“Yes, my dear, I went to the theetter myself once when I was quite a girl, younger ’n you be, I guess. ’Twas Uncle ’Bijah Lane that took me, ’n’ he was so upsot by their hevin’ a fun’ral all acted out on the stage, that he come home and told Ma ’twa’n’t no fit place for young girls to go to, ’n’ I ain’t never ben inside a theetter sence. Doos seem good to see play-actin’ agin after all these years, I declare it doos!”—and Miss Becky took up her sewing, which she had laid down in a moment of enthusiasm.
“If you liked it half as well as I like to do it, Miss Becky, you’d like it even better than you do now,” replied Lady Macbeth, with a cheerful gusto, somewhat at odds with her tragic character.
Nannie Ray, herself still very new to 197 the delights of theatre-going, had recently seen a great actress play Lady Macbeth, and, fired with the spirit of emulation, she had been enacting the sleep-walking scene for the benefit of her country neighbour. Miss Becky Crawlin lived only half a mile down the road from the old Ray homestead, where the family were in the habit of spending six months of the year. She and Nannie had always been great cronies, Miss Becky finding a perennial delight in “that child’s goin’s on.”
The “child” meanwhile had come to be sixteen years old, but no one would have given her credit for such dignity who had seen the incongruous little figure perched upon the slippery haircloth sofa, twinkling with delight at Miss Becky’s encomiums. She wore a voluminous nightgown, from under the hem of which a pink gingham ruffle insisted upon poking itself out; her long black hair hung over her shoulders in sufficiently tragic strands; her cheeks, liberally powdered with flour, gleamed treacherously pink through a 198 chance break in their highly artificial pallor, while portentous brows of burnt cork did their best to make terrible a pair of very girlish and innocent eyes. A touch of realism which the original Lady Macbeth lacked was given by a streak of red crayon which lent a murderous significance to the small brown hand.
“I declare!” her admiring auditor went on, stitching away to make up for lost time, “I can’t see but you do’s well’s the lady I saw—only she was dressed prettier, and went round with a wreath on her head. A wreath’s always so becomin’! We used to wear ’em May Day, when I was a girl. They was made o’ paper flowers, all colours, so’s you could suit your complexion, and when it didn’t rain I must say we looked reel nice. ’Twas surprisin’, though, how quick a few drops o’ rain would wilt one o’ them paper wreaths right down so’s you could scurcely tell what ’twas meant for.”
“Tell me some more about the girl with the wreath, Miss Becky,” said Lady Macbeth, longing to curl herself up in a 199 corner, but too mindful of her tragic dignity to unbend.
“Well, she looked reel pretty, but she didn’t hev sperit enough to suit my idees. She was kind o’ lackadaisical and namby-pamby, ’n’ when her young man sarsed her she didn’t seem to hev nothin’ to say for herself. I must say ’twas a heathenish kind of a play anyway, ’n’ I ain’t surprised that Uncle ’Bijah got sot agin it. The language wa’n’t sech as I’d ben brought up to, either.”
Lady Macbeth had leaned forward and was clasping her knees, thus unconsciously widening the expanse of pink gingham visible beneath the white robe. She was glad she had modified her Shakespeare to suit her listener, though “Out, dreadful spot!” was not nearly as bloodcurdling as the original.
Miss Becky, meanwhile, had not paused in her narration.
“There was a long-winded young man,” she was saying, “him that sarsed his girl, ’n’ he went slashin’ round, killin’ folks off in a kind of an aimless way, an’––” 200
“It must have been Hamlet that you saw!” cried Nannie, much excited. “Oh, I do so want to see Hamlet!”
“Yes, Hamlet; that was it. And then there was a ghost in it that sent the shivers down my back; ’n’ a king ’n’ queen; ’n’ the king looked for all the world like Deacon Ember, Jenny Lowe’s grandpa, that died before you was born; ’n’ I declare, I did enjoy it! ’Twas jest like bein’ alive in history times! Why, I ain’t had sech shivers down my spine’s the ghost give me, sence that day, till I seen you standin’ there tryin’ to wash your hands without any water, ’n’ your eyes rollin’ fit to scare the cat!”
“Would you like to have me do it again for you, Miss Becky?” asked Nan, springing to her feet with renewed ardour. And straightway she stationed herself at the end of the little room and began propelling herself forward with occasional erratic halts.
The September sunshine came slanting through the tiny panes of glass at the window, and touched with impartial grace 201 the youthful figure of distracted mien, the worsted tidies on the haircloth sofa, and the neat alpaca occupant of the stuffed “rocker.” Again the sewing was forgotten, and Miss Becky’s glittering spectacles were fixed upon the tragic queen. As the queer little figure stalked solemnly down the room, eyes fixed in a glassy stare, hands wringing one another distressfully; as a moving wail rent the air, to the effect that “all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand,” a most agreeable succession of shivers made a highway of Miss Becky’s spine.
“Why don’t you ever go to the theatre now, Miss Becky?” Nannie asked, when, having laid aside her tragic toggery, she came in her own person to take her leave. “I should think you’d like to go again.”
“Oh, yes, I should be reel tickled to go again, but I ain’t got nobody to go with, and, well—there’s other reasons besides.”
“All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.”
202
Nannie blushed to think how inconsiderate she had been to force her old friend to allude, even indirectly, to her poverty, and she walked up the dusty road to her own gate, filled with compunction. Just outside the gate was a little wilderness of goldenrod and asters. She thought what a pity it was they should get so gray with dust. Poor things, they could not help it; they had to stay where chance had planted them unless somebody picked them and carried them away, and even then they left their roots behind them. Somehow they made her think of Miss Becky, living her little narrow, stationary life all alone in the old tumble-down farmhouse. And just at this point in her reflections a delightful scheme came into her head.
Now, Nannie was the recipient of a slender monthly allowance intended for gloves and ruchings, postage stamps, and the like, and, having spent the last four months far from the allurements of city shops, she happened at this juncture to be in funds. Her stock of gloves, to be sure, was pretty well exhausted, and Christmas was only a few months away. But Miss Becky was nearer still, and Nannie had no hesitation between the 203 two claims. As a natural consequence it happened that, one pleasant day early in October, Miss Becky, in her best black bonnet, found herself steaming up to Boston, about to do Nannie “a real favour” by chaperoning her to the theatre. Miss Becky was so much impressed by the gravity of her responsibility that she hardly took in the fact that she was going to the theatre herself!
They were to see The Shaughraun—a play which her best friend had assured Nannie was “just great”; and as the train rushed up to town the young hostess was at a loss to decide whether she was happier on her own account or on Miss Becky’s. To be sure, she was just a little disappointed about Miss Becky, who seemed curiously silent and stiff; and when they came out of the station and walked up the crowded city street, the old lady held her by the sleeve and looked bewildered and frightened.
“How long is it since you’ve been in Boston?” Nannie asked, looking up into the anxious old face framed in the black 204 silk bonnet which looked twice as old-fashioned as ever before.
“Not sence Sophia was married ’n’ we came up to select her weddin’ gownd. I was quite a girl then, an’ I guess I felt more at home in a crowd than I do now. We don’t often hev much of a crowd out our way.”
They were among the first to take their seats at the theatre. Mr. Ray had got places for them only three rows back from the stage, and, once established there, Nannie felt that they were in a safe haven, where her guest could grow calm and responsive again.
At first Miss Becky was almost too overawed to speak, but after a while she got the better of the situation and began telling Nannie all about Sophia and her “true-so,” and how they got lost on their way to the station and almost missed their train, which was the only train “out” in old times.
“I do hope we sha’n’t miss our train to-night, my dear! It doos seem’s though we might ’f they don’t begin pretty soon,” 205 and the old lady—for a very old lady she seemed to have become all of a sudden—fidgeted in her chair, and looked over her shoulder to see if the seats were not filling up.
“We sha’n’t lose our train, Miss Becky,” Nannie assured her. “You know it doesn’t go until half-past five o’clock, and the play is always over before five. And even if we did miss it we could take the seven-fifteen.”
“Oh, dear, no! I sh’d feel reel bad to miss the train. Why, it gits dark by six o’clock, ’n’ ’twouldn’t be safe for us to be goin’ round the city streets after dark. We might git garroted or, or—spoken to! Dear me! I wish they would begin!”
“If it gets late, Miss Becky, we won’t wait for the end of the play,” said Nannie, while a very distinct pang seized her at thought of missing anything.
“I think that would be better!” Miss Becky cried, with evident relief. “Don’t you think it might be better to go out a little early, anyway? They’ll be such a crowd when everybody tries to go out to 206 once that we might git delayed. My! what a sight of people there is already! And up in the galleries, too! Ain’t ............