Lady Ferry Page #4

"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

								

I had taken some long journeys: I had been to China once, and it took
a great while to get there; but London was the nicest place I had ever
seen; had Lady Ferry ever been in London? And I was surprised to hear
her say drearily that she had been in London; she had been everywhere.

"Did you go to Westminster Abbey?" I asked, going on with the
conversation childishly. "And did you see where Queen Elizabeth and
Mary Queen of Scots are buried? Mamma had told me all about them."

"Buried, did you say? Are they dead too?" asked Madam eagerly. "Yes,
indeed!" said I: "they have been dead a long time."--"Ah! I had
forgotten," answered my strange companion. "Do you know of any one
else who has died beside them? I have not heard of any one's dying and
going home for so long! Once every one died but me--except some young
people; and I do not know them."--"Why, every one must die," said I
wonderingly. "There is a funeral somewhere every day, I
suppose."--"Every one but me," Madam repeated sadly,--"every one but
me, and I am alone."

Just now cousin Agnes came to the door, and called me. "Go in now,
child," said Lady Ferry. "You may come and sit with me to-morrow if
you choose." And I said good-night, while she turned, and went down
the walk with feeble, lingering steps. She paced to and fro, as I
often saw her afterwards, on the flag-stones; and some bats flew that
way like ragged bits of darkness, holding somehow a spark of life. I
watched her for a minute: she was like a ghost, I thought, but not a
fearful ghost,--poor Lady Ferry!

"Have you had a pleasant walk?" asked cousin Matthew politely.
"To-morrow I will give you a border for your own, and some plants for
it, if you like gardening." I joyfully answered that I should like it
very much, and so I began to feel already the pleasure of being in a
real home, after the wandering life to which I had become used. I went
close to cousin Agnes's chair to tell her confidentially that I had
been walking with Madam in the garden, and she was very good to me,
and asked me to come to sit with her the next day; but she said very
odd things.

"You must not mind what she says," said cousin Agnes; "and I would
never dispute with her, or even seem surprised, if I were you. It
hurts and annoys her, and she soon forgets her strange fancies. I
think you seem a very sensible little girl, and I have told you about
this poor friend of ours as if you were older. But you understand, do
you not?" And then she kissed me good-night, and I went up stairs,
contented with her assurance that she would come to me before I went
to sleep.

I found a pleasant-faced young girl busy putting away some of my
clothing. I had seen her just after supper, and had fancied her very
much, partly because she was not so old as the rest of the servants.
We were friendly at once, and I found her very talkative; so finally I
asked the question which was uppermost in my mind,--Did she know any
thing about Madam?

"Lady Ferry, folks call her," said Martha, much interested. "I never
have seen her close to, only from the other side of the garden, where
she walks at night. She never goes out by day. Deborah waits upon her.
I haven't been here long; but I have always heard about Madam, bless
you! Folks tell all kinds of strange stories. She's fearful old, and
there's many believes she never will die; and where she came from
nobody knows. I've heard that her folks used to live here; but nobody
can remember them, and she used to wander about; and once before she
was here,--a good while ago; but this last time she come was nine
years ago; one stormy night she came across the ferry, and scared them
to death, looking in at the window like a ghost. She said she used to
live here in Colonel Haverford's time. They saw she wasn't right in
her head--the ferry-men did. But she came up to the house, and they
let her in, and she went straight to the rooms in the north gable, and
she never has gone away; it was in an awful storm she come, I've
heard, and she looked just the same as she does now. There! I can't
tell half the stories I've heard, and Deborah she most took my head
off," said Martha, "because, when I first came, I was asking about
her; and she said it was a sin to gossip about a harmless old creature
whose mind was broke, but I guess most everybody thinks there's
something mysterious. There's my grandmother--grandmother her mind is
failing her; but she never had such ways! And then those clothes that
my lady in the gable wears: they're unearthly looking; and I heard a
woman say once, that they come out of a chest in the big garret, and
they belonged to a Mistress Haverford who was hung for a witch, but
there's no knowing that there is any truth in it." And Martha would
have gone on with her stories, if just then we had not heard cousin
Agnes's step on the stairway, and I hurried into bed.

But my bright eyes and excited look betrayed me. Cousin Agnes said she
had hoped I would be asleep. And Martha said perhaps it was her fault;
but I seemed wakeful, and she had talked with me a bit, to keep my
spirits up, coming to a new, strange place. The apology was accepted,
but Martha evidently had orders before I next saw her; for I never
could get her to discuss Lady Ferry again; and she carefully told me
that she should not have told those foolish stories, which were not
true: but I knew that she still had her thoughts and suspicions as
well as I. Once, when I asked her if Lady Ferry were Madam's real
name, she answered with a guilty flush, "That's what the folks
hereabout called her, because they didn't know any other at first."
And this to me was another mystery. It was strongly impressed upon my
mind that I must ask no questions, and that Madam was not to be
discussed. No one distinctly forbade this; but I felt that it would
not do. In every other way I was sure that I was allowed perfect
liberty, so I soon ceased to puzzle myself or other people, and
accepted Madam's presence as being perfectly explainable and
natural,--just as the rest of the household did,--except once in a
while something would set me at work romancing and wondering; and I
read some stories in one of the books in the library,--of Peter Rugg
the missing man, whom one may always meet riding from Salem to Boston
in every storm, and of the Flying Dutchman and the Wandering Jew, and
some terrible German stories of doomed people, and curses that were
fulfilled. These made a great impression upon me; still I was not
afraid, for all such things were far outside the boundaries of my safe
little world; and I played by myself along the shore of the river and
in the garden; and I had my lessons with cousin Agnes, and drives with
cousin Matthew who was nearly always silent, but very kind to me. The
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