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
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 a 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 parlour 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 a 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 odour of the leaves, which I never have noticed since without
thinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the snow-ball
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 Madame'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. 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 even 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 flagstones: 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
anything 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 Madame,
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 came 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 came, 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--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 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, least ways 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
colourless, 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 old time
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
rose and went into the adjoining room, bidding me follow her, and there
opened a drawer containing some old jewelry; there were also some queer
Chinese carvings, yellow with age,--just the things a child would
enjoy. I looked at them delightedly. This was coming back to more
familiar life; and I soon felt more at ease, and chattered to Lady
Ferry 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 my
whispered admiration. In the clearer light I could see her better, and
she seemed older,--so old, so old! and my father's words came to me
again. 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 what
Martha had said to me, and the consciousness of this mystery was a
great weight upon me of a sudden. Why was she living so long? and what
had 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 my
pleasure, as if her imagined funeral were there in reality, and as if,
in spite of my being amused and tearless, the solemn company of funeral
guests already sat in the next room to us with bowed heads, and all the
shadows in the world had assembled there materialized into the tangible
form of crape. I opened and closed the boxes gently, and, when I had
seen everything, I looked up with a sigh to think that such a pleasure
was ended, and asked if I might see them again some day. But the look
in her face made me recollect myself, and my own grew crimson, for it
seemed at that moment as real to me as to Lady Ferry herself that this
was her last day of mortal life. She walked away, but presently came
back, while I was wondering if I might not go, and opened the drawer
again. 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 remember
her by. It held a little vinaigrette,--a tiny silver box with a gold
one 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 was
rudely chased, and was worn as if it had been carried for years in
somebody's pocket. It had a spring, the secret of which Lady Ferry
showed me. I was delighted, and instinctively lifted my face to kiss
her. 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! I
pray God not to leave you lingering like me, apart from all your
kindred, and your life so long that you forget you ever were a
child."--"I will kiss you every day," said I, and then again remembered
that there were to be no more days according to her plan; but she did
not seem to notice my mistake.
And after this I used to go to see Madam often. For a time there was
always the same gloom and hushed way of speaking, and the funeral
services were to be on the morrow; but at last one day I found Deborah
sedately putting the room in order, and Lady Ferry apologized for its
being in such confusion; the idea of the funeral had utterly vanished,
and I hurried to tell cousin Agnes with great satisfaction. I think
that both she and cousin Matthew had a dislike for my being too much
with Madam. I was kept out of doors as much as possible because it was
much better for my health; and through the long summer days I strayed
about wherever I choose. The country life was new and delightful to
me. At home Lady Ferry's vagaries were carelessly spoken of, and often
smiled at; but I gained the idea that they disguised the truth, and
were afraid of my being frightened. She often talked about persons who
had been dead a long time,--familiar characters in history, and though
cousin Agnes had said that she used to be fond of reading, it seemed to
me that Madam might have known these men and women after all.
Once a middle-aged gentleman, an acquaintance of cousin Matthew's, came
to pass a day and night at the Ferry, and something happened then which
seemed wonderful to me. It was early in the evening after tea, and we
were in the parlour; from my seat by cousin Agnes I could look out into
the garden, and presently, with the gathering darkness, came Lady
Ferry, silent as a shadow herself, to walk to and fro on the
flagstones. The windows were all open, and the guest had a clear, loud
voice, and pleasant, hearty laugh; and, as he talked earnestly with
cousin Matthew, I noticed that Lady Ferry stood still, as if she were
listening. Then I was attracted by some story which was being told,
and forgot her, but afterward turned with a start, feeling that there
was some one watching; and, to my astonishment, Madam had come to the
long window by which one went out to the garden. She stood there a
moment, looking puzzled and wild; then she smiled, and, entering,
walked in most stately fashion down the long room, toward the
gentlemen, before whom she courtesied with great elegance, while the
stranger stopped speaking, and looked at her with amazement, as he
rose, and returned the greeting.