Arrow in a Sunbeam, and Other Tales

  LADY FERRY.

  We have an instinctive fear of death; yet we have a horror of a lifeprolonged far beyond the average limit: it is sorrowful; it is pitiful;it has no attractions.

  This world is only a schoolroom for the larger life of the next. Someleave it early, and some late: some linger long after they seem to havelearned all its lessons. This world is no heaven: its pleasures do notlast even through our little lifetimes.

  There are many fables of endless life, which in all ages have caughtthe attention of men; we are familiar with the stories of the oldpatriarchs who lived their hundreds of years; but one thinks of themwearily, and without envy.

  When I was a child, it was necessary that my father and mother shouldtake a long sea-voyage. I never had been separated from them before;but at this time they thought it best to leave me behind, as I was notstrong, and the life on board ship did not suit me. When I was told ofthis decision, I was very sorry, and at once thought I should bemiserable without my mother; besides, I pitied myself exceedingly forlosing the sights I had hoped to see in the country which they were tovisit. I had an uncontrollable dislike to being sent to school, havingin some way been frightened by a maid of my mother's, who had put manyideas and aversions into my head which I was very many years inoutgrowing. Having dreaded this possibility, it was a great relief toknow that I was not to be sent to school at all, but to be put underthe charge of two elderly cousins of my father,--a gentleman and hiswife whom I had once seen, and liked dearly. I knew that their homewas at a fine old-fashioned country-place, far from town, and closebeside a river, and I was pleased with this prospect, and at once beganto make charming plans for the new life.

  I had lived always with grown people, and seldom had had any thing todo with children. I was very small for my age, and a strange mixtureof childishness and maturity; and, having the appearance of beingabsorbed in my own affairs, no one ever noticed me much, or seemed tothink it better that I should not listen to the conversation. In spiteof considerable curiosity, I followed an instinct which directed menever to ask questions at these times; so I often heard stray sentenceswhich puzzled me, and which really would have been made simple andcommonplace at once, if I had only asked their meaning. I was, for themost of the time, in a world of my own. I had a great deal ofimagination, and was always telling myself stories; and my mind wasadrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was mistakenfor childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple unaffectedchild. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact andperception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in simplethings as heart could wish.

  It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on businessthe week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay with myfather and mother to the very last day, and then go home with him.This was much pleasanter than leaving sooner under the care of an utterstranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind letterabout my coming, which seemed to give her much pleasure. Sheremembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel ofconsequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long avisit.

  One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in anundertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time? Eightor ten years, has she not? I suppose she is there yet?"--"Oh, yes!"said my mother, "or Agnes would have told us. She spoke of her in thelast letter you had, while we were in Sweden."

  "I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after heryears of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hearthat she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I wasyoung, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men searchfor her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthewheard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared againthis last time as suddenly as she went away."

  "I suppose she will never die," said my mother gravely. "She must beterribly old," said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcelychanged at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is evenmore quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that thechild will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but Ithink I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hopeshe will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must notbe frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows whatcraziness is."--"She would be wise if she could define it," said myfather with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the oldlady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, andthat the child will rarely see her. I never have realized until latelythe horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one'sfriends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"

  Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and therewas a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had notchanged" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's lifeendless in this world!"

  The days went quickly by. My mother, who was somewhat of an invalid,grew sad as the time drew near for saying good-by to me, and was moretender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish andfancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to belong months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhapsshe was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, inthoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did seemy mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear webecame to each other before that first parting, and with what alingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure,over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I rememberhow close she used to hold me when I sat in her lap in the evening,saying that she was afraid I should have grown too large to be heldwhen she came back again. We had more to say to each other than everbefore, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected howmuch I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that Iwas something more than a little child who went from one interest toanother carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood wasmuch like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from myfather his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities,like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation andsensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think, because Iinterfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with myunsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through lifewith almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first realloneliness 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 bystage, 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, andI 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 thatonly the evening before we had gone out for a walk together, and therehad been a sunset so much like this. It somehow seemed long ago.Cousin Matthew was busy talking with the ferry-man; and indeed he hadfound acquaintances at almost every part of the journey, and had notbeen much with me, though he was kind and attentive in his courteous,old-fashioned way, treating me with the same ceremonious politenesswhich he had shown my mother. He pointed out the house to me: it wasbut a little way from the edge of the river. It was very large andirregular, with great white chimneys; and, while the river was all inshallow [Transcriber's note: shade?], the upper windows of two highgables were catching the last red glow of the sun. On the oppositeside of a green from the house were the farm-house and buildings; andthe green sloped down to the water, where there was a wharf and anancient-looking storehouse. There were some old boats and long sticksof timber lying on the shore; and I saw a flock of white geese marchsolemnly up toward the barns. From the open green I could see that aroad went up the hill beyond. The trees in the garden and orchard werethe richest green; their round tops were clustered thickly together:and there were some
royal great elms near the house. The fiery redfaded from the high windows as we came near the shore, and cousin Agneswas ready to meet me; and when she put her arms round me as kindly asmy mother would have done, and kissed me twice in my father's fashion,I was sure that I loved her, and would be contented. Her hair was verygray; but she did not look, after all, so very old. Her face was agrave one, as if she had had many cares; yet they had all made herstronger, and there had been some sweetness, and something to be gladabout, and to thank God for, in every sorrow. I had a feeling alwaysthat she was my sure defence and guard. I was safe and comfortablewith her: it was the same feeling which one learns to have toward Godmore 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 windowslooked on the garden and the river; another looked across to the othergable, and into the square, grassy court between. It was a rambling,great house, and seemed like some English houses I had seen. It wouldbe great fun to go into all the rooms some day soon.

  "How much you are like your father!" said cousin Agnes, stooping tokiss me again, with her hand on my shoulder. I had a suddenconsciousness of my bravery in having behaved so well all day; then Iremembered that my father and mother were at every instant beingcarried farther and farther away. I could almost hear the waves dashabout the ship; and I could not help crying a little. "Poor littlegirl!" said cousin Agnes: "I am very sorry." And she sat down, andtook me in her lap for a few minutes. She was tall, and held me socomfortably, and I soon was almost happy again; for she hoped I wouldnot 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 cousinMatthew so disappointed and uneasy if I were discontented; and would Ilike 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 smilepresently; and then we went down to the dining room, which had somesolemn-looking portraits on the walls, and heavy, stiff furniture; andthere was an old-fashioned woman standing ready to wait, whom cousinAgnes called Deborah, and who smiled at me graciously.

  Cousin Matthew talked with his wife for a time about what had happenedto him and to her during his absence; and then he said, "And how ismadam to-day? you have not spoken of her."--"She is not so well asusual," said cousin Agnes. "She has had one of her sorrowful timessince you went away. I have sat with her for several hours to-day; butshe 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, althoughyou may have heard your father speak of her. She is called Lady Ferryby most people who know of her; but you may say madam when you speak toher. She is very old, and her mind wanders, so that she has manystrange fancies; but you must not be afraid, for she is very gentle andharmless. She is not used to children; but I know you will not annoyher, and I dare say you can give her much pleasure." This was all thatwas said; but I wished to know more. It seemed to me that there was areserve about this person, and the old house itself was the very placefor a mystery. As I went through some of the other rooms with cousinAgnes in the summer twilight, I half expected to meet Lady Ferry inevery shadowy corner; but I did not dare to ask a question. Myfather's words came to me,--"Such an endless life," and "living on andon." And why had he and mother never spoken to me afterward of myseeing her? They had talked about it again, perhaps, and did not meanto tell me, after all.

  I saw something of the house that night, the great kitchen, with itshuge fireplace, and other rooms up stairs and down; and Cousin Agnestold me, that by daylight I should go everywhere, except to Madam'srooms: I must wait for an invitation there.

  The house had been built a hundred and fifty years before, by ColonelHaverford, an Englishman, whom no one knew much about, except that helived like a prince, and would never tell his history. He and his sonsdied; and after the Revolution the house was used for a tavern for manyyears,--the Ferry Tavern,--and the place was busy enough. Then therewas 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 wentaway; and then the old place, for a long time, was either vacant, or inthe hands of different owners. It was going to ruin at length, whencousin Matthew bought it, and came there from the city to live yearsbefore. He was a strange man; indeed, I know now that all thepossessors of the Ferry farm must have been strange men. One oftenhears of the influence of climate upon character; there is a stronginfluence of place; and the inanimate things which surround us indoorsand out make us follow out in our lives their own silentcharacteristics. We unconsciously catch the tone of every house inwhich we live, and of every view of the outward, material world whichgrows familiar to us, and we are influenced by surroundings nearer andcloser still than the climate or the country which we inhabit. At theold Haverford house it was a mystery which one felt when one enteredthe door; and when one came away, after cordiality, and days ofsunshine and pleasant hospitality, it was still with a sense of thismystery, and of something unseen and unexplained. Not that there wasany thing covered and hidden necessarily; but it was the quietundertone in the house which had grown to be so old, and had known themagnificent living of Colonel Haverford's time, and afterward thestruggles of poor gentlemen and women, who had hardly warmed its wallswith their pitiful fires, and shivering, hungry lives; then the longprocession of travellers who had been sheltered there in its old taverndays; finally, my cousin Matthew and his wife, who had made it theirhome, when, with all their fortune, they felt empty-handed, and as iftheir lives were ended, because their only son had died. Here they hadlearned to be happy again in a quiet sort of way, and had become olderand serener, loving this lovable place by the river, and keepers of itssecret--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 morethan usual. It was warm, and the windows of the parlour where we satlooked upon the garden. The moon had risen, and it was light out ofdoors. I caught every now and then the faint smell of honeysuckle, andpresently I asked if I might go into the garden a while; and cousinAgnes gave me leave, adding that I must soon go to bed, else I would bevery tired next day. She noticed that I looked grave, and said that Imust not dread being alone in a strange room, for it was so near herown. This was a great consolation; and after I had been told that thetide was in, and I must be careful not to go too near the river wall, Iwent out through the tall glass door, and slowly down the widegarden-walk, from which now and then narrower walks branched off atright angles. It was the pride of the place, this garden; and thebox-borders especially were kept with great care. They had partly beentrimmed that day; and the evening dampness brought out the faint,solemn odour of the leaves, which I never have noticed since withoutthinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the snow-ballbushes were startlingly white, and there was a long border filled withlilies-of-the-valley. The other flowers of the season, were all thereand in blossom; yet I could see none well but the white ones, whichlooked like bits of snow and ice in the summer shadows,--ghostlyflowers which one could see at night.

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

  For a while I wandered about, exploring the different paths, some ofwhich were arched over by the tall lilacs, or by arbors where thegrape-leaves did not seem fully grown. I wondered if my mother wouldmiss me. It seemed impossible that I should have seen her only thatmorning; and suddenly I had a consciousness that she was thinking ofme, and she seemed so close to me, that it would not be strange if shecould hear what I said. And I
called her twice softly; but the soundof my unanswered voice frightened me. I saw some round white flowersat my feet, looking up mockingly. The smell of the earth and the newgrass seemed to smother me. I was afraid to be there all alone in thewide open air; and all the tall bushes that were so still around metook strange shapes, and seemed to be alive. I was so terribly faraway from the mother whom I had called; the pleasure of my journey, andmy coming to cousin Agnes, faded from my mind, and that indescribablefeeling of hopelessness and dread, and of having made an irreparablemistake, came in its place. The thorns of a straying slender branch ofa rose bush caught my sleeve maliciously as I turned to hurry away, andthen I caught sight of a person in the path just before me. It wassuch a relief to see some one, that I was not frightened when I sawthat it must be Lady Ferry.

  She was bent, but very tall and slender, and was walking slowly with acane. 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 onher dress looked like frost in the moonlight: and the dress itself wasmade of some strange stiff silk, which rustled softly like dry rushesand grasses in the autumn,--a rustling noise that carries a chill withit. She came close to me, a sorrowful little figure very dreary atheart, standing still as the flowers themselves; and for severalminutes she did not speak, but watched me, until I began to be afraidof her. Then she held out her hand, which trembled as if it weretrying 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 willwalk with me? I did not think to find you here alone." There was afascinating sweetness in Madame's voice, and I at once turned to walkbeside her, holding her hand fast, and keeping pace with her feeblesteps. "Then you are not afraid of me?" asked the old lady, with astrange quiver in her voice. "It is a long time since I have seen achild."--"No," said I, "I am not afraid of you. I was frightenedbefore I saw you, because I was all alone, and I wished I could see myfather and mother;" and I hung my head so that my new friend could notsee 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 allalone, but there is no one like me. I am something alone: there isnothing else of my fashion, a creature who lives forever!" and LadyFerry sighed pitifully. Did she mean that she never was going to dielike other people? But she was silent, and I did not dare to ask forany explanation as we walked back and forward. Her fingers kept movinground my wrist, smoothing it as if she liked to feel it, and to keep myhand in hers. It seemed to give her pleasure to have me with her, andI felt quite at my ease presently, and began to talk a little, assuringher that I did not mind having taken the journey of that day. I hadtaken some long journeys: I had been to China once, and it took a greatwhile to get there; but London was the nicest place I had ever seen;had Lady Ferry even been in London? And I was surprised to hear hersay drearily that she had been in London; she had been everywhere.

  "Did you go to Westminster Abbey?" I asked, going on with theconversation childishly. "And did you see where Queen Elizabeth andMary 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 hadforgotten," answered my strange companion. "Do you know of any oneelse who has died beside them? I have not heard of any one's dying andgoing home for so long! Once every one died but me--except some youngpeople; and I do not know them."--"Why, every one must die," said Iwonderingly. "There is a funeral somewhere every day, Isuppose."--"Every one but me," Madam repeated sadly,--"every one butme, 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 ifyou choose." And I said good-night, while she turned, and went downthe walk with feeble, lingering steps. She paced to and fro, as Ioften saw her afterwards, on the flagstones: and some bats flew thatway like ragged bits of darkness, holding somehow a spark of life. Iwatched her for a minute: she was like a ghost, I thought but not afearful 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 forit, if you like gardening." I joyfully answered that I should like itvery much, and so I began to feel already the pleasure of being in areal home, after the wandering life to which I had become used. I wentclose to cousin Agnes's chair to tell her confidentially that I hadbeen walking with Madam in the garden, and she was very good to me, andasked me to come to sit with her the next day: but she said very oddthings.

  "You must not mind what she says," said cousin Agnes; "and I wouldnever dispute with her, or even seem surprised, if I were you. Ithurts and annoys her, and she soon forgets her strange fancies. Ithink you seem a very sensible little girl, and I have told you aboutthis poor friend of ours as if you were older. But you understand doyou 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 tosleep.

  I found a pleasant-faced young girl busy putting away some of myclothing. I had seen her just after supper, and had fancied her verymuch, 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 Iasked the question which was uppermost in my mind,--Did she knowanything about Madam?

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

  But my bright eyes and excited look betrayed me. Cousin Agnes said shehad 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 myspirits up, coming to a new, strange place. The apology was accepted,but Martha evidently had orders before I next saw her; for I nevercould get her to discuss Lady Ferry again; and she carefully told methat she should not have told those foolish stories, which were nottrue: but I knew that she still had her thoughts and suspicions as wellas I. Once, when I asked her if Lady Ferry were Madam's real name, sheanswered with a guilty flush, "That's what the folks hereabout calledher, because they didn't know any other at first." And this to me wasanother mystery. It was strongly impressed upon my mind that I mustask no questions, and that Madam was not to be discussed. No onedistinctly forbade this; but I felt that it would not do. In everyother way I was sure that I was allowe
d perfect liberty, so I soonceased to puzzle myself or other people, and accepted Madam's presenceas being perfectly explainable and natural,--just as the rest of thehousehold did,--except once in a while something would set me at workromancing and wondering; and I read some stories in one of the books inthe library,--of Peter Rugg the missing man, whom one may always meetriding from Salem to Boston in every storm, and of the Flying Dutchmanand the Wandering Jew, and some terrible German stories of doomedpeople, and curses that were fulfilled. These made a great impressionupon me; still I was not afraid, for all such things were far outsidethe boundaries of my safe little world; and I played by myself alongthe shore of the river and in the garden; and I had my lessons withcousin Agnes, and drives with cousin Matthew who was nearly alwayssilent, but very kind to me. The house itself was an unfailingentertainment, with its many rooms, most of which were never occupied,and its quaint, sober furnishings, some of which were as old as thehouse itself. It was like a story-book; and no one minded my goingwhere I pleased.

  I missed my father and mother; but the only time I was really unhappywas the first morning after my arrival. Cousin Agnes was ill with asevere headache; cousin Matthew had ridden away to attend to somebusiness; and, being left to myself, I had a most decided re-actionfrom my unnaturally bright feelings of the day before. I began towrite a letter to my mother; but unluckily I knew how many weeks mustpass before she saw it, and it was useless to try to go on, I waslonely and homesick. The rain fell heavily, and the garden lookedforlorn, and so unlike the enchanting moonlighted place where I hadbeen in the evening! The walks were like little canals; and therose-bushes looked wet and chilly, like some gay young lady who hadbeen caught in the rain in party-dress. It was low tide in the middleof the day, and the river-flats looked dismal. I fed cousin Agnes'flock of tame sparrows which came around the windows, and afterwardsome robins. I found some books and some candy which had come in mytrunk, but my heart was very sad; and just after noon I was overjoyedwhen one of the servants told me that cousin Agnes would like to haveme come to her room.

  She was even kinder to me than she had been the night before; but shelooked very ill, and at first I felt awkward, and did not know what tosay. "I am afraid you have been very dull, dearie," said she, reachingout her hand to me. "I am sorry, and my headache hardly lets me thinkat all yet. But we will have better times to-morrow--both of us. Youmust ask for what you want; and you may come and spend this eveningwith me, for I shall be getting well then. It does me good to see yourkind little face. Suppose you make Madam a call this afternoon. Shetold me last night that she wished for you, and I was so glad. Deborahwill show you the way."

  Deborah talked to me softly, out of deference to her mistress'sheadache, as we went along the crooked passages. "Don't you mind whatMadam says, least ways don't you dispute her. She's got a funeralgoing on to-day;" and the grave woman smiled grimly at me. "It'scurious she's taken to you so; for she never will see any strangefolks. Nobody speaks to her about new folks lately," she addedwarningly, as she tapped at the door, and Madam asked, "Is it thechild?" And Deborah lifted the latch. When I was fairly inside, myinterest in life came back redoubled, and I was no longer sad, butlooked round eagerly. Madam spoke to me, with her sweet old voice, inher courtly, quiet way, and stood looking out of the window.

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

  With these the room was almost filled, except an open space in thecentre, toward which they all faced. One window was darkened; butMadam had pushed back the shutter of the other, and stood looking downat the garden. I waited for her to speak again after the firstsalutation, and presently she said I might be seated; and I took thenearest chair, and again waited her pleasure. It was gloomy enough,with the silence and the twilight in the room; and the rain and windout of doors sounded louder than they had in cousin Agnes's room; butsoon Lady Ferry came toward me.

  "So you did not forget the old woman," said she, with a strangeemphasis on the word old, as if that were her title and her chiefcharacteristic. "And were not you afraid? I am glad it seemed worthwhile; for to-morrow would have been too late. You may like toremember by and by that you came. And my funeral is to be to-morrow atlast. You see the room is in readiness. You will care to be here, Ihope. I would have ordered you some gloves if I had known; but theseare all too large for your little hands. You shall have a ring; I willleave a command for that;" and Madam seated herself near me in acurious, high-backed chair. She was dressed that day in a maroonbrocade, figured with bunches of dim pink flowers; and some of theseflowers looked to me like wicked little faces. It was a mocking,silly, creature that I saw at the side of every prim bouquet, and Ilooked at the faded little imps, until they seemed as much alive asLady Ferry herself.

  Her head nodded continually, as if it were keeping time to an inaudibletune, as she sat there stiffly erect. Her skin was pale and withered;and her cheeks were wrinkled in fine lines, like the crossings of acobweb. Her eyes might once have been blue; but they had become nearlycolourless, and, looking at her, one might easily imagine that she wasblind. She had a singularly sweet smile, and a musical voice, whichthough sad, had no trace of whining. If it had not been for her smileand her voice, I think madam would have been a terror to me. I noticedto-day, for the first time, a curious fragrance, which seemed to comefrom her old brocades and silks. It was very sweet, but unlike anything I had ever known before; and it was by reason of this thatafterward I often knew, with a little flutter at my heart, she had beenin some other rooms of the great house beside her own. This perfumeseemed to linger for a little while wherever she had been, and yet itwas so faint! I used to go into the darkened chambers often, or evenstay for a while by myself in the unoccupied lower rooms, and I wouldfind this fragrance, and wonder if she were one of the old timefairies, 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 funeralI have always remembered distinctly.

  "I am glad you came," Madam repeated: "I was finding the day long. Iam all ready, you see. I shall place a little chair which is in thenext room, beside your cousin's seat for you. Mrs. Agnes is ill, Ihear; but I think she will come to-morrow. Have you heard any one sayif many guests are expected?"--"No, Madam," I answered, "no one hastold me;" and just then the thought flitted through my head that shehad said the evening before that all her friends were gone. Perhapsshe 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 tobe a horror to me, and I wished Deborah would come back, or that myhostess would open the shutters; and it was a great relief when sherose and went into the adjoining room, bidding me follow her, and thereopened a drawer containing some old jewelry; there were also some queerChinese carvings, yellow with age,--just the things a child wouldenjoy. I looked at them delightedly. This was coming back to morefamiliar life; and I soon felt more at ease, and chattered to LadyFerry of my own possessions, and some coveted treasures of my mother's,which were to be mine when I grew older.

  Madam stood beside me patiently, and listened with a half smile to mywhispered admiration. In the clearer light I could see her better, andshe seemed older,--so old, so old! and my father's words came to meagain. She had not changed since he was a boy; living on and on, and'the horror of an endless life in this world!' And I remembered whatMartha had said to me, and the consciousness of this mystery was agreat weight upon me of a sudden. Why was she living so long? and whathad happened to her? and how long could it be since she was a child?

  There
was something in her manner which made me behave, even in mypleasure, as if her imagined funeral were there in reality, and as if,in spite of my being amused and tearless, the solemn company of funeralguests already sat in the next room to us with bowed heads, and all theshadows in the world had assembled there materialized into the tangibleform of crape. I opened and closed the boxes gently, and, when I hadseen everything, I looked up with a sigh to think that such a pleasurewas ended, and asked if I might see them again some day. But the lookin her face made me recollect myself, and my own grew crimson, for itseemed at that moment as real to me as to Lady Ferry herself that thiswas her last day of mortal life. She walked away, but presently cameback, while I was wondering if I might not go, and opened the draweragain. It creaked, and the brass handles clacked in a startling way,and she took out a little case, and said I might keep it to rememberher by. It held a little vinaigrette,--a tiny silver box with a goldone inside, in which I found a bit of fine sponge, dark brown with age,and still giving a faint, musty perfume and spiciness. The outside wasrudely chased, and was worn as if it had been carried for years insomebody's pocket. It had a spring, the secret of which Lady Ferryshowed me. I was delighted, and instinctively lifted my face to kissher. She bent over me, and waited an instant for me to kiss her again."Oh!" said she softly, "it is so long since a child has kissed me! Ipray God not to leave you lingering like me, apart from all yourkindred, and your life so long that you forget you ever were achild."--"I will kiss you every day," said I, and then again rememberedthat there were to be no more days according to her plan; but she didnot seem to notice my mistake.

  And after this I used to go to see Madam often. For a time there wasalways the same gloom and hushed way of speaking, and the funeralservices were to be on the morrow; but at last one day I found Deborahsedately putting the room in order, and Lady Ferry apologized for itsbeing in such confusion; the idea of the funeral had utterly vanished,and I hurried to tell cousin Agnes with great satisfaction. I thinkthat both she and cousin Matthew had a dislike for my being too muchwith Madam. I was kept out of doors as much as possible because it wasmuch better for my health; and through the long summer days I strayedabout wherever I choose. The country life was new and delightful tome. At home Lady Ferry's vagaries were carelessly spoken of, and oftensmiled at; but I gained the idea that they disguised the truth, andwere afraid of my being frightened. She often talked about persons whohad been dead a long time,--familiar characters in history, and thoughcousin Agnes had said that she used to be fond of reading, it seemed tome that Madam might have known these men and women after all.

  Once a middle-aged gentleman, an acquaintance of cousin Matthew's, cameto pass a day and night at the Ferry, and something happened then whichseemed wonderful to me. It was early in the evening after tea, and wewere in the parlour; from my seat by cousin Agnes I could look out intothe garden, and presently, with the gathering darkness, came LadyFerry, silent as a shadow herself, to walk to and fro on theflagstones. The windows were all open, and the guest had a clear, loudvoice, and pleasant, hearty laugh; and, as he talked earnestly withcousin Matthew, I noticed that Lady Ferry stood still, as if she werelistening. Then I was attracted by some story which was being told,and forgot her, but afterward turned with a start, feeling that therewas some one watching; and, to my astonishment, Madam had come to thelong window by which one went out to the garden. She stood there amoment, looking puzzled and wild; then she smiled, and, entering,walked in most stately fashion down the long room, toward thegentlemen, before whom she courtesied with great elegance, while thestranger stopped speaking, and looked at her with amazement, as herose, and returned the greeting.

  "My dear Captain Jack McAllister!" said she; "what a surprise! and areyou not home soon from your voyage? This is indeed a pleasure." AndLady Ferry seated herself, motioning to him to take a chair beside her.She looked younger than I had ever seen her; a bright colour came intoher cheeks; and she talked so gayly, in such a different manner fromher usual mournful gentleness. She must have been a beautiful woman;indeed she was that still.

  "And did the good ship Starlight make a prosperous voyage? And had youmany perils?--Do you bring much news to us from the Spanish Main? Wehave missed you sadly at the assemblies; but there must be a dance inyour honour. And your wife; is she not overjoyed at the sight of you?I think you have grown old and sedate since you went away. You do notlook the gay sailor, or seem so light-hearted."

  "I do not understand you, madam," said the stranger. "I am certainlyJohn McAllister; but I am no captain, neither have I been at sea. GoodGod! is it my grandfather whom you confuse me with?" cried he. "He wasJack McAllister, and was lost at sea more than seventy years ago, whilemy own father was a baby. I am told that I am wonderfully like hisportrait; but he was a younger man than I when he died. This is somemasquerade."

  Lady Ferry looked at him intently, but the light in her face was fastfading out. "Lost at sea,--lost at sea, were you, Jack McAllister,seventy years ago? I know nothing of years; one of my days is likeanother, and they are gray days, they creep away and hide, andsometimes one comes back to mock me. I have lived a thousand years; doyou know it? Lost at sea--captain of the ship Starlight? Whom did yousay?--Jack McAllister, yes, I knew him well--pardon me; good-evening;"and my lady rose, and with her head nodding and drooping, with asorrowful, hunted look in her eyes, went out again into the shadows.She had had a flash of youth, the candle had blazed up brilliantly; butit went out again as suddenly, with flickering and smoke.

  "I was startled when I saw her beside me," said Mr. McAllister. "Pray,who is she? she is like no one I have ever seen. I have been told thatI am like my grandfather in looks and in voice; but it is years since Ihave seen any one who knew him well. And did you hear her speak ofdancing? It is like seeing one who has risen from the dead. How oldcan she be?"--"I do not know," said cousin Matthew, "one can only guessat her age."--"Would not she come back? I should like to questionher," asked the other. But cousin Matthew answered that she alwaysrefused to see strangers, and it would be no use to urge her, she wouldnot answer him.

  "Who is she? Is she any kin of yours?" asked Mr. McAllister.

  "Oh, no!" said my cousin Agnes: "she has had no relatives since I haveknown her, and I think she has no friends now but ourselves. She hasbeen with us a long time, and once before this house was her home for atime,--many years since. I suppose no one will ever know the wholehistory of her life; I wish often that she had power to tell it. Weare glad to give shelter, and the little care she will accept, to thepoor soul. God only knows where she has strayed and what she has seen.It is an enormous burden,--so long a life, and such a weight ofmemories; but I think it is seldom now that she feels itsheaviness.--Go out to her, Marcia my dear, and see if she seemstroubled. She always has a welcome for the child," cousin Agnes added,as I unwillingly went away.

  I found Lady Ferry in the garden; I stole my hand into hers, and,after a few minutes of silence, I was not surprised to hear her saythat they had killed the Queen of France, poor Marie Antoinette! shehad known her well in her childhood, before she was a queen at all--"asad fate, a sad fate," said Lady Ferry. We went far down the gardensand by the river-wall, and when we were again near the house, and couldhear Mr. McAllister's voice as cheery as ever, madam took no notice ofit. I had hoped she would go into the parlour again, and I wished overand over that I could have waited to hear the secrets which I was suremust have been told after cousin Agnes had sent me away.

  One day I thought I had made a wonderful discovery. I was fond ofreading, and found many books which interested me in cousin Matthew'sfine library; but I took great pleasure also in hunting through acollection of old volumes which had been cast aside, either by him, orby some former owner of the house, and which were piled in a corner ofthe great garret. They were mostly yellow with age, and had dark brownleather or shabby paper bindings; the pictures in some were veryamusing to me. I used often to find one which I appropriated
andcarried down stairs; and on this day I came upon a dusty, odd shapedlittle book, for which I at once felt an affection. I looked at it alittle. It seemed to be a journal, there were some stories of theIndians and next I saw some reminiscences of the town of Boston, where,among other things, the author was told the marvellous story of oneMistress Honor Warburton, who was cursed, and doomed to live in thisworld forever. This was startling. I at once thought of Madam, andwas reading on further to know the rest of the story, when some onecalled me, and I foolishly did not dare to carry my book with me. Iwas afraid I should not find it if I left it in sight; I saw an openingnear me at the edge of the floor by the eaves, and I carefully laid mytreasure inside. But, alas! I was not to be sure of its safehiding-place in a way that I fancied, for the book fell down betweenthe boarding of the thick walls, and I heard it knock as it fell, andknew by the sound that it must be out of reach, I grieved over thisloss for a long time; and I felt that it had been most unkindly takenout of my hand. I wished heartily that I could know the rest of thestory; and I tried to summon courage to ask Madam, when we were by ourselves, if she had heard of Honor Warburton, but something held me back.

  There were two other events just at this time which made this strangeold friend of mine seem stranger than ever to me. I had a dream onenight, which I took for a vision and a reality at the time. I thoughtI looked out of my window in the night, and there was bright moonlight,and I could see the other gable plainly; and I looked in at thewindows of an unoccupied parlour which I never had seen open before,under Lady Ferry's own rooms, The shutters were pushed back, and therewere candles burning; and I heard voices, and presently some tinklingmusic, like that of a harpsichord I had once heard in a very old housewhere I had been in England with my mother. I saw several couples gothrough with a slow, stately dance; and, when they stopped and seatedthemselves, I could hear their voices; but they spoke low, thesemidnight guests. I watched until the door was opened which led intothe garden, and the company came out and stood for a few minutes on thelittle lawn, making their adieus, bowing low, and behaving withastonishing courtesy and elegance: finally the last good-nights weresaid, and they went away. Lady Ferry stood under the pointed porch,looking after them, and I could see her plainly in her brocade gown,with the impish flowers, a tall quaint cap, and a high lace frill ather throat, whiter than any lace I had ever seen, and with a glitter onit, and there was a glitter on her face too. One of the other ladieswas dressed in velvet, and I thought she looked beautiful: their eyeswere all like sparks of fire. The gentlemen wore cloaks and ruffs, andhigh-peaked hats with wide brims, such as I had seen in some very oldpictures which hung on the walls of the long west room. These were notpilgrims or Puritans, but gay gentlemen; and soon I heard the noise oftheir boats on the pebbles as they pushed off shore, and the splash ofthe oars in the water. Lady Ferry waved her hand, and went in at thedoor; and I found myself standing by the window in the chilly, cloudynight: the opposite gable, the garden, and the river, wereindistinguishable in the darkness. I stole back to bed in an agony offear; for it had been very real, that dream. I surely was at thewindow, for my hand had been on the sill when I waked; and I heard achurch-bell ring two o'clock in a town far up the river. I never hadheard this solemn bell before, and it seemed frightful; but I knewafterward that in the silence of a misty night the sound of it camedown along the water.

  In the morning I found that there had been a gale in the night; andcousin Matthew said at breakfast time that the tide had risen so thatit had carried off two old boats that had been left on the shore to goto pieces. I sprang to the window, and sure enough they haddisappeared. I had played in one of them the day before. Should Itell cousin Matthew what I had seen or dreamed? But I was too surethat he would only laugh at me: and yet I was none the less sure thatthose boats had carried passengers.

  When I went out to the garden, I hurried to the porch, and saw, to mydisappointment, that there were great spiders' webs in the corners ofthe door, and around the latch, and that it had not been opened since Iwas there before. But I saw something shining in the grass, and foundit was a silver knee-buckle. It must have belonged to one of theghostly guests, and my faith in them came back for a while, in spite ofthe cobwebs. By and by I bravely carried it up to Madam, and asked ifit were hers. Sometimes she would not answer for a long time, when onerudely broke in upon her reveries, and she hesitated now, looking at mewith singular earnestness. Deborah was in the room; and, when she sawthe buckle, she quietly said that it had been on the window-ledge theday before, and must have slipped out. "I found it down by thedoorstep in the grass," said I humbly; and then I offered Lady Ferrysome strawberries which I had picked for her on a broad green leaf, andcame away again.

  A day or two after this, while my dream was still fresh in my mind, Iwent with Martha to her own home, which was a mile or two distant,--acomfortable farmhouse for those days, where I was always made welcome.The servants were all very kind to me: as I recall it now, they seemedto have pity for me, because I was the only child perhaps. I was veryhappy, that is certain, and I enjoyed my childish amusements asheartily as if there were no unfathomable mysteries or perplexities orsorrows anywhere in the world.

  I was sitting by the fireplace at Martha's, and her grandmother, whowas very old, and who was fast losing her wits, had been talking to meabout Madam. I do not remember what she said, at least, it made littleimpression; but her grandson, a worthless fellow, sauntered in, andbegan to tell a story of his own, hearing of whom we spoke. "I wascoming home late last night," said he, "and, as I was in that darkplace along by the Noroway pines, old Lady Ferry she went by me, and Iwas near scared to death. She looked fearful tall--towered way upabove me. Her face was all lit up with blue light, and her feet didn'ttouch the ground. She wasn't taking steps, she wasn't walking, butmovin' along like a sail-boat before the wind. I dodged behind somelittle birches, and I was scared she'd see me; but she went right outo' sight up the road. She ain't mortal."

  "Don't scare the child with such foolishness," said his auntdisdainfully. "You'll be seein' worse things a-dancin' before youreyes than that poor, harmless old creatur' if you don't quit the waysyou've been following lately. If that was last night, you were toodrunk to see anything;" and the fellow muttered, and went out bangingthe door. But the story had been told, and I was stiffened and chilledwith fright; and all the way home I was in terror, looking fearfullybehind me again and again.

  When I saw cousin Agnes, I felt safer, and since cousin Matthew was notat home, and we were alone, I could not resist telling her what I hadheard. She listened to me kindly, and seemed so confident that mystory was idle nonsense, that my fears were quieted. She talked to meuntil I no longer was a believer in there being any unhappy mystery orharmfulness; but I could not get over the fright, and I dreaded mylonely room, and I was glad enough when cousin Agnes, with herunfailing thoughtfulness, asked if I would like to have her come tosleep with me, and even went up stairs with me at my own early bedtime,saying that she should find it dull to sit all alone in the parlour.So I went to sleep, thinking of what I had heard, it is true, but nolonger unhappy, because her dear arm was over me, and I was perfectlysafe. I waked up for a little while in the night, and it was light inthe room, so that I could see her face, fearless and sweet and sad, andI wondered, in my blessed sense of security, if she were ever afraid ofLady Ferry.

  I will not tell other stories: they are much alike, all my memories ofthose weeks and months at the ferry, and I have no wish to bewearisome. The last time I saw Madam she was standing in the gardendoor at dusk. I was going away before daylight in the morning. It wasin the autumn: some dry leaves flittered about on the stone at herfeet, and she was watching them. I said good-by again, and she did notanswer me: but I think she knew I was going away, and I am sure she wassorry, for we had been a great deal together; and, child as I was, Ithought to how many friends she must have had to say farewell.

  Although I wished to see my father a
nd mother, I cried as if my heartwould break because I had to leave the ferry. The time spent there hadbeen the happiest time of all my life, I think. I was old enough toenjoy, but not to suffer much, and there was singularly little totrouble one. I did not know that my life was ever to be different. Ihave learned, since those childish days, that one must battle againststorms if one would reach the calm which is to follow them. I havelearned also that anxiety, sorrow, and regret fall to the lot of everyone, and that there is always underlying our lives, this mysterious andfrightful element of existence; an uncertainty at times, though we dotrust every thing to God. Under the best-loved and most beautiful facewe know, there is hidden a skull as ghastly as that from which we turnaside with a shudder in the anatomist's cabinet. We smile, and are gayenough; God pity us! We try to forget our heart-aches and remorse. Weeven call our lives commonplace, and, bearing our own heaviest burdenssilently, we try to keep the commandment, and to bear one another'salso. There is One who knows: we look forward, as He means we shall,and there is always a hand ready to help us, though we reach out for itdoubtfully in the dark.

  For many years after this summer was over, I lived in a distant,foreign country; at last my father and I were to go back to America.Cousin Agnes and cousin Matthew, and my mother, were all long sincedead, and I rarely thought of my childhood, for in an eventful andhurried life the present claims one almost wholly. We were travellingin Europe, and it happened that one day I was in a bookshop inAmsterdam, waiting for an acquaintance whom I was to meet, and who wasbehind time.

  The shop was a quaint place, and I amused myself by looking over anarmful of old English books which a boy had thrown down near me,raising a cloud of dust which was plain evidence of their antiquity. Icame to one, almost the last, which had a strange familiar look, and Ifound that it was a copy of the same book which I had lost in the wallat the ferry. I bought it for a few coppers with the greatestsatisfaction, and began at once to read it. It had been published inEngland early in the eighteenth century, and was written by one Mr.Thomas Highward of Chester,--a journal of his travels among some of theEnglish colonists of North America, containing much curious anddesirable knowledge, with some useful advice to those persons havingintentions of emigrating. I looked at the prosy pages here and there,and finally found again those reminiscences of the town of Boston andthe story of Mistress Honor Warburton, who was cursed, and doomed tolive in this world to the end of time. She had lately been in Boston,but had disappeared again; she endeavoured to disguise herself, andwould not stay long in one place if she feared that her story wasknown, and that she was recognized. One Mr. Fleming, a man of goodstanding and repute, and an officer of Her Majesty Queen Anne, hadsworn to Mr. Thomas Highward that his father, a person of great age,had once seen Mistress Warburton in his youth; that she then boreanother name, but had the same appearance. "Not wishing to seem undulycredulous," said Mr. Highward, "I disputed this tale; but there wassome considerable evidence in its favour, and at least this woman wasof vast age, and was spoken of with extreme wonder by the town's folk."

  I could not help thinking of my old childish suspicions of Lady Ferry,though I smiled at the folly of them and of this story more than once.I tried to remember if I had heard of her death; but I was still achild when my cousin Agnes had died. Had poor Lady Ferry survived her,and what could have become of her? I asked my father, but he couldremember nothing, if indeed he ever had heard of her death at all. Hespoke of our cousins' kindness to this forlorn soul, and that, learningher desolation and her piteous history (and being the more pitifulbecause of her shattered mind), when she had last wandered to theirdoor, they had cared for the old gentlewoman to the end of herdays--"for I do not think she can be living yet," said my father, witha merry twinkle in his eyes: "she must have been nearly a hundred yearsold when you saw her. She belonged to a fine old family which had goneto wreck and ruin. She strayed about for years, and it was a godsendto her to have found such a home in her last days."

  That same summer we reached America, and for the first time since I hadleft it I went to the ferry. The house was still imposing, theprestige of the Haverford grandeur still lingered; but it lookedforlorn and uncared for. It seemed very familiar; but the months I hadspent there were so long ago, that they seemed almost to belong toanother life. I sat alone on the doorstep for a long time, where Iused often to watch for Lady Ferry; and forgotten thoughts and dreamsof my childhood came back to me. The river was the only thing thatseemed as young as ever. I looked in at some of the windows where theshutters were put back, and I walked about the garden, where I couldhardly trace the walks, all overgrown with thick, short grass thoughthere were a few ragged lines of box, and some old rose-bushes; and Isaw the very last of the flowers,--a bright red poppy, which hadbloomed under a lilac-tree among the weeds.

  Out beyond the garden, on a slope by the river, I saw the familyburying-ground, and it was with a comfortable warmth at my heart that Istood inside the familiar old enclosure. There was my Lady Ferry'sgrave; there could be no mistake about it, and she was dead. I smiledat my satisfaction and at my foolish childish thoughts, and thanked Godthat there could be no truth in them, and that death comes surely,--sayrather that the better life comes surely--though it comes late.

  The sad-looking, yellow-topped cypress, which only seems to feel quiteat home in country burying-grounds, had kindly spread itself like acoverlet over the grave, which already looked like a very old grave;and the headstone was leaning a little, not to be out of the fashion ofthe rest. I traced again the words of old Colonel Haverford's pompousepitaph, and idly read some others. I remembered the old days sovividly there; I thought of my cousin Agnes, and wished that I couldsee her; and at last, as the daylight faded, I came away. When Icrossed the river, the ferry-man looked at me wonderingly, for my eyeswere filled with tears. Although we were in shadow on the water, thelast red glow of the sun blazed on the high gable-windows, just as itdid the first time I crossed over,--only a child then, with my lifebefore me.

  I asked the ferry-man some questions, but he could tell me nothing: hewas a new-comer to that part of the country. He was sorry that theboat was not in better order; but there were very seldom anypassengers. The great house was out of repair: people would not livethere, for they said it was haunted. Oh, yes! he had heard of LadyFerry. She had lived to be very ancient; but she was dead.

  "Yes," said I, "she is dead."

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