“To-morrow—as he purposes,” faltered Macbeth, avoiding his wife’s direct gaze.
“Oh, never shall sun that morrow see!” cried Lady Macbeth. “Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men may read strange matters. To beguile the time, look like the time; bear welcome in your hand, your eye, your tongue; look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under it. He who is coming must be provided for, and you shall put this night’s great business into my despatch.”
“We will speak further,” said Macbeth, still irresolute.
“Only look up clear,” said Lady Macbeth; “to alter favour ever is to fear. Leave all the rest to me.”
The counsel Lady Macbeth gave her husband she was quite ready to carry out herself. King Duncan was welcomed with smiling courtesy, and the gentle old King was charmed by the grace and kind attention of his hostess.
The castle itself was pleasantly situated; the air was fresh and sweet, and so mild that the guests of summer, the temple-haunting martins, built in every nook and coign of vantage. In truth, everything around seemed to breathe peace and innocent security.
But the hearts of the master and mistress of this castle were far from the loyalty they paraded to their royal guest, though the unbending will of Lady Macbeth was lacking to her husband. Torn with conflicting thoughts, he stole away from the chamber where King Duncan was supping, in order to ponder alone over the problem whether or not he should commit this crime. There were many reasons that cried out against it. First, Macbeth was the kinsman and subject of Duncan, both strong reasons against the deed. Then, he was the host of Duncan, and as such should have barred the door against his murderer, not borne the knife himself. Duncan had shown himself so meek in his high office that all his virtues would plead in his behalf, and fill the land with horror and pity at his fate. Macbeth had no spur to urge him onward except his vaulting ambition, which might overleap its aim and fail, after all.
Missing her husband from the supper-room, Lady Macbeth followed him into the deserted hall, and when he said to her, “We will proceed no further in this business,” she overwhelmed him with the bitterest contempt. She taunted him with his pitiful lack of resolution, and derided him for his cowardly want of valour—“Letting ‘I dare not’ wait upon ‘I would,’ like the poor cat in the adage,” as she expressed it. When Macbeth suggested that they might fail, she laughed the idea to scorn. “We fail!” she cried. “But screw your courage to the sticking-place, and we’ll not fail.” Then she sketched out the plan of how they might proceed. When Duncan was asleep, she would drug with wine the two soldiers who kept watch at his door, and what then would prevent her and her husband doing anything they liked to the unguarded King? And, finally, what would prevent their laying the blame on the two drowsy officers, who would thus bear the guilt of the murder?
Fired with admiration for his wife’s undaunted courage, Macbeth made no further demur, and the murder of their guest, the King, was agreed on.