to 
 poetry. My native Greece is a ruined tomb or 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 temple this many an age ; but Philomel still 
 laments among the laurels, and fills the sum- 
 mer night with the story of her woes. Good- 
 night, my friend,” she added, as I rose with a 
 sudden recollection that it must be past mid- 
 night. Madame did not appear to have any 
 time-piece, or any use for the like in her villa. 
 “ Good-night, and good fortune go with you! 
 Among many more, you have got the two vir- 
 tues. ;at help to bring it — prudence and courage. 
 They also help to make you the friend I want, 
 if such can be found at all. Don’t forget to 
 call and inquire after me ; and once more, good- 
 night.” 
 
 She clasped my hand as she had done in the 
 evening we made the compact. I said good- 
 night, and wished her a good journey in the 
 usual form ; but when at the door, the fact that 
 she was going away struck me so forcibly that I 
 turned to take another look. There she sat, 
 leaning back on the sofa; her hands clasped in 
 her lap, her head bowed, the long braids of jetty 
 hair getting loose and streaming over her long 
 but beautifully moulded neck. The woman 
 looked weary, as if her strength and spirits had 
 been exhausted with the wear of the long day. 
 She was not thinking of me, yet my backward 
 glance pleased her, and she said, smiling — the 
 very soul of summer was in that smile of hers — 
 “We shall meet again, Lucien; I will return in 
 good time to congratulate you and Rosanna.” 
 
 At the garden gate I found old Marco, wait- 
 ing with a lantern to show me my way home 
 through the park. It was the shortest way now 
 I took, for the Forbes’ must be all asleep for 
 hours. Nobody could see me from the bay 
 window ; there was the friendly shade of night 
 always to be trusted in, and along a grassy path 
 winding through the trees, the old man lighted 
 me to the very spot where I had seized the up- 
 lifted arm and hurled down the ragged man. 
 From that point it widened, went straight down 
 the hill-side, and my way was clear. I told 
 Marco so, wished him good-night, thanked him 
 for his guidance, and assured him I should easi- 
 ly find the path in future. The old man re- 
 sponded with a courteous gravity which might 
 have befitted an ancient knight, but stepped back 
 from the silver I thought it my duty to offer him 
 with a determined bow, and — “ The signor will 
 excuse me for assuring him that the Palivezi 
 always pay their servants.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 A STRUGGLE BETWEEN LOVE AND DUTY. 
 
 It went to my conscience to see the clock 
 pointing at half past one in the morning when 
 Rhoda, who had been sitting up alone till she 
 caught the sound of my step in the silent street, 
 softly opened the door of No. 9, and admitted 
 me without knocking ; but my good sister look- 
 ed tired and troubled. 
 
 “I knew you were seeing Rosanna, and sat 
 
 77 
 
 up for you, Lucien ; but is it fashionable in 
 America to stay visiting young ladies so late?” 
 
 “No, Rhoda ; and I would not have staid but 
 for particular reasons — the like will happen 
 sometimes ; but don’t vex yourself about it. 
 When I am late, never sit up for me ; I’ll take 
 the latch-key in future.” 
 
 “Oh, I am not vexed a bit ; I mended your 
 wristbands and darned your socks ; and I know 
 you’ll never do any thing onbecoming; but, 
 Lucien, I don’t think my aunt is well to-day. 
 She didn’t get up till the afternoon, and went 
 to bed again early in the evening. I never saw 
 nobody so altered: she prays so much, and don’t 
 scold at all ; nothing sets her on as it used to 
 do since that fright she got with the lightning. 
 She has been talking a good deal about Rosanna 
 and you, quite kind-like, with not a bit of a grum- 
 ble, which is not her common, you know. In 
 course I told her that the Joyces had come from 
 America, and that you were over seeing them ; 
 and she said nothing at all but ‘ the Lord’s will 
 be done!’ Lucien, I am afraid what she said 
 to us on the walk home from the Masons is go- 
 ing to come true. It was just how the rest 
 went, changing so much before they were called 
 away ; and the fretfullest of them, that was poor 
 Alice — you don’t mind her, maybe — turned the 
 quietest. Lucien, I am afeard Miss Livy won’t 
 be long with us and the tears stood in Rhoda’s 
 eyes. 
 
 “Well, Rhoda, she is an old woman, and we 
 must all die some time ; but there is no certain- 
 ty in these things — Miss Livy may outlive you 
 and me. Good-night, and get to bed like a good 
 girl.” 
 
 My sister cast a look of surprise up the stairs 
 after me ; the words might have sounded cold 
 and queer to her. I went to my own room, but 
 not to bed ; sleep to my eyes was an impossibil- 
 ity that night. How many sleeps we lose before 
 the long one comes ! I opened the window and 
 sat down by it. It was at the back of the house, 
 and overlooked pleasant meadows, with tall trees 
 and green hedgerows, on which the starlight 
 glistened, and the light wind whispered among 
 the leaves. Dewy and fragrant those airs of 
 the summer night played round my temples, but 
 could not reach or cool the fever that throbbed 
 within. I had made a terrible discovery — one 
 which no after-chance could effectually hide 
 from me. Like Adam after his fall, my eyes 
 had been opened to see the precipice over which 
 I had slipped, and the depth that still lav before 
 me. The knowledge had come late but sud- 
 denly, as such knowledge always comes. My 
 way down the hill-side, and through the sleep- 
 ing village homeward, was not ten minutes’ 
 rapid walk; yet in that space there was made 
 clear to me — was it the deceitfulness of the hu- 
 man heart that kept me from knowing earlier ? 
 — that I was engaged to one woman and fallen 
 in love with another. 
 
 Ay, fallen in love — there is no form better 
 than that old rustic phrase to express those 
 woeful mistakes or mischances, which prove, to 
 
78 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 the best and wisest among us, that their hearts 
 are not their own to keep or give away. 
 
 Madame Palivez had never treated me in a 
 manner to flatter my pride, vanity, or self-es- 
 teem. The friendship she had offered was one 
 not to be acknowledged before the world — not 
 thought of till I had been of signal service to 
 her. If it were friendship — it was nothing 
 warmer, easily as men deceive themselves on 
 that point — I knew, in the very depths of my 
 nature, that the woman did not care for me ex- 
 cept as a useful, humble friend — humble com- 
 panion, rather — to whom she spoke what it 
 pleased her to utter of notions and opinions not 
 proper to promulgate in Mayfair and Belgravia. 
 She had approved my choice, and applauded my 
 constancy to another, with a sincerity I could 
 not doubt, though the applause sounded like a 
 ghastly mockery in my ears. With her own 
 hand she had given me the means of fulfilling 
 my engagement with one of the connection not 
 allowed to claim relationship with the Palivezi. 
 She had predicted better things than I had ven- 
 tured to hope of Rosanna and our domestic life. 
 She had also set the relation between us in a 
 light by which I could not have looked upon it 
 once, which, whether false or true — and I can 
 not settle that with myself to this day — was not 
 consonant with the mind or manners of home- 
 loving England. She had shown, or allowed 
 me to see, that there were unexplained objects 
 underlying her friendship ; there might be one 
 in marrying me to Rosanna — there was one in 
 getting rid of her sister ; the hard, keen glance 
 with which she spoke of the private, well-man- 
 aged asylum, and the recollections it called up, 
 haunted me like a warning dream. The notes 
 of the Palivezi bank had bought the annuity for 
 my aunt and sister — the blood-money, as poor 
 Miss Livy called it; and with that thought came 
 back the growl of the ragged maniac, “You 
 murdered him, you sorceress !” 
 
 It was an impossibility to believe that Ma- 
 dame had aught to do with the disappearance 
 of my lost brother. True, the bank had been 
 in Castle Street, where he was last seen ; but 
 where was the motive ? where was the probabil- 
 ity ? I couldn’t have believed in one if it had 
 been proved to exist ; yet, in spite of her sunny 
 smile and lovely eyes, an impression had crept 
 into my mind — like oozing waters, coming by 
 drops, but not to be barred out — that some taint 
 of ci ime clung to her and hers. They were 
 bold, bad doctrines those which she had preach- 
 ed to me concerning fate and necessity — sub- 
 versive of all moral obligation, repugnant to my 
 own convictions, and especially dangerous to 
 unstable and inexperienced youth. Yet, against 
 my better judgment, in spite of principles and 
 inw r ard warnings, there seemed to be a leaven 
 of dark truth in them, for I loved Madame Pa- 
 livez. 
 
 She was my senior by I knew not how many 
 years, and still more so in knowledge and 
 thought; it may be hard to account for, but 
 I hold that these are powerful causes of lead- 
 
 ing men into captivity, particularly when ac- 
 companied by such singular beauty as hers. 
 We had not met often — perhaps there was a 
 charm in that, too ; it was not her position, not 
 her surroundings, not her wealth — from these 
 there might have been liberation ; but, woe is 
 me ! it was the woman I loved — the woman who 
 did not and could not care for me. Did she 
 ever care for any body ? was it in her nature ? 
 I could not tell ; but I felt certain — it was the 
 only certainty I had about her — that I was not 
 the man. And then the girl who loved and 
 trusted me, to whom I was bound by honor and 
 conscience — my own free choice, for whom I had 
 sacrificed prospects and position ! She was wait- 
 ing for me in the miserable attic, with that eld- 
 er sister — justly described as constitutionally 
 troublesome — with al,l the weariness of hope de- 
 ferred, and the faithful confidence so often ex- 
 pressed by that low, soft whisper, “Lucien, I 
 could trust you to the end of the world ; I know 
 you will never forsake me.” What ashes of 
 shame and sorrow the remembrance of it flung 
 on my head now ! That very evening I had 
 disappointed her, and gone at Madame’s call. 
 It was a case beyond explanation — beyond re- 
 trievement ; the bondage into w hich my heart 
 had fallen it never could break through. 
 
 But the duty was clear. In spite of her ar- 
 guing for the Fates, I felt myself an accountable 
 being and a free agent, as far as the choice of 
 right or wrong. That duty, with God’s help, I 
 would do ; fulfill my promise to Rosanna, now 
 that every obstacle was removed ; make her a 
 good and faithful husband ; valuing, if I could 
 not return her affections, and never allowing 
 her to know that my heart had wandered to 
 another. It was. a resolution hard to make and 
 hard to keep, for it involved giving up all asso- 
 ciation with Madame Palivez. Being honest in 
 my determination, I knew that her society, pri- 
 vate and unacknowledged as it was to be, could 
 not be retained with safety to my own or to Ro- 
 sanna’s peace. Yet how was it to be given up? 
 how was the state of the case to be explained to 
 her? I shrunk from the prospect of it; yet 
 given up our friendship must be. There were 
 a thousand reasons that made it unsafe, unad- 
 visable for me, had Rosanna never existed. The 
 woman did not, could not care for me or my 
 foolish love. I was a man, come to man’s es- 
 tate ; not nurtured in an easy school, nor given 
 to womanish ways ; yet that thought made me 
 bow my head on the window-sill, and weep there 
 like a child. I looked up with something like 
 shame, and dashed away the tears, for another 
 day was breaking. The whiteness of the early 
 dawn was already flushed by the regal sunrise ; 
 I heard the lark going up to heaven with his 
 song as I had heard it in the morning when her 
 life was saved : another day for work, for duty, 
 for brave resolves and honest striving, had come ; 
 and I rose with it, determined to do my part of 
 them, and act as became a man. 
 
 I went to business punctually that day, and 
 worked with more than usual exactness. Est- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 79 
 
 hers must have thought there was something 
 particular on my mind, for he took opportuni- 
 ties to observe me in his stealthy manner, and 
 made efforts to draw me out, but did not suc- 
 ceed. I had been warned of the man from the 
 earliest dawn of our acquaintance ; the knowl- 
 edge that he was Sally Joyce’s half-brother did 
 not lessen that warning. The Joyces had kept 
 the fact from me, but Madame Palivez had ex- 
 plained the why and wherefore ; and I thought 
 it more generous, perhaps more prudent, to con- 
 tinue in apparent ignorance of it, even with Ro- 
 sanna. 
 
 I went to see her in the evening, and was re- 
 ceived with smiles : no reproach had the poor 
 girl for my broken appointment. Sally had got 
 over her fits, and Jeremy told me he was to get 
 a situation next week in Mr. Forbes’s bank. 
 “So much for Esther’s important intelligence,” 
 thought I. If he did wish his semi-relations at a 
 distance, there was no want of intimacy and serv- 
 ice between them. Jeremy would form anoth- 
 er link to the Forbes’, their house and business: 
 but what was that to me? I had my own duties 
 to do, and should be glad to see Rosanna’s brother 
 provided with a clerkship ; yet it was a strange 
 and not comfortable idea to find my own life so 
 much interwoven with the meshes of other peo- 
 ple’s private management. 
 
 I saw the house in Curzon Street shut up as 
 if its season were over, and reproached myself 
 for looking at it. I put the brass key away in 
 the corner of my desk, resolving never to use it, 
 never to call at back-rooms or villa if I could 
 help it ; and the fprm of a letter wherein to de- 
 clare my reasons and wishes for breaking up our 
 compact, and seeing each other no more, was 
 earnestly endeavored after, but could not be ac- 
 complished. I tried hard, and I was resolved 
 to forget her, as my only chance of safety and 
 peace ; but through the work of the day and 
 the dreams of the night, through my dry chats 
 with Esthers and my seeings of Rosanna, the 
 tones of her voice, the looks of her eyes, the 
 snowy arms as I had seen them last under the 
 loose muslin sleeves ; the jetty hair loosening 
 from its braids ; the full, fine form, so graceful, 
 so careless in its movements ; the words, the 
 thoughts she had uttered, came back upon me 
 like so many spells. I could get rid of them 
 in the streets, or when deeply engaged in bank 
 business, but at home or alone— and, strange to 
 say, more particularly with Rosanna — they re- 
 turned continually. I remember admiring a 
 piece of needlework she was doing by way of 
 conversation, and all the while thinking of 
 Madame’s hands, and what a contrast they were 
 to hers — for my bride-elect was not fortunate in 
 that department. I remember taking her out 
 for walks, and feeling heartily tired of talking 
 to her about passing trifles. It was worse to 
 talk of any thing else, for I knew she did not 
 understand me, and never would. What a great- 
 gulf had opened between us since the moonlight 
 evenings when we walked and talked together 
 in the outskirts of Baltimore ! Rosanna listen- 
 
 ed to me then, and that was sufficient ; but I 
 had listened to one since, and what she would 
 have answered or thought on every subject we 
 spoke of, came up to my mind when the poor 
 girl was saying, “ Goodness me ! and I am sure 
 I don’t know.” 
 
 I remember taking her to Covent Garden, 
 where the Kembles were in full force. But I 
 had heard plays and actors artistically discussed ; 
 I had some inkling of taste ilnd judgment my- 
 self. Rosanna looked as pretty in her small fin- 
 ery, as flushed and fluttered with delight to find 
 herself actually in a theatre, as she had looked 
 at the Baltimore plays ; but the wonder and the 
 pleasure which had once charmed me were now 
 childish, if not silly. It was evident that the 
 men in the pit and the ladies in the boxes occu- 
 pied her attention much more than the stage ; 
 and when I looked round from Kemble’s great 
 scene of King John suggesting the murder to 
 Hubert, I found her yawning behind her pink 
 fan, and saying, “Isn’t that wonderful ?”as she 
 caught my eye. 
 
 The duty was hard, but I went through with 
 it ; it was Madame Palivez that made Rosan- 
 na so uninteresting. The girl was what she 
 had ever been ; and yet, in spite of my utmost 
 efforts, her deficiency served to keep the bank 
 lady in my memory ; and while still determined 
 to hold fast by honor and conscience, and fulfill 
 my engagement to the poor girl whose affections 
 I had won, the conviction grew upon me hour 
 by hour that in her society I never could be 
 happy, and that Madame’s solution was the only 
 one for my domestic difficulty. My intended 
 wife could not be my companion. There was 
 no mode of life for me but the classical one she 
 had recommended, in which “the house and 
 family were necessary but private institutions — 
 not to go abroad with the man to festive board 
 or philosophic school.” But I was not a clas- 
 sical character ; my nature was domestic as that 
 of the most Anglo-Saxon man. If solitary at 
 home, I must be solitary for life. There was 
 no going abroad for companionship. Where I 
 found it, there my heart would make its home; 
 and I knew that could only be in Broad Street 
 or the villa. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 • MISS livy’s time is come. 
 
 I worked hard against wind and tide, and 
 there were household circumstances that helped 
 to keep me in that sober course. Rhoda had 
 remarked the change in my poor old grand-aunt, 
 and I soon began to see that her fears were well 
 founded. Miss Livy declined, day by day, from 
 the evening of the thunder-storm ; it was soon 
 plain that her prediction of never walking with 
 us again would be fulfilled. She gradually rose 
 later and later — became more and more quiet, 
 and even gentle — gave her mind up to religious 
 duties— at length did not leave her bed at all, and 
 kept her rosary constantly in her fingers. The 
 
80 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 doctor, for whom we sent, said it was a decay 
 of nature, and then inquired if she had met 
 with any accident, or got any sudden shake. 
 “No, doctor,” said Miss Livy, “ nothing of the 
 kind worth mentioning ; but I am near four- 
 score, and my time is come.” 
 
 On that idea her mind settled with a compo- 
 sure which was strange to see in one whose tem- 
 pers had been so disquieting all her long life. 
 The change which Rhoda described so graphic- 
 ally had come over her ; perhaps it was a family 
 characteristic — such things appear in death as 
 well as in life. I had reproached myself when 
 she leant on my arm that evening for bearing 
 badly with Miss Livy’s humors, and thinking the 
 old woman so much of a trial at times. I did 
 my best to make up for it in those last days of 
 hers, and she seemed to take more kindly to me 
 than she had ever done. ‘ * Is Lucien come 
 
 home yet?” was her often repeated question as 
 the evenings drew on ; and her old wrinkled 
 face would brighten up when I came into the 
 room. Rhoda had been always affectionate to 
 her, and Miss Livy seemed to understand that 
 better than formerly ; but to the youngest child 
 of the family, whom she had nursed and petted 
 in his infancy — whom she had thrust away from 
 home and friends in the fierceness that came on 
 her in that time of ruin — the old woman’s heart 
 seemed to turn with a loving confidence, which 
 I knew myself not to deserve. “Your sweet- 
 heart has come from America, Lucien,” she said, 
 with a cheerful look, one day; “you'll bring 
 her to see me, won’t you, before I go? I should 
 like to give you both my blessing ; and you’ll i 
 do as becomes a decent family, Lucien — put 
 some prape on your hat for me, and don’t just 
 get married till it’s worn a decent time.” The 
 respectability of her family was poor Miss Livy’s 
 first, and continued to be her last care, sorely as 
 she had been disappointed in it. I promised 
 that every thing should be properly managed, 
 and no wedding take place till the time of mourn- 
 ing had expired. “But there is no use in talk- 
 ing of that,” I added, as a matter of course ; 
 “you’ll get better, aunt, and clance at our wed- 
 ding, I’ll warrant.” 
 
 “No, dear, I am going ; but you’ll bring her 
 to see me ?” said Miss Livy. 
 
 I brought her accordingly: there was a good 
 deal of trouble in keeping Sally at home ; her 
 company would have been no acquisition to, the 
 sick-room, and I did not wish the old woman to 
 be disturbed with some of her outbursts. She 
 was staved off, and Rosanna brought. How 
 quietly and kindly Miss Livy received the girl 
 concerning whom she had scolded and grumbled 
 from Antrim to London ! My intended bride 
 behaved with great propriety ; indeed, she was 
 more to my mind by my aunt’s bedside than 
 ever I had found her since we parted in Bal- 
 timore. Rosanna was naturally gentle ; the 
 strange family, and the sight of sickness, sub- 
 dued her to the melancholy point. Rhoda also 
 took to her kindly ; I felt that they would be 
 good friends — there would be no necessity to 
 
 part with a sister my heart was growing to ; the 
 one of my household with whom there was dan- 
 ger of disputation was rapidly going down to the 
 Valley of the Shadow. The fact brought us all 
 nearer to that common lot ; and in the sobering 
 light which it cast on life, my duty was still 
 clearer, and seemed more easy to do. 
 
 Rosanna came to see my aunt almost every 
 evening, in the same quiet, kindly fashion. 
 They talked little ; Miss I^ivy did not speak 
 much to any body now, and never made a remark 
 on h^r intended niece except when she was gone 
 after their first introduction, and I said, “ How 
 do you like her, aunt?” she answered, “Well 
 enough, Lucien. I did not think her the girl 
 you would have fancied; but I hope you like 
 her, and I hope she likes you.” 
 
 Rosanna came in the evenings, and Miss 
 Forbes came in the daytime, when I was in the 
 bank. Rhoda told me she sat by my aunt for 
 hours reading the Bible to her, “ and talking so 
 uncommon good, you wouldn’t believe it, Lucien; 
 Father Connolly himself couldn’t say better — 
 and not a bit bigoted. Do you know, she allows 
 that Catholics will go to heaven as well as 
 Protestants ? Ido like that young lady.” 
 Helen never staid for my home-coming, but 
 her father was often there before me. He had 
 got home from his important business in Edin- 
 burg. I had excused myself from meeting 
 Charles Barry at his house, being no company 
 for the gay young naval officer who was now 
 enjoying himself in London. I was looked for 
 at home by eyes that were soon to close forever ; 
 and Mr. Forbes was often tjiere, talking with 
 my aunt, reading to her even in her Catholic 
 books, and seeming far more grieved and con- 
 cerned than one could have expected, for Miss 
 Livy had come to the natural time of departure. 
 Slowly and gradually she drew on to the hour 
 appointed. More than a month had worn away 
 with that strange, sad visitant, sickness, in our 
 home. It was the first of it that I had seen, 
 
 J and in the strength of life and health that first 
 ; meeting with decay and death is apt to make a 
 strong impression. It was not so with Rhoda ; 
 she had seen her young sisters and her mother 
 die, and though more grieved to part with her 
 old aunt than I could have once thought possi- 
 ble, she fell into the new state of things like one 
 accustomed to it ; sat up by night, and slept by 
 day ; noted every change, and told me what to 
 expect. Miss Livy was wearing near her last ; 
 slept much and spoke little. Father Connolly, 
 who had visited her most assiduously, thought 
 it right to give her the last consolations of the 
 Church. “I have to see a poor man in your 
 /leighborhood,” he said, when taking leave of 
 me one evening — “I will be late going home, 
 and as you sit up I will call between twelve and 
 one, see how Miss Livy is, and if it seem neces- 
 sary then, I’ll give her extreme unction, with 
 God’s help, for, you see, I’ll have the holy chrism 
 with me.” 
 
 After the priest had made that arrangement, 
 it was agreed between Rhoda and I that she 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 81 
 
 should sleep till Father Connolly knocked, while 
 I sat watching by my aunt’s bedside, for Mrs. 
 Muncy, who did duty for us sometimes, was 
 nursing a sick child of her own that night. 
 Poor Rhoda was looking pale and thin with sit- 
 ting in the sick-room, and Hannah Clark, from 
 her unpreventible noise, was worse than useless. 
 They were both in bed, and the whole neighbor- 
 hood was hushed, for it was near midnight. I 
 had sat reading the “ Imitation of Christ” to 
 Miss Livy till* she slept, and then sat leaning 
 my head on my hand, feeling that life was but a 
 vapor and death a certainty, and wishing that 
 my mind could cast anchor in some faith against 
 that trial. I thought she was still asleep as the 
 clock struck twelve, when, lifting up my eyes, 
 I saw the old woman’s face turned up, and 
 earnestly looking at me. “Lucien,” she said, 
 and her voice sounded as firm and full as ever 
 I heard it long ago in my childhood — “Lucien, 
 dear, I don’t know what you are thinking of. 
 I hope it’s something good. We have little 
 enough time to think of that, and little inclina- 
 tion at the best. Maybe I ought not to be 
 thinking of what is in my mind just now; but 
 I have been wanting to ask you for the last 
 month, and somehow could not get it out.” 
 “What is it, aunt?” said I, coming close to 
 her bed. 
 
 “ Hannah and Rhoda are asleep, I suppose?” 
 said Miss Livy, looking round the room. 
 
 “ Yes, aunt, asleep for many an hour. What 
 is it you want to ask me?” 
 
 “ Well, Lucien, you’ll answer upon your con- 
 science, and as you would like to have done 
 when you come to be in my place. Have you 
 any notion — any suspicion of what became of 
 your brother Raymond, if he met with foul play, 
 or who is guilty of the matter ?” 
 
 Her voice had sunk to a deep, clear whisper, 
 and her eyes were fixed earnestly, but calmly on 
 my face as I answered, “ Upon my conscience, 
 aunt, and should these be my last words, I 
 solemnly declare to you that I neither know 
 what became of my brother, nor have I the 
 slightest suspicion of any person being concerned 
 in his disappearance.” 
 
 i‘I believe you, Lucien, as truly as you say 
 it. You never were given to falsehood, and 
 you would not tell it now to a dying woman. 
 Whatever you said, dear, would go out of the 
 world with me ; it was only to satisfy my own 
 nind I asked you, for oh, Lucien, I sinned 
 grievously against that boy.” 
 
 “You, aunt?” 
 
 “Yes, I did, in believing that he was guilty 
 of running away with his father’s money, and 
 bring ingus all to wreck and ruin. That belief 
 turned my heart and brain almost ; it made me 
 send you off to that cold, proud-hearted O’Neil 
 when you were but an infant ; it made me a 
 hard, stiff old sinner all my days, blaming him 
 and blaming every body for his sake, and he 
 innocent all the while.” 
 
 “You are blaming yourself overmuch now, 
 aunt,” and I took her thin, shriveled hand in 
 F 
 
 mine; “but, if he were innocent, what do you 
 think became of Raymond ?” 
 
 “ What his mother said, Lucien, what his 
 mother said the night she lost her reason after 
 seeing him in her room, dead and murdered in 
 an old house in Dublin for the money he had in 
 his cai’e.” 
 
 “Have you any knowledge, any certainty of 
 that, aunt?” 
 
 “I have a certainty in my own mind as sure 
 as that you are sitting there — oh, but it was late 
 and sudden in the coming! He did not appear 
 to me, thank God ! my brain would not have 
 stood that ; but a persuasion, an assurance of it 
 all came on me with and like the lightning that 
 evening the lawyer’s letter came, Lucien. I 
 know it, and I wanted to tell you before I went, 
 that you might not sin as I did in blaming the 
 boy.” 
 
 I felt my own breath coming quickly as I said 
 “ Aunt, will you tell me one thing more ? Have 
 you any notion by whom the deed was done ?” 
 
 She had hitherto spoken so calmly and col- 
 lectedly, with such a look of composed intelli- 
 gence as gave her words, strange though they 
 were, the weight and power of a dying testimony, 
 and superstitious as it may seem, I could not 
 help believing in the truth of the mysterious in- 
 timation she asserted. But at my last question 
 her look suddenly changed to one of nameless 
 terror. 
 
 “Don’t ask me that, Lucien; I can not — 
 I dare not tell you ; it is so hard to believe, so 
 hard to think of, and it may be wrong, after all. 
 What right have I, a sinner as I am, that never 
 led a godly life, but was all my days taken up 
 with worldly things — first managing the house 
 in Armagh, and then fretting over the fall of it 
 — what right have I to expect that God would 
 send me a special revelation, and nothing else 
 could justify one in mentioning people with a 
 fair name and a high place? I won’t — I can’t 
 take it on my conscience, Lucien ; don’t ask me ; 
 let your poor old aunt go out of the world in 
 peace; I have enough to answer for besides — 
 oh ! but the fires of purgatoi’y must be fierce 
 and terrible ! but my trust is in Him who died 
 for us, Lucien ; put your trust in Him above all 
 saints and angels, but don’t forsake the holy 
 Roman Church.” 
 
 I was going to promise I never should — I 
 would have promised any thing to her then, and 
 dared not repeat my question, though I would 
 have given the world to know her thought upon 
 it — when, after a minute’s silence, and covering 
 her face with her hands, she said, “Lucien, did 
 my old ears serve me right that evening? did 
 ,Mr. Forbes say that money hadn’t come from 
 him?” 
 
 “He did, aunt; have you still the same 
 opinion about that money?” 
 
 “I have; God help me if I’m wrong!” she 
 said, with a sort of groan, and covering her face 
 still closer; but that moment Father Connolly’s 
 knock sounded at the outside door. 
 
 I admitted the priest from a warm wet night, 
 
82 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 such as come often at the close of the London 
 summer, and told him what I really thought, 
 that Miss Livy had been speaking so well and 
 strongly, it was not likely her end could be 
 near. 
 
 “Ah! Mr. La Touche,” said the devoted, 
 laborious priest, laying down the little box which 
 contained the canonicals and requisites for his 
 office, always carried with him to the bedsides 
 of the sick and dying, and taking off his thin 
 great-coat which the rain had drenched through, 
 “ there is nothing so uncertain as mortal strength 
 at any time, and these brightenings up are apt 
 to come just before the summons. I have often j 
 remarked the like ; but I hope you are right this 
 time.” 
 
 Father Connolly was better acquainted with 
 death than I could have been. When we en- 
 tered her room, it was manifest that a change 
 had passed over Miss Livy ; her face had grown 
 sharper and more gravelike in those few min- 
 utes, and her breathing harder; but she opened 
 her eyes with a look of welcome to the priest, 
 and said, in a faint whisper, “ Father, I am glad 
 you have come, for my time is growing short.” 
 
 I left the room to awake Rhoda, and leave 
 the dying alone with him who was to hear her 
 last confession. What she could not take on 
 her conscience to let me hear in that last hour, 
 was no doubt uttered to his ears, and kept safe 
 under the seal of his holy office. In the mean 
 time I woke my sister ; told her how near our 
 loss was coming, and we wept together for the 
 poor old woman, of whose grumblings we had 
 been so weary, till Father Connolly came and 
 bid us attend on the last sacrament of the 
 Church. 
 
 In that hour of sorrow and first sight of death, 
 showing life with all its aims and attachments 
 to be but the vanity of vanities, I felt my heart 
 going back, in spite of reason and inquiry, to 
 the faith of my fathers and my childhood. 
 When that last solemn rite was done — the 
 anointing for the dead, practiced by the wor- 
 shipers in the catacombs before the Roman 
 world became Christendom, and derived, like 
 most Christian creeds and customs, from the 
 far-off, ancient East, still the last consolation 
 which the oldest and most fallen Church can 
 offer to those that go down to dust and darkness 
 — when it was done, and Miss Livy, after a 
 pious ejaculation, and a long, I thought, inquir- 
 ing look at the priest, took one of Rhoda’s hands 
 and one of mine, clasped them together with 
 her own, said, “The Lord let nothing part you,” 
 closed her eyes, and seemed to fall asleep. 
 
 Father Connolly spoke some words of com- 
 fort, offered up the last prayer for the dying ; , 
 then there was a knock at our door, and he ad- 
 mitted Watt Wilson, as the day was breaking 
 dimly through the rain — “I am a Protestant, 
 sir, but you’ll let me stay to see the last of her, ” 
 said the honest clerk, with tears in his eyes. 
 The priest said something, I know it was kind 
 and charitable, in reply ; and my father’s faith- 
 ful man, who had kept his loyalty to the family 
 
 through good and evil fortunes for nearly forty 
 years, knelt with us at the bedside, and prayed 
 as devoutly as we did, though in his Protestant 
 fashion. 
 
 “Does she know me?” he whispered to riie 
 when we rose. 
 
 “ She knows nobody now in this world : her 
 soul has passed out of its troubles ; blessed be 
 God, she has made a good and a pious ending!” 
 said Father Connolly. 
 
 I bent over the bed, but not to close her eyes ; 
 they had closed forever in that peaceful slumber : 
 without a groan, without a struggle, the weary 
 j soul had departed from us, and Rhoda and I 
 were in the world alone. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 A GENEROUS OFFER. 
 
 So Death came into Number 9 as he comes 
 to all earthly houses, and made visible to me 
 the communication which exists between every 
 one of them and the grave. There went out of 
 it a modest funeral, at which our neighbors 
 gazed ; they had little to see in Petersburg 
 Place, and with the help of Father Connolly, 
 Watt Wilson, and Mr. Forbes, who would be 
 one of the mourners, we laid Miss Livy down 
 far from all her kindred, under the turf of the 
 Hammersmith church-yard, which happened to 
 be our nearest cemetery. 
 
 The gray head was gone from among us, and 
 the small household had become smaller; I 
 thought of Rhoda being lonely now, and hast- 
 ened home in the evenings. Watt Wilson con- 
 sidered her also, called himself, and brought 
 the Masons, and there was never a day that 
 Helen Forbes did not drop in, talking so good 
 and so sensibly, as Rhoda said, but never by any 
 chance staying till I came home. I fetched 
 Rosanna too, in hopes that my sister and she 
 would become intimate ; the attic in Mayfair 
 was not an eligible place for visiting, and since 
 her exclusion from the sick-room, Sally had got 
 a notion that we were proud, and laid that sin 
 particularly to the door of my innocent sistgr. 
 The farther she kept from Petersburg Place, it 
 seemed to me the better. Rosanna and Rhoda 
 got on well, one could say no more and no less 
 of their acquaintance. I took an early oppor- 
 tunity to do my duty by telling the former, in . 
 one of our quiet walks, that every obstacle be- 
 tween us now was removed ; I did not explain 
 how ; the Joyces were not likely to learn par- 
 ticulars, for Esthers did not know them ; but 
 , Rosanna looked delighted, and when I set forth 
 the propriety of waiting for a decent time after 
 my aunt’s death, the gentle girl acquiesced, as 
 she had done in every arrangement of mine, 
 and said, while clinging to my arm, “Lucien, 
 
 I would wait for you fourteen years, as Abra- 
 ham did for Rachel.” 
 
 Rosanna’s knowledge of history, sacred or 
 profane, was not very accurate, but she would 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 83 
 
 wait for me, and what sort of waiting for her 
 had I been doing ? Now, at least, I was keep- 
 ing well with conscience, trying to forget — I 
 mean, not to think of Madame Palivez, and 
 something like success seemed to crown my 
 
 puddings, and modes of hashing mutton, for the 
 purpose of leading Rosanna into the domestic 
 school. I preached to her on those and kin- 
 dred topics to my own astonishment, if not to 
 her edification. Rosanna listened as usual, 
 
 “ Father, I am glad you have come, for my time is growing short." 
 
 effort’s. I came in and out of the bank, and J wondering at my wisdom, and promised every 
 did not cast a look at the private door. I went I thing ; she would learn from the cookery books, 
 to Bolton Row without stopping in Curzon make such nice dinners, and keep the house 
 Street ; the brass key was never taken out of so neat ; it was no use trying at home ; Sally 
 my desk ; the path up by the stream was turn- did not like any thing of the kind, and always 
 ed away from. I got up an interest in cheap got angry when she went to put things straight : 
 
8 i 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “ But your sister is such a dear, good girl, Lu- 
 cien, I am sure she would not be angry at any 
 thing I should do, and won’t she teach me 
 housekeeping for your sake ?” said Rosanna, in 
 her simplicity. I did not think it necessary to 
 enlighten ’'my intended on Rhoda’s domestic 
 abilities. They got on well, as I have said,, 
 but Rosanna and Rhoda were not becoming 
 intimate ; there was much'civility, but no con- 
 fidence between them, and I could not help ob- 
 serving that the said deficiency was on my sis- 
 ter’s side. She and I had drawn closer together 
 as our family circle was narrowed, but I had 
 secrets to keep from Rhoda, and she had been 
 long accustomed to keep most of her mind to 
 herself. I remember telling her what Rosanna 
 had promised and said, by way of making paths 
 smooth, and removing any private prejudice, if 
 the like existed. “ She had need to get a bet- 
 ter teachpr, Lucien, you know that,” and my 
 honest, good-humored sister smiled. 
 
 “Yes, but you could teach her many things, 
 Rhoda; she is very simple.” 
 
 “Maybe she is,” said Rhoda, darning away 
 at her stocking ; “in course you know best, but 
 I never could settle it in my own mind whether 
 it was simplicity, or being oncommon deep, that 
 was the matter with her.” 
 
 I thought of sister-in-law, and sighed ; good- 
 tempered, kindly Rhoda was not above the ordi- 
 nary ways of women as regarded her brother’s 
 bride ; and often, when listening to poor Rosan- 
 na’s innocent prattle, I smiled to myself at the 
 insinuation of her uncommon depth. Things 
 were progressing properly, however, and I was 
 coming through Threadneedle Street on my way 
 home one evening, when at Mr. Forbes’s back 
 door I saw an uncommon sight, consisting of 
 his daughter Helen leaning on the arm of a 
 gentleman and saying, “Oh, this is Mr. La 
 Touche ; I will just introduce you at once.” 
 
 The gentleman and I looked at each other 
 as she continued, after bidding me good-even- 
 ing, “ My cousin, Charles Barry” — for we had 
 met and spoken before, without an introduc- 
 tion. I recognized the man who had stood by 
 my side in Curzon Street on the night of Ma- 
 dame Palivez’s ball, and he evidently remem- 
 bered me ; there was surprise and recognition 
 in his look, and a muttered “By Jove!” reach- 
 ed my ear, as, being the first to recover my 
 presence of my mind, I stepped up with extend- 
 ed hand, and said, “I am happy to meet Mr. 
 Barry, though it is not for the first time.” 
 
 “No,” said he, recovering himself, and shak- 
 ing hands with me heartily, “I am happy to 
 meet you too, sir, and we must be obliged to 
 Miss Forbes for letting us know each other’s 
 name.” 
 
 Mr. Forbes now joined us. I explained to 
 him, while Barry made clear to Helen, the fact 
 of our meeting in Curzon Street. Both father 
 and daughter thought it a singular coincidence 
 that we should have heard so much of each 
 other, and got acquainted without an introduc- 
 tion. We all walked part of the way home to- 
 
 gether, Mr. Forbes and myself in company, 
 Helen still in possession of her cousin’s arm, 
 but keeping so close to us that I could perceive 
 the young officer was rather under tutelage than 
 on the ordinary footing of gentlemen cousins. 
 He looked as much on his guard in her company 
 as I had seen him off of it in the crowded street: 
 the ease, the frankness, even the courage were 
 gone from him; but one somehow knew their 
 absence to be temporary ; they were native to 
 Charles Barry, and would return the moment 
 he got clear off. In the mean time, his walk 
 and conversation bore an indescribable resem- 
 blance to what those of the prodigal might have 
 been if not returning of his own accord, but 
 caught and brought back from the husks, and, 
 as an inevitable consequence, Miss Forbes’s 
 cousin seemed very much bored and particu- 
 larly stupid. I suppose she was talking seri- 
 ously and sensibly to him ; she certainly did 
 the most of the business, and I heard him oc- 
 casionally respond, “Oh yes, certainly, very 
 true, and no doubt.” 
 
 At parting, they pressed me to come on Satur- 
 day evening — Charles and I should meet then 
 and get better acquainted. “And won’t you 
 bring your sister ?” said Helen. “ I have been 
 coaxing her to come all this week ; she will be 
 so lonely when you are out ; you can’t think 
 how handsome Miss La Touche is,” she added, 
 by way of edifying Charles Barry. 
 
 “ Indeed !” said he, getting off the prodigal 
 for an instant ; but it returned upon him with 
 double weight as, with a promise to bring 
 Rhoda, I went my way and they turned home- 
 ward. 
 
 “ No, Lucien,” said my sister, when I men- 
 tioned the invitation, “Miss Forbes is very 
 good, and so is her father ; there is no people 
 in the world I have a greater respect for, as I 
 ought, you know, but they are too grand for me 
 to associate with. I like them coming here 
 very well, but in their fine house and grand 
 company I would have no peace, and neither 
 would you, Lucien, for fear of something ongen- 
 teel coming out ; and if you would just make an 
 excuse for me, I would far rather stay at home 
 with Hannah Clark.” 
 
 I sincerely acquiesced in Rhoda’s view of the 
 case ; it was a proof of the girl’s sound sense 
 and independence of mind, and without fib or 
 varnish I explained it quietly to Helen on the 
 following Saturday evening, when we happened 
 to stand together at the window looking for her 
 father’s home-coming, while Charles entertain- 
 ed himself with a volume of prints at the far- 
 ther end of the room. 
 
 Had my designs been laid against Miss Forbes’s 
 heart and hand, there would have been rest in 
 my mind regarding her cousin, the young naval 
 officer. She discoursed to him very much in 
 the manner of an elder sister or maiden aunt. 
 He listened more quietly than the greater part 
 of younger brothers and nephews, but the one 
 was in the discreet vein, and the other in the 
 cowed department, whenever they happened to 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 85 
 
 be left together. Helen did not sing Scotch 
 songs to him, did not gossip about Madame 
 Palivez, or tell her experiences in the gardening 
 line, as she did to me ; and it always happened, 
 when we met there on Saturday evenings, which 
 was now a regular thing, that the banker took 
 Charles in hand, and Helen and I kept com- 
 pany. I think the young man was glad of my 
 presence, nevertheless ; it helped him through 
 the duty or penance he was obliged to do at 
 Notting Hill House ; his frank eyes told me so 
 without intending it ; we became friendly almost 
 from first acquaintance, and he used to escort 
 me part of the way home, when the night was 
 fine. I suppose he wanted fresh air after the 
 restraint of the evening ; and what a released 
 man Charles Barry looked when fairly out of 
 the grounds ! “He is an excellent man and a 
 great Christian that uncle of mine,” was his re- 
 mark, when lighting up his cigar, on the second 
 walk we took together. “ He was kind to me 
 when I was a youngster ; for that matter, he is 
 kind yet ; he would have brought me up to the 
 banking business, made me his partner, and per- 
 haps his heir. I might have been one of the 
 city nobs, you see ; but my father was a soldier 
 and a gentleman ; I couldn’t stand the eternal 
 moping and church-going, and ran away to sea. 
 Many an uncle would have given me up after 
 that, but he didn’t. One should not forget 
 that, and I don’t, Mr. La Touche ; I stay with 
 him always when I am in town, and play sober- 
 sides to suit his taste ; nothing like doing as 
 Home does ; one learns that on board ship ; it’s 
 one’s duty, and the proper thing, you know, but 
 confoundedly dull work.” 
 
 “What! and your cousin, Miss Forbes, 
 there?” said I, the temptation to quiz being 
 irresistible. 
 
 “Helen is just as bad — good, I mean — as my 
 uncle ; I never met a girl so hard to get on with. 
 By the way, Mr. La Touche, you and my cousin 
 get on famously, because you are a proper sensi- 
 ble young man, I suppose, which I never was.” 
 
 “Do you mean that I am respectably stupid, 
 Mr. Barry ?” 
 
 “No, not just that ; but you have got a sober 
 way, which goes down with my uncle and cousin ; 
 I don’t say I would trust you far round a corner 
 myself.” 
 
 “ Much obliged to you for your flattering 
 opinion.” 
 
 “Never mind, man; there are few saints 
 among us, as our chaplain says ; but Helen will 
 be heiress of all my uncle’s gatherings ; they 
 must be no joke, for he is always making money, 
 and spending very little. If she were not my 
 own cousin-german, which is too near a rela- 
 tionship to marry on — that’s my uncle’s opinion 
 as well as mine — I should try to look sober and 
 sensible, go to the Scotch church, and get her 
 to expound the Westminster confession — that’s 
 what they hold by, you understand ; my uncle 
 wanted to convert me, but a Presbyterian meet- 
 ing-house is no place for a gentleman’s son. 
 Well, as I was saying, it’s worth a man’s while 
 
 to look after my cousin Helen, though she is- 
 not over and above handsome, and does preach 
 confoundedly,” and Barry gave a kind of wince 
 indicating the displeasures of memory ; “ she is 
 a good soul, and would never scold much, nor 
 take state upon her. In short, Mr. La Touche, 
 I was thinking it wouldn’t be a bad speculation 
 for you; have I hit the right nail on the 
 head ?” 
 
 “ Indeed you have not, Mr. Barry ; I am not 
 so absurdly self-conceited as to imagine that 
 Miss Forbes, with her position and prospects, 
 would think of an under clerk, with no connec- 
 tions, no advantages to recommend him.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t know,” interrupted Barry; 
 “you are of a good family, that counts for 
 something ; you understand bank business, that 
 would qualify you for stepping into my uncle’s 
 shoes, as somebody must when he steps out of 
 them ; and, between ourselves, I don’t think the 
 man will have long life ; something has broken 
 him down early ; I don’t know if religion does 
 the like, or if the loss of his wife and sons sits 
 so sore upon him. At any rate I don’t think 
 he will be a long liver. I know he has a good 
 opinion of you, and I think so has Helen — she’s 
 uncommon good, you know, and wouldn’t show 
 it like other girls. In short, you have a chance, 
 Mr. La Touche, a very good chance, and, for my 
 own part, I don’t know any body I should rather 
 have for a cousin-in-law, and I was just think- 
 ing, if you wanted a word said to her or my 
 uncle — it is not always easy for a man to push 
 his own merits forward, and tell people all that 
 might be said in his favor — in short, Mr. La 
 Touche, if you want any thing of that kind 
 done, Charles Barry is at your service.” 
 
 “It is a very generous offer, sir,” said I, 
 “beyond my merits and my expectations.” 
 
 “ Come to the point,” said Barry ; “ you can 
 talk a good deal better than I, but you don’t 
 bandage my eyes. I see plain enough there 
 is a good understanding between you and 
 Helen.” 
 
 “ There is a good understanding, Mr. Barry, 
 but nothing of the kind you hint at. Mr. Forbes 
 and his daughter have been such friends to me 
 and mine as few families ever found in their 
 misfortune ; the obligations I owe them I can 
 never repay, but shall be always proud to ac- 
 knowledge ; they are my best friends — I expect, 
 I aspire to nothing more.” 
 
 “Oh, you don’t,” said Barry, stopping short 
 in his walk, and surveying me through the 
 smoke, as if to satisfy himself how the land lay. 
 
 “I do not, in all sincerity , but I am equally 
 grateful to you for the friendly offer — that is, if 
 you did not make it in jest.” 
 
 “ Upon my soul, I never was more in earnest 
 in my life, nor more astonished either,” said 
 Barry; “it did seem to me that you and my 
 cousin had a carrying on of your own — she 
 talked so much about you ; mind, I don’t say 
 that Helen is the girl to talk foolishly about any 
 man ; she don’t know much of the world, but 
 she won’t be easily put upon, and if I thought 
 
86 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 any man was trifling with her because she is 
 pious and not pretty, I would do a cousin’s duty, 
 sir, and blow out his brains. Stop, now, Mr. 
 La Touche, I did not mean you,” he continued, 
 for I had drawn myself up, and commenced a 
 strong repudiation of all attempts or designs on 
 the peace of Miss Helen Forbes; “I know you 
 are not the man to be guilty of such dirty 
 tricks ; there is nobody I would prefer for a 
 cousin-in-law, I say again, and I did not sup- 
 pose you were bent on that business, but I am 
 all out, it seems. Is there any body else in the 
 wind ?” 
 
 What right had Charles Barry, the young 
 naval officer — the stranger to whom I had been 
 introduced not a fortnight before — to inquire so 
 deeply into my private concerns? The frank- 
 ness, even the generosity of his nature, made me 
 mistake the man ; he was so ready to speak out 
 his observations, so willing to offer a helping 
 hand wherever it seemed to him wanted; so 
 unacquainted with concealment, or the necessity 
 for it, which had cast its darkening influence on 
 my own life, that he seemed to me a meddler 
 and a busybody, qualified for getting up reports 
 and helping gossip. He should hear no tale of 
 mine — no news to make a fuss about in Notting 
 Hill House, and quiz myself on whenever we 
 came in contact. I would not tell fibs — but 
 Charles Barry should go as wise as he came ; so 
 I responded, carelessly, “Earning his own bread, 
 and endeavoring to make his way in the world, 
 is quite enough for a man in my position to have 
 in the wind. I am not so fortunate as you, Mr. 
 Barry ; I have no connections to assist me, no 
 relations to care for me, except my sister. She 
 and I are alone in the world ; and the early and 
 strange misfortunes of our family — of which you 
 have probably heard, as Mr. Forbes knows them 
 well — should be sufficient to keep us both sober 
 and steady.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, I heard of it — not from him, 
 though , mv uncle never likes to speak on the 
 subject. I am sure he felt greatly for your 
 father ; and you’ll excuse me, Mr. La Touche 
 — what I said was altogether in friendship. I 
 wanted to do you a good turn if I could — one 
 is apt to get mistaken in these matters — but 
 this is your place ; your sister and you live here 
 together — what a good thing it must be for a 
 man to have a sister — and cousin Helen tells 
 me she is uncommonly handsome,” said Barry, 
 with an insinuating look. 
 
 I had no fears of Rhoda’s discretion ; but the 
 idle young officer, on shore and off duty, should 
 not get an excuse for spending his unemployed 
 hours in No. 9, and amusing himself with my 
 sister’s rusticity when I was at work in Esthers’ 
 •office. 
 
 “Miss Forbes always gives the best account 
 of people’s appearance, as well as their doings. 
 She knows the ruin of our family has left my 
 sister under many disadvantages of manner and 
 education , but her kindness and good sense can 
 allow for all. I am sorry to have taken you so 
 far on this lonely road, Mr. Barry; do let me 
 
 see you part of the way back,” and I turned to 
 accompany him. 
 
 “ Oh, nonsense,” said the frank young sea- 
 man, taking the hint that there was no intro- 
 duction to be expected; “I am no girl, to be 
 afraid of a lonely road. Good-night; you won’t 
 mention what we were talking of to my uncle 
 or Helen ?” 
 
 “No danger of that,” said I; “it is certainly 
 not a subject to be mentioned to them.” 
 
 “Of course not; but I thought it better to 
 make sure you wouldn’t ; good-night again ;” 
 and Barry marched back to Notting Hill House. 
 
 CHAPTER XXYI. 
 
 THE REVIEW. 
 
 We met there on many a succeeding Satur- 
 day ; we continued as good friends as we had 
 been before that conversation. Neither party 
 ever returned to it, though Charles regularly 
 walked home with me — that is, to the opening 
 of Petersburg Place ; and things went on as they 
 had done in the company of Mr. Forbes and his 
 daughter. The former talked to his nephew, 
 and the latter talked to me. My mind did re- 
 vert occasionally, while she sat working close by 
 at her everlasting embroidery, singing at the 
 piano, or pointing my attention to some choice 
 article in one of the serious periodicals which 
 covered the drawing-room table — it did revert, 
 I say, to Barry’s fancied discovery of the carry- 
 ing on. “ She is good, you know, and wouldn’t 
 show it like other girls,” turned up in my recol- 
 lection sometimes ; but there was nothing in 
 Helen’s manner to justify such an implication. 
 I persuaded myself there was not, and was well 
 pleased with that persuasion. Was I not an 
 engaged man? and had I not sinned sufficient- 
 ly against Rosanna? What a complication of 
 my ill luck or ill doing it would be to involve 
 the daughter of my family’s benefactor ! No ; 
 Helen Forbes did not* care for me, except as a 
 family friend. Having once got on that foot- 
 ing, we could not get off it ; yet vanity or con- 
 science — I don’t know which — made me feel 
 warned I resolved on looking well to my 
 ways in Miss Forbes’s company, to take care 
 that Charles Barry ,might have no occasion for 
 doing cousin’s duty, and — what was far more 
 to be dreaded — that I should have no farther 
 occasion for regret or repentance. Rosanna 
 got more than common attention in the ensu- 
 ing weeks ; but I found the Joyces more fre- 
 quently from home, and the slatternly-looking 
 maid in Bolton Row could never tell me where 
 they had gone, or when they should return. 
 Rosanna could always explain matters ; it was 
 Jeremy who took them to Greenwich, Graves- 
 end, or Richmond; “he had got a situation 
 now, and was the best brother in the world.” 
 Sally’s fits also seemed to increase in frequency, 
 though she appeared to be satisfied on the sub- 
 ject of our marriage ; several of my visits were 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 87 
 
 disappointed by the fact of the doctor being up 
 stairs. Poor Hosanna always ran down to keep 
 me out of the scene. What care and tender- 
 ness the girl had for me, and how she must 
 have watched for my voice and step ! Well, I 
 was doing my duty to her, and behaving like a 
 man. Curzon Street had no attraction for my 
 feet now. The private door in Old Broad ■Street 
 was passed without regard. I had seen Calixi 
 in the street, and never recognized him. I had 
 made no attempts to fish news out of Esthers. 
 The first step in conquering my folly had mani- 
 festly been taken, and, as the French say, it is 
 the only one which costs. I had also taken a 
 resolution to attempt no explanations of my ab- 
 sence or neglect, should Madame think it worth 
 her while to call me to account. To the woman 
 who had magnified my constancy, and taken 
 such active measures to remove the last obsta- 
 cle between her clerk and his happiness, I would 
 rather have faced the scaffold than told the true 
 state of the case. There was no other story 
 that would serve for her or for me. I would 
 attempt none, but say that I wished to break off 
 the compact I had voluntarily made, and leave 
 it to her pride or generosity to release me with- 
 out question. Would she be much offended ? 
 Would she be curious on the subject? Proba- 
 bly neither. Her Broad Street business and 
 Mayfair fashion would be sufficient to occupy 
 her till she took another whim, and elected some- 
 body else to the office of humble companion and 
 friend, never to be acknowledged except in the 
 back rooms or the villa. 
 
 I was confirmed in the latter idea by a sus- 
 picion that Madame had returned fi'om her 
 Russian expedition, though I had got neither 
 notice or glimpse of her ; for, going into the 
 bank one day, I observed a carriage, evidently 
 that of some foreign nobleman, with arms on 
 the panel, and postillions and outriders in rich 
 livery, standing at the private door. The un- 
 usual sight made me conclude it must be some 
 client of more than common importance who 
 had. come to talk over business with the lady of 
 the firm. There would doubtless be more plate 
 or jewelry stowed away in those secure vaults. 
 The rich livery and the arms probably required 
 support in the shape of a loan ; but what was 
 that to the manager’s clerk, who had his work 
 to do and his salary to earn ? 
 
 It was now the last week in October. Rhoda 
 and I had become accustomed to our mourning 
 trim and our diminished household, and the in- 
 habitants of London got a great opportunity of 
 crowding and pushing each other. Some regi- 
 ments of Guards which had formed part of the 
 army of occupation in France had got home, 
 and were to be reviewed in Hyde Park by the 
 Prince Regent, assisted by the Duke of Wel- 
 lington and other military celebrities. The 
 town was as fond^of a sight then as it is now, 
 and by no means so empty in autumn. Many 
 West End families were still at home — not in 
 the back rooms, but publicly; and nobody of 
 any pretensions to fashion thought of going 
 
 farther away than Brighton, there being eternal 
 moving between its Pavilion and Carlton House. 
 The review in question had extraordinary at- 
 tractions : the Guards had been at Waterloo ; 
 there were colors to be presented ; a report had 
 gone abroad that the Princess of Wales (after- 
 ward Queen Caroline) had privately returned 
 from her travels, and would make her public ap- 
 pearance in the Park, to the expected confusion 
 of his royal highness. All London were going 
 to see, and taking their friends. Rosanna told 
 me she had never seen a review, save one in 
 the Phoenix Park when she wore short frocks, 
 and it was beautiful ; so I promised to take 
 her; for the loyalty of the city, being great in 
 those times, made it a general holiday, and the 
 Palivez bank always followed the public ex- 
 ample. Rhoda had never seen a review, but 
 thought it must be an uncommon fine sight, 
 and she should like to go. Miss Forbes was of 
 the same opinion. Her father was patriotically 
 inclined, and wanted to see the colors presented 
 to a Scotch regiment in particular. Sally 
 Joyce said Jeremy must take her to a good 
 stand, for it was the last sight of the season. 
 There was a great getting of finery ready, and 
 on the review-day we mustered a strong party, 
 resolved to keep together against all chances, 
 and having secured an eligible stand for our- 
 selves, from which it might be hoped we should 
 see some faint outline of the proceedings. Jere- 
 my had the honor of escorting his elder sister, 
 as commanded ; I took charge of Rosanna ; 
 Watt Wilson had Rhoda in his guardianship. 
 The worthy bachelor had called so often to cheer 
 her spirits and give her lessons in housekeeping, 
 that I half thought my sister had made a con- 
 quest of his woman-defying heart, since Miss 
 Livy’s departure left her in sole possession of 
 the annuity. 
 
 Helen Forbes leant on her father’s arm, and 
 they kept very near Rosanna and me, though I 
 could not get up courage to introduce the girl 
 who had such a queer -looking sister to my 
 friends from Notting Hill House ; and Wilson, 
 feeling himself bound to keep the last of the La 
 Touches’ secret, gave his employer to under- 
 stand that I had got acquainted with the Joyces 
 in America, and was just civil to the poor 
 people on account that they were strangers and 
 from Ireland. 
 
 It is unnecessary to say that we had a long 
 and weary stand, a good deal of elbowing, and 
 very little of the sight. Whosoever has been in 
 a London crowd, and not what are called car- 
 riage people, or on the grand stand, will be 
 aware of our experience. But Rosanna said 
 she saw the officers’ plumes, and they were de- 
 lightful. Sally threatened to take a fit if she 
 was pushed ; Mr. Forbes recommended us all to 
 keep our station, as it happened to be a safe one, 
 and let the crowd behind us scatter aw r ay, and 
 see the aristocratic company in front move off 
 the ground. The weather was unusually fine, 
 and the arrangement the best that could be 
 made. There we stood gazing and talking 
 
88 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 while the terrible London public surged and 
 swayed, and broke away in slowly-dissolving 
 masses, bent on seeing the last remnants of the 
 spectacle , and carriages filled with gayly-dress- 
 ed ladies, groups of fashionable equestrians, 
 military officers, and notables of all sorts, swept 
 past us, and were recognized by the cheering 
 crowd. 
 
 \ I had done my devoirs throughout the day, 
 and was getting considerably tired of Rosanna’s 
 “Goodness me ! and isn’t that fine?” Helen 
 Forbes stood at my other side, and, as there 
 was danger occasionally from the pressure of 
 passing people, I gave her my other arm, that 
 she might stand the more safely between me 
 and her father. Pale, slender, and delicate as 
 she was, Helen looked exhausted with the long 
 day’s standing and being pushed about; but her 
 cheerful patience and good sense made her 
 pleasant company under any circumstances, 
 and Miss Forbes was remarkably long-sighted. 
 
 “Do look this way,” she said, in a half 
 whisper, directing my attention to a horseman 
 whopvas keeping remarkably close to one of the 
 carriages ; “ there is the Russian prince whom 
 Madame Palivez is going to marry. Esthers 
 told me all about him ; his name is Galatzin. 
 What a handsome man ! and how well he rides ! 
 They will just suit each other. Esthers says 
 he has immense estates, and is of the highest 
 rank in Russia next to the imperial family. 
 How splendidly Madame is dressed, how pleased 
 she looks, and what attention he pays her ! I ; 
 am sure it will be a match, and a very suitable 
 one — don’t you think so, Mr. La Touche ?” 
 
 My eyes had followed Helen’s motion, and 
 seen, as the carriage came neareiya really mag- 
 nificent specimen of the Russian gentleman — 
 large, powerfully made, but active and graceful, 
 wearing a field-marshal’s uniform, and mounted 
 on a Ukraine charger. The vehicle to which 
 he kept so close was one I should have known 
 among any number — Madame Palivez’s own 
 triumphal chariot, in which I had seen her 
 borne away to Carlton House, all lace and dia- 
 monds. She sat in it now alone, almost as 
 richly dressed, and occupied in conversing with 
 the attentive horseman. 
 
 “There is his carriage ; who can these ladies 
 be that are in it?” and Helen notified the very 
 equipage, postillions, outriders, and all, which 
 I had seen at the private door in Broad Street ; 
 there were three ladies, one old, two young, but 
 all foreign, in it ; who they were I neither cared 
 nor knew. “ I found out it was his,” she con- 
 tinued, “ by seeing him drive up in it one even- 
 ing last week to visit Madame in her villa ; but 
 the hill- side was too steep, and the prince had 
 to get out just by the stream, you remember, 
 where we saw Madame let her horse drink — you 
 are looking terribly fatigued, Mr. La Touche ; 
 do let me liberate your arm, and lean on papa ; 
 
 I am sure he is not so tired.” 
 
 I retained her arm, and replied coherently 
 and satisfactorily ; one does the like at times 
 without knowing what one says ; but every word 
 
 I Miss Forbes had uttered passed through my 
 brain like a plowshare through a stubborn soil. 
 Before she had finished, the carriage and the 
 cavalier, getting out of the slowly-moving crowd 
 of the select, passed so close to our group that 
 Madame could not avoid seeing every one of 
 us ; but had we all, and myself in particular, 
 been part of the Park trees, she could not have 
 taken less notice, and I, to save my life, could 
 not have helped looking at her. How easy and 
 yet how stately she sat there, letting the prince 
 talk his best in good French, as Russians al 
 ways speak — looking at nothing, but seeing all 
 — getting bows and nods from all sides, and re- 
 turning some of them, a lady too certain of her 
 position to be concerned about it, and too proud 
 to be vain of her advantages. Yet, as her car- 
 riage passed, and as my eyes followed it in spite 
 of my judgment, a sudden pallor swept over 
 the lady’s face, as if from swift and inward 
 pain, and I saw Sally Joyce deliberately gazing 
 at her, as if expecting, or rather demanding 
 recognition; and she said to Jeremy, but loud 
 enough to reach my ears, “ Passing people like 
 dirt in that fashion, and them knowing all about 
 her; some folks have brass in their faces.” 
 Jeremy said, “Hush, Sally! don’t talk in that 
 queer way;” on which his sister began to scold 
 him, with an assurance that she would talk*as 
 she pleased ; that her mother was a lady ; that 
 she regarded nobody for their riches and if 
 things weren’t made up for, she would say 
 queerer things yet, maybe. I was looking and 
 listening, and utterly oblivious of who it was 
 that leant on my right arm, when a slight move- 
 ment like shrinking away made me turn to Ro- 
 sanna. Had any thing in my face or manner 
 given her an inkling of the truth, that she look- 
 ed so distressed and frightened? But it was 
 over in a moment, and she said unconcernedly, 
 ‘ 4 How grand Madame Palivez is to-day, and 
 the prince she is to be married to riding beside 
 her ! Do let me go and speak to Sally a min- 
 ute ; she is getting into one of her tempers, and 
 will take a fit.” Her arm was slipped out of 
 mine, and she had slid behind her sister with 
 some gentle remonstrance before I could collect 
 myself, and Helen at the same moment drew 
 my attention in the opposite direction by say- 
 ing, “My cousin Charles has been paying his 
 obeisance to you there for the last five minutes ; 
 
 I wonder he don’t come over; but I suppose 
 those young officers he has got among are too 
 gay for our company.” There was Charles 
 Barry among a group of officers, naval and mili- 
 tary ; he had been far in front, was still at 
 some distance, and seemed in no hurry to join 
 us, but bowed to me with a stiff courtesy very 
 unlike his wont, and as I returned the salute 
 Watt Wilson assured us there was a clear pas- 
 sage now, and we had better get home. 
 
 When we had fairly turned Rosanna came 
 back to me ; her fright and distress were over ; 
 perhaps it was all about Sally and her dreaded 
 fits. She told me a great deal on that subject 
 which I did not hear. Rhoda had asked her to 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 89 
 
 go home with us, but she could not, on Sally’s 
 account. We parted in the Park, and the kind- 
 ly clasp she gave my hand went to my heart 
 like a dagger. I got home, and made an ex- 
 cuse for getting out again, leaving honest Watt 
 Wilson and the Masons with my sister: they 
 thought it was some appointment with Rosanna 
 that took me, but it was to scour for miles along 
 all the lanes and by-roads in the neighborhood, 
 through the fast-falling autumn night, and bat- 
 tle with my own desperate thoughts. My calls 
 in Broad Street or at the villa had not been 
 missed ; there was another that came in his 
 carriage or on his Ukraine charger, a Russian 
 prince of immense estates, and rank next to the 
 imperial family, of years approaching her own 
 — a suitable match for the last of the Palivezi, 
 the heiress of their wealth, and the prudent 
 manager of their business. Well, was it to be 
 wondered at ? Princess Galatzin was a title that 
 would become her, that would tally with her 
 pride, her high descent, and doubtless her ex- 
 pectations. It was a settled thing ; every body 
 knew it but myself ; for some small end of his 
 own, Esthers kept all such news from me. Ma- 
 dame Palivez would marry Prince Galatzin, 
 and I would marry Rosanna Joyce. That was 
 the proper, the natural order of things. I had 
 chosen, I had made sacrifices, I had been as- 
 sisted in a most friendly manner to see my way 
 clear to the match ; I had seen my danger, 
 made endeavors, thought myself a free agent, 
 and resolved to hold by the right, but that hour 
 after the review upset all my resolutions, can- 
 celed all my endeavors, and brought me back 
 to bondage and despair. I would bring out the 
 brass key, I would call upon her in the villa 
 and the back rooms ; I had a right to do so — 
 she had called me her friend, and made a com- 
 pact with me, and I should at least hear if 
 Esthers’ story were true, if she were really go- 
 ing to marry the prince. What was that to 
 me? Was not I an engaged man? And poor 
 Rosanna had been leaning on my arm at the 
 very moment I heard the news, caught perhaps 
 the altered expression of my face, guessed — but 
 no, she never could guess the altered state of 
 my mind since the time we walked and talked 
 in Baltimore. With that thought, better feel- 
 ings and wiser reasoning came to my help, but 
 it was only to show me how hopeless the case 
 had become. In spite of my utmost exertions 
 after duty and well-doing, in spite of my avoid- 
 ing the snare, and holding fast by honor and 
 promise, the fascination was upon me still — 
 stronger than ever, it seemed, through absence 
 and impossibility. If Madame married the 
 prince, she would probably go to Russia and re- 
 side there, much as she dreaded the climate, 
 and I should never see her more ; but the bond 
 was on my heart never to be broken ; life hence- 
 forth had no aim — no hope for me ; yet I would 
 persevere in the right course, keep my solemn 
 engagement to the girl that loved me so long 
 and well ; never could my conscience bear the 
 weight of such a crime as breaking her faithful, 
 
 loving, gentle heart. Had I not won it by sin- 
 cere and earnest wooing? Was it not, after 
 all, the only heart that cared for me ? Madame 
 Palivez had none for any man, if she married a 
 thousand princes, yet it was plain to me then 
 that I had never loved the young Rosanna as I 
 did that woman so many years my senior, so 
 utterly beyond my reach, and surrounded with 
 so dark a mystery. Sally Joyce’s unaccountable 
 looks and words that day, my 'own encounter 
 with the ragged man, my old aunt’s dying 
 words, spoken on the verge of the grave and in 
 the deep midnight, concerning people who had 
 a high place and a fair name, and her conviction 
 regarding the annuity, all at once came crowd- 
 ing on my memory : it was confusion inextrica- 
 ble and without measure, but it came with a 
 dreadful sense of warning and of crime. 
 
 There was one plan for me — the best, and it 
 seemed the only safe one : I would delay no 
 longer, but put it out of my own power to break 
 my engagement or Rosanna’s heart by getting 
 married as soon as possible. It would bring 
 matters to a final settlement, give me th^||cares 
 and responsibilities of life to think of and pro- 
 vide for, and leave less time for dreaming over 
 worse than folly. On that purpose my thoughts 
 came to an anchor, as it were ; the more I con- 
 sidered it, the more rational and prudent it 
 seemed. I felt that Miss Livy herself would 
 have excused the apparent disrespect to her 
 memory had she known the motive. I could 
 not take my sister entirely into confidence ; 
 there was that in my case which went beyond 
 Rhoda’s understanding and experience ; but the 
 very next evening, when the fierceness of the 
 inward storm, was over, and I was in my right 
 mind once more, I took the opportunity of get- 
 ting into private conversation on my peculiar 
 affairs, telling her what high time I thought it 
 to get settled in life, now that she was safely 
 provided for ; that Rosanna had such an uncom- 
 fortable home, and seemed likely to agree so 
 well with her in No. 9. 
 
 “Well, Lucien, you know best, in course,” 
 said Rhoda, wdth an astonished and not gratified 
 look ; “ but you can’t get married in mourning, 
 you know — it wouldn’t be lucky ; and I thought 
 you would have worn it six months, anyhow, 
 for our aunt.” 
 
 “It is from no disrespect to her, Rhoda ; and 
 our mourning needn’t be cast off either, except 
 on the wedding-day. Rosanna and I will get 
 married very quietly ; I don’t see why we should 
 raise a fuss about it ; you and Watt Wilson will 
 be sufficient witnesses. Sally and Jeremy may 
 attend if they like, and we will come from the 
 church to our own house.” My sister was look- 
 ing at me while I spoke, with great amazement 
 in her large honest eyes. Perhaps she saw 
 something very unlike impatience for wedded 
 happiness in my face ; for, when I had finished, 
 she gave me another earnest survey, and said, 
 “Lucien, are you afraid of any thing happen- 
 ing between you and Rosanna — any division or 
 jealousy? or is it the world’s talk, or her sister’s 
 
90 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 tongue ? If it’s not unruly, nobody’s is, I know. 
 But what is it, Lucien? for I don’t think this 
 getting married in a hurry comes of your own 
 mind.” 
 
 “You are right, Rhoda; there ajre reasons 
 that make me wish to settle the business — some 
 that you have mentioned, and some more that 
 are hardly worth mentioning. We have been 
 long engaged ; Rosanna is not comfortable — not 
 safely settled fit home ; there might be talk — 
 there might be jealousy, as you say. At any 
 rate, it is best to get married ; it keeps one from 
 changing one’s mind.” 
 
 “ But, Lucien, dear, it would be worse to 
 change one’s mind after the job was done. You 
 know the proverb about marrying in haste and 
 repenting at leisure. 1 know your promise to 
 Rosanna, and I don’t want you to be a forsworn 
 man ; but, Lucien, if you think there is any 
 chance of either of you changing, it will happen 
 on her side as fast as on yours, or I’m mistaken ; 
 but if you think there is any chance, for good- 
 ness’ sake, don’t get married. Changes that 
 begia on this side of the wedding-day are sure 
 to get worse on the other, when there is no go- 
 ing back. Lucien, dear, I don’t want to get 
 secrets out of you, but I have had a notion, ever 
 since I saw her face, that you and Rosanna 
 wasn’t intended to go to church together. May- 
 be I am wrong, Lucien ; maybe it was because 
 I didn’t want to part with you — and marriage 
 always parts brothers from sisters ; but I did 
 think it, and so did my aunt that’s gone.” 
 
 “Rhoda,” said I, “ don’t press me farther” — 
 her faithful and affectionate reasoning was 
 more than I could bear — “there are causes I 
 can’t tell you which make it prudent for us to 
 get married ; remember, it is nothing that con- 
 cerns Rosanna’s reputation, but no good will 
 come of putting it off any longer.” 
 
 “ Then don’t put it off, Lucien ; the Lord’s 
 directing you, no doubt, though I don’t see the 
 rights of it ; you never did nothing disrespecta- 
 ble or bad, and I’ll warrant you are thinking for 
 the best now. Get married as soon as you like ; 
 I’ll do all in my power to make you a nice 
 \yedding dinner, and get Mrs. Mason up to help. 
 It won’t be my fault if Rosanna and me doesn’t 
 agree well — I think I could agree with Sally for 
 your sake, Lucien.” 
 
 “ I’ll never ask you to agree with Sally, or 
 any body like her ; Rosanna is a good girl, and 
 will do whatever pleases me.” 
 
 “I hope she will,” said Rhoda. 
 
 “And we will never part,” I continued, “till 
 you get married and leave me, perhaps for Watt 
 Wilson.” 
 
 “No, indeed,” said Rhoda, “he is a great 
 deal too sensible to look at the likes of me ; and 
 besides, Lucien” — my sister drew herself up 
 with all the gentility of the La Touches of Ar- 
 magh — “though I have got no schooling my- 
 self, I would like a more larned man ; but I 
 don’t want nobody ; just you take your own 
 course — I’ll warrant it’s a wise one — and get 
 married as soon as you like.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE LOAN AND ITS CONSEQUENCE. 
 
 It had become a sort of standing arrange- 
 ment for me to visit Rosanna on Sunday even- 
 ings. I chose to do so by way of superseding 
 Madame’s claim to those hours, made at the 
 time she gave me the brass key, as conscien- 
 tious penitents turn to sacred duties the times 
 in which they were wont to sin, and having tak- 
 en my resolution regarding a speedy and quiet 
 wedding, I determined to announce it formally 
 on my next visit, never doubting that my in- 
 tended, together with Sally and Jeremy, would 
 make their preparations as quickly as I could 
 wish. The review took place on Thursday ; on 
 Friday evening Rhoda and I had come to an 
 understanding, as related in the last chapter, 
 and on Saturday I went to Notting Hill House 
 on the usual invitation, having screwed up my 
 courage to the point of informing Mr. Forbes, 
 as his friendship to the family gave him a 
 right to hear of so near an event. The pres- 
 ence of Charles Barry, however, prevented a dis- 
 closure that evening. Stiffly as he had bowed 
 to me in the Park, the young sailo/ was back at 
 our old point of friendship and familiarity. If 
 there were any change perceptible in his man- 
 ner, it regarded the Forbes’, with whom I 
 thought him rather more on his guard than 
 usual, and the mystery seemed explained when 
 we got out on our accustomed walk. Charles 
 lighted his cigar, said it was a fine night, took 
 five or six strides, hemmed three times, and 
 then said, “ Mr. La Touche, I know you to be 
 one of the best fellows in the world, and I want 
 you to do me a bit of a service.” 
 
 “ Any thing in my power, Mr. Barry,” said I. 
 
 “Well, then, I hate ceremony, and I know 
 you don’t want it ; in short, hem ! could yon 
 oblige me with the loan of ten pounds or so. 
 Staying in this London runs away with a con- 
 founded deal of money; it will never keep in 
 my pockets anyhow, and I happen to want a 
 trifle for — for a particular occasion,” said Bar- 
 ry ; “it is true my uncle or cousin Helen 
 would lend me that and more, but I never like to 
 ask them, you see, they are so good, and so se- 
 rious, and so careful ; not at all miserly, though, 
 I’ll say that for them ; and then I ran away to 
 sea, and wouldn’t go into the bank business, 
 which might have made me a rich man ; one 
 don’t like to show an empty locker — purse. I 
 mean — and get good advices after that, so I pre- 
 fer asking you, though we are not much more 
 than strangers ; I’ll take it as a great obliga- 
 tion, and be sure to return the money.” 
 
 The request had rather surprised me. I had 
 an inward conviction that the emptiness of the 
 locker was, and would be, a frequent case with 
 Mr. Barry, and I had no confidence in his con- 
 cluding promise ; but Mr. Forbes’ nephew had 
 a claim on my finances ; I had been paid my 
 quarter’s salary within that week, and could af- 
 ford the loan, though with a doubt of never seeing 
 it again, and a fear of renewed applications ; so 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 91 
 
 I assured him of my willingness, happiness, etc., 
 hinted that the like was not often in the power 
 of a man in my position, though, fortunately, I 
 could spare it for the present, and nothing could 
 give me greater pleasure than to serve any rela- 
 tion of Mr. Forbes, not to speak of the sincere 
 respect I entertained for himself. 
 
 “Iam sure it is very good of you, and I’ll 
 never forget it,” said Barry; “they don’t give 
 clerks much at the Palivez banks, I dare say, 
 for all the wealth that woman has — past count- 
 ing, they tell me ; and she’s going to marry that 
 Russian prince ; by-the-by, I don’t think it is 
 for the bank he is looking after her ; she is a 
 first-rate woman, Mr. La Touche, a regular 
 beauty, though there is something too proud 
 and high about her for my taste. But, as I was 
 saying, they don’t give clerks much there, or 
 any where else, and if you should happen to 
 run short at any time, just let Charles Barry 
 know. Shall I wait outside, or go in, till you 
 get the needful — that is, I mean, if you haven’t 
 it about you.” 
 
 “ Do come in ; I don’t generally carry so 
 much, having learned Scottish prudence by as- 
 sociating with the best people that ever came 
 out of Scotland or any other country.” 
 
 “My unde and cousin, you mean,” said 
 Barry, accompanying me into the parlor, where 
 Rhoda dropped him her best courtesy and re- 
 tired. The seaman could take his cue from 
 circumstances ; he was not to be introduced, 
 and, therefore, made no comments, but took a 
 good look at my sister, intended not to be ob- 
 served, seated himself with great complacency, 
 pulled out a splendidly gilt, but empty pocket- 
 book, and quietly waited till I had opened my 
 desk and handed him what he termed the need- 
 ful in the shape of two bank-notes. 
 
 “Very much obliged, I am sure; you are 
 the man for a bark in distress,” and he put 
 them away with the air of one to whom borrow- 
 ing was no new' business. “ I’ll return it with- 
 in two months at farthest, and never forget the 
 obligation ; let me hope, Mr. La Touche, that 
 you won’t forget my purse is at your service in 
 any stress of weather ; and, by-the-by, you won’t 
 mention it to my uncle or cousin Helen ; they 
 might think it odd I didn’t ask themselves, and 
 you know how very good they are.” 
 
 “ I never mention any trifling service that it 
 may be in my power to do ; the matter rests be- 
 tween you and I as one of mutual confidence.” 
 
 “ I knew you were a gentleman, every irtch ; 
 from Ireland too, like myself, one of the Bar- 
 ry’s of Howth, you understand ; but good-night, 
 and a thousand thanks.” The young officer 
 wrung my hand till I scarcely thought it would 
 be fit for writing again, and set off at a rattling 
 pace toward London. 
 
 When I knocked at the door in Bolton Row 
 next evening, having avoided Curzon Street, 
 and prepared myself to surprise and delight Ro- 
 sanna, the slatternly maid informed me that 
 none of the Joyces were at home. Their attic 
 was certainly dark, but I thought it very strange, 
 
 having sent a note on Saturday to announce my 
 coming. 
 
 “Well, sir, I don’t know where they are 
 gone,” said the maid, in reply to my inquiries; 
 “ Miss Rq,ganna went to chapel this morning, 
 but she didn’t come back. Miss Joyce and Mr. 
 Jeremy were very mqch put out about it at 
 first, but then they thought she was a spending 
 the day with a friend ; and it’s my belief, sir, 
 they went there, too ; howsoever, I’ll tell them 
 you were axin, and leave your card on the table 
 up stairs.” 
 
 I went home rather chagrined and disap- 
 pointed ; it was strange that Rosanna should 
 choose to spend the evening with a friend when 
 she expected me. I had not been accustomed 
 to such off-hand doings, and the . purpose on 
 which I had come made the trifle jar still more 
 upon me. I would not call again till she gave 
 some sign of repentance. Rosanna would not 
 be long about that ; a letter of ill-spelled apolo- 
 gies and earnest requests to see me would prob- 
 ably be awaiting my return home, if not for- 
 warded by some street-boy to the bank. I said 
 as much to Rhoda ; but Monday came, I came 
 home, and there was no letter. It was very 
 strange; but Rosanna should get time to come 
 to her senses ; it might be well to let her know 
 I was not to be trifled with before the wedding- 
 day or after it. A man keeping his engage- 
 ment can sit down coolly in such circum- 
 stances ; and I had sat down to tea with my 
 sister by our bright fire, for the night had fallen 
 an hour or more, when a thundering knock at 
 the door startled us both, and before we could 
 recover our composure, in rushed Sally Joyce, 
 her old shawl half off, her bonnet half on, 
 her gray, tangled hair streaming over her face, 
 and her eyes flashing fury. 
 
 “ Mr. La Touche,” she cried, flinging herself 
 on the sofa, “our family are ruined, and mv 
 heart broken. I know I’ll never get over it, 
 neither will Jeremy — neither will you, for that 
 matter — Rosanna has gone off— eloped with that 
 Mr. Barry — the wretch ! the villain ! and they 
 are not married yet. But you’ll save her — 
 you’ll rescue my sister from ruin — you’ll make 
 him marry her. She has behaved very ill to 
 you, I must allow ; but neither she nor Jeremy 
 ever would take my advice ; their mother was a 
 common persori. And you wouldn’t be advised 
 either, Mr. La Touche ; you wouldn’t get mar- 
 ried in Baltimore when I wanted you, and you 
 wouldn’t get married here — first on account of 
 your old aunt, and then on account of your 
 mourning. It is all your fault that my sister 
 has disgraced herself and me. Oh, gracious ! 
 gracious ! to think of a respectable family ruin- 
 ed and brought to shame ; but I’ll drown my- 
 self,” and she fell back with a tremendous 
 shriek. 
 
 Why Sally did not take a fit was a problem 
 Rhoda could never solve ; but the excitement 
 was more assumed than real, and there was no 
 encouragement for demonstrations. My sister 
 and I sat fairly stunned and stupefied for some 
 
92 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 minutes, the news was so startling, so unex- 
 pected ; while Sally quietly drew herself up 
 again, looked at us both, and said, “Yes, in- 
 deed, it’s true ; she’s gone off with Mr. Barry, 
 and somebody must make him marry her. 
 You’ll do it, Mr. La Touche ; you wouldn’t for- 
 sake us in our trouble — you wouldn’t see our 
 family disgraced.” 
 
 By this time there was another knock, and 
 in came Jeremy looking as subdued as ever, but 
 very much out of breath , his sister had evi- 
 dently outrun him. He sat down in the cor- 
 ner, the place assigned him by nature ; I col- 
 lected my scattered senses sufficiently to inquire 
 into particulars. Rhoda ably assisted me. We 
 had both got an inkling of design and prepara- 
 tion on the part of the Joyces ; and between 
 comments and questions, which neither memory 
 nor patience will permit me to set down in full 
 minuteness, we made out that Charles Barry 
 had been paying Rosanna attentions for some 
 time, “ entirely unknown to Jeremy and me,” 
 said Sally ; “we wouldn’t have suffered such a 
 thing, on your account, Mr La Touche — but 
 girls are so artful and that on the Sunday, 
 when I was to call with, my great intelligence, 
 she had gone out, on a pretense of going to 
 chapel — “in her very best clothes,” said Jere- 
 my — did not return at the usual time, and was 
 finally traced to a post-chaise waiting for her — 
 it was supposed, by appointment — at the top of 
 Berkeley Street, with Mr. Barry inside, which 
 carried the pair to Gravesend, where his ship, 
 the Rattlesnake , was lying, and Rosanna was 
 established in genteel lodgings. It was also 
 evident to us that the elder sister and brother, 
 notwithstanding their disavowal, had been cog- 
 nisant of the courtship, and hoped for a match 
 which would raise their sister to the position of 
 a naval officer’s lady — a bit of rank being dear 
 to the souls of the Joyces — but, like most of 
 their class, they had miscalculated on the world 
 they were in. Sally was not to be disappoint- 
 ed so easily, however ; when matters went con- 
 trary to her expectations, she thought of me as 
 a power that might be brought to bear on Barry 
 — hence our evening visit and acquaintance 
 with the event. 
 
 I have said that the first announcement of it 
 stunned and stupefied me. Rosanna’s falsehood 
 and desertion were the last things I could have 
 expected in this world — the girl so fond, so de- 
 voted, so simply dependent on my slightest word, 
 so ready to acquiesce in all my wishes, whose 
 gentle faith had risen up like an accusing angel 
 against my involuntary forgetfulness of the long- 
 pledged vow, whose loving constancy had made 
 me determine to cleave to her in spite of every 
 temptation of my own heart, and every drawback 
 in herself and family. Yet all the time she was 
 playing me false — playing herself false too. I 
 could see through it now, and understand a 
 thousand indications which had been mistaken 
 or unobserved at the time. The frequent ‘ ‘ from 
 home’s,” the runnings down with accounts of 
 Sally being in a fit, to prevent my getting up 
 
 stairs, the high-pitched voice and laughter set 
 down to the doctor’s credit, and many more tri- 
 fles not worth recording, were now plain and 
 circumstantial evidence of what had been going 
 on. The like faithless artifices have turned 
 true and honest men to be women-haters all 
 their days — not rational, perhaps, yet not to be 
 wondered at. Even I recoiled from the smooth, 
 silly, yet deep depravity of the character I had 
 thought so simple and childlike ; my pride was 
 sorely wounded, my sense of honor and truth 
 was revolted, but my conscience told me that I 
 also had been false and faithless in heart, though 
 not in action or intent ; and I could not assume 
 the betrayed and injured man, however suitable 
 to the circumstances in which I found myself 
 
 “ I am sorry for her own sake and for yours,” 
 I said, with a calmness that astonished Rhoda. 
 “ If it were in my power to save her from shame 
 and ruin, I would do it; but since she has vol- 
 untarily placed herself in such a position, there 
 is no law, no means available for her rescue. 
 As her nearest relations, it is your duty to go 
 and endeavor either that Barry shall marry her, 
 or that the improper connection may be broken 
 up. Neither common sense nor the feelings of 
 a gentleman permit me to interfere. I can not 
 challenge Mr. Forbes’s nephew to meet me with 
 pistols in our country’s fashion, if there were 
 not other sound and weighty reasons against 
 such a proceeding.” 
 
 “But you can go and talk to him,” cried 
 Sally. “ Somebody must go ; he won’t mind 
 Jeremy or me.” 
 
 “ No, Miss Joyce ; I can not, and I will not. 
 There is but one way in which Mr. Barry and 
 I could meet, according to the opinions of Irish 
 gentlemen ; and though I am not in the position 
 once occupied by my family, I can not so far 
 forget my early education. Your sister has be- 
 haved unhandsomely toward me — but we will 
 pass that over ; she has behaved still more un- 
 handsomely to herself and to you. Yet, for the 
 affection that was once between ns, I wish to 
 save her from the consequences, if possible; and 
 the only practicable course I can see, since Bar- 
 ry will not mind you or Jeremy, is to apply to 
 his uncle, Mr. Forbes. He is a good man, and 
 his advice may have some weight with his 
 nephew.” 
 
 “Couldn’t you go to Mr. Forbes?” cried 
 Sally. “You are such friends with him and 
 his daughter! Poor Rosanna always thought 
 there was something between you. I am sure 
 it was that that drove her to do what she did. 
 Oh ! but we are the unfortunate family ! every 
 body helping to betray and ruin us.” 
 
 I stopped Miss Joyce with a brief but explicit 
 declaration that I would not go on such a mis- 
 sion to Mr. Forbes ; that, if such an application 
 were made at all, it should come from her and 
 her brother, and that I would support it with all 
 the influence my intimacy with the family gave 
 me, at the same time prudently advising that 
 she should apply by an humble letter, and not a 
 personal appearance at Notting Hill House. To 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 93 
 
 my great surprise and gratification, Sally was | 
 prepared to avoid the latter course. She had 
 paid a visit to Mr. Forbes at his own bank in 
 order to ask a holiday for Jeremy, I believe, 
 according to her intrusive custom. Helen hap- 
 pened to be in her father’s private room at the 
 time, and the composed, melancholy gravity of 
 father and daughter seemed to have effectually 
 subdued and almost frightened the chieftainess 
 of the Joyce household. In short, she was in 
 no haste for going to Notting Hill House. Jer- 
 emy refused to go — supported, I believe, by my 
 countenance — though Sally wanted things done 
 on the spot. She would have scolded, probably 
 gone into fits ; but I stood calmly on my wrongs, 
 Rhoda followed my example, and at a rather 
 late hour we got^the Joyces sent home to write 
 to Mr. Forbes and look after Rosanna. 
 
 Is it a shame, is it a sorrow^ to confess that, 
 when I retired into the parlor with the full 
 knowledge that my plighted bride’s breach of 
 vows had made me a free man from the engage- 
 ment of three years’ standing, for which I had 
 flung away my chance of wealth and station, 
 worked so steadily and struggled so hard against 
 both friends and fortune — I felt positively un- 
 bound, rechartered, and almost light of heart ? 
 It was no wrong, no cause of repentance, to love 
 Madame Palivez now. What if she did not care 
 for ihe, and never would, after my fashion? 
 Yet was I not her friend ? Had she not made 
 a compact with me, and given me a brass key, 
 the former of which I had broken and the latter 
 laid aside for the sake of one who was deceiving 
 and cheating me all the while ? I would go to 
 the villa and to the back rooms now without re- 
 morse ; but she had forgotten me, and was go- 
 ing to marry Prince Galatzin. 
 
 “Lucien, dear, don’t take it so much to 
 heart,” said Rhoda, coming up to me before I 
 was aware, and laying her hand on my shoulder, 
 where I stood deep in my own thoughts by the 
 fading fire. “She is not worth thinking of, 
 that could behave so to you. It is hard, I’ll 
 allow, after so many years’ company keeping, 
 and all that you have done to marry and get a 
 home for her ; but, Lucien, dear, don’t take it 
 to heart ; there is enough women in the world 
 besides, goodness knows! You’ll get a wife 
 worth a thousand of her. I always knew she 
 was deep and deceitful ; so did our poor aunt 
 that’s gone. I knowed it by her look, though 
 she didn’t say it, the very first day you brought 
 her here. Time has showed what was in her. 
 But, Lucien, I love you better than ever she 
 did and I felt my sister’s tears fall heavy on 
 my hand. 
 
 She was thinking of Rosanna, and I was 
 thinking of Madame Palivez. The illusion 
 had to be maintained, but I could not let my 
 sister grieve unnecessarily. 
 
 “ Rhoda,” said I, flinging my arms about her, 
 “ I know you love me better than ever she did 
 — better than I deserve ; but don’t grieve about 
 it. I won’t take it to heart ; she is not worth 
 it, as you say. I know there are more women 
 
 in the world, but I want no more of them. I’ll 
 never marry ; my own good sister is better and 
 truer to me than any wife.” 
 
 Rhoda did not know the real spring of that 
 speech ; but she kissed me and dried her eyes, 
 saying at the same time, 
 
 “But, Lucien, dear, you’ll speak to Mr. 
 Forbes, and get him to talk to the young gen- 
 tleman. You wouldn’t let her fall into ruin and 
 disgrace, for all that has come and gone.” 
 
 I promised every thing possible ; and Rhoda 
 and I talked over the whole subject for an hour 
 or two before we parted for the night. I think 
 she considered me a perfect model of good sense 
 and pious resignation, from the calmness and 
 fortitude with which I bore the disappointment 
 of my fondest hopes ; and her estimate rose still 
 higher on the following morning, when the early 
 post brought me an American letter inclosing 
 my uncle’s wedding cards, and announcing, with 
 short and civil formality, his marriage with Mrs. 
 Maynard and adoption of her son. 
 
 “It’s no wonder that every body, from Solo- 
 mon down, has been speaking against women 
 these hundreds of years,” said Rhoda, “when 
 one thinks of what yop. throwed away for her ; 
 but that old man mightn’t have been in such a 
 hurry. If he had only waited to hear that it 
 was all over, you might have been his heir yet, 
 instead of that widow’s son. Howsoever, w T e 
 can live without him, Lucien.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 • CHARLES BARRY PAYS THE PENALTY FOR 
 INDISCRETION. 
 
 Esthers did not look quite satisfied when I 
 saw him next day in the bank. Cunning as he 
 was, the manager had been misled exactly like 
 his half-sister and brother, and was equally cha- 
 grined at the result. He had too much pride 
 or prudence to enter on the subject, but I knew 
 how it stood with him, and, for my own digni- 
 ty’s sake, kept an equal reserve. So we met, 
 and said good-morning, and transacted business 
 as if nothing had happened, and all the day the 
 thought of being released from my engagement 
 was with me like a new-left legacy or a mort- 
 gage paid off. Nevertheless, I would try to do 
 what was right and generous by the unlucky 
 girl. That she had shared the family’s delusion 
 touching the high match I could not doubt; 
 that she had been persuaded through her vanity, 
 weakness of mind, or very movable affections, 
 to elope with Charles Barry, was also plain. I 
 knew the Joyces would lose no time in making 
 their application. I had advised them to do so, 
 and, by way of backing it up, availed myself of 
 the privilege of intimacy to call at Notting Hill 
 House as early as I could the same evening in 
 hopes of finding Mr. Forbes at home. The 
 serious footman never thought it necessary to 
 announce me. I walked straight into the draw- 
 ing-room, and the first object on which my eye 
 
94 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 rested was the man on whom I was bound to 
 take vengeance, or, at least, regard as the de- 
 stroyer of my peace, for there, opposite to Helen 
 and her father, sat Charles Barry. Mr. Forbes 
 had received the Joyces’ application in the 
 morning, and the good man sent down an 
 urgent request to Gravesend for his nephew’s 
 immediate presence at Notting Hill House. 
 Chaides, either unwilling to refuse his uncle, or 
 unaware that his delinquency had come to the 
 Forbes’ knowledge, came accordingly, and was 
 in course of being lectured or advised when I 
 made my appearance. It was a trying occasion ; 
 but the difficulty, being real only on his side, 
 made Barry evince the greater perturbation. 
 He sprung from his chair the moment I entered, 
 exclaiming, “Mr. La Touche, I am ready to 
 give you the satisfaction of a gentleman ; but I 
 tell you here, before my uncle and cousin, I did 
 not know you were engaged to the girl. I met 
 her in Baltimore at the theatre, when my ship 
 was there, the summer before last. We struck 
 up acquaintance, and, confound it, have been 
 carrying on with letters and meetings ever since. 
 I saw you calling at the house in Bolton Row, 
 but they said it was comjng to see Jeremy, be- 
 cause your father and his had been acquainted 
 in Dublin. I had a sort of suspicion in my 
 mind, for nobody can deny that she is pretty, 
 and tried to sound you at the last. You’ll re- 
 member it, I dare say ; and I am sorry I bor- 
 rowed the ten pounds. I would have gone to 
 the worst Jew in London rather, if I had known 
 how the land lay. But you put me off the tack 
 — you know you did — or I never should have 
 acted so by a friend. I am ready to give you 
 the satisfaction of a gentleman — but,” and he 
 glanced defiantly at his uncle and cousin — “no- 
 body could expect me to marry a girl who has 
 deceived us both, with no family, and a mad 
 sister into the bargain.” 
 
 “ For shame, Charles !” cried Mr. Forbes, be- 
 fore I could get in a word-, “would you add 
 sin to sin by laying all the blame on the girl 
 you have seduced, and putting your own and 
 another’s life in jeopardy, as if that could mend 
 the matter? Sit down, Mr. La Touche,” he 
 continued, shaking hands with me; “I did not 
 expect to see you, but I am glad you have come. 
 Sit down, and help us to convince this foolish 
 young man of his iniquity.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Iniquity, indeed, ” cried Barry. There must 
 have been something in my look that gave him 
 courage, though I did not intend it. “Mr. La 
 Touche knows the world better than to make so 
 much ado about nothing. A frolic with a pret- 
 ty girl is not such an uncommon thing. One 
 would think it was murder I committed.” 
 
 I knew the Scotch banker to be a nervous 
 man, and one of high principles ; but I was not 
 prepared for the shock which his nephew’s flip- 
 pant and commonplace defense seemed to give 
 him. He turned white, as if struck by sudden 
 faintness, leant back in his chair, and partly 
 covered his face with his hands. 
 
 “Mr. Barry,” said I, catching at the oppor- 
 
 tunity to have my say, “had I been aware of 
 your presence, I should not have come here this 
 evening. At the same time, allow me to assure 
 you that I attach no blame to you for my own 
 particular wrong. It is my sincere belief that 
 you were as much in the dark on the subject of 
 my claims as I was regarding your pursuit. 
 The satisfaction you offer is neither rational nor 
 requisite. I want nothing of the kind from Mr. 
 Forbes’s nephew ; but I ask you, as one who has 
 still an interest, though but of memory, in the 
 case, to restore peace to an unfortunate family, 
 to your own conscience, and to her future life, 
 by marrying the girl who has preferred you to 
 me* as well as to her own reputation.” 
 
 “ Well spoken, and worthy of yourself, Lu- 
 cien,” said Mr. Forbes, brightening up again. 
 “ Charles, there is a noble lesson for you, from 
 a lad many a yeafr your junior.” The latter ob- 
 servation was ill-timed, to say the least of it ; 
 Barry felt himself put in a corner, and replied, 
 “ I am very much obliged to him, but I am not 
 in the habit of wanting lessons ; no doubt the 
 one he has given would serve his purpose just 
 now — not a bad chance for getting the girl off 
 his hands.” 
 
 “Mr. Barry,” said I, my Irish blood boiling 
 up in spite of good sense and surroundings, 
 “you have offered me the satisfaction of a gen- 
 tleman, and I demand it now, not on account 
 of Rosanna Joyce, but for your base insinua- 
 tion.” I know Charles was fumbling for a card, 
 but Helen, who had been sitting silently at her 
 needlework — I think there must have been a 
 composing influence in that girl’s needle — rose 
 from her seat, stepped in between us, motioned 
 me to sit down, took Barry by the arm, and 
 said, in her gentle, persuasive manner, “ Cousin 
 Charles, do come with me.” Barry hesitated 
 sullenly for a minute, then relaxed, and she led 
 him quietly out of the room, while I sat down, 
 not knowing what to say, and feeling that my 
 reputation for wisdom was gone with the Forbes’. 
 The banker looked after his daughter ; it was 
 an earnest, thankful gaze, and then looked at 
 me reprovingly but kindly : “Lucien, lad, you 
 should not give way so far as to countenance 
 that sinful and foolish practice called giving 
 satisfaction ; I know it is too common in your 
 country ; all countries have their peculiar sins 
 and follies, proving the general corruption of 
 human nature. You were sorely provoked, I 
 grant, but the lad didn’t know what he was say- 
 ing; men will say any thing to excuse their 
 own wickedness, and Charles is not over-gifted 
 with judgment ; but let it drop, Lucien, let it 
 drop.” 
 
 I professed my willingness to follow his ad- 
 vice ; a hostile meeting with Mr. Forbes’s nephew, 
 shooting him or getting shot myself, were alter- 
 natives not to be seriously thought of, though 
 the half truth that lay in Barry’s insinuation 
 had roused my wrath. The banker and I talked 
 for a considerable time — it might be an hour — 
 on the evils of dueling, on the follies of his 
 nephew, on the difficulties of getting him to do 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 95 
 
 the right thing under present circumstances, 
 and on the great wrong and injury he had inad- 
 vertently done to myself. 
 
 “If I had known any thing of it in time,” 
 said Forbes — “ but one never knows what young 
 men are after ; and, for that matter, I did not 
 know of your engagement to the girl. Poor 
 Miss Livy had written something to me of a 
 difference between you and your uncle in Amer- 
 ica about somebody you meant to marry there, 
 hut I never knew the particulars till Watt Wil- 
 son told me this morning, after I got the Joyces’ 
 letter. It was a long engagement and a great 
 sacrifice, lad — enough to break an honest heart; 
 but you have sense to get over it, Lucien. I 
 know, from what Wilson told me, you loved the 
 girl well ; a sad and sore thing it is that true 
 love should be so requited ; but these are lessons 
 that teach us to set our affections on Jhings 
 above, and life is full of them, in one shape or 
 another; the moths corrupt and the thieves 
 break through and steal whatever sort of treas- 
 ures we lay up for ourselves on earth. Aft- 
 er all, Lucien, there is a kind of comfort for 
 you — you missed her well ; the woman who 
 could be so false before marriage, would not 
 have been faithful after it; and though it is 
 right and lawful that Charles should marry her, 
 seeing he has committed himself, yet I find it 
 hard to advise my nephew to take such a wife 
 for better or worse ; but we must do our duty, 
 and leave the rest to Providence. You bear it 
 gallantly, lad, but the blow is heavy, to find de- 
 ceit and falsehood where one had laid down love 
 and truth so tried and tested as yours.” 
 
 I could not look at the honest and kindly 
 Scotchman sympathizing with what should 
 have been but was not, and sat with my face 
 averted, he probably thought to conceal my 
 emotion, till the rustle of a dress made me 
 glance toward the door. Helen had entered 
 so quietly that neither of us heard her; she had 
 been listening too, which was not like herself ; 
 and what could have passed between her and 
 Barry, that she stood leaning against the wall, 
 her head bowed, and her face as white as paper ? 
 My first impulse was to run to her, but she gave 
 me no time; the serious girl could always re- 
 cover herself quickly ; she came forward on the 
 instant, saying, “ Mr. La Touche, I have come 
 to request that you will make friends with 
 Charles ; he has promised to make all the 
 amends in his power, and allowed me to say 
 that he is sorry for his untrue and offensive 
 words to you. You’ll make friends with him, 
 Mr. La Touche ; he is but a sailor, and not very 
 sensible.” 
 
 “I’ll make friends with any friend of yours, 
 Miss Forbes ; words are but wind, as the prov- 
 erb says ; I am only sorry to have lost my tem- 
 per at such folly.” 
 
 “Right, lad, right,” said Forbes; and Helen, 
 giving me one of her sunny smiles, ran out, and 
 returned the next minute with Charles Barry, 
 looking very much softened. 
 
 “ Uncle,” said he, “ I have made up my mind 
 
 to do what you call the right thing; cousin 
 Helen has talked me into it — a woman can al- 
 ways talk me into any thing ; but I suppose it is 
 proper — anyhow, I am going to do it ; and I 
 didn’t mean what I said, Mr. La Touche ; it’s 
 not to avoid a meeting, mind. I am afraid of 
 no man ; but you didn’t deserve to be so spoken 
 to. Will you shake hands?” 
 
 “With all my heart,” said I, and hands we 
 did shake, to the evident delight of Helen and 
 her father. I never saw their sober faces so 
 lighted up. 
 
 Forbes commenced, and congratulated *his 
 nephew on the honest resolution he had come 
 to, and the blessing that might be expected to 
 follow on what he had admitted was so hard to 
 advise, while Helen resumed her needlework 
 with accustomed gravity, and, after some more 
 reconciling remarks, we changed the subject by 
 common consent. 
 
 I staid to supper, and got renewed credit for 
 wisdom and patience in Notting Hill House. 
 Barry walked home with me, puffing his cigar 
 and chatting about all the news of the day. 
 The Joyces brought Rosanna up from Graves- 
 end, and had a very quiet wedding at their near- 
 est church. Barry took her to the Isle of Wight 
 to spend the honeymoon. On his return, I 
 learned both from himself and the Forbes’ that 
 he had discovered all sorts of talent and perfec- 
 tions in her mind and manners. Easy and 
 good-natured, the man was likely to make a 
 good husband, as the world goes, but the Rattle- 
 snake was dispatched to the coast of Africa to 
 look after slavers ; he went with it, of course, 
 and Mrs. Barry remained at home wdth the 
 Joyces, now' in great exultation, though rather 
 disappointed that they were not more noticed 
 by the Forbes’ and myself. I believe the neg- 
 lect of the Notting Hill House people was en- 
 tirely charged to Helen’s account, and with some 
 reason, for Miss Forbes was wisely prudent. 
 
 “The girl is Charles’s wife, to be sure, our 
 relation in law,” said Forbes one day to me ; in 
 one of our confidential discourses, “but Helen 
 does not consider her a suitable associate. My 
 daughter is discreet, Mr. La Touche, and has 
 the clearest ideas of propriety ; she know's there 
 is evil in the world, and she does her part 
 against it; you remember how she sat with us 
 and helped us to persuade Charles, in fact, gain- 
 ed him over to the right w'hen we could not ; 
 but she avoids all countenancing of it, either in 
 deed or appearance, and these Joyces have 
 shown themselves any thing but followers of 
 whatsoever is honest, lovely, and of good re- 
 port.” Forbes had a sort of pride in his daugh- 
 ter which I began to think justifiable. She had 
 brought about the business which, in a manner, 
 cleared my conscience, and saved Rosanna from 
 what less charitable dames would think deserved 
 consequences, though Barry did not approve of 
 her after wisdom so highly as the banker. 
 “ Confound it,” said he, when calling to return 
 my loan, just before the Rattlesnake sailed, 
 “ she takes upon her to look down on my wife, 
 
96 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 and so does her father — the old man does- ev- 
 ery thing that girl bids him — they do, Mr. La 
 Touche, I know it, though of course they did 
 not say so ; it would not do with one of the 
 Barrys of Howth, and you know she was the 
 first hand aboard in making up the match ; a 
 right thing, I’ll allow ; anyhow, it’s done, and, 
 once on that tack, nobody can get off it. But 
 Helen might take Rosanna a little in tow; in 
 fact, I thought she would, being such a great 
 Christian, and up to every thing that’s sensible. 
 See if I will go to their dull Saturday dinners 
 when I come back, if Mrs. Barry is not good 
 enough to be invited ; she is a deal prettier than 
 cousin Helen, anyhow ; just let her begin to give 
 me good advices again ! and wasn’t I green, Mr. 
 La Touche, to let out about the ten pounds ? 
 but it went against me, on account of what I 
 borrowed it for, and I did think my uncle would 
 never let me hear the end of it. However, by- 
 gones are by-gones; you and I are good friends, 
 I hope. I can’t just expect you and your sister 
 to receive Rosanna; she did not behave quite 
 handsomely to you ; but women, Mr. La Touche, 
 were never to be trusted, except where they are 
 not over pretty and are uncommon good, like my 
 cousin Helen. I have a notion you and her 
 will make it up some day.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 LTTCIEN LOOKS OUT THE BRASS KEY. 
 
 To return to my own peculiar story. I was 
 now free — free to go to Old Broad Street and 
 the villa, where my heart had been always go- 
 ing, in spite of honest striving and hardly-done 
 duty. Yes, I was free. Though deeply sympa- 
 thized with in Notting Hill House, Miss Forbes 
 and her father thought it necessary not to refer 
 to Barry or the Joyces in my presence; the 
 banker talked in a more lively manner ; Helen 
 sang more Scotch songs, and told me more 
 about Madame Palivez’s approaching marriage 
 than ever, expressly to cheer up my spirits, and 
 blunt the edge of disappointment and regret. 
 At home, Rhoda almost admired me for pa- 
 tience, prudence, and all the cardinal virtues 
 that man could show under such a heavy trial ; 
 and I felt my liberty, yet did not rejoice in it. 
 The case of conscience was settled, canceled, 
 and wiped out forever .* Rosanna was the sinner, 
 and not I. We were parted for all time ; I had 
 paid for my folly in ever meeting or getting en- 
 gaged , and now there was another engagement 
 pressing on my memory with a heavier but far 
 different weight. The lawful impediment was 
 removed, but the unsolvable warning, the threat- 
 ening mystery remained. Night and morning 
 I look out for a sign or a message — any apology 
 for getting into her presence after so long a de- 
 lay, and under my peculiar circumstances, which 
 Madame must know, for Esthers did. There 
 came none , and still the little sense that was 
 left me said it was best so — best to get and keep 
 
 clear of such an anomalous association ; lead- 
 ing one knew not whither, surrounded by un- 
 known risks, carried on in secret, and holding 
 in the background some mysterious tale which 
 seemed to blend with the inexplicable part of my 
 own family history. I was warned, but the 
 warning was not a sufficient barrier against the 
 strong inclination. For honor and conscience’ 
 sake I could resolve to keep safe distance — I 
 think could have kept the resolution too ; but 
 not for prudence, not for self-saving, or taking 
 care of — the bondage was too firmly riveted. 
 
 She did not send for, she did not meet me ; I 
 knew she was occupied with a coming-on wed- 
 ding. I must expect to be condoled with on 
 my own disappointment, but I could wait no 
 longer without seeing her ; and while Barry and 
 his bride were yet enjoying their honeymoon in 
 the Isle of Wight, I took the brass key out of 
 its hidden corner one morning, looked at it all 
 day where Esthers could not see me in the 
 office, and when the bank closed, instead of go- 
 ing home, I made my way through the old over- 
 grown church-yard to the small door in the wall, 
 turned the key in the lock, and admitted myself 
 to the magnificent conservatory within. It was 
 all in bloom and fragrance, as I had seen it at 
 first ; and no sight or sound of life reached me 
 as I walked up the marble stair, through the 
 anteroom, and into the great saloon where I had 
 found her; and there Madame Palivez sat, I 
 think, on the very same sofa, almost in the cen- 
 tre, in the same dress of purple velvet and gold 
 buttons — her winter trim ; and all the place was 
 lighted up with wax candles and classically- 
 shaped lamps, for the dull November night had 
 fallen heavy and damp on London. 
 
 “Ah! welcome, my friend,” she said, ex- 
 tending her hand with a smile that made the 
 room look brighter ; “you have come to see me 
 at last. I knew you would, or I should have 
 gone to see you. Sit down, Lucien, and give 
 an account of yourself. What kept you away 
 so long, when you knew I was at home, and saw 
 me so plainly at the review ?” 
 
 “ I did not like to intrude upon you, Madame, 
 as I understood you had more engaging com- 
 pany ” 
 
 Was it craft or folly made me say that ? 
 “What company, Lucien?” 
 
 “Why, the Russian prince — Prince Galatzin, 
 whom they say you are going to marry.” 
 
 “Who told you that ? Come, out with it!” 
 How mischievously amused she seemed at my 
 hesitation ! “ Was it the Joyces ?” 
 
 “No, Madame, it was Miss Forbes, and she 
 heard it from Mr. Esthers.” 
 
 Madame laughed, but she was not amused 
 now. 
 
 “It was a very natural mistake for him. 
 There are matters about our business which the 
 Palivezi have never permitted their employed 
 people, however confidential, to know. Prince 
 Galatzin ’s affair with me is one of that kind ; 
 and I tell you, as a friend, it regards money, 
 and not matrimony. With the last mentioned 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 97 
 
 I have no concern, Lucien, and never will, 
 having passed the time when one might be fool- 
 ish enough to get so involved.” 
 
 “Do you think marriage such a folly, then ?” 
 
 “Not for all. It is one of the world’s insti- 
 tutions, requisite for many reasons ; but for my- 
 self it would be folly, and worse. I have riot 
 led a woman’s life ; I do not think as a woman ; 
 
 I have been accustomed to steer by my own 
 judgment, to consult my own inclinations, 
 crossed or modified only by the laws of society 
 and the powers of nature. I am averse to coun- 
 sel, control, or responsibility ; and I know of no 
 consideration for which I would barter the ease 
 and freedom of the single state.” 
 
 “You are not of Dr. Johnson’s opinion, who 
 thought that marriage had many pains, but the 
 single life no pleasures.” 
 
 “Dr. Johnson, though a capable man in 
 many respects, a good scholar, and something 
 of a wit, was no philosopher ; besides, he had a 
 weakness or virtue — I know not which to call it ; 
 it has the effect of binding one to their species, 
 because it makes one most dependent on them 
 — I mean that intensely social or domestic 
 turn of mind which made it impossible for him 
 to live alone. Dr. Johnson shared that with 
 the greater part of mankind ; certainly no ad- 
 vantage to the individual, but necessary, I sup- 
 pose, to the well-being, if not to the existence, 
 of society ; families owe their continuance to it 
 as well as to less discussable causes ; from it 
 arise communities, clubs, and quarrels. I am 
 either worse or better off than Dr. Johnson in 
 this respect ; I have learned to live without my 
 species. As servants, correspondents, and ac- 
 quaintances, which may be all classed in the 
 service here, I find them useful, but in my men- 
 tal life, which is the only being at home we 
 have, I can live alone, and have done so for 
 years. You are the nearest approach to a 
 friend I ever had, and I want no nearer. Re- 
 member, I don’t say that you and I may not 
 know each other better — that is altogether a 
 different affair; but as regards this marriage 
 business, it is not for me, nor I for it. The great 
 house of the Palivezi, with all its pride and 
 banking, terminates in me.” 
 
 “ May you not change your mind, Madame ! 
 most ladies do, they say.” I was getting very 
 bold ; but she looked me sadly in the face, and 
 said, “No, Lucien, I may not. There were 
 causes that made me come to that resolution 
 early — that made me what I am with thinking 
 over and searching into them. My heart got 
 schooled down or up, my friend, to counting 
 costs and reckoning on consequences, till the 
 life and feeling wore out of it, and I am a ca- 
 pable banker. 
 
 “ But why do you reckon only on risks and 
 evils ?” 
 
 “Because there was nothing else to be reck- 
 oned on,” she interrupted, with wild earnestness, 
 that grew more desperately miserable as she 
 spoke. “ Nothing else for me and mine. We 
 have suffered through ten generations, and still 
 G 
 
 the sin and the sorrow descends through all the 
 Palivez branches till the tree once so fair and 
 spreading has come to one bough, waiting for 
 the stroke, and the wealth and honors which so 
 many envy, not knowing their fearful price, 
 must go to strangers.” 
 
 1 1 Is Esthers the next heir, failing yourself, 
 Madame?” said I, in hopes of getting at the 
 clew. 
 
 “Esthers !” she said, with a glance of queenly 
 scorn, which made the lady all herself again. 
 “ He is illegitimate, and not a Palivez. Our 
 bank and business goes, after my decease, to the 
 great Smyrna house of Comenzoni, whose line 
 is almost as ancient and princely as our own, 
 and was connected with ours before” — and she 
 pointed to the portrait beside the veiled Neme- 
 sis — “before one of my ancestprs married that 
 Tartar princess, the last heiress to the throne of 
 Kasan, whom Ivan the Terrible had to dispose 
 of, and did it to our cost. But, Lucien” — how 
 suddenly she could change her look and subject 
 — “ in all this talk for and against matrimony I 
 am forgetting to say how much I regret your 
 own difficulties — disappointment I ought to say 
 — and shameful behavior of that girl.” 
 
 I had forgotten it too ; but Madame pro- 
 ceeded — “I have been suspecting it was that 
 kept you away from me. Lucien, had I known 
 any thing about it, you should have got early in- 
 formation, but Esthers kept it from me.” There 
 was deep fierce wrath in her eyes which could 
 not or would not be uttered. “Of course I 
 never inquire into their family affairs, but I 
 wish I had for your sake. She furnishes a 
 good example — I mean the girl Rosanna — of 
 what one so often gets convinced of, namely, the 
 impossibility of fathoming fools. Simpletons, 
 whom one thinks one can read through and 
 'through like a primer, with nothing but com- 
 monplaces in them from beginning to end, sud- 
 denly turn up some aspect of character, some 
 capability of going or doing wrong, one never 
 dreamt of. I had set her down for the very 
 thing that suited you. You thought the same, 
 no doubt, and lost and endeavored far more than 
 she was worth at her best interpretation, and 
 this is what noble, conscientious acting comes 
 to in a such world.” 
 
 “Never mind,” said I, “the discovery out- 
 balances the loss.” She fixed her eyes on me 
 as if with a keen determination to read me 
 through like a primer, and said, “ Lucien, you 
 did not love that girl. At first I know you did. 
 No man would make the sacrifice you made ex- 
 cept for love as sincere and honorable as ever 
 romantic youth believed in ; but you did not, at 
 the last. I know it by your look and by your 
 tone. Don’t redden, my friend ; the thing was 
 made to change every where except among 
 turtle-doves, and that, according to the poets, 
 who, by-the-by, seldom imitate the example 
 they sing so often. You have seen somebody 
 else since the vow was made in Baltimore.” 
 
 Had she put the question, or any thing like it 
 at that moment, clerk as I was, my courage or 
 
98 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 folly was up, and I would have told her all — 
 who it was that had come between my heart 
 and the girl I had done so much for — who it 
 was that had broken away the faith and con- 
 stancy herself had praised and partly rewarded ; 
 but Madame gave me no opportunity. With 
 the last word she threw herself back on the sofa 
 in that careless abandonment to mirth or amuse- 
 ment which I have never seen in another so far 
 out of childhood, and laughed with all her heart. 
 “ It is well, my friend, it is well,” she said, “ all 
 things change, and nothing so quickly as the 
 heart of man. What a foundation it is to build 
 one’s happiness on ! but why didti’t you let me 
 know that when we talked of your wedding 
 nearly six months ago ? Were you too proud 
 or too honorable ? How lucky that she should 
 have proved faithless ! She would have proved 
 the same if you had stood as firm as the ever- 
 lasting rock, which I might have known to be 
 an impossibility. Rosanna was not the woman 
 to retain you. The Joyces have got Barry to 
 marry her, they tell me. That was more than 
 could have been expected.” 
 
 “ It was Miss Forbes that reasoned him into 
 it,” said I, determined that Helen should get 
 her due. 
 
 “The more fool he, to be reasoned,” said 
 Madame. “ I have seen this Barry, and he 
 looks a simpleton.” 
 
 “ Do you think that simpletonship ? Had 
 not the man a right? Was it not his impera- 
 tive duty to marry the girl he had seduced?” 
 I spoke out in one of those sudden revulsions 
 of feeling which so often came over me in con- 
 verse with her. It went against my nature to 
 hear the woman speak so gracelessly out of the 
 security of her social position and hardness of 
 heart. How it was contrasted in my memory 
 with the gentle charity, and pure warm sympa- 
 thies of Helen Forbes. 
 
 But Madame smiled on me half - kindly, 
 half-scornfully, and said, 
 
 “Lucien, my friend, you and I have no time 
 for the little shams which every body feels 
 bound to assist in, and nobody is cheated by. 
 Rosanna Joyce seduced herself ; so do most 
 women who get into that mischief. I grant you, 
 society makes it a greater mischief to them than 
 to their companions of your own sex — an absurd- 
 ity which, doubtless, serves some purpose or pe- 
 cessity in nature, because it is universal.” 
 
 “And therefore must be just,” said I. 
 
 “No, my friend, it must not ; there is no such 
 thing as justice, except in the theories of phi- 
 losophers or the dreams of poets. Every where 
 the strong prey on the weak, the crafty on the 
 simple ; and whatever rule people can make or 
 discover to suit their interests or inclinations, 
 they call that just. But to return to the case 
 in hand. Your pious friend, Miss Forbes,” 
 and she spoke with a slight sneer, “ has shown 
 Mr. Barry his duty and obligation to marry 
 Sally Joyce’s sister, and he has fulfilled them. 
 Well, what are the consequences? Mr. Barry, 
 having made such an alliance, will sink to the 
 
 level of his wife ; every man does so more or 
 less ; it is one of the curious effects of your so- 
 cial system. He will lose caste — lose self-re- 
 spect, probably, such sort as he has — lose the on- 
 getting impulse, slide down to the Joyces, if not 
 below them. They are proud of the naval offi- 
 cer, of course ; they will turn him to every 
 possible account, but not one to his own advan- 
 tage. He will have Sally and Jeremy, as well 
 as Rosanna, hanging to his skirts, though with 
 little credit and less comfort in the retinue ; 
 and his excellent uncle and cousin in Notting 
 Hill House, being prudent and pious, will keep 
 particularly clear of the concern they have 
 reasoned him into.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Barry should have kept out of it himself in 
 the first instance.” 
 
 “So he should; but Barry was idle, and at 
 Baltimore once, like other people.” What a 
 thorough knowledge she had of the whole story ! 
 “Remember, I do not say there was an atom of 
 resemblance more. You are simple, Lucien, 
 but not in the same fashion. By-the-by, I won- 
 der he had not fixed on his cousin — the good, 
 if not fair Helen, her father’s heiress, and your 
 special friend. You need not take the trouble 
 of denial, Lucien; I know it was not for her 
 that your heart fell from its allegiance. You 
 are a man, even as others — might marry Miss 
 Forbes, I dare say, if opportunity offered, and 
 the old man was agreeable. But you did not 
 forget Rosanna on her account. She is goo'd, 
 but not pretty ; and no goodness, not even tal- 
 ent, can make up for the want of beauty in a 
 woman. You are sitting there convinced, I 
 see, and letting me do all the talking — from the 
 feeling that no greater service can be done to 
 an elderly lady, I suppose. But, now that this 
 little difficulty is over, and Rosanna disposed of, 
 when n^y I expect to hear of your taking the 
 present elect for better or for worse? That 
 astonishment is well put on, Lucien ; I am only 
 asking when you intend to get married?” 
 
 “ I will never get married, Madame.” Noth- 
 ing more would come out. 
 
 “ Yes you will — you must, Lucien. Nature 
 made you a domestic and family man ; you 
 never could live by and for yourself alone, as I 
 do. Remember, that implies no deficiency of 
 character, but the contrary; all reformers, all 
 improvers who have made any practical impres- 
 sion on their times and on the world, have been 
 of the same order. The single and solitary — I 
 mean those so inclined, like myself — have not 
 sufficient sympathy with their species, not a 
 sufficient bond to them, or interest in their well- 
 being, to take such trouble and risk. It is to 
 you domestic men that the world owes every 
 thing, as well as its on-going. You will, and 
 you must marry, Lucien ; things will never go 
 well with you till then. But I know it will 
 happen some day ; and as I have passed the 
 time for the like, I won’t pry into your heart’s 
 secret. Look at this picture I have bought; 
 they tell me it is lone looking out for Paris, 
 who will come to her no more, for he has run 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 99 
 
 away with Helen ; you understand. The art- 
 ist seems to have caught the spirit of our old 
 mythology.” 
 
 The picture to which she pointed was that of 
 a beautiful wood-nymph, looking down a grassy 
 slope from the edge of a thick forest. There 
 was a perspective of valleys far below, a flashing 
 river, and fair city towers, but no figure except 
 the solitary wood-nymph, beautiful, slender, and 
 light as the breeze, but looking down the val- 
 leys with a gaze so earnest, and yet so hopeless, 
 that the onlooker felt it was for one whom she 
 could see no more. It turned our conversation 
 into far different channels. There was no more 
 of Helen Forbes, the Joyces, Barry or myself, but 
 a deal of talk, artistic and literary, inostly done 
 by Madame. I had got a habit of listening ; 
 perhaps she liked that best. At any rate, the 
 bewilderment, the strangeness, and tumult of 
 my inward thoughts passed away or settled 
 down. I had been about to tell my secret — it 
 is an impulse which seems natural to man — but 
 the opportunity passed ; it had not been done. 
 In my sober ‘senses I would never attempt to do 
 it ; and Madame and I were back on our old 
 footing, with the warning mystery still in the 
 background, but no broken vow to rise in judg- 
 ment against me. 
 
 “You will come and see me often,” she 
 said, “ now that we understand each other bet- 
 ter, and you know that I am not about to be- 
 come the Princess Galatzin. By-the-by, it was 
 Esthers told that to the Forbes’; he visits them 
 a good deal of late.” 
 
 “ I believe they are more intimate than they 
 used to be.” 
 
 “All the worse ; perhaps I should not exactly 
 say so, Lucien, to another, but I know Esthers. 
 He has been long in our employment ; my 
 father promised my uncle on — on his death-bed, 
 that he never should be parted with. I feel 
 bound to fulfill his promise ; otherwise, Lucien, 
 lie might not be continued about me and my 
 business. The man is trustworthy, in the legal 
 acceptation of that word, but he was born under 
 one of those unlucky stars which give men more 
 craft than good sense or good fortune. Esthers 
 is not lucky for himself — nor lucky for any one 
 who may be concerned with him ; and he has a 
 fatal readiness for concerning himself with other 
 people’s affairs ; but this is spoken between you 
 and I.” She laid her hand on my shoulder, 
 and looked me anxiously in the face. “Was 
 it he that gave you to understand his expecta- 
 tions of being heir to the Palivezi ?” 
 
 “No, Madame, I can not say that Esthers 
 ever did so.” 
 
 “What led you to suppose it, then?” 
 
 “You had mentioned that he was your cous- 
 in.” 
 
 “ He is my uncle’s illegitimate son ; at least, 
 Alexis Palivez believed so. I regret the fact, 
 but can not alter it ; and, as I told you, our in- 
 heritance goes to the house of Comenzoni. 
 The settlement was made with my concurrence, 
 or rather by my advice ; but Esthers is ignorant 
 
 of it, and I expect that he will remain so, for 
 the fact has been mentioned to nobody but you. 
 
 I know you to be discreet,” she continued, in 
 reply to my declaration that none of our pri- 
 vate conversation should ever be repeated — “ I 
 know you to be discreet, or we should not be on 
 the terms we are. But remember, you will 
 come and see me oftener than you have done ; 
 I will never try to worm your secret out ; there 
 is no obstacle in your way to the altar, now I 
 hope ; it might be well to take time, lest your 
 mind should change again. You needn’t look 
 angry or ashamed, I am not sure which it is ; 
 minds were made for changing; but you will 
 come and see me? And listen! your sister 
 will be wondering where you go ; she is alone 
 now, and will miss you more — for I expect you 
 to come regularly on the Sunday evenings — it 
 is due to her sense and affection to tell her 
 where you spend your time. I give you leave 
 to explain the case exactly as it stands ; if the 
 girl does not understand it, she will give no 
 trouble on that subject or any other; Rhoda 
 was made for getting safely and easily through 
 life. Tell her all ; tell her what a strange 
 woman I am — that I took a fancy to you, if 
 you like, but not how you served me, Lucien 
 ■ — not how you saved my life. I have your 
 promise on that, and I hold by it, for strong 
 and sad reasons, not to expose a, family — not to 
 have questions or gossip about our employed 
 people ; you are discreet — you will understand 
 me.” 
 
 I did understand ; but it was as usual, that 
 Madame Palivez had something to conceal 
 from me whom she thought so discreet, and 
 called her friend ; but I promised to tell and to 
 keep according as she directed, and went home 
 reconciled to seeing her in private, to hearing 
 half secrets, to being often shocked by her cyn- 
 ical and unanswerable remarks, and being al- 
 ways charmed and drawn on like a man thor- 
 oughly in bondage. The confession may seem 
 strange, and not very creditable to my sense or 
 spirit, but it is an honest one, and the facts had 
 extenuating, if not justifying causes. I loved 
 Madame Palivez, not as I had loved Rosanna 
 in the first and best days of our Baltimore ac- 
 quaintance, not as men love ordinary women, 
 but as Thomas the Rhymer may have loved the 
 Fairy Queen. She reigned over my heart and 
 mind in right of an inherent royalty, often ques- 
 tioned, often disputed, but never to be denied. 
 Whatever the lady was, or might have been, in 
 an ethical point of view, there were in her those 
 imperial elements of command and fascination 
 which make their possessors leaders and proph- 
 ets to the rest of mankind. She did not mingle 
 with my daily life. I saw hers only by glimpses 
 sufficient to show me how great was its differ- 
 ence from my own. But all the thoughts that 
 rose above daily work and care, my perceptions 
 of art, of letters, and of nature, all went up to 
 her; sometimes reflecting, sometimes disputing 
 her views, but always occupied with or about 
 Madame Palivez. And, therefore, as the Elfin 
 
100 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Queen came to the Rhymer in the deep green 
 wood, with wondrous wisdom and with won- 
 drous beauty, telling of the lovelier, freer life 
 of fairy-land, so the charms which Nature had 
 bestowed so liberally on the Grecian lady, the 
 grandeur, the luxury, the taste which surround- 
 ed her, took hold of my imagination, as much 
 as her intellectual powers subjected my reason. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 ESTHERS MAKES GOOD HIS FOOTING AT THE 
 FORBES’. 
 
 I had some difficulty in telling my sister the 
 part of the tale assigned for her hearing. My 
 confidence in Rhoda’s good sense, my natural 
 desire to hear her opinion on matters which 
 puzzled and half-frightened me, would have 
 prompted me to tell the whole story of Ma- 
 dame’s friendship, but that was forbidden ; I 
 had given my promise, and, in spite of every 
 good reason to the contrary, Rhoda must hear 
 but a part. That part xvas necessary, as Bolton 
 Row no longer furnished an apology for my 
 evenings out, as Madame had anticipated ; did 
 she ever forget the stray end of any clew which 
 curiosity might get hold of, and trace out the 
 windings of the labyrinth ? It was my expecta- 
 tion that Rhoda would be so exalted at my pro- 
 motion to such superior society, and probably — 
 with the hopes which a sister in her position 
 might entertain for a brother taken into private 
 friendship by his wealthy, fair, and fashionable 
 employer — that all her discretion ought to be 
 enlisted in the keeping of the secret from Watt 
 Wilson, the Masons, and the rest of her circle. 
 But when, after proper preparation, I unfolded 
 the fact to her at our small tea-table, Rhoda 
 looked at me with a long-sighted, anxious 
 glance, laid down her tea-pot, and said, “Well, 
 Lucien, she is a great lady, uncommon hand- 
 some, and very rich ; in course it’s remarkable 
 good of her to take such a liking to you, and it 
 isn’t every young man that gets into such fine 
 company ; but somehow — you’ll not be angry at 
 my saying it, Lucien — I would rather you were 
 going any where else. I have seen that lady 
 often looking at this house when she rode by ; 
 my aunt that’s gone used to notice it, and said 
 there was something strange about her for all 
 her beauty. I dreamt of her once, coming here 
 and taking you away in her carriage, but some- 
 how my mind told me it was for no good ; and 
 Hannah Clark has taken to spaeing now, as all 
 them that are deaf and dumb do by nature, and 
 she always spaes that you are to marry a rich 
 lady, but she says there is blood in the way 
 which you must step over.” 
 
 “Nonsense, Rhoda,” said I, but my hand 
 shook so that the knife I was cutting bread 
 with fell out of it ; “ Hannah Clark knows no 
 more about the future than you do ; and as for 
 marrying a rich lady, I have no chance of that. 
 Madame Palivez has taken a fancy to talk with 
 
 me in her leisure evenings ; being a clerk in her 
 bank, it is prudent and suitable for me to serve 
 and please the lady ; but when she thinks of 
 changing her condition — which Madame says 
 she never will — there are Russian princes and 
 English dukes who would not be too high 
 matches for the heiress of the great house of 
 Palivez.’’ 
 
 “ In course, Lucien, it may be all nonsense I 
 am thinking, but you’ll allow it isn’t every day 
 that a great lady takes such fancies for talking 
 with a young man in such a confident way. I’ll 
 warrant it is all friendship, and very prudent 
 and suitable, as you say, to serve and please 
 her ; it may get you on in the bank to be head 
 clerk, or more ; but, Lucien, if she ever wants 
 you to do any thing not right or honest — mind, 
 I don’t say she will, but the like has happened, 
 and the business is strange — just remember that 
 the friendship of God is more worth than the 
 love of any ’arthly lady, however rich or hand- 
 some she may be.” 
 
 I assured Rhoda there was no danger of my 
 being wanted to do any thing not right or hon- 
 est ; Madame had means enough to bribe more 
 ready hands if she required any such service. 
 We had no right to think ill of any person who 
 had not shown themselves ill inclined, merely 
 because their ways or humors were unlike our 
 own. Madame Palivez was peculiar, but very 
 sensible, and of great learning; we must remem- 
 ber, too, that she was of foreign birth and breed- 
 ing; but all the world knew how upright and 
 honorable the dealings of the Palivez had al- 
 ways been ; her name and fame stood as high as 
 those of her ancestors ; as for her fancy to see 
 me on spare evenings, it was but the whim of a 
 lady of fashion, tired of gay company and the 
 whirl of West End life ; it probably would not 
 last long, and the wisest thing we could do was 
 to keep the matter between ourselves, that people 
 might not misunderstand or make a tale about it. 
 Rhoda saw the wisdom of those conclusions, and 
 seemed reasoned out of her own sinister impres- 
 sions, but her words went with me in my go- 
 ings to Broad Street, mingled with the vainly- 
 guessed-at mystery which enveloped the lady of 
 the bank ; and Hannah Clark’s spaeing of the 
 rich marriage, and the blood that was to be 
 stepped over, would come, till I got ashamed of 
 thinking so superstitiously. But time went on 
 its course, and I went on mine — to Notting Hill 
 House on Saturday evenings, to Rhoda all the 
 rest of the week, and to the back rooms behind 
 the bank as sure as the Sunday twilight fell. 
 Those were the hours looked for and counted 
 on out of all the seven days — the time I lived 
 and thought for; the sayings, doings, and glances 
 that passed in them occupied me over ledger and 
 account book — at the fireside, where my sister 
 sat opposite mending stockings ; in Notting Hill 
 House, where Helen played and sang, and her 
 father talked of business and his growing friend- 
 ship with Esthers. 
 
 “We have great hopes of his becoming a 
 Christian,” said Helen, one evening, when we 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 101 
 
 happened to get on the subject of my manager. 
 •‘Don’t you think we may entertain something 
 of the kind ? He comes here regularly on Sun- 
 day evenings ; papa does not like to receive peo- 
 ple on Sundays, but Saturday is the Jewish Sab- 
 bath, and he has no other time, so we thought it 
 the best arrangement, and Mr. Esthers has quite 
 fallen into our ways ; he reads sermons beauti- 
 fully, and is certainly getting over his prejudices; 
 papa was quite struck with his borrowing the 
 proof catechism, and he has promised to read 
 through the Westminster Confession, and search 
 the Scriptures for himself.” 
 
 I thought of Madame’s observations as she 
 spoke ; the gentle, pious Helen was, like other 
 good people, easily deceived or flattered through 
 their favorite opinions, but I knew the manager, 
 well enough to be aware that his going to Not- 
 ting Hill House regularly on Sundays, reading 
 sermons beautifully, borrowing the proof cate- 
 chism, and giving them great hopes of him, 
 was not without substantial motives. Esthers 
 might get converted, but he was steering on a 
 different tack, and I thought it but fair and hon- 
 est to give my friends something of a warning. 
 
 ‘ 4 If Esthers has taken so strongly to religion, 
 it is not what I should expect of him ; his re- 
 gard for it, Christian or Jewish, \yas never con- 
 siderable; for all the time he spends in the syn- 
 agogue on Saturday, there would be plenty for 
 him to come here ; in short, Miss Forbes, it may 
 not be charitable, but I can’t help suspecting 
 Esthers’ seriousness ; he is cunning by nature, 
 and may have some motive for pleasing you and 
 your papa.” 
 
 The last of my words were not well chosen ; 
 they smote on Helen’s pride : the serious young 
 lady had some, though of a quiet, unobtrusive 
 kind. 
 
 “I should be sorry, Mr. La Touche, to pass 
 such a judgment on one who appears to be seek- 
 ing for truth. Mr. Esthers has shown himself 
 very friendly to papa in the way of business, 
 very sensible and well inclined in his conversa- 
 tion with us ; he may be cunning, as you say, 
 for of course you know him best, but it is not 
 permitted for us to search into motives which 
 have not been shown ; and if we can be the 
 humble instruments of directing him to the true 
 light, it is an opportunity which no Christian 
 should lose,” and Helen looked at me in the ad- 
 monishing manner with which she used to look 
 at Charles Barry. 
 
 I did not venture any farther remonstrance ; 
 Esthers had made his footing good; I had noth- 
 ing tangible to allege against him to father or 
 daughter ; there was evidently a change in the 
 mind of the latter since she thought it unchar- 
 itable and very wrong, but did not like the 
 manager. Yet it was Helen’s pious prejudices, 
 her philanthropy, perhaps her spiritual pride, 
 that were enlisted, and not her fancy or her 
 feelings. Some farther attempts at putting the 
 Forbes’ on their guard, which I made with 
 equally small success, satisfied me that I might 
 be misunderstood, and probably disliked for my 
 
 pains. But nothing could be done in the way 
 of moving Esthers out of their good graces. As 
 for him, he neither blazoned his triumph nor 
 made a secret of the intimacy. Having always 
 given me to understand that he was an old and 
 familiar acquaintance of the family, he spoke 
 of them now as he had ever done : there was 
 the same smirk at the mention of Helen, the 
 same friendly knowingness regarding her father 
 — in short, Mr. Esthers was au fait in every 
 thing about them except my goings to Notting 
 Hill House, which he utterly ignored and passed 
 over as something which ought not to exist. 
 My visits to the back rooms in Broad Street 
 would have been more against his mind had 
 Esthers been aware of them. That was plain 
 to me, though I never could say how it became 
 so. He never spoke of Madame Palivez, even 
 in bqsiness matters, if it were possible to avoid 
 the subject. She rarely spoke of him, and never 
 expressly warned me against letting the man- 
 ager know of our private association ; but the 
 same instinct or perception by which I discov- 
 ered his wish to keep us strangers, also made 
 me aware of her anxiety to keep our friendship 
 a secret from the manager. Being loyal to her 
 and our singular compact, I took all possible 
 precautions not to be seen or heard tell of in 
 my Sunday goings, and rather acquiesced in 
 the favor Esthers had found at Notting Hill 
 House, as it took him so far out of the way. 
 
 * f 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 SALLY AGAIN. 
 
 The Sundays came and went, and my time 
 was reckoned by them, for their evenings took 
 me to Madame Palivez. Many a discussion we 
 had, many a long and friendly talk of things on 
 which our views happened to agree, and I 
 thought the number of them increased every 
 day. We were certainly becoming friends in 
 the best sense of that term ; her superior knowl- 
 edge — which had a range of arts and letters 
 wider than that of any mind with which mine 
 had ever come in contact — her large experience 
 of the world in business and society, her fine 
 perceptions, clear judgment, and native wit, 
 made Madame instructive and entertaining com- 
 pany for any young man with a brain. Mine 
 was given up to her ; even where our opinions 
 differed farthest, I felt my mind sliding away 
 into her views imperceptibly ; finding her argu- 
 ments not to be answered, I began to accept 
 them, however contrary to my early education 
 or my best convictions. An hour’s conversation 
 with Madame on any moral question sent me 
 home doubting every thing that I had believed 
 or hoped in, and every day made her appear to 
 be more in the right, and myself more her disci- 
 ple. I know now, and knew then, in my wiser 
 moments, which, indeed, were growing fewer, 
 that it was the man’s folly and not the man’s 
 reason on which her teaching had power. We 
 
102 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 were growing good friends ; she called me noth- 
 ing but Lucien : she told me passages of her 
 early travels, of her education, which had been 
 at a Greek convent on the shores of the Black 
 Sea — I think it was in the Crimea, though Ma- 
 dame never named the locality — and gave me 
 accounts of more than one formal proposal for 
 heart and hand made by Russian nobles and 
 Greek bankers. The disclosures were generally 
 by way of illustrating some phase of life or char- 
 acter of which we happened to converse. They 
 were always free and easy; Madame had no 
 special interest in any affair of the kind of which 
 I was permitted to hear ; she had told me I was 
 her first and only friend, and gradually the 
 foolish hope began to take possession of me that 
 I might be something more. 
 
 It was not the fashion of Mayfair or the 
 wealth of Broad Street that glittered in mj eyes 
 and dazzled them ; as I have already said, it was 
 the Avoman herself that led me captive. Apart 
 from her position and surroundings, Madame 
 Palivez would have been the same to my heart 
 and memory. In the midst of her luxurious* 
 apartments, with so maqy objects of art and taste 
 about her, so many evidences of princely fortune, 
 and the use and wont of it, I could imagine her 
 disencumbered of all, with no possession but her 
 knowledge, her talents, and her beauty, and my- 
 self as deeply devoted to her service as ever. 
 There were times Avhen I left her, smiling good- 
 night, Avith the firm clasp of her snoAvy hand still 
 tingling in my OAvn — when I paused in the silent 
 lamplit street, and wished from the depths of my 
 heart — or my folly — that some turn of Fortune’s 
 wheel might send the Palivez bank to what my 
 American friends used to call eternal smash, 
 that I might thereby have the chance of showing 
 its fair and proud lady hoAv truly I Avas her 
 servant. I could have said, in that case, what 
 could never be uttered while I Avas the English 
 clerk and she Avas the head of that great house ; 
 my pride, my spirit, my sense of all that was 
 honorable, made me lock up that secret in my 
 breast. Madame Palivez had chosen me for her 
 private friend, received me alone, talked Avith 
 me freely and familiarly, but never gave me the 
 slightest reason to imagine that she entertained 
 any warmer feeling. To one so clear, keen, and 
 not over-charitable in her judgment of men and 
 motives, would it be possible to show my heart 
 and not be suspected of a selfish design ? 
 
 That alone was sufficient to keep me silent 
 and discreet; I would not have incurred her 
 contempt for the world’s wealth, and she had 
 manifestly come to some conclusion in her own 
 mind regarding my inconstancy to Rosanna, for 
 she never returned to the subject, nor showed 
 any curiosity on the point of my second choice. 
 
 Perhaps it had slipped out of her mind with 
 bank affairs or some Aveighty considerations which 
 seemed- to be pressing on her as the year wore 
 toward Christmas. I observed her looking more 
 grave and preoccupied at times when I entered. 
 In the midst of our conversation she would fall 
 into a brown, or rather black study. Whatever 
 
 Avas the subject, it seemed to be a dark one, and 
 there were occasions when I thought, from her 
 look and manner, that she had something par- 
 ticular to say, which was ahvays put back and 
 never said. Could it be that Fortune had heard 
 my foolish prayers? Had things gone vitally 
 wrong Avith the bank, and was Madame getting 
 into difficulties? Every body Avho ought to 
 know, and whom I covertly examined — Mr. 
 Forbes, Watt Wilson, and other competent au- 
 thorities — assured me that the house of Palivez 
 was in a most prosperous condition. Madame 
 was the queen of business, and nothing could 
 exceed the safe and profitable conduct of her af- 
 fairs. Yet she looked unaccountably troubled, 
 and particularly so one Sunday evening toward 
 the end of December. It was a season that used 
 to come with sad and serious memories to my- 
 self at the Baltimore school and in my uncle’s 
 counting-house. They came to Rhoda still, and 
 to me, when I sat Avith her by our quiet fireside 
 on the outskirts of London, for at that period of 
 the year ruin had fallen on our old house in Ar- 
 magh through the yet unexplained disappear- 
 ance of our elder brother. Well, Madame had 
 been grave, thoughtful, and restless that even- 
 ing, and Avhen I rose to bid good-night, she said, 
 “Lucien, this day week will be Christmas Eve, 
 according to your Latin computation. I have 
 private reasons for retiring to my villa then. 
 Many a year has passed since I received any 
 one on that day, but I will receive you if you 
 come” — what a softened, confiding look there 
 was in her eyes! — “but remember, you may 
 not find me the best of company. There are 
 recollections that come to me with the anniver- 
 saries of family events, and make one think of 
 the Pandora’s box, with no hope at the bottom 
 of it.” 
 
 “You are always the best of company, Ma- 
 dame, and I’ll come if you allow me.” I would 
 have said more, but she stopped me with, 
 “ Come, then, my flattering friend ; but I have 
 Avarned you, and you won’t be surprised if I am 
 not quite myself next Sunday. I know you have 
 sense enough for that, Lucien and Madame 
 dismissed me with a kind but hasty good-night. 
 
 The hour was earlier than usual ; to say the' 
 truth, my visits to Broad Street were generally 
 prolonged late enough, but it was not yet eleven 
 by the clock. The night was clear and frosty, 
 and I took a sort of circuit home by way of 
 thinking over what had passed in the back 
 rooms, and composing my own mind. What 
 Avere the family events she had to. recollect at 
 the very same season of the year which brought 
 such strange and sad remembrances to myself 
 and sister ? They must have been of a similar 
 character, if not still darker and more fearful 
 than our own. There were shadows of strange 
 terror passing over her face Avhen she spoke of 
 them, and nobody had been received on their 
 anniversaries for many a .year. I was thinking 
 the matter over, and pacing slowly through 
 Berkeley Square. Its aristocratic quiet made it 
 a suitable place for such a study. There were 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 103 
 
 few lights in the shut-up houses of the absent 
 fashionables who then resided there. There 
 was nobody to be seen or heard but the watch- 
 men, who still went their rounds and called the 
 hour, when a shrill, sharp voice, keeping up a 
 continuous fire of quarrelsome discourse, came 
 along the Square behind me, and, turning under 
 the nearest lamp, I recognized in a tired-looking, 
 battered group, Sally Joyce, with Jeremy, and 
 Mrs. Barry. My once intended sister-in-law 
 was scolding with more than common ardor. 
 They had been out for the day’s pleasure, missed 
 the early returning boats, had to wait for the 
 latest, got into a quarrel with the hackney- 
 coachman who was driving them home, alighted 
 in consequence, and were now walking the rest 
 of the distance. I learned all that from Sally’s 
 lecture. She was explicit on the facts, and also 
 on their having run to their last penny, and 
 never being able to get on in this fashion, if 
 those that had a right did not do something for 
 them ; but nobody need think she would be 
 boxed off into the country. As Miss Joyce 
 came nearer, I discovered what seemed to be a 
 new feature of her practice. She had had re- 
 course to something stronger than tea by way 
 of supporting her spirits under the afflictions of 
 the evening. Was the constitutionally trouble- 
 some lady following her mother’s example, as 
 chronicled by Madame Palivez ? But they were 
 coming nearer. I did not wish to meet, yet 
 there was no being able to avoid them without 
 appearing to do so, which was beneath my dig- 
 nity, so I walked quietly on in hopes that they 
 would have the sense to pass me in silence. I 
 was already recognized by the lamplight. I saw 
 Hosanna shrinking back, exactly as she had done 
 by my side at the sight of Charles Barry. Jere- 
 my also lingered behind; but the elder sister, 
 as if seized by a sudden inspiration for mischief, 
 dashed right in front of me, crying, “ Good- 
 evening to you, Mr. La Touche. You are late 
 going home on a Sunday evening, and out of 
 your way, too ; but I suppose you have been in 
 Curzo'n Street, though the house is kept closed 
 and dark, to make people believe she is out of 
 town.” The words made me start back. Was 
 Sally Joyce, then, aware of my secret visits to 
 Madame Palivez ? Well, I knew it was nothing 
 but the stimulus she had taken that made her 
 betray that knowledge so openly. It had over- 
 come the native cunning of Esthers’ half-sister, 
 and given the loose rein to all her love of med- 
 dling and importance. “Ha, ha!” she con- 
 tinued, with a malicious giggle, “ you see I 
 know it all. She wants to get me boxed off to 
 the country, but I won’t go. I’ll stay in London, 
 and in Mayfair — fashionable society is necessary 
 to my health and spirits. I won’t smother my- 
 self in a dull corner for her, and the secrets she 
 wants kept. Let her pay for the keeping of 
 them, I say; she is rich. What does she mean, 
 I’d like to know, putting us off with that paltry 
 annuity ? Tell her I can’t live on it. I must 
 get something decent, or I’ll let the world hear 
 what I know about her.” 
 
 “ Allow me to pass, Miss Joyce. I wish to 
 have no conversation with you, or any of your 
 family.” 
 
 “Oh, you don’t!” — and she stepped more 
 directly before me — “ you have got too grand for 
 us since she took you in hand ; but you needn’t 
 think you are going to get her and her bank. It 
 is only just to pass the time she minds you at all ; 
 but tell her what I said.” 
 
 “ I will tell her nothing of the kind,” and I 
 stepped quickly by; but Sally had seized the 
 skirt of my coat, and, thrusting forward her 
 face with an indescribable grin of insane malice, 
 she said, in a hissing whisper, ‘ 1 Tell her to rec- 
 ollect Christmas Eve, and what happened on it 
 in Dublin.” 
 
 I disengaged myself with a sudden spring, 
 darted across the Square, and left her calling to 
 Jeremy and Rosanna to come along, for it was 
 not respectable to be so late out. 
 
 All the way home, the words hissed out be- 
 tween Sally’s teeth sounded in my ears, and 
 shook my mind with a tempest of thoughts : 
 “Tell her to recollect Christmas Eve, and 
 what happened on it in Dublin.” The look 
 with which they were spoken was insane as well 
 as malicious ; yet there must have been a terri- 
 ble meaning in them. They had to do with 
 the family events which made Madame retire to 
 her villa, and receive no one for so many years 
 except myself, whom she had partly asked to 
 come. Had Esthers made a half discovery, or 
 had Sally’s own crazed mind, in its excitement, 
 hit on the subject of my secret visits, though 
 not on their true localities ? There were en- 
 deavors being made to get her out of London. I 
 remembered the allusion to a well-managed pri- 
 vate asylum. There must be — there were mo- 
 tives for such an anxiety to put her out of the 
 wa/5 it was not all madness nor malice. Sally 
 knew more than was safe for the lady of the 
 bank ; but how could I mention the subject to 
 Madame ? Yet it was a friend’s part to warn 
 her against Sally’s tongue ; it could speak out to 
 others under the same influence. But Madame 
 had not chosen to trust me even with the exist- 
 ence of her secret. She had allowed me to 
 know that her life had dark places — that her 
 memory had some heavy burden, and her days 
 some clouds of fear ; but she had studiously en- 
 deavored to keep me in the dark with regard to 
 her interest in the Joyces. It was only for their 
 own sakes that she took any notice of their 
 family concerns ; and might not I be considered 
 prying or meddling if I appeared to know the 
 contrary? might I not get mixed up and set 
 down with the Joyces by entering on the subject 
 at all ? Then came the stranger, blacker 
 thoughts, not to be put in any form of words, 
 but they regarded my family’s ruin and the 
 long-lost Raymond. “ Tell her to recollect 
 Christmas Eve, and what happened in Dublin ;” 
 the time was a few days later than his disap- 
 pearance eighteen years ago. How long had 
 Madame received nobody, and retired to her 
 most private retreat on Christmas Eve ? The 
 
104 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 idea was not to be entertained ; I shook it oil 
 as one awakening shakes off nightmare, and 
 sped home to No. 9. But all night long the far 
 past time of trouble was mingling with the 
 scenes and people of the present, inexplicably 
 and impossibly, as things blend in dreams. We 
 were all at home again in our old house at 
 Armagh — father, mother, and young sisters so 
 long dead and gone, and Miss Livy, whom I had 
 laid down in the Hammersmith church-yard — all 
 waiting for Raymond’s home-coming that Sun- 
 day night ; and the Palivez bank in Broad 
 Street had somehow got next door. I was in 
 its splendid back rooms; Madame was making 
 the compact with me, but Mr. Forbes and Mel- 
 rose Morton were witnesses ; and Sally Joyce 
 looked in through the myrtles and orange-trees 
 of the conservatory with the yery same look she 
 had given me in Berkeley Square, and some- 
 body came through the shrubs behind her, 
 whom I knew to be my brother Raymond. 
 
 All the week I puzzled myself whether I 
 should tell Madame of Sally’s talk or not. 
 Could I have mentioned the matter to Rhoda, 
 there might have been help in her sound sense 
 and honest counsel ; but my sister had a sort of 
 superstition against Madame Palivez. It could 
 be nothing else, for she had no knowledge of 
 all that surprised and puzzled me about the lady ; 
 but Rhoda had dreamt about her brother being 
 taken away, and for no good. She had wished 
 I was going any where else, and warned me 
 against being wanted to do any tiling that was 
 not right. If I mentioned the interview with 
 Sally, her suspicions would take the shape my 
 own thoughts had taken ; Rhoda would come at 
 once to conclusions which, besides being improb- 
 able, were intolerable to my mind. My own 
 secret would be in danger of coming out ; I 
 could not trust even my sister with it, much less 
 with that which concerned Madame. However 
 the latter had chosen to conceal her transac- 
 tions with the Joyces from me, it was neither 
 loyal nor honest to withhold the warning. 
 How best to avoid the appearance of ferreting 
 out was the difficulty, chiefly because I would 
 have given the world, had it been mine, to find 
 the very blackest bottom of the secret — for 
 black I knew it must be — and there seemed a 
 chance of coming to it now ; so, after long de- 
 liberation, .1 resolved to let things take their 
 course, and find some fitting opportunity and 
 suitable manner of intimating the fact. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 A NIGHT OP MYSTERY. 
 
 On Sunday night, according to appointment, 
 I made my way to the villa, through a dull, 
 misty evening, breezeless, and heavy with 
 threatening rain ; it was some time after dark, 
 my sister and Hannah Clark had gone to 
 chapel ; I saw the lights in Notting Hill House 
 as I passed by the path up the stream ; Est- 
 
 hers was there, but could learn nothing of my 
 goings through the outer darkness, and it was 
 the same day of the year in which I sat in the 
 Greek coffee-house and heard Watt Wilson re- 
 late the strange tale of my family to him. 
 Now I was going to visit his lady-superior, the 
 heiress of all the Palivez, in the solemn retire- 
 ment of her villa, to which the remembrance of 
 family events made her retreat on Christmas 
 Eve. What a dreary and desolate hermitage 
 the place looked when I reached it in the 
 midst of the wintry woodland ! How different 
 from its summer aspect was the solitary foreign- 
 looking house, on which the full moon now 
 shone out with a red and lurid light through 
 the heavy mist, standing there in the midst of 
 the damp gray hollow, overshadowed by leaf- 
 less trees and sombre evergreens, its roses and 
 jessamine gone, its windows shut up so close 
 that no light of fire or candle was to be seen, 
 and not a sound in or about it but a low hol- 
 low moan of waking winds, or far-off waters in 
 the heart of the old park ! I tried my key, and 
 the garden gate opened, as the door in the 
 church-yard wall had done ; but some signal of 
 my coming was given within — a bell seemed to 
 tinkle, then the door was softly opened, old 
 Marco appeared with a lantern in his hand, 
 and in accustomed silence conducted me to 
 the upper room, where I found her sitting at 
 my last visit in that sweet summer evening. 
 She sat there now, but the summer was gone 
 from it and from her, and I started in amaze- 
 ment to see the whole apartment hung with 
 deep black cloth, which covered Walls and furni- 
 ture, in the fashion of ancient mourning, and 
 Madame herself in a robe of the same sombre 
 hue, without relief or ornament, her long hair 
 falling loose on her shoulders, and her face so 
 strangely altered that years of watching or of 
 sorrow seemed to have passed over it since I 
 saw it last. It might have been the unusual 
 dress, the surrounding black, and the peculiar 
 light, which shone faintly and fitfully from a 
 lamp in the form of those which burned in 
 ancient sepulchres ; but the effect was extra- 
 ordinary. I should have known her under any 
 circumstances, yet never could have believed 
 that woman would alter so far. 
 
 “ Welcome, my friend,” she said, kindly, but 
 there was no smile ; “you are surprised to see 
 me and my house in mourning? they have 
 been so, for many a year upon this day ; as I 
 told you, it is an anniversary which must re- 
 turn ; why can not such days be blotted out and 
 erased from the calendar ? Perhaps because 
 all the days would go in that case, for most 
 people have got some of the kind. You looked 
 frightened, Lucien ; does a mass of black and 
 a faint light make me and my place so strange 
 to you ? No, I am aware it does not ; you 
 were only surprised, not prepared, perhaps ; but 
 sit down ; you are the first that ever shared 
 my mourning ; that early example of Job’s 
 friends might keep one from sharing the like, if 
 it were not often enough repeated in the world.” 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 105 
 
 I acknowledged my surprise, and tried to 
 keep clear of seeming curious about -the family 
 events. She passed at once from the subject 
 to that of mourning in general. What a 
 knowledge she had of the various forms and 
 ceremonies by which the tribes of men express 
 their woe in different climes and ages ! Her 
 own robe was made after the fashion of the 
 mourning mantle which the Spartan mothers 
 put on when their sons returned from a lost bat- 
 tle, and Demosthenes assumed when the Athe- 
 nians would not go to war with Philip of Mace- 
 don. So Madame told me, and I believed it, 
 and all our talk was of sombre subjects. Din- 
 ner was served in another room as darkly 
 draped ; all the table furnishings were ebony, 
 and the dishes were those of the strict Greek 
 Lent, “as pious old-fashioned people keep it 
 in Moscow and Kioff,” said Madame, “as we 
 Greeks of the Byzantine strain have been ac- 
 customed to keep it in days of mourning ever 
 since the Eastern Church was founded.” 
 
 She was not melancholy or out of spirits 
 that evening, but grave and serious as the 
 Forbes’ themselves could be ; but her wider 
 range of thought, larger knowledge, and more 
 free and fearless nature allowed no shadow of 
 dullness to fall upon our converse. We talked 
 gravely and familiarly. She told me a good 
 deal about old Greek and Tartar customs as 
 they meet and mingle in Eastern Russia, the 
 ancient seat of her family; about towers and 
 castles there, unknown to my historical read- 
 ing ; about convents, churches, and sepulchres, 
 where the Tartar prince and the Greek mer- 
 chant seem to have equal rights and distinc- 
 tions before and since the Muscovite was lord 
 in that quarter, but never a word did she say 
 regarding the anniversary or the cause of its 
 heavy mourning. The hours always flew 
 quickly in her company. I had been watch- 
 ing for an opportunity to introduce the subject 
 of Sally Joyce, but none being found, it al- 
 most slipped out of my memory in the mul- 
 tiplicity of our topics. I think the last had 
 been something about Ivan the Terrible and his 
 conquest of Kazan — it was a theme she often 
 happened on, when all at once Madame sub- 
 sided into silent thought, which I did not ven- 
 ture to disturb till she lifted her eyes which 
 had been resting on the black carpet, and said, 
 “Lucien, whether is it better to banish from 
 one’s mind and sight all traces of a great ir- 
 recoverable calamity, or to keep some solemn 
 memorial and commemoration of it by way of 
 tribute, paid for all tbe rest of one’s days?” 
 
 “I can not tell, Madame; but it seems to 
 me that what Lady Macbeth said was wise : 
 ‘things without remedy should be without re- 
 gard.’ ” 
 
 “Yes ; but she could not act upon the wis- 
 dom — witness the sleep-walking and the washing 
 of her hands. Shakspeare showed himself a 
 great poet there ; memory or conscience — they 
 are the same thing, my friend, in spite of mor- 
 alists and metaphysicians — will have its own : 
 
 there is no real forgetting short ©f that blessed 
 Lethe in which my ancestors believed ; sacrifices 
 must be offered to the dead of men and of days, 
 or they will haunt us. Did you never find that 
 out regarding the losses or misfortunes of your 
 own life ? Is it not needful to take them into 
 consideration at times, to give them certain 
 hours set apart to their service, and, as it were, 
 worship from the better present, that so they 
 may not intrude their memory into it, and take 
 up too much space in the world within ?” 
 
 “ My experience is not sufficient to say cor- 
 rectly ; it may be the case in matters like those 
 of which Lady Macbeth spoke.” 
 
 “It is,” said Madame, decidedly, like one 
 speaking out of her own heart ; “and, Lucien, 
 that is why I keep this mourning day, which 
 you have come to share with me, my first — my 
 only friend!” How earnestly and kindly she 
 looked at me ; and I could do nothing but an- 
 swer the look, saying by that glance how happy 
 — how honored her words made me ; how will- 
 ing I was to- serve and assist her, if possible ; 
 how resolute to keep her secret, no matter what 
 was its nature, if she would but take me into 
 her confidence ; and then came the recollection 
 of the warning I had to give her ; now was the 
 time to prove my value as a friend, the 'only 
 opportunity the evening offered. “If you think 
 me such” — I could scarcely get the words out — 
 “you will not misunderstand my motive for 
 telling you what I have been trying to speak 
 of all this evening : it is scarcely worth talking 
 of, either, but it is right that you should know 
 it.” Her eye was upon me ; it had turned to 
 keen, cold scrutiny now ; but I went on in the 
 strength of my own honest purpose — “ I met 
 Sally Joyce by accident last Sunday night, when 
 crossing Berkeley Square ; she was returning 
 with her brother and sister from some excursion, 
 was highly excited, and, I think, had got some 
 spirits. I did not wish to speak to her, but she 
 stopped me and talked — mere nonsense, of 
 course — but in a foolish, threatening manner, 
 regarding you.” - 
 
 “What did she say, Lucien? Tell me the 
 very words. I ask you for friendship — for hon- 
 or’s sake ; for the league and compact you made 
 with me.” 
 
 I would have told or done any thing on the 
 adjuration, and, though it was a hard and un- 
 gracious task, I told her, word for word, all 
 that had passed between Sally and me. Her 
 face never altered from the cold, calm compo- 
 sure it had assumed ; but as I related the last 
 about Christmas Eve, and what happened in 
 Dublin, Madame’s eyes slowly closed, and she 
 leant back in her chair with fixed features and 
 clasped hands. 
 
 “Sally said true, Lucien, as madness and 
 malice often do, and both are troubling her.” 
 How coldly and quietly she spoke ; but her eyes 
 were still closed. “ There is no danger of me 
 forgetting the place and the time; it is the worst 
 of my black destiny that such a creature should 
 have guessed it. Lucien, my friend, the only 
 
106 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 man not a Palivez I ever had confidence or trust 
 in, can you not help me to get this woman out 
 of my way ?” • 
 
 “ I’ll do any thing that is possible for man to 
 help you, Madame.” She had opened her eyes 
 now, and there was something like tears in them ; 
 and all my sister’s warnings, all my own resolu- 
 tions made and broken so long ago regarding 
 that woman, all the omens and suspicions that 
 ever crossed me were scattered to the winds. 
 She could have bound me to any service — any 
 sin at that moment. 
 
 “I think you would, Lucien ; but there is 
 only one effectual way, and I can’t ask you to 
 do it.” 
 
 “Tell me what it is, Madame; I don’t ask 
 you what Sally knows. If you thought me 
 worthy of the confidence, no doubt you would 
 give it, but perhaps lam not, or you may think 
 so ; only tell me what is the way Sally can be 
 managed — what you wish me to do, in short, 
 and I will do it.” 
 
 “No, Lucien, I will not have- your hands 
 dyed for me — that is the one effectual way I 
 spoke of; you start back, my friend; well, it is 
 natural you should ; if you knew all, you wpuld 
 not come here, I suppose.” 
 
 “I would, Madame, if you allowed me. No 
 matter what there is to know, whatever the all 
 may be, I hold it my heaviest misfortune that 
 you think so poorly of me as to keep your troub- 
 les — so heavy and dark, I know they must be — • 
 from me, xvhom, nevertheless, you have called 
 your friend.” 
 
 “Ah, Lucien !” — she extended her hand, and 
 I clasped it ; but how deathly cold the fingers 
 had grown! — “ it is the misfortune of the self- 
 contained, self-reliant life which I and all the 
 Palivezi for many a generation have led, that it 
 makes one a trustless stranger with all mankind. 
 We have been accustomed to employ and pay 
 them, to get their service, to preserve their re- 
 spect, to maintain our superiority of power and 
 place, by keeping our own counsel and covering 
 our calamities ; but we have learned to trust in 
 no hand, no heart but our own ; and so it hap- 
 pens that such minds never can regard others — 
 however noble, however true — as worthy to be 
 reckoned with themselves. The honor, the 
 friendship, scarce as such things are, may come 
 within our reach, and be passed by — seen, but 
 not believed in ; for long doubting makes faith 
 impossible, and so they are as the weed in the 
 desert, which sees not when good comes (that 
 old book has powerful passages in it, Lucien) ; 
 that is the case with me. I have seen honor, 
 loyalty, truth in your face — discretion, too — and 
 we have had something like friendship ; but I 
 can not yet trust you with every thing, and yet 
 you are the only living man I would trust so 
 far. Believe me, help me if you can ; but let 
 me know you better, and I will tell you all.” 
 
 “ Madame, I ask for no confidence a moment 
 sooner than you choose to give it. If you never 
 think proper to do so, I will be equally proud 
 and happy to risk evejy thing in your service.” 
 
 She said nothing, but clasped my hand ; sat 
 thoughtful for a minute or two, looking down 
 on the black carpet, and then lifted her eyes 
 with, 
 
 “Lucien, my mind is made up to take no 
 notice of the woman — Sally Joyce, I mean. 
 She has no proof, no actual knowledge; any 
 compliance with her demands would seem like 
 a bribe, make her imagine herself worth pur- 
 chasing, and therefore become more trouble- 
 some.” 
 
 “ She is Esthers’ half-sister,” said I; “can 
 he not manage her ?” 
 
 “He says he can not,” said Madame; “but 
 we must leave him out of the question. Should 
 Sally attempt to make any farther disclosures to 
 you, have the goodness not to listen to them. 
 I will take no measures either of repression or 
 conciliation. Let her go on. She has got into 
 her mother’s habits, it seems ; it will bring her 
 to the terminus poor Esther reached — and the 
 sooner the better, I must say, for all parties.” 
 
 I knew she was speaking of a lunatic asylum, 
 and I thought of the ragged man and his long 
 knife. Had Madame a depot of people put 
 away in that fashion ? Was it the destination 
 of friends as well as servants ? I was ashamed 
 of the thought, and yet it crossed me while she 
 changed the subject suddenly, as was her wont, 
 by taking from the nearest table a magnificently 
 illuminated manuscript of the ancient Greek 
 Church liturgy — written, as she said, before 
 daubs were considered, the holiest things — and 
 turned it over with many a curious and schol- 
 arly comment on the figures and devices pre- 
 sented. They were clear and strong illustx-a- 
 tions of that early Christian thought or fancy 
 which found its evil agencies in the dethroned 
 gods, and formed its infernal kingdom out of the 
 classic Olympus. 
 
 “You see from whence the demons of the 
 Middle Ages came,” said Madame. ‘ ‘ They were 
 a legacy left to the Goths by the schools of An- 
 tioch and Alexandria. Out of Gothic dark- 
 ness they came still blacker into monkish lore, 
 by which they were transmitted to modern the- 
 ology. In the time of this manuscript — I think 
 it belongs to the, sixth century — the Byzantine 
 Empire had its ancient gods yet in classic trim, 
 though transferred to Tartarus. Pluto and Pan, 
 Venus and Apollo, are here each with their at- 
 tributes and legends as accredited in the temples 
 that were still standing at that period, though 
 forsaken or turned to Christian uses. Here, 
 too, are the Furies, who frightened all unlucky 
 sinners from Orestes downward ; and here is 
 their mistress, Hecate, the infernal Nemesis — 
 the moon, in her malignant aspects, blasting 
 the bodies and minds of men with pestilence 
 or madness.” 
 
 As she spoke, I became aware of a slight 
 smoke of a peculiar odor which seemed to come 
 from below and fill the room, accompanied by 
 a monotonous and most melancholy sound, like 
 a low, continuous wail, which had, nevertheless, 
 something of articulate speech. 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “It is only old Marco and Zoe burning in- 
 cense and chanting psalms ; they always do so 
 on this particular night, from eleven to twelve.” 
 I glanced up at the time-piece — it was the 
 same she had in Broad Street — but the beauti- 
 ful side of the figure was covered with black 
 
 drapery, and the skeleton’s hand was pointing 
 to some minutes after eleven. It was time to 
 say good-night, and I rose, but she laid her 
 hand on my arm — 
 
 “ Stay with me, Lucien, till after midnight. 
 I have spent this hour alone for many a year, 
 
 107 
 
 but, now that you are with me, do not go till 
 after twelve.” 
 
 She spoke in a low, entreating tone, with 
 downcast eyes and a hand that clung to mine. 
 It was strange to see the head of the Palivez 
 bank, the politic and proud t lady of Old Broad 
 
 Street and Mayfair, so subdued and weighed 
 down by the influence of some fearful memory 
 which her wealth and wisdom had no power to 
 strive with. But she clung to me in the hour 
 of weakness and terror ; and but half trusted as 
 I wa9* my heart swelled with pride and hope. 
 
108 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 The terrible mystery brought us nearer in spite 
 of fortune — made my friendship and service 
 necessary to the solitary woman, and gave them 
 a value above those of any Russian prince or 
 corresponding banker. 
 
 ‘I’ll stay till corning — till any time you 
 like, Madame.” 
 
 “No, no,” she said, “only till after twelve. 
 It is a foolish thing to be so afraid of sitting 
 alone through the hour which I have seen so 
 often come and go; but I am getting weak. 
 Perhaps the shadow of the coming fate falls 
 upon me.” The last words Avere uttered in a 
 sort of whisper, as if to herself ; and still more 
 drearily came the wailing chant from beloAV, 
 and thicker grew the odorous smoke. “It is 
 the old exorcive rites of our Greek Church 
 they are celebrating. Marco and Zoe are the 
 last confidential servants of the Palivezi : born 
 in our house, and bound to us, not by vassalage, 
 but by true allegiance, Avhich descended through 
 their generations, they served us from father to 
 son. I am the last of my family, and they are 
 the last that will serve me in this manner. If 
 their humble faith were mine, Avould it be bet- 
 ter in this hour? But one can not alter one’s 
 self, and become a child, after having inquired 
 and thought.” 
 
 She looked at the time-piece, rose, and retired 
 to the farther corner of the room ; there she 
 sat down in a low seat, leant her head upon her 
 hands till the long hair fell over and hid her 
 face from me. Whatever were her thoughts, 
 she evidently AA'ished to keep them to herself ; 
 the thickening smoke and the wailing chant 
 Avent on, and I sat silently waiting to be of 
 some use — Avishing to be of some, Avith a pity I 
 had never felt for Madame Palivez before — till 
 the time-piece struck tAvelve, Avhen the chant 
 suddenly ceased, the smoke gradually grew 
 fainter, and Madame rose from the Ioav seat, 
 looking white as marble, but composed, and all 
 herself again. 
 
 “ I will give you no thanks for sitting with 
 me, Lucien,” she said; “you are my friend ; 
 if I had not thought so, you should not have 
 borne me company in such an hour. It is past ; 
 and you will do me another service — I know 
 you Avill, and therefore do not ask — it is only 
 not to mention the fact to me or any one else.” 
 
 “Whatever passes betAveen you and I, Ma- 
 dame, I hold myself bound in honor and in 
 friendship to keep secret from all the Avorld ; 
 and in your presence 1 Avill speak only of Avhat 
 you please to hear.” 
 
 “I believe that, Lucien, for you have proved 
 it ; but, like many a pious lady, I have more 
 faith in practice, if I could trust thoroughly. 
 But good-night,” she said, hastily, as old Marco, 
 followed by a Avoman not less erect, though 
 much more Avrinkled than himself, stepped into 
 the room with an Eastern reverence and an 
 earnest look at their mistress, as if to see that 
 the Avatch was well over. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 LUCIEN’s VISITS TO MADAME PALIVEZ AEE 
 AVATCHED. 
 
 When I left Madame Palivez some minutes 
 after twelve on Christmas morning, my thoughts 
 of her had undergone a remarkable change. I 
 loved the woman, better, it may be, than I had 
 ever done. I had a dark impression of mystery 
 and sin hanging about her and her house which 
 I could not get rid of, which a thousand evi- 
 dences confirmed ; but I felt that, Avhatever the 
 secret might be, she was less guilty than unfor- 
 tunate. Some great and heavy sorrotv, some 
 unexplained calamity had fallen upon her days; 
 judging from the burned incense and the chant- 
 ed psalms, there seemed something weird and 
 unearthly in it ; the old exorcive rites of the 
 Greek Church were celebrated by her confiden- 
 tial servants at the midnight hour, though not 
 belieA'ed in by their mistress ; yet the sight of 
 her seated so low in the corner, her head bowed 
 and her long hair covering her face, recurred to 
 my mind as the saddest picture of unexplained, 
 unuttered misery I had eA r er imagined. Yes, 
 she Avas unfortunate — unhappy beyond my 
 guessing ; and I was her friend, asked to watch 
 Avith her through that hour of terrible commem- 
 oration ; not trusted, indeed, with her secret — it 
 Avas too hard for the proud heart to tell me yet. 
 Had she not clearly explained the nature and 
 habits of minds like her own ? I was her friend, 
 nevertheless; the lady of the bank and the poor 
 English clerk had grounds on which they could 
 meet as equals, and I had the man’s part to do 
 of support, if not protection. There was joy in 
 the thought, and yet all was wrong about her, 
 and me for her sake. I knew it ; though the 
 mystery had not been explained, it was too black 
 for good or Avell-doing ever to consort with it ; 
 and there Avas Sally Joyce, my sister’s impres- 
 sions, my aunt’s dying words, and my own ex- 
 perience in the background. 
 
 I was walking rather slowly through the Park 
 with these thoughts. There had been rain, 
 which cleared aAvay the mist; the moon was 
 shining, the Avind was so low that it scarcely 
 moved the bare boughs, but a rustling among 
 the underwood which skirted my path, a crisp- 
 ing of the dry^leaves which still lay there in 
 heaps, had made me pause and look round more 
 than once, with the thought that somebody Avas 
 keeping in the shade and dogging me ; but I 
 could see nothing, and concluded it Avas fancy, 
 till about half Avay to the stream, at a spot where 
 the path wound abruptly and the underwood grew 
 thickest, a chance look showed me something 
 white on which the moonlight glistened ; at an- 
 other glance I saw that there Avas a face looking 
 out at me, though intended to be hidden ; it was 
 but a glimpse, for the whiteness moved away, 
 but I knew it to be that of Hannah Clark. 
 My first feeling was one of positive' terror ; the 
 thing Avas so inexplicable, so improbable, but it 
 was no mistake ; and my next impulse Avas to 
 find out Avhat the deaf and dumb girl could be 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 109 
 
 doing there at such an hour. At one bound I 
 darted into the heart of the thicket, calling her 
 by name, till I recollected what a useless pursuit 
 it was. I could see nobody, but my ear caught 
 a sound of crisping leaves and breaking boughs 
 which could not be the wind. I followed it as 
 quickly as I could, peering and searching on all 
 sides ; the Park was wild and overgrown in that 
 direction ; I stumbled into holes, got caught by 
 the brambles, lost tl*e sound, which seemed to die 
 away in the distance, and found that I was los- 
 ing my way. To make matters worse, a cloud 
 had come over the moon ; the night was not 
 exactly pitch dark, but something very near it ; 
 I went astray two or three times before I fairly 
 recovered my way home, without seeing sign or 
 trace of Hannah or any living creature, and it 
 was half past one by our house clock when I 
 reached No. 9. My sister did not sit up for me 
 now, as I carried a latch-key. All the house 
 was silent. Hannah could not have come home 
 before me, for how would she get admission? 
 but, to make sure of her absence, I stepped qui- 
 etly up to the room where she was accustomed 
 to sleep. The door was closed, but nobody 
 locked their doors in No. 9 ; I softly lifted the 
 latch and looked in with my candle. Hannah 
 was there in bed and fast asleep, I thought at 
 first, but a second glance convinced me that the 
 dumb girl was making believe to be so, and very 
 unpleasantly astonished I closed the door and 
 retired, resolving to investigate the business Avith 
 Ehoda as soon as possible. 
 
 Next morning Hannah was up and about 
 her household work as if nothing particular 
 had happened overnight; but she made great 
 efforts to look simple and unconscious when 
 my eye chanced to light upon her, and I took 
 the opportunity of our sitting together at break- 
 fast to inform Ehoda of my vision in the 
 Park. 
 
 “Goodness be about us, what could she be 
 doing there? Wasn’t it the wonderful place for 
 her in the dead of the night!” and my sister 
 crossed herself with more than usual piety. 
 
 “ I don’t know what she was doing, Ehoda, 
 but there she was, and must have got home be- 
 fore me ; but I can’t imagine how she got out 
 or in without your knoAvledge.” 
 
 “ Lucien,” said my sister, after a minute or 
 two of frightened thought, “you’ll be angry with 
 me, maybe, for not telling you sooner ; but I 
 knew you ne\ r er liked Hannah, on account of 
 her noisy kind of talk, all the poor soul could 
 do in the way of talking ; isn’t she quit it en- 
 tirely, and got mighty quiet of late ?” 
 
 “But what had you to tell me about her, 
 Ehoda ?” 
 
 “Well, Lucien, it Avas just this: Hannah has 
 been in the way of going out and coming in 
 again in a manner I can’t understand. I have 
 missed her by day, and by night too, out of the 
 house and out of her bed ; there is nobody about 
 this place has a latch-key but yourself — anyhow, 
 I never would think of giving her one ; but she 
 gets out, Lucien, and she gets in at all hours, 
 
 | and how she does it, or where she goes to, I 
 can’t make out.” 
 
 “But why did you not watch her, Ehoda?” 
 “I tried it, but could not get it done; if it 
 was night, sleep would come on me ; if it was 
 day, something would happen to take me up 
 stairs, and there she would be in the kitchen 
 when I came back ; goodness knows, Lucien, I 
 don’t know Avhat to think of it ; and sometimes, 
 putting all the queer things that has happened 
 in our house together, and old Irish stories — 
 superstitions, maybe, you’ll call them — I take a 
 notion that she might be going Avith the fairies, 
 only I never heard that they come about Lon- 
 don.” 
 
 “No, Ehoda, I don’t think they do, whateA'er 
 worse things may come.” 
 
 “ In course you’re laughing at me,” said Eho- 
 da, “ but such things did happen in Ireland ; 
 there was Nelly Flince, that never could be 
 kept in the house, summer or winter, and came 
 back Avith a neAv green swash on Hallow EA'e. 
 Mind, I don’t say Hannah is going the same 
 way ; it might be after worse, as you say ; she is 
 active and crafty ; I never could come up to her 
 in some things.” 
 
 “Did you ask her about it?” 
 
 “I did, Lucien, many a time, and scolded 
 her too — the Lord forgive me, for she is deaf 
 and dumb — but I never could get her to OAvn 
 that she had been out at all, much less hoAv she 
 managed it ; but, Lucien, it is out she goes, and 
 not disappearing like Allie Connor — howsoever, 
 you don’t mind her ; she died in Armagh before 
 \^e left it — but, as I was saying, it’s out Hannah 
 goes, for I ha\’e heard the door creak onaccount- 
 able like, and the next minute she was off.” 
 
 “ How long has the business been going on?” 
 “That’s the thing I was thinking of the other 
 day, Lucien. It is a good while since the very 
 beginning. I missed her first one evening just 
 after my aunt’s last sickness came on ; and you 
 mind what Mrs. Muncy told us that day we 
 came home from the Masons, about the gentle- 
 man that had been asking for you and signing 
 to Hannah. She said it was Father Connolly ; 
 but Mrs. Muncy, when she saw the priest at the 
 time of my aunt’s funeral, told me it wasn’t him at 
 all, Lucien. I don’t knoAv what to think of it.” 
 “You should have told me sooner, Ehoda.” 
 
 “ So I should ; but I could not believe the 
 thing at first myself, it was so on accountable, 
 and come by slow degrees, you see ; she is get- 
 ting better or worse at it every day ; it Avas not 
 for loA r e of keeping a secret from you, Lucien, 
 but I knew you didn’t like Hannah from the 
 beginning. I Avas afraid to put you more 
 against her, poor orphan as she is, and you had 
 troubles enough of your own.” 
 
 “Yes, Ehoda, but this business might bring 
 more trouble to us both. Hannah’s goings out 
 in that hidden way can be for no good purpose ; 
 there is bad company enough- to be found so 
 near a great town — people far worse than your 
 Irish fairies, and poor Hannah is not qualified 
 for taking care of herself. I wish we had not 
 
110 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 brought her to our house ; but it was the only I 
 thing we could do at the time, and I think we 
 are bound to take care of her.” 
 
 “In course we are, Lucien; and I was just 
 thinking we are better off now, and I have got 
 that income ; couldn’t I spare as much out of it 
 as would pay for Hannah’s keeping with some 
 decent people in Ireland ? I wouldn’t give her 
 to nobody here. I could not trust one of them 
 to do right by the poor soul, that can’t speak for 
 herself — no, not the Masons, Lucien ; honest 
 and respectable as they are, they have all the 
 same hard faces and hard hearts. But there is 
 people in Ireland — not our cousin, mind! we 
 had enough of him and his upsetting wife ; but 
 Father Connolly would find somebody that 
 would take her and keep her far away from bad 
 company and bad notions, for I doubt there is 
 something of that kind dealing with her. She 
 was company for me once, and I would have 
 missed her, but since she has turned so queer 
 and crafty, I think both me and the house 
 would be as well without her; this outgoing 
 will come to no good ; and whoever she meets, 
 or wherever she goes to, Hannah is the cliang- 
 edest person since it begun.” 
 
 “How is she changed, Rhoda?” 
 
 “Well, just in every thing, and there is no 
 peace living with her. She won’t mind a word I 
 say, she won’t tell a word of truth — in course it’s 
 signs I mean, but it is all the same — and when 
 there is any thing said or done against her 
 mind, she gets up like a fury, Lucien ; I don’t 
 think one would be safe long in the house with 
 her, and if you let me, we will get her sent to 
 Ireland.” 
 
 Some farther conversation revealed particu- 
 lars of Hannah’s conduct which the "kindly and 
 forbearing nature of my sister, and that almost 
 superstitious regard for the afflicted, which, in 
 common with most of the Irish peasantry, she 
 entertained, had made her keep from my knowl- 
 edge. The dumb girl had become not only 
 unruly, but violent — made more than one fierce 
 attack on Rhoda when she attempted to admon- 
 ish her by reproving looks and signs. There 
 was no mode of reasoning with Hannah that we 
 knew of, whatever the teachers of her class may 
 do — whatever Helen Forbes, with her earnest, 
 patient piety, might have done. I knew the 
 untaught, unconversable woman had strong mus- 
 cles and strong passions. Active and crafty 
 she must be beyond our calculations, and what- 
 ever took her to the heart of Kensington Park 
 at midnight, whoever the signing gentleman 
 might be -whom she had passed oft’ for Father 
 Connolly, the hidden outgoings must lead to no 
 good for us or herself. Then there was my 
 sister alone in the house with her all day while 
 I was in Broad Street. What might an at- 
 tempt to control those outgoings stir up Han- 
 nah to do? She had once threatened Rhoda 
 with a knife ; “ she didn’t mean nothing ; it was 
 just her way of showing temper, maybe,” said 
 the over-conscientious girl, when relating the 
 circumstance ; but it struck terror to my heart 
 
 for possible consequences, and I at once adopted 
 Rhoda’s scheme of settling her with some decent 
 people in Ireland. We agreed that it would 
 be well to consult Father Connolly ; he would 
 doubtless advise us in the matter, and also rec- 
 ommend some honest family who would take 
 charge of Hannah ; her wants could be pro- 
 vided for from my sister’s income and my own ; 
 and, though our house might be made more 
 solitary, it would also be s^Ter. In the mean 
 time, I advised Rhoda to keep a strict but very 
 quiet watch on her movements, resolved to do 
 the same myself, and turned over in my mind 
 contrivances for attaching a bell to the outer 
 door which would ring the instant it was open- 
 ed, however softly, and thus give me informa- 
 tion to follow Hannah to her place of rendez- 
 vous, for that there was a gentleman in the case 
 I could not doubt, and my curiosity to discover 
 who had come so cunningly and struck up an 
 acquaintance knew no bounds. Rhoda watch- 
 ed, and so did I when at home ; the bell was 
 actually fastened to the door with a wire pass- 
 ing up to my bedroom ; but whether our pre- 
 cautions or the knowledge that she had been 
 seen in the Park warned Hannah, certain it was 
 that, as far as we could observe, there was no 
 outgoing for the next week. About the middle 
 of it she had, indeed, contrived to get an errand 
 to the green-grocer’s, who knew her well, and 
 did business a little way off at the top of the 
 village street ; but Hannah had returned in good- 
 time with the greens she went for ; it was broad 
 daylight, and my sister had watched her to the 
 turn. The green - grocer’s wife — who, being 
 from Ireland, and a discreet woman, Rhoda 
 thought proper to take into confidence — said 
 that to her knowledge Hannah never took up 
 with nobody but the Jew’s boy, as she called 
 the son of an old clothesman or wardrobe-seller 
 who kept shop hard by, and belonged to some 
 of the tribes of Israel. The Jew’s boy and 
 Hannah were in the habit of exchanging .signs 
 and salutations ; but it was not to meet the 
 sharp, cunning-looking, unwashed urchin, under 
 ten, that she stole forth at such uncommon hours. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIY. 
 
 HANNAH CLARK GETS A NEW MISTRESS. 
 
 I made no discoveries, and the week passed. 
 Father Connolly was so much occupied with 
 his Christmas duties that there was no oppor- 
 tunity for consultation, and the subject was 
 fresh in my mind when I went to the Broad 
 Street back rooms on Sunday evening. Ma- 
 dame Palivez was there in her accustomed looks 
 and wonted spirits — her purple velvet dress, 
 gold buttons and pins, but no trace of the black 
 drapery or mourning robe. They had all been 
 left at the solitai*y woodland villa, and the re- 
 membrance of their cause or causes seemed to 
 be left there too. Madame was as lively in 
 chat, as free and easy of thought as ever I found 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Ill 
 
 her ; we discussed the news of the day, new 
 books, new plays, new pictures ; she had an 
 early acquaintance with them all, an unfailing 
 supply of West End and City gossip, and no- 
 body could have imagined that night that she 
 had been the very woman who had sat so fear 
 or sorrow stricken, with incense burned and 
 psalms chanted about her on Christmas Eve. 
 
 I cannot recall how our conversation turned 
 upon it — I had no intention of intruding my 
 family difficulties upon her — but I think it was 
 an American print she had bought, of an Indian 
 stealing after his unsuspecting enemy, hatchet in 
 hand, through the thick of a forest, which re- 
 minded me partly, by something in the face of 
 the savage, of the one I had seen peeping out at 
 me from the underwood in Kensington Park. 
 
 “Is it not lifelike?” said Madame, catching 
 • my look of recollection — never had woman more 
 perceptive power — “and like something you 
 have seen, Lucien ? Tell me, now, honestly, 
 if men ever do so, of what does that print re- 
 mind you? Have you,” and I knew her ques- 
 tion was not merely curious, “ever seen any 
 body stealing along, watching or hiding in the 
 shade of trees or shrubbery in the manner of 
 the Indian there — in short, Lucien, did you 
 ever see any thing of the kind in the neighbor- 
 hood of my villa ?” It was right and necessary 
 to give her the whole detail regarding Hannah, 
 so far as my sister and myself knew it, and I 
 did so at once. 
 
 “ Curious and strange,” said Madame, evi- 
 dently much relieved ; my tale was not what 
 she had dreaded and expected to hear. ‘ ‘ Those 
 lives which are so cut off from ours by having 
 the two great channels of human communication 
 closed, are not to be marked out or measured by 
 our schooled and conventional reason. They re- 
 main in the primitive state of mankind, before 
 schools were set up, creeds invented, or laws 
 made to bind and loose, and they keep the wild 
 liberty, perhaps the occult powers of that far-off 
 time. But what you suspect is very probable. 
 Hannah may have got intp company or connec- 
 tions by which little credit and less comfort may 
 come to you and your house. The sooner she 
 is removed the better ; but, Lucien, why trouble 
 yourself finding a home for her in Ireland ? I 
 will take the girl ; my Eastern education and 
 leanings have given me a fancy for mutes, and 
 there is a woman wanted just now to act as my 
 chambermaid.” 
 
 “ I am afraid Hannah’s training will scarcely 
 qualify her for acting as your chambermaid, 
 Madame, and I have told you what sort of a 
 temper she has.” 
 
 “ Oh, nevermind ; Madame Oniga will man- 
 age all that. Six months under her discreet 
 tuition will bring your protege to a wonderful 
 degree of civilization. As I said before, I have 
 a fancy for mutes ; they suit my service. In 
 short, Lucien, let the girl come to me ; tell your 
 sister about it, and if she is satisfied I will send 
 Calixi to conduct Hannah into the charge and 
 domains of Madame Oniga.” 
 
 “ My sister will be grateful to you, as you 
 may believe I am, for offering to take such a 
 responsibility off our hands ; you probably know 
 why we incurred it ?” 
 
 “ I do, Lucien ; it was handsomely done, and 
 therefore I wish to relieve you of it.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ But, Madame, is it wise ? is it safe for you ? 
 May not the same discredit and discomfort 
 come to your house which you have justly re- 
 marked to threaten ours?” 
 
 “Lucien, my house is a different one, and 
 differently regulated. Trust me, the silent, im- 
 movable Russian system practiced by my dis- 
 creet housekeeper because she neither knows 
 nor would ever learn any other, is the very 
 thing for your unmanageable mute ; it knows 
 no change, no modification, no individual will 
 or choice ; people do as they are hidden, and 
 see nothing else done ; the work, the meals, the 
 prayers, for Madame carries them on also, go 
 like clock-work, without variation or regard to 
 any thing above or below. There your prote- 
 ge will be brought into discipline ; you need 
 not be afraid*of her being overworked or too 
 severely dealt with — such things are not per- 
 mitted in my territories ; but the new and un- 
 familiar life into which she will find herself 
 transplanted, the strange faces around her, the 
 regular ongoing of matters, steady, and silent as 
 the ongoings of night and day — I’ll vouch for 
 their being so under Madame Oniga — will take 
 hold on her mind, for they will speak to her 
 eye. She will learn to be steady and subject, 
 and, being removed from the company or con- 
 nections she has got into, she must needs give 
 it up and probably forget it. Have you any 
 idea that there is really company or connections 
 concerned ?” 
 
 “Erom what I mentioned of the man who 
 called at our house and never came back, I con- 
 clude there is, and I thought you had taken the 
 same view, Madame?” 
 
 “Well, I did: but just now it struck me 
 might not the girl have been acting as a spy on 
 you ? Are you quite sure that her stealing out 
 and concealing herself in the old park at mid- 
 night was not prompted by jealousy ; might not 
 her silent fancy have followed you, and might 
 not her outgoings be on purpose to trace your 
 steps and discover a supposed as well as suc- 
 cessful rival? It occurs to me that I have seen 
 her lurking about my villa in the same stealthy 
 manner, about the end of last summer, w r hen you 
 were coming and going — I think, I hope it was 
 she.” 
 
 “If it were, Madame, I honestly believe you 
 have misinterpreted her motives. Whatever 
 fancies Hannah Clark may have, they never 
 went my way.” I spoke from sincere convic- 
 tion ; the dumb girl had regarded me with as 
 little preference as I did her ; she knew me as 
 the gentleman of the family who didn’t like her 
 noise, for whom floors had to be swept and 
 rooms put in order ; her goings forth had been 
 mostly when I was out, it was true, but then I 
 had reason to believe that they did not lead her 
 
112 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 in the direction of Broad Street, where I was 
 mostly to be found. In short, it was my firm 
 belief that neither fancy nor jealousy as con- 
 cerned myself brought Hannah out at such un- 
 accountable hours, and (Supplied her with a key 
 for our street door, which, unless my sister’s 
 hypothesis of the fairies were accepted, she 
 must have possessed. There was company or 
 connection of some sort, and none of the best. 
 I demonstrated that to Madame Palivez, and 
 she dismissed her conjecture with, “Well, Lu- 
 cien, you can not claim the conquest, I see, and 
 am pretty sure you never tempted it, as the 
 glory would not be great. However, I hold by 
 my first proposal — Hannah Clark shall be re- 
 ceived into my establishment, if your sister be 
 agreeable ; tell her I pledge my word and honor 
 that the dumb girl shall be well and kindly 
 treated, and never want for provision ; I take 
 that matter entirely on myself.” 
 
 “It is very kind — very generous of you, 
 Madame.” 
 
 “ Nonsense, Lucien ; I told you I had a fancy 
 for mutes, and I know it is the#best thing for 
 her and for you.” 
 
 The question was thus settled between us. 
 
 I lost no time in telling my sister next day, 
 and Rhoda’s surprise was great. I don’t think 
 she entirely relished the idea of Hannah going 
 to Madame Palivez ; but the expediency of her 
 removal had got deeply impressed on my sis- 
 ter’s mind ; her unaccountable outgoings and 
 incomings had inspired Rhoda with a sort of 
 superstitious dread, and she was willing to see 
 Hannah settled in any good quarters out of No. 
 9. “It’s oncommon kind of the lady to take 
 her, Lucien — all on your account, no doubt. I 
 always thought she would do something for you, 
 and I oughtn’t to have such notions in my 
 mind against her; but I would rather Hannah 
 was going to Ireland, to live among the Con- 
 nors or the Burkes, though the place wouldn’t 
 be near so grand. But since the lady promises 
 so well for poor Hannah, and you are sure she 
 will keep it, let her go in the name of good- 
 ness, and just say to the lady for me that I’ll 
 never forget her kindness, though I can’t do no 
 more than mind her in my prayers.” 
 
 I assured Rhoda, what I really believed, that 
 Madame Palivez would keep her promise 
 "strictly and honorably; that Hannah would be 
 safe and well provided for in her establishment, 
 and we should be relieved from all anxiety on 
 her account. On one subject we were both 
 doubtful, and it troubled us — would Hannah be 
 willing to go to the strange house and strange 
 people? We had voluntarily taken charge of 
 the dumb girl, and how could we send her from 
 us without her own consent? “If she don’t 
 like to go we will not ax her, Lucien ; maybe 
 the hand of Providence is in it ; mind, I am 
 not saying any thing against the lady, but I am 
 bothered for fear Hannah should want to stay 
 with us. I never thought of parting with her 
 once, but this is a changing world ; however, I’ll 
 just go down and see what Hannah has got to I 
 
 say about going to the lady ; it will settle your 
 mind before you go to the bank.” 
 
 Rhoda went to put the question ; I had never 
 acquired the art of conversing with Hannah, not- 
 withstanding the friendly and frequent exhorta- 
 tions of Helen Porbes. Men possessed of the 
 same senses live most in some of them, and my 
 habit of life was more in the ear than the eye. 
 So the gulf between the dumb girl and me was 
 even wider than it might have been ; but I 
 knew Rhoda could speak to her mind, and I 
 knew’ she had endeavored in vain to get the 
 slightest admission regarding her secret outgo- 
 ings or her mode of opening our street door. 
 Would she be equally unsuccessful now in get- 
 ting Hannah’s consent to her own transfer to 
 the unknown establishment of Madame Palivez ? 
 The consultation was brief and much quieter 
 than usual, but Rhoda came up looking very 
 much astonished. 
 
 “She is willing to go, Lucien, quite willing, 
 and it takes the weight of a mountain olf my 
 mind ; but nobody could have expected it. Sure 
 I was always kind to her, and so were you in a 
 manner,” and Rhoda sat down as if overcome 
 with amazement; “but, Lucien, she is per- 
 fectly happy — ready to dance for joy at the 
 chance of getting away. I suppose it’s on ac- 
 count of the grand place she is going to. Many 
 a time I have seen her looking at that lady 
 when she rode by. I never thought Hannah 
 had a liking for her ; but she is glad to go and 
 leave us, anyhow.” 
 
 I was surprised too, and not very pleasantly ; 
 nobody likes to be parted from without regret, 
 especially by their dependents ; but the next 
 moment I thought and said to my sister, “We 
 are glad to get quit of her, and as things have 
 turned out, it is best that Hannah should be so 
 ready for the change. I can not understand it, 
 but neither can I comprehend the rest of her do- 
 ings; you will be well without her, Rhoda, and 
 she will be safe with Madame Palivez’s house- 
 keeper.” 
 
 “ Oh, it’s just the hand of Providence,” said 
 Rhoda, shaking off her astonishment; “but 
 run, Lucien, or you’ll be late for the bank, and 
 don’t be afraid that I won’t get her ready.” 
 
 Some three days after that family council, 
 when the getting ready was near its conclusion, 
 apd Hannah’s eagerness for her departure seemed 
 on the increase every hour, Madame Oniga met 
 me in the passage to Esthers’ office, which was 
 rather out of her beat, and said in her discreet 
 tone, “Madame has desired me to ask if the 
 young person may be sent for to-day.” 
 
 “As soon as Madame pleases,” said I. The 
 housekeeper passed on, and I caught a glimpse 
 of Esthers peeping at our interview through the 
 door, which happened to be ajar, and something 
 in it must have gratified the manager, for he 
 was smiling to himself when I stepped in, but 
 got immersed in business the next moment, and, 
 to my great surprise, made no attempt to in- 
 vestigate the matter. 
 
 When I reached home that evening, Rhoda 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 113 
 
 was sitting by the fire with a rather disconsolate 
 look. Hannah was gone. “The bank lady’s 
 servant — an oncommon sensible foreign man — 
 came in a coach and took her and her box away 
 with mighty civility, but very little talk,” said 
 my observant sister ; “ and I hope Hannah will 
 be happy and well, for she nearly jumped out of 
 her skin with gladness to go, and hardly said as 
 much as God bless you ! to me. She is ongrate- 
 ful, Lucien, but it’s wrong to think so of the 
 poor soul. I am not just sorry. It is the best 
 thing for us and for her, as you said ; but it’s 
 queer to look back and think that they are all 
 gone. Hannah was the last of them ; and you 
 and me will have the house to ourselves now. 
 Howsoever, Father Connolly has been here. I 
 wouldn’t let Hannah go without him seeing her. 
 He says it’s an oncommon kind thing of the 
 lady ; and the Greek Church she belongs to 
 comes next to the Roman, only they don’t make 
 the sign of the cross right ; but that will do 
 Hannah no harm, and he has promised to get 
 a decent Irish girl to do the housework and keep 
 me from being lonely. Goodness, goodness, 
 but this is the changing world.” 
 
 CHARTER XXXV. 
 
 THE FORBES’ TROUBLES. 
 
 Two or three times in the succeeding weeks 
 Madame Oniga waylaid me in the passages, as I 
 guessed, by special commands, with the best ac- 
 counts of Hannah. She was learning her new 
 duties, giving general satisfaction, and seem- 
 ingly well satisfied herself. Her line of service 
 was in the private establishment, not in the 
 bank-rooms, where Madame and the gravest of 
 her satellites officiated for the clerks of conflict- 
 ing creeds and cookery ; but as time progressed, 
 and she advanced in civilization, Hannah was 
 allowed to appear occasionally in my Sunday 
 visits, doing duty under the conduct of Calixi 
 and other trusty Eastern men, chiefly, as 
 Madame Palivez remarked, that I might see 
 how well the transplantation agreed with her. 
 It did agree beyond a doubt. Hannah looked 
 well and contented, but showed no joy at the 
 sight of me, made no signs of inquiry after 
 Rhoda, and I fancied was rather glad to get out 
 of the room. Madame Palivez assured me that 
 her troublesome tricks of outgoing and the like 
 had been completely broken off by her removal. 
 Hannah had made no attempt, of the kind since 
 her coming to Old Broad Street. The silent, 
 immovable system of Russian rule seemed best 
 suited to her speechless life, and I observed 
 that, though not quite so lively as when with 
 us, she looked more intelligent, thoughtful, and 
 even refined. 
 
 Our minds were relieved concerning Hannah, 
 and Father Connolly found us a maid — one of 
 the many sober, well-doing Irish, an emigrant 
 from his native parish in the west of Ulster. I 
 am not sure that she was not distantly related to 
 H 
 
 the good priest also, for her name was Nelly 
 Connolly. In process of time we found her to 
 be an honest, faithful creature — a great help to 
 Rhoda in her solitary housekeeping, and some- 
 thing of a companion too, as myisister required, 
 as an only and trusty servant ought to be. It 
 quieted my conscience and cheered my heart in 
 my long days at the bank, in my Saturdays’ and 
 Sundays’ outgoings, to know in what a cordial 
 and social manner mistress and maid got on. 
 They managed the household affairs ; they went 
 to chapel together ; they kept fast and confes- 
 sion days ; they told each other Irish tales and 
 legends, and they especially agreed in finding 
 fault with all the doers and dwellers of the land 
 in which it was their lot to sojourn. Watt 
 Wilson, the Masons, and all Rhoda’s circle got 
 sifted and criticised as they had never been be- 
 fore by their united wisdom ; but no disturbance 
 of the small society took place, the sifting and 
 criticism being discreetly kept out of hearing. 
 Without and within there were peace and plenty 
 among us. We found our income easy and out- 
 house large. Mr. Forbes refused all increase of 
 rent for it. I made an effort to shake off some 
 of my obligations that way ; “but no, Lucien,” 
 he said, “I am satisfied with the terms and the 
 tenants. While you and your sister are willing 
 to stay, we will make no change of either and, 
 Helen hoped that I did not regard her papa as a 
 landlord, but as a friend. Friendly he had been 
 to me and mine beyond the possibility of return 
 — friendly he and his daughter were still. Helen 
 had taken no offense at Rhoda’s declining her 
 invitation to Notting Hill House. She had 
 heard me state her apologies without a remark, 
 and never reverted to the subject, but she con- 
 tinued to drop in in the forenoons when I was at 
 the bank, to bring small presents, to talk famil- 
 iarly with Rhoda, and to make kind inquiries 
 after Hannah Clark. We had been obliged to 
 tell the Forbes’ our reasons for parting with heir, 
 and Madame Palivez’s 'kindness in taking her 
 into the establishment in Broad Street. The 
 banker said it was the very best place that could 
 be found for Hannah. Wherever Madame Pa- 
 livez ruled, there would be good management 
 and strict discipline, he was sure, but Helen la- 
 mented that there was little chance of her getting 
 religious instruction. From what Mr. Esthers 
 had told them, she was afraid the Greek lady 
 had little relish for serious subjects, and her serv- 
 ants practiced nothing but Russian and Greek 
 superstitions. 
 
 Mr. Esthers told her a great deal about the 
 bank in Broad Street and its ruler. His inti- 
 macy at Notting Hill House was thickening ev- 
 ery day. I could not avoid seeing, for he took 
 care I should, the notes and messages which 
 passed between him and the banker — not to 
 speak of the banker’s daughter ; small epistles 
 in her handwriting were left, as if by accident, 
 on his desk ; trusty boys, of w-hom Mr. Esthers 
 had an outdoor retinue — every one Jews — were 
 continually coming and going with dispatches, 
 which they had evidently instructions not to 
 
Ill 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 keep too private. Through that arrangement I 
 was able to perceive that the subject-matter was 
 not always of much importance. It was Mr. 
 Esthers’ policy to exhibit the familiar footing on 
 which he stoo$ with the Forbes’, to keep him- 
 self before their eyes and minds, if it were only 
 by making a fuss. All this I could have under- 
 stood ; but in my Saturday visits — by the ac- 
 counts which Rhoda gave me of Helen’s con- 
 versation — by my sister’s own remarks, always 
 shrewd and far-sighted — by a thousand signs 
 not to be rehearsed or remembered now, I dis- 
 covered that the Jew manager, who gave them 
 such good hopes of his conversion, and borrowed 
 the proof catechism, had contrived to acquire a 
 kind of influence over my prudent Scotch friends 
 for which I could not account. As I have said, 
 his intimacy with them and their house seemed 
 daily on the increase. He was not only received 
 on Sundays to read sermons and take part in 
 their family devotions, but on week-days and 
 evenings Mr. Esthei’s now found time for fre- 
 quent though generally flying calls, and by the 
 unconcealed notes and messages, I found out 
 that he gave information and advice both in 
 household and bank affairs. The Forbes’ re- 
 ceived him as a friend, responded to all his 
 communications, complied with, almost antici- 
 pated, his wishes ; yet it became evident to me 
 by this time that they did not like the Jew, nor 
 ideally desire his company. I had never been 
 present at one of his calls. Both they and he 
 seemed to consider my absence advisable ; that 
 he had made and continued to make himself 
 useful in matters of business I could not doubt, 
 but it was also manifest that he had obtained a 
 kind of mastery over the Forbes’ which they 
 fi’etted under but could not shake off. I thought 
 the health and spirits of both father and daugh- 
 ter seemed to be gi*owing worse as the friend- 
 ship thickened, and once or twice something 
 like fear had appealed in Helen’s look when 
 she spoke of Mr. Esthers. Madame Palivez 
 had warned me, and I had warned them in vain 
 about the Christmas time. Now the Spring 
 was drawing on, and the warning was confirm- 
 ed in a manner I had never anticipated. 
 
 The discovery at first was but a vague im- 
 pression, as most discoveries are. But one 
 Saturday evening I was a little late in my ar- 
 rival at Notting Hill House. The days were 
 so far lengthened that windows were still open, 
 and the lamps unlighted, when the footman told 
 me in his quiet way that Mr. and Miss Forbes 
 were in the library waiting for me, and unan- 
 nounced, as usual, I went to join them. If I 
 stepped lightly it was not intended to surprise 
 or eavesdi’op; but in the old silent house and 
 deepening twilight I got into the library before 
 they were aware. Mr. Forbes was sitting at the 
 table with his head bowed on his hands ; Helen 
 was close beside him, with her thin ai*m twined 
 about his neck, as if to soothe and comfort him. 
 I could not see his face, but there was an ap- 
 pearance of strange misery about the man, and 
 unlike as they wei*e, his attitude and manner at 
 
 once brought to my remembrance Madame Pa- 
 livez sitting on the low seat in her black-draped 
 room, with the chant and the incense coming 
 up. The recollection made me pause at the 
 door. I knew they were not conscious of my 
 presence, and I heard Helen say, “Dear papa, 
 what grieves and troubles you so ? I wish Mr. 
 Esthei's could keep his news to himself. I wish 
 he had never come here at all. You have never 
 been yourself since he began to look so much 
 after our affairs.” 
 
 “Nonsense, Helen, Mr. Esthers is very 
 friendly,” said the banker, raising himself, and 
 trying to speak composedly; but there was a 
 queer tremor in his voice. 
 
 “Yes, papa; but he should not be talking 
 and writing so much about Dublin to you, when 
 he sees it troubles you,” said Helen. 
 
 “It does not trouble me, girl ; what put that 
 in your head ?” Forbes spoke fiercely, and I saw 
 Helen shrink back. 
 
 “Nothing — oh nothing, papa — but I thought 
 it grieved you on account of poor mamma and 
 my little brothers.” 
 
 “Yes, to be sure, it is natural,” said Forbes, 
 slowly. 
 
 “ Natural for you to grieve, papa; and yet, as 
 Rutherford says, you know they are safe in our 
 Father’s house above,” and she drew close again. 
 
 “They are, they are, my good, my gentle 
 daughter, and you will go to meet them there,” 
 said Forbes, throwing his arm round her. 
 
 “ So will you, papa.” The banker uttered a 
 long, deep moan, which made me start, as he 
 said, “Oh, Helen, Helen, I am a sinful man!” 
 
 My involuntary movement made them both 
 turn. In shame and fear of being caught listen- 
 ing, I pressed forward, and was received with 
 some confusion, though fortunately believed to 
 have just entered. When the first greeting was 
 over, Forbes took the opportunity of slipping out 
 to recover himself, and Helen said to me, in 
 a low, confidential tone, “Papa has been great- 
 ly troubled to-day by — by some talk he had with 
 Mr. Esthers about our old house in Dublin. 
 Talking of that place always brings his great 
 loss to mind, and I don’t think Mi*. Esthers 
 should do it ; but it was some news he heard 
 about repairs and alterations ; they are going 
 to make livery-stables of our old house : it was 
 in the Liberties, the old decaying part of Dub- 
 lin ; that was why papa left it, and none but 
 poor people have lived thei*e since ; but Madame 
 Palivez’s bank stood just behind oui*s, at the end 
 of Greek Alley ; her private door opened into 
 the alley, though the front was in Castle Street. 
 I remember the place so well, though it is all 
 changed now ; that is why Mr. Esthers takes 
 such an intei'est in it ; yet I think he should not 
 speak of it to grieve papa.” 
 
 “He certainly should not; but does Esthers 
 know how his talk affects Mr. Forbes ?” 
 
 “I think he must; papa can’t help showing 
 it at times, and I have as good as told him. To 
 be sure, Mr. Esthei's might not have understood 
 me ; he is rather blunt, I think” — Helen looked 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 115 
 
 at me for confirmation, Vhich I could not give 
 her on that point — “and it would seem strange, 
 almost unintelligible to ’any person not thor- 
 oughly acquainted with him, that my father, 
 sensible and serious as you know he is, Mr. La 
 Touche, should be so troubled at the mere men- 
 tion of a house which he occupied fourteen 
 years. I remember when it seemed unaccount- 
 able to myself ; but we have all our peculiari- 
 ties and our weaknesses ; my father has as few 
 as any man, and would give way to nothing sin- 
 ful, but that one he can not s get over; indeed, I 
 think it grows upon him, long as we have re- 
 moved, and there may be a kind of reason 
 for it, which I would not mention to any body 
 but yourself. You see, our house in Dublin 
 was a great old mansion, built when the Irish 
 nobility lived in that part of the town. They 
 call the place Old Kildare Street: it stands on 
 low ground at the back of Castle Street, and is 
 part of the Liberties ; but nobles and gentry 
 lived there as late as the volunteering time, and 
 our house was the last occupied by people of 
 rank and title — two maiden sisters, the last of 
 the Galway family ; one of their ancestors had 
 built it for a town house, before the rebellion of 
 1641, in the fashion which some say Moorish 
 settlers brought to the old town of Galway from 
 the opposite coast of Spain. I don’t know if 
 you have ever seen such houses, but they are 
 still to be seen in old Spanish towns, with an 
 open court in the centre, into which all the 
 windows look, all the passages lead, and most 
 of the doors open. Ours was not exactly on 
 that model ; it had front windows looking into 
 the street, only they were old-fashioned and nar- 
 row ; within, it was like other houses, but deco- 
 rated in an antiquated manner, with ceilings of 
 carved wood, walls which had been hung with 
 tapestry : there were fragments of it remaining 
 in papa’s time, and small looking-glasses let 
 into them about the fireplaces and between the 
 windows. * But not quite in the middle, rather 
 at the back, there was a small open court ; 
 whether it had been made to light the rooms 
 there — for some of them looked into it — or to 
 follow the Moorish fashion so far, nobody could 
 tell. The house was only two stories — rather 
 one story and an attic, at that part, while the 
 front was four ; the high houses of Castle Street 
 completely overshadowed it, and there was a 
 back passage leading from the court into Greek 
 Alley, close by the Palivez private door. We 
 did not occupy the whole of the house ; it was a 
 great deal too large for us ; papa would never 
 let any part of it, though he was not so rich 
 then as he is now ; perhaps it would not have 
 been wise on account of his business ; he kept 
 the bank, and we lived almost entirely in the 
 front part ; nobody liked the back court, it was 
 so gloomy and out of the way ; but papa kept a 
 private office there to make up bis accounts in. 
 I believe he found them more difficult then than 
 he does now. It was a low room on the ground 
 floor, communicating with no other, for its door 
 and window opened into the court, and close by 
 
 was the door of the passage leading to Greek 
 Alley, which papa always kept locked, but found 
 very convenient for going in and out, and seeing 
 people on private affairs. I don’t pretend to 
 understand business, and papa has never told 
 me particularly, but I have heard him say he 
 had a hard pull for it when he and my mother 
 set up in Dublin ; his Edinburg family had not 
 done as well as they might have done by him ; 
 they were not pleased at his match, because my 
 mother had no fortune, though she was his 
 equal, being a Fordyce of Aberdeenshire ; he 
 was determined to make his way in the world, 
 and, you see, he has made it” — how proud of 
 that fact the spiritually-minded lady looked — 
 “ but, as I was s: ying, he had some difficulty at 
 first, that made him take the large old house, 
 because he got it at a nominal rent, and it was 
 convenient to the Palivez, with whom he had 
 frequent transactions. I know papa respects 
 them still for the honorable, considerate way 
 they behaved to him then, and I suppose his of- 
 fice in the back court was chosen on their ac- 
 count; but, you know, the Irish are supersti- 
 tious — I beg your pardon, Mr. La Touche, I 
 forgot you were from Ireland.” 
 
 “Never mind, Miss Forbes, it happens to be 
 true ; they are superstitious, and had a story, I 
 suppose, about the Palivez.” Miss Forbes did 
 not know how that question interested me. 
 
 “Partly about them, and partly about our 
 old house,” she said. “In the time of the two 
 maiden ladies of the Galway family, Alexis Pa- 
 livez, Madame' s uncle, I think, had owned the 
 bank ; they and he were acquainted ; their for- 
 tunes were deposited in his bank, and the tale- 
 tellers were not agreed whether the cause of 
 quarrel between him and them was some unfair 
 play regarding the money, or that he had trifled 
 with the affections of both sisters ; but the whis- 
 per went that Alexis Palivez had died suddenly 
 after a supper with them ; that the maiden ladies 
 never were themselves after ; that first one and 
 then the other became eccentric, or rather in- 
 sane, and lived and died under the management 
 of keepers employed by tlieir noble relatives in 
 the rooms of the back court. It was also be- 
 lieved by the lower classes of Dublin that spec- 
 tral appearances had been seen in that part of 
 the house ; several tenants were said to have 
 been frightened out of it ; I suppose the people 
 left on account of the decay and downcoming 
 of Old Kildare Street ; but the low rent tempt- 
 ed papa to take it, and I wish he had never 
 done so. Don’t suppose I am foolish enough 
 to believe in Dublin tales, but, Mr. La Touche, 
 there is a weak point in all our minds — none of 
 us know what power imagination may get over 
 us, nor what truth there may be in those Old 
 World traditions. Remember that even the 
 disciples thought they saw a spirit, and I don’t 
 say that my father actually saw any thing su- 
 pernatural ; he has never told me so — indeed he 
 has a remarkable aversion to talking on the 
 subject, which I own frightens me more than 
 any tale could do ; but I know that some time 
 
116 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 in the winter, before my mother died, something 
 made him withdraw from his office in the back 
 court so quietly that we never knew when it 
 was done ; but his papers were removed, the 
 room was locked up, and he never went to that 
 part of the house after, if he could help it. 
 Then, you see, poor mamma took her last ill- 
 ness and died ; she had been always delicate, 
 and that winter was too damp and cold for her 
 — the doctor said so ; and six weeks after her 
 funeral my two little brothers were cut off by 
 scarlet fever at the school in Edinburg, so quick- 
 ly that we never saw them alive. Oh ! Mr. La 
 Touche, it was a heavy trial ; papa has never 
 been himself since, and I think it is all bound 
 up in his memory with that old unlucky house, 
 and whatever made him leave his private office; 
 but you won’t mention what I have been saying 
 to Esthers or any body ?” 
 
 I had scarcely assured Miss Forbes that I 
 never repeated any thing spoken in confidence, 
 when the footman came to say dinner was reacly, 
 and the master waiting for us in the dining- 
 room. She took my arm as familiarly as if I 
 had been her brother — that disclosure about her 
 father and his Dublin house had brought us 
 nearer. The respect and esteem which every 
 one who knew Helen Forbes must have enter- 
 tained for her was increased on my part by the 
 half hour’s converse ; but those were not my up- 
 permost feelings. Alexis Palivez, Madame’s oft- 
 mentioned uncle, had come in a weird fashion 
 into the Forbes’ history ; he was long gone at 
 the time the banker abandoned his private office 
 opening into the back court, and close by the 
 passage leading to Greek Alley beside the Pali- 
 vez private door. Mr. Forbes had once intima- 
 ted that Madame might have her own troubles ; 
 was it art and part in them that weighed down 
 his Scottish heart in the midst of wealth and 
 prosperity — that made him shrink from the 
 mention of the old house, and made Esthers 
 ready to talk of it? Had the private office 
 been closed after Christmas Eve, and could Sal- 
 ly Joyce have told me the why and wherefore 
 that night in Berkeley Square ? 
 
 We found Mr. Forbes composed and quiet as 
 usual. He half smiled on Helen and me, as if 
 pleased to see us coming in arm-and-arm, apol- 
 ogized to me for his abrupt withdrawal, saying, 
 “he had been slightly indisposed, but was bet- 
 ter now, and made no ceremony where I was 
 concerned.” Of course I made a very slight 
 comment. Deep or doubtful transactions should 
 be lightly passed over in society. The dinner 
 passed as other dinners had done at Notting 
 Hill House. We were all sensible and serious ; 
 the latter, in particular, had deepened with the 
 Forbes’ of late. Esthers was spoken of by both 
 father and daughter. It was still as a friend — 
 still as one of whom they had great hopes in the 
 conversion line ; but any observer would have 
 noticed an under-current of dislike which the 
 good people themselves might not have been 
 aware of — a strong inclination to take him to 
 pieces, and a bright look-out for some apology 
 
 or cause of wrath against him. Those changes 
 of feeling toward my manager were less evident 
 to me then than they became on after-reflection. 
 But the more I pondered on that evening’s dis- 
 closures, the more was I certain that no tangible 
 reason for breaking off Esthers’ acquaintance 
 would ever be found by the Forbes’. He had 
 got into the house, and would take care not to 
 get out of it. Yet, was it in pursuit of an heir- 
 ess, or to spell out his employer’s secret he had 
 wormed himself into their society? There was 
 an evidence of the consolation Madame had 
 given herself when I told her of my interview 
 in Berkeley Square. Sally Joyce could prove 
 nothing, or her brother would have no occasion 
 to take such pains and trouble for the express 
 purpose of ferreting out the mystery, which, I 
 had no doubt, he meant to turn somehow to his 
 own advantage. Under how many lives and 
 houses -did the roots of that Upas-tree extend ? 
 I had never dreamt of a hidden link between 
 the Forbes’ and Madame Palivez, much note as 
 they took of each other, and often as I had ob- 
 served it ; but now it was plain to me that such 
 a connection — one of memory and of fear — did 
 exist. Helen had told me all .she knew, but not 
 all that was to be known — perhaps not all that 
 she imagined or suspected. Far as Forbes con- 
 fided in his daughter, and well as she deserved 
 his confidence, there was a dark spot in his life 
 and memory kept from her knowledge. And 
 what could that dark spot be ? The man was 
 honest, pious, and benevolent — the least likely 
 to be tempted into vice or crime. But he had 
 a hard pull when first setting up in Dublin. He 
 owed something to the honorable and consid- 
 erate conduct of the Palivez. Was there any 
 bond between them and him like that which my 
 sister’s honest instincts had suggested and warn- 
 ed me against? What I would have given to 
 know the whole history of that private office in 
 the back court, and its convenient communica- 
 tion with Greek Alley! Esthers would make 
 it out. Bound by none of my scruples, and 
 doubtless less in the dark, he had hit on the 
 surest track for discovering. Once his footing 
 was made sure in Forbes’s house, the privacy 
 and retirement in which he and his daughter 
 lived ; the absence of those worldly vanities 
 and amusements which they eschewed, but which 
 served to occupy other people’s time, and furnish 
 them with subjects of conversation ; the frequent 
 opportunities for observation and extraction 
 which Esthers must have in their serious and 
 solitary evenings between the sermon-reading 
 and the religious exercises — all could be turned 
 to account, and he was the man to do it. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 ESTHERS ON THE CARPET. 
 
 I went home, pondering the whole subject, 
 but could come to no farther conclusion than 
 the certainty of the Jew’s success and the con- 
 sequent peril of Madame Palivez. Let me ac- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 117 
 
 knowledge that, with all their friendship to me 
 and my family, the Forbes’ had never interested 
 me so deeply as now, when they seemed to have 
 part and lot with her; their sombre piety, then- 
 subdued spirits, which I had sometimes found so 
 dull and oppressive, took a different and almost 
 romantic aspect from the thought that they had 
 grown up in the shadow of her life’s secret. If 
 it were so, how differently the same influence 
 told on their strongly -contrasted characters! 
 They were never out of the cloud. No man 
 could tell whence it rose or why it had fall- 
 en ; “but it rested on the Forbes’ perpetually. I 
 had noticed the effect long before I began to 
 guess at the cause. Hut the stately lady, always 
 so easy, graceful, and queen-like, even in the 
 midst of business, with the ready smile and the 
 fair open face, on which time had made no fur- 
 row and sorrow left no shade, ruling her bank 
 and receiving her most considerable clients in 
 the Eastern magnificence of those luxurious 
 back rooms; receiving fashionable company in 
 Curzon Street, going forth to balls, parties, and 
 plays ; envied for her wealth, her gayety, and, 
 above all, her beauty — I had no doubt of that, 
 and never suspected of the black-draped rooms, 
 the deep mourning robe, the incense burned, 
 and the psalms chanted at midnight. People 
 who have got such burdens generally retire, I 
 suppose from an instinctive dread of some end 
 of the clew coming out, and being caught at. 
 But how much safer is the gay and public life 
 when it happens to have bendings beyond the 
 common ! Esthers was profiting by the Forbes’ 
 mistake in that respect ; perhaps not a mistake 
 either, but a necessity with them. Scottish 
 born, prudent, and strong-hearted as they were, 
 the regal pride and high, buoyant spirit of the 
 bank lady was not given to the inhabitants of 
 Notting Hill House. But w-ould not the Jew’s 
 possible discoveries compromise her? Should 
 I not give her warning? But of what? There 
 was more difficulty here than in Sally Joyce’s 
 demonstration. Yet that incident had made us 
 better friends, at least more intimate, and I 
 would take the first opportunity to let her know 
 that Esthers was endeavoring to fish out some- 
 thing about the Forbes’; that there was some- 
 thing to be fished out, and that they would not 
 be sorry to lose his acquaintance. 
 
 Where there is a will there’s a way, and I 
 found one on the following Sunday evening. 
 It was never difficult to bring Esthers on the 
 carpet. Madame was always attentive to any 
 observation on him, and from the sound of the 
 evening church-bells, which reached us in her 
 back rooms, I took occasion to remark first on 
 the church-going habits of London ; then on 
 the devout manner in which my Scottish friends 
 passed their Sunday evenings ; thirdly, on their 
 admission of Esthers ; and lastly, on his fishing, 
 and their consequent willingness to give him up. 
 Madame listened to me and smiled. The state- 
 ment, though made as plainly as possible, had 
 no terrors for her. She spoke seriously, but 
 without fear or personal interest. 
 
 “I have always thought there was some un- 
 commonly dark closet in that house. Remem- 
 ber, I have the best opinion of your friends, Lu- 
 cien ; but their seriousness and retirement have 
 something penitential in them. They have been 
 unlucky; that is the true term for their difficul- 
 ty, whatever shape it might take at British tea- 
 tables — ay, and % in law-courts. Why do you 
 start? I am not bringing accusations against 
 the people. If I knew all that Esthers has to 
 find out, do you suppose I am the person to pub- 
 lish it — to mention it at all, except between 
 ourselves ?” 
 
 I had supposed nothing of the kind ; but all 
 my conclusions, all the fabric of guess-work and 
 suspicion I had built on what she called the 
 Forbes’ difficulty, was overthrown. I could not 
 help looking her keenly in the face to see if 
 there w-as any recollection of the back court 
 and the private office there, but she returned 
 my look with such a frank and kindly one : 
 “Now, Lucien, you are fishing in your turn. 
 You think I had some interest in sending 
 Esthers to worm out Mr. Forbes’s affairs. You 
 think it is something connected with his busi- 
 ness, and perhaps with mine, that troubles the 
 man and his daughter. I tell you it is not. 
 You must have observed, for I did, that the 
 skeleton has been in their house for many a 
 year before you got acquainted with them. I 
 grant they look more occupied with it of late, 
 but that may be Esthers’ raking up the old 
 bones to serve his own purposes. Yes, trust me. 
 he goes there for nothing else. I guessed it. 
 would come to that, and warned you for their 
 sakes. You warned them, I know, for you are 
 an honest fellow, and have nothing in common 
 with our manager; but these pious, penitential 
 people are the proper subjects for pryers, and 
 always sure to betray themselves.” 
 
 “ I can’t make it out why Esthers should 
 take it into his head to talk so much of their 
 old house in Dublin, and why that should an- 
 noy Mr. Forbes,” said I, making a desperate 
 plunge into my own puzzle. 
 
 “ Their old house ! It was in Kildare Street, 
 almost behind ours — a large rambling place, 
 rather out of repair, and said to be haunted, be- 
 cause two poor ladies, the last descendants of 
 the Earls of Gahvay, lost their senses there, 
 partly because they never had much hold of 
 them, and partly on account of securities they 
 had given to our bank in behalf of an ill-doing 
 nephew who fell in a duel at Cork. I remem- 
 ber it. Forbes had the house cheap ; nobody 
 else could be got to live in it. The Scotchman 
 w r as beginning business, and determined to get 
 on. He was poor enough then, he is rich 
 enough now, and wealth must be paid for. It 
 commands and gets the heaviest price from us 
 all. Yes, Lucien, if it ever comes your way, as 
 I believe it will, remember that. Our old my- 
 thology holds good in spite of the creeds and 
 forms that have supplanted it among the nations. 
 Plutus and the infernal gods still dispense the 
 gifts of fortune, but they can be propitiated 
 
118 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 only with blood.” The last words were uttered 
 slowly, and in a sort of whisper, which made 
 her voice sound somewhat like the sighing of 
 the wind, which came through the open con- 
 servatory that soft spring evening. We sat 
 silent for some minutes, and the church bells 
 rang on. 
 
 When Madame spoke again, it was to change 
 ,the subject. I had nothing more to say on it. 
 My surmises were all at fault. If her secret and 
 the Forbes’ had any connection, she was determ- 
 ined I should not find it out, and must have 
 had some assurance that Esthers would not, for 
 it was manifest she did not fear him in that 
 quarter. The fact relieved my mind ; it was 
 for her and not for the Forbes’ that I had been 
 alarmed. They were my friends. I would 
 have done any thing to serve them, to return or 
 acknowledge their kindness ; but if there were a 
 skeleton in their house, as Madame remarked, 
 it did not interest me except in the way of curi- 
 osity. Perhaps I had magnified matters, too, 
 in my fancy, so full of Madame Palivez ; per- 
 haps Helen’s account was the whole of the busi- 
 ness. Retired, eccentric people, like her and 
 her father, were apt to dwell a good deal on and 
 make much of trifles. They had taken to Est- 
 hers in spite of my warnings ; they were begin- 
 ning to find him troublesome ; the manager 
 would be so wherever he got the opportunity ; 
 but Madame was safe, and I would wait on. 
 She would tell me her secret some day. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 MELROSE MORTON TURNS UP IN LONDON. 
 
 Easter had passed, the London season was 
 opening, Madame was going to her house in 
 Curzon Street. That made no difference to me. 
 I was not one of her fashionable friends. But 
 the villa where I had watched with her in that 
 black midnight hour would be open too, Avith 
 its myrtles and roses. She would be there as 
 she had been in the by-gone summer, and I 
 would go there on Sundays, more than ever her 
 friend. 
 
 I was thinking of that going home from the 
 bank one very wet evening. Esthers had kept 
 me late over some American accounts. I had 
 missed the coach ; got wet to the skin while 
 looking for it, and then walked all the way. 
 There were few lamps on the Bayswater Road, 
 and at the darkest part, close by my own street, 
 I almost ran against a man who stopped me, 
 with an anxious inquiry for his way to Blooms- 
 bury. I did not see his face distinctly, but the 
 voice brought me to a stand-still. “ Blooms- 
 bury ?” said I — “ you are miles out of the way.” 
 
 “Indeed, sir. Will you have the goodness 
 to tell me how I can get back ? My lodgings 
 are there, and I am a stranger in London.” 
 
 Before he had finished, I knew the voice, and 
 I knew the man, for it was my early friend, 
 Melrose Morton. 
 
 “Do you know me?” said I, grasping his 
 hand ; but recognition had flashed on him at the 
 same moment. 
 
 “ Know yon ? Yes, Lucien La Touche, I do 
 now, though I did not at first. The rain is so 
 heavy, I am so bewildered here, and I never ex- 
 pected to see you.” 
 
 “Why not? I live hard by, and you will 
 come home with me. Rlioda will be delighted 
 to see you. But why did not you write to me ? 
 why didn’t you let me know you were coming 
 to London? and what on earth made you take 
 lodgings in Bloomsbury, when you knew we 
 lived in Bayswater ? I must get that out of 
 you, and we must get out of the rain. Come 
 along, and we’ll astonish Rhoda.” 
 
 1 ‘ Do tell me my way, Lucien. I’ll come and 
 see you some other time;” and he half drew 
 back as I pulled his arm into mine. Something 
 strange had come over Morton ; that was my 
 first conclusion. It might be the bewilderment 
 of London, and his surprise. It was best to 
 take him home anyway, and saying “ Nonsense, 
 you’ll come now,” I hurried my grave and sen- 
 ior friend along to No. 9. 
 
 Rhoda wa^ astonished to see me bringing 
 home a stranger ; but she had heard so much 
 about Morton, and seen so many of his letters, 
 that the mere mention of his name made my 
 good sister welcome him like an old friend, and 
 she and her faithful satellite Nelly were help- 
 ing off his wet coat in a minute. Morton was 
 not unwilling to stay, great as had been his haste 
 to Bloomsbury, when we chanced to meet under 
 the pouring rain. I thought he looked happy 
 to find himself under our roof and in our com- 
 pany, when the first confusion or surprise had 
 worn off, and he and I, both made presentable 
 with the dry clothes remaining in my wardrobe, 
 were seated comfortably in the little parlor, 
 where Rhoda had lit up a bright fire, spread a 
 hospitable table, and busied herself to entertain 
 her brother’s friend. Morton was changed, and 
 doubtless so was I, since we parted on board the 
 Franklin ; but he looked older than he should, 
 and thinner too. The cheek-bones of his Scot- 
 tish face were more sharply defined ; there was 
 a slight sprinkling of gray in his hair, and his 
 likeness to Forbes was so remarkably increased 
 in consequence, that it struck me at the first 
 clear sight of him. They w r ere cousins, without 
 doubt, however they might have quarreled ; but 
 what could have been Morton’s motive for keep- 
 ing his coming to London from me ? We had 
 not written to each other so frequently of late ; 
 our friendship could not be said to have cooled ; 
 but time and distance are chilling things. Cor- 
 respondence between England and America was 
 not so rapid then as it is now, and I had to re- 
 proach myself with being so occupied about Old 
 Broad Street and its great lady, that his last 
 letter had remained unanswered full six months. 
 Probably that had offended him, though Morton 
 was too sensible to take offense readily, and all 
 our old friendship seemed to warm up again with 
 the light of my home fire and the kindly minis- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 119 
 
 trations of my sister. “How strange it was, 
 Lucien,” lie said, after looking on me, my 
 surroundings, and Rhoda, with the earnest, 
 friendly gaze of former times, “ how strange it 
 was that I should have taken the wrong coach, 
 got set down at Tyburn Gate, and wandered so 
 far out of my way in the heavy rain, so near 
 your house, and just in time to meet you coming 
 home !” 
 
 “Strangely fortunate,” said I; “but why 
 did you not write to me ? why did you not let 
 me know you were coming ? and why did you 
 not come here in the first instance ?” 
 
 “ I was obliged to come,” said Morton, skill- 
 fully evading my charge, “ on account of some 
 property left me by my uncle, one of my moth- 
 er’s family; he was in the Stamp Office here, 
 and his property is all in houses, mostly about 
 Bloomsbury. The affairs are rather tangled 
 between lawyers and tenants, but I hope to get 
 something out of them, as I am the only legatee. 
 You have not heard,” and a shadow of deep 
 sorrow passed over his calm face, “ that my 
 mother is gone.” The announcement of death 
 always startles us, though it is the one thing to 
 be expected. It astonished and grieved me to 
 hear that the kindly and hospitable old dame, 
 to whom my lonely childhood owed so much, 
 Morton’s good and well-beloved mother, the 
 only friend, almost the only associate he had, 
 was taken from him. 
 
 “ The climate of America was too much for 
 her, I fear, ” said Melrose, making a strong ef- 
 fort to recover himself from the backward rush 
 of sorrow which came with our meeting and 
 talk ; “its great extremes of summer’s heat and 
 winter’s cold are trying to any constitution ; 
 and it may be weak-minded, but I could not 
 stay there alone, though the Mortons are kind 
 enough, and wanted to promote me to Mr. 
 Alexander’s place. The old man is gone. An- 
 drew is head master now, and the grammar- 
 school is as full as ever you saw it, Lucien.” 
 
 “Will you settle in London, then?” said I. 
 It would have been a joyful thought to me 
 once, but now the near neighborhood of the 
 friend who had warned me of the Joyces, though 
 not dreaded, was not exactly wished for ; it 
 might be difficult to keep my goings to Old 
 Broad Street and all that concerned them from 
 him. That broken and canceled engagement 
 which lost my uncle’s grace had made us stran- 
 gers long ago in Baltimore, and now I had 
 something still harder to explain. 
 
 “ I don’t know,” said Morton, but he looked 
 as if he dicj ; “ the business will be a good while 
 in getting settled, and I had better be on the 
 spot. It was an old cherished design of mine 
 to go back and settle in the quiet country town 
 where I was born, if ever fortune enabled me, 
 and that may be the case at last.” 
 
 “ But, in the mean time, you will come and 
 stay with us,” said I; “ there is room enough 
 in our house, and Rhoda will be kind to you.” 
 
 “I am sure she would be kind to any body,” 
 said Morton (my sister was out of the room just 
 
 then); “but I had better stay in Bloomsbury; 
 there is a deal of lawyers seeing to be done. I 
 am a crusty old bachelor now, and poor com- 
 pany for a bonnie lass, as we used to say in 
 Scotland.” 
 
 “ You forget that I am here, Mr. Morton, 
 and your cousins the Forbes live within ten 
 minutes’ walk.” I had spoken without think- 
 ing, but the sudden expression of alarm, or rath- 
 er terror, that came over his face made me stop 
 short. 
 
 “ Lucien,” he said, speaking low and hurried- 
 ly, “I know they do, but I don’t want to see 
 them, and they don’t want to see me. Private 
 and family reasons which can not be explained 
 or entered on make it best for us to avoid each 
 other. Will you act a friend’s part, as you 
 have always done, and let us remain separate 
 and at peace ? Do not speak of me to them, or 
 of them to me ; it is a strange thing to ask, but, 
 Lucien, it is the kindest thing you can do to 
 both parties ; and, now that we are alone, I will 
 confess that it was nothing but fear of the whole 
 subject which kept me from writing to you 
 about my coming, or letting you know that I 
 was in London. But Providence directs our 
 steps, however we may take them ; you and I 
 have met, and I must lay that obligation on your 
 friendship. ” 
 
 “It is a small one,” said I; “there is no 
 use in denying that it seems strange, but any 
 request of yours is a sufficient bond for me. I 
 know the motive is a good one, though you do 
 not think proper to explain it, and I promise to 
 keep distance and silence between you and the 
 Forbes’. ” 
 
 “Thank you, Lucien, thank you,” said Mel- 
 rose, leaning back in his chair with a sigh of re- 
 lief. The man was weary and desolate — not 
 unlucky, perhaps, for he had got a legacy, but 
 what a desperate and impenetrable quarrel was 
 that between him and the serious banker ? Rho- 
 da came back, and I observed her hair had been 
 newly smoothed. Morton congratulated us on 
 being found so comfortable, told me that my 
 uncle was getting very old-looking, and not 
 much improved by his marriage ; that he had 
 removed to one of the principal boarding-houses 
 in Baltimore, the company in West Street be- 
 ing too dull for the quondam Mrs. Maynard and 
 her son, who every body said would be able to 
 spend the old gentleman’s gatherings. He had 
 a great deal more news about the Mortons and 
 my grammar-school acquaintances. He heard 
 the whole history of Rosanna’s defalcation, but 
 not my acquiescence, which, however, he seemed 
 to understand and expect, and he assured me, 
 almost in the words of his cousin in Notting 
 Hill House, that I had missed her well. Mor- 
 ton knew me better than Forbes did, for our in- 
 timacy was earlier. He did not know, and he 
 could not guess, that the spell had been broken 
 by a stronger one ; but he perceived that my 
 mind had changed, and required no condolence 
 on being left to wear the willow. There was n<> 
 more coldness, distance, or offense with himself; 
 
120 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 it was the Forbes’ and not me or my sister he 
 wanted to avoid. An unceremonious invitation 
 made him consent to stay for the night, which 
 continued to rain ; we discussed every thing ex- 
 cept that one forbidden subject before we re- 
 tired. We met next morning at breakfast, as 
 we used to meet in the old grammar-school days, 
 and set out together in the clear fresh morning, 
 I for the bank and he for Bloomsbury. No in- 
 vitation could induce him to make our house 
 his home ; and guessing it was because the 
 Forbes’ were too near it, I did not press the 
 matter. 
 
 “You are right not to ask him, Lucien, dear,” 
 said Rhoda, when I explained the case as well 
 as I could explain it to her in private ; “ quar- 
 rels between relations is always the worst kind 
 of wars ; and it is strange. Mr. Forbes is such 
 a very good Christian man ; I am sure it wasn’t 
 his daughter’s fault ; and your friend Mr. Mor- 
 ton is oncommon sensible ; but they’re Scotch, 
 you see, and stiff-necked, as our father used to 
 say.” It was not a complimentary conclusion 
 regarding my friends, but it seemed to me, as 
 well as to Rhoda, the only way of accounting 
 for wrath so long and inveterate that neither 
 party wished to see or hear of the other after the 
 lapse of eighteen years. To my own knowl- 
 edge, Morton had been in Baltimore that length 
 of time, and, according to Helen’s statement, the 
 dispute had taken place in Dublin. Rhoda guess- 
 ed, and I made sure that it was not her fault ; 
 she had spoken kindly of her cousin Melrose. 
 He had told me that the cause of separation was 
 a family one, and something very particular it 
 must have been, since Forbes thought proper 
 to keep it from his daughter. At any rate, I 
 could not make peace between them, and sound 
 policy as well as honor bound me to keep the 
 promise I had made to Morton, so the people of 
 Notting Hill House heard nothing of his exist- 
 ence, and I saw no sign that they knew of his 
 being in town. 
 
 The warm welcome and shelter found in our 
 parlor that wet evening seemed to have impress- 
 ed my early friend favorably. Though Melrose 
 would not stay with us, he was willing to come. 
 Evening after evening I found him at the bank 
 door, and he went home with me ; Rhoda made 
 him welcome, and I gloried in the opportunity, 
 now that he had no home in London, of return- 
 ing his and his mother’s hospitality to my child- 
 hood, when it had no home but that of the 
 grammar-school in Baltimore. He came and 
 sat with us at hearth and board ; and though 
 he would not tell me his cause of quarrel with 
 Forbes, Melrose and I got back to the old famil- 
 iar footing on which we stood before the Joyces 
 •came in my way, and I had but one difficulty, 
 namely, to keep from his knowledge the direc- 
 tion of my goings on Sunday evenings. Though 
 Scottish and Presbyterian, seriously-minded and 
 truly religious, Morton was neither strait-laced 
 nor penitential like the Forbes’, and being a 
 stranger in the dullest of all towns on Sabbath- 
 days, it went against my conscience not to ask 
 
 him to No. 9 ; but then one must give up one’s 
 fairy-land in the villa, which was not to be 
 thought of ; and, friend as he was and had been, 
 Melrose was not the man to hear that tale. He 
 had a quarrel to keep from me, and I had a 
 friendship to keep from him. I think he guess- 
 ed there was something in the wind at last, but 
 Morton had given up investigating ; keeping 
 clear of the Forbes’ and realizing his uncle’s 
 houses in Bloomsbury seemed to be business 
 enough for him ; he came and went, asked no 
 questions, and we continued to be fast friends. 
 
 CHAPTER XNNVIII. 
 
 FORBES IS ILL, AND DISTRUSTS ESTHERS. 
 
 I had not observed it, but Rhoda did, that 
 Miss Forbes latterly called atour house less 
 frequently than she used to do. “ It’s not get- 
 ting proud and high she is, I am sure,” said 
 my sensible sister ; “Miss Forbes is above such 
 foolery; but, Lucien, I don’t like her looks at 
 all ; there is something past the common troub- 
 ling that young lady, for all her father’s riches 
 and her own goodness. I have heard her sigh 
 in this room as if her heart were like to break, 
 when she came in from visiting the poor people 
 in the village, and didn’t know it herself, being 
 so used to the sorrow and taken up with it; I 
 don’t know what it is, Lucien, but there is some- 
 thing wrong and getting wronger about that 
 house ; it is not Mr. Forbes’s business, for Watt 
 Wilson says there is not such a safe place in 
 London, barring the Bank of England; but 
 Nelly tells me she sees him coming home, when 
 she is out on arrands, sometimes, and he don’t 
 look a bit more cheerful than his daughter, but, 
 she thinks, woi'se and more down-hearted.” 
 
 Similar reflections had occurred to me so oft- 
 en that I took little notice of Rhoda’s remarks, 
 till one Saturday evening when I came home, 
 intending to go over to Notting Hill House, my 
 sister informed me that Mr. Forbes’s footman 
 had come with a message. Miss Helen sent 
 him to say that her father was very ill, but she 
 hoped I would come over to see him in the 
 course of the evening. The Forbes’ kept up se- 
 rious gentility, and so did I in my intercourse 
 with them, intimate though it was ; the strictest 
 social regulations must be preserved wherever 
 Miss Forbes had sway, as she undoubtedly had 
 in her father’s house ; it was not proper for her 
 to receive me, but I was expected to go over and 
 see Mr. Forbes. I went accordingly at a dis- 
 creet hour after their dinner-time. The house 
 was, if possible, quieter than usual ; I saw no- 
 body but the serious footman, who said, in reply 
 to my inquiries, that his master had not been 
 able to go to business for two days, and was then 
 confined to his bed ; would I please to walk up 
 to his room ? I walked up ; it was a back 
 room on the second floor of the old house, with 
 a low ceiling, and two narrow windows, as our 
 ancestors were accustomed to form their bed- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 121 
 
 rooms. I had seen the wealthy banker dine 
 sparingly, and water the good wine he pressed 
 so hospitably on me, but I was not prepared for 
 the anchorite meagreness and discomfort of his 
 chamber ; its floor had no carpets, its windows 
 no hangings ; two coarse blinds kept out the 
 sun or moonshine ; no fire seemed to have ever 
 been in the grate ; there was a bathing-tub, two 
 cushionless chairs, an uncovered deal table, with 
 a razor-case, a small shaving-glass, and a Bible 
 on it ; and in the middle of the room a plain, 
 curtainless iron bedstead, w ith mattress and fit- 
 tings of the hardest and coarsest description : 
 on that bed the rich Mr. Forbes was lying ; and 
 close by, reading, I suppose, a sermon-book by 
 the light of the one candle which made the 
 dreary room look still more dreary, sat his 
 daughter and heiress. Sick and sad he looked, 
 but the latter more than the former, and in ex- 
 pressing my concern and making the requisite 
 inquiries, I got over the appearance of surprise 
 at his accommodation. 
 
 “ Sit down, Lucien ; I am glad to see you. It 
 W’as kind of you to come, lad, ” said the banker, 
 after shaking hands with me — how thin and yet 
 muscular his hand was — and Helen, as she 
 placed the only remaining chair for me, said, 
 “ You will not find this room very comfortable, 
 I fear, but it is papa’s peculiarity to have it so 
 furnished. I could never induce him to make 
 any improvement.” I sat down, she closed her 
 book and glided away, and Mr. Forbes and I got 
 into conversation. It w r as merely on business 
 matters as they stood in the city, the news of 
 the day, and his own illness, of which he did 
 not give a very distinct account; but Forbes 
 spoke little on personal subjects : it was a cold, 
 he thought, or influenza ; the spring season did 
 not agree with him of late ; he was getting old, 
 and these were warnings that the clay taberna- 
 cle was to be taken down. I ventured to hint 
 that more comforts in his sleeping apartment 
 might be advisable, but Forbes stopped me. 
 
 “No, no, Lucien, such things don’t suit me; 
 I don’t say a word against them for other peo- 
 ple, neither do I hold the papistical notion of 
 merit in self-denial or mortification ; but I need 
 them, Lucien, I need them ; the old Adam in 
 me requires to be kept under — it does in us all, 
 lad, but most in me, and every man is wise to 
 practice privately that way which conscience 
 tells him is the best for him. Lucien, you have 
 a clear conscience” — he looked me in the face 
 earnestly for a minute, and then covered his 
 own with his hands — “keep it so, keep it so, 
 my boy, in spite of the world, the flesh, and the 
 devil ; especially don’t let money tempt you ; 
 that is the Evil One’s strongest weapon against 
 souls. Esthers tells me you are acquainted 
 with Madame Palivez,” he continued, and I 
 nearly sprung from my chair; “you go to her 
 house, her private residence, and her villa, I 
 understand, Lucien ; I don’t say there is evil or 
 danger in it, for I know little about her ; but 
 she is a strange lady by all accounts, and you 
 are a young man not much acquainted with the 
 
 world yet, and not likely to see a snare till your 
 feet are in it.” 
 
 “I assure you, sir, Madame Palivez or any 
 body else, as far as I am aware, has set no 
 snares for me ; it would scarcely be worth the 
 trouble.” I was able to speak by this time, and 
 to comprehend that my well-kept secret — the 
 visits which he had never appeared to notice — . 
 never hinted at — were known to Esthers, and 
 published in Notting Hill House. 
 
 “I don’t say she did, lad; but you are a 
 young man, and, having escaped one peril of 
 women, have a care that you may not fall into 
 another ; though fair to look upon, and in good 
 repute with the world, they that know her best 
 say that Madame Palivez is a woman without 
 religion, or belief of any kind. Lucien, we are 
 all too apt to lose our hold on that anchor of 
 the soul when sore temptations or besetting sins 
 drive us, but what will they do who disown and 
 cast it from them ? I allow she does business 
 well and honorably, but she lives in a strange 
 manner at home ; there are strange tales abroad 
 about her family — a proud, foreign race, who 
 made money in all countries but their own, mar- 
 ried among themselves only, and never one of 
 them lived to old age. She is the last of them, 
 but as proud as any, and will never give up her 
 bank power and riches to any man, whatever 
 hopes she may give them for her own ends and 
 amusements, as such women do. Lucien, my 
 lad, have a care — I speak to you as a friend — 
 don’t let your heart be whiled away and your 
 life shipwrecked as others have been.” 
 
 “I assure you, sir, there is no danger. Ma- 
 dame Palivez is too far above me in fortune and 
 position to have either ends or amusement in 
 setting snares for me, were I foolish enough to 
 fall into them ; that she has taken some notice 
 of me as her clerk, I gratefully acknowledge ; 
 and I am sorry that her manager has nothing 
 better to do than carry such absurd tales.” I 
 would have said more, but Forbes interposed: 
 “ Easy, easy, lad ; it was not the manager that 
 put me up to all I have said and thought about 
 you and her; he did mention your acquaintance 
 just by accident once or twice, but Esthers is a 
 discreet, close-thinking man, very capable in 
 business, very sincere and religious, I think, as 
 far as his light leads him ; man can go no far- 
 ther ; but he is seeking for truth, and will come 
 to it, with God’s help. T don’t think he is given 
 to carry tales or meddle in people’s affairs ; 
 what’s your opinion?” 
 
 “ I believe he is, sir, very much given to both.” 
 Madame’s warning was in my mind, but must 
 not come out. 
 
 “ Judge charitably, lad” — Forbes’s hands were 
 down, and he was looking keenly at me — 
 “judge charitably; but what reason have you 
 to think so ?” 
 
 “A thousand reasons, sir, but all too small 
 to be quoted. I know it by the man’s daily 
 practice in business and out of it : he is contin- 
 ually ferreting at something which does not con- 
 cern him, continually prying into people’s private 
 
122 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 doings ; and, to speak as a friend, Mr. Forbse, j 
 as I know you have spoken to me, his tales about 
 Madame Palivez, and his pretense of turning 
 Christian, are, in my opinion, equal impositions, 
 made for some crafty end. Of one thing I am 
 certain : he has some design in getting into 
 your house and society, though I know not what 
 it is, and I am almost equally sure that he would 
 oust me out of it, if possible.” 
 
 “ Nobody will do that, Lucien ; but tell me, 
 now, tell me what is it that makes you think 
 Esthers has a design?” The banker looked as 
 earnest as if not his money alone, but life and 
 death, depended on the subject ; the very appear- 
 ance of sickness passed from him as he raised 
 himself on the bed, clutched the coverlet with 
 both hands, and fixed his eyes on me. Was 
 there ever such a hopeless task as trying to 
 prove to another that which one knows by a 
 thousand signs and observations not to be mis- 
 taken, but which melt into no evidence, and 
 mere surmise when reduced to words? I was 
 brought to that test, and with the usual result; 
 what I had to tell of Esthers’ manoeuvres and 
 sayings would be reasoned away by any person 
 inclined to judge charitably, and afraid of com- 
 ing to hasty conclusions, as the Scotch banker 
 Was. It was vague and unsubstantial, even to 
 my own ears, and part of it could not be told, 
 for it concerned Madame Palivez ; in short, I 
 came to the usual case of people who attempt to 
 warn others of the rocks they can not distinctly 
 point out, and after sifting my circumstantial 
 evidence anxiously and attentively for nearly an 
 hour, Mr. Forbes civilly gave it up as a mare’s- 
 nest of my own discovery, and hinted that I 
 should entertain no prejudice against Esthers on 
 account of his being Madame Palivez’s cousin 
 and heir-at-law. I had been bound over not to 
 publish the contrary ; I was afraid of losing my 
 temper in case of any more advices against the 
 snares, and therefore allowed him to drop the 
 subject, apparently satisfied that I had proved 
 nothing. “ But, Lucien,” said he, “you wont 
 take it ill because an old man, who has not been 
 overwise himself, maybe, advised you to take 
 care of getting entangled by the fancy? No 
 man ever gets safe over the like ; if he escape, 
 he leaves half his heart behind him, and that 
 with a woman who neither cares for nor values 
 it.” Was there a true prophecy in that warn- 
 ing? Perhaps Mr. Forbes saw the thought in 
 my face, for he added, like one whose stroke had 
 told, “ Take my advice, lad ; look about you for 
 a sensible, serious-minded, faithful wife — one 
 that will love you honestly and truly, and if she 
 have the wherewithal to help your business and 
 housekeeping ; men must look to those temporal 
 things while they are in this world.” As he 
 spoke the door was softly opened, and Helen 
 stepped in. I knew Miss Forbes had not been 
 eavesdropping — it was beneath her character 
 and custom; but consciousness is more difficult 
 to hide than conscience, and Helen looked con- 
 scious of what we had been talking about ; it 
 had been talked over between her and her fa- 
 
 | ther ; I knew it by her look and by her move- 
 ments as she glided into the uttermost corner 
 of the room, and sat down in the one vacant 
 chair. Mr. Forbes immediately hemmed, and 
 asked her what the night was like. Helen said 
 beautiful and starry — we had all recourse to the 
 weather by way of change, and, seeing it was 
 getting late, I rose to take my leave. Forbes 
 thanked me for coming to see him, advised me, 
 in a low tone, to think of what he had been say- 
 ing, and not to take it ill. “ I will take noth- 
 ing that you say in that manner,” said I; “it 
 would ill become me ; I know it was all spoken 
 in friendship, though, believe me, sir, you are 
 misinformed.” 
 
 “ So much the better,” said Forbes ; “ though 
 you ought to say mistaken, lad. Oh yes, I will 
 soon be well enough ; it was only a cold,” he 
 continued, in answer to my wishes for his recov- 
 ery, and I saw him cast a well-pleased look after 
 Helen and me as we went down stairs together. 
 Her color had risen in the room, but it was gone 
 before we reached the hall below. “ What do you 
 think of my father’s sickness, Mr. La Touche?” 
 she said ; there was no servant within sight or 
 hearing. 
 
 “I trust he will soon be better; how did he 
 catch cold?” 
 
 “I do'n’t know,” said Helen. “I am afraid 
 there is something working on his mind. I 
 can’t understand it ; my father has always been 
 reserved about his inward strivings ; we have 
 all such, owing to our sinful natures ; but I fear 
 he has fallen into spiritual despondency, think- 
 ing his state worse than it is ; yet oh, Mr. La 
 Touche, if he be in danger, which of us can be 
 safe ? One ought to place no confidence in good 
 works ; but they are evidences of faith, as the 
 apostle tells us, and where was there ever a more 
 faithful, pious, self-denying life than his. My 
 father has been blessed with riches ; I know his 
 heart is not given to them ; he looks on himself 
 only as a steward, and it would not become me 
 to tell you the amount of his charities; yet, you 
 see, he refuses to have the commonest comforts 
 in his sleeping-room, and mortifies himself in 
 so many ways of late, not to speak of other signs 
 I see, that it seemS to me he is falling into a 
 kind of despair, if that could happen to a right- 
 eous man.” 
 
 “Might it not be well if your minister con- 
 versed with him?” My association with the 
 Forbes’ had made me understand what suited 
 them. 
 
 “ He does come here, and my father is always 
 willing to converse on religious subjects, but it 
 does no good. There is something in his mind, 
 Mr. La Touche, something I can’t fathom ; do 
 serious, sensible people like him ever lose their 
 judgment?” She had come close to my side 
 by this time, and the face that looked so old and 
 worn before its time was white as if with deadly 
 fear. 
 
 “No, certainly not,” said I, speaking in great 
 pity, yet only what I believed ; “Mr. Forbes is 
 as clear and collected to-night as I ever knew 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 123 
 
 Mm to be; whatever may disturb your father, | 
 depend on it his judgment is safe.” 
 
 “Oh, of course it is, but I am foolish, and 
 don’t know what to think, and one magnifies' 
 trifles. I think we live too retired” — she had 
 hit on Madame Palivez’s solution — “my father 
 dwells too much on little things ; you see, our 
 cousin, Melrose Morton, has come to London ; 
 he visits you, as was to be expected ; did you 
 not teli me you were friends in Baltimore ? But 
 my father saw him going home with you one 
 evening this week, and it upset him so. He 
 never would tell me what they quarreled about ; 
 perhaps I should not ask, but they say it is nat- 
 ural for a woman to be curious ; do you know 
 what it was?” 
 
 “I do not, Miss Eorbes ; Morton would not 
 tell me ; but he gave me to understand that he 
 and your father had reasons for keeping apart, 
 and asked me not to mention the one to the 
 other, which I promised to do.” 
 
 “And you’ll keep your promise, I know, Mr. 
 La Touche” — what a warm, kindly, almost affec- 
 tionate look she gave me, and how fair it made 
 the woman I always thought so plain — “you’ll 
 keep your promise, and I would not tempt you 
 to break it, if I could ; but there is one thing I 
 was going to ask you” — she blushed up to the 
 very brow.” 
 
 “ Ask any thing, and I shall be happy to do 
 it, Miss Forbes.” That was spoken in all sin- 
 cerity. 
 
 “ Thank you — thank you. I know it, or I 
 would not ask the like ; yet I am afraid you 
 will think it strange” — the good, gentle, pure- 
 minded woman was conscious of more than she 
 meant to say — more than I could gues£ at. 
 
 “I’ll think nothing strange that comes from 
 you.” 
 
 “Well, then, you know Mr. Esthers comes 
 here on Sundays. We have got into that — I 
 wish w’e had not — and I can’t help believing 
 some of what you said about him. Maybe it is 
 wrong to think so, and my father won’t acknowl- 
 edge it; but Mr. Esthers’ talk does disturb him. 
 I don’t know why, and I can’t understand it ; 
 but will you come on Sundays too, and keep us 
 from being alone with him ?” If she had been 
 talking about a haunting spectre, poor Helen 
 could not have trembled more, or looked more 
 terror-stricken ; but what was it she asked of 
 me? — to come on Sundays, and give up the 
 waited, watched-for hours with Madame Pali- 
 vez. Was it a ruse to keep me out of the 
 snares ? There was no trick, no cunning in 
 poor Helen’s face, and the Forbes’ had been 
 such friends to me as no man ever had ; but 
 oh, the selfishness of human nature ! small and 
 queer as the request seemed, it was all I could 
 do to serve them, yet I shrank back involunta- 
 rily, and she caught my blank look before I was 
 aware. 
 
 “ You can’t come — you would rather not — 
 perhaps you have another engagement” — the 
 tears were positively gathering in her eyes, and 
 both heart and conscience smote me. 
 
 “ I had one, but I will put it off, and be hap- 
 py to do so, if my presence can serve you in the 
 smallest degree. Will Esthers come while your 
 father is so ill ?” 
 
 “ Oh yes, yes,” said Helen, in a frightened 
 whisper, “ there is no putting him off ; we have 
 tried a thousand ways. But it is so good of 
 you” — she was all smiles now. 
 
 “ Not a bit. Will your father be aware of 
 the arrangement?” 
 
 “I’ll tell him; he knows it partly already. 
 But you won’t say a word about it to him, or 
 Morton, or any body? It looks so queer a thing 
 to ask ; but I'll never forget your kindness, Mr. 
 La Touche.” 
 
 “I wish I could do you a kindness, Miss 
 Forbes ; but depend on me being with you on 
 Sunday evening, though I may be a little late.” 
 There was a sound of some coming step : she 
 moved from my side, and I said, in a louder 
 key, “No doubt your father will be much better 
 by that time.” 
 
 “I hope he will,” said Helen; “ but I have 
 detained you shamefully. Good-night !” and 
 with a warmer shahe-hands than I ever thought 
 she could give, we parted at the hall door. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 WIIAT DOES ESTHERS EXPECT? 
 
 The night was beautiful and starry. I walked 
 quickly away from. Helen, but paused on the 
 road at the end of the lane to look back on the 
 old solitary house, shut up among its grounds 
 to the right, and up the path beside the stream 
 to the left, winding deep into the heart of the 
 Park, and leading to Madame’s villa. The 
 house never looked so lone and dreary — the 
 path never seemed so wild and green ;' and I 
 stood there, with the inward conviction that 
 both the Forbes and Esthers were striving, 
 though not in concert, to break up my friend- 
 ship with Madame Palivez. No reflection on 
 all that had passed with Forbes or with Helen 
 could bring me to any other conclusion. I knew 
 the manager was doing the worst part of it ; I 
 knew he had the worst designs. The Forbes’ 
 fear of him was unaccountable ; but I feared 
 neither the Jew nor any body else where Ma- 
 dame was concerned. Neither he nor the Scotch 
 banker would part me from her friendship — if it 
 were so much, it was nothing more ; and she 
 and they spoke strangely of each other — knew 
 more than I did, perhaps — and they had made 
 me lose my chance of seeing her on Sunday 
 evening. Well, there was the path to her villa; 
 it was not too late ; I would go and tell her all. 
 She ought to know it, and would thank me, 
 maybe ; at any rate, it would keep our friend- 
 ship safe from the manager’s machinations. So 
 up I went, and through the trees ; every step 
 was known to me, and I never parted with the 
 brass key, night or day. There was the villa, 
 
 ' and the starlight shining on it — the great trees 
 
124 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 growing leafy round it, and the breath of violets 
 coming up from lawn and garden. I opened 
 the gate, saw lights above and below, caught a 
 glimpse of old Marco looking out at the ve- 
 randa to see who was coming, and inquired 
 if Madame was at home. “Yes, signor;” he 
 made his Eastern bow, and pointed to the stair. 
 I ascended, and there she sat in the room I 
 had seen so black, but now sweet with flowers, 
 and lit up with wax candles. And Madame 
 herself — what a contrast to her last appearance 
 there ! — in a rich evening dress — the newest 
 fashion from Paris, I suppose — white lace over 
 violet-colored satin, looped up with bunches of 
 violets and pearls — all tuckers and flounces — 
 low cut and short-sleeved, as evening dresses 
 were then, to show a neck and arms that might 
 have served a sculptor in his best attempt at 
 Venus — so round, soft, and snowy they were, 
 and set forth to the best advantage with neck- 
 lace and bracelets of mingled gold and pearls. 
 Her beautiful hair was dressed partly in flowing 
 curls, partly in braids, bound with a coronet to 
 match, which looked like a crown with wreathed 
 violets and strings of pearls falling from it among 
 her jetty curls. I had never seen her so dressed 
 before, and was taken by surprise. It was strange 
 to have left the comfortless chamber, with the 
 sickness and sadness that lay in it — the worn 
 face of Helen Forbes, and her dark, sober trim 
 — and find myself all at once in such presence. 
 
 She had heard my step, and was waiting for 
 me in a graceful, careless attitude, with a bou- 
 quet of hot-house flowers in her hand, and a 
 rich Eastern fan lying at her feet. “Welcome, 
 Lucien,” she said, smiling on me as I entered ; 
 “come and shake hands with me. I have been 
 dining at the Russian embassador’s, and am 
 tired to death of a large dull party. By-the-by, 
 I was thinking of it just as you came in ; what 
 is your opinion of death, Lucien ?” 
 
 “ Upon my word, Madame, I am afraid I 
 have no opinion just now upon the subject.” 
 
 “Just now; but you have formed a general 
 one : is it the greatest or the least of all evils ? 
 is it no evil at all, but only the greatest good 
 that life has for us ?” 
 
 “ I don’t know, Madame ; why do you ask 
 me?” 
 
 “Because it is our common lot, and my own 
 turn is coming on.” 
 
 “Your turn!” I could not help looking at 
 her from head to foot as she talked so in her 
 lace and satin, flowers and pearls, with the 
 brightest bloom I ever saw on lip and cheek. 
 
 “ Yes, my turn ; did you think it would never 
 come ?” 
 
 “ You don’t look like it, Madame.” 
 
 “No she glanced at herself in the opposite 
 mirror with more of queenly pride than woman’s 
 vanity; “ but the greenest grass may be nearest 
 the scythe. I have got a warning sign to-night, 
 my friend ; the skeleton hand beckoned to me 
 through the flare of plate and the flash of dia- 
 monds ; but you have come on business ? I 
 know it by your look. You know you are al- 
 
 i ways welcome, but I thought this evening was 
 sacred to your Scotch friends the Forbes’?” 
 
 There was but one way for me with Madame. 
 I related as clearly as I could all that had been 
 said and done in Notting Hill House, keeping 
 back only the banker’s warnings against snares 
 and entanglements, which I dared not repeat, 
 because they had hit on the truth, but I told her 
 all their fear of Esthers, my own inability to 
 account for it, his knowledge of my visits to her, 
 Helen’s request, and my promise. She listened 
 calmly, as was her wont, but evidently in deep 
 thought, sat for a minute or two reflecting when 
 I had finished, and then said, “You did right, 
 Lucien, to promise, and you will do right to go. 
 I am sorry for your friends ; they are good 
 people, and have been kind to you and yours. 
 There is some unsound spot in their lives, all 
 the worse because it must be hidden, and Est- 
 hers has got his eye upon it. I am sorry for 
 them ; my manager never gives up any thing he 
 is fairly bent upon, and he is bent on that, not 
 from mere curiosity. Esthers has an end ; can 
 you not guess it ?” 
 
 “I really can not.” 
 
 “Well, consider a moment: Mr. Forbes is 
 rich, Helen is his only daughter and heiress ; 
 the wealthy banker and the serious young lady, 
 with all their guid Scotch blood, might not think 
 the Jew an eligible match ; but could he discover 
 the misfortune or the crime — don’t start, they 
 are often the same things, my friend — which 
 would put them in his power through fear, of the 
 world or the law, might not Esthers make his 
 own terms, and become son-in-law and successor 
 in the bank?” 
 
 “ But,” said I, “do you suppose it possible 
 that a man like Mr. Forbes could be guilty of 
 any thing which would give the manager such 
 power?” 
 
 “I don’t know, Lucien,” and she looked so 
 thoughtful, yet so disembarrassed; “I don’t 
 know ; Mr. Forbes is a good man — good beyond 
 the power of creeds or customs ; but he may 
 have been unfortunate ; there may have been a 
 moment when the evil angels, the rulers of dark 
 destiny, had power over him.” 
 
 “ What do you suppose, then, Esthers has to 
 discover ?” said I ; it was evidently not her own 
 secret, and her words tallied with signs about 
 the banker which had puzzled me. 
 
 “ Once more, Lucien, I don’t know ; I have 
 suspicions Avhich I will not tell you, for they 
 should not be uttered without proof. Were it 
 not that an unusual fit of sincerity has come 
 upon me, I would not say so much ; but we are 
 friends, and you will understand me. I am 
 sorry for the Forbes’, and I will take measures 
 to prevent Esthers, as far as in my power; 
 that is not what I could wish. Though he is 
 in my employment, there are family and busi- 
 ness reasons which do not allow me to deal with 
 him as summarily as may be requisite. But I 
 will do what I can, and so will you ; it is your 
 duty and your privilege. Go to them, Lucien, 
 stay with them, support them against the Jew, 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 125 
 
 he can’t worm so well in the presence of anoth- 
 er, and whatever you get cause to suspect, what- 
 ever you may find out (for you are one of the 
 few among mankind destined to see the hidden 
 and read the secret, and they are of the many 
 that will not carry their concealment to the 
 grave — strange that we all wish to tell our tales 
 on this side of it), whatever you may learn, then 
 remember and believe that Forbes is a better 
 man than most of the safe walking people, and 
 that his daughter would be better worth win- 
 ning than the fairest face in your acquaint- 
 ance.” 
 
 That woman, without doubt, had a prophet’s 
 power of seeing and showing the true. Her 
 judgment, thus briefly given, of one whom that 
 very hour had placed in such disadvantageous 
 contrast with herself, fell on my mind like the 
 flare of a torch upon a twilight room. It 
 brought me a strong and sudden conviction, as 
 truths in which we have a personal interest are 
 apt to come home to us, that for the empire of 
 my inner life the banker’s daughter and the bank 
 lady were unconscious rivals, but rivals never- 
 theless. And she had opened my eyes to the 
 fact voluntarily, perhaps by premeditation, an- 
 other proof that I had no hold on her heart. 
 Yet how did it happen ? I had seen Helen 
 Forbes often, often acknowledged to myself her 
 good qualities, and thought it was a pity the 
 banker’s heiress had nothing but them and her 
 father’s wealth to recommend her ; but now, in 
 the presence of so much external and intellect- 
 ual attraction, the moral worth, the inherent 
 excellence of the otherwise plain woman, was 
 made clear to me beyond all comparison and 
 price, and also that my better hold and hope was 
 there. I had not dreamt of this yet ; it was a 
 true discovery. Mine was a divided life once 
 more ; there was no change of affection, no 
 breach of faith now to be reckoned for, but there 
 was a clashing of royalties, for the one woman 
 reigned over my imagination, and the other over 
 my reason. It is well with the man who has 
 never known those opposing empires, for their 
 strife is strong and strange, and who can say 
 that the former is not the most powerful ? I 
 felt that as my thoughts passed like lightning 
 from the present to the absent, I valued, I be- 
 lieved in Helen, but I was the vassal and bond- 
 man of Madame Palivez, convinced of her ver- 
 dict, yet displeased that she had spoken it, and 
 stammered out, “ I don’t understand you.” 
 
 “You do, Lucien,” she said, looking me in 
 the face archly but kindly, and laying her white 
 jeweled hand on mine, as a mother might have 
 done, to impress some good counsel on her eldest 
 son — “you do understand me, and you will do 
 so better in time, for you have sense and judg- 
 ment, considering your want of experience. But 
 we will talk no more on the subject now ; Helen 
 Forbes and her father have been and are your 
 friends; they are in difficulties — not tangible 
 ones, to be sure, but all the worse for that, and 
 you are bound to stand by them, to serve them 
 to the best of your ability, and think the best of 
 
 them and their doings, all which I know you 
 will do like a loyal man — a character of which 
 this world affords us few examples ; yet I think 
 you are one of them, and I believe you will find 
 your account in it, which does not always hap- 
 pen.” 
 
 “I would stand by them and by any friend 
 — by any body that wanted my help ; but what 
 can any body do to help, Madame, where one is 
 not allowed to know the necessity, or rather the 
 cause of it ?” I was speaking at herself now, 
 like a displeased man whose vexation could not 
 be put in words. “ If, as you say, and I think 
 very probable, the Forbes’ have something to 
 hide from the world and from Esthers, what 
 service can one do them without being trusted, 
 without knowing how or when to serve?” 
 
 “You will know it all in time, my friend.” 
 She spoke with great composure, but the woman 
 looked shaken within. “For the present, do 
 what they ask you, if it be necessary to give up 
 your Sunday evenings to them. Come to me 
 when you find it convenient; I shall be more at 
 home here than I have been in other London 
 seasons. You are always welcome, and since 
 Esthers is aware of your visits, there is no use in 
 taking precautions for secrecy. The matter is 
 not worth publishing ; but let them know it, and 
 talk of it who will,” and she tossed back her 
 coronet with a sort of careless defiance. Under 
 the flowers and pearls, her look was growing sad 
 and weary with that worn-out, overworked ap- 
 pearance which I had occasionally noticed. But 
 what was there to overwork or wear her? “ It 
 is growing late, my friend, and I am growing 
 tired. There is a proof of no ceremony between 
 us, so bid me good-night,” she said, once more 
 extending her hand and laying it on mine. I 
 always fancied there was a spell in the touch of 
 those soft, cold fingers. “I’ll do my best to 
 manage my manager, and keep him off your 
 poor friends. You will support their courage, 
 and never try to ferret out matters which will 
 come to your knowledge soon enough.” 
 
 “ Do you suppose I am in the habit of fer- 
 reting, Madame ?” There was no keeping down 
 the inclination to be petulant. 
 
 “No, Lucien, I do not ; for if I had, you and 
 I should never have made up friendship. I 
 know you better, and I would believe in you, if 
 it were possible for me to believe in man. 
 Helen Forbes will, for she is good and pious ; 
 has never inquired, doubted, nor done beyond 
 the common ; never found her own light at vari- 
 ance with the world’s laws ; but good-night, my 
 friend.” 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 PROGRESS OF THE MANAGER’S CONVERSION. 
 
 What could I do but say good-night and go? 
 She watched me out of the room as if we had 
 been parting for years, and looking up through 
 the clear night, when I was' fairly out of the 
 villa, my eye caught her shadow leaning over 
 
12(5 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 the balcony, and I felt half inclined to go back. 
 What did she mean by the skeleton hand that 
 beckoned to her that evening ? She looked in 
 the very bloom and vigor of life’s midsummer. 
 It was said the Palivez died early, and she had 
 warned me that the greenest grass might be 
 nearest the scythe. Possibly it was only a way 
 of talking the lady had in the midst of her lace 
 and pearls, attentions from foreign embassadors, 
 and bowings-down of princes who wanted loans, 
 to keep herself in mind that she was mortal, 
 after the fashion of Philip of Macedon, At any 
 rate, she had sent me away — was willing to 
 make me over first to Rosanna Joyce, now to 
 Helen Forbes, and doubtless to any body ; clear 
 evidence that the woman did not care for me, 
 except as an humble companion, perhaps a 
 necessary instrument, for it crossed me at times 
 that, according to Rhoda’s surmise, she would 
 want something done ; so I took heart, not of 
 grace, but of pride, turned away from her villa, 
 and went home. 
 
 Having seen Madame Palivez and told my 
 tale, I had no occasion to be late in my going to 
 Notting Hill House on Sunday evening, though 
 the contingency had been provided for. I ar- 
 rived before Esthers, and, had it been some en- 
 terprise of knightly daring, I could not have 
 been rewarded with a brighter smile or more 
 joyful welcome from Helen. It made her look 
 ten years younger, as smiles and gladness al- 
 ways did,' but she said nothing beyond her usual 
 greeting, except that papa was much better ; had 
 got up that day, though he was not able to go to 
 church. She had read “The Whole Duty of 
 Man” to him, and he would be down to dinner. 
 Then we got on her accustomed theme — Ma- 
 dame Palivez. She had seen her riding up to 
 the villa on her beautiful horse one day last 
 week. She thought Madame looked younger 
 and handsomer than ever. Did not I think so ? 
 Miss Forbes did not look at me, but straight out 
 of the window, while she made that inquiry, and 
 1 said decidedly yes. “You are acquainted 
 with her, I understand ?” Helen was looking 
 out of the window still. “It must be a great 
 opportunity for you, she is such a learned lady, 
 has traveled and seen so much, not to speak of 
 her standing in the fashionable world ; but you 
 never told us that Madame and you were on 
 such a friendly footing, Mr. La Touche;” 
 
 “No,” said I, having made my preparations 
 for the attack. “ Madame received me privately 
 as a clerk whom she pleased to take notice of. 
 I don’t exactly know why ; fashionable ladies 
 will have whims, I suppose , but the mention of 
 it might have looked like a foolish boast, to 
 which I am neither entitled nor inclined ; and I 
 know the gentleman who told you of my ac- 
 quaintance with Madame did so for no good 
 end.” I had scarcely uttered the last words, 
 when, as if in proof of the proverb regarding 
 the speaking of a certain person, in walked Est- 
 hers. He had manifestly got no hint of my 
 coming, and nothing but the face of his kindred 
 Shylock, when he found himself caught in the 
 
 meshes of the law in which he trusted for re- 
 venge, could have equaled the mixture of sur- 
 prise, disappointment, and wrath, that altered 
 the manager’s countenance to something like a 
 very bad false face, as he greeted Miss Forbes 
 and me with words of great cordiality, and 
 made kind inquiries after the banker’s health. 
 Esthers was never long in recovering his com- 
 posure when it was requisite. The first surprise 
 over, he seated himself at a friendly nearness to 
 my side, commenced conversation in an easy, 
 familiar way, as if my being there before him 
 was no unexpected chance, and we were two in- 
 timates meeting at the rffcuse of a mutual friend. 
 I am not aware of having taken on airs, but 
 I knew how long and vainly he had endeav- 
 ored to oust me, and why I had been half be- 
 seeched to come that Sunday. Yet, knowing 
 that an appearance of unconsciousness was the 
 best policy for both the Forbes’ and myself, I 
 accepted his friendship, and kept a sharp eye 
 upon him. 
 
 There was nothing for me to note in the 
 course of the evening, which differed only from 
 my Saturday experiences in being more sober 
 and serious. Our talk was limited to religious 
 books, the lives of ministers, and the achieve- 
 ments of missionaries. Miss Forbes took in a 
 world of tracts and pious periodicals, but her 
 father clung to the works of old Scotch divines, 
 of which he had a wondrous stock, ranging from 
 Knox to Erskine, and their doctrinal portions 
 seemed to be his chief delight. We were all 
 set to read by turns. I remember getting 
 through a part of Durham on the “Psalms,” 
 hearing Helen read her share of Boston’s “Four- 
 fold State,” and observing Esthers endeavoring 
 to look impressed, and at the same time avoid 
 giving me occasion for laughing at him, for the 
 Jew dreaded nothing so much as ridicule from 
 any quarter, and I was aware of the Sundays he 
 spent at the bank. We staid for family prayer. 
 The extemporary devotions of his Scotch Church 
 were well illustrated by Mr. Forbes and his house- 
 hold. Their domestic service was an example 
 of that undemonstrative but deep and earnest 
 piety characteristic of the Presbyterian Puritan. 
 They read verses from the Bible in turn, sang 
 one of their Scotch psalms to an old monoto- 
 nous tune, which might have been heard on the 
 hillside at one of Cameron’s sermons. Helen 
 led the music, and her father closed the service 
 with an impressive prayer, couched in the lan- 
 guage of his favorite divines, and heard or join- 
 ed in by all his family in devout silence. After 
 the manner of his Presbyterian models, the 
 banker’s prayer was somewhat lengthy, and be- 
 ing a stray sheep of Rome, too much occupied 
 with worldly thoughts, and curious regarding 
 the people about me, I could not help taking a 
 stealthy survey. They were all kneeling — a 
 Scotch custom for private prayer, though they 
 stand in the kirk. I saw Helen with her thin 
 hands clasped and her face lighted up with a 
 look of such rapt and spiritual devotion as made 
 it seem half angelic. “ How beautiful she is ! ” 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 127 
 
 was my inward exclamation ; but as I glanced 
 to the other side, not to be observed, it seemed 
 as if an evil spirit had come up to counteract 
 the heavenly influences, for there was Esthers 
 kneeling like the rest, apparently in fixed at- 
 tention, but his face, which he supposed hid- 
 
 easily frightened, but that glance of the Jew, 
 kneeling at what Mr. Forbes called his family 
 exercise, put me on my guard in a weird, un- 
 earthly manner against poisoning or stabbing in 
 the dark. He looked capable of that and more. 
 Henceforth I should have to walk warily, as 
 
 u I could not help taking a stealthy survey." 
 
 den in a corner of the room, was turned to- 
 ward me, and I had never conjured up in fancy, 
 much less seen, any thing like its concentrated 
 malice. If there were any truth in that Old- 
 World notion of the evil eye, his must have 
 blasted my life. I never was supposed to be 
 
 one that knew he had secret enmity to fear. 
 Yet with the hate and with the malice there 
 was something blended not intelligible, not ra- 
 tional, and as we rose from our knees, I found 
 out that it was a look like that of the ragged 
 man when I wrenched the long knife out of his 
 
128 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 hand and flung him back from his hold on Ma- 
 dame’s bridle. 
 
 The family prayer concluded our evening ; 
 the Forbes’ retired early, both on Saturday and 
 Sunday. It was about ten o’clock on a beauti- 
 ful summer night, with the wake of daylight 
 still lingering in the west, when Esthers and I 
 took our leave oh the most friendly terms with 
 our host and with each other. Helen bade us 
 good-night with equal civility to each, at the 
 top of the stair ; and let me confess that I had 
 some misgivings when the manager remarked 
 that his way lay past Petersburg Place. A lit- 
 tle reflection convinced me that there was no 
 danger: he had no weapon, my strength was 
 greater than his, and Esthers was not the man 
 to venture on an overt act of hostility. He 
 walked along doAvn the avenue and through the 
 lane, chatting in as friendly a manner as Charles 
 Barry and I used to chat, only that Esthers was 
 hard and dry by nature on any subject. His 
 present theme was Mr. Forbes : how delicate his 
 health was, how much better he appeared to be 
 that evening. The banker certainly did look 
 himself again, and I could not catch the Jew 
 talking of any thing peculiar ; he certainly had 
 not been in the ferreting-out line. Now he 
 spoke of father and daughter with most friendly 
 seriousness ; the knowingness and the smirks 
 were laid aside, and to me he was as civil as 
 one of the old Italian princes might have been 
 to the man for whom he had bravos in waiting. 
 I responded with care and caution, expecting 
 the Jew would try to draw me out on my being 
 found in Notting Hill House ; but he made no 
 attempt of the kind, and our talk had diverged 
 to the beauty of the night, the fine road between 
 us and London, the buildings that were being 
 got up, and the number that would come down 
 from the City to Notting Hill every Sunday if 
 they had only conveyances, when on the Bays- 
 water Road, within a short distance of my own 
 street, a woman leading two children passed us. 
 It was the look of astonished recognition she 
 gave Esthers that caught my attention ; the 
 light was sufficient for her to see him plainly, 
 and also to show me that she was Mrs. Muncy, 
 the faithful liege and charwoman of our house. 
 The Jew did not observe her ; he had subsided 
 into a brown study, which made him quicken his 
 steps and keep his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 without speaking a word, till we reached the 
 opening of Petersburg Place, when he stopped 
 short, turned to me with a kind of grin which was 
 meant for a sneer, and with the very hiss through 
 the teeth of his sister in Berkeley Square, said, 
 “You are a great friend to the Forbes’, and the 
 Forbes are great friends to you ; but if you knew 
 every thing, what sort of friends would you be?” 
 
 “ What do you mean?” said I, stopping and 
 confronting him. The manager was going to 
 say something in reply, had actually opened his 
 mouth, when a different impulse seemed to 
 strike him, and with a laugh which sounded at 
 once scornful and insane, he darted off* at top 
 speed, and was out of sight in a few minutes. 
 
 I stood looking after the man, and wondering 
 whether or not his reason was taking leave of 
 him ; but as I turned to my own house, some- 
 body came up close behind me, and there was 
 Mrs. Muncy, with her two little children. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I beg your pardon, sir. I took the liberty 
 of waiting for you,” said the honest woman, 
 “just to tell you, because I thought Miss Rhoda 
 and you were particular about it, that the gen- 
 tleman you were walking with on the road is 
 the same that called one day when you were all 
 out, and made signs to Hannah Clark. I never 
 see’d him since or before ; but I would know 
 him among a thousand.” 
 
 “And you are quite sure he is the person 
 who called?” said I. 
 
 “ I would take my oath on it, sir, though she 
 said it was Father Connolly ; I knowed he was 
 no priest or clergyman. Oh, no thanks at all, 
 sir,” continued Mrs. Muncy, in reply to my ac- 
 knowledgments ; “ it is right to put every body 
 up to what concerns them. I .am bound to do 
 more than that for you and Miss Rhoda and 
 she went off with a profound courtesy. 
 
 I stood for a minute or two on the spot where 
 she left me, pondering over that brief revelation. 
 What a light it cast on the Jew’s character and 
 our former puzzle ! He was the person whom 
 Hannah Clark had stolen out to meet, who had 
 probably supplied her Avith a key for our street 
 door, and instigated her watch on my goings to 
 the villa. Hannah’s readiness to leave us, and 
 delight in the prospect of Broad Street, Avere in- 
 telligible now. How he had contriA^ed to enlist 
 the services and secure the affections of the 
 dumb girl was beyond my skill to penetrate ; 
 but the business was done, and she was in the 
 bank — under Madame Oniga’s supervision, in- 
 deed, but also within his reach, and convenient 
 for any purpose. Had the chances worked to 
 his mind in that matter, or had he a hand in 
 Hannah’s translation? It seemed to be Ma- 
 dame’s OAvn idea ; but she knew as little of the 
 true state of the case as I did at the time, and 
 Esthers’ interference would have been a suffi- 
 cient indication to one so keen-sighted. Han- 
 nah’s conduct had been unexceptionable since 
 her installment in the bank. The discipline 
 there was strict, almost monastic, and Madame 
 Oniga had an eye not to be eluded ; but that 
 did not explain the mystery. I knew it Avas an 
 instrument, and not a mistress, for which Est- 
 hers had made choice of the dumb girl; and 
 Avith her instinctive cunning, natural dexterity, 
 and unreasoning mind, he could not have found 
 one better qualified for doing his behests Avith- 
 out scruple or question. There was that about 
 the manager which assured me that ordinary 
 folly or passion had little hold upon him. Est- 
 hers Avas cold-blooded by nature ; it was the 
 tenth and not the seventh commandment he was 
 inclined to break. Madame had pointed out to 
 me his probable purpose in haunting the Forbes’; 
 but what purpose had he for Hannah Clark to 
 serve in her establishment ? I could make noth- 
 ing of it but to let her knoAV the whole as soon 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 129 
 
 as convenient. It was early in her evening, but 
 I could not intrude again on the lady’s retire- 
 ment. She had been in haste to part with me 
 on my last visit ; she might think it only an 
 •apology. I would show her that my heart was 
 as free as her own. What a fool I had been to 
 let it go after a woman who cared nothing for 
 me, and never would ! Was it true what she 
 had insinuated about Helen Forbes? What 
 did her father mean when he advised me so 
 earnestly to give up Madame Palivez, and look 
 out for a faithful wife ? and what secret was it 
 that lay so black and heavy at the root of his 
 prosperity, in which that foreign woman seemed 
 to have a part, and yet no fear ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A NEW COURTSHIP. 
 
 It was pleasant to step out of these dark 
 thoughts and surmisings, as it were, into the 
 little parlor of my own house, and find Rhoda 
 in her best attire, presiding over a hospitable 
 supper-table, surrounded by the honest, con- 
 tented faces of Watt Wilson, the two Masons, 
 with their eldest son and daughter, and, to my 
 surprise, Melrose Morton. All but he had been 
 invited for the evening (they were Rhoda’s se- 
 lect society), and I took care that my sister 
 should not he solitary when I went out to friends 
 of a different order ; but Melrose had dropped 
 in unexpectedly, and been made welcome ; per- 
 haps he was curious as to what became of me 
 on Sundays ; but Rhoda had told him I was 
 gone to the Forbes’. “In course I did not 
 think you were there, Lucien,” said my honest 
 sister, when we were alone in confidential talk ; 
 1 1 but you said it was to be kept from all the 
 world that you went to see the bank lady, and 
 as it was only a white story, I thought I might 
 as well tell it ; goodness be praised that it hap- 
 pened to be true. He came — Mr. Morton I 
 mean — -just when the tea was a-putting down, 
 and in course I asked him to stay. I know 
 that would not have been onproper in Ireland, 
 and I hope it is not onproper here ; he is your 
 friend, and a very sensible man.” 
 
 “ Very, Rhoda,” said I. The habitual bloom 
 of my sister’s cheek had heightened as she spoke ; 
 a smoothing of her hair and an arrangement of 
 her frills beyond the common had been made in 
 the course of the evening, and it struck me all 
 at once that the learning and the gentility 
 found wanting in Watt Wilson were on the 
 side of Melrose, and that I had seen the Scotch- 
 man keeping a quiet but well-pleased eye on my 
 sister. The lot they were to draw came distinct- 
 ly before me, an easy and a suitable one, not- 
 withstanding that the one was a Greek schol- 
 ar, and the other could never be taught to spell 
 her mother tongue ; they were both honest and 
 true-hearted, free from vanity, ambition, and 
 covetousness. He had knowledge enough to 
 value Rhoda’s sterling good qualities, and pass 
 I 
 
 over the deficiencies which were but of surface 
 and accident ; she had sound sense enough to 
 esteem his native nobleness and unparaded 
 abilities. They deserved the good fortune, nev- 
 er to be my own, of a happy and harmonious 
 union. My Scotch friend had come from Bal- 
 timore to take my sister from me, and leave me 
 with a solitary fireside — a life overshadowed by 
 clouds, not of my own raising, and heart going 
 astray after Madame Palivez. 
 
 I thought of it all as I quizzed Rhoda about 
 Melrose, and she blushed, and smiled, and said, 
 “He never paid her no attentions that she 
 could see ; in course she liked Mr. Morton in a 
 friendly way, because he had been a good friend 
 to me — hadn’t I told her so often ? and he was 
 an oncommon sensible man — she ought to say 
 gentleman.” 
 
 It was a long talk we had that night, for I 
 told her every thing except the look I had noted 
 in Esthers’ face, and his subsequent remarks or 
 insinuations on the Bayswater Road. The man- 
 ager was my enemy — a crafty and a fierce one ; 
 I had guessed it for some time ; I believed it 
 now ; and there was reason for it on Esthers’ 
 part, for I had been made to cross his way. But 
 why give my sister cause of dread and fearful 
 surmise when I happened to be out late, and 
 she was alone, with nobody but Nelly, our maid, 
 in No. 9 ? I could take care of myself, and I 
 would not frighten her, so Rhoda heard all but 
 that, and made her comments accordingly. 
 
 “I have often thought it, Lucien,” she said, 
 “though not just plain enough for me to speak 
 upon ; with all their goodness and charitable- 
 ness, Mr. Forbes and his daughter could not 
 look so downhearted and onhappy like if they 
 hadn’t some trouble past the common. Con- 
 sidering their riches, too, many a time I have 
 thought to myself the poorest beggars ever I 
 saw on the roadsides in Ireland did not look so 
 misfortunate ; but, Lucien, that bank lady has 
 the great sense, and I am sure it is true she tells 
 you, whatever their trouble is, it is not Miss 
 Helen’s fault. I don’t know about her father ; 
 he is a good man and a great Christian, in 
 course ; but rich men buy their riches dear 
 sometimes, and will do more for money than 
 poor ones, as Father Connolly said in his ser- 
 mon about the camel going through the eye of 
 the needle. Howmsoever, that Jew is a vil- 
 lain, and worth watching. To think of him 
 taking Hannah Clark out by night and day, 
 and making me think she was dealing with the 
 fairies ; laming her such craft, too, and sending 
 her astray entirely if Providence don’t take a 
 hand in it ; and then trying to get that good, 
 blessed young lady and her fine fortune ; good- 
 ness me, but he is the villain ! Lucien, dear, 
 there is just one thing you ought to take care of ; 
 he’ll hate you like the soot when he finds they 
 lean to you, especially Miss Helen, as I know 
 she does.” # 
 
 “ How do you know that, Rhoda ?” 
 
 “Well, Ijust can’t say; Miss Forbes is on- 
 common proper, but the properest thinks of 
 
130 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 somebody at a time ; and, Lucien, if it was the 
 will of Providence, and you inclined to it, a 
 better thing couldn’t happen any man. What- 
 ever trouble is about them, it can’t concern us, 
 and there’s the bank would make you a gentle- 
 man, though in course you are one already ; 
 but money is a good thing, and Miss Helen 
 would be good without it.” 
 
 I tried to disabuse my sister’s mind of the 
 idea that Miss Forbes entertained the slightest 
 preference for me, but it crept into my own. I 
 had got the hint from two such different quar- 
 ters ; Madame Palive£ and Rhoda had become 
 oracles to me, each in right of her own peculiar 
 wisdom, and the banker’s advice seemed full of 
 the same insinuations. But Helen was the 
 young lady to whom I had been made over at 
 the villa, the successor of Rosanna, chosen for 
 me, and pressed on my attention by the one 
 woman to whom my heart dared not speak out. 
 Her father was rich, and had cause for living 
 in retirement, whereby there was little chance 
 of a very eligible son-in-law. She was a mir- 
 ror of all the virtues, though not of all the 
 charms ; might be induced to marry the hum- 
 ble friend of the family to whom its unpresent- 
 able transactions might have to be made known, 
 and would afterward, in right of her seniority 
 and superior rank, school and admonish him as 
 I had heard her doing to Charles Barry. Yet 
 in the midst of these censorious reflections there 
 would come, with the very same conviction 
 which flashed on me when they were spoken at 
 the villa, Madame’s wise and noble words, “Re- 
 member that Forbes’s daughter is better worth 
 winning than the fairest face in your acquaint- 
 ance.” My reason believed, but my heart did 
 not ; it clung to that fairest face and the gifted 
 mind that lent it such ever-changing play of 
 light and shadow ; yet I could not think of Hel- 
 en falling into the clutches of the Jew, and for 
 her own as well as her father’s sake I resolved 
 to stand between her and Esthers. 
 
 The next time I saw him was in his office, 
 endeavoring to look as if nothing particular had 
 passed between us, and according to his cus- 
 tom, when there was any thing to be got over, 
 deeply engaged with the bank accounts. I had 
 determined not to provoke or remind him ; open 
 enmity with the manager would not do on Ma- 
 dame’s account and my own ; but I w as also 
 resolute, that if he ever made such ambiguous 
 observations regarding the Forbes’ again, to de- 
 mand his meaning on the spot, and in the mean 
 time to let him see I had a memory, and could 
 not be smoothed back to intimacy. The Jew 
 was keen, and my manner warned him directly; 
 he made no attempts to renew our familiarity. 
 I don’t think the man could have done it with 
 all his craft, and it frightens me now more than 
 it did then to think how fierce and deep his 
 hatred must have been. It had gathered for 
 many a month and many a season, ever since 
 my coming to the bank. The manager’s an- 
 tipathy was at first sight ; my fortunes and my 
 doings had augmented it day by day, and, hav- 
 
 ing allowed the fire to break forth, though only 
 at a crevice, it was impossible for him to cover 
 it completely again. He probably had his rea- 
 sons for not provoking me, as he neither at- 
 tempted to domineer or give trouble ; but by 
 degrees, perceptible enough to me, though not 
 intended to be so, he withdrew from my sight 
 and company as far as business would allow, sit- 
 ting mostly behind a sort of screen which fenced 
 his own corner of the office, and frequently re- 
 tiring, papers and all, to his private room. 
 
 I had been too proud to go and tell Madame 
 of his Sunday performance, and Mrs. Muncy’s 
 revelation. She had sent me from her not very 
 well pleased, but back I would go ; it concerned 
 Madame’s interest and domestic establishment ; 
 it was my duty to tell her who was the unknown 
 friend of the girl she had taken into her house 
 to be off my hands and out of harm’s way, and 
 I was at her villa-gate next evening as soon as 
 business permitted. Old Marco came out as I 
 opened it, and seemed surprised at seeing me. 
 “Madame is not here,” he said, in reply to my 
 inquiry: “ she is gone to Paris.” 
 
 “Gone to Paris!” I repeated, in perfect 
 amazement. 
 
 “Yes; I thought the signor had been in- 
 formed,” and Marco looked as astonished as 
 myself. Madame had left home that morning ; 
 he could not tell me how long she intended to 
 stay, but he knew she was to attend the wed- 
 ding festivities of the young Prince Zamoski, 
 and preside at a ball which her friend Hagit 
 Bey, the Turkish embsasador, intended to give 
 on the occasion. I turned away, closed the 
 gate, and strode back through the thick under- 
 wood and tearing brambles. Madame was too 
 much occupied with fashion, with princes and 
 foreign embassadors, to think of me or my in- 
 telligence. I had said to my sister that great 
 ladies would have their whims, and it was plain 
 I had spoken truly without meaning it. She 
 had taken a whim for my company, and it was 
 wearing off. 
 
 Once more the terrible inequality of our po- 
 sitions rose up before me like an iron wall. It 
 was all to be expected, yet the change had come 
 suddenly, and not like herself, after saying she 
 was to be much at the villa that season, giving 
 me a carte blanche to come when I could, and 
 knowing I would have something to tell con- 
 cerning Esthers, to set out for Paris without 
 leaving word or friendly sign for me ; it was' 
 treating a man like her lap-dog (by-the-by, Ma- 
 dame kept nothing of the kind, but I had been 
 filling its place, perhaps, and deserved to be 
 looked on accordingly). One could understand 
 her recommendations of Helen Forbes now ; 
 any body might take the plaything she wanted 
 no longer. Well, the great lady would not be 
 troubled with my calls for some time, yet I 
 would do a friend’s duty by her ; she should not 
 be left in the dark on a matter which concerned 
 her own household — in which, moreover, she 
 had been genei*ous to me and mine. So I went 
 home and wrote a note, briefly stating the case 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 131 
 
 as regarded Hannah Clark and Esthers, making I 
 all apologies suitable to my inferior position for 
 trespassing on her time and attention ; I under- 
 stood she had left home and would not return 
 for some time, but I thought it my duty to ap- 
 prise her, and hoped to be excused. That note 
 I sealed carefully, wrote “ private” on the cor- 
 ner, took it with me to the bank next day, 
 knocked at the private door, and asked to see 
 Calixi. The confidential servant made his ap- 
 pearance exactly as he had done at the finding 
 of the signet ring ; things were going back to 
 that point with me. I inquired if he could 
 forward the note to Madame ; yes, Calixi could. 
 “Was the signor’s letter in haste?” “No, it 
 was of little consequence ; only a private com- 
 munication on a matter of business which Ma- 
 dame ought to know. 
 
 “The signor might depend on its going 
 straight to her hands,” and Calixi bowed me 
 out. 
 
 Days and weeks passed, I can not say how 
 many ; the reckoning of that time is passed out 
 of my memory, but I know they seemed the 
 longest days and weeks that ever -went over me. 
 In their course I returned to my old and oft- 
 broken resolution to get free, and tried to think 
 of every thing but Madame Palivez. I did not 
 succeed, though there were other matters to 
 think of. From the Sunday in which he had 
 dropped in and “ been axed to stay,” Melrose 
 Morton became a more frequent visitor at No. 
 9. I welcomed my old friend the more sincere- 
 ly that there was nothing for him to find out, 
 no goings to the villa to be concealed from his 
 observation or comment. I knew it was not 
 altogether for friendship’s sake he came ; the 
 legacy business, which brought him to London, 
 would soon be settled. Melrose would have a 
 very decent provision to begin housekeeping on, 
 with his prudent, sensible ways, my sister’s lim- 
 ited expenditure and certain annuity. There 
 was no hinderance, no gainsayer in their way 
 to a wedding and a home, and their sober, quiet 
 courtship always reminded me of what I had 
 read concerning German professors and their 
 frauleins. He would sit for hours talking with 
 me on public news, new books, popular preach- 
 ers, or any subject of intellectual interest, while 
 she prepared the bread and butter, poured out the 
 tea, or sat at the farther side of the table mend- 
 ing shirts and stockings. This scholarly con- 
 • versation was not for her to take part in ; but 
 Rhoda listened to every word with unfeigned 
 admiration, smiled intelligently enough some- 
 times, paid more attention to her appearance 
 than ever I could induce her to do before Mor- 
 ton’s advent, and staid as little out of the parlor 
 as her domestic avocations would allow. 
 
 Melrose did not talk to her ; at times, one 
 would have thought him unconscious of her 
 presence ; but his eye followed her when she 
 left the room, and lighted up when she returned. 
 They understood each other ; and I, knowing 
 that no better match, as regarded principles and 
 character, could be found for my sister, and 
 
 none more eligible, as regarded worldly affairs, 
 could be expected, did a brother’s duty in letting 
 both parties see that they had my best wishes 
 for success on their way to the altar and after- 
 ward, though thereby I should be left alone, as 
 ever man was; and the thought seemed to make 
 me an old bachelor before the time. 
 
 Melrose came and talked, and Rhoda listened 
 and smiled. As his visits were always in the 
 evening — I don’t think Scotchmen could court 
 at any. other time — he missed meeting Helen 
 Forbes, who now called oftener than ever. My 
 sister and she were positively growing intimate ; 
 so was I at Notting Hill House, where my pres- 
 ence seemed singularly useful. How Esthers 
 came to the conclusion that I would be there 
 every Sunday as a shield against him, I know 
 not ; but on the very next, after our meeting, 
 he sent an apology : in Madame’s absence it 
 was requisite for him to remain at the bank 
 that evening ; robberies had taken place in the 
 city ; suspicious characters had been seen in 
 the rear of the premises — he might say that he 
 had received private intimation that an attempt 
 was meditated, and Mr. Forbes knew that duty 
 ought to be his first consideration. I don’t 
 think the Scotch banker believed it ; lam sure 
 Helen did not ; but, being both prudent, they 
 made no remarks, except that Mr. Esthers was 
 right if he thought the place in danger, and I 
 think Forbes answered his note to that effect. 
 But the manager was not got rid of, though he 
 avoided meeting me. I missed him at all hours 
 of the day out of the bank, I caught glimpses 
 of him about the village and about the house ; 
 they were always brief and distant, but Helen 
 told me that he was never done calling on one 
 pretext or other, and I had reason to believe he 
 did the same at the place of business in Thread- 
 needle Street. 
 
 Why the Forbes’ did not cast him off at once 
 I can only explain by the fact that hidden 
 breaches in people’s lives are apt to bring on a 
 weakness of mind of which such pertinacious 
 ferreters can take advantage, and the Jew had 
 caught them in his meshes before they were 
 aware. “I don’t know why he comes so much 
 about us, for we don’t encourage him now,” said 
 Helen, when I came early one evening, and 
 found her alone in the drawing-room. She had 
 commenced the subject of her own accord ; she 
 often did so to my sister ; the manager seemed 
 to have taken possession of her mind, but it 
 was in the way of fright and aversion ; yet there 
 was nothing to hear, except that he called very 
 often, and his talk troubled papa. Helen was 
 manifestly troubled herself on that subject; she 
 took me into confidence, though it was involun- 
 tarily, for the gentle, patient woman’s life was 
 fretted away with the unaccountable, unexplain- 
 ed trouble which hung about her father's mind. 
 His health was evidently broken ; he was look- 
 ing wan and worn ; his nights were restless, his 
 meals were often untasted ; yet the family doc- 
 tor could not say what was the matter, and 
 Forbes appeared unnwillig to talk of his sick- 
 
132 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 ness, especially to me. Yet I was welcomed to 
 his house with the same unfailing friendship, 
 always pressed to trome more frequently. “ Sun- 
 day or Saturday we shall be glad to see you. 
 You know our ways now, lad,” said the banker; 
 “they are sober and sad ones, maybe, but one 
 had need to walk soberly, redeeming the time, 
 you know;” and Helen chimed in with her be- 
 lief “that Mr. La Touche would allow for their 
 peculiarities, and make himself at home with 
 them.” She smiled kindly when she said it, 
 never let me go without promising to come back 
 soon, went down stairs with me many a time 
 after her father had said “ Good-night,” to see 
 if it were wet or fine ; and, whether or not it 
 was for me she looked out of that bay window, 
 I always saw her there when coming up the 
 avenue. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 A SCENE IN WHICH SALLY JOYCE IS THE PRIN- 
 CIPAL ACTOR. 
 
 Is pride or principle the better fence to a 
 man’s heart ? My experience seems in favor 
 of the former ; for, now that Madame Palivez 
 was letting me slip — going off to Paris without 
 a farewell word — taking no notice of my note, 
 and the watchful zeal it manifested for her and 
 her house — I had not half such difficulty in 
 avoiding the private residence in Old Broad 
 Street, the path to the villa, or the windows in 
 Mayfair, as I found when Rosanna and con- 
 science were in the case. 
 
 I think it was about the end of July that all 
 the play-going people of London were worked 
 into a fever of expectation — thanks to the news- 
 papers and hand-bills — concerning a dramatized 
 version of Sir Walter Scott’s “ Rob Roy,” which 
 was to be acted for the first time in London, 
 under the special patronage of his Royal High- 
 ness the Prince Regent, who had at that time 
 strongly taken up the great unknown as a Tory 
 set-off against the lights of Holland House, and 
 found it requisite to be popular and charitable, 
 because the spies were already on the track of 
 his traveling spouse in preparation for her con- 
 templated trial. The Scotch play was to be 
 performed under his patronage, in aid of a re- 
 lief fund for the linen-weavers of Aberdeen and 
 Dundee, whom the sudden advance of the cot- 
 ton-trade and the power-loom had completely 
 thrown out of employment that year. It was 
 1819, memorable for distress in the agricultural 
 and linen-weaving districts. Charity was want- 
 ed, and charity was given ; and London rank 
 and fashion profited by the opportunity to get 
 up a new sensation with charity balls and plays. 
 The fast-coming works of the author of “Wa- 
 verley,” then in the vigor of his wondrous power 
 and produce, were looked for and welcomed 
 with an eagerness which no novel of these mod- 
 ern days wins or deserves. ‘ ‘ Rob Roy” had 
 
 been dramatized and acted in Edinburg, under 
 
 Scott’s own direction. The theatrical company 
 who played it there were coming to London, and 
 the entire Scotch interest — a most extensive one 
 then — were in full ferment, and their enthusiasm 
 leavened all London, being fanned by the breeze 
 from Carlton House. Every one with the small- 
 est pretensions to taste, gentility, or charitable- 
 ness, was going to the theatre, where “Rob 
 Roy” had a tremendous run, and the fervor ex- 
 tended to my friend Melrose Morton. He was 
 no frequenter of play-houses even in Baltimore, 
 and I think had grown more serious since ; but 
 Morton was born in Scotland — a native of the 
 same border county which rejoiced in the Wiz- 
 ard of the North. We knew he gloried in the 
 fact, and Rhoda and I were more pleased than 
 astonished when he arrived one evening armed 
 with tickets for the upper boxes of the theatre. 
 Rhoda had' never been at a theatre in all her 
 life — I suppose that evening must have been an 
 event in her calendar. She was delighted at 
 the prospect, the more because Melrose would 
 take charge of her. I had nobody to take — had 
 not been at a play since the last one to which I 
 took Rosanna ; but I liked to see such proper 
 attention paid to my sister, while thinking it my 
 duty to remonstrate with Morton on the expense. 
 There were none of the upper boxes under a 
 guinea. “Nonsense,” said he; “is it not for 
 the honor of Scotland, and the relief of the Dun- 
 dee weavers ? But do make haste and get dress- 
 ed, for the crowd will be immense, and we had 
 better be in time.” 
 
 We got dressed, and were in time. I sat 
 beside Rhofla at her first play, with Melrose 
 Morton on the other side, in one of the most 
 crowded and fashionable houses then drawn in 
 London. Boxes, pit, and gallery, all were in 
 full dress ; there was nothing else admitted ; 
 and, now that the drama has fallen so far, and 
 the opera risen on its ruins, it is strange to look 
 back on the interest and excitement which that 
 Scotqh play had for the wearers of stars and 
 ribands, diamonds and coronets. There they 
 were, packed as close as their inferiors could 
 be ; and what a blaze of jewelry and flash of 
 uniforms there were in the private boxes ! My 
 eye went there, but not in search of the Prince 
 Regent or his court notables. By-the-by, Scott 
 was among them, and I remember seeing the 
 man whom royalty and letters both delighted 
 to honor — being agreed for once. But when 
 we had squeezed back into our seats after the 
 rising of the whole house, and the thunder of 
 applause which greeted his entrance, I saw a 
 party who had come late into a box specially 
 reserved for them. One was a tall man with a 
 dark, serious countenance, and a sort of East- 
 ern dress ; his beard was long, and getting 
 rather gray. There was a small demonstration 
 made when he appeared. He seemed to know 
 himself as a person of importance ; to be a 
 stranger, yet not unaccustomed to such scenes ; 
 and somebody behind me said, “It is the Turk- 
 ish embassador.” The other was a younger 
 man, and a Russian. I knew him to be such 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 by liis semi-Tartar face, by the military uni- 
 form he wore, and by the critically insolent look 
 he gave the ladies, all but one, and that was the 
 lady by whose side he sat, to whom he played 
 the humble servant, or at least the attentive — 
 the third and principal of the party, for she was 
 Madame Palivez, fresh returned from Paris in a 
 rich, new evening dress, all gold, embroidery, 
 and diamonds. How queenly, how beautiful 
 she looked ! Venus dressed for a modern the- 
 atre ! There were hundreds of glasses and eyes 
 directed to her box. Every body knew the 
 great bank lady. I did not intend to be seen 
 looking at her. I did not expect that she would 
 look at me. She had passed me in public 
 many a time without the slightest look of recog- 
 nition, but now, to my surprise, she did recog- 
 nize me. It was but one glance at the spot 
 where we three sat, and then a sudden expres- 
 sion of pain — a ghastly paleness passed over 
 her face. Was Madame going to faint? I 
 started up involuntarily, but sat down again. 
 What good could I do but occasion remark? 
 The Russian had observed it as well as I. He 
 was speaking to her — going to make a fuss ; 
 but she stopped him — used her fan vigorously ; 
 doubtless gave a satisfactory account of her per- 
 turbation ; was looking all herself again in an- 
 other minute, but for a shade of pallor which 
 still rested on her cheek ; engaged her two gen- 
 tlemen in conversation till the curtain rose, and 
 was thenceforth occupied with the play. It had 
 commenced, and the house was all attention to 
 the renowned Scotch actors, though consider- 
 able noise was still made at the doors by late 
 comers, for whom no place could be found. 
 One louder burst than usual in the direction of 
 the upper gallery made me look that way in 
 time to see Sally Joyce with her sister, once 
 my affianced bride, and poor Jeremy, struggling 
 in through the dense mass that filled up seat 
 and passage, for in that cheapest part of the 
 house there was not convenient standing-room. 
 Sally made her way nevertheless. I could hear 
 her shrill remonstrance to the public and scold- 
 ing of her relatives till they were drowned by 
 cries of order and silence among the gods ; but 
 she contrived to get a pretty good post of obser- 
 vation, from which her tall figure, and long, 
 thin face were conspicuously visible, and she 
 could see most of what went forward on and off 
 the stage, including, as I became aware, from 
 her malicious watch, the private bo^ of Madame 
 Palivez and her company. She could see us 
 too, and I could not make out for some tim3 
 why we engrossed so much of her attention, till, 
 among the many crushes that came behind us, 
 I caught familiar tones, and looking round, 
 saw Charles Barry shoved off Melrose Morton’s 
 shoulders, on which he had been endeavoring 
 to find rest for his hands, having scarcely stand- 
 ing-room, for the upper boxes were now getting 
 as full as.the gallery. “ Oh, Mr. La Touche,” 
 said he, transferring his attentions to my back, 
 “how do you do? Very glad to see you. 
 What a confounded crush there is here ! Worse 
 
 133 
 
 than the gallery; but I could not stay with 
 those people.” 
 
 * “Who?” said I. *. 
 
 “Well, Rosanna and the rest of them : they 
 are no company for a gentleman and Barry 
 steadied himself as well as he might, for I per- 
 ceived the gentleman had got more’ of the 
 strong waters than was good for him. 
 
 What a shabby, downward-going look he had 
 got already, though it was but the second re- 
 turn from sea since his marriage ! The Forbes’ 
 took no notice of him now. They had not 
 mentioned his home-coming to me ; perhaps 
 they did not mean to be aware of it. How 
 .truly was Madame’s prophecy being fulfilled ! 
 and there she sat fanning herself and looking 
 on the play with the air of an amused queen, 
 while the Turk turned to her for explanations, 
 and the Russian seemed to be taking his cue 
 from her look. 
 
 The play went on ; I have seen it a dozen 
 times since with far more interest than I saw it 
 then, for that private box was my stage, and the 
 company in it far eclipsed the Scotch actors. 
 She looked at me too — I know she did, though 
 not intending to be seen ; and something of 
 painful recollection was always in the look. 
 Was it self-reproach for the careless casting off? 
 My vanity or folly triumphed in the thought. 
 I never knew the pleasure of being an injured 
 man before ; but when the curtain fell on the 
 first scene, and one could hear any thing 
 through the cheering, Melrose Morton — who, 
 with book in hand, had been diligently making 
 things clear to Rhoda’s intellectual comprehen- 
 sion — turned to me with a remark on the princi- 
 pal actor, and added, in a lower tone, “Lucien, 
 the officer in the box with Madame Palivez is 
 taking particular note of you, and I don’t like 
 his looks.” 
 
 “I am much obliged to him, though I have 
 not the honor of his acquaintance. Do you 
 know who he is?” said I. 
 
 “I’ll tell you,” said Barry, coming down 
 more heavily on my shoulders; “he is a Rus- 
 sian — Prince Dashkoff, the son of that woman 
 who helped old Catharine in the poisoning of 
 her husband. They say he would not stop at 
 the like himself. Have a care of him, La 
 Touche, for he looks a regular Tartar.” 
 
 “I am not likely to come in a Russian 
 prince’s way, Mr. Barry.” 
 
 “Well, maybe not ; but he has taken a dis- 
 like, that’s certain ; those high foreign rascals 
 do sometimes. There was one of them came in 
 the Rattlesnake from Malta — ” here the curtain 
 rose, and Barry’s tale had to come to an end. 
 
 I had not seen the Russian taking notes ; 
 watch as I would, I could not detect him after ; 
 but I knew he had observed the change that 
 came over Madame’s face at the first sight of 
 me, and the dread of compromising her made 
 me resolve to slip out as quickly as possible 
 when the curtain fell on the last scene, and the 
 densely-filled house was thundering out its ap- 
 plause. 
 
134 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “We’ll meet outside,” said I to Morton, well 
 knowing that he would take care of my sister. 
 I could have left her to his protection in a 
 desert, for a braver, truer man never existed. 
 It was terrible work getting out, short as the 
 box passages are ; but out I squeezed at last, 
 stepped aside from the coming crowd to wait for 
 Melrose, and breathe the air of the summer 
 night. How fresh it blows on a man’s brow 
 after the crush, the ranting, and the footlights! 
 bringing the contrast between the world’s green 
 sylvan times and our hot-pressed city life to 
 mind. But all at once I perceived there was a 
 boy by my side — a little page he seemed, though 
 not in livery, and with a foreign look. “ A vous, 
 Monsieur,” he said, slipping into my hand a 
 card. It was Madame’s own, deeply gilt, in 
 the fashion of those days, and on the back was 
 written, with her own hand, “Please to follow 
 the bearer.” 
 
 Any command from that quarter was abso- 
 lute with me ; but Melrose and my sister were 
 not to be kept waiting and inquiring. I pen- 
 ciled on the back of one of my own cards, 
 “Don't wait for me ; I have met an unexpected 
 friend,” placed it, with some securing silver, in 
 the hands of a trusty-looking messenger, with 
 the name and a brief description of the party to 
 whom it was to be delivered, and followed the 
 boy. He knew his business and his way ; the 
 latter led through lanes and alleys of whose ex- 
 istence I had no idea: they threaded between 
 great houses and through West End courts — 
 the last of them was a mere passage, termina- 
 ting at a high wall, with a narrow gate of cast- 
 iron. The boy opened it with a key he had, 
 and I stepped into a flower-garden, small and 
 square, like those of old London. A grass-plot 
 with a few rose-bushes it seemed to be ; but the 
 place was so dark that I could scarcely follow 
 the boy. He waited for me at a door in the 
 farther end, and gave three low knocks; it 
 was opened by a chain or spring within, for I 
 saw nobody when we stepped into a carpet- 
 ed passage, where a lamp was burning, and a 
 straight, narrow stair led up to a sort of ante- 
 room. I saw that the passage, stair, and ante- 
 room were beautifully painted, richly carpeted, 
 and perfumed, it seemed, by the oil burned in 
 its lamp; its light was soft, dim, and dream- 
 like ; there was no sound to be heard either 
 without or within ; and when the boy opened a 
 door, and motioned me to enter a room, fur- 
 nished in a rich foreign fashion, hung with rose- 
 colored silk and great mirrors, ornamented with 
 vases, statuettes, and flowers, I started in sur- 
 prise to see Madame Palivez, seated on the op- 
 posite sofa, in the dress she had worn at the 
 theatre. I never saw her embarrassed at meet- 
 ing me before ; but now there was embarrass- 
 ment and trouble in her look as she rose and 
 extended her hand, while the boy retired, and 
 closed the door noiselessly behind him. 
 
 “I am glad you have come, Lucien ; I wanted 
 to see you, it is so long since we met ; so sit 
 down.” Her fingers felt icy cold, but the clasp . 
 
 was as kind as ever. “ Did you see me before 
 I went to Paris ?” 
 
 “Yes, Madame; I called to tell you about 
 Esthers and the Forbes’. I called on Monday 
 too, and found you were gone ; I left a note for 
 you in Broad Street, because I had heard some- 
 thing you ought to know.” 
 
 “ Oh yes, I got the note ” — Madame looked 
 like one who was catching up threads of mem- 
 ory — “ it was about — ” 
 
 “About Hannah Clark and Esthers, Ma- 
 dame.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, I recollect; and you were going 
 to the Forbes’, and were to have come and told 
 me how he and they got on ; and I did not say 
 I was going to Paris, and Calixi forwarded the 
 note a week after. I recollect it all.” 
 
 Had she fallen asleep since that Saturday 
 evening, and only woke up to my existence, 
 and the matters we had so much interest in, at 
 such a distance of time? 
 
 “You don’t understand me, Lucien, and it is 
 not to be expected you should ; but I will ex- 
 plain, my friend. It is a symptom of approach- 
 ing death — a family one — which has come to 
 me — a sudden failure of memory, to which all 
 the Palivezi have been subject as the time of 
 their departure drew near. I forgot to tell you 
 that I was going to Paris that evening when 
 you called. I forgot to leave a message for 
 you — I forgot that you were to come at all. 
 Your note reminded me of every thing ; but I 
 could not answer it without an explanation, 
 which I did not choose to put on paper ; and 
 when I did return, I forgot there was any thing 
 of the kind to be done till I saw you in the 
 theatre. You must have thought my conduct 
 strange, unfriendly — perhaps unhandsome ; but 
 that is the true account of it. And oh, Lucien, 
 it warns me that I must prepare to go !” 
 
 “Impossible, Madame,” I said, gazing on her 
 as she sat before me in the strength and vigor 
 of life’s midsummer — its bloom upon her cheeks 
 and its brightness in her eyes. “ I would take 
 a lease — an annuity — on your life. That loss 
 of memory is strange — stranger than any thing 
 I ever heard of ; but every body is subject to un- 
 accountable accidents of mind. You are not 
 going to die for many a year; cast the idea 
 from you. Such omens are apt to fulfill them- 
 selves; gloomy thoughts and fears undermine 
 both health and spirits.” 
 
 “Yes, Lucien, you think me weak and fool- 
 ish to be so frightened at the prospect of the 
 common lot; but you are mistaken. It is not 
 the leaving of this,” and she glanced carelessly 
 on the rich, luxurious room, “it is not the leav- 
 ing of wealth and honor, with all that waits on 
 them— not the quitting of this living world— its 
 daylights, its fancies, and its flowers — for the 
 shroud, the coffin, and the clay, that chills my 
 heart with a terror I can not express. I think 
 that death is but the passage to another life — a 
 better one, it may be. Yet I know not — the 
 Fates may still keep hold of us ; but the uncer- 
 tainty gives space for hope. It is not Death I 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 135 
 
 fear — neither did my forefathers fear it. The 
 blood that marched to Thermopylae with lyre 
 and flute, that made Marathon a laurel-bearing 
 field for all time, was in them. Our Athenian 
 ancestors did not picture him a skeleton, with 
 scythe and sand-glass, like your Christian King 
 of Terrors — so profitable to priests and churches 
 — but a youth, beautiful and fadeless as Apollo, 
 with everlasting peace upon his brow, and a 
 friendly hand stretched out to weary mortals, 
 leading them down to Lethe, where they might 
 drink and forget their griefs and burdens. 
 They did not fear him, nor do I, with the dread 
 of these weak and creed-stricken times ; but, 
 Lucien, Death comes on to me with terrors that 
 are not his own — terrors for which my mental 
 or physical constitution can never be prepared, 
 though I have tried hard to cope with them ; 
 and there is no help to which one can turn. The 
 last of the Palivezi — and the most unlucky, too 
 — all that went before me had some of their own. 
 blood to depend on in that worst extremity ; but 
 I have none — no help, no trust. Lucien— com- 
 panion, friend — who came to me a stranger, yet 
 would not remain such — saved my life, heard my 
 secret thoughts, sat with me in the midnight 
 watch of fearful memory — will you stand by me 
 like a true man, in spite of the world’s customs, 
 laws, and faiths, and do me that one last and 
 greatest service, which I have done to the Pali- 
 vez that had none but me to do it?” She look- 
 ed me in the face with such sad, imploring eyes, 
 while her satin glistened and her diamonds 
 flashed in the light of the one wax-candle, so 
 placed that it shone full on her, and left the rest 
 of the room in dimness. 
 
 “ I will do any thing to serve you, Madame, 
 let the world say what it will ; it is my duty to 
 stand by you ; tell me how — ” I was going to 
 say, but she interrupted me with “Duty, sir?” 
 and the sad look changed to one of tameless 
 pride ; “I wanted a friend, and you speak like 
 a servant. I tell you there is nothing so hateful 
 to me now as duty ; it is the thing people get 
 paid for, grow respectable upon, keep shops and 
 houses, and go to church with. That was not 
 what I looked for; yet pardon me” — she grew 
 softened and sorrowful once more — “I fell into 
 the error of desperate people, and expected too 
 much. You are not the friend I want; you can 
 not be ; there are great gulfs between us ; your 
 life has ties, prospects, and obligations not com- 
 patible with such woeful service.” 
 
 “None that I know of — none that I acknowl- 
 edge, Madame. Tell me of what the service 
 you want consists ; let me be your friend — your 
 helper, at all hazards, whatever be your diffi- 
 culty ; whatever I can do against it, as far as 
 my power, my energy, my life extends, I am 
 ready and willing, and will hold myself happy 
 to make any effort or run any risk for you.” I 
 had risen and stepped close up to her side, for I 
 knew the woman needed me, and my heart was 
 on my lips. 
 
 “Lucien,” she said, taking my hand in hers 
 — the soft white fingers were no longer cold, 
 
 and the look, though still sad, was kindly — “ Lu- 
 cien, if I asked you to do that for me which you 
 must hide forever from the world, for fear of 
 blame and law — that which would cast a shad- 
 ow over all your after-days, and come with 
 ghastly clearness to your midnight dreams — 
 that which would lie like a burden on your 
 memory, not to be shared with friend or sister, 
 with the woman whom your heart took for its 
 latest choice, whom you found fairer, better, 
 wiser than Rosanna — Lucien, if that were the 
 service I wanted, would you promise and stand 
 by me then ?” 
 
 “I would” — the words came from me in a 
 gush, like the breaking forth of long pent-up 
 waters — “I would, for that woman is yourself; 
 it was you that I found fairer, wiser, and better 
 than all the women in the world ; it was you 
 that made me false to the girl, before I knew 
 she had been false to me! I never dared to 
 say so before, because of our different stations ; 
 forgive me for saying it now, but believe that 
 it is true, and command me.” Her hand had 
 shrunk away from mine as if a serpent stung 
 it ; she had covered her eyes with it, and leant 
 back on the sofa. “ Lucien, Lucien, is it come 
 to that ?” I heard her gasp out ; but at that 
 moment a shout loud enough to startle all Cur- 
 zon Street — something between a laugh and a 
 howl, but so shrill, so wicked, so unearthly, as 
 might have turned one’s blood to hear, sounded 
 from the opposite corner, and from behind the 
 rose-colored hangings out bounded Sally Joyce. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIII. 
 sally’s brain overbalances. 
 
 “I have caught you, I have found you out, 
 you villain, you traitor!” she cried, while her 
 eyes glared on me through the mass of rough 
 gray hair which draggled over them ; “ out of 
 your own mouth have I heard it, that you de- 
 ceived and forsook my sister, keeping her hang- 
 ing on, and shirking off your engagement till 
 you drove her to marry that scapegrace, Charles 
 Barry, that his own uncle and cousin won’t as- 
 sociate with now. And it was all for this fine 
 lady, her bank and her grandeur, was it? Oh, 
 you may set yourself, and look mighty high and 
 proper, Madame, but I have a tale to tell the 
 world, and I’ll tell it. I have seen your love- 
 making and your carrying on ; if I had staid 
 long enough behind that curtain, I would have 
 seen — ” 
 
 “Silence!” said I, seizing her by the arm, 
 for the words she added were not to be repeat- 
 ed, and my senses had recovered from the shock 
 of her appearance — “silence, and leave this 
 room ; you shall not insult Madame Palivez 
 when I can prevent it.” 
 
 “Insult Madame Palivez!” she cried, with 
 another howl of a laugh; “are you her pro- 
 tector ? Did she tell you whom she murdered 
 in Dublin, eighteen years ago, and shut up my 
 
136 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 brother in a mad-house for fear he would let the 
 world know ! But I’ll do it. I’ll revenge my 
 sister’s wrongs — I’ll bring the wicked to jus- 
 tice — and you too,” she cried, turning on me like 
 a tigress, as I attempted to push her out of the 
 room, with unheeded threats of the law and the 
 
 chief on her face, in mortal dread of compromis- 
 ing Madame. Her look of composure or rather 
 complacency was very nearly as frightful. She 
 had started in surprise at Sally’s first appear- 
 ance ; but all the while the latter shrieked, and 
 struggled, and tore, she sat looking at her as 
 
 “And from behind the rose-colored hangings out bounded Sally Joyce.” 
 
 police. It wa§ a desperate struggle ; the wild 
 woman, now wrought up to frenzy, bit, struck, 
 and tore with her nails, all the while screaming 
 out her threats and charges in a voice which 
 must have alarmed the whole neighborhood, if 
 I hadn’t kept it down by thrusting my handker- 
 
 one of the Spartans might have looked on a 
 drunken Helot ; and when at last Sally uttered 
 a howl about murder which I could not smother, 
 and fell at the room door in a terrible fit of con- 
 vulsions, she said, quietly, “Let her alone, Lu- 
 cien ; the woman is mad ; her brain was never 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 137 
 
 fairly balanced; it is fairly overset now, and 
 will never right again. It was to be expected ; 
 I am not glad it has happened, for I know its 
 origin ; but her talk about me and my family 
 can do no harm from henceforth. Leave her, 
 Lucien, and leave me ; there are none of my 
 English servants in the house to-night, or you 
 should not have been here ; I want no London 
 gossip about me and my friend ; but help must 
 be called to get the woman removed. Get out 
 of sight as quick as you can ; at the end of the 
 passage leading from the garden gate, take the 
 second turn to your left, keep straight through 
 the courts, and you will get out behind Lans- 
 downe House. Go, for Heaven’s sake, go !” 
 
 “ And leave you here, Madame ! What if 
 she should die in those fearful convulsions?” 
 
 “No, she won’t; Fortune and she are not 
 such good friends as that — go, go ! I’m not 
 afraid to be left alone with a woman in a fit.” 
 Madame motioned me to the door with one 
 hand, and with the other rang her bell. 
 
 “ Cyprien,” she said, as the boy instantly en- 
 tered, ‘ * you have left the garden gate open to- 
 night; look at this,” pointing to the writhing 
 woman on the floor as if it had been a stray cat 
 that had got in, while I stepped past as quickly as 
 I could, hurried over stair, passage, and garden, 
 found the turn to the left, got out behind Lans- 
 downe House, and reached the front of her man- 
 sion in Curzon Street in time to see a sedate 
 nurse-like woman and a surgeon’s assistant ac- 
 companying two policemen down to the sunk 
 flat.- There were no lights to be seen, no noise 
 to be heard within ; the house stood as silent as 
 all the rest of the street, to which the latest 
 carriage had by this time driven home from ball 
 or play ; but in a few minutes a hackney-coach 
 drove quietly up, the policeman and the nurse- 
 like woman brought out a large bundle covered 
 with cloaks and shawls, but in strange motion 
 under them, got it into the vehicle with a whis- 
 per or two among themselves, the woman get- 
 ting in beside it, while the surgeon’s assistant 
 marched after as it was driven slowly into Bol- 
 ton Row, and the policeman moved down the 
 street, counting silver like those that divide the 
 spoil. Should I return and see how Madame 
 had got over it ? I heard somebody inside lock- 
 ing the hall door; perhaps she did not wish to 
 see me there ; perhaps my presumption had of- 
 fended her; yet her words, “Lucien, Lucien, is 
 it come to that ?” had a sound of grief and not 
 of anger. But I could not go back without a 
 sign of invitation. I lingered about the door, 
 went round to the garden gate again ; it, also, 
 was fastened for the night, or rather the morn- 
 ing, for day was breaking by this time, and with 
 a bewildered brain and weary heart I turned 
 homeward. 
 
 The events of the night had been so many and 
 so strange that mj r thoughts of them were con- 
 fused and hazy. I only knew for certain the old 
 fact, that I loved Madame Palivez — the new one, 
 that I had dared to tell her so — that she wanted 
 some service of great risk and peril, and that, in 
 
 spite of all my sister’s warnings, I had pledged 
 myself to do it. Pledged, and did not repent it, 
 even then — after all I had heard and seen 
 from the overset brain that would never right 
 again — and the proud, stony face that looked on 
 so complacently, because talk about her and her 
 family could do no harm from henceforth. I 
 was bound to the service, and could not redeem 
 myself, long before I promised ; and things 
 would never right with me either. The convic- 
 tion made me stop short on the now silent and 
 solitary road skirting Hyde Park, and close by 
 my own home. The early light of a soft dewy 
 morning was kindling from gray to golden over 
 woodland and village. Up the green sloping 
 lawn and massive front of Notting Hill House, 
 so old-fashioned and lonely — up the shady path 
 and stream, now flashing to the morning — that 
 led to her villa, my eye wandered. I did not 
 hear the lark go up singing from park and 
 meadow — I did not hear a step that came along 
 the London way till it was close by my side, and 
 Melrose Morton’s hand was laid on my shoulder 
 with “Where have you been? what has hap- 
 pened to you, Lucien ?” 
 
 “ Nothing,” said I, trying to look as I spoke ; 
 “ did not the policeman give you my message ?” 
 “ He did,” said Melrose ; “Rhoda and I got 
 safe home, and we should not have been fright- 
 ened about you — knowing you could take care 
 of yourself; but, as we were sitting at supper, 
 poor Jeremy Joyce rushed in like one distract- 
 ed in search of his sister Sally. He said she 
 had been watching you and Madame Palivez 
 all the evening at the play, and a minute after 
 you had gone out he and Rosanna missed her. 
 She was not at home when they got there ; and 
 the poor fellow seemed to think something must 
 be wrong, because Sally had been so uncommon 
 queer of late. Those were his very words ; and, 
 Lucien, though neither Rhoda nor I imagined 
 you had planned an elopement with Miss Joyce, 
 your good sister was so much alarmed that I 
 ventured out to look for you all round the 
 neighborhood of St. James’s ; and I am glad 
 we have met, for she and Nelly are sitting up 
 alone, and must have thought the time terribly 
 long.” 
 
 “ Well, I am safe, you see, and sorry to have 
 given you so much trouble, Melrose ; but I 
 could not help it. I had to go to a friend.” 
 
 “ I hope it was a true friend, Lucien. You’ll 
 excuse me ; I am ten years older than yourself, 
 and we have known each other long, ” he said, 
 looking me earnestly in the face. “Your sister 
 did not give me reason to think you might be in 
 unsafe company ; she is too discreet, too sin- 
 cerely attached to you. But I know Rhoda 
 was not so much alarmed without cause ; and, 
 Lucien, if you have fallen into any dangerous 
 connection — one which you would not wish to 
 mention to your friends — reflect, for her sake 
 and for your own, and give it up in time.” 
 
 “ Melrose, I have formed no connection either 
 dangerous or disgraceful.” 
 
 “Not the latter, I am sure,” interrupted Mor- 
 
138 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 ton ; “ but the company which the world would 
 not reckon disgraceful, perhaps very much the 
 contrary, may lead to risks beyond the common. 
 There was a great lady in a private box who 
 was aware of your presence at the play, and a 
 Russian prince by her side, who took no friendly 
 note of you. Lucien, I met that prince in a 
 different trim — something like his own footman, 
 I judge — within the last hour, hanging, and tak- 
 ing notes too, about Madame Palivez’s man- 
 sion in Curzon Street ; and I am mistaken if 
 he were not fishing intelligence out of two po- 
 licemen at the corner.” 
 
 I made endeavors not to appear disconcerted 
 or angry, yet I was both. Melrose had been 
 playing the spy upon me, and was now playing 
 the censor. He kept his own quarrel with Mr. 
 Forbes pretty close, and he should not intrude 
 into my friendship with Madame Palivez, though 
 his news about the Russian was worth hearing ; 
 it showed me the ground on which I stood. 
 Prince Dashkoff was not selected and adjured 
 for secret service ; but he had his aims, his ex- 
 pectations, and believed me in the way. “ I 
 am much obliged for your warnings, Melrose, 
 and I know your friendship ; but most people 
 have some private affairs. It was one of mine 
 that made me part from you last night. What 
 great ladies may be aware of, or Russian princes 
 take notes of, are matters that most concern 
 themselves. I have no preference and no rival- 
 ry to boast ; but I am sorry to have alarmed 
 you and my sister. Let us go home together, 
 and relieve her and Nelly,” and I took his arm 
 in our old friendly fashion. 
 
 “I’ll go with you, Lucien,” he said, “because 
 I promised to come back, though I see you have 
 no confidence in me ; perhaps I had no right to 
 expect you would ; but believe that my warnings 
 were well meant, and try to think of them at 
 your leisure, for people see things clearer that 
 way.” 
 
 Without another word, Morton and I walked 
 to No. 9. Poor Rhoda was at the door, looking 
 out into the early morning for her truant brother. 
 Raymond had gone away, and never returned to 
 us ; and I knew that recollection had been press- 
 ing hard on my sister’s heart, for she flung her 
 arms about me, saying, “Lucien, dear, thank God 
 you have come back safe and I promised, in a 
 whisper, to explain every thing, and told her, in a 
 louder tone, not to be frightened at my staying 
 out late, for I would get back again as sure as a 
 bad shilling. Melrose looked sadly on us both, 
 and only said he must play the bad shilling, and 
 get home too ; and rejecting all persuasions to 
 come in and rest after his travels in search of me, 
 he bade us “ Good-morning,” and walked rapidly 
 away. When he was gone I told Rhoda a half- 
 true tale — that I had been sent for by Madame 
 Palivez because Sally Joyce was annoying her 
 — wanting money and nobody knew what, on 
 account of her father and brother having been 
 in the bank at Dublin. I was not sure that it 
 satisfied my sister; but she had been used to 
 hear the half of things; and fairly worn out 
 
 with the finery, wonders, and troubles of that 
 night, the poor girl asked no questions, but re- 
 tired with her trusty Nelly to get some hours’ 
 sleep ; and I, like a restless spirit, paced about 
 our little house and garden till it was time to go 
 to the bank. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIY. 
 
 AN UNKNOWN VISITOR. 
 
 Of the day that thus dawned, and two or 
 three subsequent, I recollect only that Esthers 
 was scarcely in the office at all ; that when he 
 did come it was like one preoccupied, and in 
 great haste to get out again. He did not speak 
 to me, and pretended not to be aware of my 
 presence. Business was particularly slack with 
 us then ; and being by that time no apprentice 
 clerk. I could do very w r ell without the manager’s 
 oversight, and better without his company. 
 There was little to do, but I had much to think 
 of; the sights and sounds of that gay, luxurious 
 bower in Curzon Street filled my hours, and 
 made them pass in a dream of Madame Palivez. 
 Her talk of approaching death, her statement 
 about the loss of memory, the vow I had taken 
 to her service, the words I had dared to speak 
 to her, the howl of insane laughter from behind 
 the curtain, the wild woman breaking out upon 
 us with her madly malicious look, her unintel- 
 ligible threats, and, clear above them all, her 
 question to myself, “Did she tell you who it 
 was she murdered eighteen years ago in Dub- 
 lin?” I could not forget those words: they 
 haunted me like a nightmare ; but I tried to 
 see Madame, nevertheless ; my alarm and anx- 
 iety after what had passed were surely sufficient 
 excuses for venturing into her presence. I in- 
 quired for her at the private door in the first 
 evening ; the porter summoned Calixi, and he 
 assured me that Madame was not there. I went 
 up to the villa : old Marco came out, as usual, 
 at the opening of the gate ; but there she was 
 not at home either; and when I asked him if 
 he could tell me where Madame was, the old 
 man said, with a look of honest bewilderment, 
 “ Signor, I can not.” She had promised never 
 to be denied to me, and I could not believe 
 that system was adopted now. I had been sent 
 for to see her in Curzon Street — would it be too 
 presumptuous to go there and try the garden 
 gate? But the memory of her words — “My 
 English servants are not in the house to-night, 
 or you should not have been here,” checked me. 
 Madame must not be compromised by her En- 
 glish clerk. 
 
 I was balancing these considerations in the 
 last of her bank hours — I think, on the third 
 evening — when I became aware of somebody 
 having entered the quiet house — it was always 
 most quiet at that hour — and making inquiries 
 of the porter. I could catch first the manager’s, 
 and then my own name ; and in another minute 
 the porter said, “A gentleman wishing to see 
 you, sir,” and showed in a foreign-looking man, 
 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 139 
 
 well dressed, but with something decidedly vul- 
 gar and mean-looking about him. He was a 
 stranger to me, appeared to be in middle age, and 
 from my knowledge of the race in their comings 
 about the bank, I recognized his features as un- 
 mistakably Russian. It was a sort of inward 
 warning that made me give him, on his first en- 
 trance, a look of “ What is your business here ?” 
 and it half disconcerted him — I suppose nothing 
 could wholly — and he repeated his inquiries for 
 the manager. 
 
 “ He is not in the office at present,” said I, 
 “ and I believe the porter mentioned to you 
 that he was not in the house ; but if you have 
 any message to leave, or any particular busi- 
 ness, I am the English clerk of the establish- 
 ment, and at your service.” 
 
 “Is Madame Palivez within?” said the Rus- 
 sian, seating himself on the nearest vacant chair, 
 and spying at me out of his narrow eyes. 
 
 “No,” said I, “ Madame Palivez is rarely at 
 the bank, but her private residence is next door. 
 The porter will direct you to it at once.” 
 
 “Does Madame not manage her own busi- 
 ness, then? I understood she did, and had a 
 regular communication between the two houses ; 
 in fact, I expected to find her here. ” What good, 
 plain English the man spoke, and with what a 
 look of collected brass he gazed round the office 
 and stared at me. 
 
 “You have not been properly informed,” said 
 I, falling to my papers and pen with as much cool 
 abstraction as I could muster; “Madame is not 
 here, but you will find her at home next door. 
 If you have any message for Mr. Esthers, the 
 manager, be so good as to leave it, for my time 
 is limited, and the bank will soon be shut up.” 
 
 “My business is particular — very; in fact, I 
 am a merchant in the Baltic trade, accustomed 
 to deal with the house, and you are Mr. La 
 Touche, the English clerk, very much in Ma- 
 dame’s confidence, I understand. Can you 
 noAv,” and he leant toward me with a manner 
 at once insolent and fawning, “tell me where 
 she is to be found? I would make it worth 
 your while. My business is very important. 
 She is a very odd lady, that Madame of yours — 
 a deal of whims and private goings on, hasn’t 
 she? You know them pretty well. Come, 
 come, you need not deny it,” and he sidled 
 nearer as I was about to speak. ‘ ‘ All the city 
 know that you are in her confidence, far more 
 than the Jew manager or any body else. That’s 
 her way. She had a clerk in Dublin taken up 
 in the same fashion. Got to know more than 
 was safe, maybe. She is a wonderful woman, 
 and nobody ever knew what became of him. 
 Some say he is in a madhouse, some say he is 
 dead — died very suddenly, they say.” 
 
 “ Sir, ’’said I, rising in real indignation at the 
 manifest intention to frighten me, “is it your 
 particular business here to make malicious and 
 false insinuations against my employer?” 
 
 “ Oh dear, no,” said the Russian, not a whit 
 abashed, “I can arrange a little matter with 
 her or her manager, Mr. Esthers, you call him ; 
 
 and as there was nobody here, I thought we 
 might have a little friendly talk ; you are a gen- 
 tleman I have heard so much of — one don’t feel 
 one’s self a stranger to people one has heard of, 
 you know.” 
 
 “From whom did you hear of me, sir?” and 
 I looked him steadily in the face. 
 
 “From a good many different people.” The 
 man’s bluntness and vulgarity were mighty de- 
 fenses. “A young man taken into confidence 
 by a great lady is apt to get talked about, tmd 
 you’ll allow me to say I don’t wonder at her 
 preference. There is something uncommonly 
 prepossessing in your appearance, sir. It was 
 that, and a friendly concern for a man younger 
 than myself, that made me mention what I hap- 
 pen to know of Madame’s ways. A man warn- 
 ed is half armed. I know the house and its lady 
 well. I am an independent merchant, and have 
 no cause to speak against Madame but an hon- 
 est regard for you.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said I, in plain terms, “I neither be- 
 lieve nor thank you, and if that is the whole of 
 your important business, I repeat that my time 
 is limited, and the bank will soon be shut.” 
 
 “Well, I can come some other time when 
 Mr. Esthers is within, and I am very sorry you 
 take a civil hint so badly,” said the Russian, 
 looking calmly around him ; then rising without 
 the slightest embarrassment or sign of anger, he 
 added, “You are uncommon like the clerk that 
 disappeared. I wish you a very good-evening,” 
 and stepped out as quietly as he came in. 
 
 That man was no Baltic merchant, but an 
 emissary of somebody. Could it be of the Rus- 
 sian prince who took unfriendly notes of me, 
 according to Melrose Morton’s observations at 
 the play ? His errand was evidently to make 
 out how matters stood between me and Madame. 
 I could have pardoned that, but not his endeav- 
 or to frighten me with a story of the vanished 
 clerk, and it must have been a more than com- 
 monly disciplined life that kept my Irish blood 
 from kicking him out of the office. 
 
 There was some truth in that tale which he 
 had got hold of. It had to do with Sally Joyce’s 
 ravings; probably with the ragged man whose 
 arm and knife I had seized in time. At any 
 rate, Madame should be apprised of the Russian’s 
 visit ; that was a better apology than any I had 
 for trying to see her in Curzon Street. Ac- 
 cordingly, as soon as the bank was shut, I made 
 my way to Berkeley Square, got through the 
 courts and the turnings, and tried the garden 
 gate, but it was fast. Through the bars I could 
 see the grass and flowers, the high walls that 
 shut them in on every side, but not the door of 
 entrance ; it was in the corner, and hidden by a 
 rose-bush of uncommon magnitude. There w^as 
 no window looking into that garden, no sound 
 to be heard from the house, no sign of life to be 
 seen. I retraced my steps and got into Curzon 
 Street. The mansion was shut up as I had seen 
 it last ; above and below, there was nobody at 
 home or visible. To knock at the door, and in- 
 quire of the person in charge, if any such there 
 
140 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 were, was a proceeding I could not take upon 
 myself; the caution that forbade it reminded 
 me that I should not stand there gazing at the 
 deserted mansion ; and as I turned from it, with- 
 out thinking where I was going, into Bolton Row, 
 two men who had been talking together at the 
 corner suddenly separated; one of them I did 
 not catch sight of in time nor where he turned 
 to, but the other, who came forward to meet me, 
 was Jeremy Joyce. “ Oh, Mr. La Touche,” said 
 the ever-subdued clerk, “have you heard of what 
 has happened to us? Sally is gone out of her 
 mind entirely. Something disturbed her at the 
 play, and she went off to Madame Palivez’s 
 house. I don’t know what put it in her head, 
 but Sally was always fond of fine places and 
 people — so she should ; you see her mother was 
 a lady — and I don’t know what happened to her 
 there. She was not at home, and I thought 
 she had gone with you ; but before I got back 
 they fetched her in a hackney-coach. We 
 thought it was a fit at first ; but, Mr. La Touche, 
 she has been quite distracted, quite frantic since. 
 We have had no rest with her day nor night — 
 screeching and tearing with two keepers to 
 prevent her from finishing Rosanna and me. 
 Charles Barry would not stand it at all, and 
 went to some hotel; the people of the house 
 wouldn’t have us any longer in their rooms. 
 Mr. Forbes was very good; gave me a week’s 
 holiday, and came to look after her himself and 
 Miss Helen, but they could do nothing. She 
 only screeched the more, and talked such un- 
 common things ; and Madame Palivez — she is 
 always kind, you know — got her into the asy- 
 lum at last, just to save our lives,” and Jeremy 
 looked quite resigned to that settlement of the 
 sister who had governed him with such absolute 
 sway. 
 
 “ Is Sally gone to the asylum, then ?” said I. 
 
 “Yes, ’’said somebody over my shoulder, and 
 there was Esthers; “Madame Palivez got her 
 sent. She always sends people there when it 
 suits her convenience. Sally went out of her 
 mind at Madame’s house ; do you mark that, 
 Mr. La Touche ? the like has happened to people 
 before, and may happen to people again.” He 
 had got in between Jeremy and me by this time, 
 and his look reminded me so much of Sally’s 
 that I could not help saying, “Well, Mr. Est- 
 hers, I hope it will not happen to you.” 
 
 The effect of my own words astonished me. 
 The Jew staggered back as if I had struck him 
 with all my strength. His dark face turned 
 white as paper, and, without attempting an an- 
 swer, he turned on his heel and moved away, 
 rapidly quickening his pace till he turned the 
 corner and was out of sight. 
 
 “Esthers don’t like it at all,” said Jeremy, 
 keeping close to my side, as if bent on telling 
 his woes. “ You see Sally did go to Madame’s 
 house, and did go out of her mind there, and we 
 don’t know what happened till she was fetched 
 home, and she must have gone out of the thea- 
 tre just after you, Mr. La Touche; and your 
 sister and the gentleman did not know where 
 
 you were, and Sally raved so about you and 
 Madame. She always had a great regard for you.” 
 
 “Well,” said I, “I had no hand in sending 
 her out of her mind, and I am sure neither had 
 Madame. Perhaps there was madness in Sally’s 
 family — I don’t mean your side of it — but Mr. 
 Esthers is her brother; he ought to know.” 
 
 “Oh dear, yes,” said Jeremy, much taken 
 aback; “but there never was any thing of the 
 kind, to our knowledge. - Afflictions will happen 
 in any family, Mr. La Touche. I suppose you 
 are not so sorry for us as you would have been 
 once, not that I think the fault wasn’t more on 
 your side than Rosanna’s ; but you are in favor, 
 and we are little thought of. I hope it will all 
 end well,” and Jeremy walked quickly away to 
 the attic, where his sister was to have seen fash- 
 ionable life. 
 
 Subdued, commanded, scolded, Jeremy had, 
 as the poorest brains will have, his own notions 
 of dignity and importance, his own small cun- 
 ning to conceal and ferret out matters, and his 
 own petty share of envy and malice to me. 
 What a variety of enemies I had got by that 
 unpublished friendship ; but it was for her sake, 
 and I took something like a martyr’s pride in 
 their increase. Moreover, would it not raise 
 my worth and service in her eyes ? But where 
 had she gone, and why could I not see her to 
 make my revelations ? 
 
 CHAPTER XLY. 
 
 HELEN FORBES LOVES, AND IS JEALOUS. 
 
 I was revolving these questions in my mind 
 when very near home on the Bayswater Road, 
 which happened to be more than usually quiet 
 that evening; but the flutter of a brown skirt 
 coming out of Petersburg Place caught my eye, 
 and I hastened forward to meet Helen Forbes. 
 She had seen, and was waiting for me, and the 
 soft evening air had told on her generally color- 
 less cheek, I thought, for it had taken a rosy 
 tinge as bright as my sister’s, whom she had been 
 visiting. 
 
 “I dare say that Rhoda is glad to get quit of 
 me ; I am quite ashamed to have occupied so 
 much of her time,” she said, after our friendly 
 greeting; “but we have been talking about a 
 great many things ; ladies wdll, you know, when 
 they get together ; is not that what you censori- 
 ous men say? always finding fault with our 
 tongues.” I exculpated myself and sex in the 
 most gallant manner I could assume, and Helen 
 smiled and flushed till she reminded me more 
 of Rosanna than herself. 
 
 “That’s all very good-; but papa and I were 
 wondering what had become of you, Mr. La 
 Touche.” 
 
 “ I understood your father was from home,” 
 said I; what made me think of such an excuse? 
 Helen’s face fell grave and sad again. 
 
 “ Oh yes ! he was from home for a few days; 
 he had some business in Bath, and I partly per- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Ul 
 
 suaded him to go ; papa is growing so nervous 
 and low-spirited. I am afraid he attends his 
 business too closely, and sees too little company. 
 I am but poor company for him at home, and 
 he don’t care for any body else but you. I wish 
 you had time to come and see us as often as Mr. 
 Esther does.” 
 
 “ Has Mr. Esthers been visiting you lately?” 
 I thought of his absence from the office, 
 
 “ Oh yes, he is always coming ; when papa 
 was from home I had to come down and tell 
 him so plainly ; he would take no denial from 
 James, and you know I would not receive any 
 gentleman except — except yourself,” said Hel- 
 en, wiping her face with her handkerchief ; 44 we 
 are such very old friends.” 
 
 44 Of course we are,” said I ; 44 and Mr. Est- 
 hers has no right to intrude where he is not 
 tvanted. If I might venture to advise your 
 father and you, Miss Eorbes, I should say, make 
 no ceremony with such a person. If a man 
 shows himself destitute of gentlemanly feeling 
 and delicacy, he ought to be dealt with accord- 
 ingly, and get what they call in my country a 
 genteel invitation to stay at home. ” 
 
 44 We must not be too ready to make harsh 
 constructions, you know. Papa thinks him 
 friendly on the whole, and believes he might 
 get some good, some serious impressions in our 
 society ; and this is a world in which we are all 
 called upon to do what good we can; speaking 
 of which reminds me of the grievous dispensa- 
 tion meted out to the poor Joyce family. No 
 doubt you are aware of it — poor Jeremy Joyce, 
 our clerk’s sister, she went to a play, I under- 
 stand, and was suddenly struck with madness ; 
 an awful dispensation, Mr. La Touche, and 
 very like a judgment, though it is not right to 
 think uncharitably. Poor Sally (is not that her 
 name ?) was always given to gayeties and friv- 
 olities, I understand ; would live in the most 
 fashionable part of London, though the family 
 income is narrow enough, and never gave her 
 brother or sister peace or rest with her love of 
 plays and spectacles. Oh, Mr. La Touche, is 
 it not a warning ?” 
 
 44 A warning as regards sudden outbreak of 
 brain disease long in the constitution,” said I, 
 somewhat amused at the serious young lady’s 
 version of the affair. 44 Poor Sally’s head w r as 
 never steady, and the insanity which I believe 
 she inherited from her mother has at length 
 come upon her, perhaps, as you think, acceler- 
 ated by the excitement of the play, which w r as 
 a very fine one. My sister and I had the pleas- 
 ure of witnessing its performance,” and I looked 
 Miss Forbes very straight in the face, but the 
 acid of Scotch Calvinism was not so easily con- 
 quered. 44 1 am sorry you should find pleasure 
 in such scenes, Mr. La Touche. I am sure you 
 can find no profit — that is, no spiritual profit,” 
 said Helen, settling into the admonishing man- 
 ner once reserved for Charles Barry. 
 
 44 Opinions will differ on that as tvell as on 
 other subjects, Miss Forbes; but probably nei- 
 ther you nor I could convince each other.” 
 
 “Perhaps we could not, and perhaps it is 
 taking too much upon myself to dispute the 
 point with you ; but I spoke as a friend, and 
 from my own convictions;” the admonishing 
 was all gone, and she looked sad and timid. 
 
 44 Whatever you say will be honest and friend- 
 ly, and I, above all the world, have, a right to 
 hear it with respect and attention.” 
 
 “Oh dear, no — not at all,” she interrupted 
 my amends - making ; “you are far wiser, far 
 more learned than I am, and though you may 
 call it prejudice, and maybe laugh at me, I be- 
 lieve you will come to think as we do yet, and 
 not be conformed t6 the fashions of the w r orld 
 which passeth away. But, to change the sub- 
 ject, now you will laugh at me for being curi- 
 ous too. How was it that poor Sally Joyce got 
 into Madame Palivez’s house?” 
 
 “That I can not tell you,” said I, speaking 
 with a very safe conscience. 
 
 44 1 thought you might have seen or heard 
 something of it, she raved so about you and Ma- 
 dame ; it was dreadful to hear her going on 
 about a murder which she imagined you had 
 committed that night ; I am not sure if it were 
 you or Madame the poor creature meant, she 
 talked so wildly, and always finished her story 
 with a terrible dark asylum, to which she in- 
 sisted you were going.” 
 
 “A confused notion of her own destiny,” 
 said I. 
 
 44 No doubt that is the proper explanation ; 
 you would understand it all when you saw her,” 
 said Helen, altogether unconscious that my 
 dread of having the boudoir scene rehearsed, or 
 attracting the attention of the Joyces to my 
 whereabouts after I left the play, had kept me 
 from making the smallest inquiry in Bolton 
 Row; 44 and they have got her sent to a very 
 well conducted humane establishment,” she 
 continued; “Madame Palivez did it for them. 
 How kind that lady has been to the poor family 
 whose father served in her bank ! She may 
 be singular, being so very rich, and a Greek; 
 foreign ways are not like ours, and Madame 
 has chosen to live single, which is always pe- 
 culiar.” 
 
 “Do you think so, Miss Forbes?” I had 
 stepped close up to her, with the intention of 
 offering my arm, and either taking her back to - 
 No. 9, or seeing her safe home. I had got up 
 to the quizzing point, and she had begun to 
 laugh at her own admission, when there came 
 along the quiet road a sound of horse’s hoofs, 
 the gleam of a white mane, the flutter of a green 
 habit, and Madame Palivez, mounted on her 
 Zara, came galloping toward us. My heart saw 
 her before my eyes, but for my very soul I 
 could not have kept them from fixing on her. 
 It was Madame’s custom to pass me without 
 word or look of recognition ; but now, before I 
 had time to bethink or check myself, she slack- 
 ed rein, stopped within a pace or two, and sa- 
 luted me with, 44 Good-evening, Mr. La Touche,” 
 at the same time making a courteous bow to 
 Helen. Never did the lady look more gay or 
 
142 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 graceful, the rich bloom of her cheek heightened 
 by that evening gallop ; the always bright, in- 
 telligent eyes, the braids of shining hair, which 
 had somehow broken band, and were fallen 
 loose and wavy under her riding hat, might 
 have become Artemis returning from her most 
 successful hunt. “Well met,” she said, “ and 
 unexpectedly. I should have seen you sooner, 
 but have been much occupied. I shall be at 
 home in the villa to-morrow evening ; come to 
 me, for I have much to say.” 
 
 “ I will come, Madame.” The words and the 
 look had possessed me to such a degree that I 
 forgot the woman who had been standing by my 
 side — had been, but was not now ; Helen had 
 returned Madame’s bend, and moved away. 
 “Go and join your company,” said the bank 
 lady, looking kindly reproving ; “ delicate, sens- 
 ible girl, how quickly she got out of hearing ! 
 Lucien, we will speak of her to-morrow. Good- 
 by !” She gave the reins a twitch and galloped 
 away to London. I stood for a minute where 
 she left me, a joyful but bewildered man, and 
 then I recollected my duty to Miss Forbes, who 
 was walking quickly home. In mv haste to 
 rectify matters, I ran up to her, offered my 
 arm, and avowed she must come back to No. 9, 
 and take tea with Rhoda and me. 
 
 “ Oh no, thank you,” said Helen, in a clear, 
 high tone, at the same time drawing down her 
 veil, but not before I saw there were tears in her 
 eyes ; “we have not dined yet, and I am ex- 
 pecting papa home ; good-by, Mr. La Touche ; 
 I should apologize to you as well as your sister 
 for having spent so much of your time.” She 
 gave me her hand quickly, still holding her veil 
 down. I stammered something about being al- 
 ways happy to spend time with her, and before 
 I could get any thing else gathered, she turned 
 up the road at a pace I had never thought her 
 capable of walking. 
 
 I stood and looked after her till she was up 
 the avenue and in at the gate, then I turned and 
 gazed Londonward, where Madame Palivez had 
 disappeared, and in my mind there was a strange 
 turmoil of joy and sorrow, of hope and fear. I 
 had seen the lady of my thoughts and bondage ; 
 she was not offended at the revelation I had 
 dared to make at last, after so much holding 
 back and hiding. She had bidden me come, 
 and had much to say. I was bound to her serv- 
 ice by heart and hand ; I would be proud to do 
 or suffer any thing for her sake ; oh that all the 
 bank were in ashes, and she had no dependence 
 in the world but me, that I might prove the 
 truth and loyalty of my affection for herself 
 alone ! But that brief interview had brought 
 me a discovery — one never dreamt of, though 
 perhaps it should have been — the only daughter 
 of Mr. Forbes, my family’s best and only friend, 
 the stay of their adversity, the help of their last 
 remaining branches, to whom I owed every 
 thing, for their sakes and for my own — that 
 man’s only and well-beloved daughter had fixed 
 her heart on me. I was hot so vain, so heart- 
 less a man as to be proud of the conquest. I 
 
 had not made it intentionally, and Helen had 
 kept her secret well. Her worth was known to 
 me, in spite of strict Presbyterianism and an 
 overshadowed life, a plain face, and sober, un- 
 attractive ways. I had seen, and had sense 
 enough to value, her sterling qualities of heart 
 and mind, and I never valued them more than 
 at that moment, when a sudden flash, struck 
 out by that accidental encounter, had enlight- 
 ened me on the way her thoughts were going. 
 I don’t think I was naturally vain ; a tough 
 struggle with the world is apt to take that folly 
 out of a man, and I had got a lesson not to be 
 forgotten in the case of Rosanna. The once 
 deceived will not readily help to cheat them- 
 selves a second time, and the difference between 
 Helen Forbes and Rosanna Joyce was that be- 
 tween a saint and a milliner’s girl. I did not 
 deceive myself, and I was not deceived ; the 
 light had flashed on me unsought and unex- 
 pected, and what was I to do ? Give up Miss 
 Forbes’s society, avoid her father’s house, get 
 misinterpreted by the generous banker, appear 
 to slight the friends who had stood by me and 
 mine so long, or keep my own counsel, pretend 
 to have learned nothing, and let the good, gen- 
 tle, noble-hearted girl believe that it was so? 
 On Helen’s part I knew that could be done 
 without difficulty ; she was strong in that wom- 
 anly pride, failing which there is no true del- 
 icacy. I might have gone on forever visiting 
 and conversing with her as a friend, and yet 
 have no cause to think myself a preferred man. 
 But on my side, whatever inexperienced people 
 may think, the case was not so easy. The man 
 must be virtuous, wise, or cold beyond the com- 
 mon who can know himself to be loved, and act 
 as if he knew it not. 
 
 Henceforth I must be always on the defense 
 of my own motives, always careful to prove that 
 I was nothing but a friend ; and, what was 
 worse, that would have to be proved to the father 
 as well as the daughter. By the light I had 
 now, signs could be read that had formerly es- 
 caped me. The banker always looked pleased 
 at seeing us together — had not spared his 
 daughter’s praises ; they were every word true, 
 I could have pledged my life on it, but there 
 was the meaning of his advice against Madame 
 Palivez, and adjurations to look out for a faith- 
 ful, affectionate wife. In the world’s eye, what 
 a chance for a young clerk without prospects or 
 connections, a flourishing business to step into 
 as son-in-law and heir, a highly respectable 
 family to be connected with, and the girl her- 
 self — shame on me, that I did not rate her na- 
 tive worth above it all. But my foolish heart, 
 ay, and my foolish hopes, were gone after Ma- 
 dame Palivez ; coujd it be that she loved me 
 too? the thought made my brain spin round in 
 the wildest of all dances. What was to be said 
 to-morrow evening in the villa ? She had ac- 
 costed me on the public highway in the presence 
 of a third party, and she was to speak of Helen 
 — to what purpose ? If those two women were 
 rivals, all history and all satire were at fault, 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 143 
 
 for none could speak more nobly of each other. 
 But I had to go home with my unspeakable dis- 
 coveries and expectations, and live as best I 
 could to the next evening. 
 
 CHAPTER XL VI. 
 
 KILLING NO MURDER. 
 
 How much of life is consumed in waiting, 
 and there is no time harder to pass ! It passes, 
 nevertheless, as the intervening night and day 
 passed with me, and in the sunset light I was 
 at the villa gate, with the brass key and my 
 golden hopes. It was the jessamine time again, 
 the season at which I had been first admitted to 
 her woodland retreat. She must have loved that 
 latest child of the summer, and heir of all its 
 sweetness ; veranda, window, and door were 
 wreathed with its green tendrils and pale blos- 
 soms; all the air about w r as filled with its fra- 
 grance, and flower and odor yet bring back to 
 me the lady of the villa as she looked when I 
 saw her last in her summer rooms, white dress, 
 and braided hair, with one large white rose 
 from her own garden twined in the shining 
 bands. I thought she had never seemed so 
 glad to see me, never welcomed me so warmly, 
 and there was something soft and tender in her 
 look, unlike the queenly manner and high, res- 
 olute spirit which marked her at all times above 
 the mass of women. “ Sit down here beside 
 me, Lucien,” she said, “and give me your opin- 
 ion on a subject which has somehow come 
 into my thoughts this evening.” I had never 
 sat by her side till then, and to my bewitched 
 brain it seemed like the first glimpse of Para- 
 dise ; but she brought me back to the earth by 
 saying, “Have you ever read the old book 
 called ‘ Killing no Murder ?’ ” 
 
 “The pamphlet against Cromwell,” said I, 
 “after the reading of which he is said never to 
 have smiled again.” 
 
 “Any nonsense may be said, my friend,” 
 and she smiled scornfully; “ Cromwell was not 
 the man to be so affected by any body’s pam- 
 phlet ; he knew all the Royalists could say be- 
 fore it was written ; those who get and keep pow- 
 er as he did are never sensitive to people’s say- 
 ings or writings. But it was not of him or 
 of the old book I was going to speak ; w'hat is 
 your opinion of the argument set forth in its 
 title ; are there not cases in which killing would 
 be no murder ?” She was speaking calmly, and, 
 though rather surprised at her strain, I an- 
 swered in the same manner : “Yes, the laws of 
 England, and, I believe, of most nations, recog- 
 nize justifiable homicide.” 
 
 “ I do not speak of laws, my friend — they 
 always suit the interests or prejudices of their 
 makers — but of abstract principle.” 
 
 “The rule holds good in war, then,” said I. 
 
 “Ay, and in life’s war,” she said ; “ the long, 
 long battle with evil and necessity, which we 
 all wage from one generation to another, gen- 
 
 erally defeated, at best with only half victory, 
 and always dear-bought. I am generalizing too 
 W'idely, perhaps, having thought much on the 
 subject, which probably you have not. Let us 
 come to particulars, then ; may not cases occur 
 among the varieties of human misfortune in 
 which cutting the too tenacious thread of life 
 would be the best and wisest thing for the dis- 
 missed as well as for the dismisser ?” 
 
 “As in that of Virginius and his daugh- 
 ter ?” said I. 
 
 “Yes, and in those of thousands more, 
 pressed on and shut up from all chance of es- 
 cape by evils worse than the villainous decem- 
 vir. You don’t comprehend me : consider now, 
 irrecoverable and irreparable misfortune of any 
 kind sufficient to cut us off from our species, 
 their pursuits, their hopes, and their sympa- 
 thies. The like is not so uncommon, my 
 friend ; incurable disease, social degradation, 
 the power of enemies, misplaced affections 
 — if one be weak enough, though such are 
 scarcely worth reckoning on, Lucien — would not 
 the universal recognition of the principle we 
 discuss save the world its hospitals of incura- 
 bles, its lunatic asylums, its idiot wards, and 
 all its other repositories of useless, stagnating, 
 suffering life ? Would it not spare the cottage 
 cretins, the unmentioned members of aristo- 
 cratic families, ay, and the difficulties of royal 
 ones? What suffering, what tyranny, what 
 bringing down of our whole humanity, and 
 scope for all that is vile and vulgar in it, would 
 have been spared us too ! There w r as a great 
 and famous man of our own day, over one of 
 whose transactions partisans have been busy as- 
 serting and denying ever since it was done, not 
 to speak of the mighty coming out of moral- 
 ists on either side, all because, as the general 
 of an army obliged to retreat, and qnable to 
 take his sick and dying with him, he saved 
 the unfortunate creatures from the inflictions 
 of a cruel, fanatical enemy by an easy and 
 rapid poison. It was hundreds, says one parti- 
 san ; it was only some dozens, says another ; 
 as if that had any thing to do with the w r rong 
 or right of it. Right it was, Lucien, as the 
 best and wisest course must always be, and the 
 principle w'ill hold good in private as well as in 
 public life.” 
 
 “I can not agree with you, Madame.” My 
 senses were gathered by this time, and, great 
 as her power w r as over me, my moral convic- 
 tions were not to be so argued down. “That 
 principle of yours would leave no security, no 
 value of human life ; it would give lopse rein 
 to the worst of human passions ; covetousness, 
 selfishness of every kind, would turn it to 
 large account. If the troublesome and useless 
 were to be got rid of so easily, who would w r ait 
 for landed property or money in the funds, when 
 nothing but an old or imbecile life stood be- 
 tween it and them? The infanticide of Asia 
 and the Pacific Isles would be more than 
 equaled in Europe ; and suicide, under any cir- 
 cumstances, could be held no crime.” 
 
144 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “Who said it was, my friend, except the 
 slavish and cowardly creeds of these latter days, 
 the worst and latest inventions of priests, where- 
 by to get power and influence over men ? 
 That is what your boasted Christian faith has 
 done for the world — I mean the ' world that 
 received it; sapped its moral strength and 
 dwarfed its moral courage by the weakest and 
 most foolish of all fears — that of inevitable 
 death ; turning the Liberator and Rest Giver 
 into the King of Terrors, and binding up the 
 idea of him with church-yards and charnel- 
 houses, out of which the sheeted ghost and the 
 blood-sucking vampire came to make the wise 
 and beautiful night, the time of thought, of 
 sages, and of stars, terrible to rustics. The 
 classic world, with its painted tombs and urns, 
 knew nothing of them, nothing of the dread 
 and shrinking which the thought of death 
 brings to the Christian minds, supported by 
 revelation, as they say. I do not speak of the 
 Spartan going to sup with Pluto to the sound 
 of lyre and flute. The physical courage, the 
 warlike element in man, is not easily subdued 
 or sapped away till the decaying time of a race 
 or system comes. Christianity found the Greek 
 and Roman in that season ; history proves that 
 it neither invigorated nor reclaimed them, for 
 no creed can do so. It was not it, but ages 
 that civilized the Goth ; the new doctrine en- 
 listed his strength and his superstition when the 
 northern gods were losing their sway, it may be 
 because his migrations rolled too far from the 
 polar circle of long nights and winters. Yet 
 observe how little the classic Greek and the 
 northern Viking feared to meet or think of the 
 last enemy, and first if not only friend, Lucien, 
 compared with the common habit and thought 
 of Christian men. Nay, observe the believer in 
 Brahma and Buddha. British officials in your 
 Eastern colonies know well that capital punish- 
 ments have little terror for the Hindoo and the 
 Chinese, except when invested with peculiar 
 horrors of cruelty or superstition. Lucien, your 
 security of human life has given priestcraft a 
 fulcrum for its lever which it has worked to the 
 beating down of the popular mind; has filled 
 the world with miserable impediments, as if its 
 progress were not slow and sad enough, and I 
 suppose will make yourself rue and regret that 
 ever you made compact and friendship with me.” 
 
 “Never, Madame,” said I. “Can not peo- 
 ple differ in opinion on abstract subjects, and 
 yet be friends ?” 
 
 “Yes, Lucien; but abstract subjects some- 
 times take a concrete form, and come home to 
 one’s own experiences and necessities. We 
 won’t go farther for the present,” she continued, 
 hastily, as my lips opened to ask an explana- 
 tion ; “I know you have news for me which I 
 have kept you all this time from telling. , What 
 is it, my friend, for I must try to think you so ?” 
 
 I had no chance but to collect my scattered 
 thoughts, and tell her all I knew or could re- 
 member of my Russian visitor. Ay, every 
 word of his discourse about the clerk she had in 
 
 Dublin. It was not so hard to tell as one 
 would imagine, after her own talk, and Madame 
 listened calmly, as she did to all manner of 
 strange and terrible things, her face growing 
 more and more composed as the tale went on, 
 and making no remark till my disclosure was 
 finished. Then she said, in the same quiet 
 manner, “He was an emissary from Prince 
 Dashkoff, the gentleman you saw in the box 
 with me at the theatre. His highness has been 
 from home for some years ; his estates — in the 
 government of Archangel, I think— are heavily 
 encumbered ; his traveling expenses are consid- 
 erable ; he knows that I am the last of the 
 Palivezi ; he does not know that the house of 
 Comenzoni are our heirs ; and he has fixed his 
 affections on the bank. That is my reading of 
 the man and his views, easy enough to read, 
 because shallow. There is no depth beyond a 
 French hazard-table and a Russian intrigue, 
 which always means fibbing and cheating, in 
 him. But he is a relation, I ought to say an 
 affinity of my mother. She was of the house 
 of Cuzenes, great people in the Crimea, and of 
 old Greek descent ; one of her aunts married 
 into the Dashkoff family ; the prince is that 
 lady’s grandson, a sort of cousin to me, and ten 
 years younger than myself, though he does not 
 look like it : hazard-tables and their accompa- 
 niments are apt to tell unfavorably on a man’s 
 appearance. The prince was no great beauty 
 by nature, neither was his mother ; but she had 
 a hundred times his capability: you will read 
 of her in the books and memoirs of the time as 
 confidante and chief help of Catharine the Sec- 
 ond in her desperate but successful game of 
 getting rid of her husband and keeping his 
 throne. I have heard the princess’s maid (yon 
 observe I am given to gossip like other old 
 women) tell how, on the night of the great 
 attempt, her mistress sat alone in the best room 
 pf her palace with a pair of loaded pistols on 
 the table before her, till a page came with the 
 appointed signal that all was right, on which she 
 discharged them successively out of the back 
 window, to nobody’s damage, I believe, remark- 
 ing, ‘ It would have been through my own head 
 if the Czarina’s plan had miscarried ; they should 
 not have got me to send to Siberia.’ Lucien, 
 £here was a woman of spirit, whatever else she 
 might be ; the princess was no relation of ours, 
 remember, but a born Russian, the most capa- 
 ble race I know for deep plot and daring execu- 
 tion. These are their strong points, and will 
 give them the advantage of all the West in Eu- 
 rope’s waning days, which seem to be coming. 
 But to return to his highness : he is as well in- 
 clined to intrigue as his mother, though not so 
 able in it. He has been tampering with Est- 
 hers, or Esthers with him ; I must take some 
 measures with that winding, worming creature.” 
 And her eyes flashed with a fierce and sudden 
 lightning, which left the face cold and calm 
 again. “He is a sort of relation not to be 
 acknowledged, of course, but still related ; only 
 for that and for my father’s promise to poor un- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 145 
 
 cle Alexis, he should not have been about the 
 house so long, and now it is not worth while to 
 make changes ; but he must not be allowed to 
 give trouble.” 
 
 “ Have you thought of what I mentioned in 
 my note about Hannah Clark, Madame ?” I 
 said, for the subject occurred with a force I 
 could not account for at the time. 
 
 “ Oh yes ; you were perfectly correct ; there 
 is some intimacy between them, but the dumb 
 girl is exactly the person least likely to do harm 
 under his management, and I have desired Ma- 
 dame Oniga to see that she comes to no harm 
 herself, which is not likely either, for Hannah 
 seems to have profited by her discreet discipline. 
 Esthers has been talking nonsense to Prince 
 Dashkoff, however, and the prince has been 
 fishing information out of him. Russian high- 
 nesses can condescend to any thing when it 
 suits their purpose ; but the result is satisfacto- 
 ry on the whole ; it proves how little the Jew 
 knows, how little his sister could tell him, with 
 all the noisy pretense she made. By the way, 
 that crazed soul had all the courage of the fam- 
 ily ; the rest have only craft ; and what an ex- 
 hibition of both she made by following you or 
 Cyprien all the way from the theatre, and get- 
 ting behind the curtains in my boudoir ! That 
 was in the breaking-up time of her reason. Lu- 
 cien, it is wonderful what the unhinged mind 
 can effect against material obstacles ; an evi- 
 dence of latent and unnamed powers, perhaps, 
 but always useless and ruinous to itself and 
 others. Sally will never recover her senses ; 
 there is no restoration from that eclipse, though 
 she may livelong — twenty, thirty years, perhaps, 
 in a lunatic asylum.” Madame seemed to be 
 talking to herself — her eyes were nearly closed, 
 and at the last words her whole frame shook 
 with a sudden tremor ; but the next moment 
 she looked up collected and courageous as ever 
 I saw her, and said, “ Lucien, would not that 
 life be well cut short, and the burdened, fettered 
 soul set free to seek its better fortune in another 
 world ?” 
 
 “It would,” said I, “if such were its Maker's 
 will.” 
 
 “ My friend, how are you and I to discover 
 that ?” 
 
 “By the event, Madame, which should nei- 
 ther be brought about nor accelerated by human 
 hands.” I looked her calmly in the face, for 
 the words were from my conscience, and they 
 seemed to reach hers ; for the first time in all 
 our acquaintance her eyes drooped under my 
 gaze ; she sat silent for a minute, as if revolving 
 something hard and heavy in her mind, and 
 then, with a sigh that seemed involuntary, said, 
 “We shall never see things in the same light, 
 Lucien ; perhaps it is not desirable for your 
 sake that we should ; but you are a brave and 
 honest man, and will stand by your word, and 
 serve me as you promised — say you will, for 
 there is no man I could trust but you.” She 
 stretched her hand to me, and it was clasped in 
 mine : had she commanded me to finish Sally 
 K 
 
 Joyce, Esthers, and the entire family, my once 
 own Rosanna included, I could not have refused 
 at that moment. Let no man boast of his 
 strength till he has been fairly in the net ; 
 strong and wise men of old, Samson and Solo- 
 mon, were overcome by woman’s wiles, and I 
 am mistaken if the best or worst of their Deli- 
 lahs would have been a match for Madame Pa- 
 livez. I know not in what words I pledged 
 myself over and over again to her service and 
 commands ; but as I spoke the woman’s look 
 grew sad and softened, I felt her hand sliding 
 away from mine, and dared not retain it ; she 
 was queen and empress over me to the last; 
 and then, as if determined to change the sub- 
 ject, said, “Lucien, don’t mind that Baltic 
 merchant of yours ; if he come again, hear what 
 he has been bidden to say. I will take meas- 
 ures with Esthers for so buzzing up his silly 
 highness ; if he were not a connection of my 
 mother, I should take no trouble wdth the man. 
 You have never heard me speak of her before; 
 she died long ago, in the year they sent me to 
 be educated in that Greek convent beside the 
 Euxine; but I remember her well, and have her 
 portrait among the ladies of our house — they 
 were always taken in miniature ; the men are 
 at full length yonder on the walls of the bank, 
 but no woman of the family was ever so paint- 
 ed, except the Kazan princess whom you have 
 seen and must remember. My mother was not 
 like her, but a fine Greek face, not so beautiful 
 as regular, which became her character, for she 
 was a respectable Greek lady of the old school, 
 w'hose domestic manners had survived the vicis- 
 situdes of creed and empire, and undergone 
 little alteration from the days of Penelope to 
 my mother’s youth. Like the Queen of Ithaca, 
 she spun with a distaff, wove on the hand-loom, 
 embroidered skillfully with her needle, superin- 
 tended all her household affairs, was not to be seen 
 by strangers, went out only on church festivals 
 or visits of ceremony, and always deeply veiled, 
 as matrons of rank and propriety were among 
 the ancient Greeks, and still are in the northern 
 colonies. I w ill show you her picture, Lucien, 
 and,, notwithstanding the classic regularity of 
 features, which makes some difference, do you 
 know whom she resembles ? The lady from 
 whom I was sorry to be your cause of parting 
 yesterday evening ; tell me, why did you leave 
 her so abruptly ?” 
 
 “ We had only met by accident, Madame,, 
 and Miss Forbes was going home.” 
 
 “ She seemed in no haste about it, Lucien, 
 and neither did you, till I came forward. You 
 were talking in the most friendly and confidential 
 manner ; so you should, my friend, and I was 
 glad to see it. Do you know that I made a dis- 
 covery that hour on the Bayswater road, one 
 wdiich you should never hear of if I did not 
 think you wiser and better than common men ; 
 Lucien, that virtuous, pious, gentle woman loves 
 you with all the strength and truth of her pure 
 and constant nature. There is a treasure come to 
 your hand, ay, and to your heart, if you have 
 
146 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 wisdom and worth enough t.o value it, which 
 great and good men have not been blessed with. 
 ‘ He that a good woman loves is fenced against 
 all evil,’ says the Tuscan proverb. Helen Forbes 
 is a good woman, if there be one on this side of 
 the blue. She is her father’s heiress, but we 
 will not speak of that ; I know you are not the 
 man to be bribed or bought in marriage. But 
 her tender and true affection will complete for 
 you the golden round of life, broken and frag- 
 mentary to so many. Your domestic comfort, 
 your worldly credit, your family affairs, will be 
 safe in her keeping; and, more than all, she 
 loves you, Lucien ; the man is worse than fool 
 with whom that counts for little.” 
 
 “Madame,” said I, the whole man within 
 me rising against being so made over and dis- 
 posed of, “I know Miss Forbes deserves all the 
 praise you give her, but, were she ten times as 
 good and as worthy, I can not love her, having 
 loved another. What I ventured to tell you at 
 our last meeting was true, whatever you may 
 please to reckon it ; I spoke in haste, and sore 
 pressed by the feelings of the hour. If it were 
 displeasing to you, as I suppose, forgive me for 
 the sake of the circumstances, but I can not 
 forget that it was uttered, and that it was true.” 
 “No, Lucien, it was not, it could not be,” 
 and she wrung her hands with a look of hope- 
 less misery ; “ there are twenty years between 
 us, my friend ; I knew the mysteries of life be- 
 fore you w. ~e born. Yes, it is true, I look 
 younger tha . my years ; and there are barriers 
 far more impassable than the disparity of age.” 
 “ Our different positions?” said I. 
 
 “No, these are outward chances which my 
 choice could step over — would have stepped, 
 perhaps, whatever the world might count it.” 
 It was a vague, foolish hope waking up in my 
 heart that made me clasp her hand between my 
 own, which were trembling like aspen leaves. 
 “Yes, Lucien” — she was calm and collected 
 now, and the words came soft and slowly — 
 “there is something in my own mind, some- 
 thing in yours, something in the fate or chance 
 which brought us to be acquainted, which tells 
 me we were not born strangers. Maybe it was in 
 the former life that we knew each other. Yes, 
 my friend, there was an existence before this for 
 some of us ; don’t you dream at times of places 
 and things you never saw ? There may be many 
 lives with the Lethe between them ; perhaps it 
 is in one to come that we are to meet again ; I 
 know there are such predestinations ; but on 
 this side of the church-yard clay, Lucien, there 
 can be nothing but friendship between you and 
 I. Don’t look so vexed; no life can have in 
 it any thing nobler or more wrnrthy of the soul 
 than friendship ; it survives all chances, it out- 
 lasts all changes. I am speaking of the true, 
 immortal sort, and if that link of eternity be 
 between us, we will come together in spite of 
 time and space. I can not prove, but I believe 
 it, and I believe in you now as I never did be- 
 fore. Don’t ask me why ; the truths that most 
 concern us are revealed by flashes ; I know now 
 
 you are the one friend my weakness or my faith 
 has sought for among all that ever passed me 
 on life’s highway — what a weary, dusty, ob- 
 structed one it is — the friend that will open the 
 gates of death for me, and send my soul free 
 and unburdened to the heritage that has no 
 mortgage to the powers of darkness and evil on 
 it.” 
 
 “ Kill you!” said I, starting up, and my own 
 voice sounded strange and hollow. “ Madame, 
 whatever you may say, whatever you may make 
 me promise, I will never do that.” 
 
 “You will, Lucien, my first, my only friend ; 
 you will do more for me than Virginius did for 
 his daughter, for I have a greater evil to es- 
 cape from, and no blame of the foolish world 
 will fall on you, no danger from its laws.” 
 She held out her hand to me, but I could not 
 take it, though never had she looked more kind 
 and tender. 
 
 “ What do you mean, Madame ? For God’s 
 sake, tell me what put such a thought in your 
 mind !” 
 
 ‘ ‘ A fact in my family history with which you 
 are not acquainted, Lucien ; sit down and listen 
 to me ; you are the first man, not a Palivez, to 
 whom it was ever told, and I know you will 
 keep your promise.” 
 
 I sat down mechanically, but not now so close 
 by her side, and she proceeded with the firm 
 look and tone of one who had wound herself up 
 to the task, ^nd would fulfill it. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVII. 
 
 THE HISTORY OF THE PALIVEZI, AND THEIR 
 DOOM. 
 
 “My family was reckoned old and illustrious 
 among the Greeks settled in Southern Russia, 
 that corner of ancient Scythia to which Greece 
 sent out her earliest colonies, the meeting-place 
 of Europe’s old civilization and most ancient 
 barbarism, where the creeds and customs of 
 East and West still flourish side by -side, and 
 their races have dwelt for ages without min- 
 gling. We were not sprung from the early 
 colonists, but of the Attic stock; archons of 
 Athens were among our ancestors ; but, like 
 many of the Greek patricians, we removed to 
 Byzantium when Constantine the Great made 
 it his capital and founded the Eastern empire. 
 Ages after, when the Ottoman Turks were be- 
 coming known on the Greek frontiers, and the 
 Russi of the North were catching the lights of 
 civilization and Christianity from Constanti- 
 nople, a dispute with the Patriarch, which began 
 about church dues, and ended in an accusation 
 of worshiping Jupiter, made us emigrate first to 
 the flourishing city of Novgorod, and afterward 
 to Kief, still the holy place of the North, and 
 then chosen by Saint Vladimir as the capital of 
 his new-christened kingdom. From that period 
 the Palivezi lived and traded among the Greeks 
 of Russia. Always of patrician rajik and good 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 147 
 
 estate, they had become merchants and bankers 
 as early as the Roman times ; the Greek nobil- 
 ity gave example in this respect to those of 
 Venice and other Italian cities. They carried 
 their business with them to the North ; Novgo- 
 rod and Kief were the emporiums of European 
 and Asiatic commerce ; from the tenth to the 
 fifteenth century, the Greeks monopolized its 
 higher and more profitable branches, and the 
 Palivezi were the most successful house among 
 them. In spite of intestine wars and Tartar 
 invasions, which often passed over the land in 
 those five hundred years, their mercantile pru- 
 dence, enterprise, and honor — which, by the way, 
 were equally proverbial — enabled them to gather 
 and keep riches which no other firm in the North 
 could boast. It was their wisdom, and it proved 
 their strength. Lucien, whatever philosophers 
 may $a} 7 ', wealth is worth striving for ; it is the 
 one power which commands all material things, 
 and, to some extent, the minds of men ; yet it 
 may be overprized and overpaid, as happened 
 in our house. 
 
 “ The Palivezi had acquired very great influ- 
 ence and authority on the banks of the Borys- 
 thenes through their credit in foreign lands and 
 the capital they could command at home. They 
 had made the northern princes their humble 
 servants through loans and subsidies ; they had 
 raised troops to defend the cities where they 
 dwelt against the Tartar; some of them had 
 commanded their armed companies and done 
 the invader no small damage. When at length 
 the northern torrent overwhelmed the land, they 
 bribed barbarian prejudices, bought over favor- 
 ites, and thus obtained good terms from the 
 Tartar chiefs, with whom they treated on their 
 own account as independent powers. - They had 
 similar dealings, warlike and pacific, with the 
 Poles and the Teutonic knights ; in short, with 
 all the conquerors and troublers of those times. 
 But Russia struggled back into national life. 
 Vasilrewitsch shook off the Tartar domination, 
 and built the Kremlin at Moscow ; the Cross 
 was established in the North, and the Crescent 
 waned before it step by step, and year by year, 
 till in the days of Ivan, called by his own sub- 
 jects the Terrible, and known in England as the 
 Muscovite Czar who sent embassadors to Queen 
 Elizabeth, and allowed her subjects to form a 
 trading company at Archangel, the kingdoms of 
 Crimea and Kazan, to which his ancestors had 
 paid tribute, were conquered and reduced to 
 Russian rule, the whole South and East, as far 
 as the frontier^ of Poland and the Euxine Sea, 
 became his dominions, and the Palivezi had 
 to deal with an absolute and Christian Czar. 
 They lent him money, as they had done to his 
 predecessors ; they bought over his ministers 
 and favorites — for the terrible Ivan had some 
 such — but Christian Russians were more ex- 
 pensive to bribe and buy than Mohammedan 
 Tartars. The conquering Czar could not be 
 so well secured by loans as his tribute-paying 
 ancestors had been ; it was requisite to please 
 and serve him too, if they would live and trade 
 
 within his bounds, and about this time Ivan re- 
 quired a piece of special service. He had con- 
 quered the kingdom of Kazan ; internal feuds, 
 and the chances of war and time, had extermi- 
 nated its royal house all to one old man, trem- 
 bling on the verge of the grave, and his daugh- 
 ter, the last but undoubted heiress of the Tartar 
 line. It was true that women counted for little 
 among the Eastern and Moslem races, but the 
 blood of Zingus was in her veins ; the Tartar 
 chief who happened to marry her might claim 
 the sovereignty of Kazan in her right, and Ivan 
 was determined to secure it to his posterity. 
 The antipathies of race and religion were stron- 
 ger in those days than they are now among the 
 Russians. The absolute Czar, though he might 
 sat up wheels and gibbets for them, could not 
 ask one of his Muscovite nobles to marry the 
 Tartar princess with any amount of dowry ; but 
 the head of the Greek banking-house had an 
 only son and heir yet undisposed of in marriage, 
 and Ivan fixed on him as a safe husband for the 
 dangerous heiress. Refusal involved a flight 
 from Russia, without time to arrange business 
 or gather in debts and securities, and the con- 
 fiscation of all that could not be speedily carried 
 off was certain. Compliance secured the mon- 
 opoly of Eastern commerce, which was now 
 ebbing fast away from Novgorod and Kief, hav- 
 ing found new channels in the Levant and the 
 Adriatic. The Palivezi might engross all that 
 remained — might retain their wealth and influ-, 
 ence, if not rise to greater, by obeying the Czar’s 
 behest ; and as there was no alternative but 
 ruin, these considerations prevailed. The Greek 
 line, which had kept its pure Hellenic descent 
 unbroken and unmingled with any foreign 
 strain from the days of Athenian liberty, was 
 linked to the Scythian hordes, and Eusebius 
 Palivez married the last descendant of Zingus 
 Khan. You see her picture hanging in mjr 
 private rooms, beside the veiled Nemesis, a true 
 Tartar face in its ugliness, in its strength, and in 
 the power of the curse with which she smote my 
 family. Now, Lucien, I am about to tell you 
 one of those traditions which dignified historians 
 ignore and sensible biographers reason away, 
 but which are nevertheless the truest part of 
 national or family history. Yermiska — that 
 was the Tartar name of the princess, though 
 they baptized her Helena in the newly-erected 
 church dedicated to that saint in Kazan — had 
 formed an early attachment to a Calmuck chief, 
 who had fought gallantly for his share of the 
 Crimeayretired with his tribe before the advanc- 
 ing Russians far eastward, and was said to have 
 ultimately settled on the frontiers of China. 
 His descent was held inferior to her own ; I be- 
 lieve the tribe were not orthodox Mohamme- 
 dans either; but there was avow between them, 
 and Yermiska would fain have retired eastward 
 too. But the old chief, her father, would not 
 leave the soil of Kazan and the stone coffins of 
 his ancestors. For the sake of remaining there, 
 he consented to her marriage with the Christian 
 trader ; the conquering Czar commanded it , 
 
148 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 the Palivezi, father and son — though solemnly- 
 warned of the bride’s aversion by her old confi- 
 dential nurse, secretly sent to their house under 
 shade of night — held on to the wedding which 
 promised such advantages. 
 
 “Yermiska was a Tartar Moslema, accus- 
 tomed to think of revenge, but never of revolt 
 or disobedience ; and the night before her mar- 
 triage she deliberately drank a potion, prepared 
 for her by a Calmuck sorceress, famous through- 
 out the north, and known to journey as far as 
 Kamtschatka in her search for plants of power. 
 How, or of what that draught was compounded, 
 the Powers of Darkness best know; but the 
 princess declared, and time has proved her state- 
 ment true, that it would transmit hereditary and 
 irremediable madness to the utmost generation 
 of her descendants. 
 
 “ You look incredulous, my friend. There 
 are secrets in nature for which the boasted sci- 
 ence of Europe has neither name nor place. 
 Among the rank-growing weeds of her fens and 
 marshes, among the wind-sown flowers of her 
 woods and wilds, there are plants that draw oc- 
 cult influences down from the midnight moon, 
 or up from the nether kingdom, to mingle with 
 their juices, and furnish the skillful searcher 
 with weapons against life and death, never yet 
 matched by your chemists and anatomists. 
 They were known three thousand years ago to 
 necromancers, who sought them out on the plains 
 of Thessaly and the vales of Etruria. Through 
 them they changed men’s natures and turned 
 the course of their affections ; the love philtres 
 were not all fancies, neither were the tales of 
 Caligula and Domitian. From them the Egyp- 
 tian embalmers drew the gums which fenced 
 their dead against decay, while it fell on suc- 
 cessive creeds and dynasties. That knowledge, 
 like all the deeper and higher sorts, has no 
 written records. It can not be found in books ; 
 they contain but the husks and rinds of learn- 
 ing, being meant for the common eye and mind. 
 It exists, nevertheless, among primitive and un- 
 lettered races ; the African slave and the Hin- 
 doo pariah have visited the sins of the fathers 
 upon Anglo-Saxon families by means similar 
 to those which the unwilling bride employed 
 against mine. Strange that such mysterious 
 drugs should be far less powerful to save than 
 to destroy ; as it is thought because the plants 
 that bear them grow so near the dead, for the 
 graves of earth’s first inhabitants are in her 
 wastes and wilds. You can not believe it ; the 
 subject is too new to you ; we will talk of it 
 hereafter, if there be time ; but the night wears, 
 and I must proceed with my weary tale. 
 
 “ Eusebius Palivez, one of the handsomest 
 men of his time, and one of the wealthiest in 
 Kussia, though never able to supersede the Cal- 
 muck chief, espoused his Tartar bride, with a 
 pomp which astonished all Kazan, in the church 
 where she had been baptized on the previous 
 day, brought her home to his house in Kief with 
 splendor and festivity befitting a wealthy Greek 
 of the sixteenth century, and was henceforth es- 
 
 tablished in the favor of the terrible Czar, and 
 in the monopoly of Eastern trade and banking. 
 The Princess Helena, as people continued to 
 call her, behaved like a dutiful and prudent wife 
 — though she insisted on having her tirema, or 
 harem apartments, kept strictly separate from 
 the public rooms — wore a thicker veil than 
 Greek ladies were accustomed to, and never 
 went to church if she could help it. There was 
 great peace, if nothing better, between her and 
 her husband for full thirty years. They had 
 three sons and two daughters ; the house of 
 Palivez had increased in riches as well as in 
 numbers, when the great plague, which devas- 
 tated Eastern Europe at the end of the six- 
 teenth century, found its way to Kief, entered 
 their walls in spite of wealth and care, and first 
 lighted on the Princess Helena. The Tartar 
 woman was dying, and she knew it. In the 
 middle of the third night, a band of Greek monks 
 stood round her bed ; they had come to admin- 
 ister the last sacraments, and see the soul won 
 from Mohammed safe on its last journey ; her 
 husband and children stood at the chamber door 
 — they could venture no nearer the pestilence, 
 though the black cross marked the door, and 
 none might pass out or in. But the daughter 
 of Zingus raised herself with a final effort, look- 
 ed Eusebius Palivez in the face, and told him, 
 in a tone which all the house could hear, what 
 she had done for him and his posterity the night 
 before her marriage, prayed that the Prophet, in 
 whom her fathers trusted, might hold the curse 
 over them to their latest generation, struck the 
 Eucharist out of the hand of a horrified monk, 
 and, with a shout of fierce laughter, fell back 
 and died. 
 
 “Eusebius Palivez lived to see his hundred 
 and fifth birthday. He also lived to see the 
 fearful intelligence of that midnight prove true ; 
 his eldest son, about the age of fifty, fell, as all 
 the Palivez have, or would have fallen, into 
 strange and helpless insanity. Up to that time 
 he had been a man of clear intellect, sober, 
 honest habits, and more than common under- 
 standing. There was no cause of accident or 
 disease the doctors could discover for his mad- 
 ness. It began with an unaccountable loss of 
 memory ; Lucien, I hold that faculty to be the 
 hinge on which both life and mind turn. Well, 
 it went from him, as it were, piecemeal, for 
 about six months, and then furious, raging fren- 
 zy was suddenly developed. I have heard that 
 he killed three keepers within the first year ; 
 and the part of the house where they kept him 
 had to be walled up, to prevent his getting out 
 and destroying the entire family. After about 
 seven years of that frantic state, he gradually 
 sank into imbecility, so groveling and degraded 
 that the details could only produce disgust. 
 
 “I have heard them all, for this was the first 
 case and example of our family misfortune ; 
 henceforth it was the sure inheritance of every 
 succeeding Palivez, man or woman — somewhat 
 modified in the latter, but the same in char- 
 acter and duration ; for both there was no re- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 149 
 
 covery — no interval ; and it always came on 
 at middle age, sooner or later, according to 
 constitution, but never deferred beyond the fif- 
 tieth year. You will say it was hereditary in 
 the princess’s Tartar family, derived, as it was, 
 from barbarous warriors, whose lives had been 
 full of wild excitement, and probably wilder ex- 
 cess. That would be a probable and sensible 
 explanation, but I believe in the account handed 
 down to us from Eusebius, her unlucky husband, 
 and my unlucky ancestor. He left a doom hang- 
 ing over every Palivez which prudence could not 
 ward off nor wealth bribe away, coming nearer 
 to them year by year, as they grew out of youth 
 into the business and importance of rich and 
 wise men of the world ; but there was brave 
 blood among them. That wild, fierce stream 
 from the Scythian deserts had met and mingled 
 with that which dyed the sea at Salamis, and 
 made it famous to all time. The Palivez had 
 not the wisdom to foil the Fates by letting the 
 doomed race die out, and others take their place 
 among the world’s gainers and gatherers ; but 
 they had the courage, man after man, to follow 
 the precept and example of the Tartar woman’s 
 youngest son. His name was Eusebius too — 
 a notable name in our family ; it was given to 
 the first that turned Christian, but the priest 
 strongly suspected this Eusebius of paganism ; 
 some of us were always relapsing that way, you 
 perceive. He saw there was but one escape for 
 our family honor — one mode of concealing our 
 misfortune from the knowledge of the vulgar — 
 and of what misfortune will they not take ad- 
 vantage in one form or other ? Ours was griev- 
 ous beyond the common, and would bring more 
 than common scorn and shame. Lucien, if 
 you are not well enough acquainted with the 
 world to know that that is all our ill luck, how- 
 ever unmerited, brings us from the common 
 herd — and what else are mankind ? — you may 
 come to learn it in time. Were the heads of 
 our high-born and stainless house to become 
 proverbial as foredoomed madmen? were our 
 stately mansions, to which cities looked for the 
 tokens of their prosperity, and princes came as 
 humble negotiators, to contain walled-up prisons 
 for raving frenzy, or imbecility sunk far below 
 the level of Nebuchadnezzar’s punishment ? 
 were useless and wretched lives to wear and 
 suffer on with no result but the impediment of 
 business, and the dishonor of our house and 
 name ? Eusebius found a wiser course, and all 
 his descendants have followed it, from one gen- 
 eration to another. The inscrdfable doom was 
 made known, at fitting time and to the proper 
 person — that is to say, to the nearest heir and 
 evident successor; the duty was bound upon 
 them, and accepted, without one cowardly de- 
 faulter, as the time approached and the symp- 
 toms became manifest, to remove beyond the 
 bounds of suffering and insanity the man whose 
 days of usefulness and reason were numbered. 
 Heir after heir fulfilled that duty to his prede- 
 cessor by a sure and rapid poison, compounded 
 for us by one of the same Tartar race to whom 
 
 its necessity was owing. Some had courage and 
 judgment enough to act for themselves, some 
 died before the time of the visitation. The 
 daughters of our house were generally sent to 
 convents ; the few that were married in Russia 
 brought only suspicion on the family through 
 their misfortune ; its cause and consequence 
 wete never revealed to them. Being Greeks, 
 and men of Eastern business, the Palivezi held 
 women incapable of keeping such a secret — for 
 a secret it was kept within our walls and breasts, 
 at farthest known only to some ancient and 
 trusty servant like my old Marco, some aged 
 confessor, or discreet abbess. To make its keep- 
 ing safer, and also to keep the wealth it had 
 gathered from the needy hands of Ivan’s suc- 
 cessors, our house removed to Amsterdam. The 
 rapidly-rising commerce of that city, at the be- 
 ginning of the seventeenth century, made it an 
 eligible position for Eastern bankers ; and in the 
 grasping, feverish haste of trade, there are covert 
 and shelter for all who have matters to conceal. 
 People have less time or interest to waste in 
 observation of their neighbors’ lives and doings. 
 In Amsterdam we remained, and flourished, and 
 left our dead — a Greek house of great business, 
 great repute, and singularly-secluded habits, for 
 nearly a hundred years. Then the flush of 
 Dutch commerce passed away, leaving the coun- 
 try more quiet and leisure for gossip and remark. 
 We had formed English connections ; the reign- 
 ing head of our house thought it expedient to 
 become a stranger once more ; there was no 
 Greek firm in Dublin, and we had reason to ex- 
 pect special favor at the viceregal court. To 
 Dublin we and our bank removed accordingly ; 
 it was in my great-grandfather’s time. There 
 the one Palivezi succeeded the other, and did 
 the ancient office of heir and successor, which 
 has been transmitted through ten generations, 
 till the line has come to its end in me. My 
 father did that duty to his elder brother Alexis, 
 and I did the same for him eighteen years ago. 
 You start, my friend ; but I lived in the ex- 
 pectation of it for years before, and have lived 
 in its memory ever since. None but my old 
 servants and you know the fact; you watched 
 with me through the last anniversary night; you 
 are the only friend I ever had, or could have, 
 since then ; and you will do the same office for 
 me. Perhaps you will despise me. I have 
 despised myself many a time for the weakness 
 which makes me shrink from doing on my own 
 behalf that which I did for my dear and loving 
 father. I have reasoned, striven, and sneered 
 against it, but all in vain. The shrinking and 
 the horror remain with me ; yet do me justice, 
 Lucien, it is not want of courage to open the 
 gate of death with my own hand, and walk into 
 its outer darkness. But I mistrust my own 
 firmness of nerve, my own clearness of judg- 
 ment, when the time arrives. Perhaps it is 
 weak not to anticipate its coming, and be be- 
 forehand with it ; but, like all doomed people, I 
 value the days of respite, and am not willing to 
 part with one of them. If life had been less 
 
150 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 full of health and vigor, I might. have been more 
 willing to cut it short. Yet, once more, do not 
 mistake me ; with such a doom hanging over it, 
 I am willing to rise and go when the time ap- 
 proaches. That must be soon, and I well know 
 it ; but you, my friend — you, whom the very 
 Fates brought to me in spite of strangership 
 and distrust; you, who saved my life when it 
 was worth saving ; who have heard my secret 
 thoughts ; who have reasoned with and against 
 me, and learned from my lips the tale never be- 
 fore heard but by a Palivez — you will not allow 
 me to fall into that horrible ruin, but do me the 
 greatest and the only service that man can do. 
 It was my father’s prophecy that I, the last of 
 the house, would find a friendly hand to requite 
 my obedience to his last wishes. Oh ! Lucien, 
 but that was hard, not to do, but to think of, 
 whefi he first told me. I was young then, and 
 had come home from the Greek convent, where 
 I was educated. The daughters of our family 
 had been educated and received as nuns there 
 from the days of Ivan. Our ancestor Eusebius, 
 the same who married to please the Czar, had 
 liberally endowed it for that purpose, and in my 
 time the abbess was one of the Comneni of 
 Trebizond, and one of the best scholars in the 
 North. To her I owe my Greek and Latin, 
 perhaps my free thinking too, for she was strong 
 and free of thought, though an abbess. She 
 knew our family secret, and in a manner pre- 
 pared me for it ; not the whole, remember, that 
 was not confided even to our trusty friends in the 
 convents. They knew who had been inmates 
 of their back and out-of-the-way rooms from one 
 generation to another ; they knew that none 
 of the rich banking Palivezi lived to old age, 
 but they knew no more. Well, the abbess had 
 taught me to think ; maybe I had a natural turn 
 for that uncommon process. There was a 
 grand-aunt of mine living, if I can call it so, in 
 one of the back cloisters, and a vault for the 
 ladies of our family under the chapel. My 
 father told. me the rest when I came home. He 
 had loved me well, Lucien. I was the only 
 child he ever had, the heiress of his wealth and 
 his misfortune. There was something in our 
 characters, too, which drew us closer to each 
 other, in spite of the difference of sex and years, 
 in spite of our different bents of mind, for he 
 was a firm believer in the Christian faith, and I 
 have no worship except for the ancient gods of 
 my race. You look astonished, my friend ; is it 
 so wonderful that the faith of ages and nations, 
 as far as history casts back her lights, believed 
 in the bravest, the wisest, the most famous 
 times of the world, should yet remain among 
 mankind ? I tell you the Pagans did not all 
 die out with Julian the philosopher, whom you 
 call the Apostate, or with those latest worship- 
 ers of Pan in remote woodland villages, from 
 whom the superseded system took its name. 
 Patriarchs of the Greek Church, and cardinals 
 of Rome — wise men who chanced to be kings or 
 chiefs in Christendom, scholars and poets, in 
 the depths of their unwritten thoughts, have 
 
 recognized in the ever-living, ever-active pow- 
 ers of Nature the only possible and obvious di- 
 vinities. You can not receive the doctrine ? 
 Well, my friend, we will not dispute upon it. 
 I have the liberality as well as the faith of my 
 Athenian ancestors, who erected an altar to the 
 unknown God ; but to return to my father. He 
 loved me well, and he trusted mre as man rarely 
 does or can trust in woman. He knew my mind 
 was not of the inferior order, though I had the 
 misfortune to be born a daughter and not a son ; 
 and when, after my uncle’s departure, he took 
 to prayers and penances, that was his mode of 
 reconciling himself with our terrible necessity. 
 All the Palivezi who were Christians had taken 
 the same method. He confided his business, 
 his mercantile credit, and, of course, family honor 
 to me, and bound me by the love I bore, and the 
 obedience I owed him, to see that the misery 
 and degradation of madness should not fall on 
 his life. I did it, Lucien, and you will do the 
 same for me. It was the service I asked and 
 you promised. By your honor as an Irish gen- 
 tleman, by your faith as a friend, by the love 
 which I believe you bear me, and which, if it 
 prove true and lasting, will bring us together 
 under happier auspices in some other planet, I 
 charge you to give me the poison within an hour 
 after you first perceive that my intellects are 
 shaken; It is the surest, safest, only way — and, 
 Lucien, you will do it ?” 
 
 She held out her hand to me, and I clasped 
 it between my own. It was cold as ice, and we 
 sat for some minutes without speaking. 
 
 Her tale had been told so calmly, so clearly, 
 that there was no question for me to ask, no 
 doubt for me to offer. Strange as it was, I felt 
 that it was a true though terrible explanation 
 of all that had puzzled and perplexed me con- 
 cerning her, and I think that while we sat there 
 with clasped hands I learned something of what 
 people mean by a broken heart. Mine did not 
 break, I suppose. I have lived long since then 
 — had my share ol human cares, hopes, and en- 
 joyments ; but there are times of shipwreck and 
 ruin to the man within, which after-time may 
 cover with new soil and sow with other harvests, 
 as corn grows over battle-fields and garden flow- 
 ers on graves ; yet the ruin and the wreck are 
 there, and tokens of them will turn up at times 
 to sight and memory. I sat there bowed down 
 and crushed by the great burden her strange 
 misfortunes had laid on me. Doubtless it was 
 my sin or my infatuation — I have thought of it 
 over and over^ut can not settle which — that 
 made me see no other possible course than to do 
 her bidding, and repeat my promise now that 
 the required service was set clearly before me ; 
 and she looked me in the face with those earnest, 
 hopeless, yet confiding eyes of hers, and said, 
 “Lucien, you will do it? You will save me; 
 say you will, and set my mind at rest, for the 
 time is short. Let me know that I can depend 
 on you, and pass the days as easily as I can.” 
 
 “ Madame, if nothing else can be done for 
 you, I will do it.” 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 151 
 
 “If nothing else, Lucien ! I will not have 
 that if. I tell you there is nothing possible. 
 Would all my forefathers have done as they did 
 for brothers and for parents ? — the Balivez were 
 an attached and faithful family, never one of 
 their elders tyrannical or stingy to the young, 
 nor one of the young anxious to get their sen- 
 iors’ places — w’ould all my female relations in 
 households or in convents, if they happened to 
 live long enough, have fallen into the same hor- 
 ror ? Ay, Lucien, and our irregular branches — 
 the Palivezi had not many of them, but such 
 things will occur; witness my uncle’s children 
 by the Jewess — our misfortune had descended 
 to them, though in an irregular manner. 
 Strange that the same thing should have hap- 
 pened to similar offshoots in all our genera- 
 tions. Esthers’ elder brother, the man from 
 whose knife you saved me, has been shut up 
 and under keepers for the last fifteen years. I 
 need scarcely tell you that he had made his es- 
 cape from an asylum at the time, and was re- 
 stored to it. Esthers himself is peculiar, but I 
 think will not lose his reason, such as it is ; and 
 his sister Sally, there is reason for believing — 
 she is my uncle’s child too — has gone into the 
 eclipse, as you saw, and will never come out 
 of it. 
 
 “ Our family heritage and their mother’s in- 
 temperance have worked strangely on them. I 
 don’t know which influence it was that endowed 
 them one and all with such a strong inclination 
 and singular power to penetrate into other peo- 
 ple’s concerns, but that characterized every one 
 of them. Poor Reuben, the eldest brother, 
 guessed, through it, or through his own share 
 in our misfortune — these things cast true though 
 distorted lights on life and its mysteries — that I 
 had some hand in shortening somebody’s days. 
 That was all that could be made out from his 
 ravings. Sally heard them, for she could not 
 be kept from visiting him, and began to rave in 
 her turn. Now you know all, my frjend ; you 
 have promised to serve me, and I will live and 
 die your debtor.” She clasped my hand. Her 
 fingers were growing warm again. Her look 
 was that of one relieved, and positively satisfied. 
 I had promised, and, may it be forgiven me, de- 
 termined to keep my word, with an additional 
 resolution to take share of the sure and rapid 
 poison, for well I knew that living afterward 
 would have been impossible. I did not tell her 
 that, but she sat close by me — promised to put 
 the phial into my hands : it was always kept 
 among her jewelry, hermetically sealed, and in 
 a gold case. “ It passes for a reliquary. I am 
 not sure they don’t think we have a chip of the 
 true cross in it,” she said, with a scornful smile. 
 “Why should they not? it is the chief relic in 
 our family, and has been of more genuine serv- 
 ice than ever holy chip or bone was, even to the 
 priests.”- 
 
 She told me other particulars. How long the 
 poison could be kept strong and able to do its 
 work — half a century and more. Two genera- 
 tions of the Palavezi had been served from the 
 
 same phial. The secret of its manufacture de- 
 scended in a line of Tartar peasants of the Cal- 
 muck race, and living in their ancient seats on 
 the borders of the Crimea. The present repre- 
 sentative had replenished her reliquary on her 
 last visit to Russia. There was no danger that 
 the mixture was not strong enough. “ You will 
 take charge of it, and see me every day, in the 
 bank or out of it, no matter where. My look 
 and manner will tell you when the time is come. 
 I think I shall be able to tell you myself; and, 
 Lucien, by our after-meeting, be true to me in 
 this matter ; but I know your honor — the only 
 genuine article of the kind I ever met with since 
 my father left me — you will be faithful?” I 
 promised once more, and saw the summer day- 
 light creeping in upon us. 
 
 “The morning is come,” she said — “how 
 many mornings have I yet to see? Oh! Lu- 
 cien, it is sometimes hard to think of leaving 
 the night and day, the seasons and the sky. I 
 know I shall come to them again ; this is not the 
 end of my life; but there is a Lethe-time be- 
 tween which I can not understand. It is that 
 which gave rise to all the untenable dogmas 
 from transmigration to purgatory. You do not 
 talk, my friend, and I grow weary. It may 
 seem selfish, but, now that you know every 
 thing, and have pledged yourself to me, I feel 
 at rest and willing to go there. Sleep is steal- 
 ing over me ; it often does so at the dawn of 
 day, however one holds out through the night, 
 and many a night have I been sleepless. By 
 the way, there was a divining dervish, when I 
 was last in Thessaly, who told me I should die 
 in the night, and by steel ; but I think he was 
 mistaken. Will you bid me good-morning? 
 Kiss me too, my friend, and don’t forget to see 
 me every day till we part ; come at what hour 
 you will. I will take no more trouble about 
 the world’s thoughts or sayings, my time is too 
 short ; only I must take care that you are not 
 compromised with its laws and customs. But 
 we will talk of that again.” 
 
 I kissed and left her ; walked home through 
 the whitening day, opened my own door, and 
 heard a sound, which I kneAv to be Rhoda re- 
 tiring to her own room, so as not to seem anx- 
 ious and watching for me. What trouble and 
 concern I had been to that kindly sister! The 
 vague fears and surmises wdiich I had so often 
 laughed and argued down, had banished rest 
 and sleep from her all that night, while her 
 worst forebodings were being fulfilled in a man- 
 ner she could not guess at, and must never 
 know. I had been little company, and less 
 comfort to her. Well, she would miss me the 
 less w'hen all was over, and she and Melrose 
 Morton were happily settled in Scotland. I 
 had shrunk from that prospect once, because of 
 the solitude it must bring me ; but now it was 
 all my conscience had to rest on regarding Rho- 
 da, and I felt there were worse things in life 
 than being alone. 
 
152 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 CHAPTER XLVIII. 
 
 RHODA IS ASKED IN MARRIAGE. 
 
 There are old legendary tales of men being 
 so changed by extraordinary sights or adven- 
 tures that they were never the same again, and 
 
 own small house and solitary chamber, where I 
 laid myself down, worn out in mind and body, 
 and dreamt the night’s talk over again, till the 
 summer sun flashing on my eyes woke me up to 
 the life and business of the day. They had not 
 changed the outside of things ; but my world 
 
 It passes lor a reliquary,” etc. 
 
 something of the kind seemed to have passed 
 over me in the course of that night talked away 
 among the jessamine. Between the setting and 
 the rising of the sun my whole world had alter- 
 ed — the hopes, the feelings that went with me 
 to the villa did not come back with me to my 
 
 within was no more what it had been. I loved 
 Madame Palivez still, and was bound to her 
 service by will as well as by promise ; but what a 
 service it was, now that the tale was told and the 
 prospect made clear ! However improbable her 
 family secret may seem to those that read my 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 153 
 
 record, I believed it then, and I believe it still. 
 The thought and experience of after years have 
 convinced me of the truth of her remark — 
 “there are secrets in nature for which the 
 boasted science of Europe has neither name nor 
 place.” I do not undertake to endorse, much 
 less explain, all her statements on the subject ; 
 but I tell the tale as it was told to me, and what- 
 ever may have been the cause, the dreadful ef- 
 fects were known to be inevitable, and I was 
 pledged to be the instrument of her escape. The 
 discovery had opened my eyes to our true posi- 
 tions. As fairy delusions were said to fade and 
 change before the disenchanted sight, so all 
 things about her and my acquaintance with her 
 took a different and a ghastly aspect. The 
 beauty that had charmed me was still there ; but 
 I knew the doom that hung over it. The rosy 
 lips which mine had touched, for the first and 
 last time as it proved, the bright eyes and shining 
 hair, were bound for the clay. The wealth and 
 fashion had a background of the church-yard 
 and the grave. It was true that all lives were 
 so bounded ; but here the sword was seen sus- 
 pended over the banquet board, and I had the 
 hair to cut. She must have seen it herself for 
 many a year, and to this hour I can neither 
 comprehend nor sufficiently admire the innate 
 strength and courage that made her bear the 
 sight so bravely, and bloom so brightly under it. 
 My own part in it made me feel myself a doom- 
 ed man — the cares, the business, the obligations 
 of life lost their value and their hold upon me. 
 What matter about work or provision, repute or 
 appearances, when six months might settle it 
 all? My resolution was taken, and would be 
 kept ; may it be passed over among the sins of 
 that desperate time, for my soul had lost its an- 
 chor and was drifting away in the storm ! I got 
 careless of every thing. The Forbes’ troubles 
 and friendship, Melrose Morton’s brotherly af- 
 fection, even my sister’s love and care for me ; 
 and as for the world’s thoughts and sayings, 
 they would have passed me like its w r ind and 
 dust. 
 
 I went to the private rooms, and I went to 
 the villa to see her every day, as she had 
 pledged me to do ; her presence was still my 
 fairy land, and she Queen Gloriana. Though 
 the flowers had become church-yard grass, the 
 gay dress a shroud, and the gold a coffin-plate, 
 the woman had charms which no discovery, no 
 fate, could alter — those of mind and manner. 
 Her wit, her wisdom, her lively, brilliant fancy, 
 and free, fearless thought, had greater power 
 over me than ever, now that all her outward 
 advantages seemed submerged in the coming 
 doom. They brought the conviction and real- 
 ity of an after life upon me at times, as prayer 
 or sermon had never done, yet not with a con- 
 solatory or purifying force. 
 
 I was desperate, and dissatisfied too, even 
 with her ; it might be her character was beyond 
 my measurement, for I could never understand 
 how it was that, after she had made her revela- 
 tion, and cast, as it were, half of the doom on 
 
 me, her mind seemed at ease, her spirits more 
 equal and higher than I used to find them. The 
 pleasures and advantages of her position seemed 
 to be enjoyed with greater zest, though in a 
 private manner, for she staid more at home, and 
 took to art and literature rather than company. 
 
 I was always received with smiles and welcomes, 
 expected to share her gayety and enter into her 
 enjoyments. We were friends nearer and more 
 intimate than we had ever been before, but 
 there was nothing beyond friendship permitted 
 or even dreamt of. For all her talk about our 
 coming together in some distant planet, the 
 woman showed no signs of caring for me as a* 
 man ; that parting kiss when her fearful tale 
 was told was the only familiarity that ever pass- 
 ed between us ; and though she had concluded 
 to trouble herself no more about what people 
 said or thought, Madame Palivez kept her state 
 and ceremony as high as ever. The door from 
 the Greek church-yard was still my enjoined 
 mode of entrance to her residence behind the 
 bank ; Calixi waited for and showed me up to 
 another roGrn when she was occupied with 
 friends or clients, and at the villa there was 
 never any body but ourselves. We did not 
 happen to meet in public ; if we had, I am not 
 sure she would not have passed me without rec- 
 ognition as formerly. In short, I thought and 
 fretted under it then, and an after review of all 
 the circumstances has led me to the conclusion 
 that the last of the Palivezi, having always 
 looked, on mankind as subjects to be employed 
 and made use of, had included me, perhaps un- 
 consciously, in the general estimate, preferred 
 only because fit for a special purpose. It may 
 be I wrong her memory, for the case was hard ; 
 but, looking back on the time, I can understand 
 the hardened recklessness of men in plague- 
 struck cities or desperate campaigns, and see 
 how much I owe to a preserving Providence, 
 that did not send temptations in my way, for I 
 was hopeless and graceless enough for any thing. 
 
 The summer waned, and the autumn was 
 wearing away in this fashion. Nobody guessed 
 my state of mind ; nobody ever guesses at any 
 thing so bad. It is probable that my walk and 
 conversation were sober and steady as they had 
 ever been ; but I was conscious, while doing my 
 work strictly in the bank, of showing something 
 like a general care for nobody, and Esthers ap- 
 peared to know that I was less to be trifled with 
 than ever. The manager kept well from me, 
 and I was as willing to dispense with his com- 
 pany. I knew now the cause of his reminding 
 likeness to the ragged man with the knife, and 
 why my chance saying, “ I hope it won’t happen 
 to you, Mr. Esthers,” had frightened him off in 
 Bolton Row. That he knew of my more fre- 
 quent visits to Madame, that he hated me more 
 in consequence, I could not doubt ; Esthers, as 
 usual, gave no sign, but he was busy about it, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 There was another that observed my ways 
 and doings, but with different eyes. Rhoda had 
 learned, by long practice and strange experi- 
 
154 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 ence, poor girl ! to take note of, and wonder in 
 silence at what she might have called the carry- 
 ings-on of her genteel brother. She had been 
 watching for my home-coming that night, but 
 did not intend me to know ; she had never re- 
 ferred to my long absence, never asked a ques- 
 tion or insinuated her surprise, and, over-occu- 
 pied with my own thoughts, I imagined it had 
 slipped out of her memory ; had she not Mel- 
 rose Morton to think of? That was the only 
 satisfactory point in all my outlooks. Melrose 
 had got his uncle’s will settled, realized his leg- 
 acy, parted company with the lawyers, but still 
 ’remained in Bloomsbury, and came to No. 9 
 more frequently than ever. I did not wonder 
 what his intentions were, for I knew that with 
 Melrose they were sure to be honorable ; but I 
 would like to hear the question formally asked 
 regarding my fraternal approbation, of which 
 Melrose must have been pretty sure too, and see 
 the courtship brought to a happy conclusion be- 
 fore my own terrible adventure came on. It 
 therefore pleased me to find Morton at home 
 one evening before me, seated with Rhoda in 
 our little parlor, then lit up with the first win- 
 ter fire. They had been talking confidentially ; 
 I guessed that by the flush on Rhoda’s cheek, 
 and the fluster in which she got up from beside 
 Melrose to look after the tea, while he thought 
 it necessary, like a true Scotchman, to be ab- 
 sorbed in the newspaper he had pulled out of 
 his pocket the moment I made my appearance. 
 
 “Any thing new, Melrose?” said I, doing 
 my part of the small disguise. 
 
 “Nothing, nothing,” said Morton, speaking 
 in a strange, frightened tone; and the horrified 
 expression of his face, as I saw it by the fire- 
 light, while he hastily wrapped up the paper and 
 thrust it back into his pocket, made me stand 
 and look at him for a minute without speaking. 
 What could have passed between him and my 
 sister ? what could his eye have lit upon in the 
 newspaper that concerned us or him so much ? 
 My uncle’s death, perhaps. That couldn’t 
 frighten Morton ; he knew it would not af- 
 fect me to such an extent. Yet something 
 had troubled and terrified him — something he 
 thought requisite to conceal from me ; he rose 
 and walked to the window with his hand still 
 clutching the pocket, looked out into the twi- 
 light, and said, “ Dear me, J did not think it 
 was so late, I must get home.” 
 
 “Nonsense,” said I; “you will stay with us 
 for the evening. Rhoda has gone off to get the 
 tea ” 
 
 “No, Lucien, no; if you please, let me go 
 home. I recollect something I ought to be 
 there for I am an odd fellow — an old bache- 
 lor, maybe, though I hope not to be so long, if 
 your sister can be persuaded; but let me go 
 home now, Lucien , there are particular rea- 
 sons why I don’t want to stay.” 
 
 “ What has upset you, Melrose ? What 
 have you seen in that paper ? Is it my uncle’s 
 death ?” 
 
 “ Oh no, nothing of the kind,” said Morton, 
 
 clutching the pocket more firmly ; “your uncle 
 is safe and well, I assure you ; there is nothing 
 at all in the paper — no news. It is only a Dub- 
 lin ‘ Saunders ’ I bought, for old times’ sake, 
 corning down the Strand.” 
 
 “But you have seen something in it that dis- 
 turbs you, Melrose ; you don’t choose to tell me 
 what it is, and I have no right to ask you. If 
 you stay with us, you know you are welcome ; 
 if you would rather go home, I am sorry you 
 think so little of our friendship and society.” 
 
 “ I don’t think little of them — I don’t, indeed, 
 Lucien,” he interrupted; “don’t put such a 
 harsh construction on what I can’t help ; but let 
 me go quietly, and make my excuses to your 
 sister.” 
 
 Melrose was out of the room and out of the 
 street door before I could offer farther question 
 or remonstrance. I saw him walking rapidly 
 away through the deepening twilight, and Rho- 
 da’s blank look when she came up and found 
 him gone was the first thing that woke me from 
 my trance of astonishment. “ What under 
 goodness took him off?” said the honest girl ; 
 “you and he had no words, Lucien?” 
 
 “No angry ones, I’ll promise you; we had 
 neither time nor occasion, ” said I. “ I saw him 
 pull out a newspaper as I came past the win- 
 dow ; and if nothing unpleasant passed between 
 you and him, Rhoda, there must have been 
 something in that paper which disturbed Mel- 
 rose as I never saw him disturbed before ; he 
 thrust it into his pocket that moment, and left 
 the house without giving me any reason except 
 that he must go home.” 
 
 “Goodness me!” said Rhoda, “what could 
 it be ? Nothing onpleasant happened between 
 us, I am sure — nothing of the like ever did. Mr. 
 Morton is a rail gentleman, and always behaves 
 proper; but I’ll tell you, Lucien, just for fear 
 you would think there was any thing wrong — he 
 was only axing me,” and Rhoda looked down 
 with a very red face, “ in the properest and 
 genteelest way to be Mrs. Morton.” 
 
 “Well, Rhoda, there was certainly nothing 
 wrong in that, and I presume you said yes, or 
 something to the same effect.” 
 
 “ Indeed I did not, Lucien,” and my sister sat 
 down by me, looking suddenly sad and serious. 
 “ Mr. Morton has axed me many a time since 
 he got his legacy settled ; not that I didn’t 
 know that he liked me before that, and I never 
 saw the man I would put before him, he is such 
 a gentleman and a scholar ; Watt Wilson is not 
 fit to hold a candle to him.” 
 
 “ And why did not you consent to have him, 
 Rhoda ?” 
 
 “Well, Lucien, just for two reasons: first, 
 that I didn’t like to leave you all alone, for Mr. 
 Morton wants to live in Scotland ; I am not of 
 much use to you, maybe — you have carryings- 
 on with that bank lady you don’t like to trust 
 me with ; I don’t say they are bad or onproper; 
 but oh ! <Lucien, I never knew good come of 
 nothing that was secret and hidden. From the 
 first my mind told me it would have been well 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 155 
 
 you had never gone near her; and, Lucien, I 
 can’t leave you till you get into- some safer 
 and more settled way. The second reason is a 
 queerer one, I’ll allow, but I can’t get over it. 
 Mr. Morton is a complete gentleman and scholar 
 — has always behaved proper to me and every 
 body — made me the finest speeches and the 
 realest of purposals; but, Lucien, there is some- 
 thing about him too that I can’t understand. 
 He hates the Forbes’ — that is, he keeps off, ay, 
 the very naming of them, Lucien ; if he sees 
 Miss Helen on the road coming here, it makes 
 him turn back ; I have seen him do it, though 
 she always speaks kindly and friendly of him. 
 
 I don’t like that keeping of a quarrel so long 
 and hot ; it is npt like his other ways, for Mr. 
 Morton is mighty sensible and a good Christian, 
 though he is a Protestant — a black Presbyterian, 
 as they say In Ireland. I doubt our aunt, poor 
 Miss Livy, wouldn’t have been pleased at my 
 thinking of him at all ; but there is no bigotri- 
 ness in him ; he told me over and over he 
 wouldn’t meddle with my religion, though he 
 says it is not all in the Bible. Howsoever, I 
 don’t like him hating and keeping off the 
 Forbes’ ; I don’t like his never telling me what 
 they quarreled about, though I tried to get it 
 out of him as often as there’s fingers on me ; 
 and, Lucien, I couldn’t tell you exactly what 
 makes me think it, but I have a notion, and it 
 won’t go out of my head night nor da} r , that he 
 knows something about our poor lost brother 
 Raymond.” 
 
 I almost started from my chair, for with my 
 sister’s words came rushing back the long ago, 
 
 " lialf-forgotten time, when I was a child in Bal- 
 timore, talking to the kindly usher of the gram- 
 mar-school about Raymond’s disappearance; how 
 his hand trembled as it held my tiny fingers, in 
 the steep mossy path beyond the falls ; how 
 frightened he looked, and how earnestly he ad- 
 vised me never to speak on the subject ! That 
 Melrose Morton, my earliest friend, the best 
 man of all my acquaintance, the most truthful, 
 the most honorable, of strict religious principles, 
 and moral conduct without stain or flaw — that 
 he could have connived at, or been concerned 
 in the loss which brought such ruin and disgrace 
 upon our family, was not to be imagined for a 
 moment. Yet Rhoda’s words had struck a 
 strange chord in my memory ; her warnings 
 against the bank lady had proved that prophetic 
 instinct so often found in honest and simple na- 
 tures, and might not that notion which would 
 not go out of her head night nor day have a 
 basis equally true? Something in my look 
 must have apprised her of that. 
 
 “What are you thinking of, Lucien ?” she 
 cried, flinging her arms about my neck in 
 mingled love and fear — “what are you think- 
 ing of? I didn’t say for certain that he knowed 
 any thing; but, Lucien, he might have seen — 
 he might have heard something ; and, maybe, 
 the bank lady knows.” 
 
 “ She does not,” said I, clasping to my breast 
 the one true heart that loved me without deceit ! 
 
 or purpose to be served, the one that suffered 
 with me under the same unexplained mystery 
 ever recurring to haunt and trouble our days. 
 A disclosure, as terrible as it could be, had for- 
 ever cleared my mind of all the unuttered doubts 
 and suspicions which linked Madame Palivez to 
 the memory of my lost brother. “ She does 
 not,” I repeated ; “be.sure of that, Rhoda, what- 
 ever else you may think of her.” 
 
 “ Lucien, dear, I would think no harm for 
 your sake if I could help it, but no good ever 
 comes out of secrets : tell me now this once, for 
 the love of goodness,” and Rhoda’s tears were 
 falling fast upon my breast, “is it all right and 
 nothing wrong between you and her?” 
 
 “ It is all right, Rhoda,” said I ; but the false 
 words came with a groan as I thought of my 
 pledged promise, the deadly service to which it 
 bound me, my own consequent doom, and the 
 grief and horror it must bring my sister. 
 
 “ I hope it is, Lucien, I hope it is,” she said, 
 withdrawing her arms, and I saw by her sorrow- 
 ful but indignant look that she did not believe 
 me. “ That night you staid so long at her vil- 
 la I could not go to bed somehow, but I fell 
 asleep on my chair here, darning stockings, and 
 I dreamt she came into the room with Raymond 
 by the hand. I saw them both as plainly as I 
 see you now, Lucien, and woke up in a terrible 
 fright, thinking it was true, for neither of them 
 looked like living people. I crossed myself and 
 I said my prayers, but from that dream I know 
 that we will hear something of Raymond and 
 of her; and I wouldn’t have talked about it, 
 only when you were at the bank this morning I 
 got a letter.” 
 
 “What was it about, Rhoda ?” said I, trying 
 to recover my composure. 
 
 “Well, it was just about her and you; but 
 whether it’s a' friend warning, or an enemy try- 
 ing to frighten us, I am not sure. Anyhow, I 
 kept it in my pocket, but I did not show it to 
 Mr. Morton, you need not be afraid of that ; I 
 would let nobody but yourself see what con- 
 cerned you and me, now that we are the last of 
 the La Touches ;” and Rhoda took from her se- 
 cret pocket a large letter, which had been sealed 
 with a foreign crest, and was in a handwriting I 
 had never seen. It was properly addressed to 
 Miss La Touche, No. 9 Petersburg Place, Mos- 
 cow Road, and commenced — 
 
 “Madame, — I write as a disinterested but 
 friendly stranger, to warn you of the imminent 
 risk and danger which your brother runs in his 
 private connection with Madame Palivez. The 
 nature of that connection I say not ; the lady 
 has strange ways, if all reports be true, and no 
 man of a humble station ever had the honor of 
 her intimacy without paying for it, either with 
 his life or his reason. She has had familiar 
 clerks before now ; some of them have died sud- 
 denly, some of them are in mad-houses. Take 
 the advice of one who knows Madame and her 
 doings well, but does not think it safe to tell all 
 he knows, and persuade your brother to give up 
 
156 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 an acquaintance which will lead him only to 
 ruin. A sober, industrious young man like him 
 could find a far better and safer situation than 
 he has in her bank ; there are those who would 
 be well inclined to take him by the hand if he 
 gave it up to-morrow ; he might hear of them 
 at the old Greek coffee-house in Finsbury any 
 evening between six and spven, if he mentioned 
 his wish to the head waiter. As you value your 
 brother’s safety and your own future peace of 
 mind, endeavor to open his eyes, and believe 
 me, your sincere well-wisher — A Friend to 
 the Simple.” 
 
 The letter had not been written by Esthers, 
 but its style reminded me of him ; it reminded 
 me also of the Baltic merchant who had been 
 so communicative about Madame’s disposed-of 
 clerk, a version of the elder brother’s history, 
 by all probabilities. It was written in good 
 English, yet the modes of expression were for- 
 eign and constrained. The prince, whose strong 
 inclinations and poor abilities for intrigue Ma- 
 dame had remarked on, was evidently busy 
 with his satellites and my ongoings. How 
 much, and yet how little they all knew con- 
 cerning her! What a watched and envied man 
 was I for her fatal preference! Esthers was 
 evidently the chief agent. I told my sister so 
 on the spot, made her understand that he was 
 jealous of my intimacy with Madame, explain- 
 ed that business as well as I could without en- 
 tering into the depths of it, assured her of my 
 perfect safety, and persuaded her to burn the 
 letter, that it might not disturb her own mind. 
 
 “There it goes, Lucien,” said she, flinging 
 the paper into the fire: “I would believe no- 
 body against your word, though I know you are 
 not telling me the whole of it. I can pray that 
 the Lord may watch over you, and keep you 
 from all evil, as I think He will, and then, Lu- 
 cien, no lasting harm will come to you, let the 
 bank lady be ever so crafty and her manager 
 ever so full of envy.” 
 
 CHAPTER XLIX. 
 
 THE SAVING DROPS. 
 
 There was a Cameronian regiment that went 
 out to help in Dutch William’s wars, soon after 
 the Revolution of 1688, and had such a tem- 
 pestuous passage to Holland as they say no ship 
 ever experienced; yet all came safe to land. 
 Their chaplain, who records the fact, of course 
 ascribes the bad weather to witchcraft and prel- 
 acy, the acknowledged causes of all that went 
 wrong with Presbyterians in those days ; but lie 
 avers that neither the malice of the enemy, nor 
 the waves of the North Sea, could wreck the ship 
 or drown the men for whom so many godly 
 women were praying night and day in Scotland". 
 So it may have been that my sister’s prayers, 
 though offered on a rosary, were powerful against 
 the tempest and shipwreck of my soul, which 
 
 seemed so imminent. I had neither faith nor 
 grace enough to value them then, yet not so 
 little of the latter as to see her troubled on my 
 account without compunction. Troubled Rho- 
 da was, in spite of my arguments and explana- 
 tions, which had silenced but not satisfied her. 
 She had burned the anonymous letter, but its 
 contents did not pass out of her memory with 
 the flare of the paper. I saw her looking after 
 me when I went out, and watching for my home- 
 coming, and I knew she was thinking of the 
 clerks that were said to have been disposed of. 
 Esthers’ machinations against myself, had they 
 been ten times as active, would have been dis- 
 regarded ; there was no harm that he could do 
 me with man or woman now. But, that his 
 malice and Prince Dashkoff’s designs should 
 disturb my sister’s peace were not to be borne. 
 Madame Palivez had not taken her manager 
 in hand regarding his doings to the Forbes’ as 
 she had promised. I had always observed that 
 she was in no haste to interfere with Esthers. 
 Latterly she never mentioned him. the Notting 
 Hill House people, the Joyces, in short, any 
 thing that might be troublesome or serious. 
 Of all she had told me that night at the villa, I 
 never heard another word ; one would have 
 thought the whole subject had passed out of her 
 memory, and a general taking of matters easily 
 and lightly had supervened, as if the lady had 
 nothing to do but amuse herself for the rest of 
 her days. The change was unaccountable, and 
 almost revolting, to me. Was it the securing 
 of a scapegoat that made her sit down so con- 
 tentedly under her vine and fig-tree, while the 
 terrible prospect came glooming down upon my 
 spirit like night without a star? I could not 
 understand, yet I durst not rebel against her 
 royalty by word or sign ; that woman would 
 have ruled over my mind long after my heart 
 had gone from her. I could never think of 
 troubling her with my private affairs ; they al- 
 ways seemed beneath her attention ; and now it 
 was hard to bring her back from the gai'den of 
 Epicurus to matters that approached the strange 
 and fearful mystery of her life ; but I would 
 speak to her for Rhoda’s sake ; she was never 
 wanting in resources, and could surely find a 
 way to keep the manager and his Russian high- 
 ness from troubling my sister’s mind. 
 
 Having summoned up courage for the occa- 
 sion — that was still requisite in my dealings 
 with Madame — I went to her private residence 
 ! one morning before the bank-hour. Like all 
 j people of Eastern affinity, she was an early 
 riser, though many a night she sat up long 
 enough to meet the day, and then retired to 
 rest till after sunset. It was .a cold, gray day 
 in the middle of November ; her rooms were all 
 in their winter trim, the Russian stoves in full 
 heat, the conservatory full of bright exotics, and 
 she in her purple velvet, seated in a small, 
 closet-like room, which I had never seen before: 
 it opened from the principal saloon, its door be- 
 ing formed of one of the large mirrors, and not 
 to be distinguished when closed, and its walls 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 157 
 
 were entirely covered with ancient tapestry, on 
 which landscapes and pastoral scenes were 
 worked in the most brilliant colors I ever saw. 
 It had no furniture but one low sofa, very like 
 a Turkish divan, covered witli similar tapestry ; 
 on it Madame sat, with what I knew to be her 
 private desk open before her. 
 
 “Good-morning, Lucien,” she said, looking 
 up from her papers; “you have come just in 
 the nick of time. I have been making my will ; 
 my mother’s relative, Cuzenes, a Greek juris- 
 consult here, has taken charge of it, and you 
 will hear its provisions in good time.” 
 
 “Its provisions do not and ought not to con- 
 cern me, Madame.” I sat down, and said no 
 more. 
 
 “They ought, and they do, Lucien. I have 
 little to leave, except my plate and jewelry; 
 but they are worth having, as the world goes ; 
 and, with the exception of some legacies to my 
 old servants, whom our successors, the Comen- 
 zoni, are not sufficiently bound to provide for, I 
 have left every thing to you, of course.” 
 
 “Eor Heaven’s sake do no such thing, Ma- 
 dame!” Did she mean to bribe me with the 
 price of blood ? “I would not have, and I shall 
 not want, a legacy when you are gone.” 
 
 “Why so, my friend?” She looked at me 
 with unfeigned surprise. 
 
 “ Because, Madame, I must go also ; I could 
 not survive you, and the service to which you 
 have bound me.” 
 
 “Yes, my friend, you will survive me many 
 a year, Lucien. I have learned a little of the 
 star-reading — that knowledge which has come 
 down from the wiser races that looked on the 
 heavens before us — and I know that you will 
 live to see gray hairs whitening that black bush 
 of yours.” She smiled on me kindly as she 
 spoke, and continued in the same steady tone — 
 ‘ 1 1 know that the time of my own departure is 
 approaching too ; I dreamt of my father last 
 night, and we always dream of the last one that 
 went when our own turn is comings See, Lu- 
 cien,” and she took out of the desk a small but 
 beautifully-chased reliquary of fine gold, and, 
 I think, Venetian workmanship : “here are the 
 saving drops. It opens this way ;” she pressed 
 a small spring in the lid with her finger ; it was 
 a minute rosebud in the wreath which went 
 round the reliquary. It flew open, and I saw a 
 phial, formed like a closed lotus-flower, made of 
 rock-crystal, and full of a clear, colorless liquid, 
 which might have been so much of the purest 
 water for aught the eye could tell. “It has 
 neither smell nor taste,” she said; “but the 
 famous drops of Epaphania, once so renowned 
 in Italy, were of the same composition, I con- 
 jecture.” 
 
 She looked at the phial and case for a min- 
 ute, as if contemplating some work of art or 
 vertu, then closed the spring, and handed the 
 miniature reliquary to me. 
 
 “You will take charge of it, my friend ; it 
 is not wanted yet, but will be soon. You have 
 only to pour the contents into a glass of wine or 
 
 water ; with any mixture they would have equal 
 power ; unmixed, the effect would be too rapid, 
 and might bring suspicion. When I have drunk, 
 take leave of me and go, for within twelve hours 
 after I will be at rest ; and neither coroner, doc- 
 tor, nor any other of the troublesome institu- 
 tions with which people’s lives and deaths are 
 cumbered, will be able to make out the cause.” 
 I had taken the thing mechanically, and sat 
 there rigid and silent ; the horrible duty was so 
 plainly specified, so clearly brought home and 
 intrusted to me, all chance of law and blame ju- 
 diciously avoided and pro\uded against, and she 
 prophesying the years I was to survive her and 
 the gray hairs I should see. I could not tell 
 her then how fixed was my resolution — how ini- 
 possible it would be for me to live with her 
 death on my hand and memory. There was 
 no help, no hope ; I was doomed, and so was 
 she. Yet how calmly the woman arranged her 
 papers, told me she had put all that might con- 
 cern the Comenzoni safely away for them, and 
 that she had burned at least thousands of pri- 
 vate letters ! “Written paper is always sure to 
 tell tales, Lucien, and I will not have people 
 gossiping about my grave more than in my life- 
 time. What a strange business this death is ! 
 The nearer one comes to it, the more inexpli- 
 cable it seems. I wonder if people get any in- 
 sight by approaching it through slow sickness, 
 as some of our family, who went young, and by 
 consumption, did ? Why do you sit looking on 
 the reliquary, Lucien ? Are you afraid to take 
 it home with you? It is true the shining tiling 
 might catch your sister’s eye — might rouse her 
 curiosity, and she might find the spring. Bet- 
 ter leave it in my desk ; it always stands here, 
 and I will give you the key any time you ask 
 me.” She had taken the gold box out of my 
 fingers and replaced it in the secret drawer be- 
 fore I could answer. “You will know where 
 to find it,” she continued, displaying the lock, 
 the key, the spring that was to be pressed, the 
 lid that was to be lifted ; “ and, Lucien, I know 
 you will not fail me in my extremity.” 
 
 I don’t know what I should have said, but at 
 that moment there was a low tinkle at the door. 
 “Come in,” said Madame; and, with accus- 
 tomed reverence, Calixi made his appearance, 
 said something in what I knew to be Romaic — 
 it was the language in which Madame always 
 spoke to her Greek servants — and she turned 
 quickly to me, her face slightly flushing, and 
 her look both vexed and angry. 
 
 “Lucien,” she' said, “it is Esthers. I had 
 intimated my wish to see him in private ; the 
 truth is, I want to talk to him about your friends, 
 the Forbes’, the annoyance he is giving them, 
 and might give yourself, with the help of his 
 foolish highness and the Baltic merchants he 
 sends about the bank. I had intended to do so 
 for some time, as you know — ought to have done 
 it before now, perhaps; but one puts off disa- 
 greeable things till one feels there is little enough 
 time left for doing any small good to those be- 
 hind. Well, I thought of it, and sent him my in- 
 
158 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 timation, and I suppose it is the Powers of Mis- 
 chief that bring the creature just when you are 
 here; perhaps he guesses it; but he shall as- 
 certain nothing if I can prevent him. It may 
 be weak — it may be foolish, Lucien” — the flush 
 on her cheek grew deeper, and her eyes droop- 
 ed in positive shame — “ but, somehow, I do not 
 wish that prying, ferreting creature to find you 
 closeted with me, and I don’t want you to go 
 just yet. Will you sit here quietly while I step 
 into the next room, close the door upon you, and 
 receive him as he deserves ? It is not eaves- 
 dropping, for I ask^ou to stay; and, Lucien, 
 my nerves are giving signs of failure.” 
 
 “ I’ll stay, Madame, here or any where” — is it 
 an honor to me that my loyalty never failed or 
 faltered, strange and bad as the service was ? — 
 “ but before he. comes up, just listen,” and I re- 
 peated as clearly and briefly as possible the warn- 
 ing letter to my sister, and my own anxiety that 
 the manager and his colleagues should be kept 
 from troubling her. 
 
 “Don’t be in a hurry, my friend,” she said; 
 “Calixi keeps guard on the approaches, and 
 Jews are accustomed to wait.” She made a few 
 necessary inquiries in a calm, composed tone, 
 but with suppressed anger burning in her eyes ; 
 then saying, “I should have taken measures 
 earlier,” closed the door on me, rang for Calixi, 
 sent her commands to the Jew, whom I heard 
 coming up stairs just as I had crept close enough 
 to get my own eye to a crevice between the 
 wall and the mirror-frame, conspicuous in the 
 inside of the closet, and manifestly constructed 
 for observing those without. 
 
 CHAPTER L. 
 
 ESTHERS ADMONISHED. 
 
 The human mind is a strange engine, and in 
 nothing more strange than its swift variations. 
 A few minutes before, I had been so occupied 
 with Madame’s reliquary and its deadly purpose 
 that my sister’s cares and concerns had been for- 
 gotten, till Esthers’ name brought them back ; 
 and now, curiosity to see how the manager and 
 the sovereign lady respectively comported them- 
 selves submerged every other feeling, even that 
 of manly pride, and made me spy upon them 
 through the crevice. Madame, at least, must 
 have known of its convenience for the purpose, 
 and could not have objected to my making use 
 of it. The opportunity was too much for any 
 curious man to resist. I saw every thing in the 
 next room plainly, and might have heard plainly 
 too, if I had ventured to creep close enough ; but 
 the dread of discovery in such a position — which, 
 by the way, a subsequent examination proved to 
 be impossible, the crevice was so well construct- 
 ed, wide within and narrow without, after the 
 fashion of windows pierced in the thick walls of 
 ancient castles, and so dexterously concealed by 
 the ornamental work on the mirror’s frame that 
 no stranger in the outer room could suspect its 
 
 existence. I saw them plainly ; and it was won- 
 derful to see the woman, whose cheek had flush- 
 ed and eye drooped in manifest confusion at the 
 untimely coming of her manager, seated there 
 in haughty state, like a queen that had the mis- 
 takes of her minister to rebuke in private. I 
 had never seen Esthers alone in her presence 
 before; from preceding circumstances I had 
 half expected something of airs and insolence ; 
 but no school-boy brought back from playing 
 truant could have looked more subdued or 
 frightened as he shuffled into the saloon, and 
 made his bow with awkward humility. The 
 embarrassment of the trying occasion seemed 
 to have brought positive clownishness on the 
 generally active and business-like manager ; he 
 muttered something which .1 could not catch in 
 reply to Madame’s “ Good-morning, Mr. Est- 
 hers; please to take a seat,” and shuffled away 
 to the farthest corner, where he sat down on the 
 edge of a sofa, rubbed his face with both hands, 
 and looked at the hat he held between his knees. 
 The lady turned her cold, calm eyes upon him 
 — they were just like icicles in the wintry sun 
 by this time — and began : “Mr. Esthers, I have 
 sent for you to inquire about the account with 
 Forbes’s Bank, which was not in its usual place 
 when I had occasion to refer to it on Saturday 
 last, and you were absent from the office, as I 
 have observed you are too frequently of late.” 
 
 “I was at the synagogue,” said Esthers, in a 
 flurried tone. 
 
 “No ; I am aware you were seen coming out 
 of the bank in Threadneedle Street within the 
 same half hour.” How well she had laid her 
 lines, and how steadily she looked at him! 
 What the manager muttered in reply did not 
 reach my ears, but it evidently gave Madame 
 the key-note of a sound lecture. She began 
 and delivered it, slowly, coldly, but in a tone so 
 low-pitched — doubtless that was intentional — 
 that I could hear only the mention of Mr. 
 Forbes and his daughter, my own name and * 
 that of my sister — half words which showed me 
 that we were all spoken of as patronized people 
 whom the bank lady had a general interest in, 
 as far as wishing them well, doing them justice, 
 and having no reflections cast on the house of 
 Palivez by any misconduct of its servants toward 
 them. The manager was permitted to answer 
 questions and offer apologies in the course of his 
 schooling, and I could see that as it proceeded 
 Esthers’ words and looks grew more cowed ev- 
 ery moment. “I don’t want to annoy any fam- 
 ily, I am sure ; I only went when they asked 
 me, and I don’t care for any body’s private af- 
 fairs — I have troubles enough of my own, ” came 
 to my ears at intervals, and at last, out of what 
 a thunder-cloud of suppressed rage it seemed to 
 break — “I have been treated like a dog since 
 that La Touche came here.” Madame rose up 
 from her chair, walked straight up to him within 
 a pace or two. I could not see her face, for it 
 was turned to Esthers; I could not hear her 
 words — they were spoken in a low, deep voice : 
 her tones could become as deep as the sea at 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 159 
 
 • 
 
 times. She must have been threatening and 
 commanding. I knew it by the movement of 
 her jeweled hand ; but, whatever was said to 
 him, in less than a minute it seemed to settle 
 the manager. He made no reply, and when 
 Madame stepped back to her seat, I saw him 
 rise up in a nervous tremor, his face white, and 
 rigid, but whether with fear or pent-up wrath I 
 could not tell, make a sort of obeisance like re- 
 spect taken out of a man, and hurry out of the 
 room so quickly that one could scarcely see the 
 door shut behind him. Madame sat looking at 
 it, and probably listening to his retiring steps 
 for some moments, then the pride and the state- 
 liness relaxed away from her face and figure. 
 “Poor soul!” I heard her murmur, “he was 
 born to share only in our misfortunes, and will be 
 but the instrument of destiny;” and, rising with 
 a long-drawn sigh, she opened the closet door, 
 and looked kindly in on me. 
 
 “I have kept you a prisoner longer than I 
 intended, Lucien. There was a good deal to be 
 said to Esthers, and one must take some time 
 about such matters. When affairs are delicate 
 and complicated, a certain amount of circumlo- 
 cution is necessary. But I have said my say, 
 and hope he is sufficiently w'arned to let you 
 and your friends alone. Yet I did not expect it 
 would have had such an effect on the creature, 
 to threaten him with his brother and sister’s 
 state, which he thinks I had a hand in, and one 
 can not always disabuse people where the de- 
 lusion may be serviceable. You saw him, did 
 you not, Lucien?” and she pointed to the crevice. 
 
 “Yes, Madame; I could not help looking 
 through.” 
 
 “ Tell me, then, for I know you have some 
 judgment of my manager, was it in fear or in 
 anger he left the room?” 
 
 “Upon my honor, Madame, I could not say 
 which.” 
 
 “No, nor could I. Yet I should like to 
 know. Esthers is a strange creature, and came 
 of strange elements.” How much that consid- 
 eration seemed to perplex the- woman who had 
 prepared for her own expected doom with such 
 calm courage not an hour before. She walked 
 up and down the saloon, gazed on the place 
 where Esthers had been sitting, and questioned 
 me about his look and manner till J reminded 
 her of what then seemed rational to me, that it 
 was of very little consequence whether the Jew 
 manager were angry or not. 
 
 “ You are right,” she said; “it is a matter of 
 no consequence,” and seemed to shake some- 
 thing off her mind, but it was with an effort. 
 “And now, my friend, we have arranged all, 
 you will come and see me every day as regular- 
 ly as you have done since my case was fairly 
 put into your hands, my best and only physician, 
 and I will not leave London. I am never to 
 leave it again, Lucien. Something within tells 
 me so ; yet I find no signs of the approaching 
 evil. It will surely come to me as it came to 
 the rest of the Palivezi ; yet my senses and my 
 intellects remain clear; that failure of memory 
 
 j has not recurred again. I am nervous, but it is 
 with the dread of it, and also with the feeling 
 that my summons is at hand. Would it be pos- 
 sible that, notwithstanding the health and vigor 
 of my look, some secret disease was at work on 
 the source of life ? I have felt strange tremors 
 about my heart in the sleepless nights of late. 
 There was one of our house, when we lived in 
 Amsterdam, who had the good fortune to be 
 summoned just when the fatal time was draw- 
 ing on. Lucien, if that should be the case with 
 me, how fortunate to spare your friendship the 
 disagreeable office ! but such good fortune is not 
 to be expected. I have had no other adversity 
 wherewith to pay the Nemesis, and I would not 
 regret this if it did not involve another. That 
 thought has gone to my heart like a dagger 
 many a time since we became acquainted, and 
 I saw you were the man to do it; but you will 
 think of me kindly, Lucien, when I am gone ; 
 as a friend parted from you all these years by a 
 prison grate-bars too strong for mortal hands 
 to move or file away, through which our hearts 
 saw each other, though dimly, for the place was 
 dark, and, as it were, shook hands and gave 
 pledges to be redeemed hereafter. Think of 
 me, too, as one who did not attempt to reward 
 your services, because they were not to be bought 
 or paid for, but bound you to the duty for honor 
 and friendship’s sake. It will be no tarnish to 
 these that you inherit what I have no longer 
 use for. You will have earned my gratitude in 
 the better and longer life to come. We shall 
 still be friends, though parted for a time. You 
 will fulfill the appointed course, which no im- 
 pending horror will make it best and wisest to 
 cut short; you will unite your days, I know you 
 will, Lucien, with those of Helen Forbes, the 
 only woman worthy of you, in spite of her fa- 
 ther’s great misfortune. How black and heavy 
 it lies upon the man ! but you and she will be 
 happy in spite of it.” 
 
 “Prince Dashkoff,” said Calixi, opening the 
 door, at which he had probably knocked without 
 us hearing. 
 
 “He must be admitted,” she said, and her 
 servant was told something in Greek. “You 
 will have time to go, Lucien, by the church- 
 yard way. I can not shut you up again. Shake 
 hands with me, my friend.” She clasped my 
 hands with a grasp strong and warm as a sol- 
 dier might give his comrade when parting for 
 different destinations on a battle-field, walked 
 with me through the conservatory, half down 
 the stair, and when I looked back at the church- 
 yard door with an unaccountable wish to stay 
 and talk with her, there she was smiling down 
 through the tall exotics, and motioning me to 
 go with a gesture as light and playful as a girl 
 of fifteen. For the first time in my life I ven- 
 tured to disobey her slightest wish, and stood 
 there gazing after her while she swept back one 
 of the long braids that had fallen loose over her 
 brow, and tripped away to receive the Kussian 
 prince. It was not with my old fervor of ad- 
 miration or enchantment that I looked ; a pow- 
 
160 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 erful touch of pity, of grief for her and her 
 woeful doom, had come upon my heart, as if I 
 had no personal part in it, and the woman and 
 her misfortunes were separated from me for 
 evermore. But the next moment the thought 
 of all I had pledged myself to came rolling back 
 like the stone of Sisyphus, and I passed through 
 the overgrown forgotten church-yard with a feel- 
 ing that its quiet tenants slept well, and a half 
 wish, which kept haunting me for days after, 
 that some cross-chance or accident might cut 
 my own thread short before I came to see that 
 service. 
 
 I had been always punctual in business, on 
 whatever footing I happened to stand with my 
 employers. Now it was getting late in the 
 forenoon, there was work to be done, and Est- 
 hers would wonder what had become of me ; 
 but I could not go back and sit down to the 
 work in the office with those thoughts upon me. 
 I did not care for meeting the manager either, 
 after seeing his penance done in Madame’s 
 saloon ; so I strolled through the little back 
 streets between the rear of the bank and Fins- 
 bury — nobody there was likely to know or take 
 note of me till the tide within went down — and 
 I emerged on Finsbury Pavement ready to go 
 back to business. I was just opposite the old 
 Greek Coffee-house when my eye lighted on 
 Charles Barry lounging at its door, cigar in 
 mouth, hands in pockets, and in the act of 
 nodding in token of friendly recognition to a 
 man who was walking rapidly down the street. 
 My look followed him instinctively, for I could 
 not mistake the Baltic merchant who had taken 
 such an interest in me and my acquaintance 
 with Madame Palivez, and Charles could tell 
 me something about him. I was by my suc- 
 cessful rival’s side in a minute ; we had always 
 been the best of friends before and after that 
 trip he took to Gravesend, and I suppose my 
 greetings were warmer than usual, for Charles 
 threw away his cigar, said it was a confounded 
 dull day, and asked me to come inside and 
 have something. 
 
 “ No, thank you,” said I, “my time is limit- 
 ed. I left the bank on business, and must go 
 back, of course ; but can you tell me who is 
 that gentleman I saw you nodding to ?” 
 
 “ Oh, he is a Russian of the name of Rukoff 
 — Nicholas Rukoff', I think they call him — an 
 amazingly clever fellow.” 
 
 “ What is his business ?” said I. 
 
 “Well, I don’t know exactly. He is a sort 
 of an agent for some Russian company; but 
 there is nothing he don’t know, private and 
 public, Mr. La Touche ; he has been over the 
 world, east and west ; knows all America, all 
 the Mediterranean towns; the very heart of 
 China, and all the gaming-tables and spas in 
 Germany. As for London, I think he knows 
 every mouse - hole in it, and every body’s 
 doings.” Barry was evidently warming upon 
 the subject. “I can tell you he knows all 
 about yourself and that great bank lady of 
 yours. I am sure I beg your pardon if I have 
 
 said any thing to make you look so angry, Mr. 
 La Touche, but, by all account, she is a queer 
 craft and a deep one. I hope you consider me 
 a friend, at any rate. I am cousin to the 
 Forbes, though they scarcely please to own me 
 now, and as a friend I would advise you to keep 
 a bright look-out ; there have been clerks in her 
 bank she was uncommon friendly with before 
 now.” 
 
 “ The Russian has been telling vou so,” said 
 I. 
 
 “Well, he just did,” said Barry; “you see 
 he knows Madame Palivez, and he knows Est- 
 hers, her manager.” 
 
 “Are he and the Jew good friends ?” I was 
 determined to get the requisite intelligence, 
 whatever nonsense it might come with. 
 
 “Oh, the best in the world, always meeting 
 here in a box by themselves ; lots to talk over, 
 it would appear, but it is all in Russian. Be- 
 tween you and me, Mr. La Touche, I think 
 the Jew has got Rukoff under his fingers a 
 bit. Captain Monico — that’s a Mediterranean 
 friend of mine ; we got acquainted at Malta ; 
 he’s a fine fellow, though he speaks nothing 
 but the Lingo Franco, and it was to see him 
 first brought me to this coffee-house — well, the 
 captain tells me he thinks Esthers has lent 
 Rukoff money to dabble in Russian stocks 
 with ; it seems he does that now, but he has 
 been at a hundred* trades, and his brother is 
 head courier to that Prince Dashkoff that’s 
 courting Madame Palivez, and watched you so 
 well that night at the play. Monico thinks he 
 must do something for the prince too ; I have 
 seen him — that’s Rukoff, I mean, — coming out 
 of the George Hotel in Piccadilly, where the 
 prince pleases to stop. They say he is running 
 an enormous bill there, and not over flush of 
 money ; that’s the reason, I suppose, Rukoff 
 had to borrow from the Jew ; anyhow, Esthers 
 has him under his fingers, and he is the very 
 man I shouldn’t like to have the ordering of me 
 — cold-blooded and crafty as a snake, Mr. La 
 Touche ; am I right?” 
 
 “ Pretty nearly,” said I ; “ but do you think 
 he orders Rukoff?” 
 
 “I think he does, in a manner; they always 
 meet here; and, though I don’t know Russian, 
 it is plain enough that Esthers is asking him 
 questions and giving him commands, and, to my 
 certain knowledge, Rukoff fishes out news for 
 the Jew about my own cousins, the Forbes’.” 
 
 “How does he contrive to do that, Mr. 
 Barry ?” 
 
 “Well, you see, Rukoff is acquainted with 
 Mr. Forbes’s head clerk — Watt Wilson is his 
 name; Esthers knows him too, but he can’t get 
 news out of him ; the clerk knows his man, 
 yon see ; but he is uncommon fond of making 
 money, and the Russian once managed a specu- 
 lation in Baltic Stock for him with wonderful 
 profits, I believe ; it quite introduced Rukoff to 
 all the bank people, and to Forbes himself. 
 My Scotch cousin is an uncommonly cautious 
 man, but the Russian gets to know* his affairs 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 161 
 
 before any body in London ; he told me this 
 very day that Forbes would have a journey 
 north on account of a bank in Leith that’s 
 thought to be shaky, and owes him no trifle. 
 Mr. La Touche, you may take it ill or well, 
 but I tell you what Rukoff says ought to be 
 attended to ; he knows your uncle, and how you 
 and he happened to part in Baltimore ; could 
 have told me all about the Joyces, if I had only 
 met him in time ; that would have been a sav- 
 ing for a gentleman, Mr. La Touche, but there 
 is no help for by-gones. And he is one of the 
 most obliging fellows under the sun ; when we 
 were perfect strangers, and I had got into a 
 little difficulty with the head waiter here, he 
 paid off the score in the most gentlemanly 
 manner. Of course I’ll return him the mon- 
 ey,” said Barry, hitching up his pockets ; “but 
 these small matters show what is in a man. 
 Long till my Scotch cousins would do the like. 
 He’s obliging and he is clever, Mr. La Touche, 
 and what Rukoff says ought to be attended to.” 
 
 “No doubt it should,” said I; “but I know 
 my own business better than Mr. Rukoff.” 
 And Barry got the usual assurance that I was 
 Madame Palivez’s clerk, and she my employer, 
 who took no notice of me except in the way of 
 business, and on account of my uncle, with 
 whom her bank had long and satisfactory deal- 
 ings. As it was no matter where he went, the 
 unemployed sailor walked with me into Old 
 Broad Street in time to see Prince Dashkoff’s 
 carriage, with liveried footmen and outriders, 
 dashing away from Madame’s private door, on 
 which Barry pronounced his decision that it 
 would be a match yet ; and I met his friend, 
 the obliging Rukoff, emerging from the office. 
 
 Whatever that gentleman’s communications 
 to the ordering Jew had been, I found Esthers 
 in a state of mind which nobody could have 
 expected after the scene in Madame’s saloon. 
 He was in good spirits, bustling, active, and 
 more civil than I had found him for the last six 
 months. Never did the manager seem more 
 zealous for his business, more careful in the 
 performance of his duties, or with a higher 
 sense of his own authority and importance in 
 the bank, than he showed that day. To me his 
 good graces seemed entirely restored ; he bade 
 me good-morning in a most friendly manner ; 
 hoped that it was not illness that made me so 
 late — I was generally so punctual and regular. 
 I assured him it was only family matters that 
 detained me, hoped he had not found my ab- 
 sence inconvenient, and professed myself ready 
 to make up for it by extra attention to busi- 
 ness. 
 
 “Oh, you ^re always attentive,” said Est- 
 hers ; “we never had an English clerk so much 
 to be depended on ; in fact, Mr. La Touche, I 
 wonder your uncle ever parted with you — you 
 would have been such a help and such a com- 
 fort to him in his old days. They do say that 
 widow’s son is getting quite grand iii Baltimore 
 on his money, and the prospect of stepping into 
 the old man’s shoes. Your sister is not unwell, 
 L 
 
 I hope, Mr. La Touche ?” Esthers kept his eyes 
 on the paper before him, but the voice told me 
 he was anxious to know the cause of my delay, 
 and I responded, “ Oh no, thank you, she is 
 quite well ; it was only some household ac- 
 counts that were to settle ; my sister is not ail 
 adept in those matters.” 
 
 The story went down, for Esthers looked up 
 quite relieved and brisk. “Well, I am glad 
 you came any time to-day, or I should have 
 been obliged to send for you. It is necessary 
 for me” — how convinced of his own grandeur 
 he looked — “absolutely necessary for me to 
 set out for Dublin to-night ; there are matters 
 very important, to the bank, I mean, which 
 demand my immediate presence. The news 
 arrived only last night ; Madame sent for me 
 this morning as soon as she got up, I may say ; 
 we were consulting together all the forenoon.” 
 I had seen them consulting through the 
 crevice in the closet door. Little more than an 
 hour had elapsed since then, yet Esthers spoke 
 with such confidence and complacency that I 
 felt persuaded reasons of business had obtain- 
 ed him a more gracious interview, and warrant- 
 ed his being sent to Ireland on bank affairs. 
 There was no time and no opportunity to in- 
 quire into the truth of that persuasion ; all the 
 manager’s movements made it appear correct; 
 he put every thing in order for his intended 
 absence, gave me more minute directions than 
 were requisite, and frequently recurred to the 
 propriety and necessity of my being in the office 
 at the usual hour next day. I promised to be 
 in punctual attendance. The manager’s friend- 
 liness was remarkable, and apparently so sin- 
 cere, that I believed Madame’s rebukes and ad- 
 monitions had taken full effect, and marveled 
 at the peculiar subjugation in which she held 
 the hard-witted and cunning Jew. 
 
 CHAPTER LI. 
 
 STRANGE SCENES IN TWO HOUSES. 
 
 The work of the short winter day was over ; 
 all things had been arranged for the manager’s 
 departure. I left him in the office, for it was 
 his duty, and one he never shirked, to see the 
 bank closed for the night, and took my home- 
 ward way, secure that Madame would tell me 
 the why and wherefore he went to Dublin when 
 I visited her next morning. I had got into 
 Threadneedle Street, and was looking for a 
 coach, for I felt uncommonly tired of that day’s 
 work, when somebody tapped me on the shoul- 
 der, and there was Watt Wilson with, “I beg 
 your pardon, Mr. La Touche, but I have been 
 lading wait for you in a manner. There is a 
 person in Mr. Forbes’s office — it’s Miss Hel- 
 en,” he whispered, “would be very glad to see 
 you for a minute before you go home.” Miss 
 Helen in her father’s office at that hour, and 
 wishing to see me ! “Is there any thing wrong 
 with Mr. Forbes?” I inquired. 
 
162 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “ Well, no, nothing very wrong, that I know 
 of/’ said Wilson, “ but he is not well, poor gen- 
 tleman; has not been much at the bank for two 
 or three days, and don’t look himself at all. 
 Between ourselves, Mr. La Touche, there is 
 something very particular troubling his mind 
 and Miss Helen’s too; yet I understand he 
 means to start for Scotland to-morrow, on ac- 
 count of that Leith bank ; you have heard what 
 is said about it, I’ll warrant, and our accounts 
 are heavy, to the tune of near four thousand. 
 It would be too much to lose ; but Mr. Forbes 
 is rich enough to stand it, and I don’t think 
 it ought to trouble him and Miss Helen so 
 much, with all their good sense, not to speak of 
 religion.” 
 
 As Wilson came to that conclusion we reach- 
 ed the bank door ; it was open, for they did bus- 
 iness later there than in Broad Street, and the 
 head clerk showed me to Mr. Forbes’s private 
 office, a small dingy room in which the fire never 
 burned well ; it was smouldering and smoking 
 away as usual, and the oil-lamp (for gas was 
 not yet in prudent establishments) cast a dim, 
 hazy light on the dusty furniture, the bundled- 
 up papers, and the slight figure of Helen Forbes 
 in her brown dress, dark shawl, -and ribbonless 
 bonnet, seated at the table, and trying to look 
 composed and dignified, as became the master’s 
 daughter. Yet the first glance I got of her 
 convinced me there was something wrong be- 
 yond Watt Wilson’s knowing ; her look was 
 worn and haggard, like that of one who had not 
 slept for nights, and the hand she extended to 
 me trembled like an aspen-leaf. 
 
 “It is very good of you to come this way, 
 Mr. La Touche,” she said, when the prudent 
 clerk, knowing there was something to be spok- 
 en in private to the family friend, quietly closed 
 the door and left us alone, “and it was very 
 bold of me to send for you in such a manner; 
 it is bold to ask what I am going to do. I 
 could ask it from nobody else ; but you have 
 been always friendly, and it is for my father’s 
 sake.” 
 
 “It is my duty as well as my pleasure to do 
 any thing you wish, Miss Forbes ; tell me at 
 once what it is — how I can serve you ;” and I 
 sat down by her side like a brother. 
 
 “Well,” she said, bracing up her spirit for 
 the effort, “I want you to go to Scotland with 
 my father. You will think it a strange request, 
 for any body would ; but oh, Mr. La Touche, 
 he is not in a fit state to travel by himself. I 
 can’t understand it ; I am afraid his mind is 
 affected ; he is not what he used to be — mere 
 trifles upset him : for the last three days he 
 seems to be going out of his judgment.” The 
 patient, self-controlled woman was by this time 
 crying like a child ; it would have melted the 
 heart of a stone t.o see the tears streaming down 
 her pale face, and her thin hands wringing in 
 the paroxysm of grief she could not restrain. 
 
 ‘ £ My dear Miss Forbes I ” I flung my arm round 
 her, and laid her head on my shoulder: it was 
 the act of a friend and a brother. Helen seemed 
 
 to know it as such, and did not move away, but 
 leant there, sobbing and crying like a child on 
 its mother’s breast. “What makes you grieve 
 yourself so unnecessarily ? what makes you im- 
 agine the like ? has Esthers been at his work 
 again ? I should like to shoot that fellow.” 
 “Oh no, no; don’t say that; it is not his fault: 
 my father gets upset by such trifles. They were 
 in the library together on Tuesday last, and Mr. 
 Esthers showed him something in a Dublin news- 
 paper he had got ; I don’t know what it was, 
 for I was not there, and papa will not tell me, 
 only that it does not concern his business at 
 all ; yet ever since he has been so strange — 
 can’t mind any thing — can’t rest by day or 
 night ; never goes to bed without a light burn- 
 ing in his room, and he don’t sleep at all, for 
 ajl night long I hear him groaning and praying. 
 Oh, Mr. La Touche, he must be going out of his 
 mind, and what shall I do?” she cried, with an- 
 other wild burst of weeping. 
 
 I don’t know what I said ; no man could re- 
 member his words spoken at such a time ; but 
 with my astonishment at her tale, and pity for 
 the grieving daughter, there was mingled the 
 recollection of Melrose Morton's face when he 
 looked up from the Dublin Saunders in our 
 parlor firelight, and found he had particular 
 reasons for going home directly. I had not 
 seen Melrose since ; in all my walks I had look- 
 ed for a Saunders's News Letter , bought three 
 different copies, but could see nothing in them 
 so to upset my friend. There must have been 
 something, however, which appealed to a secret 
 place in the Scotch banker’s memory as well as 
 to his, and I felt convinced it had to do with 
 the subject of their mysterious quarrel. There 
 was no use in mentioning that matter to Helen ; 
 she was as much in the dark as myself regard- 
 ing the cause of the dispute. It must have 
 been serious and compromising too, yet Esthers 
 guessed at it, so did Madame Palivez ; would 
 her commands keep the Jew from future med- 
 dling ? I believed so, and comforted Helen as 
 best I could with assurances that her father’s 
 judgment was safe ; that every thing was liable 
 to be upset by matters small in themselves, but 
 connected with sad or unlucky memories. Mr. 
 Forbes lived too retired, paid too close attention 
 to business, was far too charitable and forbear- 
 ing with such a creature as Esthers, who did 
 nothing but probe into other people’s affairs and 
 troubles for his own paltry ends. But Madame 
 Palivez should hear qf it; I would take that 
 upon myself, without the smallest mention of 
 Miss Forbes or her father’s name. 
 
 “ Oh, if you would,” said poor Helen, turn- 
 ing her face to me with such a gfow of gratitude 
 in it that my caution lost its hold. 
 
 “The business is done already, Miss Forbes ; 
 to my certain knowledge, Esthers got such a 
 lecture this morning as will keep him from 
 worming into matters that don’t concern him 
 for some time.” 
 
 “The Lord reward her and you!” Helen’s 
 thin hands were clasped, and her eyes cast up- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 163 
 
 ward with such a look of earnest prayer as must | 
 have brought down a blessing on any other 
 head ; but the golden reliquary and the crystal 
 phial came up to my memory as she sppke, and 
 the benediction fell powerless. “It was kind, 
 it was noble of her to interfere for us,, and no- 
 ble of you to ask her without ever being asked 
 yourself. I always knew there was something 
 generous and good about Madame, whatever 
 strange ways she might have; and you, Mr. 
 La Touche, you have been always our friend ; 
 if we had taken your advice the Jew would 
 never have got about us, and papa might not 
 have been so troubled. I am sure he has made 
 him worse ; but I am spending your time and 
 my own shamefully,” said Helen, wiping her 
 eyes; “it is my weakness and sinfulness, no 
 doubt, that make me stand the trial so badly, 
 for, like all other afflictions, it is appointed by 
 eternal wisdom for our good and purifying. 
 But let me come to the subject on which I sent 
 for you : can you, will you go to Scotland with 
 my father ? He must and will go to look after 
 his accounts with the Leith bank, which they 
 say is not quite safe. I can’t think of his trav- 
 eling alone; he won’t let me go with him, he 
 won’t let Wilson; in short, he won’t have any 
 body but you. It was himself suggested that 
 at first, and yet, Mr. La Touche, I had such 
 work to get his consent before I would ask you ; 
 one moment he was for it, the next quite against 
 it, and it was only this evening at the last hour 
 that I could get his leave to come here and send 
 for you, for he told me a hundred times it was 
 a thing he could not ask himself, and he was 
 afraid of Esthers knowing any thing about it ; 
 the manager might offer to go, you know,” and 
 Helen shuddered in her chair at the very 
 thought. I could not terrify her farther by 
 mentioning that Esthers had got the news of 
 her father’s intended journey from his emissary 
 Rukoff ; but my own engagement to see Ma- 
 dame Palivez every day made me answer, “I 
 should think it a small matter to travel with 
 your father to Scotland or any where else, if 
 my time were at my own disposal.” 
 
 “Oh, that is just what we thought,” said 
 Helen ; “and I suppose you will think me very 
 forward, but I left home with the intention of 
 going to ask Madame Palivez myself, if you 
 were willing. I should not be afraid to ask any 
 thing in reason from that noble lady, and I am 
 sure she would not refuse to let you go to Scot- 
 land with a friend too weak to travel by him- 
 self.” I had revolved the whole subject in my 
 mind by this time, and I don’t know if it 
 should be called cowardly or not, but my wish 
 to serve Mr. Forbes and his daughter was min- 
 gled with a vague hope that thereby something 
 might happen to take me out of the way of 
 the darker service to which I was pledged and 
 bound. At any rate, it would never do to let 
 Helen ask leave for me under the circumstances. 
 Better to go myself, explain matters fully to 
 Madame, and be guided by her wish that I 
 should go or stay. “ You might not be afraid, 
 
 Miss Forbes ; Madame Palivez is both generous 
 and considerate, but particular reasons make it 
 difficult for me to be spared from the bank just 
 now ; I am the only English clerk, and Esthers 
 is going to Ireland by the Dublin packet that 
 sails at ten this evening, so there is no danger 
 of him offering to go with your father.” 
 
 “What can he be going to do in Ireland?” 
 said Helen, fearfully, as if she were thinking of 
 the Saunders. 
 
 “ Oh, it is only bank business ; but when does 
 your father think of setting out ?” 
 
 “ By the northern mail ; it goes at seven in 
 the morning.” 
 
 “To-morrow!” said I, amazed at the short 
 time allowed me for thought or leave-getting. 
 
 “Yes,” said poor Helen, and a slight flush 
 rose on her thin cheek; “the time is shame- 
 fully short, but you can have linens and every 
 thing you want from our house ; and I could 
 not get papa’s consent a moment sooner.” 
 
 If one goes to do a service, there is nothing 
 like doing it heartily, and without raising its 
 price. “ If Madame can spare me, I know she 
 will,” said I ; “ and it would be more suitable for 
 myself to ask than put you to that trouble. She 
 may be engaged with company at this hour; 
 give me five minutes to write a note here. I 
 will try to get it delivered into her hands, if 
 it is not convenient to see her, and come back 
 with an answer in good time to see you home.” 
 Helen thanked and praised me till I had to stop 
 her with the usual account of how much I and 
 my family owed to her father. I lost no time 
 in putting plainly on the paper her request, and 
 the reasons of it, as far as I knew them ; inti- 
 mated my obligations to the Forbes’, and at the 
 same time my resolution not to break through 
 the arrangement Madame had made with me, 
 except she thought it expedient, and craved an 
 immediate answer, as the time pressed. 
 
 With this billet, sealed, and endorsed “Pri- 
 vate and important,” I started for Old Broad 
 Street, telling Helen to wait my return, and 
 promising not to be long. The evening quiet 
 which falls on that seat of Eastern business was 
 even more marked then than it is now ; every 
 office was shut, all the people gone or with- 
 drawn into the interiors, a few oil-lamps, at 
 wide intervals glimmered through the misty 
 night, which had by this time fallen, and a sol- 
 itary watchman, specially retained for that pur- 
 pose, and armed with his old-fashioned staff 
 and lantern, paced up and down in front of the 
 Palivez bank. Its doors and windows were fast 
 shut up and barred ; there was not a better se- 
 cured house in the City. But I went at once 
 to the private door, and, after knocking twice, 
 was admitted by the porter. My request to see 
 Madame Palivez was as usual answered by the 
 appearance of Calixi ; but he solemnly assui'ed 
 the Signor that Madame had already retired to 
 her chamber,, and, if the note were in haste, 
 there was no use in giving him charge of it, as, 
 according to the rule of the house, nobody but 
 Madame Oniga or the maids could approach her 
 
1 64 : 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 sleeping apartment. I was not prepared for 
 that place of Eastern etiquette; but knowing 
 the rules of the house to be like the laws of the 
 Medes and Persians, I attempted no persuasion, 
 but bent my steps to the door of the sunk flat, 
 where the Russian housekeeper was sure to be 
 •found. There had been uninterrupted civility 
 between her and myself ever since my coming 
 to the bank, and I had no doubt that if I went 
 down quietly and made my wishes known, she 
 would do all in her power to further them. Down 
 I went on tiptoe ; there was no sound to be 
 heard, no light to be seen, though I found the 
 outer door open as if by some neglect, unusual 
 under Madame Oniga’s administration, and step- 
 ped into the passage beyond. Nobody yet to 
 be heard or seen. I stood for a moment, un- 
 willing to knock or call — it was not my policy 
 to attract the attention of the household — when 
 a dreary, monotonous sound from the other end 
 of the passage struck my ear. It resembled 
 nothing that ever I heard but the chant which 
 came up with the smoke of incense from the 
 lower apartments of Madame’s villa on the night 
 of Christmas Eve. An irresistible curiosity 
 made me follow the sound, and a faint light 
 streaming from a half-open door at the end of 
 the passage at length cleared up the mystery, 
 for there, in a small vaulted room, with a min- 
 iature altar, a Greek crucifix, and some undis- 
 tinguishable paintings, half hidden by a sort of 
 carved wooden screen, was Madame Oniga and 
 all the female servants of the house on their 
 knees, and almost on their faces, while the 
 housekeeper read, or rather chanted, from a 
 large black book — what I guessed to be some 
 prayers from the Greek Liturgy, in the old 
 Sclavonic tongue, which all devout Russians 
 consider sacred to religion. The household 
 were at their evening prayer, and it would be 
 imprudent as well as improper to disturb them. 
 I crept softly away, my eyes now accustomed to 
 the darkness of the passage, and my steps, which 
 were always light for a man, rendered inaudible 
 by the Indian matting, with which the entire 
 house was coated for the winter. 
 
 Every turn of the place was well known to 
 me, and I was in no danger of discovery ; the 
 cleyks were all in their rooms above ; most of 
 them retired early, and those who did not were 
 sure to be smoking in the common room. I 
 reached the foot of the stair which led up to the 
 ground floor, and stepped up a little way, so as 
 not to be seen spying on the household in their 
 private chapel ; but there was light above also ; 
 a broad bright gleam flashed along the passage 
 from the direction of the bank. Who could be 
 there, when it was all shut up and silent ? I 
 crept up and along the passage, the gleam still 
 guiding me, till I saw it came from Esthers’ of- 
 fice. What could the manager be about so late ? 
 The door was perfectly ajar, and there was a 
 convenient angle in which one could stand in 
 the darkness and look right into the room. I 
 stood and looked, for my curiosity regarding the 
 ferreting Jew was boundless. He was seated in 
 
 front of his own desk, on one of the highest 
 chairs ; his face was working like a gathering 
 storm-cloud; his lips were moving rapidly, but 
 no sound came from them ; the long, brown, 
 skinny fingers were in rapid motion, telling his 
 arguments or commands to one no other voice 
 could reach ; for, on a low stool, almost at his 
 feet, but with her face turned toward him, and 
 her hands in motion equal to his own, sat Han- 
 nah Clark. While the rest of the household 
 knelt at their evening prayer, she had stolen 
 away, unmissed and unobserved, to converse 
 with the Jew. Hannah had as little part in 
 Madame Oniga’s Greek Liturgy as she had in 
 our Roman Mass ; but there was an influence 
 which could reach the sealed-up springs of. her 
 life and thought — a tutor who knew how to send 
 his instructions home to her voiceless mind. 
 How eagerly her eyes followed every movement 
 of his face or hands ! How keenly she seemed 
 to comprehend every tittle of the tale he told 
 her — for a tale it was, a long rehearsal of cir- 
 cumstances, and not pleasant ones, which must 
 have concerned himself — Esthers was far too 
 much in earnest for it to concern any body else. 
 What summary of wrath and wrong was he dis- 
 closing to Hannah, and for what purpose? Had 
 it been uttered in words, though in the lowest 
 whisper, I must have caught its import, from 
 my position and the deep silence of the house. 
 No man knows what sort of learning he may 
 find most useful. I would have given my 
 knowledge of French and Latin at that moment 
 to have been able to read the signs that passed 
 so rapidly between them, for the look of re- 
 hearsed injury in Esthers’ face was answered by 
 the fierce blaze of savage temper in Hannah’s 
 eyes. Whatever was his tale, she sympathized 
 with the Jew in her own wild fashion. I look- 
 ed in at the door, and could make nothing 
 more of it ; but at last the manager’s look grew 
 crafty and insinuating ; he bent toward Han- 
 nah as if asking her to do something for him, 
 and pointed away to the back part of the house. 
 $he seemed to comprehend his meaning as a 
 dog does that of his master, but there was in- 
 stinctive cunning as well as obedience in her 
 look ; she rose up slowly to her feet, made a 
 sign as if demanding some pledge or promise 
 from him. Esthers directly held up one of his 
 fingers, and made a motion like putting on a 
 ring. That appeared to satisfy Hannah; but 
 her answering sign completely puzzled me ; it 
 was a gesture quiet and deliberate, and resem- 
 bled nothing that I could imagine but the act of 
 killing a chicken. Could it be that Esthers got 
 himself privately served with delicacies through 
 the devotedness of the dumb girl ? Could that 
 be all they signed about so earnestly, and took 
 such peculiar times to meet for ? 
 
 Suddenly a sound below, which I could not 
 catch, seemed to startle the manager ; he gave 
 Hannah a signal, at which she retreated so quick- 
 ly and noiselessly that, though her clothes al- 
 most brushed mine, she was down the stair, and 
 probably in the chapel ; while Esthers, ever care- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 1G5 
 
 ful of his own security, closed the office door 
 with equal silence and celerity, and thus left me 
 a chance of stealing down in my turn ; and I 
 had just got a suitable station at the outer door, 
 when the movements and lights within warned 
 me that the household devotions were over. I 
 
 presence. I am not sure that Madame Oniga 
 ever scolded — the discipline of that house was 
 all on the silent system ; but she said something 
 in Russian to one of the maids, who seemed con- 
 siderably frightened ; told me she was sorry I 
 had been kept waiting — they had been at pray-^ 
 
 “He was seated in front of his own desk, on one of the highest chairs.” 
 
 rang the door-bell gently, and Madame Oniga 
 herself appeared, candle in hand. My apolo- 
 gies were soon made, and my business explain- 
 ed ; the strict housekeeper was annoyed to see 
 the door left open, but she did not scold in my 
 
 er, and she was afraid Madame Palivez had 
 gone to sleep ; but she would send the note up 
 to her by Hannah Clark, whom Madame liked 
 best to come into her chamber, becausfe she 
 was a mute ; Madame always liked mutes, and 
 
166 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 Hannah had grown so useful and intelli- 
 gent. 
 
 Hannah was immediately summoned from the 
 interior; the Russian maid seemed to find no 
 difficulty in speaking to her — signs were in 
 more common use with them than in English 
 families — and it was curious to see the ready, 
 cheerful way in which she recognized me, re- 
 ceived Madame Oniga’s wordless commands, 
 took the note and tripped away to the farther 
 end of the passage, from which a stair, with a 
 door at the top, led into the central court, on 
 which the bank lady’s private rooms all opened. 
 “Hannah knows every step and turn in the 
 house, if it were pitch dark,” said Madame Oni- 
 ga, as I involuntarily looked after her retiring 
 figure, and thought of the scene I had witnessed 
 in Esthers’ office. It was no time to put the 
 discreet housekeeper on her guard concerning 
 their intimacy ; the maids were moving about, 
 and I was waiting for Madame Palivez’s decis- 
 ion to go hack to Threadneedle Street and tell 
 Helen Forbes. I did not wait long ; Hannah 
 came back in a few minutes and put into my 
 hand her mistress’s card, on the back of which 
 was written, evidently by a drowsy hand, “Go, 
 by all means; good-night, and a good journey.” 
 People accustomed to great power, or wealth — 
 which is much the same thing — are apt to make 
 every body serve the feelings of the hour. Ma- 
 dame would not abridge her early sleep with de- 
 tail or explanation, but she allowed me to go ; 
 that was enough, and I hastened back to Helen. 
 How earnestly inquisitive the poor girl looked at 
 me as I opened the door! “Madame Palivez 
 has given me permission to go,” said I. 
 
 “ I knew she would, the noble, generous 
 lady!” and Helen’s eyes spoke more gratitude 
 than her words. “You didn’t let Mr. Esthers 
 know any thing ?” 
 
 “Not a syllable. But it is late, my dear 
 Miss Forbes ; let me call a hackney-coach, and 
 take you home.” 
 
 The hackney-coach was called and home we 
 went, leaving the trusty Watt Wilson to make 
 the bank secure for the night. Helen seemed 
 to feel herself and her father safe, since I could 
 go with him to Scotland ; but the considerate 
 lady insisted on my sleeping at Notting Hill 
 House, so as not to disturb my own by getting 
 up so early in the morning, and left me at No. 
 9 to tell my sister, while she drove on to let her 
 father know that he might expect me to sup- 
 per. Rhoda had been taken into confidence on 
 the subject of my going to Scotland. The 
 friendship between her and Helen had been a 
 matter of slow and steady growth, and seemed 
 to have incrq^sed as troubles thickened about 
 Notting Hill House. 
 
 “ She was here for nearly three hours, talk- 
 ing and telling me all about it. So humble 
 and Christian-like, and so bothered, at the same 
 time, I can’t make it out, and I suppose I never 
 will, Lucien. It can’t be all that Jew’s doing, 
 but lie has done a share of it. I am glad that you 
 are going with Mr. Forbes. It will be cold work 
 
 traveling there in this winter-time, but in course 
 it’s your duty, and, Lucien dear, if he loses a 
 day in the week, or his wits goes a wool-gather- 
 ing, you’ll fetch him home safe, though I hope 
 nothing of the kind ’ll happen ; but one don't 
 know what to make out of Miss Helen’s talk about 
 him. She is a good young lady, and oncom- 
 mon sensible,” continued my sister, all the while 
 helping to pack my portmanteau ; “but she is 
 going to do one thing I don’t like — maybe it is 
 wrong to say so, and I’ll warrant she didn’t tell 
 you, thinking the mention of her name might be 
 onpleasant — oh ! she is the rale Christian — 
 that’s the taking of Rosanna Joyce — Mrs. Bar- 
 ry, I mean — to keep her company when her 
 father’s away. You see Rosanna has been there, 
 tellin’ all her misfortunes. Barry is not be- 
 having himself well, never staying at home with 
 her at all, but going, goodness or somebody else 
 knows where, after bad company, she thinks. 
 Jeremy has taken on with a young woman in a 
 pastry shop, now that Sally is not there to keep 
 him in order. Rosanna's left all alone in the 
 evening, and short of money too, and Miss 
 Forbes, partly out of charity, and partly because 
 she will be lonely and narvous, I suppose, after 
 her father, is going to take her for the time to 
 be a companion. She thinks it will bring Barry 
 to the house, and then Miss Helen will give him 
 good advices, I’ll be bound ; but Rosanna’s 
 crafty, and a sort of relation to the Jew villain ; 
 in short, Lucien, I think it might be just as well 
 if Miss Forbes would let her stay in Bolton 
 Row.” 
 
 “Well, Rhoda, we can’t interfere in that,” 
 said I. “ Rosanna can do no harm in Notting 
 Hill House. It is not likely she will be in- 
 clined to do any, having no interest to serve ; 
 Esthers is going to Ireland on bank business, 
 and will very likely be out of the way till we 
 come back.” 
 
 “ Thank goodness,” said Rhoda. “ If some- 
 body would lock him up somewhere there, it 
 would be an oncommon good thing ; but the 
 like of him always gets home safe. So will 
 you, Lucien dear, I hope, and poor Mr. Forbes. 
 Was it not strange that something out of a 
 newspaper upset him as well as Mr. Morton ? 
 I wonder if it was the same paper, or if — ” 
 here Rhoda looked into the shirts she was pack- 
 ing. 
 
 “They are both losing a day in the week,” 
 said I. ‘ ‘ Have you seen Morton since, Rhoda ?” 
 
 “ Indeed I have not, Lucien. Maybe he is 
 offended at my putting him off so often, and 
 won’t come any more. Just as he plaises,” 
 said Rhoda; but the tears were coming into 
 her eyes. “ Gentlemen that is so easy affront- 
 ed are not worth bothering one’s self about, I 
 am sure.” 
 
 “Melrose will come back, Rhoda. Some- 
 thing in that unlucky paper has disturbed both 
 Mr. Forbes and him. I can’t understand it, 
 but I suppose it has to do with their quarrel ; 
 but he is an honest man and a true lover not to 
 be offended or put off by trifles. He will come 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 1G7 
 
 back, and you’ll have him,' my girl,” and I clap- j 
 ped my sister on the back, and rattled on about ! 
 dancing at her wedding, and going to see them 
 in Scotland. It was the best way of keeping 
 her off my private affairs, for the thought of her 
 brother getting away so long and far from Ma- 
 dame Palivez had opened springs of wonder, 
 and I thought of hope, in Rhoda’s mind, though 
 she got no farther than how good it was of the 
 bank lady to let me go, and iier manager start- 
 ing for Dublin. 
 
 We parted as we ever did, with fond and 
 kind leave-taking. I promised to write as soon 
 as I reached Edinburg; to take care of Mr. 
 Eorbes ; to take care of myself, and come back 
 as quickly as the business would allow. Rhoda 
 gave me all manner of Irish prayers and bless- 
 ings ; said she had a notion that every thing 
 was going to turn out right, and go well with us 
 all ; that we were coming to the clearing-up of 
 our family troubles. Dreams and omens, in 
 which I had no faith, had impressed that, belief 
 on my sister ; and, glad of any illusion that 
 might cheer her heart for the time, though it 
 made the fatal secret press more heavily on my 
 own, I left her with a pretense of believing too, 
 and strode away through the dull November 
 night to Notting Hill House. 
 
 CHAPTER LII. 
 
 THE JOURNEY NORTHWARD. 
 
 Mr. Forbes and Helen were waiting for me 
 at the supper-table. They were sitting close 
 together ; had evidently talked the matter over, 
 and her relieved look was a comfort to see. 
 The banker was, I must confess, contrary to my 
 expectations, as composed and sensible as I had 
 ever found him, but looking very ill, and it 
 seemed to me that the man’s health was shaken 
 rather than his mind. His Scottish face was 
 positively gaunt with thinness ; the cheeks were 
 hollow, the eyes were sunkenjjand he had a 
 hard, dry cough at intervals, which did not tell 
 of a sound chest. It was a wonder that he 
 thought of going northward under the circum- 
 stances, and did not send Watt Wilson or some 
 deputy he could trust. I would have offered 
 my own services, but I knew that rich men were 
 always most anxious in affairs of property, and 
 it might appear to be. taking too much on my- 
 self. Mr. Forbes thanked me with his usual 
 grave courtesy for bearing him company on so 
 short a notice, acknowledged his obligations to 
 Madame Palivez for allowing me to go — she 
 was always generous and considerate, whatever 
 else people might say of her. He wouldn’t 
 have troubled Madame or me on the subject 
 but to satisfy Helen. She would not hear of 
 him going to Scotland alone — good girl, she 
 couldn’t leave her father to the care of Provi- 
 dence, without whom a sparrow could not fall. 
 Of course it was requisite for him to look after 
 his accounts with the Leith bank. I had doubt- 
 
 less heard the rumors about it, not that he 
 placed much reliance on the like. Idle or in- 
 terested people could always get up reports 
 against a firm, and they had much to answer for 
 who originated or put them in circulation. He 
 knew I was not the man to assist in spreading 
 such reports. Good sense and discretion, not 
 to speak of Christian principle, should keep any 
 rational tongue from that employment. It had 
 brought many a house to ruin or worse ; and 
 Forbes looked as earnest as if there were a 
 danger of rumors getting up against the estab- 
 lishment in Threadneedle Street. 
 
 I had often heard him speak in that strain 
 before. It was a part of his scrupulous and 
 conscientious practice to take special care of his 
 neighbors’ repute, either in character or business, 
 and all his converse was equally grave and sens- 
 ible ; nothing odd, nothing peculiar in his man- 
 ner that I could remark, except that at times he 
 seemed occupied’and absorbed in some subject 
 of private thought, which I concluded was the 
 Leith bank, and its bearings on his own. 
 
 After supper we had prayers, according to 
 custom. Forbes concluded his family devotions 
 with as much propriety and earnestness as ever 
 I saw him exhibit. There was no perturbation 
 of the banker’s mind, that I could observe, on 
 matters temporal and spiritual. How did Hel- 
 en’s fears of its soundness originate? She was 
 notin the habit of taking fancies. I had looked 
 at her two or three times with an assurance that 
 all was right. I knew she understood me, and 
 seemed to have got herself into that persuasion 
 when we parted for the night. The sober and 
 trusty footman marched before me with two wax 
 candles to my room — a low ceiled-chamber of 
 that old-fashioned house, comfortably and even 
 handsomely furnished. What a contrast jt was 
 to Forbes’s own, with a bright fire blazing in the 
 grate, hangings of blue damask, and every ap- 
 purtenance for sleeping and rising well ! The 
 footman promised to call me at half past five. 
 It would take some time to get to the mail. 
 Passengers generally took their seats in front 
 of the Post-office then, and two places had been 
 secured the previous evening before consulting 
 me, as Helen insisted that somebody must travel 
 with her father. It was all hastily arranged, 
 but pretty well. I thought so, and fell asleep 
 in the richlv-hung bed, but it was only to dream 
 of the silent scene I had witnessed in Esthers’ 
 office. Hannah Clark and he were there, sign- 
 ing to each other ; and, strange are the illusions 
 of sleep, there they were talking, too. I could 
 hear them where I stood in the dark corner 
 of the passage. It was all about and against 
 Madame Palivez — vague, indistinct charges of 
 her evil doings to Esthers — chiefly that she was 
 keeping him out of his lawful inheritance, the 
 wealth and business of the house, willing it away 
 to strangers ; that she had driven his brother 
 and sister mad by witchcraft ; that she was 
 keeping Helen Forbes from marrying him, and 
 turning her affections to me. Then their talk 
 became low — a perfect mutter. Hannah’s voice 
 
168 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 in it was like the noise that she used to make in 
 No. 9, but sunk to a whispered growl ; Esthers 
 was gnashing his teeth and growling too, in a 
 suppressed frenzy of wrath and revenge, it seem- 
 ed. I could catch no words, but at length I saw 
 him take from his pocket a knife — it was exact- 
 ly like that with which the ragged man had 
 lunged at Madame in the solitary woodland 
 path, only it opened and shut like a razor. I 
 saw him show Hannah the spring ; she tried the 
 sharpness of the edge, clutched the handle, and 
 flew past me down the stairs. I tried to catch 
 hold of her, to follow her, but I could not — 
 something kept me fixed in the corner. I tried 
 to cry out and alarm the house, for a fearful 
 sense of danger to Madame Palivez pressed on 
 me, but I could utter no sound. Esthers came 
 out and laughed at me with a mad scorn, some- 
 thing like his look when he talked of my friend- 
 ship with the Eorbes’ on the road that Sun- 
 day evening. Then I heard Helen calling for 
 help somewhere in the office behind him, and 
 woke up to hear the sober footman knocking 
 at my door two hours before the dawn of the 
 winter day, and knew that it was all a night- 
 mare ! 
 
 Early as it was, I found Helen at the break- 
 fast-table in her neat, plain morning dress, not a 
 pin wrong, not a hair out of place. They were 
 used to early rising in that house, generally 
 dressed by candle-light in winter, and she could 
 never think of her father sitting down to break- 
 fast without her. The banker was looking ex- 
 actly as' he had looked the night before, as com- 
 posed and as sensible. After breakfast we had 
 prayers ; no journey or exigency was ever al- 
 lowed to infringe on the spiritual exercises of 
 the household. The hackney-coach to take us 
 to the northern mail was punctually at the door ; 
 Mr. Forbes first shook hands with, and then 
 kissed his daughter, looking sad and solemn all 
 the time. “Good-by, dear father,” she said, 
 twining her arms about his neck; “take care 
 of yourself, for my sake, and try to shake off 
 those miserable fancies the last words were in 
 a low tone, and there was something more I 
 could not hear. 
 
 “God bless and keep my Helen,” said Forbes, 
 as he moved away from her and went down 
 stairs. I had shaken hands and bidden her 
 good-morning, and was going down too, but 
 Helen followed me. “You will be kind to him 
 — you’ll take care of him, Mr. La Touche, I 
 know you will, and if he fall into those melan- 
 choly notions again, you’ll understand it is only 
 just the effect of old sorrows and an over-ten- 
 der conscience maybe ; I don’t know ; but you’ll 
 do what you can to cheer him up, and I will 
 rest content, knowing he will be safe with you.” 
 
 “You may depend on that, Miss Forbes; 
 whatever I can do to serve your father’s busi- 
 ness or support his spirits, will be done with all 
 my heart.” 
 
 “ Come along, Lucien,” said the banker, from 
 below ; “ we shall be late for the mail.” 
 
 I raised the thin hand that still clung to mine 
 
 and pressed it to my lips. How beautiful she 
 looked in the mingled flush and smile that 
 overspread her face, in the earnest gaze of pray- 
 er and blessing with which she looked after us 
 in the lamplight, which shone from the hall door 
 on the drizzling night, as we drove away to St. 
 Martin’s-le-Grand ! 
 
 It is strange to look back from these railway 
 times, and see in one’s memory the crowd of 
 coaches, the concourse of passengers and at- 
 tendants, the hurry, bustle, and noise which then 
 surged about the General Post-office at the 
 mail hours, and about the notable inns and 
 stage stations in other parts of London. The 
 world of travelers is all changed since then. 
 How much of public as well as private interest 
 a man contrives to outlive within his seventy 
 years ! Mr. Forbes and I found our places and 
 took them ; he had previously explained to me 
 that we should go no farther than Carlisle with 
 the mail ; the nature of his business northward 
 made it necessary for him to call at Glasgow 
 before proceeding to Leith. I believe there was 
 a branch of the bank there, and Mr. Forbes in- 
 tended to take the Glasgow coach at Carlisle, 
 arrange matters, or get information in the west- 
 ern capital, and proceed either by post-chaise, 
 stage, or mail, whichever best suited for the rest 
 of the journey. It was a dreary travel to Scot- 
 land in that season ; the winter had fairly set 
 ‘a, and every stage let us know that we were 
 getting into his hereditary domains in the North. 
 People accustomed to express trains would have 
 thought our progress slow ; but such transits 
 being yet undreamt of, the immense improve- 
 ment of highways, and increased speed of trav- 
 eling in late years, compared with the times of 
 their recollection, was the theme of all the eld- 
 ers inside and out. I think the northern mail 
 carried about twelve passengers ; we had some 
 variation of company at every stopping-place 
 for breakfast, dinner, or bed — all were duly 
 considered and allowed for in those days. What 
 on earth has become of the large inns in all the 
 towns that liv^B and flourished by the like? 
 Mr. Forbes seemed to have no return of the 
 melancholy notions which his daughter dread- 
 ed ; he took notes of the weather, entered into 
 conversation with the most serious of our fellow- 
 travelers, told me his experiences in earlier 
 journeys ; they were all confirmatory of the 
 astonishing progress of things, for Mr. Forbes 
 had gone to Edinburg by the stage which left 
 and returned to London Avithin the fortnight, 
 he had been out thirty-one days in a swift-sail- 
 ing packet from London Bridge to the Leith 
 Pier, and he had journeyed from Carlisle to 
 Glasgow in a wagon which stuck three times in 
 the west country ruts, and had to be extricated 
 by its own passengers. I felt convinced that 
 the shaking up from ledger, desk, and the daily 
 routine of his retired life would be beneficial to 
 the banker, even if the rumors he depreca- 
 ted were true, and his four thousand went by 
 the board with the Leith establishment. The 
 gloomy fancies were put off by the variety of 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 169 
 
 scene and company, the contact of new places 
 and people, and all the enlivening effects of 
 traveling in those days. Yes, it may be an old 
 man’s prejudice, but I hold one saw more of the 
 world, of men and of manners, got the dust bet- 
 ter shaken off, and more of the fresh winds of 
 life about one, in a journey of any length, by 
 stage or mail, than one can get now by running 
 from one end of Europe to the other, with the 
 screech of the steam and the thunder of the 
 engine in one’s ears, and every thing in art or 
 nature whirled away so quickly from one’s eyes 
 that there is no time to take note of them. The 
 crowd in the railway stations is greater, the 
 number of passengers in the train a hundred- 
 fold those of the abolished coach ; but our haste 
 reduces the multitude to one undistinguishable 
 mass ; their individualities and belongings ut- 
 terly lost to the observer ; people have no time 
 to see or to talk in those flying trails of smoke 
 and thunder, and life has become too great a 
 scurry for either thought or enjoyment. 
 
 To continue my story. There was life on the 
 great northern roads along which we posted, for 
 they were the only channels of trade and travel ; 
 there was life in the roadside inns, where every 
 soul looked out for the coming coach, with 
 bright fires glancing through the wintry mist, 
 and full-spread tables seen through their shining 
 windows ; there was life in those larger houses 
 in the hearts of busy towns, to whose doors we 
 dashed up with flaring lamps and bugle blast, 
 though splashed with mud from the heavy 
 weather, and glad to rest for the night. On 
 the highways and in the travelers’ rooms there 
 was news to be heard and new scenes to be met 
 with ; there were acquaintances to be made for 
 the time, some of them agreeable enough, as 
 most men will be when out of the groove and 
 off the string, and not likely to come in each 
 other’s way again. All seemed to cheer up the 
 banker’s spirits; he was himself, indeed — a 
 livelier self than I had ever seen him — by the 
 time we reached Carlisle. But the weather was 
 wretched ; the November fog and drizzle ha- 
 bitual to London had set in before we left ; as 
 we progressed northward the drizzle became 
 driving showers of mingled rain and sleet, va- 
 ried with storms of hail, fierce cutting winds, 
 and hours of heavy Scotch mist by way of calm. 
 It would have been a trying journey for any man 
 of his years and state of health, and I noticed 
 that Eorbes’s cough was on the increase, but he 
 did not complain of it ; the man’s spirit was 
 manifestly up ; his Scottish zeal for business in 
 consequence took a keener edge ; and though 
 both tired and weather-worn, we pushed on from 
 Carlisle without half an hour’s delay, being just 
 in time for the evening coach to Glasgow. The 
 west country roads were particularly cfeep, and 
 the weather was worse, if possible, that night ; 
 we did not reach our destination, the “ Buck’s 
 Head” hotel, a large and respectable house, still 
 to be seen in Argyll Street, Glasgow, and still 
 frequented by the gentility of Northern tourists, 
 till daylight had come as it comes to Saint 
 
 Mungo’s city in November. Its increasing size 
 and commerce were the marvel of that day ; 
 they have increased tenfold since, but the mud 
 below and the murky sky above remain the same 
 as when I first saw them some three-and -forty 
 years ago, for Nature does not change, and she 
 has kept there also the same hearty, hospitable 
 people, with their hard working weeks and stiff 
 Sundays. Our arrival happened to be on one 
 of the latter ; there was no business to be done, 
 of course. Mr. Eorbes congratulated himself 
 and me on having reached Glasgow within four 
 days from London, and also on the opportunity 
 of resting for the Sabbath, and being edified by 
 the Presbyterian preaching, which, he averred, 
 was to be found in its ancient strength and purity 
 in the Glasgow kirks. I thought a good sound 
 sleep might have served us both as well, but 
 could not venture to dissent from the Scotch 
 banker on such a serious subject ; I therefore 
 stood gallantly to the guns he appointed me, 
 shared his breakfast of dried haddocks and green 
 tea, to keep us both awake and lively ; and when 
 the bells began to ring, and all Glasgow turn 
 out, till the streets looked like a moving mass 
 of dark rich dresses and grave faces, I got, the 
 loan of a Scotch Psalm-book and Bible — they 
 kept a supply of those things in the “Buck’s 
 Head” then, whatever they do now — ipade my- 
 self as churchlike as possible, and marched away 
 with Mr. Eorbes to the Tron Kirk, where he as- 
 sured me an orthodox sermon might be expect- 
 ed from one of his own early school-felldiws, who 
 was then a reverend D.D. of great repute in 
 pulpit and presbytery. 
 
 “He will not know me among the congrega- 
 tion,” Forbes observed ; “ it is now thirty years 
 since our last meeting, and I ha^e no time to 
 renew old acquaintance ; but he is a man of 
 great gifts for controversy and soundness in doc- 
 trine, and the son of a minister under whom my 
 father sat, and so did I in my early youth. It was 
 in his kirk I first took the sacrament at the No- 
 vember occasion ; he preached in Liberton then, 
 but was afterward called to a parish near Fal- 
 kirk, a pastoral farming-place, and out of the 
 world for him ; • he was much run after at the 
 time, you see, and never had an empty pew ; 
 but, since the people were said to be God-fear- 
 ing and strict in the good old ways of Scotland, 
 Mr. Henderson preferred them to the Liberton 
 people, who were too near the fashion and folly 
 of Edinburg. I hear he is minister of that par- 
 ish yet, and preaching every Sabbath, though he 
 must be near fourscore. ’ People go with their 
 difficulties to him from east and west country, 
 for he is a man of singular insight and experi- 
 ence ; and, Lucien, there are times when I could 
 wish to be near him,” and the banker almost 
 groaned. 
 
 We got into the Tron Kirk with some diffi- 
 culty ; it was unusually crowded, as my com- 
 panion informed me. I had seen a Scotch con- 
 gregation when marched to the grammar-school 
 pew in Baltimore ; this was ^‘larger gathering 
 of the same grave looks and respectable figures. 
 
170 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 In a Scotch church there is nothing to be seen 
 but the people. I was looking round upon 
 them, let me observe, with sincere respect, for 
 nowhere could be seen such a crowd of intelli- 
 gent faces, when the minister, for whom they 
 waited in reverential silence, made his appear- 
 ance in the pulpit. He was an old man, of a 
 tall, spare figure, with something venerable and 
 commanding in his manner and bearing — a 
 Scottish face which was still eminently hand- 
 some, for of all types it is the least to be spoiled 
 by years ; his hair was snow-white, and worn 
 longer than the common ; his deep-set eyes were 
 still clear and calmly bright, telling of the ex- 
 perience but not the feebleness of age, and 
 Forbes whispered to me, “It is the old Doctor 
 Alexander Henderson.” There was a glow of 
 positive delight in the banker’s face as he look- 
 ed up to the minister of his youth, under whom 
 his father sat, and in whose kirk he received his 
 first sacrament, and nobody could have imagined 
 the strong deep voice which filled the Tron 
 Kirk with the expressive if not elegant verses 
 of the Scotch ^psalm, belonged to one who was 
 near fourscore. The service proceeded as usual 
 in Scotch kirks; the banker evidently felt no 
 weariness from his journey through the long 
 prayers and unaccompanied psalmody. Per- 
 haps he was^at home in Liberton all the time, 
 young and untroubled with melancholy notions, 
 which had come with his gathering years ; but 
 when the text was fairly given out — it was (for 
 I happened to mark it in my book and memory), 
 “ Let him that standeth take heed lest he fall” 
 — and the Reverend Henderson had duly divi- 
 ded his discourse into six heads, with doctrines 
 and applications, the three days’ posting over- 
 came me, an<^ I dropped to sleep in the corner 
 of the pew, most fortunately out of sight, and 
 convenient for that purpose. I heard the preach- 
 er going on from head to head ; it was only a 
 dog’s sleep I had, being haunted with the con- 
 tinual fear of nodding or otherwise giving of- 
 fense to Forbes, when something like a sudden 
 start, as if the banker had got a blow or a fright, 
 woke me up, and I saw that he was as white as 
 his own handkerchief, and sat there with closed 
 eyes, compressed lips, and hands rigidly clasped 
 together. 
 
 “What is the matter?” escaped from me in 
 an involuntary whisper. 
 
 “Nothing — oh nothing; don’t disturb the 
 kirk,” he murmured through his teeth. 
 
 “You are unwell, Mr. Forbes; let me take 
 you to the inn.” I was going to rise and take 
 him by the arm, when he laid a sudden power- 
 ful grasp on mine, and whispered, “For the 
 Lord’s sake, Lucien, let me alone and take no 
 notice; it will soon be over.” 
 
 Our movements were so quiet, and the con- 
 gregation so occupied with the sermon, that only 
 those in our immediate vicinity observed them 
 at all. I saw that the best as well as the most 
 friendly course was to let Forbes have his own 
 way ; he was a man of great resolution, and, 
 whatever had come over him, was determined 
 
 to attract no attention, or be the cause of dis- 
 turbance to the listening kirk. He was wiping 
 his face hard by this time with his handkerchief. 
 I followed the direction of all the assembly’s 
 eyes, and looked at the miniver; he had got 
 into a portion of his sermon which seemed to 
 be of more than common interest, and I soon 
 discovered that the Reverend Henderson was 
 making incidental reflections on the case of one 
 of his own parishioners, a respectable farmer, 
 and an elder in the kirk, who had nevertheless 
 been tried, found guilty, and executed for mur- 
 der at Falkirk. The case made a great sensa- 
 tion at the time, and is still memorable in the 
 criminal calendar of Scotland. The man had 
 led an upright and religious life, as far as could 
 be ascertained, up to the commission of his 
 crime, his temptation to which was a large sum 
 of money in the possession of a Highland drover, 
 his casual acquaintance, met at a lonely road- 
 side inn, and suddenly disposed of in a wild, un- 
 frequented moor, across which they walked to- 
 gether to Falkirk late on an autumn evening. 
 My memory still retains the impression made 
 by the old minister’s keen, clear, and warning 
 remarks; his text was no doubt intentionally 
 chosen, and though the activity of Satan and 
 the might of electing grace were set forth in the 
 highest and stiffest terms of Scottish Calvinism, 
 there was an insight into the deep places of 
 human nature, a logical summing up of causes 
 for and against both saint and sinner, strange 
 to one who had not thought of the like, and yet 
 with a kernel of hard truth in them, and mighty 
 uses of humbling and admonition. These last 
 are the preacher’s own words, and while I list- 
 ened as earnestly and attentively as the rest of 
 the congregation, the Reverend Henderson’s 
 discourse, in spite of Scripture phrases and the- 
 ological terms, brought Madame Palivez to my 
 mind, and I almost heard her saying, “Cal- 
 vinism is but Christian fatalism, and therefore 
 true.” The minister concluded with an earnest 
 and impressive application of the warning con- 
 tained in his text. Hard and stern as his pecul- 
 iar doctrines seemed, he had not spared to en- 
 force charity for the backsliding on his hearers, 
 and it struck me as passing strange that the 
 reverend doctor should express a very satisfac- 
 tory opinion of the final state of his parishioner, 
 whom a jury had found guilty of a deliberate 
 and cold-blooded murder. It was the tempta- 
 tion of Satan overcoming a child of grace and 
 causing him to sin grievously, but not beyond 
 repentance, for he had gjyen signs of being one 
 of the elect, and none of such could be lost. 
 
 I had avoided looking at Forbes after he laid 
 that grasp on my arm, but I took stealthy notes, 
 enough to see that he gradually recovered his 
 composure, and at the close of the sermon ap- 
 peared calm, grave, and impressed, like the sit- 
 ters around him. When the service was over, 
 I saw his eyes follow the old minister as he came 
 down from the pulpit, joined his son and his 
 family as* they came out of their accustomed 
 pew, and exchanged greetings with their friends 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 171 
 
 and acquaintances at the kirk door. But the 
 banker made no attempt to claim his recogni- 
 tion ; on the contrary, he kept in the background 
 till all the group were out of sight, and then 
 walked with me in silence to our hotel. There 
 we both retired to rest very early ; Forbes had 
 tried to read a good book he brought with him, 
 but either his eyes or his thoughts could not fix 
 upon it ; he gave up reading, yet was not inclined 
 to talk, particularly about the indisposition which 
 had come over him in church ; and fearing to 
 offend him by taking farther notice of it, while 
 feeling completely worn out myself, I took the 
 first opportunity to get quietly off to bed. 
 
 It was earlier than any body else thought of 
 retiring ; the few travelers who had not gone to 
 the evening kirk sat reading or talking seriously 
 in the public room. Mr. Forbes sat in his own 
 private parlor, leaning his head on his hand, 
 looking into the fire, and advising me to get to 
 bed, with a promise that he would not sit late 
 himself. All the large house was quiet, as be- 
 came its respectable character, in the Scottish 
 Sabbath evening, and, unwilling to break its 
 silence by ringing a second time for the cham- 
 bermaid to show me my room, I took my candle 
 and stepped up stairs, where the waiter told me 
 she was doing something in No. 15, and would 
 come in a minute. The upper flats were, if 
 possible, more still than the lower. I called in 
 a subdued tone, but nobody responded ; there 
 was light, however, in an opposite room, the 
 door of which stood ajar ; I heard somebody 
 moving about there — a female voice saying, 
 “ Yes* sir, I’ll have up your breakfast in good 
 time.” Then a man spoke ; I could not hear 
 what he said, but the voice was so like that of 
 Esthers that it almost fixed me to the spot. The 
 woman replied to his question, it was something 
 about never minding trouble for considerate gen- 
 tlemen, and she would be sure to let him knoAV. 
 The next moment she stepped out of the room, 
 wished him good-night, and closed the door : it 
 was the chambermaid herself, a neat, active, 
 and very steady-looking young Scotchwoman; 
 I stepped forward instantly, not to be seen list- 
 ening, asked the way to my room, and was di- 
 rected forthwith. It seemed absurd to myself, 
 but I could not have gone to sleep without 
 knowing who was in No. 15. A man is never 
 very dexterous when worn out with traveling 
 and church-going ; I pretended to want half a 
 dozen of things, made apologies for giving trou- 
 ble, looked civil, would have offered silver if I 
 had not been afraid of a misunderstanding, and 
 at last plumped out, “Who' is the gentleman in 
 No. 15 ? I think I have seen him before.” 
 “Maybe you have, sir,” said the chamber- 
 maid, surprised but not at all disconcerted ; “he 
 is a commercial gentleman from Manchester, and 
 his name is Mr. Taylor.” 
 
 “ Indeed,” said I ; “ then it is probable he is 
 the same.” The artifice must have been rather 
 transparent, but the steady chambermaid only 
 hoped I would rest well, bade me good-night, 
 and closed my door also. I could, then, sleep 
 
 in peace ; the manager was gone to Ireland about 
 his business — in Dublin by that time ; Mr. Tay- 
 lor, in No. 15, was a considerate gentleman, per- 
 haps an old frequenter of the house ; his voice 
 sounded very like Esthers’, but there were acci- 
 dental resemblances in tones as well as faces ; 
 and he had come from Manchester, doubtless in 
 the cotton line. 
 
 One should not have been so drowsy after 
 sleeping in church, but the poppies seemed to 
 grow about my head that night. I had forgot- 
 ten to bid them call me in the morning, forgot- 
 ten to arrange any thing of the kind with Forbes, 
 and felt somewhat ashamed when I got down 
 stairs in the morning to find that it was late 
 breakfast-time, that all Glasgow was at its busi- 
 ness, and he had gone out about his. “ He did 
 not say where he was going, sir,” said the wait- 
 er; “he is gone nearly two hours — a very ener- 
 getic gentleman, sir; he sat here reading till 
 near twelve last night, and was up before any 
 of them this morning.” That waiter was from 
 Ireland, and in the habit of making similar re- 
 marks to all encouraging listeners. His in- 
 formation made me anxious about the banker ; 
 his sudden indisposition in church, the little 
 rest he allowed himself after so much fatigue, 
 and his worn, troubled look over night, were bad 
 signs, and brought poor Helen’s fears of mental 
 unsoundness forcibly to my recollection. While 
 I was thinking the subject over, Forbes himself 
 came back ; the worn look was still in his face, 
 but he was composed as usual, answering my 
 apologies for late sleeping Avith “You were quite 
 right, lad ; you had a long cold journey with me, 
 and there is nothing like a sound sleep for a 
 young heart and a good conscience. I remem- 
 ber the time when I could sleep long and sound- 
 ly too, Lucien — before the cares and the sins of 
 the Avorld came on me, making my head gray 
 and my heart black.” Were the melancholy 
 notions taking hold of him, or had he heard bad 
 neAvs of the bank business ? 
 
 “You have been at the Leith House, sir?” 
 said I, intent on making that out. 
 
 “Yes,” he said, quietly. 
 
 “And found things satisfactory, I hope?” 
 
 “No, Lucien, any thing but that. Of course 
 they did not say so ; we bank folk flourish to the 
 last ; but I have reason to believe that the Lon- 
 don reports are true, and the house can’t stand 
 long.” 
 
 “You will take immediate measures to have 
 your account settled, then ?” said I. 
 
 “No, Lucien, I won’t; I’ll never push people 
 over the pit’s edge as long as they caq keep their 
 footing on it. I know something about being 
 pushed myself. Lucien, never push any body 
 for money if you can help it ; many a man Avould 
 have escaped ruin, ay, and dark, deadly sin, lad, 
 if he had got time and sparance.” 
 
 “But it is a large sum to lose.” 
 
 “ Ay , four thousand pounds,” he said, Avring- 
 ing his hands, Avith a look of desperate misery 
 sufficient for the losing of his last penny; “it 
 is hard to lose, and has been AA r orse to gain ; 
 
172 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 but let it go — let it go. I’ll never push a tot- 
 tering house, and you’ll not spread reports 
 against it ; it is these panic rumors that bring 
 banks down.” 
 
 “I never intermeddle in other people’s busi- 
 ness, sir.” 
 
 ‘‘I know it, lad; but we will go to Edin- 
 burg. I have taken our places in the mail ; it 
 starts at one, and will get in by six, if we 
 haven’t a snow-storm, which some think is com- 
 ing. At any rate, we will go as far as Falkirk, 
 not into the town” — and he spoke with a sort 
 of shudder, as if there were something fearful to 
 be met with or expected there — ‘ ‘ but stop at 
 the ‘Barley Sheaf,’ an old-fashioned respecta- 
 ble inn on the roadside. It has stood there 
 these hundred years and more, kept by the 
 same family, an offset of the Drummonds of 
 Hawthornden, and properly proud of their de- 
 scent. The house was once a tower, but 
 they have altered it ; all the farm about it is 
 their own, and I can tell you the Drummonds 
 keep good order and sober hours — at least they 
 did when I last traveled that way ; so, if the 
 snow comes heavy, we will stop there for the 
 night ; but I am forgetting to ask if you have 
 no objections,” added the kindly banker. 
 
 “None at all, sir; I am entirely at your 
 convenience, and will be ready to start by the 
 mail at one.” 
 
 “That’s right, lad; come along, then, and 
 we’ll see something of Glasgow. There is a 
 Cathedral and a University worth looking at, 
 not to speak of the Broomielaw and the ship- 
 ping ; it is a wonderful town for growth and 
 gathering, but nothing to Edinburg, where I 
 was born.” 
 
 CHAPTER LIII. 
 
 THE SIN DISCOVERED. 
 
 We saw Glasgow to as much advantage as it 
 could be seen by the dim and lurid light of a 
 storm-laden sky, with occasional gusts of sleet, 
 which kept increasing in volume and frequency 
 till the time of starting. Mr. Forbes knew the 
 town well, from many a commercial visit. He 
 showed me most of its wonders, new and old ; 
 seemed interested and amused himself in spite 
 of the impending loss, over which, nevertheless, 
 he groaned sometimes — at least I thought so. 
 It was a kind of short, suppressed moan that 
 escaped him involuntarily in the midst of our 
 walk and converse. Of course I did not appear 
 to notice it ; but more than once I made en- 
 deavors to persuade him that he ought to look 
 more keenly after the accounts regarding which 
 he had taken so long a journey ; and the con- 
 cern it seemed to give him, combined with his 
 resolution not to push, was more than I could 
 account for. “ Was the man’s mind really 
 sound or not ?” was the question that recurred i 
 to me, as duly at one o’clock we took our places 
 in the Edinburg mail, amid the customary haste J 
 
 and bustle in front of the; Glasgow Post-office. 
 The coach held six inside, and nobody appeared 
 to venture on the. top ; the bitter wind, sleet and 
 snow, which had now commenced in good earn- 
 est, would have been considerations to face. 
 Every body was predicting a shocking bad after- 
 noon ; but among the four passengers who made 
 up our complement, I recognized the old minis- 
 ter, Doctor Henderson, whose sermon I had half 
 slept through, and yet could not forget. How 
 upright and actively the man of fourscore moved 
 about ! How well-known and much respected 
 he seemed in that scene of tumult ! A posse of 
 friends had escorted him to the coach, and he 
 was specially accompanied by what the Scotch 
 would call a douce man of middle age, grave, 
 well-dressed, and apparently well to do, proba- 
 bly a Glasgow merchant of good credit, and a 
 ruling elder in some Presbyterian kirk. I never 
 saw the man before or after, and remember him 
 only on account of the conversation in the Edin- 
 burg mail. It had commenced between him 
 and the old minister before they took their seats, 
 and was resumed as we rattled out of Glasgow. 
 I happened to sit next to the reverend doctor ; 
 Forbes was opposite me, and two Falkirk men, 
 who might have been farmers, occupied the re- 
 maining space. When our ears had got accus- 
 tomed to the roll of the coach, every word was 
 audible, and I discovered that the question be- 
 tween the minister and his friend concerned the 
 case which, in Scotch parlance, the former had 
 improved in his sermon on the previous clay. 
 The merchant evidently dissented from the rev- 
 erend doctor’s views on the evidences of the ex- 
 ecuted man’s election — at least, so it appeared 
 to me ; and I listened with considerable curi- 
 osity to the high and hard divinity which both 
 sides brought to bear on the subject. With that 
 skill in dogmatic theology which seems peculiar 
 to the Scotch layman, the merchant laid down 
 the eternal law against the convicted sinner ; 
 and with weapons tempered in the same scholas- 
 tic forge, but with no arrogation of superior 
 authority, the minister replied to his proposi- 
 tions and refuted his arguments. A theological 
 controversy, particularly _ when bearing on a 
 subject of such public interest, would be sure of 
 listeners any where in the North. Every ear 
 and every eye was soon riveted on the speakers 
 except that of Forbes, who leant down in his 
 corner, and entirely covered his face with his 
 hands. Being nearest the minister, I caught 
 his words most distinctly, and as he argued for 
 the undoubted predestination of M‘Ewen — that 
 was the unfortunate man’s name — as far as 
 signs of ’grace might be discerned by human 
 judgment, ‘I ventured into the controversy with, 
 “You are thqp of opinion, sir, that if a person 
 be one of the qlect, his doings, good or bad, are 
 of no consequence?” 
 
 “By theirfruits ye shall know them, young 
 man,” said the minister, gravely, but kindly. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I hold in common with the soundest divines 
 of our Presbyterian Confession, that human 
 works are of no avail to salvation, but only evi- 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 173 
 
 dences of faith ; that a child of God may com- 
 mit sin through the corruption of his nature and 
 the temptations of the enemy.” 
 
 “May he commit murder, sir?” I did not 
 mean to be' clever, but merely to get the full ex- 
 tent of his doctrine. 
 
 “David did, young man, commit murder, 
 and more ; yet he was a child of grace, and a 
 man after God’s own heart.” Eorbes had been 
 sitting with a bowed-down, covered face, as if 
 asleep or lost in his own musings, but now he 
 looked up at the old doctor with such an 
 earnest, hopeful glance, and said, “ David was 
 forgiven and restored, and why not Andrew 
 M‘Ewen or any other sinner of like sort ?” 
 
 “Andrew M‘Ewen or any other sinner in 
 whom the grace of repentance is evident, ” said 
 the minister, with calm severity, and I thought 
 he looked Forbes in the face ; “ but those great 
 and heinous sins which set' a flagrant example 
 to the world, give a triumph to the enemy, and 
 cast discredit on the church, are ordinarily pun- 
 ished in some signal way, either by law or Provi- 
 dence, on this side of time, and no man may 
 think himself out of danger in eternity without 
 making public confession and giving public sat- 
 isfaction for the same.” 
 
 Forbes made no reply. His head had dropped 
 on his hands before the minister’s speech was 
 done, and all the rest of the time he sat still and 
 close in his corner, taking no opportunity to in- 
 troduce himself to the reverend doctor whom he 
 had heard in his youth, and still esteemed so 
 highly, nor the slightest part in the conversa- 
 tion, which gradually became less controversial 
 and more general, for, though a grave, we were 
 a social company. Our talk was often inter- 
 rupted by the accidents of the way, for it was 
 a dreary and tempestuous journey. A fierce 
 northeast wind blew right in our teeth, driving 
 before it moving masses of snow, which soon 
 covered high road and field with huge white 
 drifts, obliterating the waymarks, and making 
 our progress grievously slow. The wheels of 
 our vehicle stuck fast in hidden ruts ; the horses 
 plunged and struggled through the snow with 
 the loss of shoes and the breaking of traces ; 
 there was no help to be had but at the stages, 
 which seemed to lengthen as we got out among 
 the moorland farms and pastures that stretch 
 away east of Glasgow. There were few trav- 
 elers abroad. The driver said nobody would 
 come out, in such weather who could help it ; 
 but we observed a post-chaise, which seemed to 
 be keeping us in sight all the way, though at a 
 considerable distance, and concluded it was to 
 make sure of its own track on the high road; 
 the superior abilities of the mail-coach horses 
 and men being generally %admitted in the case 
 of snow-storms, with which my Scotch com- 
 panions seemed to my Southern ears singulai’ly 
 familiar, though they allowed that such a fall 
 did riot come often. 
 
 At length the driver intimated his intention 
 of putting up at Falkirk for the night, as he be- 
 lieved that neither horse nor man could get 
 
 through the east country road. “Tell him to 
 put us down at the ‘Barley Sheaf,’ then, Lu- 
 cien. I would rather rest there than in the 
 town, for my head is like to rend,” said Forbes. 
 I said something about his overworking himself, 
 but he made no answer. I gave his commands, 
 and in a few minutes more, when laboring 
 through a heavy drift, ^ve were all glad to see 
 the spires and chimneys of Falkirk, rising as 
 the old town does from the midst of level moor- 
 lands, and seen dark and massive against the 
 wintry sky. Some minutes more and the “Bar- 
 ley Sheaf” became visible. It was a solitary 
 house on the roadside, without hut or hall in 
 sight of it, and about half a mile from the town. 
 It might have stood there from the Pictish times; 
 there was such a look of old and wreath er-beaten 
 strength about its thick walls and heavy slate 
 roof, I could well believe it had been an ancient 
 tower, the house and hold of an impoverished 
 branch of the noble Drummonds ; for, though 
 by no means a large house, it was composed of 
 a centre and two wings, the former rising to 
 three low stories, from the high narrow windows 
 of which crossbow or arquebuss might have been 
 discharged with advantage in times of feud and 
 foray. That was the original tower, while the 
 wings on either side were manifestly modern 
 additions, built when more room was wanted, 
 and the offset of the Drummonds condescended 
 to keep an inn. Its sign waved and creaked in 
 the gusty wind. Two great oaks which shel- 
 tered it in the rear gave out deeper groans and 
 swayed their long branches, now swathed in 
 sheets of snow. A young man was opening a 
 passage through the drift to its door when the 
 Edinburg mail drew op, and we scrambled out 
 with a friendly good-evening to our fellow-pas- 
 sengers, and no small satisfaction to see the fire- 
 light shining from within. They did not seem 
 to expect travelers ; but a very respectable wom- 
 an in widow’s weeds came to the door and wel- 
 comed Mr. Forbes in broad Scotch as an old and 
 valued customer, assuring him he was welcome, 
 but she was sorry he would find the house so 
 thronged. It w r as the market night of Falkirk, 
 and so many farmers were storm-stayed with 
 her she didn’t know where to put them. “ Nev- 
 er mind, Mrs. Drummond,” said the banker, “I 
 am glad to find myself in your house, and glad 
 to see you well. My young friend and I travel- 
 ed together, and you will put us up as well as 
 you can. People ought to be thankful for any 
 shelter on such a night.” Mrs. Drummond con- 
 curred in the pious sentiment, said the weather 
 was by ordinary, and she and her daughter, a 
 sober-looking maiden, with high cheek-bones, 
 sensible discourse, and a black gown, assisted in 
 the getting off of our overcoats and wrappers in 
 the narrow passage, and conducted us into the 
 parlor, which served as travelers’ and common 
 sitting room on the one side, while their private 
 domain, the kitchen, lay on the other. The 
 parlor was low-ceiled, long, and wainscoted. Its 
 oak floor had no carpet. There was neither 
 cushioned chair nor sofa among its furniture ; 
 
174 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 but the grate was heaped high with the best 
 Scotch coal, all in one red glow. The mantel- 
 piece was ornamented with the dark portraits 
 of two or three ancient divines, all in Geneva 
 gowns ; I know John Knox was one of them. 
 There was a long table in the centre, well cov- 
 ered for supper, and around sat the storm-stayed 
 farmers, some dozen str«ng, damp and splashed 
 from the bad weather, and doubtless in a state 
 of hungry expectation, but all in good-humor, 
 and looking very respectable of their class. 
 Forbes knew some of them from former calls at 
 the house, and their greetings were kind and 
 friendly. 
 
 To all inquiries after his health he made the 
 customary reply, “Quite well;” but when fairly 
 in the light of fire and candle, for the short dim 
 day had reached its close, though the old eight- 
 day clock in the corner pointed to four, I was 
 shocked at the change in his appearance made 
 by that bitter journey. The man had overtaxed 
 himself, and was ill indeed. He tried hard to 
 hold up ; got a drink of the landlady’s own ale, 
 which, it seemed, was a notable specific, and said 
 it was only a headache he had got. But when 
 the substantial supper was served, Forbes did it 
 no justice. He excused himself from saying 
 grace, to the evident surprise of the landlady. 
 By- the -by, she presided, while her son and 
 daughter did waiter’s duty. There were no 
 other servants that I could see in the establish- 
 ment ; and while the farmers yet sat at table, 
 growing lively and loquacious over their hot 
 whisky punch, Forbes requested Mrs. Drum- 
 mond to show him his room, for nothing but a 
 good sleep would do him good. 
 
 “I hope the young gentleman and you won’t 
 object to occupy one room, sir ?” said the land- 
 lady. She could speak very good English when 
 it was necessary to be so genteel. “ I have but 
 one to give you, and should not have that either, 
 but three of the farmers are my own acquaint- 
 ances, and will sleep in the parlor. There are 
 two good beds in it. you’ll remember the room ; 
 it is the best one in the tower, as we call it yet. 
 You may hear the wind roaring there, but it 
 won’t shake the floor or walls. I have lit a 
 good fire, because the night is cold ; and if you 
 want any thing, just blow the silver call you’ll 
 find on the mantelpiece. It belonged to my 
 grandfather,” she said, casting an explanatory 
 glance at me, “ and suits this old house better 
 than a bell.” Forbes said he knew the room. 
 It was as comfortable a sleeping-place as man 
 could wish. He knew his friend would have no 
 objection to share it with him. I hastened to 
 confirm the fact, mentally remarking that the 
 banker seemed glad of somebody in his room, 
 and, early as it was, volunteered to retire with 
 him, for the odor of whisky and the talk of tur- 
 nips and black cattle were becoming powerful 
 in the parlor. “If you please, sir,” said Mrs. 
 Drummond, laying her hard-working hand on 
 my shoulder — “ you’ll excuse me sir, but nobody, 
 except in case of sickness, goes to bed in this 
 house before the family exercise. Mr. Forbes 
 
 has often conducted the worship for me. I had 
 hoped he would have done so to-night; but, 
 since he is unwell, my mother’s cousin, Elder 
 Macpherson, will officiate, no doubt, to our gen- 
 eral edification.” 
 
 To be commanded to sit up for family prayer 
 in a roadside inn was new to my Southern ex- 
 perience ; but my senior traveler appeared to 
 think it a perfectly proper and untransgressable 
 arrangement, saying he had the pleasure of 
 hearing Elder Macpherson conduct the exer- 
 cises some years ago, and he had no doubt the 
 opportunity would be profitable to his young 
 friend. The landlady directly took charge of 
 him ; he bade me a kindly good-night, said he 
 should be better in the morning, and I sat down 
 beside the redoubted elder as he afterward 
 proved, was hospitably pressed to share his punch, 
 and made acquainted with his recollections of 
 hard winters and great snow-falls till the clock 
 struck eight, when the table was cleared, the 
 large Bible and Psalm-book brought in, and 
 the exercise proceeded exactly as I had seen it 
 in Notting Hill House. We had the same rev- 
 erent reading of a chapter in the Bible, a psalm 
 of the Scotch version sung to an old monotonous 
 tune, and a long extemporary prayer, inter- 
 spersed with reflections on every event of pub- 
 lic or local interest, including the M‘Ewen case, 
 and the uses of warning and watchfulness to be 
 drawn therefrom. When we arose from our 
 knees, Mrs. Drummond looked at me, the 
 stranger, to see if a suitable impression had 
 been made on my Southern mind, and I hope 
 the good woman was satisfied, for she showed 
 me carefully up the narrow stone stair, which 
 went winding like a corkscrew to the second 
 floor. “It was built with the old tower, sir, 
 the middle part of this house, about the time of 
 Flodden Field ; it was a small place, only two 
 rooms on every floor ; you are going to the best 
 of them; step in, sir,” said Mrs. Drummond, 
 and by a narrow door at the angle of the stair I 
 entered a low but comfortably sized chamber, 
 wainscoted and uncarpeted, except a small piece 
 of what our grandmothers called Turkey in 
 front of the fire ; two windows, each in a corner, 
 and hung with blue stamped linen, two old- 
 fashioned beds, with curtains of the same, set 
 against the wall, right opposite each other, with 
 the fire blazing between them, lighting up a 
 long low dressing-table, a very small dressing- 
 glass, a shaving apparatus fully displayed, and a 
 gilt-edged Bible bound in dark morocco. It 
 was a primitive, antiquated, but not comfortless 
 chamber; every detail is indelibly impressed on 
 my memory from what happened there. I 
 dream of it sometimes yet, when the winter 
 nights are long and stormy, though the Drum- 
 monds are gone from their ancient hold this 
 many a year, and the “Barley Sheaf” has been 
 swept out of sight and mind by the North Brit- 
 ish Railway. 
 
 Forbes was fast asleep ; he lay with his face 
 to the wall, so that I could not see it, but his 
 breathing was deep and regular, and I took care 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 175 
 
 not to disturb the worn-out man. No one else 
 could have slept so soundly in such a night ; the 
 wind seemed to have become a hurricane, and 
 was roaring in the chimney and in the old oaks 
 outside ; but, as the landlady said, it shook 
 neither floor nor walls ; they had been put to- 
 gether in the days of strong building ; the snow 
 which drove against the windows was agreeably 
 contrasted with the bright blazing fire ; I heaped 
 it still higher from a wooden box, or rather a 
 chest of coals conveniently set in the nearest 
 corner, and went to bed sincerely thankful for 
 the cheer and shelter of that lonely inn. It was 
 some time before I fell asleep ; the roar of the 
 wind and the flare of the fire kept me awake, 
 though all the house was quiet, and my thoughts 
 went back to Madame Palivez, how it fared 
 with her since I left London, on what business 
 she had sent Esthers to Ireland, and what was 
 the subject of that silent converse between him 
 and Hannah Clark. It might have been those 
 musings that when sleep at last stole on me 
 brought a sudden i? »dream of the bank in Old 
 Broad Street. I thought I was sitting there in 
 Esthers’ office, and Madame came in, looking 
 well and cheerful, but dressed as if for a journey. 
 I saw Esthers and Hannah Clark, also in trav- 
 eling trim, at the open door, and she told me 
 they were going with her, but I must remain 
 and look after the business. It vexed me sorely 
 in my dream to think that they should be taken 
 and I left behind ; but Madame talked kindly 
 and persuasively, showing good reasons, which 
 I could not remember afterward, for the arrange- 
 ment. Then we shook hands, and parted in 
 great friendship ; she gave me special charges 
 regarding a large account between her and Mr. 
 Forbes, which I had never heard of before, but 
 was to get settled as soon as possible, for Ma- 
 dame thought it had been lying too long. At 
 the door she looked back, smiled on me, and 
 went away into her own private rooms, where 
 something had to be done before she set out. 
 I began to search for Mr. Forbes’s account, and 
 was turning over piles of books and papers, 
 when I heard Madame call me from the far 
 back rooms, first in a lower, then in a louder 
 tone, and at last in a cry which made me start 
 up broad awake. 
 
 It must have been the dead of night, for the 
 fire was burned down to a heap of glowing em- 
 bers. The storm without was fearful ; but there 
 was somebody talking in the room ! I raised 
 myself and looked about ; there, on the opposite 
 bed, was Mr. Forbes, sitting upright ; the light 
 which rose from the embers in fitful and sul- 
 phurous flashes played on his white, ghastly 
 face, but his eyes were fast shut, his hands were 
 in strange convulsive motion, and he was speak- 
 ing in a low but distinct tone. “Killed — dead 
 already, and only got three blows ; and all the 
 money is mine — four thousand pounds in gold ; 
 that will pay off old Reubens, and settle the 
 Forbes’ in Edinburg; my own relations trying 
 to bring me to ruin, and all for not marrying 
 old Willy’s daughter. But the bank is safe now, 
 
 and so am I ; it can never come out ; nobody 
 knows he came here — oh! what made him 
 come ? but I am safe from the Gazette — from 
 the gallows ; Reubens will never know who 
 forged his signature ; I’ll take up the bill to- 
 morrow. But murder comes out as well as 
 forgery ; what shall I do with the body ? down 
 under the boards here? — ha, it’s not deep 
 enough! if I could get it covered with clay;” 
 and he pushed and strained with his hands, as 
 if putting something into a narrow space. “ No, 
 no, I can’t get it covered, and that sweet angel 
 face, all pale and bloody, will be turning up to 
 me for twenty years ; they’ll come to dig here 
 for new foundations when the old house is taken 
 down, and find a skeleton. The beautiful boy 
 will be only bones then ; it will be in Saunders ; 
 the Dublin people will talk and wonder about 
 it ; maybe they will mind that my office was 
 here, but they can prove nothing. If I could 
 get this horse-pistol in — the blood and hair will 
 never come off the stock. What do you want, 
 Melrose Morton, showing me that bag ? What 
 if La Touche’s name is in the inside of it, and 
 the boy can’t be found ? I know nothing about 
 him or his money. I never saw them ; I don’t 
 know how that bag got under the shelf in my 
 office. What if I did pay old Reubens in gold? 
 it’s none of your business. You’ll go to Amer- 
 ica ? well, I am glad of it ; but people can come 
 back. You would not bring your own cousin to 
 the gallows, I know that ; but keep away, Mel- 
 rose, keep away; the story will die out — every 
 nine days’ wonder does. But oh, his father and 
 mother ! they will go to ruin, they’ll break their 
 hearts, and he’ll be coming to me night and 
 day ; they don’t rest, these murdered people, 
 that we put under floors and offices — he’ll come 
 wherever I go ; there is no keeping them out.” 
 Here there was a distinct but muffled sound 
 which seemed to come from behind his bed. 
 “What’s that?” he cried, waking up at once, 
 and his eyes opened on me where I sat opposite 
 him, fixed as very stone, and my face, seen by 
 that lurid flickering light, must have told him 
 that all was known to me. 
 
 CHA#TESi| LIV. 
 
 THE CONFESSION. 
 
 We sat and looked at each other for a min- 
 ute, while the tempest raged without, and the 
 flashing embers went down ; then he slowly 
 crept under the bedclothes as if to hide him- 
 self, and turned his face to the wall. I re- 
 member getting up with a mortal dread of be- 
 ing left in utter darkness, getting my own can- 
 dle lit, and heaping coals on the fire. Then I 
 sat down and tried to collect my thoughts, for 
 they were stunned and scattered by the sudden 
 clearing up of that long-kept mystery. My 
 lost brother’s fate was revealed at last — his 
 blood, the ruin of our family, my father’s brok- 
 en heart, my mother’s shattered brain, the shad- 
 
176 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 ow that had lain so heavily on my own life, 
 pressing childhood and youth out of it, all were 
 to be required at the hands of the Scotch bank- 
 er — the upright, pious, benevolent man, whom 
 we and the world had reckoned our best friend. 
 Every word he had uttered in that retracing of 
 
 terrible inclination to take direct and immedi- 
 ate vengeance came over me. I could never 
 account for why it passed away at the sound 
 of his voice, but it did, and the man spoke 
 hoarse and hollow, still keeping his face to the 
 wall. 
 
 his deadly and long-hidden sin through the 
 dreams that must have gone back to it so many 
 a year, seemed burned into my memory. I 
 knew he had done the deed, the how and the 
 why he did it, and for one instant a strong and 
 
 “Lucien, was I talking in my sleep?” 
 
 “You were.” I could give no longer answer. 
 “ And do you know it all ?” 
 
 “ I do.” 
 
 “God’s will be done,” he said, with a heavy 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 177 
 
 groan, “for it was His special Providence that 
 brought you to share my room this night, and 
 I, because of my evil conscience, was glad of a 
 companion, not knowing that I spoke in my 
 sleep of that which is always present with me 
 by night and day. And now, Lucien, I submit 
 myself to your justice or mercy, whichever you 
 think good to mete out to me. If you accuse 
 me to the law, I will confess my crime and suf- 
 fer the penalty — no man ever deserved it better ; 
 and yet, bethink you, I have suffered a thousand 
 executions all these miserable years from a bur- 
 dened conscience and the wrath of God ; oh, 
 Lucien, they have pursued me in poverty and in 
 wealth, in sleeping and waking, and, but for the 
 sake of my innocent child, I would have given 
 myself up to justice long ago — will you bring 
 her to shame and sorrow now ?” 
 
 I did not answer him ; the sudden blaze of 
 wrath over all our ruin past had sunk into its 
 ashes, and wiser, better thoughts came as the 
 unhappy man spoke. The deed was done near- 
 ly nineteen years ago ; the ruin it had wrought 
 could not be recalled or renovated by a public 
 trial and execution. The sinner had suffered 
 for his sin, I knew that in the very depths of my 
 consciousness ; and his innocent daughter, the 
 gentle, pious, kindly Helen, the woman who 
 loved me with an unsought yet pure and deli- 
 cate affection, she too must be involved in the 
 disgrace and punishment of her father. It may 
 be but an imagination, or that the barrier which 
 divided my life from that other unknown one 
 was worn away and half broken at this part, for 
 in looking back it seems to me that my long 
 dead and buried brother, “the beautiful boy 
 who was only bones now,” was somehow present. 
 His young saint-like face, so fair and yet so no- 
 ble, his kindly, generous, peace-making ways, 
 all rushed back upon my memory, pleading for 
 Forbes and for Helen, and I felt that his spir- 
 it could rest without revenge. I collected my 
 thoughts, and spoke as best I could. 
 
 “Your life and your character are safe from 
 me ; God will judge between us, and if you have 
 sincerely repented, as I believe you have, no 
 doubt He will forgive ; it was a fearful sin, and 
 fearfully did my family suffer by it; but the past 
 is passed, and no mortal will ever hear from me 
 a syllable of the fact ; but tell me, if you can, 
 did my brother Raymond come to your officebpr 
 did you send for him ?” 
 
 “ He came, Lucien, he came ; the poorHBoy 
 wanted to ask a question about old Reubens’s 
 claim on his father ; that Jew was my heaviest 
 creditor too. Raymond came through Greek 
 Alley from Castle Street, that is why he was 
 last seen there. My office was at the back of 
 the old house. I was alone in it, at the fall of 
 the winter day, and on the brink of ruin. No- 
 body knew it, but nothing else could have saved 
 me ; oh, that I had not been saved ! But, Lu- 
 cien, there is a devil, let infidels say' what they 
 will,” and the miserable man cowered down in 
 his bed ; “it was he that said — not with an au- 
 dible voice, but in the ear of my soul, when 
 M 
 
 poor Raymond shook his bag, told me he had 
 got four thousand pounds in good gold there, and 
 that would float the Armagh bank over the hard 
 times ; the evil spirit said to me, ‘You are go- 
 ing to ruin, and have forged a bill;’ I had done 
 that the week before, for I could not submit to 
 be a bankrupt, and give the Edinburg house a 
 triumph over me and my marriage. Next he 
 said, ‘ Tjiere is a horse-pistol in the corner, kept 
 to frighten thieves, though it’s old, and can’t be 
 loaded ; strike with the heavy stock of it, and 
 the four thousand in gold will be your own.’ 
 Lucien, I followed that counsel, the same that 
 brought our first father to eat of the forbidden 
 tree ; my fall was also permitted by Eternal 
 Wisdom, and I struck three, but I think the 
 first blow killed him. I suppose the tempter 
 left me then, and a horrible remorse, like that 
 of Judas, came on me, but I could not die like 
 him; maybe it was grace that prevented me, 
 for I think I had the effectual calling in my 
 youth, under Doctor Henderson’s ministry, be- 
 fore the temptations of the world and the cares 
 of married life beset me. I buried him there, 
 by the last light of the winter day, in the damp 
 earth under the flooring ; it was terrible work 
 tearing up the boards and getting the body in, 
 and I thought I had buried every thing with 
 him, but I forgot the bag, though I took the 
 money out of it. Melrose Morton found it next 
 week in a corner of the office; he was my clerk 
 then, and when the report rose about the boy 
 being missed, when his father came to our house 
 inquiring for him, he put one thing with another, 
 made out what I had done, and told me so, 
 like a brave, honest man, but also said he would 
 never bring his own cousin to the gallows, and 
 sailed with his old mother for America by the w 
 next packet. Oh ! Lucien,” the man seemed 
 talking to relieve his memory, “nothing has 
 gone well with me since then, and nothing 
 should. I took up the forged bill, paid old 
 Reubens and the Forbes’ of Edinburg ; nobody 
 suspected me — nobody traced the boy to my 
 office ; I locked it up the next vreek for being 
 damp, and took to another room of the old 
 house ; the hard times passed, my bank floated, 
 and I got well established, but there was your 
 father’s ruin and last sickness, there was your 
 mother’s loss of reason. Lucien, I think she 
 did see the boy that night in autumn ; and my 
 wife, she was a discreet, God-fearing woman, 
 too good for me if I had been twice a Forbes, 
 though they did worse than cast me off for mar- 
 rying her, lending on high interest, and always 
 speering and waiting for my downcome. She 
 guessed, I know not how it was revealed to her, 
 but she did guess, and the thought struck her 
 to the heart. Maybe I was not the same she 
 had known me ; great and grievous sins make 
 a man different to his nearest ; yet I loved her 
 to the last ; but the Lord made it part of my 
 punishment that she should pine in a decline 
 with that fearful guess, and die, warning me to 
 repent with her last breath — she never spoke 
 of it till then. In the same winter my two 
 
178 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 boys were taken from me by a sudden visitation 
 of the scarlet fever, and ever since I have been a 
 miserable, restless, gathering sinner, heaping up 
 wealth that brought no blessing with it, trying 
 to make amends to the family I had wronged so 
 sorely, and hiding my deadly secret for the sake 
 of my daughter and the honorable family I had 
 come of. Lucien, you have listened to me so 
 far ; let me tell you one thing more, and think 
 of it as you may. You were the boy’s last and 
 only brother, and I had a notion that it might 
 make matters up in this world if I left all my 
 gatherings between you and Helen ; she is in- 
 nocent of all knowledge, all guess at the crime ; 
 she was a lisping child when it was committed ; 
 she is good as ever a daughter of fallen Adam 
 was or can be, and it was my hope that you nor no 
 mortal man might ever know her father to have 
 been a murderer — ay, Lucien, that’s the right 
 word — that she might look on you, and you on 
 her, with an honest, unchecked affection, and be 
 happy together when I and my sin were gone.” 
 
 He ceased ; and the fire I had heaped so high 
 sent up a broad, bright column, like the flame 
 of some new-lit hearth by which no sin or sor- 
 row had been spoken. I felt that there were 
 such happy hearths, which good women’s pres- 
 ence and children’s play made fair and homely, 
 but I was bound on that deadly service to Ma- 
 dame Palivez. 
 
 “ I shall never be happy with any one” — it 
 ■was spoken in sullen sadness — “ my family were 
 unfortunate, and so am I. Your daughter would 
 be too good for a better man.” 
 
 “But you don’t care for her,” interrupted 
 Eorbes; “you are taken up with the Greek 
 lady, and you couldn’t think of marrying the 
 daughter of a man whose hands were stained 
 with your brother’s blood. You are right, lad, 
 you are right ; the whole world would say so. 
 Yet my girl, my Helen, is as innocent as the child 
 unborn. I have willed all I am worth, house 
 ‘and land, bank-stock and business, equally to 
 her and you. I know you will do her justice, 
 Lucien, and don’t break the lassie’s heart by 
 letting her know of her father’s sin.” 
 
 “I want no share of your property, Mr. 
 Forbes, and as I have already promised, none 
 living, much less your daughter, shall ever hear 
 what has passed between us this night.” 
 
 “Keep that promise, lad ; keep it, if you can ; 
 thereby you will obtain the blessing of the mer- 
 ciful, who shall obtain mercy. You’ll want that 
 some day as well as I ; we are all children of 
 wrath, though my sin is most like scarlet. 
 What is that ?” he cried, starting up, as the 
 muffled sound again came from behind the bed. 
 “I have heard that noise a dozen times through 
 the night; it is like some one moving under- 
 ground.” 
 
 With a vague superstitious terror creeping 
 over me, I caught up my own candle, looked 
 about and under the bed ; there was nothing 
 there, and no room for any thing between it 
 and the wall, which the linen curtains covered. 
 
 “I know there is nothing to be seen,” said 
 
 Forbes; “ that noise was not earthly; it is not 
 the boy, for he is with the blessed — though once 
 I thought I saw him come into your room with 
 a flash of lightning; maybe it was in conscience’s 
 looking-glass. But the soundest divines have 
 held that evil spirits get power to molest hein- 
 ous sinners. I know they have been at work 
 about me many a time. Your aunt, Miss Livy, 
 guessed something of that ; she is dead and 
 gone, and I am going, and what is to become 
 of my poor soul ?” 
 
 “You’ll have time enough to think of that,” 
 said I, not knowing what better to say. 
 
 “The longest time would be too little, Lu- 
 cien, and mine is growing short. It is my be- 
 lief I shall never leave this inn. I thought so 
 when we first saw it through the nightfall and 
 the snow, and God’s will be done, if I can get 
 peace and pardon. You have given me both, 
 as far as man could. I know it was sincerely 
 done, lad, though you look so sad and sober ,• 
 and no wonder, after such a tale.” He was 
 looking me in the face now, calmly and kindly, 
 as he used to look when I sat at his table beside 
 Helen, and suspected nothing ; and the memory 
 of that long, close friendship drew us together, 
 in spite of the horrible secret it had grown over. 
 He had b*een tempted, and sinned against me 
 and mine. I, too, was entangled in other 
 meshes. And the woman who led me into 
 them, how wisely had she spoken of his case, 
 without knowing it, except by a sort of divina- 
 tion, which I think she had from nature ; how 
 wisely of her own also, and how near they came 
 in thought, to seem so far divided ! His ene- 
 my of souls was but her relentless fate, and we 
 were all its unlucky subjects. I suppose my 
 look told him something of my thoughts, for he 
 held out his hand, and said, “Lucien, give me 
 yours, and make me sure that you forgive me, 
 and will shield my child from the sorrow and 
 the shame of my ill doing. Say that you are 
 friends with me, for all that’s come and gone.” 
 
 “ I am, Mr. Forbes, and I’ll stand by Helen, 
 if she ever wants my help, in spite of the world.” 
 I clasped his thin hand as I spoke ; the dark 
 stain on it had been washed out by suffering, 
 and I knew that Raymond would have done so ; 
 his fair face seemed to smile upon me from far- 
 off childhood, as if all the intervening years had 
 bean but a troubled dream. Forbes said noth- 
 irm ;but the large tears rolled down his wan 
 fare till he withdrew his hand and dashed them 
 away. We were both silent for a minute or 
 two ; the storm without had fallen away to long 
 moaning gusts, which sighed over the moorlands 
 and made the old trees groan. 
 
 “It is a dreary night,” said the banker, at 
 last. “Through many a one of the kind have 
 I wished for morning; but my days and nights 
 are drawing to an end ; yes, Lucien, I am go- 
 ing, and it were better so, if I could go in 
 peace ; I can and should think of nothing else 
 now. We’ll speak as we did in former times, 
 before all this was known to you. I can’t go 
 without saying farewell to Helen, yet I would 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 179 
 
 not bring her here to alarm the lass, except 
 there were real danger, and then you’ll bring 
 her to me ; I thought you would when I found 
 myself getting worse in Glasgow, and wrote this 
 slip.” He pulled a pocket-book I had often 
 seen with him from under his pillow. There 
 were notes and letters there. The Scotch bank- 
 er was cautious and careful to the last. ‘ 4 You’ll 
 take charge of it,” he said, handing me a slip 
 of paper, which only contained the words, in his 
 own strongly-marked handwriting, “Dear Hel- 
 en, accompany the bearer at once, and come 
 to your loving father — Archibald Eorbes.” 
 “You’ll go for her when the doctor says there is 
 danger ? I’ll send for a doctor as soon as the 
 morning comes. We are bound to take all law- 
 ful means, but chief of all I wish to see that 
 sound and godly Doctor Henderson. It is an 
 orthodox and noble doctrine that which he 
 maintained so well in his sermon last Sabbath, 
 that the elect can never fall from grace. I 
 think I had evidence of election once, but his 
 insisting on public confession and satisfaction 
 troubles me on account of my daughter and my 
 honorable family.” 
 
 I tried to persuade him to compose himself 
 and get some rest, promising to summon the 
 doctors, temporal and spiritual, to his aid, as 
 soon as the daylight and the snow permitted. 
 But the man’s mind, strong and enduring as it 
 was by nature, seemed unhinged by its inward 
 strife ; the terrors of the world to come had tak- 
 en possession of him, and his thoughts wander- 
 ed restlessly through tlie whole Westminster 
 Confession, clutching now at one, now at anoth- 
 er hold of Calvinistic hope or consolation. For 
 myself, I was fairly worn out ; the solution of 
 my life’s problem had come so late and so 
 strangely, my own prospects were so. hopelessly 
 involved in a service nearly as dark, that the 
 past and the present were equally indifferent to 
 me — my whole world looked black and hopeless; 
 and with that last and dreariest consolation of 
 philosophy, that things would be all the same a 
 hundred vears hence, I threw myself on my bed 
 and fell fast asleep. The last 1 saw of Forbes 
 he had turned his face to the wall, and was re- 
 peating a psalm to himself ; but a noise in the 
 room woke me up when the dim daylight was 
 creeping through our linen-curtained windows, 
 and there he was, putting on his clgthes, but 
 white as the sheets, and trembling in every.limb. 
 
 “ You don’t look well,”* I said ; “ why do you 
 rise so early ?” * 
 
 “Oh, I must go by the Belfast coach, and 
 give La Touche the four thousand. It will 
 keep him from looking for his son.” 
 
 I saw that partial delirium had come on the 
 overwrought brain, and with great difficulty 
 persuaded him to go back to bed, while I dress- 
 ed myself and went down stairs, for the active 
 household were already up and at work. My 
 first step was to take Mrs. Drummond into con- 
 fidence. She knew Forbes as a frequent and 
 much-respected guest, and when I told her that 
 his health had been impaired by over-attention 
 
 to business, that he had mighty concerns on his 
 mind — bank ones, I took care to indicate — that 
 he had gone beyond his strength in the journey 
 and bad weather, and was now fever; sh and 
 talking strangely, the woman at once assured 
 me that she expected nothing else from the 
 gentleman’s appearance. He didn’t look like 
 himself at all. Elder Macpherson had remark- 
 ed that there seemed to be some providential 
 crook in his lot, but trying dispensations were 
 sent at times to the best of men. 
 
 I wanted to go directly to Falkirk for a doc- 
 tor, and had taken down my great-coat from its 
 peg in the passage, and put the slip of paper for 
 Helen carefully in its breast pocket that it might 
 be ready against the medical report, which 
 would probably send me southward, for the im- 
 pression had grown on me that Forbes’s time 
 would not be long ; but Mrs. Drummond would 
 not hear of my venturing out in the snow. She 
 said the drift was deep enough to bury houses 
 in the hollows ; that I was a Southerner, and 
 not acquainted with the road. She would not 
 risk the credit of her hoqse by letting any stran- 
 ger go out in such a morning. Her son Tom 
 would go when the day got clearer ; he knew 
 every step of the way, and was accustomed to 
 snow-drifts; in the mean time, she would look 
 after Mr. Forbes herself. It was her duty, and 
 Providence had pleased to make her well ac- 
 quainted with sickness and trouble. I had to 
 resign. The outdoor prospect was indeed per- 
 ilous to unaccustomed eyes. Though the wind 
 had gradually lulled, all round the house was 
 ’one wide waste of snow piled high enough to 
 cover the lower windows, and leaving no trace 
 of road or fence as far as one could see. It was 
 my first acquaintance with Scotch snow-storms, 
 and I believe was chronicled as one of unusual 
 severity among east country travelers and sheep- 
 farmers. Mrs. Drummond was as good as her 
 word ; she did every thing hp her power for the 
 poor banker. He;, continued feverish and half 
 delirious for the*rest of the day. Elder Mac- 
 pherson prayed and read the Bible with him. 
 They all agreed that his spirit was troubled on 
 account of sin ; but those pious people consid- 
 ered that a most promising sign of one’s spirit- 
 ual condition, and I hinted to them that in his 
 excited state he talked wildly and charged him- 
 self with things he had not done. Perhaps that 
 precaution was unnecessary. Forbes could and 
 did keep his own secret ; but nobody could 
 leave the house to find the doctor or minister 
 for him till late in the afternoon, when the 
 snow was pronounced to be getting hard, for a 
 stiff frost had set in, and the widow’s son ven- 
 tured out, accompanied by two of the storm- 
 stayed farmers, with poles and shovels. They 
 brought back a Falkirk doctor of great repute. 
 It was probably his professional cue to make 
 light of cases in general. He certainly did so 
 of the banker’s, assuring us there was no dan- 
 ger; that all he wanted was rest, quiet, and a 
 draught, which he would send him, if his boy 
 could get through the snow that evening. The 
 
180 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 boy couldn’t get through, and Eorbes passed 
 another restless, feverish night : but spiritual 
 concerns entirely occupied his mind. Having 
 once made confession of his deed to me, he 
 never again referred to it, except in his deliri- 
 ous moments, when he talked the matter over 
 with Melrose Morton, and sometimes with my 
 poor lost brother himself, always insisting that 
 he was not guilty of the fact. Next day he 
 was quiet. The draught did not come till late 
 in the evening, and was to work wonders ; but - 
 it did not. A low fever had evidently set in, 
 which partly affected the man’s brain, because 
 it had been over-strained and weakened, and in- 
 tervals of wandering and quiet succeeded each 
 other. 
 
 On the third day the doctor ceased to make 
 light of it, and told me, as the nearest friend of 
 the sick traveler, that his strength was too far 
 exhausted, and if he had any worldly affairs to 
 settle, it had better be done. It was late in the 
 afternoon when he pleased to tell me. The 
 frost had continued and increased, the road had 
 been cleared sufficiently for the mails to com- 
 mence running ; the old minister, who lived 
 two miles out in the country, had sent word that 
 he would come, if Providence and the weather 
 permitted, to see his early parishioner on the 
 following day ; and with an anxious feeling that 
 there was no time to lose, I wanted to set forth 
 southward for Helen. To attempt traveling by 
 mail or stage-coach would have been a tedious 
 business. There was not a post-chaise kept at 
 the “ Barley Sheaf,” but the establishment had, 
 for special uses, a light, strong gig, and a horse 
 shod for the frost, in which, after consultation 
 with Mrs. Drummond and her son, I determined 
 to proceed as far as the English border, where, 
 by all accounts, the roads were clearer and the 
 snow less. Ther^ was a splendid moonlight 
 night coming on. Tom, the widow’s ’son, of- 
 fered to go with njp as far as Glasgow by way 
 of guide, for the west couigiry route was pre- 
 ferred as most practicable, and though every 
 body tried to persuade me that there was no 
 occasion for such haste, an impulse which I 
 could not define then, nor account for since, 
 urged me to take the road. Eorbes had been 
 low and quiet all. that day. When fairly equip- 
 ped for the journey, I went up to bid him good- 
 by, but he was sleeping so soundly that my en- 
 trance did not awake him. I paused for a mo- 
 ment beside the bed ; the worn face still so 
 strongly marked and manly, the black abundant 
 hair turning so fast to gray, told much of sorrow 
 and suffering, but nothing of sin. No man 
 could have believed the tale who had not heard 
 it from his own lips. He was breathing freely, 
 and was not in immediate danger ; yet as I 
 stood there it seemed to me that Forbes’s 
 troubles were all over, and his wretched secret 
 was left with himself. I was turning away, not 
 to break up that sound and grateful sleep, when 
 he opened his eyes, looked up and said, “You 
 are going to bring Helen to me ; the doctor 
 thinks I am in danger, then?” 
 
 “No, not exactly in danger,” said I; “but 
 you would like to see your daughter, and the 
 roads are fit for traveling. Doctor Henderson 
 will come to see you to-morrow. Mrs. Drum- 
 mond will take every care of you. I will post 
 as quick as I can, and Helen will come at once 
 when she sees your warrant.” I put my hand 
 in my breast pocket as I spoke ; the paper was 
 not there. How could it have drooped out ? 
 
 “Never mind, lad,” said Forbes. “Helen 
 will come on your own word. She would go 
 with you any where ; and so she might ; man 
 or woman never heard a falsehood from your 
 lips, or I am mistaken, and where there is truth 
 there is safety. It is not worth while to write, 
 and my hand would tremble ^so, it would fright- 
 en the lass. Bring her to me, Lucien ! I could 
 not close my eyes in peace without seeing her. 
 Good-by, and God bless you !” and he wrung 
 my hand with more strength than I thought he 
 had : “if we never meet again, you will keep 
 your promise to me and mine, and get the last 
 prayer of a poor and heavy-laden sinner.” 
 
 I told him my hope of seeing him again, and 
 of his ultimate recovery. They were words of. 
 course, but I was in haste to be gone. He 
 merely said, “No, lad, there is no recovery in 
 this world for me,” closed his eyes again, and 
 turned his face to the wall. Down stairs I 
 found my traveling companion, Tom, in active 
 preparation for the journey. He knew every 
 cross-cut and short way of the east and west 
 country, valued neither wind nor weather, but 
 never set forth without proper precautions, for 
 Tom was a sober, cautious, and very honest 
 Scotchman. He proved a worthy friend and 
 ally to me on that same adventure, though I 
 thought his examination and securing of our 
 traveling apparatus somewhat tedious. 
 
 “It’s a bonny night,” said Mrs. Drummond, 
 who had come close to my side at the open door 
 to speak of the banker, whom I solemnly com- 
 mitted to her care ; she promised every thing, 
 and I knew she would perform it : “ it’s a bon- 
 ny night.” Well might the good woman say so 
 as she looked out on the sea of silvery moon- 
 light that filled the clear cold air, and glittered 
 on the frozen ground. “I don’t wonder you 
 like to set out, sir. It is just Providence that 
 has sent such weather for you to go on an er- 
 rand of mercy, as one may say.” 
 
 “Yes, mother,” said her daughter Janet, 
 coming to look out loo, for the house was slack 
 Uhat evening: “if the gentleman who had the 
 other tower room had waited for this, he might 
 have got south at once without going to Fal- 
 kirk through the snow.” 
 
 “ The other tower room !” said I, as a recol- 
 lection of the muffled sound behind Forbes’s 
 bed occurred to me ; “I thought you had but 
 one. ” 
 
 “No, sir; I told you we had two the night 
 you came,” said Mrs. Drummond, and she gave 
 her daughter a reproving glance, which sent that 
 well-disciplined young woman into the kitchen ; 
 “ but we had only one for you and Mr. Forbes, 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 181 
 
 because the other was occupied by a gentleman 
 who came about an hour after you. He wouldn’t 
 go into the parlor, wishing to be quite private — 
 between ourselves, as I know you to be a discreet 
 person, being Mr. Eorbes’s friend, he had reasons 
 for not mixing with other folk, though I think it 
 was over-scrupulousness. He didn’t just say it, 
 but as far as I could understand what he hinted 
 to myself aside on his first coming to the house 
 — and no man ever came in more quietly — he 
 was a Southland relation of that unhappy man, 
 Andrew M‘Ewen, and had come to help the 
 widow and family to settle their affairs and get 
 out of the neighborhood ; a trying dispensation, 
 sir, for honest, upright people to have such kith 
 and kin ; but the works of Providence are not 
 to be comprehended. He was so anxious to 
 be private and out of sight that nothing but a 
 chamber to himself would satisfy him, so I gave 
 him the other tower room as the most out of 
 the way. It opens on the other landing. You 
 could neither hear nor see each other. There 
 is a door of communication between the two 
 rooms ; they were the principal ones in the old 
 tower, you understand, but I locked it up to keep 
 them warmer and more separate, and set the 
 beds against it on each side. I’ll warrant you 
 never knew the gentleman was there at all ; he 
 went away as quietly as he came in the after- 
 noon of the next day. It was providential that 
 Tom and the farmers went out to get a doctor 
 for your friend, for they helped him through 
 the snow to Falkirk, from which place he was 
 going south. A very resolute but sober and se- 
 rious gentleman he was, sir, given to study his 
 Bible, being much impressed, no doubt, by the 
 unhappy case among his kindred. He paid me 
 for my trouble, and, seeing he wished to be so 
 private, I would not have mentioned him at all, 
 but young folk are a’ ready.” I looked out at 
 the moonlight, that the worthy landlady might 
 not see the effect of her disclosures. The lock- 
 ed-up door, and the beds set against it on each 
 side, explained the noise which Forbe's thought 
 so unearthly, and which rather frightened me. 
 Whoever the sober and serious gentleman that 
 slept in that bed might be, he had a tolerable 
 chance of hearing every word that passed be- 
 tween me and the banker; but a relation of 
 Andrew M‘Ewen, who could not mix with Fal- 
 kirk farmers for fear of recognition, a Southland 
 man and a perfect stranger too, would not be 
 likely to repeat the tale, yet I felt it would have 
 been safer out of his keeping, and set forth with 
 an unquiet mind concerning Forbes and his 
 daughter. 
 
 CHAPTER LY. 
 
 ESTHERS’ LAST PLOT. 
 
 The old post-roads north of Tweed, if more 
 primitive than those of England, had also the 
 advantage of being more numerous. There 
 was not a frequented route that had not sundry 
 highways and by-ways ; ancient travelers can 
 
 still trace them over moor and hill-side, through 
 glen and forest, in some places diminished to 
 mere sheep-tracks, in some relapsed to the 
 heath and moss once more ; but those acquaint- 
 ed with them could get over ground remarkabl} r 
 in ante-railway times, and by one such Tom 
 Drummond brought me safe to Glasgow, when 
 the watchmen were proclaiming midnight in its 
 streets. 
 
 The solitary journey and social converse we 
 had on the moonlit moors made good friends of 
 Tom and I. He knew the errand on which I 
 was bound ; I had learned to estimate his sur- 
 prising knowledge of by-roads and short cuts, 
 and with a little persuasion he agreed to bear 
 me company as far as the border, otherwise 
 Carlisle, which was the limit of Tom’s traveling 
 experience. In the mean time, rest was neces- 
 sary to us both, and we repaired to the “ Buck’s 
 Head Hotel,” which proved to be a house in 
 correspondence with the “Barley Sheaf,” one 
 of the many it could boast, great and small. 
 There we were to have a few hours’ sleep, start 
 with a fresh horse early in the morning, and 
 push on through Lanark to Dumfriesshire, which 
 Tom said, had the best and shortest by-ways in 
 all Scotland, and, with the help «*)f Providence 
 and steady driving, we would reach Carlisle be- 
 fore the turn of the night. ' I submitted myself 
 entirely to his guidance ; in fact, I Avould have 
 flattered or bribed Tom, had either been prac- 
 ticable, for the earnest, anxious impulse to get 
 forward was growing upon me every hour, not 
 so much for Forbes and his daughter’s sake — I 
 should be ashamed so to say, but it was true 
 that they only furnished me with an apology — 
 but Madame Palivez filled my mind and troub- 
 led my sleep ever sitice that night when her far- 
 off cry woke me up to hear the banker’s terrible 
 night-talk, and learn the fate of my long-lost 
 brother ; thoughts of her had come, in spite of 
 the wonder and the fear of that ghastly revela- 
 tion ; and still it seemed as if my dream had 
 been a warning, and the cry a veritable call for 
 my help or presence. 
 
 I made Tom understand how early we ought 
 to start in the morning — the setting moon would 
 do as well as the daylight in that clear cold 
 weather. He agreed to start at six; I was 
 pleading for four as we entered the still-open 
 hotel ; it was settling down for the night ; but 
 the waiter — he from Ireland, who made the 
 comment on Forbes’s energy — met me as I 
 entered with “Your name is Mr. Lucien La 
 Touche, sir ?” 
 
 “ Yes,” said I. 
 
 “ I thought it was all right,” said the waiter. 
 “Here is a letter for you; a Greek gentleman 
 left it yesterday ; he did not leave his name, 
 and did not stay a minute, but if you did not 
 come here within three days I was to send it by 
 post to the Palivez’s Bank, in Old Broad Street, 
 London, for the gentleman pleased to give it 
 into my charge.” 
 
 I had the letter out of his fingers and opened 
 before his speech was done, for it was addressed 
 
182 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 to me in Madame Palivez’s handwriting, and 
 was dated “ Old Broad Street, November 15th.” 
 
 That was the night I slept at the “ Barley- 
 Sheaf,” and heard the cry in my dream ; but 
 she was well ; the hand was bold and clear as 
 ever; and I read on: “Lucien, I know not 
 what makes me write to you to-night ; I know 
 not if my letter will reach you ; hut there is a 
 messenger from our house going northward, 
 and I could trust him to find you or any body. 
 It is half past eleven — a dark, cold, stormy 
 night ; but it can’t be the weather that is tell- 
 ing on my spirits ; many a worse night I have 
 lived through when the wind was low and the 
 stars shining ; but there is an impression bn 
 my mind that the last of them is near, if not 
 come to me. It can not be the eclipse I dreiSd ; 
 my thoughts were never as clear and calm; but 
 I wish you were here, I wish you had not gone. 
 By-the-by, Esthers is gone from me too ; he 
 was not in your place, and I do not miss him 
 so ; but he has gone without cause or warning 
 — the first servant of the Palavezi that ever left 
 his post ; the old house is coming down, you 
 perceive, and rats run from it. But come back 
 to me, my friend, as soon as you can; it may 
 seem weak and childish to say so, after letting 
 you go, but I never longed so much to see any 
 face as yours within this hour. If the shadow 
 in which I stand is really his of the scythe and 
 sand-glass, and we should never meet again on 
 this side of the clay, I know we shall some- 
 where in the after life, for our souls are related, 
 and all other kindred or connection is but the 
 casual companionship of a journey in which 
 there is little choice and much meeting through 
 necessity. May you be fortunate in that share 
 of it which falls to your lot, &nd wise not to de- 
 mand too much or build too firmly on it ! Take 
 your part out of life as best you may, reckoning 
 it poor enough not to be made poorer by criti- 
 cal examination or censorship. Well that it 
 passes so quickly. I did not think so once, but 
 I do now ; an outlook to the other sicPe of Lethe 
 seems opened for me, and the prospect is vague, 
 but fair ; I think the fates are not in posses 
 sion still. Farewell, my friend ; I wish you 
 were here ; but sleep is creeping over my eyes ; 
 it gets more dominant over me as years go on. 
 Farewell ! I will go to rest ; hut come when j r ou 
 can to Eusebia Palivez.” 
 
 She was safe and well, not yet attacked by the 
 dreaded evil. Her talk of approaching death 
 had grown common of late ; but she wished 
 to see me, and I wished to see her. “Is it 
 from the gentleman’s daughter, sir?” said hon- 
 est Tom, as I put the letter in my pocket- 
 book and resumed pleadings for four in the 
 morning. 
 
 “No,” said I, “it is from the manager of the 
 bank, wanting me back to business ; we must 
 get forward if possible, you see ;” and I went 
 on with my causes of haste, real and manufac- 
 tured, all the time, wondering what the said 
 manager had gone to do in Ireland on his own 
 account, it being evident that Madame had not 
 
 sent him. He had shown Forbes a paragraph 
 in Saunders's News Letter , the same that made 
 Melrose Morton start up from our fireside, and 
 which I could not bring myself to ask the 
 banker about. Was it to make out matters 
 regarding that subject, to fish up information, 
 to put odds and ends together, and bring the 
 true tale home, that Esthers had gone off to 
 Dublin, and made me believe he went on the 
 business of the house ? If so, my best efforts 
 would be in vain to keep Helen out of his 
 power, even if her father were called away be- 
 yond the reach of accusation and law. The 
 story of my brother’s fate would be a weapon 
 in his hand which her sensitive nature could 
 not resist or fly from; it would in some sort 
 enable him to annoy myself and sister too. The 
 secret which had foiled such earnest search and 
 long inquiry was likely to be made too clear 
 now that it could serve no good purpose; but 
 things must take their. course. I would do my 
 promised duty, and hasten back to Madame 
 Palivez. Oh that some beneficent power might 
 send her troublesome manager to the bottom of 
 the Irish Sea in his out or homeward voyage, I 
 cared not which ! 
 
 Tom was won over by my arguments', and 
 we started at four next morning, with the moon 
 and stars lighting us for many an hour, and 
 the frost standing our friend in getting us over 
 marshy moors and hollows filled with snow- 
 drifts. I know now that the southwest of Scot- 
 land is not all heath and bog, but Tom’s short 
 cuts seemed to lie entirely in such regions ; they 
 brought us to no large towns, to few villages, to 
 some poor and lonely inns ; but he knew every 
 turn and stretch, could tell me how many Scotch 
 miles we saved by avoiding the mgre frequented 
 highways, and seemed to have friends and help- 
 ers wherever horses were kept or whisky sold. 
 We got out of Lanark and into Dumfriesshire 
 about Tom’s dinner-hour, which I thought un- 
 fortunate, for there was another 1 1 Barley Sheaf, ” 
 a house ol humbler pretensions, but kept by 
 some relation of his, in the midst of a peat 
 moss through which our road ran, and there he 
 would stop, horse and man, for one full hour 
 — no small clipping out of a winter day. I am 
 sure Tom was perfectly sober when we started, 
 tut the by-ways of Dumfriesshire did not seem 
 so well known to him, and, what was worse, 
 the frost was relaxing its rigor in that southern 
 country ; small showers of sleet came with the 
 afternoon, changing to rain as it wore on ; our 
 ground grew slippery and soft, our wheels got 
 into ruts, and our horse into mires. In short, 
 it was what Tom called heavy traveling, and our 
 progress was proportionably retarded. Often, 
 but internally, I cursed the peat moss, the “Bar- 
 ley Sheaf,” and his dinner therein, as the cause 
 of all our troubles. But the day went down in 
 a dim drizzle, the night came on without moon 
 or star; it was a decided thaw, likely to be a 
 deluge too, and we were laboring through the 
 bogs that slope down to the Solway Frith, the 
 deepest mud and the worst road man ever 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 183 
 
 traveled, and still, by Tom’s own computation, I 
 ten Scotch miles from Carlisle Gate. 
 
 “He is tired, poor beast, ’’.said the kindly 
 Scot, as our horse toiled and struggled through 
 the mud, that grew deeper every step. “He 
 has had heavy work since the forenoon ; but 
 if we could get to Springfield, my father’s old 
 crony, Robin Arm^rong, would lend us his Gal- 
 loway mare as far as Carlisle, and give us good 
 entertainment too. You will have heard of 
 Robin, sir, on your travels? He is a man of 
 great respect in Springfield; keeps the inn and 
 the forge ; and, being bailie of the place, does 
 the particular business besides.” 
 
 “What sort of business?” said I. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Why, sir, I thought you Southern gentle- 
 men mostly knew what was transacted at Gret- 
 na Green ; Springfield is near by it, and gets 
 quite as many of the folks that marry in haste.” 
 
 “And repent at leisure,” said I. 
 
 “No doubt they do, sir; but I wish we could 
 get to Springfield ; there are cousins of my 
 mother’s Elder Macpherson’s kin, that might be 
 helpful to us if Robin were not at home, but he 
 don’t go much abroad on account of the comers 
 from England. I couldn’t have mistaken the 
 road, though it looks a deal deeper and worse 
 than the last time I traveled it from Carlisle 
 Tryst, just three years ago come Candlemas.” 
 Here our horse gave one tremendous plunge, 
 and stuck fast, gig and all, in a quagmire which 
 crossed the road. We both scrambled out and 
 did our best to extricate them, but all in vain ; 
 there was no firm ground for the horse’s feet ; 
 he plunged deeper every step ; we could scarce- 
 ly find footing ourselves on the stray bits of 
 turf and stone. The night was pitch dark, 
 though the rain had ceased ; earth and air were 
 wrapped in one damp mist. Our muddy, nar- 
 row path was bounded on each side by high 
 banlfs of moss, spongy and slippery from the 
 recent thaw. “ Guid help us,” said Tom, revert- 
 ing to the vernacular in his extremity ; “ we’ll 
 hae to stop here till daylight, and a wet berth it 
 will be.” Stopping there till daylight was be- 
 yond my calculations. I exhorted him to make 
 another effort, and Tom shrunk from nothing. 
 We tried and tugged, but horse and gig stuck 
 fast ; I lost my footing, tumbled into the quag- 
 mire, struggled up again, and gained the mossy 
 bank, half drowned and very dirty. The foot- 
 ing there was pretty good ; I scrambled up with 
 the desperate hope to find some better ground 
 for our weary night-watch, but from the top my 
 eye caught a twinkling light far down in the 
 hollow on the other side ; and at the same time 
 that heavy sighing sound, which' onty the wind- 
 shaken woods can equal, reached my ear, and 
 I knew that we were near the sea. “It is the 
 Solway Frith,” said Tom, catching it too as he 
 scrambled up beside me, “ and that light, praise 
 to Providence, is not wild-fire — can’t you see 
 the house down in the hollow?” I thought I 
 could, and started down the bank ; the ground 
 sloped suddenly, but it was dry and stony, and 
 five minutes brought me to a low, long thatched 
 
 [ cottage, standing alone in the midst of that val- 
 ley of the moors. There was no sign of life but 
 the glimmering light which twinkled from its 
 fast-shut window, no sound to be heard but the 
 moan of the Solway. “I know the house,” 
 said Tom, coming up with a whisper; “they 
 call it the 4 Solway Fisherman,’ an ill-reputed 
 place for the harboring of smugglers. This 
 glen goes down to the Frith, you see, and they 
 can bring up their run cargoes ; it harbors the 
 worst of the Southern runaways too ; but I know 
 where we are, within two miles of Springfield, 
 and I know the road ; let us walk on ; the house 
 is no canny.” 
 
 “Canny or not,” said I, “if they can give 
 us a light, and help to get out the gig, it is all 
 we want ;” and, running up to the door, I knock- 
 ed at it with all my might. There was a shuf- 
 fling of feet and a sound of low voices within. 
 “There may be smugglers inside,” said Tom ; 
 but I gave another volley of knocks, the door 
 was opened a few inches, and a tall, masculine, 
 sour-looking woman demanded what was my 
 will. 
 
 “ Light and help to get a horse and gig out of 
 the bog here,” said I. The words were scarce- 
 ly uttered when there came a cry from with- 
 in — “Help me, save me, Lucien La Touche!” 
 and I knew the voice of Helen Forbes. To 
 dash the old woman aside and rush in was the 
 work of an instant. Tom followed me, for he 
 was stanch. Within there was a narrow pas- 
 sage, and at the end of it a door, from which 
 light shone, and people seemed to be struggling 
 within. I rushed forward, but a man bounded 
 out, pointed a pistol at me, and was taking de- 
 liberate aim, when, in the desperation of the 
 moment, I flung myself upon him ; I heard 
 the trigger click, but it did not go off ; I seized 
 his arm, and tried with all my strength to push 
 him back and get into the room, where I dimly 
 saw two forms who seemed struggling, the one 
 to get away, and the other to detain. I saw the 
 face of my antagonist at the same moment — it 
 was Esthers, looking exactly as he had looked 
 at Forbes’s family exercise, but not uttering a 
 sound, and evidently intending to shoot me, if 
 possible. All passed in less than a minute. I 
 heard Tom’s exclamations, and knew he was 
 engaged with somebody in the passage. I held 
 fast for life, and tried to force my enemy back, 
 but his strength was greater than I could have 
 expected. He wrenched his arm from me, 
 pointed the pistol once more ; but as his fingers 
 were on the trigger, I made another clutch, and 
 turned the deadly weapon from myself with- 
 out knowing what I did ; it wen£ off at the same 
 instant, and Esthers staggered back and dropped 
 in the corner. There was deep silence among 
 us for a minute, as if every body was stunned* 
 but I heard him say distinctly, though it came 
 hissing through his clenched teeth, “You have 
 killed me, but I have taken revenge on yourlady 
 in London.” 
 
184 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 CHAPTER LVI. 
 
 THE LAST OF THE PALIVEZI. 
 
 There was a clamor of many voices and a rush 
 of lights ; the next moment the old woman got in 
 between me and Esthers, an old man came close 
 behind her ; Tom ran to lift up the fallen, and 
 cried, “Lord be about us, he is dead!” but I 
 , was in the room, and caught poor Helen as she 
 broke away from the detaining woman and fell 
 fainting into my arms, while a perfect volley 
 of shrieks from the latter drew my eyes in that 
 direction, and I saw it was my once prized and 
 promised Rosanna Joyce, otherwise Mrs. Barry, 
 who was going off in powerful hysterics, which 
 even then I knew to be assumed. My senses 
 were confused and bewildered ; but there was 
 another room half open, and out of the tumult 
 I carried poor Helen in, and supported her in 
 my arms'till she opened her eyes and said, “ Oh, 
 Lucien, it was God that sent you ; he brought 
 me a paper from my fathef which bade me go 
 with him, and I went, taking Rosanna ; I didn’t 
 know she was his confederate. We traveled 
 post by strange roads, and he was civil enough 
 till we came here this afternoon on an excuse 
 to put up from the rain ; but it is near Gretna 
 Green, Lucien, and he wanted to make me 
 marry him, saying he had found out something 
 that would ruin my father — bring him to the 
 gallows, he said ; but it couldn’t have been true. 
 Rosanna helped him, and they threatened ; but 
 is he dead, Lucien — is he dead? Have you 
 killed him? and I am the cause of all.” 
 
 “ Compose yourself,” said I. Her brief but 
 clear account had not only enlightened, but 
 brought me to cool judgment again. The tu- 
 mult had by this time subsided ; Rosanna’s 
 shrieks had ceased, though she still sat moaning 
 in the corner. Tom, with the help of the old 
 man and woman — the only inhabitants of that 
 solitary and ill-reputed inn — removed the body 
 to a convenient bedroom, and the young Scotch- 
 man set off through the dark night to Springfield 
 for a doctor and Robin Armstrong. 
 
 “Robin is a bailie,” he said. “ I can witness, 
 and so can all here, that the shooting happened 
 by accident; that you had no arms about you, 
 and only struggled to save your own life. You’ll 
 have to appear, no doubt ; but Robin will take 
 bail when he hears the story from me. I think 
 the Macphersons would be sureties for you ; it’s 
 a terrible business ; but stay here till I come 
 back.” 
 
 I assured Tom I had no intention of flying, 
 knowing myself to be guiltless, and sat with 
 Helen talking and explaining, while the house 
 settled down to the silence in which I found 
 it. The old man and woman quietly closed the 
 door upon the dead — they had witnessed scenes 
 quite as strange in their day — and retired to the 
 cooking of black puddings in their kitchen, 
 which our arrival had interrupted. Rosanna, 
 getting no attention, subsided into real fright, 
 cowered for some time in the same corner, then 
 rapidly recovered her composure, and before 
 
 Tom’s return was looking and talking as inno- 
 cently as she used to do when Charles Barry 
 was up stairs and I was kept below on account 
 of Sally’s fits. She didn’t know there was any 
 thing particular on Mr. Esthers’ mind when he 
 took Miss Forbes to Scotland. She went to 
 keep her company, and when he talked about 
 Gretna Green, how did she know it was not 
 made up between them ? She hoped I wouldn’t 
 be the first to blame her, after being the cause 
 of all her misfortunes and poor Sally’s illness, 
 she might say. I should have been puzzled how 
 to deal with her ; but Helen, whose good sense 
 and proper spirit were never found wanting, 
 told her to be quiet ; she had allowed herself to 
 be made an instrument in a wicked design, and 
 might have to appear in a court of law, on which 
 Rosanna shrank away and made no farther 
 demonstrations. For my own part, I did not 
 clearly understand how Esthers had managed 
 the affair, till Helen showed me the identical 
 slip of paper which her father had given me in 
 our bedroom at the “ Barley Sheaf,” and which 
 had been so unaccountably lost out of my great- 
 coat pocket. Then the case was plain ; his 
 journey to Ireland was a tale got up to cover 
 his following us to Scotland. With that strange 
 instinct for tracing and ferreting out which na- 
 ture had conferred upon him, little to his own 
 advantage, Esthers had pursued us from stage to 
 stage, kept our coaches in view, stopped at our 
 inns without his presence being ever suspected, 
 so great was the man’s ability for subterfuge and 
 disguise. Mr. Taylor, from Manchester, who 
 talked to the chambermaid in No. 15, at the 
 “Buck’s Head Hotel,” in Glasgow ; the post- 
 chaise that followed us through the storm ; the 
 relation of Andrew M‘Ewen, who wanted to be 
 private, and kept close quarters in Mrs. Drum- 
 mond’s tower room, with a locked-up door and 
 a keyhole between his bed and that of the bank- 
 er, whose invisible movements struck the over- 
 laden mind with superstitious terror, while he 
 got possession of a long-hunted fact which put 
 the entire family in his power ; who took his de- 
 parture in good time, despite the deep and drift- 
 ed snow, and carried with him the paper which 
 he had probably seen me consign to the pocket 
 of my great-coat, from some concealing corner 
 of the old house, and which he knew would be 
 the only and the surest means of inducing Helen 
 to set out northward in his company — it was all 
 clear and intelligible : yet how had the well- 
 laid scheme been utterly foiled and frustrated 
 by the accident of Tom’s delaying dinner, our 
 gig sticking fast in the quagmire, and my own 
 determination to get help from the ill-reputed 
 inn ! So it was ordered, and so it came to pass. 
 Esthers had found his own death in his sudden 
 resolution to be avenged on me ; sudden it must 
 have been, for no human foresight could have 
 anticipated my coming to the solitary house at 
 such an hour. By that accidental twist in our 
 struggle, the bullet from his own pistol pene- 
 trated the right side of his chest, passed through 
 the lungs, causing instantaneous death, as the 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 185 
 
 % 
 
 examining surgeon stated. With him the se- 
 cret, condemning as it was, and hardly won, 
 by which he intended to command the Forbes 
 family and possess their riches, had gone down 
 to forgetfulness and clay, for Esthers was not 
 the man to confide such a weapon to any hand 
 but his own, its use entirely depending on the 
 hold he kept of it. The banker was safe, and 
 so was his daughter ; but what did those dying 
 words of the Jew mean, “I have taken revenge 
 on your lady in London ?” He feared Madame 
 Palivez, but he also hated her. I remembered 
 his look when leaving her saloon as I sat in the 
 concealed closet. Madame was well when she 
 wrote to me on the 15th, but oh for wings to 
 have flown to London at that moment! I 
 scarcely heard poor Helen’s thanks and praises 
 for my gallant haste to her deliverance, or deep 
 deploring that I should have been brought to so 
 much trouble on her account ; that blood should 
 have been shed, and that the unhappy man 
 should have passed to eternity without time to 
 repent and turn from his evil ways. The woman 
 to whose service I was bound by such a fatal 
 yet voluntary vow stood still between me and all 
 others. 
 
 Tom Drummond returned in less than two 
 hours, bringing with him. all the authorities of 
 Springfield — the doctor, the minister, and the 
 renowned bailie, Robin Armstrong. There came 
 also two of the Macpherson kin, who were lead- 
 ing men in the place, and some of Robin’s people 
 to extricate the horse and gig, and swell the 
 number of witnesses. The faithful Scot had 
 raised his clan and his acquaintance, and at his 
 station stood me in good stead with the Spring- 
 field men. Not one of them doubted Tom’s ac- 
 count of the transaction, or my innocence of in- 
 tentional bloodshed. They all went into the 
 room and looked upon the dead. I went with 
 them, "heard the country surgeon make his state- 
 ment regarding the cause of death, which was 
 too. evident to require much examination, and 
 saw the look of fierce, triumphant hatred, now 
 fixed forever on the Jew’s face. How like he 
 looked to the ragged man when he held the 
 bridle-rein, and lunged with the knife ! how like 
 his sister Sally, when she leaped out from behind 
 the rose-colored curtains — they were all the 
 grandchildren of that old money-grubbing Reu- 
 bens, to whom my father mortgaged Widow 
 Clark’s houses, and whom Forbes paid with the 
 four thousand. 
 
 The Springfield men agreed it was a lament- 
 able business, and then adjourned to the parlor, 
 in which Helen still sat as composed and thought- 
 ful-looking as the minister himself. She gave a 
 clear and distinct account of the whole affair to 
 the bailie. It was corroborated by every soul in 
 the house. Rosanna would swear to all that 
 Miss Forbes said, and was entirely innocent her- 
 self. The old man and woman — by-the-by, 
 their name was Christian, a common one on the 
 Scotch border — though doubtless in Esthers’ 
 pay, had now no reason to misrepresent the 
 facts, and the worthy magistrate decided that my 
 
 part in the transaction was purely accidental ; 
 no man could be blamed for standing on his own 
 defense, and the pistol did not go off in my 
 hands ; it was one of the remarkable dispensa- 
 tions of Providence. The case being thus clear, 
 and every one of us having urgent reasons for 
 quitting the place — I for London, on bank busi- 
 ness, of course ; Helen to see her father in his 
 sore sickness ; Rosanna in haste back to her 
 husband — I think she said he was dying ; and 
 Tom to return to his widowed mother and the 
 “Barley Sheaf” — Bailie Armstrong took our 
 depositions in due form, with all necessary ad- 
 dresses and information regarding us and ours, 
 and bound us over to appear w'hen summoned, 
 the two Macphersons beirig sureties for me at 
 Tom’s request. They may talk of Scotch cau- 
 tion, but it never bars the claim of friendship or 
 kindred : then the bailie took possession of and 
 sealed up the effects of the deceased, contained 
 in a small portmanteau, and inquired if the un- 
 fortunate man had any relations who might be 
 summoned to look after his remains. I explain- 
 ed how Esthers had been situated with regard to 
 relations, as far as I knew it, promising at the 
 same time that if his nearest connections, Jere- 
 my Joyce and Charles Barry, did not attend to 
 the matter, I would see his funeral properly con- 
 ducted, and bear the expense, if necessary. In 
 the mean time, the corpse remained at the “ Sol- 
 way Fisherman,” to await the procurator-fiscal’s 
 precognition. The two old Christians hoped 
 that somebody would pay them for their trouble ; 
 they knew the gentleman had brought money 
 with him in that box, on which the bailie dis- 
 creetly advised them to keep quiet, and their 
 claim would be considered in proper time. He 
 also told us that his house in Springfield was at 
 our service, and there was not better ale to be 
 got in Dumfriesshire. I went with him and his 
 company, sending the two ladies in the extrica- 
 ted gig, under Tom’s escort ; they were glad to 
 get any where out of the house of death, and 
 Helen was anxious to speed on to her father. 
 
 : The little village of Springfield had gone to bed, 
 for it was near midnight ; but Robin’s house — 
 : by-the-by, it had the sign of 1 ‘ The Blacksmith,” 
 and was a long, low, thatched fabric, much like 
 s the one we had left, only in better condition — 
 was bright with fire and candle-light shining 
 
 ■ from all its windows. They had heard of the 
 : accident there, and were waiting for the bailie ; 
 
 his good wife took charge of Rosanna at my re- 
 
 ■ quest, to spare Helen her farther company. 
 Robin and his party sat down in the best parlor 
 
 . to have a discreet glass and moralize on the 
 i lamentable business. I parried their hospitable 
 • invitations to join them, got a quiet room for 
 i Miss Forbes and myself, where I explained to 
 ; her my anxiety to get back to London, and the 
 
 ■ safety with which she might proceed northward 
 under the conduct of honest, trusty Tom. “I 
 
 s know you are anxious to see Madame Palivez,” 
 ’ she said, with a slight quiver of the lips ; “was 
 s it her the unfortunate man spoke of in his last 
 moments, do you think?” 
 
186 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 “I don’t know ; I am afraid it was, though I 
 can not understand what he meant. That and 
 many considerations make me wish to get south 
 as quickly as possible, and I know you will be 
 safe with Tom. I would not send any one Avith 
 you, Miss Forbes, in whom I could not place the 
 most perfect confidence.” 
 
 “I am sure of that,” said Helen ; “get for- 
 ward, and I will try to do the same.” 
 
 I should have felt rebuked by her sad and 
 chagrined look at any other time, but my mind 
 was full of Old Broad Sti’eet and its lady. I 
 took Tom Drummond aside from his moralizing 
 friends, made him sensible of the duty he had to 
 do for me, for Miss Forbes, and her father, and 
 promised everlasting friendship and gratitude 
 for the same. 41 I’ll take her to the ‘Barley 
 Sheaf” safe enough, sir,” said the honest fellow. 
 “I think the weather is going to be fine, and 
 we’ll take the high road. The young lady 
 won’t be in such a hurry as you were, and I 
 have asked Robin Armstrong to lend you his 
 Galloway mare — she’ll go like the wind — and a 
 kind of a light trap he has, and take you to Car- 
 lisle in time for the night mail. It starts at 
 half past one now, and you won’t get to London 
 a quicker way, as there is nobody to take you' 
 through the by-roads of England. I’ll stop 
 here for the night ; so will the young lady, I’ll 
 warrant. It is a very decent house,” said Tom, 
 in a whisper ; “we’ll start early in the morning, 
 and get to Glasgow before nightfall, with the 
 help of Providence and Robin’s Galloway mare; 
 an hour’s run to Carlisle is nothing to her. I 
 suppose that other woman will be going back to 
 England by the Gretna coach. She is a lass 
 one would not care to travel too far with by all 
 accounts ; but Robin’s wife will look after her. 
 Do come in, sir, and get some refreshment be- 
 fore you go ; they are just putting the mare in 
 the trap.” 
 
 I spent little time with Tom and his compan- 
 ion. Before thevdock struck twelve I was rat- 
 tling away Avith the GalloAvay mare and an ex- 
 perienced driver on the Carlisle road. The 
 night was calm, and the moon was rising. The 
 road, though muddy, was not like those we had 
 traversed on the preceding day, and I reached 
 the frontier town of England in time to get the 
 only vacant place in the night mail to London. 
 It Avas the quickest mode of traveling I could 
 find ; but the miles seemed so long, and the 
 stoppages so many. Looking back on that 
 time of suspense and anxiety makes one ap- 
 preciate the express train and the telegraph of 
 these days. To London ! to London ! my heart 
 flew far before the swiftest wheels and the best 
 blood-horses which then carried the northern 
 mails. It Avould have outstripped any locomo- 
 tion; but the journey was done at last. We 
 reached St. Martin’s-le-Grand in the forenoon 
 of a dim foggy day, the sky all mist and the 
 streets all mud, and through them I sped to Old 
 Broad Street. There wat a chaise going off, 
 and a number of re s p e c t able^i^p king city men 
 scattering aAvay from the private Moor. What 
 
 could they have been doing there? Another 
 look, and I saw a hatchment over it. “ Is Ma- 
 dame at home?” I inquired of the porter, push- 
 ing in as he was about to close. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Madame is at home for evermore, ” said 
 the Eastern man, giving me a grave, stern look 
 from head to foot ; “ she is going to rest Avitli 
 her ancestors in the vault beneath St. Nich- 
 olas’s Church in Kief. May her soul find 
 peace !” 
 
 “ Dead !” said I, and the sight left my eyes 
 for the moment. 
 
 “Yes, dead,” said the porter. “Why Avas 
 the signor absent when her trusted manager 
 had left his post Avithout leave, and the illus- 
 trious, high-born Eusebia Palivez — the last and 
 noblest of her princely line — was found in her 
 OAvn chamber, foully murdered by the mute 
 maid she had taken from the signor’s house?” 
 
 Before he had well spoken it, all flashed on 
 my brain ; the meaning of the Jew’s last words 
 — the meaning of his nightly conference Avith 
 Hannah which I had the chance to see, but did 
 not understand, or the deed might have been 
 prevented. It may be that my desperate, hor- 
 rified look frightened the porter, for he stepped 
 back, and I passed him, Avalking straight up to 
 the saloon where I had seen her last rebuking 
 Esthers, to which she had gone up from me to 
 receive Prince Dashlcoff. Nobody prevented, 
 nobody noticed me, till I got into" the room : it 
 was hung with black drapery, which covered 
 walls and Avindows. In the centre stood a kind 
 of platform, also covered Avith black and set 
 round with aaux candles ; on it there lay a cof- 
 fin covered with purple — the Palivez color in life 
 and death. It had a gold plate, Avith a Greek 
 inscription which I could not read ; but I knew 
 what that coffin hid from me forever, and, scarce 
 knoAving what I did, I stepped into the circle of 
 Greek priests and servants all in mourning dress- 
 es, to a grave, elderly man, Avith a lawyer’s face, 
 but a Greek also, Avho was sealing a piece of 
 purple silk over its lock, while a priest in full 
 canonicals held the key. 
 
 “ I Avas her friend in life. She trusted and 
 talked Avith me. For mercy’s sake, let me see 
 her face for the last time !” an^l I pressed nearer. 
 
 “It can not be, young man,” said the Greek 
 lawyer, calmly finishing his work — it was not 
 the family crest, but a cross and crown he sealed 
 it with — “it can not be ; the face once so fair is 
 covered to the resurrection-day. Pray that you 
 may see it then among the just.” 
 
 The priest placed the key in his hands, and 
 the entire circle sunk on their knees while he 
 chanted a short prayer, to which the assistant 
 priest responded in long-drawn, dreary tones, 
 till it sounded like a requiem. Then they 
 sprinkled the coffin Avith holy water, made the 
 sign of the Greek cross seA r en times upon it, ahd 
 all prayed in silence for the soul of the dead. 
 In a few minutes the kneeling circle rose ; the 
 family crest and escutcheon Avere brought in by 
 Old Marco, and the man who had sealed the 
 coffin — he Avas Cuzenes, the jurisconsult, w!:o 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 187 
 
 lived and did business in London long after — 
 broke them over its lid, at the same time pro- 
 claiming in Greek, Russian, and English that 
 the last of the Palivezi was gone to God and to 
 the souls of all her line in the Paradise of the 
 Patriarchs ; that none of her name or lineage 
 now reniained on earth, and her house, sprung 
 from the princes of Egina, and without blot 
 or stain for fifteen hundred years, had passed 
 from among the living. 11 May their souls find 
 peace, and the will of the Highest be done !” he 
 added, and the prayer was repeated by all the 
 circle, who immediately began to scatter away, 
 the whole ceremonial being concluded ex^pt 
 the funeral feast, which, according to Greek cus- 
 tom, was spread in the rooms' below. 
 
 I would have given the world to break that 
 seal and see her face once more. It was a fool- 
 ish thought, perhaps, but I made one last appeal 
 to Madame Oniga, who was there 3s the chief 
 of the household. “ It can not be, signor,” she 
 said, “ and it should not. These English had 
 to see her according to their law — the inquest, 
 as they call it — may shame fall on them ! but 
 no man shouldllee the last lady of the Palivezi 
 with a gashed throat and a bloody shroud. We 
 think it strange that the signor should have been 
 absent. Was he not her friend ?” The Russian 
 woman spoke out the thoughts of the entire 
 household, for every one of them cast grave, re- 
 proving looks on me, and I believe regarded me 
 with suspicion ever after for that unaccountable 
 absence. I did not care to justify myself then, 
 and have taken no trouble about it since ; but 
 as I turned away a sudden thought crossed me. 
 “ When did it happen?” I inquired. “ On the 
 night ofy the fifteenth ; we know not at what 
 hour, nor how the dumb girl got access to her 
 chamber, which Madame always locked in the 
 inside. It was found open in the morning, and 
 our noble mistress was dead — slain in her sleep, 
 it seemed — and when the house was searched 
 for the murderer, blood was found on the dumb 
 girl’s clothes, and a knife which one of the 
 maids had seen by chance in her hands, stained 
 in the same fashion and hidden under her bed. 
 Will not the signor come to the funeral feast? 
 It was the will of God to take our mistress so, 
 and none of us may sorrow too much without 
 sin,” said Madame Oniga, as I turned away once 
 more, feeling that my life had fallen to ruins, 
 and the light of all its summers lay sealed up in 
 that coffin. Maybe it was well that it had been 
 sealed, and that Greek pride or prejudice denied 
 me that last look on the face of the dead — there- 
 by no memory of blood or of grave-clothes blends 
 with my recollection of her. It is still as I saw 
 her last up among the hanging flowers and arch- 
 ing boughs, waving her white hand to me in 
 careless freedom and flinging back the braids of 
 her bright hair. Her last letter was written to 
 me with the shadow of death falling on her fear- 
 less spirit. She had wished me by her side, 
 trusted and believed in me, and given me those 
 last counsels while she stood on the borders of 
 the grave. 
 
 On the night of the fifteenth — on the night 
 of the fearful storm, which had rocked the old 
 house on the Falkirk Moor, and made the oaks 
 about it groan from their ancient hearts — they 
 knew not at what hour ; but could it have been 
 the very same at which I saw her in my dream, 
 prepared for a far journey ^ on which Hannah 
 Clark and Esthers were to bear her company, 
 to my vexatioy, and heard her call to me from 
 the far back rooms so loudly and wildly that it 
 woke me up to hear the tempest raging without 
 and the conscience-stricken banker within talk- 
 ing in his sleep of my brother’s murder? It 
 may be superstition, but I believe it was her 
 death-hour and her voice that gave me the sign 
 and brought me out of sleep, to hear the revela- 
 tion she had guessed at so long, and I had once 
 suspected her of knowing too well. Life has 
 mysteries which run deep into the invisible 
 state, though never to be proved to common- 
 place and untried people, and that dream be- 
 came a link between her and me which the 
 grave could not break nor the years wear away. 
 My mind has recovered from the shock of that 
 day’s discovery, but the blow was heavy for the 
 time. It seems absurd to me now, unreasonable, 
 and something to be ashamed of, but it is true, 
 so strangely does great and sudden grief affect 
 us, that I bitterly regretted the evil chance 
 which canceled my vow, prevented my doing 
 her that last service, and the sacrifice of myself 
 to her shade. I have lived to be thankful for 
 the fact, though not for the manner of it ; but 
 then my reason and my conscience were both 
 stupefied. 
 
 I turned away from Madame Oniga and the 
 funeral feast. I could not look again on the 
 coffin and the wax candles around it, which 
 should burn there night and day till it w T as 
 moved into the Russian ship and borne away to 
 Petersburg, and thence over plain and river to 
 the family vault in Kief. As I went down 
 stairs there was somebody w^ting for me. I 
 did not notice her at first, but it was my sister 
 Rhoda — wise and noble girl. She said not one 
 single word, but took me by the arm, and walked 
 with me some way through the streets. Then I 
 saw Melrose Morton was at my other side, and 
 we were going to the old Greek coffee-hotise 
 in Finsbury Pavement. It was silent and de- 
 serted-looking, exactly as I had seen it that 
 first Christmas-day of mine in London, when 
 Watt Wilson told my family’s tale to Esthers. 
 The time was but four years ago, and what a 
 cycle of life I had passed through since then ! 
 
 In the coffee-house we all sat down, and they 
 told me every thing they knew of the inquest, 
 and of Hannah’s evident guilt. The whole, 
 though corroborated by many additional circum- 
 stances, amounted only to what I had already 
 heard from Madame Oniga. My sister had 
 sent for Melrose as soon as the news reached 
 her, and gone to look after the criminal crea- 
 ture with whom she had held such early com- 
 panionship. Rhoda was a brave girl, and a 
 sensible one ; but I think Hannah’s deed gave 
 
188 
 
 THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 to all her after life a tinge of superstitious ter- 
 ror regarding the deaf and dumb. 
 
 “ I went before all the gentlemen and talked 
 to her ; maybe it, was bold, but nobody else 
 could speak to the creature at all; and, Lucien, 
 she holds out she didn’t do it, but that Madame 
 killed herself, which I know, in my own con- 
 science, is not true ; not to speak of the signs 
 against her, and her telling me that Esthers 
 was to he heir of all Madame ’s bank and riches, 
 and that he would marry her and make her a 
 lady. That’s the way the villain bribed her up 
 to it, you see ; women can be got to do any 
 thing for wicked men that takes the right way 
 with them,” said Rhoda ; “ but when she knows 
 that he is dead and gone — goodness ! but the 
 works of Providence is wonderful! — she’ll own 
 it, maybe; and I don’t think they’ll bring her 
 to the gallows, but just make it out madness — 
 which it is, and worse. Poor misfortunate 
 soul, who could ever have thought that she 
 would do the like ?” 
 
 CHAPTER LVII. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 Rhoda’s predictions were realized. When the 
 news of Esthers’ death was imparted to Hannah, 
 she acknowledged her guilt, with no sign of re- 
 pentance for the fact, and, strange to say, no 
 sorrow for him. It was ambition and not love 
 that had made her his ready instrument. Han- 
 nah believed in his heirship, and in the promise 
 of marriage, which was no doubt equally false ; 
 for, in selecting her to do his wicked work, the 
 Jew had manifestly calculated on an accomplice 
 who could not betray him, and would be nei- 
 ther understood nor credited if she made the at- 
 tempt. My sister’s conjecture was right, too, 
 as regarded the law proceedings. Our knowl- 
 edge of the case, and all the influence we could 
 command being employed on Hannah’s behalf, 
 the plea of insanity was accepted by judge and I 
 jury, and she was kept in custody as a criminal 
 lunatic. 
 
 I had no difficulty in proving my own inno- 
 cence of Esthers’ death in proper form and ac- 
 cording to Scotch law. When all was over, and 
 all inquiries satisfactorily closed, I saw him laid 
 down in Springfield church-yard, and the Joyces 
 somehow contrived to prove themselves his heirs. 
 
 Before that business was done the Scotch pa- 
 pers announced the death of Mr. Forbes, which 
 took place at the “Barley Sheaf” one week 
 after Helen’s arrival, and the Falkirk doctors 
 could not certify whether his disease was a slow 
 fever or rapid decline. Doctor Alexander Hen- 
 derspn, with whom his conferences had been 
 long and private, doubtless knew it to have been 
 a burdened conscience, but the sound sense and 
 Christian prudence of the aged minister made 
 him waive the subject of public confession and 
 satisfaction on account of the living. He pray- 
 ed by the dying bedside of his early communi- 
 cant, said he believed him to be a sinner saved, 
 
 as all sinners must be, through free and sov- 
 ereign grace; and in great sorrow, tempered 
 with pious resignation and eternal hope, his 
 loving daughter closed Forbes’s eyes, without 
 ever suspecting the sin that had made them so 
 sad and weary. • 
 
 I had promised Forbes that none living should 
 hear his crime from me, and I kept my promise 
 according to common sense and without casuis- 
 try. Melrose Morton knew the whole story ; 
 he had hastened northward in time to see his 
 dying cousin, had talked with him alone, had 
 heard of his confession to me, and in the priva- 
 cy oLour own home showed me a paragraph in 
 Saundei's's News Letter of the 31st of October. 
 It briefly stated that some workmen, while clear- 
 ing away the ruins of a house in Kildare Street, 
 said to have been the town residence of the 
 Earls of Galway, to make room for new stables 
 behind the “Royal Hotel,” had found a skeleton 
 and a horse-pistol beside it, buried under the 
 floor of one of the back rooms. It went on to 
 say that an inquest had been held the same aft- 
 ernoon, but no inquiry could cast any light on 
 the strange discovery, except that it was the 
 general opinion that murder must have been 
 committed in that house, but when or by whom 
 it was impossible to conjecture ; the coroner 
 summed up, the jury returned a verdict accord- 
 ingly, and the mouldering .relics of humanity 
 were laid in St. Michael’s church-yard. We 
 both knew what that paragraph meant, and 
 whose bones they were that the workmen had 
 found under the floor. It was requisite for 
 many reasons, and chiefly to remove the sus- 
 picions against Morton, which had crept into 
 ’ her mind, that Rhoda should know it too. On 
 my sister’s discretion and sound sense we could 
 place implicit reliance ; she was therefore made 
 acquainted with the facts. They astonished fais 
 less than relieved her honest heart. She made 
 her usual reflections “ that the works of Prov- 
 idence was wonderful, and who could have 
 thought it; but it was a great mercy to know, 
 anyhow.” Then Melrose and I took a quiet 
 voyage to Dublin, found out the sexton of St. 
 Michael’s church, and induced him, for a suit- 
 able consideration, to assist us in privately, and 
 j under the shadow of night, removing the remains 
 of my ill-fated and long-sought brother to a 
 grave beside that of the father to whom his loss 
 had been so terrible. We did not leave Dublin 
 till both names were engraven on the headstone 
 which Forbes had set up, and the grass had 
 grown long about, and none but the well-paid 
 sexton and the equally rewarded stonecutter 
 knew that the thing had been done. When we 
 returned to No. 9, it was agreed between us 
 three that the entire tale should never be men- 
 tioned or referred to, if possible, in our after 
 years, and the compact was faithfully kept by all. 
 
 So the banker’s sin was buried with the dead, 
 the sorrow of the Palivez line with the last of 
 them ; and time, which covers graves with grass 
 and ruins with ivy, passed on and brought its 
 changes to us as to all the living. 
 
THE HIDDEN SIN. 
 
 189 
 
 The Comenzoni, whep. they came into posses- 
 sion, made over to Helen Eorbes and myself the 
 money, plate, and jewels bequeathed to us by 
 Madame Palivez. The golden reliquary was 
 not among the latter. I made no inquiry on 
 the subject, and therefore never knew into what 
 hands it had fallen, or for what purpose the 
 Greek house retained it ; but all her servants, 
 except old Marco and his wife, who went with 
 her coffin to Kief, remained in their employment. 
 
 I did not I’efuse my share of the bequest, but 
 Helen did, saying there must be some mistake : 
 what could induce the Greek lady to leave mon- 
 ey and jewels to her? I was equally unwilling 
 to accept the half of her father’s property which 
 he had willed to me. The very unusual dis- 
 pute, as the lawyers called it, produced frequent 
 meetings between us. Helen was desolate, and 
 so was I. My sister would not marry Melrose 
 Morton and leave me alone. It was a pity to 
 keep them out of their own, house and home. 
 There was one woman that loved me ; what if 
 she were Forbes’s daughter? Her hand and 
 heart were unstained by the sin that lay so 
 heavy on his. All that Madame Palivez had 
 spoken in her favor — ay, when she vexed my 
 pride and folly by making me over to Helen — 
 came up to memory. It was like obeying Ma- 
 dame’s last wishes. Well it is that every wom- 
 an does not know the motives which make men 
 woo and wed ; yet many have been worse than 
 mine. 
 
 Suffice it to say, I proposed to, and I married 
 Helen Forbes on these various accounts. She 
 accepted me willingly, yet with womanly digni- 
 ty, and every year of our married life taught 
 me to value more,' and profit by, her sterling 
 qualities of head and heart. The natural result 
 was a strong and sincere affection, founded on 
 esteem, and therefore more apt to stand the wear 
 of time and trial than the first romantic and 
 unreasoning love. Under its influence, our 
 early differences in faith and practice, which 
 once seemed such insurmountable causes of di- 
 
 vision, gradually melted away. Helen’s mind 
 got emancipated from its Puritan prejudices, 
 without losing the sterling principles which gave 
 it stability and strength. I, after such storm and 
 shipwreck of my world within, learned from her 
 fair example to cast anchor in the same safe haven. 
 
 The tranquil years of man have no history. 
 We lived calmly and happily, confiding in each 
 other, and easy in our circumstances. Not in 
 Notting Hill House : the long sad years of her 
 father’s unexplained troubles made it dreary to 
 Helen, and the memory of Forbes and my lost 
 brother would have given me no rest in it. We 
 left the mementoes of these things, and many 
 more, behind us in London and its neighbor- 
 hood, went northward, and bought a pretty 
 country house in the pleasant border-land upon 
 the banks of Tweed, and not far from the old 
 burgh of Melrose, where the Mortons made their 
 settlement. There we lived in peace and con- 
 tentment, had two sons, who grew up to be our 
 consolation, and are now doing men’s part in 
 the world. But I am alone, for Helen was tak- 
 en from me two years ago ; and life has but one 
 expectation now, namely, to follow her. Mel- 
 rose and my sister are old people like myself, 
 with their four children married and settled in 
 different Scotch towns ; but we are often togeth- 
 er, and sometimes talk over that long and weary 
 past. It is more than forty years since all the 
 romance and adventure of my life came to a 
 close beside the purple-covered coffin that held 
 the last of the Palavezi. I have grown a better 
 and a wiser man since then, though the lessons 
 that made me so have been slowly and quietly 
 learned. But now, in the evening of my days, 
 going peacefully down the hill-side which leads 
 to the valley of the shadow, with hopes that look 
 to the breaking of a brighter dawn beyond, and 
 memory, the watcher, gazing far backward on 
 those luckless years not to be softened in the 
 distance of time, I write rather for the instruc- 
 tion than the entertainment of my readers this 
 story of “ A Hidden Sin.” 
 
 
 THE END. 
 
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 139. Night and Morning. By Bulwer 75 
 
 140. The Maid of Orleans 75 
 
 141. Antonina. By Wilkie Collins 50 
 
 142. Zanoni. By Bulwer 50 
 
 143. Reginald Hastings. By Warburton 50 
 
 144. Pride and Irresolution 50 
 
 145. The Old Oak Chest. By James 50 
 
 146. Julia Howard. By Mrs. Martin Bell 50 
 
 147. Adelaide Lindsay. Edited by Mrs. Marsh. ... 50 
 
 14S. Petticoat Government. By Mrs. Trollope 50 
 
 149. The Luttrells. By F. Williams 50 
 
 150. Singleton Fontenoy, R. N. By Hannay 50 
 
 151. Olive. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 152. Henry Smeaton. By James 50 
 
 153. Time, the Avenger. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 154. The Commissioner. By James 1 00 
 
 155. The Wife’s Sister. By Mrs. Hubback 50 
 
 156. The Gold Worshipers 50 
 
 157. The Daughter of Night. By Fullom * 50 
 
 15S. Stuart of Dunleath. By Hon. Caroline Norton 50 
 
 159. Arthur Conway. By Captain E. H. Milman. . 50 
 
 160. The Fate. By James 50 
 
 161. The Lady and the Priest. By Mrs. Maberly. . 50 
 
 162. Aims and Obstacles. By James 50 
 
 163. The Tutor’s Ward 50 
 
 164. Florence Saclcville. By Mrs. Burbury 75 
 
 165. Ravenscliffe. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 166. Maurice Tiernay. By Lever 1 00 
 
 167. The Head of the Family. By Miss Mulock. . . 75 
 
 16S. Darien. By Warburton. 50 
 
 169. Falkenburg 75 
 
 170. The Daltons. By Lever 1 50 
 
 171. Ivar; or, The Skjuts-Boy. By Miss Carlen . . 50 
 
 172. Pequinillo. By James 50 
 
 173. Anna Hammer. By Temmer 50 
 
 174. A Life of Vicissitudes. By James 50 
 
 175. Henry Esmond. By Thackeray 75 
 
 176. 177. My Novel. By Bulwer 1 50 
 
 178. Katie Stewart 50 
 
 179. Castle Avon. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 ISO. Agnes Sorel. By James 50 
 
 181. Agatha’s Husband. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 1S2. Yillette. By Currer Bell 75 
 
 183. Lover’s Stratagem. By Miss Carlen 50 
 
 184. Clouded Happiness. By Countess D’Orsay. . . 50 
 
 155. Charles Auchester. A Memorial 75 
 
 156. Lady Lee’s Widowhood 50 
 
 187. The Dodd Family Abroad. By Lever 1 25 
 
 185. Sir Jasper Carew. By Lever 75 
 
 189. Quiet Heart 25 
 
 190. Aubrey. By Mrs. Marsh 75 
 
 191. Ticonderoga. By James 50 
 
 192. Hard Times. By Dickens 50 
 
 193. The Young Husband. By Mrs. Grey : . . . 50 
 
 194. The Mother’s Recompense. By Grace Aguilar. 75 
 
 195. Avillion, and other Tales. By Miss Mulock. . . 1 25 
 
 196. North and South. By Mrs. Gaskell 50 
 
 197. Country Neighborhood. By Miss Dupuy 50 
 
 198. Constance Herbert. By Miss Jewsbury 50 
 
 199. The Heiress of Haughton. By Mrs. Marsh. . . 50 
 
 200. The Old Dominion. By James 50 
 
 201. John Halifax. By Miss Mulock 75 
 
 202. Evelyn Marston. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 203. Fortunes of Glencore. By Lever 50 
 
 204. Leonora d’Orco. By James 50 
 
 205. Nothing New. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 206. The Rose of Ashurst. By Mrs. Marsh 50 
 
 207. The Athelings. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 
 
 208. Scenes of Clerical Life 75/ 
 
 209. My Lady Ludlow. By Mrs. Gaskell 25 
 
 PRICE 
 
 210,211. Gerald Fitzgerald. By Lever $0 50 
 
 212. A Life for a Life. By Miss Mulock 50 
 
 213. Sword and Gown. By the Author of “ Guy 
 
 Livingstone” 25 
 
 214. Misrepresentation. By Anna H. Drury 1 00 
 
 215. The Mill on the Floss. By the Author of 
 
 “Adam Bede” 75 
 
 216. One of Them. By Lever 75 
 
 217. A Day’s Ride. By LeVer 50 
 
 218. Notice to Quit. By Wills 50 
 
 219. A Strange Story. By Bulwer 1 00 
 
 220. The Struggles of Brown, J ones, and Robinson. 
 
 By Trollope 50 
 
 221. Abel Drake’s Wife. By John Saunders 75 
 
 222. Olive Blake’s Good Work. By John Cordy 
 
 Jeaffreson 75 
 
 223. The Professor's Lady 25 
 
 224. Mistress and Maid. A Household Story. By 
 
 Miss Mulock 50 
 
 225. Aurora Floyd. By M. E. Braddon 75 
 
 226. Barrington. By Lever 75 
 
 227. Sylvia’s Lovers. By Mrs. Gaskell 75 
 
 228. A First Friendship 50 
 
 229. A Dark Night’s Work. By-Mrs. Gaskell 50 
 
 230. Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings. 25 
 
 231. St. Olave’s *....., 75 
 
 232. A Point of Honor #. . . 50 
 
 233. Live it Down. By Jeaffreson 1 00 
 
 234. Martin Pole. By Saunders 50 
 
 235. Mary Lyndsay. By Lady Emily Ponsonby. . . 50 
 
 236. Eleanor’s Victory. By M. E. Braddon 75 
 
 237. Rachel Ray. By Trollope 50 
 
 238. John Marchmont’s Legacy. By M. E. Brad- 
 
 don ‘ 75 
 
 239. Annis Warleigli's Fortunes. By Holme Lee.. 75 
 
 240. The Wife’s Evidence. By Wills 50 
 
 241. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. Edwards. . . 75 
 
 242. Cousin Phillis 25 
 
 243. What will he do with It ? By Bulwer 1 50 
 
 244. The Ladder of Life. By Amelia B. Edwards. . 50 
 
 245. Denis Duval. By Thackeray 50 
 
 246. Maurice Dering. By the Author of “ Guy Liv- 
 
 ingstone” v 50 
 
 247. Margaret Dentil’s History. Annotated by her 
 
 Husband 75 
 
 248. Quite Alone. By George Augustus Sala 75 
 
 249. Mattie: a Stray 75 
 
 250. My Brother’s Wife. By Amelia B. Edwards. . 50 
 
 251* Uncle Silas. By J. S. Le Fanu 75 
 
 253. Miss Mackenzie. By Anthony Trollope 50 
 
 254. On Guard. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 255. Theo Leigh. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 256. Denis Donne. By Annie Thomas 50 
 
 257. Belial 50 
 
 258. Carry’s Confession. By the Author of “ Mat- 
 
 tie : a Stray” 75 
 
 259. Miss Carew. By Amelia B. Edwards 50 
 
 260. Hand and Glove. By Amelia B. Edwards 50 
 
 261. Guy Deverell. By J. S. Le Fanu 50 
 
 262. Half a Million of Money. By Ajnelia B. Ed- 
 
 wards 75 
 
 263. The Belton Estate. By Anthony Trollope 50 
 
 204. Agnes. By Mrs. Oliphant i 75 
 
 265. Walter Goring. By Annie Thomas. .. : 75 
 
 266. Maxwell Drewitt. By F. G. Trafford 75 
 
 267. The Toilers of the Sea. By Victor Hugo 73 
 
 268. Miss Marjoribanks. By Mrs. Oliphant 75 
 
 269. The True History of a Little Ragamuffin 50 
 
 270. Gilbert Rugge. By the Author of “A First i 
 
 Friendship” 1T)0 
 
 271. SansMerci; or, Kestrels and Falcons. By the 
 
 Author of “ Guy Livingstone” 50 
 
 272/ Phemie Keller. By F. G. Trafford 50 
 
 273jTLand at Last. By Edmund Yates 50 
 
 274. Felix Holt, the Radical. By George Eliot 75 
 
 275. Bound to the Wheel. By John Saunders 
 
 276. All in the Dark. By J. S. Le Fanu . ... 7 
 

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