Lady Ferry Page #5

"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

								

house itself was an unfailing entertainment, with its many rooms, most
of which were never occupied, and its quaint, sober furnishings, some
of which were as old as the house itself. It was like a story-book;
and no one minded my going where I pleased.

I missed my father and mother; but the only time I was really unhappy
was the first morning after my arrival. Cousin Agnes was ill with a
severe headache; cousin Matthew had ridden away to attend to some
business; and, being left to myself, I had a most decided re-action
from my unnaturally bright feelings of the day before. I began to
write a letter to my mother; but unluckily I knew how many weeks must
pass before she saw it, and it was useless to try to go on. I was
lonely and homesick. The rain fell heavily, and the garden looked
forlorn, and so unlike the enchanting moonlighted place where I had
been in the evening! The walks were like little canals; and the
rose-bushes looked wet and chilly, like some gay young lady who had
been caught in the rain in party-dress. It was low-tide in the middle
of the day, and the river-flats looked dismal. I fed cousin Agnes'
flock of tame sparrows which came around the windows, and afterward
some robins. I found some books and some candy which had come in my
trunk, but my heart was very sad; and just after noon I was overjoyed
when one of the servants told me that cousin Agnes would like to have
me come to her room.

She was even kinder to me than she had been the night before; but she
looked very ill, and at first I felt awkward, and did not know what to
say. "I am afraid you have been very dull, dearie," said she, reaching
out her hand to me. "I am sorry, and my headache hardly lets me think
at all yet. But we will have better times to-morrow--both of us. You
must ask for what you want; and you may come and spend this evening
with me, for I shall be getting well then. It does me good to see your
kind little face. Suppose you make Madam a call this afternoon. She
told me last night that she wished for you, and I was so glad. Deborah
will show you the way."

Deborah talked to me softly, out of deference to her mistress's
headache, as we went along the crooked passages. "Don't you mind what
Madam says, leastways don't you dispute her. She's got a funeral going
on to-day;" and the grave woman smiled grimly at me. "It's curious
she's taken to you so; for she never will see any strange folks.
Nobody speaks to her about new folks lately," she added warningly, as
she tapped at the door, and Madam asked, "Is it the child?" And
Deborah lifted the latch. When I was fairly inside, my interest in
life came back redoubled, and I was no longer sad, but looked round
eagerly. Madam spoke to me, with her sweet old voice, in her courtly,
quiet way, and stood looking out of the window.

There were two tall chests of drawers in the room, with shining brass
handles and ornaments; and at one side, near the door, was a heavy
mahogany table, on which I saw a large leather-covered Bible, a
decanter of wine and some glasses, beside some cakes in a queer old
tray. And there was no other furniture but a great number of chairs
which seemed to have been collected from different parts of the house.

With these the room was almost filled, except an open space in the
centre, toward which they all faced. One window was darkened; but
Madam had pushed back the shutter of the other, and stood looking down
at the garden. I waited for her to speak again after the first
salutation, and presently she said I might be seated; and I took the
nearest chair, and again waited her pleasure. It was gloomy enough,
with the silence and the twilight in the room; and the rain and wind
out of doors sounded louder than they had in cousin Agnes's room; but
soon Lady Ferry came toward me.

"So you did not forget the old woman," said she, with a strange
emphasis on the word old, as if that were her title and her chief
characteristic. "And were not you afraid? I am glad it seemed worth
while; for to-morrow would have been too late. You may like to
remember by and by that you came. And my funeral is to be to-morrow,
at last. You see the room is in readiness. You will care to be here, I
hope. I would have ordered you some gloves if I had known; but these
are all too large for your little hands. You shall have a ring; I will
leave a command for that;" and Madam seated herself near me in a
curious, high-backed chair. She was dressed that day in a maroon
brocade, figured with bunches of dim pink flowers; and some of these
flowers looked to me like wicked little faces. It was a mocking, silly
creature that I saw at the side of every prim bouquet, and I looked at
the faded little imps, until they seemed as much alive as Lady Ferry
herself.

Her head nodded continually, as if it were keeping time to an
inaudible tune, as she sat there stiffly erect. Her skin was pale and
withered; and her cheeks were wrinkled in fine lines, like the
crossings of a cobweb. Her eyes might once have been blue; but they
had become nearly colorless, and, looking at her, one might easily
imagine that she was blind. She had a singularly sweet smile, and a
musical voice, which, though sad, had no trace of whining. If it had
not been for her smile and her voice, I think madam would have been a
terror to me. I noticed to-day, for the first time, a curious
fragrance, which seemed to come from her old brocades and silks. It
was very sweet, but unlike any thing I had ever known before; and it
was by reason of this that afterward I often knew, with a little
flutter at my heart, she had been in some other rooms of the great
house beside her own. This perfume seemed to linger for a little while
wherever she had been, and yet it was so faint! I used to go into the
darkened chambers often, or even stay for a while by myself in the
unoccupied lower rooms, and I would find this fragrance, and wonder if
she were one of the oldtime fairies, who could vanish at their own
will and pleasure, and wonder, too, why she had come to the room. But
I never met her at all.

That first visit to her and the strange fancy she had about the
funeral I have always remembered distinctly.

"I am glad you came," Madam repeated: "I was finding the day long. I
am all ready,  you see. I shall place a little chair which is in the
next room, beside your cousin's seat for you. Mrs. Agnes is ill, I
hear; but I think she will come to-morrow. Have you heard any one say
if many guests are expected?"--"No, Madam," I answered, "no one has
told me;" and just then the thought flitted through my head that she
had said the evening before that all her friends were gone. Perhaps
she expected their ghosts: that would not be stranger than all the
rest.

The open space where Lady Ferry had left room for her coffin began to
be a horror to me, and I wished Deborah would come back, or that my
hostess would open the shutters; and it was a great relief when she
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