“I have as much ambition as my brother,” replied Seymour; “and like him am uncle to the king that shall be soon. You will easily perceive my drift, my lord, when I tell you that my brother hates me, fears me, and would keep me down. He is to be everything—I nothing.”
“Ha! is it so?” cried Surrey.
“I say he fears me—and with reason,” pursued Seymour. “Let him take heed that I rob him not of the dignity he covets. I am Prince Edward’s favorite uncle—he loves me better than Hertford, and will be right glad of the exchange of governors.”
“Again I pray Heaven to guard the young prince from his guardians!” murmured Surrey.
“Hertford hath the majority of the council with him: Cranmer, St. John, Russell, Lisle, Tunstal, Sir Anthony Brown, Sir Anthony Denny—all save Wriothesley and my brother, Sir William Herbert. They are with me. Could I but reckon on his Grace of Norfolk and on you, I should consider the success of my plan as certain.”
“You have made no overtures of this nature to my father, sir?” cried Surrey, eagerly.
“Not as yet,” Seymour replied. But I cannot doubt his Grace’s concurrence.
“You do not know my father, or you would not dare assert so much,” rejoined Surrey. “He would reject your proposal as scornfully as I reject it. He would not buy his life on terms so infamous.”
“I see no degradation in the terms,” said Seymour. “I offer you life, all the honors you have forfeited, and all the estates you have lost, and ask only in return your staunch support; little enough, methinks! Have you no love left for life, Lord Surrey? Have your pulses ceased to beat with their former ardor? Are your ears deaf to the trumpet-blast of fame? Have your own chivalrous deeds faded from your memory? Have you forgotten the day when, at the jousts given by the Grand Duke of Tuscany, at Florence, you sustained the beauty of the lady of your love, the fair Geraldine, against all comers, and remained victorious? Have you had your fill of knightly worship and military renown? You are a widower, and may, without presumption, aspire to the hand of the Princess Mary. Ha!—have I touched you, my lord? But I will go on. Have courtly revels lost attraction for him who was once their chief ornament? Have the Muses ceased to charm you? I should judge not, when I see how you have been recently employed.”
“Oh! no, no!” exclaimed Surrey. “Life has lost none of its attractions in my sight. Glory and fame are dear as ever to me.”
“Then live! live! and win yet more fame and glory,” cried Seymour, with something of triumph, thinking he had vanquished the earl’s scruples.
“Well as I love life,” said Surrey, “I love my reputation better, and will not tarnish it by any unworthy act. I reject your offer, Sir Thomas.”
“Your blood be upon your own head, then,” rejoined Seymour, sternly. “Your scruples are fantastical and absurd. But we could look only for frenzy in a poet,” he added, with scorn.
“You taunt an unarmed man, Sir Thomas,” cried Surrey, with flashing eyes, “and ‘t is a craven act. Had I been free, you dared not for your life have said so much! You have come at this final hour, like an evil spirit, to tempt me to wrong and dishonor—but you have failed. Now mark my words, for I feel they are prophetic. You and your brother have brought me to the scaffold—but my blood shall fly to Heaven for vengeance. Your ambitious schemes shall come to naught. You shall have power only to lose it. The seeds of dissension and strife are already sown between you, and shall quickly grow and ripen. You shall plot against one another, and destroy one another. His hand shall sign your death-warrant, but your dying curse shall alight upon his head, and the fratricide shall perish on the same scaffold as yourself. Think on my words, Sir Thomas, when, like me, you are a prisoner in the Tower.”
“Tush! I have no fear,” replied Seymour, scarcely able to repress his uneasiness. “‘T is a pity you will not live to witness my nephew’s coronation. You might have written an ode thereon.”