Mary Baldwin College - Bluestocking Yearbook (Staunton, VA)

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' Hie Augusta Seminary Annual. 3 •jiizini; toi-tli into tlic (lai ' kii( ' s . Who is it the Kiuly (iriioch ex- l)eets this iii , ' ht ' . No uX vv than Macbeth, Thane of (Tlaiiiis, and the son (»f licr father ' s friiMid. Stay ; even now the elear notes of the elai ' ion come echuiiii ; ii] the i;Ien. Ah I he is come; and the plaided, tartaned strange)-, witli the ea le feather in his bonnet, starts at tlie si ht of the iiirli h form in tlie doorway. He had not lioped to find so fair a Hower blooming in s j wihl a place. As for her, tlie brave blood of a long line of noble ancestors surges hotly throngh her veins as, at the sui)])er-l)oard that night, he tells of feats of arms and deeds of valor. The days tly by on golden wings, and still the young Thane stays, and (iruoch learns to find pleasure only when he is with her. Together they seek out the sweetest flowers of the wind- sheltered glens or ride to hunt at early dawn. The old Thane watches the pair well pleased, and wlien Macbeth at length asks the maiden ' s hand in marriage he gladly gives consent. Nfacbeth, rejoicing, carries the fair Ijride off to his own castle. But her woof of fate is woven ; she has reached the turning of the roads — the middle point — where the sunbeams of one path in- termingle with the shadows of the other. She has left the tur- rets and ivy-mantled battlements of her home, and her fate is tied to that of her husband for weal or for woe. To him she confides her earthly happiness, her life, her soul, her all, and to help him attain the golden round she hesitates not to sear her conscience and break her heart. Before long she is to prove the strength of that love she has declared for him. For him she tramples under foot all her natural tenderness and womanly weakness — outrages her very nature and finally dies. The powers of evil seem to have leagued together to destroy Macbeth ' s soul, and in the gray duskiness of the lonely heath the Weird Sistei ' s have already struck the evil chord in him which answers responsive to their touch. Glamis he is, and Cawdor and the other— he will attain. And so his wife through love for him and to gain for all his days and nights, Solely sovereign sway and masterdom, calls on the murdering ministers that wait on nature ' s mischief, to stop u]) the access and ])assage to remorse, that no compunctious visitings of nature shaixj her fell purpose. Yet, even then Mac-

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2 The Angusta Seminary Annual. kneels at tlie feet of a lad} ' sitting at her tapestry frame. Eagerly she tells again her story, and over the pale face of the mother comes a light as of smishine l)real ing through a cloud, and she bends to kiss the nptnrned face. Will her darling always he as fair as the mountain blossoms in her hair, as tender-hearted as when she carried the lost lamb back to the fold V she asks her- self. Time alone can and will tell. The shadows of evening have fallen ; the last glow of the set- ting sun is dying in the west. In the time-honored hall are gath- ered the Thane, his lady and little Gruoch. The night winds swing the tapestries to and fro, and the suits of mail on the wall rattle ominously, as if some warrior-ancestor of ye olden time had come back again to don his arnior ; but there is no trace of fear in the dark eyes the child turns upon them. Slipping her hand confidingly into her father ' s as she sits on a footstool at his feet, she begs her mother for a song. The lady smiles sadly and draws down from its place on the wall a rusty harp. Some of its strings are broken, telling of shattered chords in the harmony of her life. The soft liarp, so long hath been known To mingle love ' s language with sorrow ' s sad tone. Little by little the tired head of the child droops upon her father ' s knee, the long lashes fall over the dusky eyes, and Gruoch is asleep. The years have come and gone ; the summer flowers blossomed and faded again ; autumn flaun+ed her banners of crimson and gold to the sky and furled them. Time has touched the old castle gently and it is little grayer or grimmer than wlien we saw it years ago. But one voice is still forever in the silence of the tomb, and it is Gruoch ' s white hand which at eventide now wakes the echoes of the old harp for her father. The summer day is drawing to a close and the purple shadows are lengthening on the castle walls. On tlie threshold stands a girl, the same, and yet iiot the same, we knew of yore. The care- less grace of childhood has ripened into the lovely curves of wo- manhood, but the eyes, those wondrous, shadowy eyes, are still unchanged. There she stands in unconscious grace on the brink, with reluctant feet, Vhere the brook and river meet Womanhood and childhood fleet,

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4 The Augusta Seminary Annual. betli draws l ack, fearful of the future wlien the deed is done, and to his wife ' s questions, answers only : I dare do all may become a man. She scorns to wear a heart so white, and taunts hini with his cowardice — Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valor As thou art in desire? Letting I dare not wait upon I would ? From this time sucli will she account his love, and he who dares do all else dares not hear tlie word ' ' coward fall from his wife ' s lips. How still and sweet the breezes blow around Macbeth ' s castle, when Duncan enters it to come forth no more I The martlets coo pleasantly beneatli the eaves and speak only of peace and happi- ness to the innocent hearts of Duncan and Banquo. But how soon, alas ! the black shades of night fall upon it, foreshadowing darkly the gloom even now descending on the souls of Macbeth and his wife. She has sworn to do tliis and she will not draw back. No airy daggers mock at her, and she arranges, with un- faltering skill, all the details of the plot. For a while she has succeeded in suspending her woman ' s nature, and she thinks of nothing but how to accomplish the deed. Yet, try as she will, she cannot stifle the memories of the Past as they come thronging back to her : Had he not resembled My father as he slept, I had done it. Did the sight of the venerable old king, sleeping in peace his last earthly sleep, remind her of her white-haired father, whom she Md loved so well in the old, glad days of her girlhood ? We can imagine that she turned away witli a sob, her res(jlution not weak- ened, but her heart softened and touched. At last, Macbeth ' s courage is screwed to the sticking place, and the deed of dreadful note is done. Then comes the reaction. Be- fore the accomplishment of her design she had paid no heed to the terrors of the night, but now every sound frightens her, and she hears voices calling through the darkness — Sleep, sleep no more ; Macbeth doth murder sleep —