Lady Ferry Page #2

"Lady Ferry" is a novella by Sarah Orne Jewett that explores themes of love, loss, and the passage of time through the lens of a small New England community. The story revolves around the character of Lady Ferry, a former belle who grapples with her past while navigating the complexities of her relationships. Jewett's lyrical prose immerses readers in the rich imagery of the setting, highlighting the connection between personal history and the natural world. The work is a poignant reflection on the enduring impacts of memory and the deep-seated ties of community.

• Short story

								

interfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with my
unsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through
life with almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first real
loneliness came into my heart.

It was a day's journey to cousin Matthew's house, mostly by rail;
though, toward the end, we had to travel a considerable distance by
stage, and at last were left on the river-bank opposite my new home,
and I saw a boat waiting to take us across. It was just at sunset, and
I remember wondering if my father and mother were out of sight of
land, and if they were watching the sky; if my father would remember
that only the evening before we had gone out for a walk together, and
there had been a sunset so much like this. It somehow seemed long ago.
Cousin Matthew was busy talking with the ferryman; and indeed he had
found acquaintances at almost every part of the journey, and had not
been much with me, though he was kind and attentive in his courteous,
old-fashioned way, treating me with the same ceremonious politeness
which he had shown my mother. He pointed out the house to me: it was
but a little way from the edge of the river. It was very large and
irregular, with great white chimneys; and, while the river was all in
shadow, the upper windows of two high gables were catching the last
red glow of the sun. On the opposite side of a green from the house
were the farm-house and buildings; and the green sloped down to the
water, where there was a wharf and an ancient-looking storehouse.
There were some old boats and long sticks of timber lying on the
shore; and I saw a flock of white geese march solemnly up toward the
barns. From the open green I could see that a road went up the hill
beyond. The trees in the garden and orchard were the richest green;
their round tops were clustered thick together; and there were some
royal great elms near the house. The fiery red faded from the high
windows as we came near the shore, and cousin Agnes was ready to meet
me; and when she put her arms round me as kindly as my mother would
have done, and kissed me twice in my father's fashion, was sure that I
loved her, and would be contented. Her hair was very gray; but she did
not look, after all, so very old. Her face was a grave one, as if she
had had many cares; yet they had all made her stronger, and there had
been some sweetness, and something to be glad about, and to thank God
for, in every sorrow. I had a feeling always that she was my sure
defence and guard. I was safe and comfortable with her: it was the
same feeling which one learns to have toward God more and more, as one
grows older.

We went in through a wide hall, and up stairs, through a long passage,
to my room, which was in a corner of one of the gables. Two windows
looked on the garden and the river: another looked across to the other
gable, and into the square, grassy court between. It was a rambling,
great house, and seemed like some English houses I had seen. It would
be great fun to go into all the rooms some day soon.

"How much you are like your father!" said cousin Agnes, stooping to
kiss me again, with her hand on my shoulder. I had a sudden
consciousness of my bravery in having behaved so well all day; then I
remembered that my father and mother were at every instant being
carried farther and farther away. I could almost hear the waves dash
about the ship; and I could not help crying a little. "Poor little
girl!" said cousin Agnes: "I am very sorry." And she sat down, and
took me in her lap for a few minutes. She was tall, and held me so
comfortably, and I soon was almost happy again; for she hoped I would
not be lonely with her, and that I would not think she was a stranger,
for she had known and loved my father so well; and it would make
cousin Matthew so disappointed and uneasy if I were discontented; and
would I like some bread and milk with my supper, in the same blue
china bowl, with the dragon on it, which my father used to have when
he was a boy? These arguments were by no means lost upon me, and I was
ready to smile presently; and then we went down to the dining-room,
which had some solemn-looking portraits on the walls, and heavy, stiff
furniture; and there was an old-fashioned woman standing ready to
wait, whom cousin Agnes called Deborah, and who smiled at me
graciously.

Cousin Matthew talked with his wife for a time about what had happened
to him and to her during his absence; and then he said, "And how is
madam to-day? you have not spoken of her."--"She is not so well as
usual," said cousin Agnes. "She has had one of her sorrowful times
since you went away. I have sat with her for several hours to-day; but
she has hardly spoken to me." And then cousin Matthew looked at me,
and cousin Agnes hesitated for a minute. Deborah had left the room.

"We speak of a member of our family whom you have not seen, although
you may have heard your father speak of her. She is called Lady Ferry
by most people who know of her; but you may say madam when you speak
to her. She is very old, and her mind wanders, so that she has many
strange fancies; but you must not be afraid, for she is very gentle
and harmless. She is not used to children; but I know you will not
annoy her, and I dare say you can give her much pleasure." This was
all that was said; but I wished to know more. It seemed to me that
there was a reserve about this person, and the old house itself was
the very place for a mystery. As I went through some of the other
rooms with cousin Agnes in the summer twilight, I half expected to
meet Lady Ferry in every shadowy corner; but I did not dare to ask a
question. My father's words came to me,--"Such an endless life," and
"living on and on." And why had he and my mother never spoken to me
afterward of my seeing her? They had talked about it again, perhaps,
and did not mean to tell me, after all.

I saw something of the house that night, the great kitchen, with its
huge fireplace, and other rooms up stairs and down; and cousin Agnes
told me, that by daylight I should go everywhere, except to Madam's
rooms: I must wait for an invitation there.

The house had been built a hundred and fifty years before, by Colonel
Haverford, an Englishman, whom no one knew much about, except that he
lived like a prince, and would never tell his history. He and his sons
died; and after the Revolution the house was used for a tavern for
many years,--the Ferry Tavern,--and the place was busy enough. Then
there was a bridge built down the river, and the old ferry fell into
disuse; and the owner of the house died, and his family also died, or
went away; and then the old place, for a long time, was either vacant,
or in the hands of different owners. It was going to ruin at length,
when cousin Matthew bought it, and came there from the city to live
years before. He was a strange man; indeed, I know now that all the
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