stolen the chain, was for bringing in a constable
to Betty. Hence, she had to make explanations, and to say how her
mistress was in durance; and, ere the night closed, all Tunbridge Wells
knew that my Lady Maria Esmond was in the hands of bailiffs. Meanwhile,
however, the money was found, and Mrs. Betty whisked up to London in
search of the champion in whom the poor prisoner confided.

"Don't say anything about that paper being gone! Oh, the wretch, the
wretch! She shall pay it me!" I presume that Lady Maria meant her aunt
by the word "wretch." Mr. Sampson read a sermon to her ladyship, and
they passed the evening over revenge and backgammon; with well-grounded
hopes that Harry Warrington would rush to their rescue as soon as ever
he heard of their mishap.

Though, ere the evening was over, every soul at the Wells knew what had
happened to Lady Maria, and a great deal more; though they knew she was
taken in execution, the house where she lay, the amount--nay, ten times
the amount--for which she was captured, and that she was obliged to pawn
her trinkets to get a little money to keep her in jail; though everybody
said that old fiend of a Bernstein was at the bottom of the business,
of course they were all civil and bland in society; and, at my Lady
Trumpington's cards that night, where Madame Bernstein appeared, and
as long as she was within hearing, not a word was said regarding the
morning's transactions. Lady Yarmouth asked the Baroness news of her
breddy nephew, and heard Mr. Warrington was in London. My Lady Maria
was not coming to Lady Trumpington's that evening? My Lady Maria was
indisposed, had fainted at church that morning, and was obliged to keep
her room. The cards were dealt, the fiddles sang, the wine went round,
the gentlefolks talked, laughed, yawned, chattered, the footmen waylaid
the supper, the chairmen drank and swore, the stars climbed the sky,
just as though no Lady Maria was imprisoned, and no poor Sampson
arrested. 'Tis certain, dearly beloved brethren, that the little griefs,
stings, annoyances, which you and I feel acutely in our own persons,
don't prevent our neighbours from sleeping; and that when we slip out of
the world the world does not miss us. Is this humiliating to our vanity?
So much the better. But, on the other hand, is it not a comfortable and
consoling truth? And mayn't we be thankful for our humble condition? If
we were not selfish--passez-moi le mot, s.v.p.--and if we had to care