by Peggy Bacon
Had either of them seen such a whistle before?
They shook their heads.
Then how did they know what it was the minute they saw it?
Ellen and Phil looked at each other uncomfortably. And why did Ellen say Pelley gave it to Batsy? “And who’s Pelley?” asked Bertha.
“That was the name of my great-grandfather,” said John. “Pelley Montague, Grandpa Fudge’s father. He died when I was little. I never knew him; and what do you know about him, for heaven’s sake?”
“Somebody told us a story,” Phil answered, “about the Montague twins and their silver whistles.”
“Who told you?”
“What did they tell you?”
“Tell us!”
“Tell us! Come on! I want to hear about my whistle,” Bertha clamored.
“It isn’t yours,” said Ellen.
“It is so mine! I found it and ‘findings is keepings.’”
“It’s really John’s.”
“I don’t see why!”
“Because it belonged to Pelley Montague,” Ellen insisted.
“See here!” John Montague spoke forcefully. “They’re my relatives. I have a right to know whatever it is you’ve heard.”
It occurred to Phil suddenly that he could tell the tale of the Montague twins without mentioning the ghost. She had played no part in it. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go down by the brook and eat our lunch and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
They left the cave, retraced their steps to the clearing, unpacked the picnic basket and settled down.
The sun was warm. A breeze flowed through the valley. The children sat on the turf by Batsy’s fireplace, munching their sandwiches and sipping their ginger ale in dreamlike peace. All around them the forest and the hills wore an autumnal coat of many colors. Through the sound of Phillip’s voice they heard the chirping crickets and the chuckling brook.
Phil began his account with the twins’ visit to their fussy Grandmother and Grandfather Cumberland. John Montague, listening intently to the tale of his Great-grandfather Pelley Montague and Pelley’s twin brother Patrick, had the sensation of looking through a tiny peephole in the thick dark wall of time. And as the tale progressed and cast its spell, the cave in the hill, the valley, the forest glade with its ring of stones seemed brimful of the past.
“That’s the end of the story,” said Phil finally.
“You can see why John should have the whistle,” Ellen said to Bertha.
The younger girl hung her head, fondling the whistle in her lap. Without a word, but with a heavy sigh, she handed it to the boy.
“Some of our forebears lived in your house, way back,” Bill said in his slow way. “A clergyman named Trumbull built it they say, early in the eighteenth century.”
Ellen and Phil were silent.
“We have a miniature at home,” said Bertha. “It’s a portrait of a pretty young lady named Angelica Trumbull, Father told me. She was some ever-so-long-ago great-grandma.”
The Finleys managed to keep their mouths shut tight.
“She’s in a red-and yellow striped dress,” Bertha continued. “She’s holding a fluffy white cat.”
“Opalina!” squealed Ellen...then clapped her hands over her mouth and Phil sputtered: “Oh, Ellen!”
Questions exploded like firecrackers:
“Opalina?”
“What do you mean, ‘Opalina’?”
“It’s the cat’s name,” Ellen mumbled helplessly, getting in deeper and deeper, “the cat she brought with her when she came to Heatherfield.”
“What do you mean, ‘when she came to Heatherfield’?”
“I mean when she married Ben.”
“Ben who?”
“Ben Trumbull.”
“The clergyman?”
“No. The clergyman’s older son.”
“Oh, Ellen! Why can’t you shut up?” her brother scolded.
“Tell us about them all,” Bertha begged. “You told about the Montague twins and Batsy, so you’ve got to tell about our family, too!”
“It won’t be fair if you don’t,” Bill stated severely.
“Now see what you’ve done!” Phil exclaimed.
“You did the same with the whistle,” Ellen retorted. “Anyway we can tell about Horace and Saul, because Opalina was still alive, you know.”
True, thought Phil; so before the others could ask what Ellen meant by that cryptic remark, he began the story of Opalina’s first life.
The Finley’s friends were quieted for a while, absorbed in the tale of Angelica, Ben, the page boy Horace, Saul and the missing jewels, and the Persian cat that got locked in the secret room.
But no sooner had Phil ceased speaking than John said: “It beats me how you two found out all this, when you came here only a couple of months ago!”
“If you’ve discovered a history of Heatherfield or a chronicle about the local families, I’d certainly like to see it,” Bill said.
Three pairs of avid eyes were fixed on the Finleys. Phil leaped up and seized the picnic basket. “Come home with us and we’ll show you the secret room.”
Lured by the prospect, the others willingly followed him out of the grove and back to the Indian Trail. Ellen and Phil kept far enough ahead so that their friends could not ask further questions.
To Ellen and Phil, who had often gone in and out of it, the secret room was charged with stirring visions of Saul and the stolen jewels...of Opalina cowering under the open lid of the trunk...of Benjamin Paisley poring over his coins...of Bingo prying diamonds from the crack. The secret room was an enchanted place...a great secret of their very own. They felt that in offering to share their secret, they were conferring a great favor on their friends.
They led their guests upstairs and proudly ushered them into the paneled playroom, where Phil pointed out the dent in the woodwork next to the mantelpiece. Hooking his finger in the dent, he pressed slightly and the panel glided smoothly into the wall.
Tense with anticipation, John, Bill and Bertha peered through the opening into the dark hollow.
As Phillip and Ellen had felt depressed by the cave, so were their friends at sight of the secret room. One by one, they entered and came out, their eyes clouded over with disappointment. All they saw was a space the size of a cupboard, lined with bare shelves...nothing else...a dusty, musty, poky little closet, no more than a small black hole in the core of the house!
“So that’s the secret room!” John’s tone was disparaging.
“It’s not much, after all,” Bill observed.
“What did you expect? A ballroom?” Phil was indignant. “It had to be small to be secret.”
“But it’s empty,” Bertha grumbled. “What’s the use of a secret room if it hasn’t anything in it?”
“It’s empty now because we’ve nothing to hide. I told you that Saul built it to hide what he stole.”
“Why did he build the shelves?” Bill wondered.
“He didn’t,” said Ellen. “It was somebody else.”
Phillip sighed with exasperation as the others turned on Ellen, their eyes again lit up with blazing curiosity.
“Who built the shelves? Who was it?”
“Come on! Tell us!”
Ellen said: “Phil, there’s no harm in telling them that.”
“Except their questions will go on forever.”
“And why wouldn’t they?” John demanded angrily. “When you evidently know so much more than you’re telling!”
“Yes,” said Bill. “Why be so secretive? It’s like pulling teeth to get anything out of you. You say somebody told you all these stories, but I can’t help thinking you’ve read them in a book.”
“Did you?” asked Bertha.
“No we did not,” Phil declared.
“Then who told you?”
“Is it someone we know?”
“No, it isn’t,” said Ellen. “I can say that.”
“Is it somebody living here in Heatherfield?”
“Well...no,” Phillip answered, thinking: A ghost isn’t alive.
“’We-ell...no-o-o!’” John mimicked. “Gee, but you’re stingy with your information!”
“That’s sort of ungrateful, isn’t it, after all I’ve been telling you?”
“But why not tell us who told you?”
“We mustn’t, that’s why.”
“Do you mean you promised the person not to tell?”
“We didn’t exactly promise,” Phil admitted.
“You don’t seem to be able to give a straight answer.” Bill narrowed his eyes.
“See here!” Phil was harassed. “We’ve told you what we know...as much as we dare...but we can’t tell you how we know.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe us, that’s why.”
“If it’s the truth, we would,” Bill assured him.
“Oh, it’s true enough, but you wouldn’t think so.”
“Try us and see.”
“I’d rather not.”
“My, but you’re cagy!” John sneered. “You don’t trust your friends too much, do you?”
“I think it’s downright mean of you not to tell us!” Bertha said fiercely. “And if you keep secrets from me, Ellen Finley, I’m never going to speak to you again!”
Ellen was dismayed. Bertha Trumbull was her one close friend in Heatherfield. “Let’s tell them, Phil, if they promise to believe us.”
“No one can promise that, Ellen,” Phil said soberly; “so don’t you go and blurt out anything more.”
There was a short silence. John and Bill looked haughty and aloof; Bertha sulked. Then Bill said:
“Well...thanks for having us over. We’d better be getting home. Come on, Bertha.”
“Thanks for the picnic lunch,” John said gruffly.
With stiff good-byes from the boys...none from Bertha...they trooped off. The friendships, so recently formed, seemed to have come to an end.
Anger breeds anger. Having quarreled with their friends, Phillip and Ellen began to quarrel with each other.
“It’s your fault they went away mad,” Phil said bitterly.
“It’s not my fault!” Ellen raised her voice. “It’s all yours for refusing to tell the truth.”
“If I had, they’d have called us liars. It was so dumb of you, mentioning Opalina!”
“What about you and the whistle?” Ellen shouted. “You started it all!”
“All right! I did! But I had them soothed and satisfied, till you began spilling the beans all over the place!”
So it went. They wrangled on and on till suppertime. After dessert, ice cream with hot chocolate sauce and sponge cake, a milder mood prevailed, and Phil said peaceably: “I guess telling part of the truth never works very well. That’s what we tried to do and they saw through it. They didn’t like it and you can’t blame them.”
Since it was Saturday evening, the children were able to visit Opalina, and, as usual, they found her asleep, curled up in a misty ball.
“Peekaboo, Opalina!” Jeb intoned, and Opalina awoke.
Eyeing Ellen and Phillip, she said sardonically: “I see you’ve already fought with your fine new friends.”
“It wasn’t our fault,” Phil said miserably.
“I beg to differ! It’s really too bad of you! With five able-bodied children roaming around, I expected a drama to unfold. I looked for some excitement, some derring-do, but your folly has dashed my hopes.”
“What does ‘derring-do’ mean?” Ellen asked.
“Daring doings, of course. Instead of that, everyone sat around munching and jabbering! You two talk too much! You’re tactless chatterboxes!”
“I’m awfully sorry I mentioned you, Opalina,” Ellen said dejectedly.
Opalina sniffed. “It was indeed unfortunate.”
“Ellen wanted to tell them everything, but I wouldn’t let her; I thought they wouldn’t believe us.”
“You’re quite right there. They’d never believe in me unless they saw me with their own eyes. ‘Seeing is believing,’ people say, which shows how little imagination they have.”
“Oh dear, what can we do?” Ellen whined.
“Don’t ask me! You bore me to extinction! I can’t think what’s the matter with children nowadays! Neither one of you is any more fun than Benjamin Paisley was in his old age. Since you offer me no amusement and make a mess of things, I’ll hibernate again. The interview is over. Leave me in peace.” With that, Opalina collected her misty fringes and rolled herself up in a ball.
Phillip and Ellen were unhappy. Following the afternoon of squabbling, Opalina’s disapproval crushed them. And their life in school, from Monday on, was worse than ever before.
In the beginning, they knew nobody. Now they knew everyone, but their friends had deserted them. Bill ignored them; John’s manner was icy; and Bertha, with childish cruelty, turned her back whenever Ellen approached.
Next Saturday night, the two sorrowful children took their young brother upstairs to the playroom and seated themselves by the old red velvet chair.
“I gather you haven’t enjoyed yourselves this week,” said Opalina, awakening from her trance. She yawned, stretched and eyed them with some compassion.
“Everything’s been perfectly horrid,” said Ellen, her eyes filling with tears.
“It’s been pretty bad,” said Phil.
Opalina cocked her head at them. “I might say it serves you right for being so stupid.”
“I suppose so,” Phil muttered.
“I’m glad you agree, and I think you’ve been punished enough. The children of the house have always been my chief responsibility. Now I can see that once more I must step in and save the situation.”
“I don’t think you can,” said Phil. “The trouble is, our friends don’t like us any more.”
“And you can’t change that,” Ellen said mournfully. “You can’t make people like us if they don’t.”
“Stop telling me what I can do and what I can’t!” Opalina hissed. “Haven’t you learned yet that I am a being gifted with second sight? Be quiet and let me think.”
The children kept still and allowed Opalina to concentrate, which she seemed to do by popping her eyes in and out and winking them on and off like electric-light bulbs.
“Just like balloons!” sang Jeb.
“Youngling, you inspire me! I know what we’ll do! We will give a Halloween party here in the playroom.”
“A Halloween party!”
That seemed a bold proposal.
“Yes, a birthday party in my honor! Two hundred years ago on Halloween, I became a ghost, if you remember. My two hundredth anniversary must be celebrated. Send invitations to your three faithless friends and don’t ask anyone else.”
“We couldn’t ask them!” Phil protested.
And Ellen said: “Bertha won’t even speak to me now.”
“Even if we asked them, they wouldn’t come.”
“If you make the invitation tempting enough, mark my words, they’ll accept,” Opalina asserted.
“How can we do that?”
“What could we say?”
“Say that the guest of honor is the one who tells you about the people who lived in this house. Work on their curiosity. They have plenty.”
“Do you mean you’ll let them see you?”
“That’s the idea. The guest of honor must be present, of course.”
“But how are we going to entertain them, if they come?”
“And what can we do to amuse you, Opalina?”
“I’ll see to that. I’ll furnish the entertainment and I’ll be amusing myself at the same time.”
“What will you do?”
“Never you mind, what! Do as I tell you: write the invitations. Bring me a hollow pumpkin. Cut a face in it, and leave the rest to me.”
Opalina rolled over and fell asleep and the children went downstairs.
With pad and pencil and considerable thought
, Phillip composed a crafty invitation and Ellen made three copies on her best notepaper. The message read:
Ellen and Phillip Finley
invite you to attend
a VERY EXCLUSIVE PARTY
in our playroom
at 7:30 P.M. on
HALLOWEEN!!!!!!!
Our GUEST of HONOR
is our GHOST of HONOR
who tells us about
the people who lived
in our house
It’s a SECRET, so don’t tell Anyone else.
(R.S.V.P. at school)
They mailed the copies to John, Bill and Bertha, and the day the invitations were received they were accepted, as Opalina had foretold.
“Thanks for asking me, Phil,” John said in recess. “I’m sorry I got so mad the other day.”
“That’s okay! Forget it! I know it seemed funny, our not being frank with you...Hi, Bill,” he called out, as the boy sauntered toward him. “Can you and Bertha make it on Halloween?”
“Yes we can, and it’s nice of you to invite us, after all the arguments.” Bill smiled apologetically.
In the lunchroom at noon, Bertha sidled up to Ellen. Embarrassed, she said flatly: “I want to make up and be friends and come to the party,” to which Ellen answered: “All right.”
Mutual ill feeling had subsided. Nevertheless, the Finleys avoided those three. There could be no openhearted friendliness until Opalina succeeded in clearing the air.
Each day after school, when they got home, Ellen and Phil were busy preparing for Halloween. Mother had given permission for the party. She bought them a huge pumpkin, which they hollowed out, and Phil cut the face of a wild-looking cat in one side.
Opalina was pleased when they woke her up and showed it to her. She said it was most appropriate…“quite the thing”...and told them to set it in the fireplace.
The day before Halloween, Phillip made fudge…his one culinary accomplishment; and Ellen helped her mother bake stacks of cookies: macaroons, brownies, hermits and gingersnaps.
When the great day came, they decorated the playroom with colored balloons, streamers of crepe paper, sheaves of red oak leaves and bunches of bittersweet, and they put a box of matches on the mantelpiece beside the four candlesticks borrowed from the dining room. Ellen suddenly said: “Do you know something? We’ve got to get birthday presents for Opalina!”