the whole beau monde. Her indignation at Seraphina's conduct was boundless. The idea of elopement, of which she spoke as at all times degrading, unfeminine, and childishly romantic, was "doubly base in this time of family perplexity."

The day passed away in solitude; and as the evening fell, and twilight was dropping that propitious veil under which tears and blushes are equally concealed, Martha proposed a walk on the cliff, as a balm for the head-ach, which had oppressed both during the day.

The air was refreshing, and the London groups wandering to catch cold from library to library; the sounds of the broken voices, and exhausted pianos, which they delight in as harmony; and even the rattle of the lootables, amused Mrs. Courtney with a rude picture of the world of May Fair. She even began to think, that excepting that there were fewer titles, less ruinous fooleries, and less bitter scandals among the idlers before her, the difference was but little.

Martha was less amused, glanced at the, hour, complained of the sea-breeze, and returned to the house for a more protecting shawl. Mrs. Courtney lingered on the cliff, half forgetting her delinquencies and their fruits, in the bustle of the Steyne.

Jack Flatter passed her, and suddenly re

turned with a look of surprise. "What, widow, you here still? I had thought that Brighton was to weep the vanishing of its brightest ornament."

Have done with this style. You shall see me in that character no more. To-morrow I leave Brighton; and, but let it be a secret with you, England, for heaven knows where."

"All inconceivable! It was but this moment that I called at your house; a postchaise had just left the door, and I was told by the fair soubrette, with a most gracious smile, that her mistress had left Brighton in that post-chaise."

"There must be some new villany in this. Will you come with me?" said the lady, hurrying to the house.

"To the world's end!" said Flatter, with his habitual bow and tone.

There Mrs. Courtney found a note from Martha, "lamenting the severe necessity under which she found herself of attending her husband Captain Montague, who had receiv ed an unexpected order to join his regiment; she having been married to him that morning, and keeping her marriage secret only by his positive commands. She now implored forgiveness," &c.

Mrs. Courtney held the note in her hand in a state of stupor. Flatter took it from

her.

"Montague!" exclaimed he; "rascal! the very fellow whom I mentioned to you as having given me the information about Champetre, a showy scoundrel enough; but the maker of his own commission; in short, a notorious black-leg. Where could he have met your daughter?"

Mrs. Courtney's heart smote her. It was she who had brought him into the house to assist her plot against Lady Diana. The pretended Captain was not worth a shilling; the house was showy; the mother presumed to be still rich; the daughter was disgusted with singleblessedness, and determined not to be the only unmarried one of the family. The swindler saw a hope in at least the connexion; and Martha was made his sixth wife Jiving.

CHAPTER XXXVII.

This is a fellow, Sir, that would draw blood
Were you mail-proof. He hath an eye that glares
With fiery meinories. Gird on your sword,
Before you come athwart him.

THE month of preparation which General Greville's decree had pronounced had nearly glided by. It seemed to be a sort of understood compact between the now happy members of the domestic party, that Philip Courtney's name, associated with so many unwelcome remembrances, should be buried in oblivion; and by degrees the apprehension which had once been entertained of further obstruction on his part had completely subsided.

One night, as Vaughan was hastening home through Park Lane, which, never a very frequented spot, was at this time unusu ally lonely, he found himself closely followed by a man, who began to accost him in a style and manner so peremptory, as seemed to imply that violence would be resorted to if his request were not complied with. Vaughan had no doubt that the fellow had robbery in view, and looked round to ascer

tain whether he should have to contend with one footpad or many. But they were still alone. Vaughan stopped, and demanded, why he followed him.

The man drooped his head. "I am a desperate man, Sir; made desperate by utter ruin!" was the reply; "nor do I suffer alone. My shame and guilt have involved a wife and two children. They must follow me to a prison; and it may be well for them to find shelter even there, for this night they may have no other home. They must perish, or I must perish. Beware how you deny me."

Vaughan, moved by the despairing accents in which this was pronounced, said, "You take a bad mode of relief; but follow me where I can hear what you have to say; and if you prove not altogether unworthy"

"Unworthy!" returned the man, impatiently, "then I have no hope. Have I not already told you that I am bowed down by guilt and shame; but they, they for whom I plead, are innocent. Save them, and leave me to my fate!"

"Follow me," said Vaughan; "but I repeat, that I must know more of you." And turning into the first coffee-house, he ordered a private room.

The waiter stared at the appearance of his companion.

66

Well," said Vaughan, when they were 23*

VOL. II.