University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Edgar's Palace.
Enter Edgar and Oswald.
EDGAR.
Thou'rt well assured of this?

OSWALD.
My gracious Liege!
It is a common theme among them still,
Her matchless wealth of beauty beggars all
Our courtly dames can boast,—her queenly form,
Her majesty of mien, would grace a throne!
I saw her on her bridal-day, my Liege,
In all the pomp and splendour of her charms;
So regal in her loveliness—so proud!
Her brown and braided hair was lighted up
With flashing gems, as is the night with stars;
Her cheek at first might seem a thought too pale;
Her dark, rich eyes, too wild and strangely sad;
But, at a whisper from her young kinswoman,
Lo! to that cheek a gleam of rosy fire,
Like summer lightning, came, and to her eye
A smile, that mocked the diamond on her brow.
Her bosom heaved beneath its gorgeous vest
Of broidered silk; then with impatient air
She bit her lip—her arched and glowing lip—
And straight grew calm again, as still, and pale,
And mute as sculptured marble.

EDGAR.
Now, by the light of heaven!
What, ho! without there!
(Enter Page.)
Summon Earl Athelwold to our presence, boy!
[Exit Page.
By heaven, and earth, and hell, if this be true,
The traitor's life shall answer it!

OSWALD.
Is it your Grace's will that I retire?

EDGAR.
Leave me, good Oswald!

[Exit Oswald, enter Athelwold, at opposite doors.
ATHELWOLD.
How fares my loving master?

EDGAR.
Why, bravely, Athelwold! 'tis long, till now,
Since mirth and Edgar met with right good-will:
To-day we're boon companions; and to shew
Our trusty servant, our most loyal, true
And faithful friend, how loftily he stands
In loving estimation with his Liege,
Thou shalt be one of us;—to-night we'll sup
Together at your castle.—Ha! dost start?
Tremble? turn pale? said I not well, sir Earl?
Must sovereigns sue for welcome?—by my sword,
The veriest churl in England had not met
Our royal favour with less courteous grace.

ATHELWOLD.
Your pardon, dear my Liege, I did but turn
Within my mind how best to meet the honour
With such poor welcome as my house affords.

EDGAR.
Go to!—you dwell not in a peasant's cot;
An English Earl lacks not the wherewithal
To greet his Sovereign nobly;—look you do it.
What, sullen still? by heaven, the churl is jealous,
And fears his lady-love should meet mine eye!
Thou dost forget, most loyal Athelwold,
That she is homely, lean, of gait uncouth,
Of peasant mien and mind;—such were thy words,
When to our royal couch we thought to woo
The maid;—'twas but the gleaming of her gold,
Thou know'st, that won thee, faithful servant mine;
Then fear not thou!—the eye a star must be,
The cheek a rose, that lures a look from Edgar.
Away! we'll follow with our train anon.
Farewell, 'till supper-time, most upright Earl.
[Exit Edgar.

ATHELWOLD.
Now would I give mine earldom but to know
Whose friendly deed is this. That I'm betrayed.
His searching eye, where latent scorn and rage
Lay coiled like some bright serpent ere it spring,
Did plainly shew,—albeit his words were soft,
And round his lips played pleasant blandishment.
Oh! fair Elfrida! thou hast cost me dear,
And were it not that danger's self is sweet
When brav'd for thee, I could have curs'd these eyes
That saw thee beautiful, and this fond heart
That felt thee pure, and therefore worshipped thee!
He were a soulless fool, below thy worth,
Who could behold thy charms, and not adore.
And glorying in thy beauty as I did
And do, could I have brooked to know thee, sweet,
The sport of his capricious passion—proud,
Voluptuous Edgar—who would turn from thee
As the wild zephyr from the queenly rose
Itself had rifled, should another flower
So pure and blooming win his wanton eye.
There's but one way to save her,—I will own
Even at her feet, the truth, and bid her hide,
As best she may, that dangerous loveliness
Beneath uncouth array and awkward mien.
Her soul looks down upon her sex's weakness,
Light vanity, else should I fear its voice
Might triumph in the trial-hour, and drown
The holy pleadings of pure love and honour.
Now, lady, to the test!

[Exit.

SCENE II.

A Street, near the Palace.
Oswald walking to and fro in a reverie.
OSWALD.
Revenge is sure!—
I have so wrought upon his fiery heart
He'll never rest till he has found Elfrida;
What follows? he will win her to his will,
And I shall see those dark, imperial eyes,
That flashed their scorn like lightning on mine own,
When at her feet I sighed my passion forth,—
Gods! I shall see them bent to the earth in shame
Beneath my gaze of triumph; and her lip—
Curled with but half-suppressed derision then—
Shall quiver with remorseful agony,
Ere I my vow of vengeance cancel! Lady!
Thou'st crushed a serpent that hath still a sting!
(Enter Athelwold.)
Ah! Athelwold! my noble friend! how fare you?

ATHELWOLD.
Oswald! well met! Thou'rt just the man I want;
I've heard thee lavish of unlovely names
Full oft on scoundrels;—help me now to pour
My just abuse upon the veriest slave,
The vilest, meanest, most malignant rascal—

OSWALD.
Whom can you mean, my Lord?

ATHELWOLD.
In sooth, I know not;—some poor pitiful fellow
Who's robbed me of my favour with the King,
And dares not shew himself. Knew I his name,
I'd brand him first as coward through the realm,
Then to the earth his low-born carcass trample!
Now I think on't, I caught a glimpse of some one
Leaving the presence-chamber as I entered.
I did not see his face—his form I glanced at;
It had a cringing air—Think you 'twas he?

OSWALD.
In truth, my Lord,—

ATHELWOLD.
But, Oswald, answer me!
Was't not a venomous wretch?

OSWALD.
My Lord, in truth—

ATHELWOLD.
In truth, my Lord—my Lord, in truth—why so
I am—in truth, a Lord—my courteous friend!
But what has tam'd thee thus? for God's sake, rave!
Be furious! storm! as thou art wont when I
See fit to give the reins unto my passion,—
Was't not an odious knave?

OSWALD.
I—good my Lord—

ATHELWOLD.
Why, Oswald, what's the matter?
Art thou in love? has some bewitching dame
Thy service slighted, or thy rival crowned
With love's own rosy garland?

OSWALD
(aside.)
'Sdeath! doth he mock me?

ATHELWOLD.
Yet, gentle Oswald! if you love me, spare
This knave of mine one round of rich invective,
To comfort me, for I am sick at heart;—
Was't not a white-heart craven?

OSWALD.
Yes! hell and fury! death! damnation!—I

ATHELWOLD.
Why, this is stirring! this is as it should be!
On, on, good Oswald! spare not hell nor fury,
Be prodigal of death, and heap damnation
On the poor wretch's head! Why! were he thine,
Thy foe, thou couldst not curse him with more relish!
I thank thee, Oswald! thou hast cool'd my temper!
Farewell, my friend; but prithee do not let
My going stay thy torrent of abuse
Against this caitiff-butt of ours—ha! ha!
How he would tremble could he hear us rage!
He'd never dare to own it—would he, Oswald?
Ha! ha! ha! ha! poor fellow! Fare thee well!

[Exit.
OSWALD.
“Slave!” “coward!” “rascal!” “pitiful fellow!” “knave!”
“Poor white-heart craven!” “sneaking, venomous wretch!”
“This caitiff-butt of ours!”—well! well! I've borne it,
And must, perchance, again; and watch, meanwhile,
This wild volcano raging in my breast,
Lest one light spark betray me. God of heaven
What have I not endured this last half-hour!
I could have dashed my torturer to the earth,
With right good-will! but each fresh taunt of his,
Though traced in burning letters on my brain,
Made the appropriation harder still.
And have I lived to bear these insults calmly?
Ay! 'tis the meed of treachery like mine.
I was his confidant—I have betrayed him,
And do deserve his scorn—but not the less
Will I pursue my purpose to its end.