University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

—A room in the Earl of Buchan's Castle.
Enter the Earl and the Countess of Buchan, and the Earl of Fife.
Countess of Buchan.
Once more, I beg you, brother, on my knees,
To undertake the duty of your race.
Now, while I plead, they may be crowning him,
And no Macduff to gird his curling hair.
Eleven kings from Malcolm Canmore's time
Our ancestors have perfected with gold,
Laying the ruddy chaplet on their brows
Like magic dawn that tops the day with light.
It is a custom that has come to mean
The thing it garnished; and he cannot be
The King of Scots, however just his claim,
However consecrated, sceptred, throned,
Who is not crowned by you.

Fife.
I am the friend
Of England, of your husband; finally
Be answered I beseech you. If you plead
Again with such hot vehemence, I'll think
Your husband is a fool to slight the word
That birds have carried of the Bruce and you.

Countess of Buchan.
If I were richer than to need your help,
I'd let you know that brother's quality
Who dares to doubt his mother's daughter. Shame!
But I am passionate, and so are you:
You meant no wrong. You'll do this, will you not?

Fife.
Why! here's a woman!—What a woman! Well!
I tell you I am England's friend, which means
The foe of any upstart such as Bruce;
And I am Buchan's friend, which means the foe
Of Buchan's mortal foe, the outlaw Bruce.
I tell you this, and yet you beg of me
To do for Bruce the service needed most
To make him mighty in his enmity.

Countess of Buchan.
If you were armed to fight a champion,
And he had lost his helm before you met,
You would not do despite to chivalry,
And take advantage of his naked head,
But find him in a morion, or unclasp
Your own, and equally defended, charge.
Be chivalrous to Bruce; make him a king
That Edward may be vantageless in that.
Then fight for Edward—with your puissance, fight.

Fife.
I think you're mad. This pertinacity,
Which you intend shall urge me to comply—
Which you conceive no doubt a sign of strength,
But which I judge a sign of vanity—
Is one of women's weapons, well-approved,
With which she jags to death a stronger will.
But my resolve is harnessed, and your dart
Turns off it blunt—and spent I hope.

Buchan.
You hear;
I said you could not move him.—Come away—
I'm sorry you have set your mind on this.

[Fife and Buchan go out.
Countess of Buchan.
To toss my hair, to weep, to rate my maid,
Are small reliefs I ne'er resorted to;
And now I must do something notable.
What if I went and crowned the Bruce myself?
Ah! here's a thought that's like a draught of wine!
My brother whose the office is, resiles:
Mine—mine it is!—But how?—but if I did?
Their tongues, their tongues! their foul imaginings!
Is the world wicked as its thought is? Love?
There's no one would believe me if I vowed
Upon my deathbed, between heaven and earth,
I understand no meaning in the word.
Maidens have lovers, and they sigh and wake;
Wives love their husbands, and they wake and weep:
But never, never have I loved a man
As I see women love—with bursting hearts,
With fire and snow at variance in their cheeks,
With arching smiles, the heraldry of joy,
Whose rainbow shadows shine on hot, hard tears;
With cruel passion, dying ecstasy,
With rapture of the resurrection morn.
I have not loved. It may be to my shame,
But justly to the world's, condemning me
For deeds no cause could work me to commit.
If I take horse to Scone, farewell my fame,
Which halts yet at the threshold. Who's this?
Enter James Crombe.
Crombe,
Do you remember in my father's house
Your life once stood in danger for a crime—
Which I'll not name—when mercy at my plea
Was meted you in place of punishment?

Crombe.
Well I remember.

Countess of Buchan.
You were thankful then,
And held your life at my command. The time—

Crombe.
My lady, if some service you require
Perilling my life, I'll do it willingly;
But had you urged my love, my duteous love,
And not my debt, I had been happier.

Countess of Buchan.
I beg your pardon, sir. Indeed, I think
The service I require may cost your life,
But surely something dearer. I am whirled
From thought to thought: my mind lacks breath. Good Crombe,
You owe me nothing. Will you, if I bid,
Procure me black dishonour, and yourself
A name of loathing?

Crombe.
No, my lady.

Countess of Buchan.
How?

Crombe.
If I beheld you hurrying to your shame,
I'd keep your honour holy with my sword,
And send it hot to heaven.

Countess of Buchan.
Well.—You're a Scot?
I mean, you long for Scotland's freedom.

Crombe.
Yes.

Countess of Buchan.
Are you acquainted with the news?

Crombe.
Of Bruce?
I've heard they mean to crown him king to-day;
But since my lord of Fife is England's friend—

Countess of Buchan.
Yes, yes! But are you glad?

Crombe.
Most heartily.
I think of joining Bruce.

Countess of Buchan.
My timorous heart,
Fie, fie!—I knew you were a noble man.
You will put no construction but the right
On what I mean to do. Both you and I
Must be dishonoured in the world's regard:
I, an unfaithful wife; you, go-between.
Saddle two horses; lead them secretly
A mile beyond the castle. There I'll mount
And ride with you to Scone. Go, instantly.
I, Isobel Macduff, will crown Bruce king.

Crombe.
But, noble lady—not for fear, but safety—
What of pursuit?

Countess of Buchan.
Pursuit? I am a mint,
And coin ideas. Come—come out! It's gold!
My husband's horses must be aired to-day.
You'll see it done. Some of the grooms we'll bribe,
And some will come unbought, and some we'll force
Either to follow us, or quit their steeds:
Leave nothing in the stables that can run.
My lords—ha! ha!—are nowhere in the chase.

Crombe.
Captain, and countess, mistress, service-worthy,
Be confident in me, as I in you,
And the deed's done.

[Goes out.
Countess of Buchan.
Now, world, wag, wag, your tongues!
I sacrifice my fame to make a king:
And he will raise this nation's head again
That lies so low; and they will honour him;
And afterwards, perhaps, they'll honour me.
Or if they slight me and my modest work,
I shall be dead: I have enough to bear
Of disrespect and slander here to-day,
Without forecasting railing epitaphs.
But some—nay, many of the worthiest,
And many simple judgments too, will see
The sunlight on my deed. This, I make sure:
No Scot's allegiance can be held from Bruce
Because he was not crowned by a Macduff.—
And if I love him, what is that to him?
That's a good saying. So is this, I make:
If I do love him, what is that to me!

[Goes out.