"Oh! he is sent to prison," cried Euphemia, not regarding the real agitation of her auditor (so much was she occupied in appearing overwhelmed herself), and wringing her hands, she continued, "That frightful wretch Mr. Lascelles is just come in to dinner. You cannot think with what fiendish glee he told me that several days ago, as he was driving out of town, he saw Mr. Constantine, with two bailiffs behind him, walking down Fleet Street! And, besides, I verily believe he said he had irons on."
"No, no!" ejaculated Mary, with a cry of terror, at this ad libitum of Euphemia's; "what can he have done?"
"Bless me!" returned Euphemia, staring at her pale face; "why, what frightens you so? Does not everybody run in debt, without minding it?"
Miss Beaufort shook her head, and looking distractedly about, put her hand to her forehead. Euphemia, determining not to be outdone in "tender woe," drew forth her handkerchief, and putting it to her eyes, resumed in a piteous tone—
"I am sure I shall hate Lascelles all my life, because he did not stop the men and inquire what jail they were taking him to? You know, my clear, you and I might have visited him. It would have been delightful to have consoled his sad hours! We might have planned his escape."
"In irons!" ejaculated Mary, raising her tearless eyes to heaven.
Euphemia colored at the agonized manner in which these words were reiterated, and rather confusedly replied, "Not absolutely in irons. You know that is a metaphorical term for captivity."
"Then he was not in irons?" cried Miss Beaufort, seizing her hand eagerly: "for Heaven's sake, tell me he was not in irons? '"'
"Why, then," returned Euphemia, half angry at being obliged to contradict herself, "if you are so dull of taste, and cannot understand poetical language, I must tell you he was not."
Mary heard no further, but even at the moment, overcome by a revulsion of joy, sunk, unable to speak, into the chair.