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 at my marriage, it shall not be at yours; but if man can do it, I swear a day shall come when there shall be a feast in your house, and you shall be proud to wear them.  I say no more now; put aside these words, and lock away yonder box until the day when I shall remind you of both.  All I pray of you now is, to wait and to remember.”

“You are going out of the country?” says Beatrix, in some agitation.

“Yes, to-morrow,” says Esmond.