The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  No one could have worried more than Batsy for fear the twins would not get enough to eat. The minute he woke next day, soon after dawn, and saw them asleep at the other end of the bin, he began to feel the cares of a family man. What could he give the boys for breakfast?

  His own breakfast, if he ate any at all, was a sketchy affair, a nibble from a small hoard of edibles resembling that of a squirrel. He kept this collection in a cracked bean pot he had found on the village dump, which he replenished with whatever tidbits he could pick up in the forest or the fields.

  This morning when he peeked into the crock all he could see was a handful of huckleberries, a green tomato, a mushroom and three walnuts left over from last year’s crop. The boys hadn’t mentioned any of these things when they were telling him what they were fed at home.

  “I wouldn’t want ‘em to sicken on me,” Batsy mumbled to himself anxiously.

  He must go to the shed. If Mr. Cumberland had left some money for them, he would go on to the nearest farmhouse and buy some milk. As he prepared to leave, the twins woke up and wanted to go along too, so they all went together.

  By the shortcut through the woods that Batsy showed them, it was no more than a fifteen minute walk from the cave to the edge of the Cumberland estate. In the shed they poked among the tools and shifted all the flowerpots and baskets, searching for coins, before it occurred to Pelley to open the metal box behind the door. Then an astounding sight confronted them all — bundle after bundle of paper money, labeled “One,” “Five,” “Ten,” “Twenty,” “Fifty,” tightly rolled, packed close together and fastened with rubber bands.

  Patrick and Pelley were thunderstruck. What in the world had come over Grandpa Cumberland? Had he gone mad?

  While they gaped, Batsy was on his knees, digging his fingers down among the rolls of bills, feeling around in the bottom of the box.

  “Nothin’ there,” he declared grumpily, sitting back on his heels.

  “What do you mean ‘nothing’?” cried Pelly indignantly.

  “Nothin’ there for me, is what I say!” Batsy retorted.

  He slammed the lid of the box and got to his feet. “I ain’t touchin’ that money!”

  “You mean you won’t take it?” Pelley demanded.

  “Nope! It ain’t my kinder money.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause I can’t use it. Pennies, nickels and dimes, mebbe a quarter, is the most I kin use.”

  “A dollar is the same as a lot of small change.”

  “Nope. I ain’t never touched a greenback in my life. That’s where I draw the line.”

  “Well, you asked Grandpa for some money and he’s given it to you, so why can’t you take it?”

  “You could take some of it anyway,” said Pat.

  “Nope! If I was to pull out a dollar bill, lots of folks is apt to say I stole it.”

  There was a short silence broken by Patrick. “I wonder why Grandpa gave you such a lot.”

  “Ah !“ Batsy narrowed his eyes cagily. “That’s what looks kinder fishy. Leavin’ all that money jest ter feed yer! Looks like he’s tryin’ ter bribe me ter keep yer fer life.”

  This theory stunned the twins. Pelley hooted, “Grandpa couldn’t do that! And he wouldn’t dare!”

  “Mother and Father wouldn’t let him,” said Pat.

  “Well then, what kin he mean, I’m askin’ yer?”

  The boys couldn’t think of any answer to that.

  “Rich folks don’t go chuckin’ their money around without they expect to be gittin’ somethin’ from yer.”

  Pat and Pelley pondered. It certainly was strange of Grandpa Cumberland, who was supposed to be on the stingy side, to hand out a fortune for food all of a sudden!

  Batsy heaved a sigh. “I reckon yer better pick up that box and cut along home ter yer granpaw.”

  There was an instant wail.

  “Do we have to go home?”

  “Why can’t we stay with you till we go to the farm?”

  “‘Cause I can’t feed you right, I’m tellin yer! Yer gotta have all that milk.”

  “We don’t at all!”

  “Yer could sicken on me and I ain’t takin’ a chance.”

  Seeing that this notion was firmly fixed in Batsy’s mind and that it was hopeless to argue, Pelley, ever adaptable, proposed: “If you won’t touch the money, we’ll take a dollar and buy the milk ourselves.”

  But Batsy would have none of it. “Yer ain’t touchin’ that money, no more’n me. No sirree!”

  “We have a perfect right!” Pelley declared.

  “It’s our grandpa’s money and it’s for us.”

  “Nope! I ain’t jest figured it out yet, but there’s somethin’ wrong. It don’t look good somehow. I want yer to git that money back to him fast.”

  “Grandpa will beat us.” Pelley was lugubrious. “Last night we were late to dinner and now he’ll be mad because we were out all night.”

  “He might beat us twice,” Pat suggested forlornly.

  “Shucks! Don’t give him a chance,” Batsy replied. “‘Fore he kin pick up a stick to lam you with, say you was lost in the woods and I put yer up; and tell him I say if he’ll give yer some small change fer milk, yer kin come back and visit me any time yer like.”

  Hearing this, the boys were somewhat cheered, and reconciled themselves to a temporary parting. Also, at that moment they were feeling hollow and couldn’t help longing for a hearty breakfast, such as they would get at the Cumberlands. They thanked Batsy warmly for his kindness; and then Pelley had a bright idea. Removing the whistle from around his neck he gave it to Batsy.

  “We’ll blow you three ‘whip-poor-wills’ on Pat’s whistle, to let you know we’re coming; and when you hear us, you can blow three back, so we’ll know you’re there.”

  Batsy was obviously thrilled. “Sure! I’ll answer yer!” He chuckled happily, fingering the whistle, turning it over and over and feasting his eyes on it. “Well now, ain’t that nice! Jest look at that! I ain’t blowing it now, though. Evenin’s the time. Then I kin set around, foolin’ them pesky birds.”

  Saying good-bye, the twins took up the box by the handles, swinging it between them, and went across the orchards and the fields, bracing themselves to face their grandfather.

  It was early, not yet seven o’clock. Mrs. Cumberland was still asleep, and the servants were drinking coffee in the kitchen, when the twins stealthily opened the front door and tiptoed into the hall. They set down the box, and at that faint sound Mr. Cumberland burst from the study, plunged across the floor and grabbed them in his arms. He had never behaved that way before. On the contrary, it had been Patrick and Pelley who had done the bursting, plunging and grabbing. On top of his sudden extravagance with money, this violent welcome added to their fear that Grandpa must have gone stark staring mad.

  Hugging them tight, he feverishly implored them to tell him what had happened and how they were. “How are you?” he kept asking. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” they answered, glad to see that Grandpa seemed to have no further intention of thrashing them. All the same, they began, as Batsy had advised, to explain how they had got lost, how Mr. Diggs had given them food and shelter overnight; and they both apologized politely for being late to dinner.

  Mr. Cumberland patted their heads benignly; but he was puzzled when they pointed to the box and told him that the money was untouched. He was certainly pleased to have it back, though somewhat offended when he grasped the meaning of the letter...So the boys had wished to remain in the forest, had they! They preferred this stranger they had picked up in the woods to their grandparents! An ignorant fellow too, judging by the note! As Mr. Cumberland pieced the story together from the twins’ double-barreled narrative, he became more and more annoyed.

  Warming to the subject, Patrick and Pelley described their picturesque adventure in detail, enthusing over the delicious ducks, the beautiful fur-lined cave, the utter luxury of going to sleep in a bed of dry leaves
. Mr. Cumberland wearied of their exuberance, and his sense of relief at their safe return gave way, at last, to irritable resentment. While he had been so frantically worried about them, they had been having the time of their lives in some idiotic boyish heaven!

  The twins were so wound up that he couldn’t stop them! He listened in growing impatience while they took turns recounting each marvelous tale that had been told them by the fascinating Mr. Diggs.

  They announced their intention of visiting him often.

  “He said we could come any time.”

  “He’ll be glad to see us.”

  “He wants us to bring a bit of small change along —”

  “Just for some milk. He doesn’t keep any cows —”

  “And he’s sure we need it.”

  “We told him it didn’t matter —”

  “But he’s afraid we’ll sicken if we don’t get it.”

  “We could take milk from here. Cook would let us.”

  “We can go back tomorrow.”

  “Maybe today.”

  Through all their noisy simpleminded prattle, indeed through the very brightness of their eyes, they managed to convey their boundless admiration for this dashing character, Mr. Diggs, their gratitude for his generous hospitality, their appreciation of his noble nature and of his romantic life. When it finally dawned on Mr. Cumberland that this great hero was the ancient vagrant, the illiterate hermit and crackpot known as “Batsy,” he was completely disgusted with his grandsons.

  Unwilling to listen longer to their nonsense, he ordered them to their rooms. “Go take your baths. Put on clean clothes. Be sure to polish your shoes. And don’t forget to comb your hair this time. Come down to breakfast when you hear the bell.” His face resumed its customary expression of settled disapproval and stern pride. Squaring his shoulders, he marched back to the study.

  Grandpa Cumberland was himself again. Patrick and Pelley couldn’t understand the many changing moods he had displayed during the past half hour; but on the whole, they felt reassured and comforted to know that he hadn’t gone crazy after all.

  Mr. Cumberland made up his mind not to allow the twins to see the hermit. He would forbid them to go to the woods again. His grandsons showed a taste for low company which must be nipped in the bud. He must speak to Emily and Austin and warn them not to encourage this sordid friendship. Even the easygoing Montagues could not approve of their sons’s associating with such an absurd outcast as Batsy Diggs!

  Poor Mr. Cumberland! As often happened, his daughter disappointed him and thwarted him. Emily saw no objection whatever to the twins visiting the hermit, Batsy Diggs. He was a perfectly harmless old man and they had all taken a fancy to each other. That was quite enough for Emily and for Austin too.

  In fact, the boys went to see Batsy frequently, always taking along a can of milk and blowing the whistle to announce their coming. In time, Batsy taught them many things, much of the lore and wisdom of the wilderness. The trio had a wonderful time together. Patrick, Pelley and Batsy were friends for life.

  Seventh Life

  [1905]

  THE CHARMING CHILD

  WHEN PHILLIP, ELLEN AND JEB entered the playroom on the following night, Opalina was awake and gazing spectrally at a corner of the room.

  “There’s a dear little mouse down there behind the baseboard,” she said. “I was hoping he’d stick out his dear little nose, so I could turn the spotlight onto him and see him jump. That’s all I can do to them, these days…No matter. He’s gone now, so I’ll continue the chronicle of my lives.

  “If you have nine of them, some are sure to be more amusing than others. I like a bit of excitement now and then, even when it’s not entirely pleasant. I’d rather race around escaping Saul, or do a job of energetic haunting, such as I did for Tootsie or Miss Twill, than simply lie and snooze for years and years, the way I did in the reign of Benjamin Paisley.”

  My seventh life was spent with the Montagues; that was a great relief, after the Cumberlands. When her parents died, Emily and Austin gave the farm to Ned and moved in here. The house was full of activity again, especially in 1905.

  By that time, all the Montague children were married and all had children of their own. Ned had three sons, Jasper, Andrew and Robert. Patrick’s two children were named Colin and Lucy; Pelley had a daughter Molly and a little boy, Farrell, nicknamed Fudge, aged four, the baby of them all.

  The seven young Montagues grew up together. They saw a great deal of each other and of their grandparents. The twins and their families lived nearby in the village and Ned with his brood often drove in from the farm. Grandma Emily and Grandpa Austin kept open house for them all.

  But their daughter Alice had married a southerner. She and her husband, Harold Bannister, and their only child lived in Atlanta, Georgia, too far away for them to share in the parties, the celebrations, the outings and the picnics that went on constantly among the Montagues. Nobody here had seen their little girl. Sophy was over ten years old when the Bannisters first came north to visit her grandparents. I’ll never forget the family reunion at Eastertime that year.

  The Bannisters arrived on Friday afternoon and the rest of the clan had gathered to welcome them. The youngsters were agog at the prospect of meeting their unknown kindred. When the horses that brought the trio from the railroad station appeared at the end of the drive, all the Montagues dashed out onto the porch. The mothers and grandparents waved their handkerchiefs. The fathers helped the Bannisters out of the carriage and hurried to pick up the luggage for their brother-in-law, while the Montague offspring whooped and bounced up and down and cheered with their usual enthusiasm.

  There was a great commotion of greetings and hugs; the coats and hats of the newcomers were removed; the boxes and bags were carried up to the bedrooms. Then the grown-ups repaired to the drawing room where an elaborate tea had been set forth; and the children led Sophy up to the playroom for their own feast of hot chocolate with whipped cream, cinnamon toast, cookies and hot cross buns.

  After the refreshments had been consumed, there came a short silence, while the young Montagues focused their attention on Sophy Bannister and tried to decide what they thought of this newcomer.

  Certain things about Sophy were plain to be seen. She was extremely pale but very pretty, exquisitely dressed and rather small for her age. Downstairs, when introduced to her relations, she had behaved with perfect self-possession. She had said how-do-you-do to each in turn, shaken hands politely, curtsied to her elders, submitting with grace to kisses, pats on the head and chucks under the chin.

  Here in the playroom she was sitting up straight, her hands curved in her lap, her feet crossed daintily, with every curl in place and quite at ease. This struck them all. Their other impressions varied.

  Jasper, aged eleven, the oldest of her cousins, saw her as the Lily Maid of Astolat and longed for a chance to protect her from something or other.

  Andrew, looking her over critically, surmised that she would be no good at games, too feeble to be any fun.

  Little Lucy, dazzled by the satin bows, the locket, the lacy dress and the blue kid slippers, considered Sophy the next best thing to a princess.

  Sophy made Colin feel shy and uncomfortable.

  Robert took an instant dislike to her, for no particular reason.

  Fudge, confused by Sophy’s sedate manners, thought she was some sort of grown-up. He wondered why she wasn’t any bigger and decided she must be a dwarf.

  His older sister, Molly, was disappointed. As she gazed at Sophy, Molly’s heart sank.

  Molly’s other cousins were boys, except Lucy, and Molly craved a girl of her own age to play with. Ever since she had heard that Sophy was coming, she had been planning what they would do together. First of all, they would go by the Indian Trail to call on the ancient hermit in his cave. Batsy Diggs was eighty-six years old, but the outdoor life had kept him hale and hearty. Granny, as she always did each week, would give Molly a basket of goodies for Batsy —
eggs, fruit, bacon, chicken, homemade bread, butter, cheese and jam — eatables which Batsy couldn’t find in the forest. And Batsy would probably take them both fishing.

  Molly would show her cousin Goliath Gorge where there were heaped-up boulders as big as houses. Molly had discovered a spooky chasm which she pretended was an ogre’s den, where she and Sophy could tremble and eat their lunch.

  They would climb the giant pine on Lookout Hill for a glimpse of the ocean, far off in the distance.

  They would dig up wild flowers and plant a garden, go to the swamp and gather frog’s eggs, bring them home in a jar and watch them hatch.

  But, oh dear! One good look at Sophy and Molly knew she must forget such projects.

  Sophy’s hands were soft and white as angel cake. Her nails were trimmed, her hair was neatly curled. She had no freckles, no scratches on her knees. Sophy wasn’t the one to climb trees, scramble over rocks or wade in swamps. She didn’t look rugged enough for the Indian Trail, and she might not enter into the spirit of things. Sophy probably wouldn’t understand or care a bit for dear old Batsy Diggs. Sophy was all dolled up, proper and spotless, and evidently intended to stay that way. Sophy might be good for a rainy day, for checkers or Parcheesi or charades. She was certainly no outdoor girl.

  While the Montagues made up their minds about Sophy, she was doing the same regarding them. Sophy had been taught that it’s rude to stare, but since they were staring at her so openly, she looked them over coolly, one by one. Although her cousins had been more than ordinarily scrubbed and brushed in honor of the occasion, they were too active to stay well groomed for long. To Sophy they appeared untidy and coarse. Their cheeks were red, their noses were covered with freckles, their arms and legs were tanned and more or less damaged by scars, scabs and bruises. As for deportment — they slumped and slid on their chairs and their fourteen feet were flung in all directions. Sophy set them down as country bumpkins who didn’t know how to behave.

  Grandma had invited the younger Montagues to stay here in the house over the holidays so that they could get acquainted with Sophy. Grown-ups, living in their dream world, take it for granted that children will make friends. I, being gifted with greater penetration, saw at once that trouble loomed ahead. I will say this, that at first the Montague children did their best to be conscientious hosts.