wear his honours
becomingly. I do not say he hath touched my heart; but he has my
gratitude, obedience, admiration--I have told him that, and no more; and
with that his noble heart is content. I have told him all--even the story
of that poor creature that I was engaged to--and that I could not love; and
I gladly gave his word back to him, and jumped for joy to get back my own.
I am twenty-five years old."

"Twenty-six, my dear," says Esmond.

"Twenty-five, sir--I choose to be twenty-five; and, in eight years, no man
hath ever touched my heart. Yes--you did once, for a little, Harry, when
you came back after Lille, and engaging with that murderer, Mohun, and
saving Frank's life. I thought I could like you; and mamma begged me hard,
on her knees, and I did--for a day. But the old chill came over me, Henry,
and the old fear of you and your melancholy; and I was glad when you went
away, and engaged with my Lord Ashburnham, that I might hear no more of
you, that's the truth. You are too good for me somehow. I could not make
you happy, and should break my heart in trying, and not being able to love
you. But if you had asked me when we gave you the sword, you might have
had me, sir, and we both should have been miserable by this time. I talked
with that silly lord all night just to vex you and mamma, and I succeeded,
didn't I? How frankly we can talk of these things! It seems a thousand
years ago: and, though we are here sitting in the same room, there's a
great wall between us. My dear, kind, faithful, gloomy old cousin! I can
like you now, and admire you too, sir, and say that you are brave, and
very kind, and very true, and a fine gentleman for all--for all your little
mishap at your birth," says she, wagging her arch head.

"And now, sir," says she, with a curtsy, "we must have no more talk except
when mamma is by, as his grace is with us; for he does not half like you,
cousin, and is as jealous as the black man in your favourite play."

Though the very kindness of the words stabbed Mr. Esmond with the keenest
pang, he did not show his sense of the wound by any look of his (as
Beatrix, indeed, afterwards owned to him), but said, with a perfect
command of himself and an easy smile, "The interview must not end yet, my
dear, until I have had my last word. Stay, here comes your mother" (indeed
she came in here with her sweet anxious face, and Esmond, going up, kissed
her hand respectfully). "My dear lady may hear, too, the