The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  A small white cat was all that Emily saw; and I whispered to her: “Never fear, my dear. I am the ghost of the Trumbull cat, Opalina, the only ghost on the premises. Let’s be friends.”

  Emily was a sensible girl and those words were enough to reassure her. That’s what’s good about children: they’re open-minded. They adapt themselves to the unexpected. In no time at all, we had become friends, and from then on I was a great comfort to Emily.

  At night, when she had been sent to bed and Miss Twill had gone downstairs for the rest of the evening, Emily would slip on her dressing gown and steal in here to spend an hour with me. She told me her troubles. I would cheer her up and encourage her to rebel. And I was soon glad to see that Emily Cumberland was developing some spirit. She stopped looking forlorn and seemed no longer to be so easily bullied.

  Twill was completely baffled by the sudden change in Emily’s behavior, by her growing boldness and emancipation. Emily was never exactly naughty; she never did anything Twill could report to her parents. She was polite, she studied hard and obeyed Miss Twill in all essential things. But she wouldn’t listen to Twill reading aloud; she would hum to herself or chatter to her doll. On their daily walks she refused to hold Twill’s hand and she often bolted next door to play with Anne Evans.

  And Emily had become indifferent to punishment. It annoyed Twill to see how cheerfully she ran to the haunted room. Finally, what was most exasperating, Emily took to laughing at the horror stories. “Really, Miss Twill! How can you believe such nonsense!” Then Twill knew that she had lost her power.

  Winter passed, spring came, and late in May, a troupe of Shakespearean actors came to town. This was a rare and exciting event in the country, and nearly everyone roundabout bought tickets. The plays were being shown in the Town Hall and on Saturday night Mr. Evans was taking his whole family to see A Midsummer Night’s Dream. To please Anne, he invited Emily to go with them.

  Emily knew much of the play by heart, but she had never been inside a theater. She was overjoyed at the prospect of such a treat in the company of her friend. That evening when she said good night to her parents she asked permission to accept the Evanses’ invitation.

  Mr. Cumberland answered her benignly: “My daughter, you will be delighted, I’m sure, to learn that I have already purchased tickets in order that you and the excellent Miss Twill may attend the performance together.”

  Now you may say “poor Emily” all you like, for she us disappointed as could be. To have to go to the theater with that killjoy instead of with the merry Evans family! On leaving the drawing room she came running to me. She told me the sad news with tears in her eyes, declaring that it would be no treat at all to sit with Miss Twill, who never enjoyed anything and always begrudged Emily any fun.

  I listened sympathetically as usual, and asked her how many pairs of gloves she owned.

  “Why — I have three pairs,” she replied, wonderingly. “Brown for every day, white kid for best, and woolies for the winter.”

  In those days no lady went out without wearing gloves and little girls were expected to act like ladies.

  “Take heart, Emily,” I said. A canny scheme was forming in my mind. “All is not lost if you will do as I say and ask no questions. Fetch me the white kid pair.”

  When she had returned with her best gloves, I made her rip a hole in one of them and put them both on top of the sewing basket.

  “Saturday night when Miss Twill tells you to put on your gloves, say they are here in the basket and need to be mended. She will hurry upstairs. Then take your ticket, run to the Evanses and tell them that Miss Twill can’t take you to the theater after all.”

  “But that wouldn’t be true,” Emily objected, for she was an honest girl.

  “It will be perfectly true, I assure you,” said I.

  In spite of the fact that Emily had revolted against the rigid discipline of Twill, she was ready enough to do as I commanded. All took place exactly as I planned. The Evanses took Emily with them to the theater — without her gloves, which wasn’t ladylike; but that didn’t keep her from having a glorious time.

  Indeed, the two hours seemed magical. In the dark hall the stage shone like a bonfire. The lacy make-believe of the woodland scenery, the beautiful characters, the comic ones, the costumes, the poetry, the music, utterly entranced Emily. When the curtain came down for the last time and the applause was over and the throng of villagers emerged from the building into the silver starlight, Emily had a fresh experience. She had never before been out at night. Walking home with her friends in the sweet night air, under the spangled arch of the Milky Way, was an enchanted ending to the evening. But it wasn’t merely the end of the evening for Emily; it was the end of an era.

  Let us return to the moment when Twill came up for Emily’s gloves. Although it was twilight, she could still see by the window to mend the small hole; and while she did so, I floated across the room and hovered halfway up the open doorway.

  By the time she had finished sewing, it was dark enough for her to see me when she turned around. I appeared as a tiny, bright-eyed fluffy kitten, rapidly expanding to the size of a tiger — a quaint idea and an interesting effect; and the effect on Twill was also interesting.

  She sucked in her breath, squeaked quite like a mouse and turned the clammy white of a forest fungus. Staggering, she dropped into my chair. I promptly sat on her lap. Rearing my head on a level with hers, bugging my luscious eyes, I hissed in her face: “Get out, you nasty thing, or I’ll eat you up!!”

  That was an empty threat, for ghosts don’t eat, and even alive I wouldn’t have relished Twill, who was a most unappetizing dish. No matter! It was the right thing to say. Twill shot out of the room like a Jack-in- the-Box. With not a thought for her pupil, she ran to her bedroom, packed her belongings and, after a sleepless night, left by the early coach.

  Of course, the whole household was amazed. “I can’t think what was the matter,” Mrs. Cumberland complained. “Twill said Emily was too much for her, but I’m sure the child gives very little trouble.”

  “She muttered something about hallucinations, said she feared she was having a nervous breakdown. It is well she is gone,” Mr. Cumberland observed. “An unstable person is not a suitable guardian for our cherished daughter.”

  That night Emily asked me what had happened. “Miss Twill saw a ghost. It was only I.”

  “Fancy her being afraid of you, Opalina! My dear, darling, beautiful first friend!”

  Soon after that a new governess arrived, an easygoing young woman named Rachel Brown. When she had finished her lessons, Emily was allowed to do pretty much as she pleased, so she played with Anne Evans by day and visited me every evening during my fifth life.

  “Now I really must have a catnap.”

  “Spooky pussy’s sleepy,” Jeb murmured.

  The children tiptoed out of the playroom and gently closed the door.

  Sixth Life

  [1880]

  THE MONTAGUE TWINS

  NEXT NIGHT, UPON AWAKENING, Opalina yawned, stretched and sneezed a sneeze like the windblown seedlings from a milkweed pod. Languidly she washed her face and ears, her front paws, hind paws, each toe separately, and licked the drifting cobweb of her tail. Jeb watched happily; Phil and Ellen waited with self-control.

  “Now, said Opalina, “I’m going to tell you about something that happened in my sixth life. It started when Emily Cumberland grew up and married Austin Montague, who owned a poultry farm ten miles outside of Heatherfield.”

  After Emily went to live on the farm, this place seemed dead. It was tiresome to be cooped up with Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland. But when their grandchildren began to visit them the atmosphere improved.

  I was an invisible audience watching the antics of the family. It was my calmest life except my fourth. However, my fourth with dear old Benjamin Paisley was an unmitigated bore, whereas my sixth was entertaining, though nobody knew I was there.

  “But Opalina,” Phillip interrupted
, “what about Emily?”

  “Didn’t she tell her children about you?” asked Ellen.

  “She did not. Emily forgot me. Grown people don’t remember half the things that happened when they were young. If anything wonderful occurred, they always think it must have been a dream. That’s why they never quite understand their children...”

  Emily had become an excellent housewife, but as a mother she was rather lax. Having been left to the care of a nursery governess and having seen very little of her own parents, she made up her mind not to bring up her children that way. She wished them to be as merry and free as possible. No rigid rules for the little Montagues; she went to the other extreme and let them run wild.

  It was all very well to let Alice and Ned, the older ones, do as they liked, for they were steady-going. The twins, Patrick and Pelley, were another matter. They were full of mischief, banded together. The minute they came, this house began to hum. I was pleased to have the twins around. Not so, stuffy old Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland.

  The Cumberlands disapproved of their daughter’s methods. Her children had no discipline, no manners, no governess or nurse to keep them tidy; and none of them ever seemed to have been punished or even reprimanded for their sins.

  “‘Spare the rod and spoil the child!’” Mr. Cumberland declared gloomily.

  “I can’t understand Emily,” grumbled his wife. “After we brought her up so carefully.”

  In fact, the Cumberlands would have been contented for their grandchildren to stay at home on the farm where they belonged. But they didn’t dare say so to Emily Montague, who had become a determined character of whom they were rather afraid.

  Emily disregarded her parents’ attitude. She figured that her father’s house was large, there were plenty of bedrooms, plenty of servants, too. Her parents never had to lift a finger. They should be glad to welcome their grandchildren! They should be happy to help their daughter out! They hadn’t been very attentive parents to her. It was high time they showed some family feeling!

  Although she knew they didn’t object so much to an occasional visit from Alice or Ned, Emily generally found it more convenient to rid herself of the twins and their hurly-burly. Fairly often, she would tell the hired man to load the twins and their trunk into the wagon and drive them over to spend a week at Grandpa’s.

  There were no telephones in those days so their arrival took everyone by surprise. When a commotion arose in the front hall, Mrs. Cumberland would turn pink. She would sit up straight, fan herself distractedly and commence to quiver like a mold of pudding.

  Mr. Cumberland would get to his feet, draw in his double chins, jiggle his watchchain, raise his eyebrows and purse his lips.

  The boys would come whooping into the drawing room and tackle the haughty old pair like football players, butting and hugging them exuberantly, for the twins were boiling over with cordiality, and it had never occurred to either of them that their own grandparents didn’t love them dearly.

  Since they never really examined grown-up faces and seldom listened to what was said to them, they neither saw the scowls nor heard the scoldings. And they never stayed long enough to be caught and spanked. They would pound through the house like a herd of buffalo; but if anyone tried to lay a hand on them, they were gone as fast as a couple of dragonflies. Such onslaughts left the Cumberlands quite unnerved.

  One summer after the twins’ tenth birthday party, Austin and Emily had had enough of them. From the children who came to the party the twins had received a number of musical gifts — drums and cymbals, whistles, tambourines, flutes and trumpets. They practiced on these instruments so constantly that there was no peace on the farm and the hens stopped laying. Therefore the twins were sent to stay with their grandparents and allowed to take only one present apiece. They chose alike; they brought their silver whistles, whistles that imitated perfectly the clear, cool, three-note call of the whippoorwill.

  The day they came it rained and they couldn’t go out, which was considered most unfortunate. They fooled around the parlor for a while, till Pat broke a little gilt chair by accident, leaping onto it from the marble mantelpiece; and Pelley, who was chasing him around the room, accidentally crashed into the whatnot, smashing several of the ornaments. Both of them said they were sorry, and they were, but not as sorry as Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland.

  At lunch, Pat accidentally spilled his milk and Pelley upset the gravy boat — accidentally. They apologized profusely to the butler and to the footman, who were mopping up, which was an extra offense to their grandfather, who felt that they should have apologized to him.

  During the afternoon, they blew their whistles while they played a new form of hide-and-seek. When the one who was It cried: “Coming, ready or not!” his twin, way off in another part of the house, would give one shrill, long drawn-out “Whip-poor-will,” then dash for cover in a hiding place as far away from his first position as possible. What with the whistling, the racing up and down stairs, the banging of doors and the shouts when one was caught, it was a noisy game.

  “Cease this racket at once!” Mr. Cumberland thundered, lunging at Pat as he sped down the corridor. But the lad slipped through his fingers like a minnow and disappeared at a gallop, absorbed in the hunt.

  At last it was time to bathe and dress for dinner, and even the twins knew that they must do that. They appeared in the dining room moderately clean, though they had both forgotten to wash their necks, and they hadn’t brushed their hair, which stood on end. They only spilled some soup and a little custard, and ate with gusto, loving the food at Grandpa’s, chattering all the time. Grandpa scolded about the crumbs on the tablecloth and rug, and about the way they twisted their spoons in their mouths, and Grandma complained because they kicked the chair legs and pinched the hot wax on the lighted candles.

  Directly after dinner, Mr. Cumberland, outraged at being unable to make them listen, sent them to bed “in disgrace,” which didn’t bother them, because they had never stopped talking to one another, and even if they had heard what Grandpa said, they would have seen no reason to feel ashamed.

  Anyway, it was late and they were tired, having been on the go from morn to night; so they dropped their clothes on the floor, hopped into bed and fell asleep instantly like a couple of puppies.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland themselves retired earlier than usual, crawling painfully up the broad staircase, completely exhausted by the hullabaloo, and sunk by a sense of defeat.

  Next morning was sunny. The twins went out of doors and wandered about exploring the countryside, while the Cumberlands passed a relaxing day. At seven o’clock the boys had not come home; and the gardener, who was sent to look for them, reported they were nowhere to be found.

  Such lack of deference for the dinner hour greatly incensed Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland. When the twins blew in during the salad course their grandfather stormed at them and threatened to thrash them if they were ever late to a meal again.

  This time, the twins heard him and were astounded. What was so wrong with being late to meals? At home it didn’t matter if they were late, as long as they ate whatever was set before them. And would their grandfather actually spank them? By the look on his face, they thought perhaps he might.

  This scene not only puzzled Patrick and Pelley; Mr. Cumberland’s fury shocked and frightened them. That accounts in part for their odd behavior during the following day.

  It was a glorious morning — sparkling enough to make the entire animal kingdom rejoice, but the twins were exceptionally silent. At breakfast, instead of displaying their usual gaiety, they scarcely spoke or lifted their eyes from their plates.

  Mr. and Mrs. Cumberland were gratified at finding them so subdued. All the same, they didn’t care to have them hanging around. Soon after breakfast Grandmother announced that the cook had been told to fix them a picnic lunch “to take outdoors somewhere, as a reward for your improved deportment,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  Grandfather cautioned them not to stray too far
, and to be back no later than six o’clock.

  “But how will we know the time?” Patrick asked anxiously.

  “We have no watches, Grandpa,” Pelley said.

  “Keep within earshot of the church clock. It strikes the hour and it rings the quarters,” Grandpa replied.

  Then the twins cheered up, ran to the kitchen to get their lunches from Cook, and left the house.

  The woods around here stretched for miles in those days, a virgin forest of huge trees, tangled thickets, granite cliffs, gorges and mountain streams. No paths led through it, save an old Indian trail, half-overgrown and difficult to follow. Once before when walking in the woods, the twins had come upon the famous trail and had worked their way along it for a while. Today they decided to explore it more thoroughly.

  It was easy to lose sight of the trail and often hard to discover it again. But the twins persisted, tracing the vague channels between thickset trees, wading in fern, skirting boulders, pressing through undergrowth, ducking beneath the smothering layers of foliage or picking their steps across a tumbling brook.

  When the sun was high, they stopped beside a stream and opened the bag of lunch. Cook had been good to them, for the twins were popular in the servants’ quarters, where their good nature and lack of snobbishness were appreciated. There were ham sandwiches and chicken sandwiches, pickles and apples, cake and cherry pie and bottles of ginger ale.

  When they had eaten, they waded in the stream, found a beaver dam and added to it in order to give the beavers a pleasant surprise, caught some pollywogs and let them go. It was delightful to escape from their grandparents into the carefree world of the wilderness.

  Finally they took to the trail again, creeping along as stealthily as possible, pretending to be a pair of Indian braves. At this they were quite successful. No one at home or at the Cumberlands would have imagined how quiet Patrick and Pelley could be if they tried. Scarcely a twig snapped or a pebble skittered, so that as they went they were surrounded by an agreeable company of small beings. The branches rustled with squirrels, birds and chipmunks. Quail and pheasants fluttered in the underbrush. They caught glimpses of cottontails and woodchucks, and a herd of deer grazing in a glade.