by Peggy Bacon
The Hawleys were impressed by the children’s courage in risking a second encounter with the villain in order to return the boat to them.
“So that is the fellow who stole it!” said Dr. Hawley. “He sounds like a thoroughly bad character. You both behaved with enterprise and daring. But there is one thing I cannot understand! In the beginning, when you found the boat, what made you think it was yours?”
Jim flushed and Phoebe answered for them both. “We wanted a boat so much and Nurse told me that a constant wish is a prayer, so I wished and wished. And Jim prayed and prayed for a whole week, so of course we thought the boat was sent from Heaven and that our prayers were answered. That’s all.”
“But they weren’t,” Jim said bitterly. “They never are. I’m not going to pray for anything ever again.”
The clergyman was startled and distressed. “Don’t say that, Jim! You must pray every night, not only for a boat. And as to that...perhaps you haven’t allowed enough time for Heaven to answer your prayers…Go home and pray some more.”
Breakfast was over. The children thanked the Hawleys and bade them farewell. They were feeling elated. They had no boat, to be sure, but they had succeeded in thwarting the awful man with the purple nose. They had done a worthy deed in returning the boat, for which they had been heartily thanked and complimented, and they had been given a most delicious breakfast. The next thing was to get home unseen by Nurse and tidy themselves in time for the breakfast bell.
This they contrived to do while Annie was having her tea and toast in the kitchen. They had not been missed, and as the clock struck eight, they appeared in the dining room wearing expressions of such studied innocence that Nurse became suspicious.
“What mischief are you coverin’ up now, that you’re pretendin’ to be plaster saints?” she asked sharply, as she loaded their plates with buckwheat cakes drenched in maple syrup.
The children, already full of strawberries and cream, sausages, baked ham and scrambled eggs, hashed potatoes, hot buttered scones and honey, picked the cakes to pieces with their forks and took wee sips of milk.
Nurse scolded them for eating so little and then came alarmed for fear they were ill...“Coming down with something,” as she said. She felt their foreheads, decided they had no fever, but sent them back to bed “just to make sure.” And there Phoebe and Jim we forced to remain for the rest of the morning, to their great disgust.
After the children went home, Mrs. Hawley said: “I wonder if it’s safe for the Paisley children to wander all over the countryside alone.”
“You needn’t worry about the poacher, my dear,” her husband replied. “Now that his presence is known, he will be sure to leave town. The children will be quit safe.”
On both these points, Dr. Hawley was mistaken, as I well knew. Instead of running away from Heatherfield, the man, whose name was Murphy, had settled down. The woodcutter’s cabin suited him to perfection. How could a poacher find a better place in which to pass the summer? There was a hearth where he could cook his food. There was a mattress to sleep on. There were a few bits of furniture, some crockery, a cooking pot or two. There was plenty of fish in the stream, game in the woods. The woodcutter wouldn’t appear until the autumn. Meanwhile, this was an ideal hideaway.
Every evening, Murphy went to a tavern called the Jugged Hare, where he consumed huge tankards of ale and listened carefully to all the village gossip. Here he learned that Captain Paisley and his wife were in China and would be gone for months to come; that the uncle left in charge was “a lovesick loon, too daft about his bride to care what happens”; that the children’s nurse was “a hag as old as the hills, too ailing and decrepit to control them”; that the youngsters “ran as wild as the she-bear’s cubs.” Hearing such tales at the Jugged Hare, Murphy was sure that he had nothing to fear by remaining in Heatherfield. Nobody in the Paisley house could bother him or try to drive him out of the Paisley woods.
Murphy had lost possession of the Hawleys’ boat and for that he swore revenge on the “Paisley brats.” He would lie in wait and “frighten the daylights out o’ them.” He would threaten to kill them if they “blabbed about him.” “To larn them a lesson,” and show them meant what he said, he would “thrash them within inch of their lives.” Certainly, Phoebe and Jim were some danger from this unpleasant man.
However, they were not as unprotected as Murphy believed, nor was he as safe as he thought. This was the sort of occasion, when I might be useful, as I have often been to the people in the house. Since Murphy was living on the Paisley land, he was within my reach, and I decided to oust him if I could, though I foresaw that might be a difficult task.
The trouble was that Murphy started drinking at the Jagged Hare before the sun had set. Late at night he would come reeling home, collapse on the mattress, go to sleep at once and never wake up until the following morning. Being quite invisible by day, it was impossible for me to haunt him. Though I possess the enviable power to terrify mankind and the higher animals, and can even make a lowly turtle nervous, I have no muscular strength. I couldn’t hit Murphy or shove or shake or pinch him and my hisses were not loud enough to wake him. I pondered the problem deeply for some time.
At last my brilliant brain, which never fails me, produced a brilliant plan: I would employ an army of Iaborers for the heavy work which I was unable to do.
By day, as you know, the woods are full of activity, with birds and beasts of all sorts coming and going. Those creatures, I saw, were of no use to me, since they retire at dusk. Then the night shift comes on duty, and the woods are alive with a different set of beings altogether.
Strange to relate, these nocturnal creatures, who make their living prowling about in the dark, are as frightened of ghosts as those who work by day — except for moths, gnats, mosquitoes and bumping bugs, who fall in love with me when I start to glow. Such were the humble serfs whom I enlisted to do the job I couldn’t do myself.
After Murphy fell asleep that night, I flew through the Paisley woods, routing out and rounding up the nighttime population — every wakeful critter I could find — scaring them, stalking them, herding them, shooing and sweeping them closer and closer toward the log cabin, and finally driving them in through the open door. Then I hung in the doorway, like a lantern, so that they dared not escape.
It was a truly fascinating collection, quite a nice little zoo. There were nine bats, two owls, a dozen field mice, three skunks, seven rats, a possum, a pair of whippoorwills, a fox and a wild cat, to say nothing of a dense cloud of insects. It was not a congenial gathering, though the creatures loathed my company most of all.
The hullabaloo that followed was a huge success. The panic was superb. Above the hooting, howling, squeaking and squealing, rose the bark of the fox and the screams of the wildcat — whose voice, as you may know, is operatic. The tiny room quaked with the frantic scuttling and scampering; the bats shot from corner to corner, the owls flapped and floundered; the wildcat, the fox and the rats raced over the mattress, clawing, snapping, fighting and, incidentally, scratching and nipping the man who was lying there.
Murphy awoke in the midst of the turmoil and din. Shaken with horror, he leaped from his bed in a jiffy. Seizing his rod and his gun, he dove out the door and disappeared into the forest. From that moment on, Heatherfield knew him no more.
A few days later, the children were thrilled to discover a neat little red and white rowboat down by the stream. It was complete with oars and it was obvious that the boat was intended for them, for across the bow was painted: The Phoebe Jim.
They confided their exciting find to Nurse, who marveled and rejoiced at their good fortune.
“Oh, Nurse! We’ve been wishing and praying and wishing and praying,” Phoebe cried, jumping about in ecstasy, “and now at last Heaven has answered our prayers. Dr. Hawley told us to go on praying and he was right.”
“And who is your Dr. Hawley?” Annie asked.
“He’s the rector of Buttervale,” said Ji
m. “He lost his boat and we got it back for him and he and Mrs. Hawley were ever so pleased. I don’t believe the boat is a gift from Heaven. I bet it really comes from Dr. Hawley.”
Phoebe was disturbed by this idea; but pious Annie was quick to settle the point: “Look here, me lad! You prayed and you got yer wish, so you can be certain Heaven had a hand in it. The boat is meant for you, so don’t be doubtin’! Sure and the Reverend is a man of God. He does the Lord’s work.”
Fourth Life
[1800]
NOTHING MUCH
THE CHILDREN were huddled around the old red chair when Opalina opened her eyes next night.
“Now for your fourth life!” Phil said avidly.
“So you’re here for another story!” Opalina hissed, blinking at them. “You seem to think it’s my bounden duty to sit here and entertain you.”
“Why, Opalina!” Phillip was taken aback. “Of course we don’t! We thought you liked to talk.”
“And we love to listen,” Ellen said, more tactfully.
“Please tell us a story,” Jeb coaxed.
“Very well, youngling, for your sake. As for you two older ones,” she went on, “I don’t object to indulging your curiosity, providing you appreciate the fact that I am conferring a unique privilege. Seldom has a mere human had the chance to hear the autobiography of a ghost, especially the ghost of a Persian princess.”
“We know that,” Ellen said. “It’s a great treat and we’re most awfully grateful.”
“And we want to hear your fourth life,” said Phillip.
“But first,” said Ellen, who liked to keep things orderly, “what happened to Phoebe and Jim when they grew up? Did they stay here?”
“No indeed! They both left home, worse luck! Jim went to Nantucket and joined the crew of his uncle’s whaling ship, the Christobel, and Phoebe married a dairy farmer in Vermont. It was Ben who remained in the old homestead, much to my regret.”
“Why? Wasn’t Ben nice?”
“Nice! Ben was as nice as nice could be! Nobody couId possibly dislike him. But he was a very uninteresting housemate, and a disappointment to his father.
“Contrary to the Captain’s expectations, Ben didn’t develop a love for the sea. Ben was obedient. He did his duty and he was a satisfactory cabin boy; but he showed no aptitude for seafaring and his interest in foreign lands was confined to their coinage. In the countries and cities that the Paisleys visited, Ben collected samples of the local money. This hobby was the beginning of his career.”
I spent my fourth life with Benjamin Paisley, and a mighty dull life it was. He grew up to be a scholarly bachelor, a numismatist, a student of ancient coins. He traveled throughout the world in order to find them, and while he was gone on those long voyages, the house would be closed and I would be all alone.
And nothing interesting happened when he was home. Mr. Paisley devoted his entire time to poring over his latest acquisitions and writing learned treatises about them. He kept his coin collections in the secret room and only showed them to one or two cronies.
Nothing happened here for years and years, till Mr. Paisley died at the age of eighty and the place was sold to some people named Cumberland.
Opalina yawned and washed her face, as if the very thought of all those years with nothing doing bored her nearly to death. Placing her chin on her paws, she closed her eyes.
“Oh, please don’t go to sleep!”
“We want to hear!”
“What about the Cumberland family?”
“Talk, kitty. Say some more!”
OpaIina simpered at Jeb indulgently. Rousing herself, she took up the subject of the Cumberlands.
Fifth Life
[1852]
THE TROUBLE WITH TWILL
MR. AND MRS. CUMBERLAND were rich, but they had no fun, for they were stout and stuffy. Mrs. Cumberland fancied herself a great invalid. She lay all day in her boudoir, ringing for her maid to come and hand her things. Mr. Cumberland shut himself in his study and wrote long-winded letters to Congressmen and other busy people in public life, airing his opinions and advice. Evenings, this dignified pair got all dressed up and met for a dinner of many courses, served in style by the butler and the footman. After that, they played a game of Patience and retired for the night.
They had one child, a girl named Emily.
“Children are too much for my poor nerves,” Mrs. Cumberland would groan.
“Children should be seen and not heard,” her husband would reply sternly; though as to that, neither of them saw very much of their daughter.
Each day Emily came to her parents in the breakfast room to say good morning; at bedtime she came to the drawing room to say good night. She had her meals in the nursery with her governess. That satisfied Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland.
“Twill is a treasure,” Mrs. Cumberland would say.
“An excellent woman,” Mr. Cumberland agreed. And Miss Twill certainly had the qualities that grown-up human beings seem to admire.
She was reliable, neat and very strict. She taught Emily her lessons, held her hand tightly whenever they went outdoors, cut up her meat very small, never let her touch matches, knives or scissors, and read aloud to her in a voice that Emily detested. She stayed with Emily every waking moment and ordered her about from morning to night. Emily always did as she was told, but if she didn’t obey fast enough, Miss Twill would threaten to lock her in the haunted room.
By that time, this room had quite a reputation. Not that I ever made a nuisance of myself. I only used my talents in good causes, such as punishing Tootsie or Jeremy Greene. On other occasions, as I have said before, I had rid the house of undesirable guests. Nevertheless, preposterous tales were told, spread by ignorant, superstitious people. The grisliest beings were said to inhabit the place — headless specters, rattling skeletons, screaming banshees, bodies in clanking chains! The servants wouldn’t set foot in this room after dark. Although it was used as a sewing room in the daytime, nobody ever slept here any more. Miss Twill herself didn’t believe in ghosts but she terrified Emily with all those stories in order to make her behave.
Next to the Cumberlands, on the road to the village, lived a little girl about Emily’s age who led a very different sort of life. Anne Evan’s father was the village schoolmaster, her mother was the village dressmaker, and Anne took care of her younger brothers and sisters.
It was Anne who helped the little ones bathe and dress, Anne who fed the baby and gave him his airing, Anne who ran all the errands for her mother. Everyone in the village knew Anne Evans, and Anne knew her way all over the countryside. She was a free and independent child and proud of her responsibilities. She pitied Emily with all her heart whenever she saw her being dragged along by that stiff, unpleasant-looking governess. Now and then she would catch Emily’s eye and Emily would return the glance with longing, for Emily hadn’t anyone to play with and had never known what it was to have a friend.
Each day at three o’clock, weather permitting, Miss Twill and Emily set out for the village, where Miss Twill often did a bit of shopping. One snowy February afternoon they were returning from the dry goods store and were halfway up the Cumberlands’ driveway, when Miss Twill discovered she had left her purse on the counter.
“Run on in, Emily,” she commanded. “I must go back for it. I won’t be long. Leave your boots in the hall and hang up your coat. Go straight to the nursery and study your arithmetic until I get back.” She turned and strode away at a brisk pace. But for the first time in her whole life, Emily deliberately disobeyed.
On the way home, passing the Evanses’ house, Emily had seen the Evans children rolling a giant snowball in the yard. Anne had waved to Emily, beckoned and smiled. Here was a chance in a thousand, Emily thought, us she pelted back again along the drive.
She knew she must be on the lookout for Miss Twill. The moment Miss Twill appeared way off in the distance, Emily must race home ahead of her. Miss Twill was very nearsighted. Emily could spot her long befor
e Miss Twill could catch sight of Emily. The shops were over half a mile away. She would be safe from any interference for twenty-five minutes at least.
Twenty-five minutes of freedom! Twenty-five minutes in which to make friends with Anne! Twenty-five minutes to become acquainted with the younger children, to fool with the giant snowball, to push it about and see it grow bigger and bigger, to play peekaboo around it with the baby, to chase and tag the others, be tagged in turn, to laugh and shout, fall down and wallow in snow! Twenty-five minutes of undiluted joy! Twenty-five minutes, indeed! It seemed like three!
And then—
“Emily!!” A shrill voice cried. “Emily!! Come here at once, I say!! At once! Do you hear?”
Miss Twill pranced over the snow like a mettlesome horse, seized her charge by the wrist and yanked her way, without allowing a moment for good-bye.
“You wicked girl, how dare you run away and racket about with those common, ratty urchins! Never you mind! You’ll catch it when we get home! It’s the haunted room for you, and no mistake!”
Soon after that, the sobbing child was thrust through this door and the key was turned in the lock. By then it was dark—
“Oh, dear! How awful!” cried Ellen. “That horrid Miss Twill! And poor, poor Emily!”
“Poor little kid!” echoed Phil.
“Poor why?” Jeb was worried.
“Poor nobody, youngling,” Opalina soothed. “And why must you two carry on that way? Emily was simply locked in with me! What’s so bad about that, I’d like to know?”
“But she must have been so scared,” Ellen protested, “after all the things Miss Twill had told her.”
“To be sure she was — at first! She trembled and whimpered and stared around with eyes as big as mine. But there weren’t any headless spectors or clanking chains and I made myself as charming as possible.”
