“Isn’t this a beautiful piece?” says Beatrix, examining it, and she pointed out the arch graces of the Cupids, and the fine carving of the languid prostrate Mars.  Esmond sickened as he thought of the warrior dead in his chamber, his servants and children weeping around him; and of this smiling creature attiring herself, as it were, for that nuptial death-bed. “’Tis a pretty piece of vanity,” says he, looking gloomily at the beautiful creature:  there were flambeaux in the room lighting up the brilliant mistress of it.  She lifted up the great gold salver with her fair arms.

“Vanity!” says she, haughtily.  “What is vanity in you, sir, is propriety in me.  You ask a Jewish price for it, Mr. Graves; but have it I will, if only to spite Mr. Esmond.”

“Oh, Beatrix, lay it down!” says Mr. Esmond.  “Herodias! you know not what you carry in the charger.”

She dropped it with a clang; the eager goldsmith running to seize his fallen ware.  The lady’s face caught the fright from Esmond’s pale countenance, and her eyes shone out like beacons of alarm:—­“What is it, Henry!” says she, running to him, and seizing both his hands.  “What do you mean by your pale face and gloomy tones?”

“Come away, come away!” says Esmond, leading her:  she clung frightened to him, and he supported her upon his heart, bidding the scared goldsmith leave them.  The man went into the next apartment, staring with surprise, and hugging his precious charger.

“Oh, my Beatrix, my sister!” says Esmond, still holding in his arms the pallid and affrighted creature, “you have the greatest courage of any woman in the world; prepare to show it now, for you have a dreadful trial to bear.”

She sprang away from the friend who would have protected her:—­“Hath he left me?” says she.  “We had words this morning:  he was very gloomy, and I angered him:  but he dared not, he dared not!” As she spoke a burning blush flushed over her whole face and bosom.  Esmond saw it reflected in the glass by which she stood, with clenched hands, pressing her swelling heart.

“He has left you,” says Esmond, wondering that rage rather than sorrow was in her looks.

“And he is alive,” cried Beatrix, “and you bring me this commission!  He has left me, and you haven’t dared to avenge me!  You, that pretend to be the champion of our house, have let me suffer this insult!  Where is Castlewood?  I will go to my brother.”

“The Duke is not alive, Beatrix,” said Esmond.

She looked at her cousin wildly, and fell back to the wall as though shot in the breast:—­“And you come here, and—­and—­you killed him?”