The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  It was May when the Captain, Kate and Benjamin sailed away on the good ship Mary Jane. Here at home the days were sunny, the fruit trees in bloom. Each morning Uncle Henry and Aunt Tillie, armed with a picnic lunch and a poetry book, would drive off into the country, returning home only in time for dinner and to bid the children good night. If running the household and caring for the children had actually depended on Henry and Tillie, everything would have broken down at once. Luckily, the servants were conscientious, capable and kind. Phoebe and Jim, nine and ten years old, were properly fed and bedded down as usual. Yet they were disappointed and forlorn.

  The Paisleys never allowed the pair much money. They were too apt to splurge at the pastry cook’s and make themselves sick on tarts and barley sugar. Sure that Henry would give them more than enough, the Captain had given them no money at all when he left. So here they were, without a penny to spend, when they actually needed several dollars.

  This time it wasn’t candy and cake they craved. It was a pair of oars. By accident they had discovered a rowboat, a neat little craft painted pink and green, tucked in a clump of willows down by the stream on the edge of the Paisleys’ woodlot. This was a dream come

  “Annie says a constant wish is a prayer,” Phoebe said, “and I’ve been wishing and wishing.”

  “And I’ve been praying and praying. That’s better,” Jim stated. “It was my prayers that did it.”

  The boat was obviously a gift from Heaven. All it needed was a pair of oars. The children had counted on their uncle for the necessary funds.

  “If we only had some oars,” Jim mourned, “we could go exploring downstream into the river and even out to sea. I wish we had oars!”

  “If we wished out loud in front of Uncle Henry, he might buy us oars,” Phoebe suggested.

  “That would be hinting and it’s rude to hint.”

  “How about asking him straight out for the money? I think he only needs to be reminded.”

  “Phoebe! We can’t ask for gifts, you know we can’t!”

  “Beggars do.”

  “That’s different. They beg for food, or for money to buy some food, because they’re paupers.”

  “So are we, paupers.”

  “We’re not! We have plenty to eat.”

  “But we have no money, so why can’t we be beggars?”

  “Because we don’t need the money for food, that’s why! Anyway, Uncle Henry and Aunt Tillie are already gone for the day, as usual.”

  There was a gloomy pause then Jim’s face brightened.

  “I’ll tell you what! Let’s pretend we’re beggars, just for a lark! We’ll dress up in rags and cut across to Buttervale where nobody knows us, and beg from door to door.”

  Phoebe clapped her hands joyfully. “Maybe we can collect enough money for oars.”

  “Oh, we won’t beg for money! That wouldn’t be fair.”

  Phoebe’s face fell. “Well, what can we beg for?”

  “Oh, nothing much…a bite to eat…a crust.”

  “But I hate the crust!” Phoebe cried. “I never eat crusts!”

  “You needn’t eat them, silly! When we get enough bread together, we’ll go to Grandpa Paisley’s and feed the swans.”

  “But Jim! We don’t need food and we do need money. Why can’t we beg for what we really want?”

  “Because we’re not real beggars. If we take money on false pretenses, we’re cheating, but it’s quite all right to accept a bit of food. If we’re going to act like beggars, a crust of bread is the proper thing to ask for. Come along! Let’s go look in the ragbag and see what we can find.”

  The huge ragbag hung from a nail in the sewing room and was stuffed with the family’s discarded clothing. This supplied Annie with the materials for making rag carpets, the hobby of her old age. Nobody was around. Jim and Phoebe dumped the contents of the bag on the floor.

  Here was an accumulation of years. The children were drawn to the brightest of the garments. Jim donned a pair of moth-eaten apple-green breeches and a dilapidated white satin waistcoat embroidered with water lilies and wading birds.

  Phoebe wavered between two voluminous ball gowns which had belonged to Grandma Angelica Trumbull: a pink brocade with bows down the front and a red-and-yellow striped taffeta. Both were tattered but dazzling, and too big for Phoebe.

  “Hurry up, do!” Jim urged; so she put on the taffeta, pinning the bodice to her underwaist to keep it from falling down; and Jim took the scissors and cut off the skirt ankle length, in a zigzag way, to make it look less grand.

  From a heap of headgear in the sewing-room cupboard, Jim chose a scarlet-tasseled nightcap, and Phoebe a wide-brimmed leghorn hat with roses and faded ribbons that tied under the chin.

  “You’re too dressed up,” Jim observed. “It’s the hat. You’d better take it off.”

  “What about you?”

  “That’s why I picked a nightcap instead of a tricorne. It looks more beggarly.”

  “Well, Mother insists on my wearing a hat to keep from getting freckled; and this old hat is ratty compared to mine. Don’t you think we ought to carry tin cups?”

  “They’re for pennies. We’ll need something bigger to hold all the crusts...bags or knapsacks.”

  “Baskets are better,” said Phoebe. “Mother’s rose baskets are in the downstairs hall.”

  “And we need staffs,” said Jim. “Beggars lean on staffs. We’ll take a couple of Father’s walking sticks.”

  Captain Paisley’s canes stood in a holder by the front door. He had a fine collection. Jim selected a silver mounted ebony, and Phoebe a malacca with an ivory knob carved in the shape of a dolphin.

  Thus attired, equipped with baskets and sticks, the children slipped out of the house, dodged through the shrubbery and plunged into the wood.

  It was three miles by road to the village of Buttervale, but they took a shortcut through the forest along a bridle path. When they came to a brook, they smeared some mud on their cheeks, for, as Jim remarked, beggars are always dirty. They emerged from the wood behind the Buttervale churchyard and the first house they came to was the parsonage.

  “Lean on your staff, Phoebe, and hobble a bit,” Jim commanded, as they went up the path and mounted the steps to the front porch.

  In answer to their knock, the door was opened by the clergyman himself.

  “What’s all this? And who are you?” he asked, gazing at the pair bent over their sticks.

  “We are beggars,” said Jim in a loud, bleak voice.

  “Penniless beggars without any pocket money,” Phoebe put in.

  “Orphans!” said Jim. “Mother and Father are in China...and we are abandoned by our careless guardians!”

  “Cast out in the cold!” Phoebe shouted, her blue eyes glittering with inspiration.

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the reverend gentleman, covering his mouth with his hand. “As a matter of fact, the weather struck me as unseasonably warm.”

  “If you were clad in rags,” Jim retorted with dignity, “you might feel chilly, too!”

  “Just look at my rags!” cried Phoebe excitedly, twirling her skirts to show where the silk had split. “And see the mud on my face!”

  “It is rather dirty,” the clergyman agreed. “And what is the cause of that?”

  “That shows we’re neglected,” said Phoebe.

  “Those nice pink cheeks bespeak good health,” said the clergyman.

  “It’s the outdoor life,” Phoebe replied promptly, “begging from door to door.”

  “We are pitiful waifs,” Jim stated in sepulchral tones.

  The clergyman spluttered and coughed behind his hand. “And what, may I ask, do you expect me to do about this utterly tragic situation?”

  “We have crept to your door to beg a crust of bread,” Jim declared, crouching over his stick.

  “And one for me too, please,” added his sister.

  “That should be easy to arrange,” said the clergyman. “Adelaide!” he called over his shoulder
. “Please come here a moment.”

  A kind-looking lady joined him in the doorway.

  “My dear wife,” said her husband, “I wish to introduce two pathetic beggars. As you may notice, their raiment, though picturesque, is all in rags. Their faces are dirty because they’re neglected, they tell me. They are cast out in the cold when the temperature is barely eighty degrees Fahrenheit. They beg a crust of bread, one apiece, and I feel that as Christians we cannot well refuse.”

  “Of course not, John!” said his lady, laughing heartlessly. She vanished down the hall and returned in a moment, bearing a plate of fruitcake.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you about the crusts, but Cook has used them all to stuff a goose. I hope you will accept some cake instead.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” the children exclaimed in unison, dropping the baskets and canes. Jim swept off his nightcap and bowed; Phoebe bobbed a curtsy, then each took a thick slab of cake from the pile on the plate.

  “I am so glad it’s cake and not crusts,” Phoebe said, munching contentedly. “I hate the crust!”

  “Then why did you ask for it?” the clergyman inquired.

  “Jim said we mustn’t ask for anything else, and we could go and feed the crusts to Grandpa’s swans.”

  There was a bench on each side of the door. The clergyman waved his hand. “Let us all be seated while the starving waifs nourish themselves.” He and his wife sat down side by side, and the children took the bench opposite.

  Jim blushed. “I never said we were starving, sir; but we are penniless and sort of lonesome. You see, Uncle Henry is in charge of us while Father and Mother and our older brother are in China. Father didn’t leave us any pocket money because Uncle Henry always gives us too much. But this time, Uncle seems to have forgotten.”

  “He’s forgotten all about us anyway,” Phoebe said mournfully, “now that he’s got Aunt Tillie.”

  “Aunt Tillie?”

  “She’s his bride.”

  “Ah! I begin to see the picture,” said their host, exchanging a smile with his wife. “But do you really need pocket money? Not all children are given money to spend.”

  “I know,” Jim replied, “but we need some oars for our boat.”

  “So you own a rowboat. Do you know how to row?”

  “I know how. Father taught me. And I’d teach Phoebe if we had some oars. Father’s oars are locked up in the boat house with his boat and Ben’s, while they’re away.”

  “Here’s an odd coincidence!” the clergyman exclaimed. “You have a boat but no oars, and I have oars but no boat. A few days ago my boat disappeared mysteriously. I’ll lend you my oars for a while, if you’ll take care of them, for I may want them back some day.”

  Delighted, the children thanked the kindly parson and assured him that they would take good care of the oars. Then, bidding their hostess good-bye, they followed the clergyman around the house, through a garden and a grove of locust trees, down to a boat house by the river’s edge.

  Their benefactor fetched the oars from the boat house and handed an oar to each.

  Slipping his basket over the oar, Jim shouldered it, the cane in his other hand, and Phoebe did likewise.

  “Have you far to go?” the clergyman inquired.

  “Only to Heatherfield, sir, by the bridle path. Our house is right on the other side of the wood.”

  “The old Trumbull place, where the Paisleys live? So you are Captain Paisley’s children! Hmm!” The clergyman stroked his chin and eyed them thoughtfully. “I think before you go I must say a word. I doubt if your father would be pleased to hear that his son and daughter were ragged and begging for crusts. And it wouldn’t be pleasant for your uncle and aunt if people got the impression that they were ill-treating you while your parents were on the other side of the world. Begging —”

  “But, sir!” Jim interrupted, crestfallen. “It’s only a game! We didn’t mean any harm!”

  “We were just pretending! Just for fun!” Phoebe’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Oh, I know that!” cried the clergyman hastily. “It was a jolly game and lots of fun! The two of you put on an excellent performance...quite as good as a play! But seriously, if you beg from door to door, you’ll meet some people who fail to see the joke. There are gossips here in Buttervale who know how to twist a straight tale into a corkscrew. Therefore, in return for the oars, I want you to promise me not to play beggars any more.”

  Jim and Phoebe promised rather soberly. Observing their long faces, the clergyman said: “Now children, when you’ve nothing better to do, come to us for a chat and a slice of cake. Maybe you’ll arrive by boat next time. The stream behind your house flows into the river not too far from here. And by the way, I am Dr. Hawley, My wife and I will always be glad to see you.”

  Comforted by this cordial invitation, the children bade their new found friend farewell and hurried home through the wood.

  “We won’t let Nurse see the oars. There’d be too many questions,” Jim said, as they walked along, and Phoebe agreed.

  When they had left, earlier that morning, the gaudy pair had escaped everyone’s notice. They were not so lucky upon their return at noon. No sooner had they secreted the oars in the woodshed and entered the house, than Nurse Annie waylaid them in the hall.

  “Wherever have you been, you scallywags? And what are you doing in them outlandish duds?” she demanded severely, her hands on her hips.

  “We were just playing a game,” Jim replied warily.

  “And rooting around in me ragbag, ye were! Draggin’ the stuff all over the sewing-room floor! Sure and I hope that none of the folks in Heatherfield laid eyes on yer!”

  “Oh, no, they didn’t, Nurse,” Phoebe assured her. “Only the —” Here Jim pinched her.

  “Only the what, miss? What was you blurtin’ out, when your brother stopped yer?”

  Silence.

  “Ah, you’re a pair, you are, and that’s the truth! Well, you’re late! Go and get rid of your idiotic finery and wash those filthy faces! Lunch is waitin’.”

  It was a beautiful meal of roast spring Iamb, creamed potatoes, asparagus from the garden, hot buttered corn bread, milk and Brown Betty. Annie helped them twice to everything, according to her belief that growing children should be stuffed.

  After lurch they felt a trifle heavy and went upstairs quite willingly when Nurse commanded them to go and take a nap. In fact, they fell asleep and didn’t awaken till midafternoon.

  “Hurry up, Phoebe, and put on your shoes,” said Jim, coming into her room, which was next to his. “We must get the oars and take them down to the boat.”

  “Are we going to be explorers?” asked his sister.

  “There isn’t time. It’s already half-past three. Tomorrow we’ll get Cook to fix us a picnic so we can be gone the whole day.”

  “Then what shall we be this afternoon, Jim?”

  “Let’s be pirates.”

  Phoebe was worried. “Maybe it’s wrong for some reason, like being beggars. And pirates are really bad.”

  “We won’t do anything wrong and no one will see us. We’ll simply dress up like pirates and get in our boat and I’ll teach you how to row.”

  Nurse had locked the sewing-room door to prevent them from helping themselves again to her carpet rags, so the children searched among their own belongings for things to make them look and feel piratical. There wasn’t much choice. Jim tied a bandanna across his forehead and Phoebe’s Roman sash around his waist, into which he stuck a toy sword. Phoebe put on a pair of Jim’s breeches, thrust a paper cutter through the belt and knotted a handkerchief around her neck.

  “Pirates wear gold hoops in their ears,” she said. “Curtain rings would do, but they’re all in the sewing-room.”

  “Never mind earrings. What we’ve got to have is the Jolly Roger. That’s the pirate’s flag. We can ink the skull and crossbones on a towel and tack it to Father’s bamboo walking stick.”

  When that was done, Jim said
they must both be bandaged.

  “Why bandaged?”

  “Because we’re desperate characters. We’ve been raiding seaports and scuttling privateers along the Spanish Main.”

  Fetching a roll of fine white linen bandage from Annie’s medicine chest, he bound up all eight of their arms and legs. The bottle of red ink from the Captain’s desk, dribbled generously over the bandages, gave a splendid impression of dreadful wounds.

  Finally they tiptoed out of the house, took the oars from the shed and ran down to the stream.

  As they got in the boat, Jim was annoyed to see that Phoebe was carrying her doll, Blue Belle. He always resented it when Phoebe contrived to play with her dolls during their expeditions.

  “Now why on earth did you have to bring Blue Belle?”

  “For an extra pirate, of course,” Phoebe replied.

  “She can’t be a pirate!”

  “If we can pretend we’re pirates, why can’t Blue Belle?”

  “Because she looks like a little bit of a child,” Jim snorted irritably. He crouched in the bow of the rowboat, forcing the bamboo flagpole through the iron ring that held the painter.

  The seat in the stern was hinged. Phoebe raised it and peered into the hollow space beneath. It contained fishing reel, a coil of rope and, wedged in a corner, a wad of something blue. It was a woolen muffler. Pulling it out, she wrapped it around her doll.

  “And now what are you doing?” Jim demanded.

  “Covering Blue Belle, so she won’t catch cold. She is our little seasick cabin boy,” Phoebe cooed in the sugary baby-talk voice she used with her dolls.

  “Listen here, Phoebe!” Jim exclaimed angrily. “Quit fooling with that doll! I’ll tell you what! If you aren’t going to play pirates properly, you can’t come along with me when I go exploring; and what’s more, I won’t teach you how to row!”

  This powerful threat made no impression whatever, for at that moment the children were startled to hear a guttural whisper in the nearby bushes.

  “What are you varmints doin’ in that there boat?”

  A face appeared between the leaves, a horrid face with a purple nose in the middle, eyes like blackberries and the rest of it covered with scraggly red bristles.