CHAPTER X.

THE NIGHT-WATCH.

"I offer up my memory,

'Tis a drear and darkened page, Whose experience has been bitter,

And whose youth has been like age."-L. E. L.

THE afternoon post brought Eleanor letters from home. Elizabeth was no better; and, though there was not any real ground of alarm, it seemed certain that some weeks must elapse before there could be a chance of decided convalescence; and, in the meantime, little Susan was quite inadequate to the onerous duties devolving upon her.

There was no mistaking the appeal. The child wrote at Elizabeth's instance, setting forth, in her own simple language, the urgency of Eleanor's return, and, at the same time, regretting the need which called her so suddenly from her scenes of enjoyment.

There was not an alternative. Lilian, though she dreaded losing Eleanor's companionship, decided that she could not do otherwise than prepare for an immediate departure; and even Eleanor, though feeling herself a very unfortunate and injured person, could not but acquiesce in the arrangement.

"I never was so mortified in my life," said Eleanor, as she irritably rose from the table where she had been sitting; and in her excitement and vexation began to pace up and down the room. "It is enough to provoke a saint! Just as we have settled everything so admirably-just as everything seems turning in my favour-Elizabeth, who never had an ache or pain in

her life, that I remember, falls ill, and requires my services as nurse!"

Any one who saw the young lady at that moment would have pitied the unfortunate elder sister, who was to be dependent on her tender mercies for comfort and sympathy. Eleanor seemed about as fit to preside in a sick-room as to ascend the throne of Queen Victoria.

And the generous-hearted, but spirited boys-the elder now almost a young man-and the gentle, docile Susan-one would not have given much for their chance of domestic peace under the rule of their disappointed, pleasure-seeking sister.

"And all my dresses, and my new pink crape bonnet!" continued Eleanor, growing more and more exasperated as she thought of the glories of her wardrobe, and found that it was possible for flowers of gauze and cambric to be doomed to

"blush unseen,

And waste their sweetness on the desert air."

For Kirby-Brough now was to Eleanor Grey no better than a howling wilderness, and the respectable inhabitants, with whom she had associated all her life, had become such utter nonentities, that her roses and hawthorn, and her matchless lilies, might well be said to waste their perfection, unseen and unappreciated.

In a very, very ill-humour Eleanor sat down to answer her little sister's letter; and Lilian withdrew to her dressing-room to make arrangements for her evening toilet.

While she was trying on wreath after wreath, quite absorbed in her occupation, her husband entered the room.

How changed was the beautiful "Lily of KirbyBrough!" A year ago, and her sweet face would have

brightened like a sylvan landscape suddenly illuminated by the sun, at the unexpected presence of him she loved so well. The frivolous cares of the toilet would have been forgotten, while he was speaking, and sitting near her.

Now, as she saw his reflection in the mirror, she neither turned round nor manifested any recognition of his presence; but she proceeded to lay one garland apart from the rest, and arrange the others carefully in a box. Her face was still, and calm, and cold; every feature was tranquil and composed, but there was a resolution in the glance, and a fixedness of purpose in the delicate lines round the mouth, that did not escape Basil's regard.

Her mien, too, wore a dignity that, a few months before, would have been sought for in vain.

"Lilian!" said Basil, in a grave tone, when he saw his wife still intent on the arrangement of her flowers; "Lilian, I wish to speak to you.'

She turned round immediately, and sat down opposite to him, not a muscle of her proud, still face moving not a motion betraying the most incipient disquietude.

"I am come to speak to you, alone, Lilian, when your sister is not present to hold you under the influence of her inimical words and glances. I wish you to understand that I am in earnest respecting your visit to the sea-side; as your friend, I urge it as most desirable; as your husband, I insist upon it. You will be good enough to appoint an early day, and make the necessary arrangements.”

"May I question the nature of the desirabilities you mention ?" She spoke in a clear low voice, without changing the expression of her face.

"I should have thought," he answered, "the mother's heart needed no explanation, no urging. The

child is not well; he is pale and heavy: this air does not agree with him. The fact of his needing a change of residence is so self-evident, that I am certain you must have observed it."

"The child is not so rosy and merry as he was some few days since, I grant," returned Lilian; "but there is no cause for anxiety on his account; his teeth are troublesome, and that is a sufficient explanation of his fretfulness and change of looks. Are there no other reasons for my leaving town?"

"MANY! since you will have them!" replied Basil, in a voice that startled Lilian from her unnatural composure. “You shall hear. We are well-nigh ruined; your expenses are tremendous; we are living far beyond our income; your extravagances for the last twelve months may well account for a premature retirement from the gaieties of the season, and the child's health will be a sufficient reason to give to our friends.Friends, indeed!" and he spoke in a tone of intensest bitterness. "I wonder how many of those who flatter us, and throng our rooms, and invite us to theirs in return, would stretch out a hand to save us, if we were sinking in the resistless tide of misfortune. Not one! I know them—the hollow, false, deceitful men and women, who call themselves, and whom we publicly call, our friends. Yes; your extravagance calls for timely withdrawal; there is no alternative!"

"My extravagance?" said Lilian, pointedly. "I may have been somewhat too profuse in my expenpenditure; what then? It is no uncommon case. I know much more has been spent than was intended when we began housekeeping, but not sufficient to warrant an apprehension of ruin. Mr. Hope, I will try to be wiser. I am, in fact, growing wiser already. Only to-day, I learned the nature of debts of honour !" 'Basil looked keenly at his wife as she spoke. For

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one moment he imagined she might be speaking at random; but a glance at her pale, defiant face convinced him that she was really in possession of that which he had so solicitously withheld from her cognizance. He made no answer, and Lilian poured forth a flood of bitter reproach. She accused him of every possible misdemeanour, in the excitement of her anger, charging him with errors she knew in her inmost heart he had not even dreamed of committing. The words. had scarcely died on her lips when she repented having uttered them. But there was no time for softening the acerbity of her language, for Basil, exasperated to the utmost, left her presence without another word; and, in five minutes, Lilian heard the house-door bang with a violence that shook the windows to the roof.

Exhausted with her late agitation, she was in no state to join a brilliant party; nevertheless she kept her appointment. But her presence among the brilliant throng who surrounded her yielded no satisfaction. Her heart was weary as her limbs, and ached even more painfully than her head. She longed to be alone, to be free from the observance of others, to be able to cast off the mask of gaiety which regard for appearances compelled her to wear.

She went home very early, leaving Eleanor (as it was her last evening) under the chaperonage of an elderly friend.

When she returned, Basil was still absent, and she told the servants to go to bed, saying that she would sit up for Miss Grey, and by that time their master would also probably come home.

She attempted

And so she was left to solitude. no occupation, neither could she compose herself sufficiently to lie down; but she paced and repaced the dreary drawing-room with the step of one whose heart is gnawed by consuming thoughts. Eleanor came in