The Ghost of Opalina

by Peggy Bacon

  There wasn’t much time on Friday afternoon for the eight cousins to get to know each other; and soon after supper, the weary travelers bade their relations good night and went to bed.

  Saturday morning the weather was bright and balmy. Easter was late that year. The flowers were out, the fruit trees all in bloom. So right after breakfast the Montague children led Sophy out to the orchard to show her the beautiful tree house that Grandpa Austin himself had built for them.

  It was near the top of the oldest and tallest cherry tree, and it was painted green so that, later on, when the leaves came out, it would be nearly invisible. To reach it you climbed the tree, and halfway up, you climbed a short ladder nailed to the trunk, then you pushed up a trap door and hoisted yourself into a one-room cottage with a casement window. You could open the window and lean out and see the valley, the river, the forest and the hills. You could look down on the roofs of the stable and barn, the vegetable garden, the paddock and, best of all, the pigpen where Sally was nursing her nine pink shoats.

  The tree house had many attractions: a piece of real carpet, a tiny table and chair that had once been Granny’s, and various things that the children had collected, such as a bowl of acorns which Molly had painted to resemble little heads in tam-o’-shanters; a lump of mica nearly an inch thick, which Jasper had pried from a cliff near Batsy’s cave; a lot of colored pebbles from the brook, and a rock (found under the waterfall by Andrew) studded all over with fossil seashells. The tree house lent itself to many games. Jasper and Molly explained its possibilities. It could be Rapunzel’s tower, a castle, the witch’s gingerbread house or the Robbers’ Den. They offered to let Sophy be Rapunzel, Gretel, the wicked witch, the chatelaine or a Captive Damsel.

  However, Molly’s private fears were confirmed. Sophy didn’t choose to climb the tree.

  “Come on!” Jasper urged. “I’ll give you a boost.”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s lovely way up there,” Molly coaxed. “The tree house sways and rolls a bit, as if you were on a boat.”

  “And you look down on the whole world,” said Andrew.

  “I don’t like climbing trees.”

  “Jasper will help you,” Lucy assured Sophy. “He’s the one who pulls me up the ladder.”

  “Molly takes me,” Fudge put in.

  “Don’t you want to see what it’s like up there?” Jasper was puzzled by Sophy’s apparent indifference. Could it be that she had no curiosity to see the inside of the tree house or its contents, no longing to look out the window at the view?

  “I might tear my dress,” said Sophy Bannister.

  “Oh, if that’s all!” cried Molly. “Why don’t you run back into the house right now and change into everyday clothes?”

  “This is an everyday frock,” Sophy asserted.

  The dress was a flowered dimity trimmed with frills — not so grand as the dress she had worn yesterday but certainly not adapted to climbing trees.

  “Haven’t you anything plainer than that to play in?”

  “No, I have not.”

  “Then I’ll lend you something,” said Molly. “Some of the old smocks that I’ve outgrown would probably be about the right size for you.”

  “Really, Molly, I shouldn’t care to wear your cast-off garments!” Sophy threw a sidelong glance at Molly’s pinafore. “And your kind of clothes wouldn’t suit me! Anyway, I’m not a tomboy, so, as I’ve already told you, I don’t climb trees!”

  Since Molly had meant to be helpful, this speech offended her.

  The pigpen was close by and the children took Sophy over to see the pigs. Jasper picked up a roly-poly piglet and held it out to Sophy, who drew back.

  “Go on and pet it,” he said. “It feels nice.”

  But Sophy wouldn’t.

  “There’s nothing to be scared of,” Andrew remarked.

  “I’m not scared. He’s dirty, that’s all.”

  “It is not dirty!” Robert declared indignantly. “Sally gets clean straw twice a day.”

  Fudge, who loved the pigs best next to Molly, reached up and stroked the piglet in Jasper’s arms. He stuck out his lower lip resentfully and muttered: “It’s a dear little clean baby!”

  “Don’t you like pigs?” Lucy sounded shocked.

  “Of course not! Only farmers like pigs.”

  “What’s wrong with being a farmer?” Andrew asked hotly.

  “It’s not genteel.”

  “Grandpa and Father are farmers, you know,” Jasper warned her. “And Uncle Pat and Uncle Pelley raise cattle.”

  “But they’re not really farmers,” Sophy stated. “Gentlemen with farms have hired men who do the real work.”

  “Father has a couple of hired men, but Father works even harder than they do,” Jasper asserted with pride.

  Sophy sniffed.

  “Do you mean that our father isn’t a gentleman?” Andrew inquired in a hoarse voice.

  “Present company is always excepted,” was Sophy’ glib reply.

  “Let’s go see the new calf,” Molly proposed. Sophy was rubbing them all the wrong way.

  Jasper put the piglet back with the others and they all followed Molly to the pasture where Sophy condescended to stroke the calf’s tender velvety cheek. Her air of languid boredom as she did so showed them that she was simply being polite.

  After that they took Sophy down the stream to the dam and showed her the passage between the dam and the great smooth massive roaring waterfall. If you flattened yourself and edged along sideways you could reach the opposite bank without getting soaked.

  Jasper, eager to play the gallant knight, tried to take Sophy’s hand and guide her through. But Sophy resisted, saying she might get wet.

  “That wouldn’t kill you,” said Jasper, losing patience.

  “The stones are slimy.” Sophy made a face.

  “Oh, Sophy! Don’t be so fussy!” Molly exclaimed.

  “She’s a bad sport,” Andrew remarked with scorn.

  “She’s a fuss-cat and a stuck-up prig,” cried Robert, suddenly finding out why he disliked her.

  “Robert! That’s rude!” Colin put in. “She’s our guest!”

  “Robert is right!” Andrew snapped. “Don’t be a goody-goody, Colin! Sophy’s a cat and a prig and a cowardy custard!”

  “Cowardy Custard! Cowardy Cowardy Custard!” Fudge shouted over and over, charmed by the phrase, till Lucy yelled: “Shut up!” and he burst into tears.

  Then his beloved Molly called him a crybaby and he howled louder than ever. Good manners and hospitality were forgotten. By that time, everybody was so ill- humored that it was a relief to hear the gong summoning them back to the house for lunch.

  The grandparents, parents and youngsters made eighteen at table. The food was delicious but the Montague children didn’t enjoy themselves. Throughout the meal Sophy’s aunts and uncles petted her and complimented the Bannisters on the “dear little creature’s” faultless table manners. Her cousins observed with disgust that Sophy’s gestures grew increasingly finicky, she quirked her finger, batted her eyelashes, and her expression became unbearably smug.

  Grandma Emily said: “I think that all our children have nice manners. Even little Fudge has learned not to spill and is holding his fork correctly. Simple unaffected manners are the best,” she added with a shrewd glance at Sophy.

  After lunch, instead of remaining together, the Montague children scattered in all directions and Molly found herself, to her dismay, left with Cousin Sophy on her hands.

  Molly knew that she must not abandon the guest and she tried to think of games for them to play. But Sophy didn’t care for hide-and-seek or still-pond-no-more-moving. She didn’t like catch, hated hopscotch and she wasn’t in the mood to play croquet. Though the weather was glorious, Molly in despair took Sophy up to the attic to see the toy trunk, customarily saved for rainy days.

  The toy trunk was full of ancient treasures that had belonged to their great-grandparents, the Cumberlands, al
l the toys that had belonged to Granny when she was little Emily Cumberland, and the toys that had belonged to Sophy’s mother, Alice Montague, and to Molly’s father, Pelley Montague, and to their Uncle Ned and Uncle Patrick. There were bows and arrows, guns and drums, trumpets, trains, wagons and lead soldiers, and a silver whistle that sounded like a whippoorwill. There were dolls with shiny porcelain heads and feet and with white kid bodies full of sawdust; there were rag dolls, china dolls with wigs, that opened and closed their eyes and said Mama. There were wooden dolls, knitted dolls for babies, and a lovely old wax doll with a hoop skirt, and bonnets, capes, jackets, gloves and fans.

  Molly and Sophy dressed and undressed the dolls. Then they unpacked the other quaint old playthings, the jumping jack, the nest of wooden eggs, the jack-in-the- box, the tea sets, tops and puzzles, the skipping ropes, the reins with silver bells, the magic lantern and the doll-house. When everything, including the dollhouse furniture, lay spread around them over the attic floor, Sophy decided that she was sick of fooling with all that silly, shabby, old-fashioned junk. Having said as much, she shook out her skirts and departed, leaving Molly to wrap up the toys in tissue paper and pack them all back in the trunk.

  Then and there, Molly made up her mind that never — no never in her whole life! — had she disliked anyone as much as her pretty cousin, Sophy Bannister.

  Granny had a plum tree in her garden, known in the family as the Sugarplum Tree. Each spring, as Easter approached, the very young Montagues watched this tree with palpitating interest, hoping that it would bloom in time for Easter and arguing as to what each bud would be. For on Easter morning, whether it bloomed or not, it always produced a most miraculous crop. Taffy, peppermint sticks and lollypops had sprouted from every twig; nests of pale-green shredded tissue paper held sugared almonds, candied cherries, gumdrops, chocolates, marshmallows and jelly beans, deposited, of course, by the Easter Bunny. Stripping the Sugarplum Tree of its fabulous fruit and filling the fancy baskets that Granny provided was the most thrilling part of Easter Sunday for the smaller Montagues.

  This year only Robert, Lucy and Fudge were still young enough to believe in the Easter Bunny. At twilight after the tots had been put to bed, it was the happy task of the older children to deck the Sugarplum Tree, and Sophy, of course, was expected to help them trim it. To keep them from longing to eat the decorations, to satisfy their craving in advance, they were given candy instead of dessert for supper. Then Jasper fetched the stepladder from the tool shed, the others brought out the boxes and bags of candy, the sack of paper grass, a spool of wire and a pair of scissors. Soon all five of them were busily employed.

  The plum tree had bloomed in time, to everyone’s joy. The colorful dainties would glimmer more mysteriously from within a foam of clustering pink blossoms. Molly and Andrew circled around the tree, wiring lollypops and peppermint canes to the branches within their reach. Colin sat on the lawn and made the nests. Sophy tucked them into the forks of the tree trunk and filled them with assorted sweetmeats, while Jasper, perched above her on the ladder, adorned the upper boughs.

  For some time everybody worked in silence, till Jasper, happening to glance below, saw Sophy pop a chocolate into her mouth from the box she held in her hand. He watched and saw her help herself to another and follow it up with a third.

  “Hey, there, Sophy! What are you doing?” he shouted.

  She looked up quickly, her cheeks bulging, and turned a faint pink.

  Three startled faces popped in among the flowers.

  Molly and Colin stared.

  “Caught in the act!” cried Andrew.

  Sophy chewed fast, swallowed and glared defiantly. “And why shouldn’t I have some of your precious candy?”

  “Why Sophy Bannister!” Molly protested indignantly. “You just had a lot for supper.”

  “Only those silly barley-sugar sticks.”

  “You’ll get plenty of chocolates and bonbons tomorrow. We all will.”

  “But she can’t wait!” Andrew was sarcastic.

  “We’re having an egg hunt after lunch,” Jasper reminded her. “I told you so. The Sugarplum Tree is a treat for the little kids.”

  “I shouldn’t think they could eat all this,” said Sophy. “It certainly wouldn’t agree with them if they did.”

  “They don’t eat it all tomorrow,” Molly explained. “We all watch them to see that they don’t get sick. They take the candy home in their Easter baskets and get a little bit of it, now and then. The Easter candy is supposed to last them till Colin’s birthday party, the end of June.”

  Sophy listened coldly. She tossed her head. “With all this candy, you might spare a piece for me. Guests are supposed to have whatever they want. If any of you were in the least well-bred, you’d have offered me some.”

  “And if you’re so ‘well-bred,’ as you call it,” Andrew said angrily, “you would have asked us for a piece politely, and we’d have let you have it.”

  Sophy stamped her foot. “How dare you try to tell me how to behave, you rude, stupid, ugly little country bumpkin!”

  Jasper came down from the ladder. He was furious. “Maybe we’re country bumpkins and maybe we’re not, but I’ll tell you this, Sophy Bannister: it’s not well-bred to be a greedy little sneak!”

  Sophy threw the box of candy on the ground, dashed from under the plum tree and off to the house. She ran upstairs to her parents’ bedroom, hurled herself into her mother’s arms, asserting through her sobs that her horrid cousins had called her names. “And they told me I wasn’t well-bred!”

  Alice Bannister was much put out. She comforted Sophy, wiped away her tears, and then went straight to her own mother, complaining that her nephews and nieces were being unkind to Sophy.

  “It’s shocking the way they are treating the poor child. I noticed at lunch how none of them spoke to her. She is a stranger here and wants to be friends; but instead of being cordial and hospitable, as everyone is down south, they call her names and tell her she isn’t well-bred!”

  Grandma Emily narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. “Not well-bred, eh! H’mm! I don’t believe I ever heard any of the children use that term. I doubt if it’s in their vocabulary. Maybe during the quarrel, Sophy employed it and the others tossed it back.”

  “Well, if they’re being rude to her, Sophy is justified. Not well-bred, indeed! It’s too preposterous! Sophy is outstandingly courteous and a perfect little lady, as everyone says.”

  “Her manners are very pretty, Alice dear, but a trifle prissy for a little girl. The children probably think she puts on airs.”

  “I must say, Mother,” Alice retorted, “her cousins might benefit by her example. At least they should learn to be decently civil to guests. You, Mama, ought to make them all apologize.”

  “No such thing, Alice! I won’t interfere, without hearing both sides, which I cannot, because the others are never tattletales.”

  “Really, Mother!” Alice was exasperated. “It would be a sad thing if Sophy couldn’t confide her troubles to her parents! We don’t consider that tattling.”

  “You may not, but the Montague children do.”

  Then Alice Bannister left the room in a huff, telling herself that her mother was playing favorites and didn’t appreciate her worthiest grandchild.

  Easter Sunday was mild and fair. In the morning, before they went to church, the entire household gathered in the garden to watch the little ones as they stripped the Sugarplum Tree. After church, came the sumptuous midday feast. The egg hunt, strictly for the older children, took place while the youngsters were having their afternoon naps.

  Ned had brought over a bushel of eggs from the farm, hard-boiled and dyed all colors of the rainbow. Other grown-up members of the family contributed Easter eggs of every sort; and early in the day Patrick and Pelley had taken the eggs outdoors and hidden them craftily in the strangest nooks and crannies they could find.

  When dinner was over, the boys and girls with their baskets lined up on the lawn
, and the rules of the egg hunt were explained to Sophy: Grandpa Austin would ring the dinner gong; they would set forth in separate directions, keep apart as far as possible and return at once when they heard the gong again. Forty minutes were to be allowed them. There would be prizes for those who found the most eggs.

  The twin brothers had shown imagination. Eggs were lurking between the roots of trees, embedded in the crevices of rocks, beneath marsh marigolds, sunk in moss, tucked into jack-in-the-pulpits and the spout of the rain barrel, inside the watering can, under the flowerpots, nested in the long grass of the meadow and in among the reeds beside the stream.

  And the eggs themselves were beautiful to behold. Aside from the brilliantly colored hens’ eggs, there were chocolate marshmallow eggs, chocolate cream eggs, eggs of coconut paste and marzipan, sugar eggs of every tempting hue and flowered boxes in the shape of eggs, containing honey balls or candied violets.

  As Molly had said, there was plenty of candy for all, though Sophy didn’t succeed in finding any. The Montague children all ran faster than Sophy, who was truly at a disadvantage. They knew their way around the gardens, orchards, fields and woods belonging to their grandparents and they were used to an annual egg hunt.

  It wasn’t surprising that Sophy lagged behind. She would have found fewer eggs than any of them, save that Colin, a budding naturalist, caught sight of two baby turtles sunning themselves on a rock in the middle of the stream.

  Shedding his sandals, he waded out to get them, and lingered on the bank beside the water, gloating over them till he heard the gong. Then popping them into the basket, he caught up his sandals and raced back to the lawn where the others awaited him. So Colin had less eggs even than Sophy, but that didn’t bother him, since he had the turtles, which he planned to keep in the glass tank, once the home of his dear departed goldfish, Eric the Red.