erfectly well remembered seeing the old
lady sitting up in the bed, in her night-rail, that morning when the
troop of guard came to fetch her. The most beautiful woman in England
lay in that bed now, whereof the great damask hangings were scarce faded
since Esmond saw them last.

Here stood Beatrix in her black robes, holding a box in her hand; 'twas
that which Esmond had given her before her marriage, stamped with a
coronet which the disappointed girl was never to wear; and containing
his aunt's legacy of diamonds.

"You had best take these with you, Harry," says she; "I have no need
of diamonds any more." There was not the least token of emotion in her
quiet low voice. She held out the black shagreen case with her fair
arm, that did not shake in the least. Esmond saw she wore a black velvet
bracelet on it, with my Lord Duke's picture in enamel; he had given it
her but three days before he fell.

Esmond said the stones were his no longer, and strove to turn off that
proffered restoration with a laugh: "Of what good," says he, "are they
to me? The diamond loop to his hat did not set off Prince Eugene, and
will not make my yellow face look any handsomer."

"You will give them to your wife, cousin," says she. "My cousin, your
wife has a lovely complexion and shape."

"Beatrix," Esmond burst out, the old fire flaming out as it would at
times, "will you wear those trinkets at your marriage? You whispered
once you did not know me: you know me better now: how I sought, what I
have sighed for, for ten years, what foregone!"

"A price for your constancy, my lord!" says she; "such a preux chevalier
wants to be paid. Oh fie, cousin!"

"Again," Esmond spoke out, "if I do something you have at heart;
something worthy of me and you; something that shall make me a name with
which to endow you; will you take it? There was a chance for me once,
you said; is it impossible to recall it? Never shake your head, but hear
me; say you will hear me a year hence. If I come back to you and bring
you fame, will that please you? If I do what you desire most--what he
who is dead desired most--will that soften you?"

"What is it, Henry?" says she, her face lighting up; "what mean you?"

"Ask no questions," he said; "wait, and give me but time; if I bring
back that you long for, that I have a thousand times heard you pray for,
will you have no reward for him who has done you that service? Put away
those trinkets, keep them: it shall not be