“Impossible!” cried Seymour. “That can never be!”
“How! What do you say?” asked she in astonishment.
“I say that Cranmer will never be so insane, nay, so criminal, as to fulfil your wish. I say that you can never be my wife.”
She looked him full and square in the face. “Have you not then told me that you loved me?” asked she. “Have I not sworn to you that I loved you in return? Must we then not be married, in order to sanctify the union of our hearts?”
Seymour sank his eyes to the ground before her pure innocent look, and blushed for shame. She did not understand this blush; because he was silent, she deemed him convinced.
“Come,” said she, “come; Cranmer is waiting for us!”
He again raised his eyes and looked at her in amazement, “Do you not see, then, this is all only a dream that can never become reality? Do you not feel that this precious fantasy of your great and noble heart will never be realized? How! are you then so little acquainted with your father as not to know that he would destroy us both if we should dare to set at naught his paternal and his royal authority? Your birth would not secure you from his destroying fury, for you well know he is unyielding and reckless in his wrath; and the voice of consanguinity sounds not so loud in him that it would not be drowned by the thunder of his wrath. Poor child, you have learned that already! Remember with what cruelty he has already revenged himself on you for the pretended fault of your mother; how he transferred to you his wrath against her. Remember that he refused your hand to the Dauphin of France, not for the sake of your happiness, but because he said you were not worthy of so exalted a position. Anne Boleyn’s bastard could never become Queen of France. And after such a proof of his cruel wrath against you, will you dare cast in his face this terrible insult?—compel him to recognize a subject, a servant, as his son?”
“Oh, this servant is, however, the brother of a Queen of England!” said she, shyly. “My father loved Jane Seymour too warmly not to forgive her brother.”
“Ah, ah, you do not know your father! He has no heart for the past; or, if he has, it is only to take vengeance for an injury or a fault, but not to reward love. King Henry would be capable of sentencing Anne Boleyn’s daughter to death, and of sending to the block and rack Catharine Howard’s brothers, because these two queens once grieved him and wounded his heart; but he would not forgive me the least offence on account of my being the brother of a queen who loved him faithfully and tenderly till her death. But I speak not of myself. I am a warrior, and have too often looked death in the face to fear him now. I speak only of you, Elizabeth. You have no right to perish thus. This noble head must not be laid upon the block. It is destined to wear a royal crown. A fortune still higher than love awaits you—fame and power! I must not draw you away from this proud future. The Princess Elizabeth, though abused and disowned, may yet one day mount the throne of England. The Countess Seymour never! she disinherits herself! Follow, then, your high destiny. Earl Seymour retires before a throne.”
“That is to say, you disdained me?” asked she, angrily stamping the floor with her foot. “That is to say, the proud Earl Seymour holds the bastard too base for his coronet! That is to say, you love me not!”