Lady Ferry Page #3

"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

								

possessors of the Ferry farm must have been strange men. One often
hears of the influence of climate upon character; there is a strong
influence of place; and the inanimate things which surround us indoors
and out make us follow out in our lives their own silent
characteristics. We unconsciously catch the tone of every house in
which we live, and of every view of the outward, material world which
grows familiar to us, and we are influenced by surroundings nearer and
closer still than the climate or the country which we inhabit. At the
old Haverford house it was mystery which one felt when one entered the
door; and when one came away, after cordiality, and days of sunshine
and pleasant hospitality, it was still with a sense of this mystery,
and of something unseen and unexplained. Not that there was any thing
covered and hidden necessarily; but it was the quiet undertone in the
house which had grown to be so old, and had known the magnificent
living of Colonel Haverford's time, and afterward the struggles of
poor gentlemen and women, who had hardly warmed its walls with their
pitiful fires, and shivering, hungry lives; then the long procession
of travellers who had been sheltered there in its old tavern days;
finally, my cousin Matthew and his wife, who had made it their home,
when, with all their fortune, they felt empty-handed, and as if their
lives were ended, because their only son had died. Here they had
learned to be happy again in a quiet sort of way, and had become older
and serener, loving this lovable place by the river, and keepers of
its secret--whatever that might be.

I was wide awake that first evening: I was afraid of being sent to
bed, and, to show cousin Agnes that I was not sleepy, I chattered far
more than usual. It was warm, and the windows of the parlor where we
sat looked upon the garden. The moon had risen, and it was light out
of doors. I caught every now and then the faint smell of honeysuckle,
and presently I asked if I might go into the garden a while; and
cousin Agnes gave me leave, adding that I must soon go to bed, else I
would be very tired next day. She noticed that I looked grave, and
said that I must not dread being alone in the strange room, for it was
so near her own. This was a great consolation; and after I had been
told that the tide was in, and I must be careful not to go too near
the river wall, I went out through the tall glass door, and slowly
down the wide garden-walk, from which now and then narrower walks
branched off at right angles. It was the pride of the place, this
garden; and the box-borders especially were kept with great care. They
had partly been trimmed that day; and the evening dampness brought out
the faint, solemn odor of the leaves, which I never have noticed since
without thinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the
snowball-bushes were startlingly white, and there was a long border
filled with lilies-of-the-valley. The other flowers of the season were
all there and in blossom; yet I could see none well but the white
ones, which looked like bits of snow and ice in the summer
shadows,--ghostly flowers which one could see at night.

It was still in the garden, except once I heard a bird twitter
sleepily, and once or twice a breeze came across the river, rustling
the leaves a little. The small-paned windows glistened in the
moonlight, and seemed like the eyes of the house watching me, the
unknown new-comer.

For a while I wandered about, exploring the different paths, some of
which were arched over by the tall lilacs, or by arbors where the
grape-leaves did not seem fully grown. I wondered if my mother would
miss me. It seemed impossible that I should have seen her only that
morning; and suddenly I had a consciousness that she was thinking of
me, and she seemed so close to me, that it would not be strange if she
could hear what I said. And I called her twice softly; but the sound
of my unanswered voice frightened me. I saw some round white flowers
at my feet, looking up mockingly. The smell of the earth and the new
grass seemed to smother me. I was afraid to be there all alone in the
wide open air; and all the tall bushes that were so still around me
took strange shapes, and seemed to be alive. I was so terribly far
away from the mother whom I had called; the pleasure of my journey,
and my coming to cousin Agnes, faded from my mind, and that
indescribable feeling of hopelessness and dread, and of having made an
irreparable mistake, came in its place. The thorns of a straying
slender branch of a rose-bush caught my sleeve maliciously as I turned
to hurry away, and then I caught sight of a person in the path just
before me. It was such a relief to see some one, that I was not
frightened when I saw that it must be Lady Ferry.

She was bent, but very tall and slender, and was walking slowly with a
cane. Her head was covered with a great hood or wrapping of some kind,
which she pushed back when she saw me. Some faint whitish figures on
her dress looked like frost in the moonlight; and the dress itself was
made of some strange stiff silk, which rustled softly like dry rushes
and grasses in the autumn,--a rustling noise that carries a chill with
it. She came close to me, a sorrowful little figure very dreary at
heart, standing still as the flowers themselves; and for several
minutes she did not speak, but watched me, until I began to be afraid
of her. Then she held out her hand, which trembled as if it were
trying to shake off its rings. "My dear," said she "I bid you welcome:
I have known your father. I was told of your coming. Perhaps you will
walk with me? I did not think to find you here alone." There was a
fascinating sweetness in Madam's voice, and I at once turned to walk
beside her, holding her hand fast, and keeping pace with her feeble
steps. "Then you are not afraid of me?" asked the old lady, with a
strange quiver in her voice. "It is a long time since I have seen a
child."--"No," said I, "I am not afraid of you. I was frightened
before I saw you, because I was all alone, and I wished I could see my
father and mother;" and I hung my head so that my new friend could not
see the tears in my eyes, for she watched me curiously. "All alone:
that is like me," said she to herself. "All alone? a child is not all
alone, but there is no one like me. I am something alone: there is
nothing else of my fashion, a creature who lives forever!" and Lady
Ferry sighed pitifully. Did she mean that she never was going to die
like other people? But she was silent, and I did not dare to ask for
any explanation as we walked back and forward. Her fingers kept moving
round my wrist, smoothing it as if she liked to feel it, and to keep
my hand in hers. It seemed to give her pleasure to have me with her,
and I felt quite at my ease presently, and began to talk a little,
assuring her that I did not mind having taken the journey of that day.
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