“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.”