A Bookful Of Girls Part 18

"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 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 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, st.i.tching 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 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 sa.r.s.ed 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 sa.r.s.ed his girl, 'n' he went slas.h.i.+n' round, killin' folks off in a kind of an aimless way, an'----"

"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 s.h.i.+vers 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 s.h.i.+vers 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 suns.h.i.+ne came slanting through the tiny panes of gla.s.s at the window, and touched with impartial grace 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 gla.s.sy 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 s.h.i.+vers 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 n.o.body to go with, and, well--there's other reasons besides."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand."]

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 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 a.s.sured 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 silk bonnet which looked twice as old-fas.h.i.+oned 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," 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 a.s.sured 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 once that we might git delayed. _My!_ what a sight of people there is already! And up in the galleries, too! Ain't you 'most afeared to stay in sech a crowd?"

"Oh, no, Miss Becky. It's just like this always, and nothing ever happens."

"Them galleries don't look strong enough to hold many people. Why, Nannie, see! They ain't any _pillows_ under 'em! What do you suppose keeps 'em up?"

"I don't know, I'm sure; but they're safe enough."

At this point the orchestra struck up a popular tune and silence fell upon Miss Becky. She sat, stiff and severe, gazing straight before her, and when Nannie ventured to make a remark she received only a reproving look in reply.

How strange it was, Nannie thought! She had meant to give Miss Becky such a treat, and here sat her guest, looking anxious and distressed--yes, more anxious and distressed than she looked a year ago when her cow died. But then the play had not begun yet, Nannie reflected, with a gleam of hope. When the play had once begun, Miss Becky would forget all her worries and be as "tickled" as she had counted on her being. And when once the curtain had gone up, Nannie at least had no more misgivings. Her fancy was instantly taken captive, first by the charming young officer and his pretty Irish sweetheart, then by the fine old priest, then by Con himself,--dear, droll, happy-go-lucky Con, with his picturesque foibles, his bubbling humour, and his phenomenal virtues. From the moment of his entry, with "Tatters" just not at his heels, Nannie was all smiles and tears.

Miss Becky, meanwhile, sat erect as a ramrod, a look of perplexity s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g her wrinkles all out of shape. Her bonnet had got somewhat askew from her constant effort to keep an eye on those unsupported galleries, and there was a general air of discomfort about her, which was the first thing that struck Nannie when, as the curtain fell upon the first act, she turned to look at her.

"Aren't you enjoying it, Miss Becky?" she asked, with quick anxiety.

"Oh, yes, I'm hevin' a reel pleasant time. 'T ain't through yet, is it?"

"Why, no; it's only just begun. There's lots more! May Colby says that Con gets them all out of all their troubles and almost gets killed himself!"

"I sh'd think 't would take a long time. Are you sure 't ain't most five o'clock?"

"Oh, no; it's only three. See! And my watch is fast, too. Wasn't it funny about the letter?"

"Well, I didn't quite understand about that. What made 'em laugh so?"

"Why, that was because he couldn't read, and so he had to make it all up out of his head."

"Well!" declared Miss Becky, with strong disapproval, "I don't think he'd ought to hev deceived his mother that way; do you?"

This was a poser; but at that moment the orchestra came to the rescue with a new tune, and Nannie was spared the necessity of replying.

After that the play became every moment more exciting and the central figure more entirely captivating, and even between the acts Nannie was preoccupied and un.o.bservant. They had got to the prison scene, with all its ingenious intricacies of plot and stage machinery; Con had accomplished the rescue, and was scrambling over the rocks, when suddenly the sharp report of a rifle rang out, followed by another, and then another, in quick succession.

Instantly Nannie felt her arm clutched, and she heard Miss Becky saying: "You must come right away, this very minute!"

"Oh, please not, Miss Becky," she implored.

But there was a resolute gleam in Miss Becky's eye.

"Come right along, child," she whispered, hoa.r.s.ely, "come right along with me!"--and poor Nannie, to her consternation and chagrin, found herself absolutely obliged to follow.