"Unkindness, Arabella!" cried Seymour. "'Tis not I am unkind."
"Then you would say, it is I?" exclaimed Arabella.
"Nay," replied Seymour, in a sad tone, "I do not say so. I have no title to charge you with unkindness. What right have I to expect that you should remember me through several long years; that you should neglect happier men with fairer fortunes, for the sake of one whom you once condescended--may I say it now-a-days?--to love."
"What right?" said Arabella. "Oh, Seymour, do you ask me what right? I might as well inquire of my own heart what right I have to feel this anguish, when I see him to whom all my thoughts have been given for years--for whose return I have looked with anxious hope and longing, till delay did, indeed, make the heart sick, come back at length cold and indifferent as if we had scarcely ever met. But I make no such foolish inquiries. I have a right, the right of true affection, the right of pledged and plighted faith, the right, if you will, of sorrow and suffering--and by that right, I ask you, William Seymour, what is it that has changed you thus?"
"Nay, Arabella," he replied, "'tis not I am changed--'tis you."
"Hush," she said, "here are people coming near;" but the other group passed without noticing them; and she then added, "I will be coarse with you, Seymour, and speak boldly, what no man, I think, would dare to say, that you tell a falsehood. I am not changed."
"Oh, prove it to me!" cried Seymour, "and I will say it is the sweetest insult ever I received. Is it not true, then, that you encourage this minion of the King, this raw untutored Scot, whose woman face and glittering apparel has turned all heads, it seems, and perverted all hearts.
"I!" exclaimed Arabella, "I encourage him! Is it possible that that mad-headed passion, jealousy, should so far take possession of a sober-minded man, as to make him forget everything he has known of one, whose heart he once pretended to think the most valuable thing he could possess on earth? Oh, if that heart could be so hollow and so false, what an empty, valueless gewgaw it would be! Come, I forgive thee, Seymour; if the yellow fiend has got thee in his hands, he has tormented thee too much already for me to add one punishment more. But I will have full confession by whom, by what, where, and how, came this outrageous fancy in thy head, my friend."
"That is told at once," exclaimed her lover. "I heard it last night in London, from my brother. I saw the man this night beside you with my eyes."
"Ay," replied the lady, "and might have seen, too, if you had used them well, poor Arabella nearly fainting, when she caught the face of an ungrateful man gazing at her from the far end of the hall. I will not tell you it was with joy--it might be with fear, you know. Your wife, your pledged and plighted wife, might well tremble and turn pale, and nearly sink upon the ground, when you detected her listening to sweet words from the king's fluttering favourite. Think so, Seymour--think so, if you can! But hark! here are steps coming--Sir Harry West--we must break off."