She swept out of the room with the air of an empress, flinging glances of
defiance at us all, and leaving us conquerors of the field, but scared,
and almost ashamed of our victory. It did indeed seem hard and cruel that
we three should have conspired the banishment and humiliation of that fair
creature. We looked at each other in silence; 'twas not the first stroke
by many of our actions in that unlucky time, which, being done, we wished
undone. We agreed it was best she should go alone, speaking stealthily to
one another, and under our breaths, like persons engaged in an act they
felt ashamed in doing.

In a half-hour, it might be, after our talk she came back, her countenance
wearing the same defiant air which it had borne when she left us. She held
a shagreen-case in her hand; Esmond knew it as containing his diamonds
which he had given to her for her marriage with Duke Hamilton, and which
she had worn so splendidly on the inauspicious night of the prince's
arrival. "I have brought back," says she, "to the Marquis of Esmond the
present he deigned to make me in days when he trusted me better than now.
I will never accept a benefit or a kindness from Henry Esmond more, and I
give back these family diamonds, which belonged to one king's mistress, to
the gentleman that suspected I would be another. Have you been upon your
message of coach-caller, my lord marquis; will you send your valet to see
that I do not run away?" We were right, yet, by her manner, she had put us
all in the wrong; we were conquerors, yet the honours of the day seemed to
be with the poor oppressed girl.

That luckless box containing the stones had first been ornamented with a
baron's coronet, when Beatrix was engaged to the young gentleman from whom
she parted, and afterwards the gilt crown of a duchess figured on the
cover, which also poor Beatrix was destined never to wear. Lady Castlewood
opened the case mechanically and scarce thinking what she did; and behold,
besides the diamonds, Esmond's present, there lay in the box the enamelled
miniature of the late duke, which Beatrix had laid aside with her mourning
when the king came into the house; and which the poor heedless thing very
likely had forgotten.

"Do you leave this, too, Beatrix?" says her mother, taking the miniature
out and with a cruelty she did not very often show; but there are some
moments when the tenderest women are cruel, and some triumphs which angels
can't forgo.(19)

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