_behind_ her steps, not before them. 'Her feet have touched the
meadow, and left the daisies rosy.' Flowers flourish in the garden of
one who loves them. A pleasant magic it would be if you could flush
flowers into brighter bloom by a kind look upon them; nay, more, if a
look had the power not only to cheer but to guard them. This you would
think a great thing? And do you think it not a greater thing that all
this, and more than this, you can do for fairer flowers than
these,--flowers that could bless you for having blessed them, and will
love you for having loved them,--flowers that have eyes like yours,
and thoughts like yours, and lives like yours?"
LADY FERRY.
We have an instinctive fear of death; yet we have a horror of a life
prolonged 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. Some
leave it early, and some late: some linger long after they seem to
have learned all its lessons. This world is no heaven: its pleasures
do not last even through our little lifetimes.
There are many fables of endless life, which in all ages have caught
the attention of men; we are familiar with the stories of the old
patriarchs who lived their hundreds of years: but one thinks of them
wearily, and without envy.
-----
When I was a child, it was necessary that my father and mother should
take 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 not
strong, and the life on board ship did not suit me. When I was told of
this decision, I was very sorry, and at once thought I should be
miserable without my mother; besides, I pitied myself exceedingly for
losing the sights I had hoped to see in the country which they were to
visit. I had an uncontrollable dislike to being sent to school, having
in some way been frightened by a maid of my mother's, who had put many
ideas and aversions into my head which I was many years in outgrowing.
Having dreaded this possibility, it was a great relief to know that I
was not to be sent to school at all, but to be put under the charge of
two elderly cousins of my father,--a gentleman and his wife whom I had
once seen, and liked dearly. I knew that their home was at a fine
old-fashioned country-place, far from town, and close beside a river,
and I was pleased with this prospect, and at once began to make
charming plans for the new life.
I had lived always with grown people, and seldom had had any thing to
do with children. I was very small for my age, and a strange mixture
of childishness and maturity; and, having the appearance of being
absorbed in my own affairs, no one ever noticed me much, or seemed to
think it better that I should not listen to the conversation. In spite
of considerable curiosity, I followed an instinct which directed me
never to ask questions at these times: so I often heard stray
sentences which puzzled me, and which really would have been made
simple and commonplace at once, if I had only asked their meaning. I
was, for the most of the time, in a world of my own. I had a great
deal of imagination, and was always telling myself stories; and my
mind was adrift in these so much, that my real absent-mindedness was
mistaken for childish unconcern. Yet I was a thoroughly simple,
unaffected child. My dreams and thoughtfulness gave me a certain tact
and perception unusual in a child; but my pleasures were as deep in
simple things as heart could wish.
It happened that our cousin Matthew was to come to the city on
business the week that the ship was to sail, and that I could stay
with my father 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
utter stranger, as was at first planned. My cousin Agnes wrote a kind
letter about my coming which seemed to give her much pleasure. She
remembered me very well, and sent me a message which made me feel of
consequence; and I was delighted with the plan of making her so long a
visit.
One evening I was reading a story-book, and I heard my father say in
an undertone, "How long has madam been at the ferry this last time?
Eight or 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 the last letter you had, while we were in Sweden."
"I should think she would be glad to have a home at last, after her
years of wandering about. Not that I should be surprised now to hear
that she had disappeared again. When I was staying there while I was
young, we thought she had drowned herself, and even had the men search
for her along the shore of the river; but after a time cousin Matthew
heard of her alive and well in Salem; and I believe she appeared again
this last time as suddenly as she went away."
"I suppose she will never die," said my mother gravely. "She must be
terribly old," said my father. "When I saw her last, she had scarcely
changed at all from the way she looked when I was a boy. She is even
more quiet and gentle than she used to be. There is no danger that the
child will have any fear of her; do you think so?"--"Oh, no! but I
think I will tell her that madam is a very old woman, and that I hope
she will be very kind, and try not to annoy her; and that she must not
be frightened at her strange notions. I doubt if she knows what
craziness is."--"She would be wise if she could define it," said my
father with a smile. "Perhaps we had better say nothing about the old
lady. It is probable that she stays altogether in her own room, and
that the child will rarely see her. I never have realized until lately
the horror of such a long life as hers, living on and on, with one's
friends gone long ago: such an endless life in this world!"
Then there was a mysterious old person living at the ferry, and there
was a question whether I would not be "afraid" of her. She "had not
changed" since my father was a boy: "it was horrible to have one's
life endless 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 more
tender and kind than ever before, and more indulgent of every wish and
fancy of mine. We had been together all my life, and now it was to be
long months before she could possibly see my face again, and perhaps
she was leaving me forever. Her time was all spent, I believe, in
thoughts for me, and in making arrangements for my comfort. I did see
my mother again; but the tears fill my eyes when I think how dear we
became to each other before that first parting, and with what a
lingering, loving touch, she herself packed my boxes, and made sure,
over and over again, that I had whatever I should need; and I remember
how 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 held
when she came back again. We had more to say to each other than ever
before, and I think, until then, that my mother never had suspected
how much I observed of life and of older people in a certain way; that
I was something more than a little child who went from one interest to
another carelessly. I have known since that my mother's childhood was
much like mine. She, however, was timid, while I had inherited from my
father his fearlessness, and lack of suspicion; and these qualities,
like a fresh wind, swept away any cobwebs of nervous anticipation and
sensitiveness. Every one was kind to me, partly, I think because I
interfered with no one. I was glad of the kindness, and, with my
unsuspected dreaming and my happy childishness, I had gone through
life with almost perfect contentment, until this pain of my first real
loneliness 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 by
stage, 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, and
I 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
that only the evening before we had gone out for a walk together, and
there had been a sunset so much like this. It somehow seemed long ago.
Cousin Matthew was busy talking with the ferryman; and indeed he had
found acquaintances at almost every part of the journey, and had not
been much with me, though he was kind and attentive in his courteous,
old-fashioned way, treating me with the same ceremonious politeness
which he had shown my mother. He pointed out the house to me: it was
but a little way from the edge of the river. It was very large and
irregular, with great white chimneys; and, while the river was all in
shadow, the upper windows of two high gables were catching the last
red glow of the sun. On the opposite side of a green from the house
were the farm-house and buildings; and the green sloped down to the
water, where there was a wharf and an ancient-looking storehouse.
There were some old boats and long sticks of timber lying on the
shore; and I saw a flock of white geese march solemnly up toward the
barns. From the open green I could see that a road went up the hill
beyond. The trees in the garden and orchard were the richest green;
their round tops were clustered thick together; and there were some
royal great elms near the house. The fiery red faded from the high
windows as we came near the shore, and cousin Agnes was ready to meet
me; and when she put her arms round me as kindly as my mother would
have done, and kissed me twice in my father's fashion, was sure that I
loved her, and would be contented. Her hair was very gray; but she did
not look, after all, so very old. Her face was a grave one, as if she
had had many cares; yet they had all made her stronger, and there had
been some sweetness, and something to be glad about, and to thank God
for, in every sorrow. I had a feeling always that she was my sure
defence and guard. I was safe and comfortable with her: it was the
same feeling which one learns to have toward God more 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 windows
looked on the garden and the river: another looked across to the other
gable, and into the square, grassy court between. It was a rambling,
great house, and seemed like some English houses I had seen. It would
be great fun to go into all the rooms some day soon.
"How much you are like your father!" said cousin Agnes, stooping to
kiss me again, with her hand on my shoulder. I had a sudden
consciousness of my bravery in having behaved so well all day; then I
remembered that my father and mother were at every instant being
carried farther and farther away. I could almost hear the waves dash
about the ship; and I could not help crying a little. "Poor little
girl!" said cousin Agnes: "I am very sorry." And she sat down, and
took me in her lap for a few minutes. She was tall, and held me so
comfortably, and I soon was almost happy again; for she hoped I would
not 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
cousin Matthew so disappointed and uneasy if I were discontented; and
would I like 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 smile presently; and then we went down to the dining-room,
which had some solemn-looking portraits on the walls, and heavy, stiff
furniture; and there was an old-fashioned woman standing ready to
wait, whom cousin Agnes called Deborah, and who smiled at me
graciously.
Cousin Matthew talked with his wife for a time about what had happened
to him and to her during his absence; and then he said, "And how is
madam to-day? you have not spoken of her."--"She is not so well as
usual," said cousin Agnes. "She has had one of her sorrowful times
since you went away. I have sat with her for several hours to-day; but
she 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, although
you may have heard your father speak of her. She is called Lady Ferry
by most people who know of her; but you may say madam when you speak
to her. She is very old, and her mind wanders, so that she has many
strange fancies; but you must not be afraid, for she is very gentle
and harmless. She is not used to children; but I know you will not
annoy her, and I dare say you can give her much pleasure." This was
all that was said; but I wished to know more. It seemed to me that
there was a reserve about this person, and the old house itself was
the very place for a mystery. As I went through some of the other
rooms with cousin Agnes in the summer twilight, I half expected to
meet Lady Ferry in every shadowy corner; but I did not dare to ask a
question. My father's words came to me,--"Such an endless life," and
"living on and on." And why had he and my mother never spoken to me
afterward of my seeing her? They had talked about it again, perhaps,
and did not mean to tell me, after all.
I saw something of the house that night, the great kitchen, with its
huge fireplace, and other rooms up stairs and down; and cousin Agnes
told me, that by daylight I should go everywhere, except to Madam's
rooms: I must wait for an invitation there.
The house had been built a hundred and fifty years before, by Colonel
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 mystery which one felt when one entered the
door; and when one came away, after cordiality, and days of sunshine
and pleasant hospitality, it was still with a sense of this mystery,
and of something unseen and unexplained. Not that there was any thing
covered and hidden necessarily; but it was the quiet undertone in the
house which had grown to be so old, and had known the magnificent
living of Colonel Haverford's time, and afterward the struggles of
poor gentlemen and women, who had hardly warmed its walls with their
pitiful fires, and shivering, hungry lives; then the long procession
of travellers who had been sheltered there in its old tavern days;
finally, my cousin Matthew and his wife, who had made it their home,
when, with all their fortune, they felt empty-handed, and as if their
lives were ended, because their only son had died. Here they had
learned to be happy again in a quiet sort of way, and had become older
and serener, loving this lovable place by the river, and keepers of
its secret--whatever that might be.
I was wide awake that first evening: I was afraid of being sent to
bed, and, to show cousin Agnes that I was not sleepy, I chattered far
more than usual. It was warm, and the windows of the parlor where we
sat looked upon the garden. The moon had risen, and it was light out
of doors. I caught every now and then the faint smell of honeysuckle,
and presently I asked if I might go into the garden a while; and
cousin Agnes gave me leave, adding that I must soon go to bed, else I
would be very tired next day. She noticed that I looked grave, and
said that I must not dread being alone in the strange room, for it was
so near her own. This was a great consolation; and after I had been
told that the tide was in, and I must be careful not to go too near
the river wall, I went out through the tall glass door, and slowly
down the wide garden-walk, from which now and then narrower walks
branched off at right angles. It was the pride of the place, this
garden; and the box-borders especially were kept with great care. They
had partly been trimmed that day; and the evening dampness brought out
the faint, solemn odor of the leaves, which I never have noticed since
without thinking of that night. The roses were in bloom, and the
snowball-bushes were startlingly white, and there was a long border
filled with lilies-of-the-valley. The other flowers of the season were
all there and in blossom; yet I could see none well but the white
ones, which looked like bits of snow and ice in the summer
shadows,--ghostly flowers which one could see at night.
It was still in the garden, except once I heard a bird twitter
sleepily, and once or twice a breeze came across the river, rustling
the leaves a little. The small-paned windows glistened in the
moonlight, and seemed like the eyes of the house watching me, the
unknown new-comer.
For a while I wandered about, exploring the different paths, some of
which were arched over by the tall lilacs, or by arbors where the
grape-leaves did not seem fully grown. I wondered if my mother would
miss me. It seemed impossible that I should have seen her only that
morning; and suddenly I had a consciousness that she was thinking of
me, and she seemed so close to me, that it would not be strange if she
could hear what I said. And I called her twice softly; but the sound
of my unanswered voice frightened me. I saw some round white flowers
at my feet, looking up mockingly. The smell of the earth and the new
grass seemed to smother me. I was afraid to be there all alone in the
wide open air; and all the tall bushes that were so still around me
took strange shapes, and seemed to be alive. I was so terribly far
away from the mother whom I had called; the pleasure of my journey,
and my coming to cousin Agnes, faded from my mind, and that
indescribable feeling of hopelessness and dread, and of having made an
irreparable mistake, came in its place. The thorns of a straying
slender branch of a rose-bush caught my sleeve maliciously as I turned
to hurry away, and then I caught sight of a person in the path just
before me. It was such a relief to see some one, that I was not
frightened when I saw that it must be Lady Ferry.
She was bent, but very tall and slender, and was walking slowly with a
cane. Her head was covered with a great hood or wrapping of some kind,
which she pushed back when she saw me. Some faint whitish figures on
her dress looked like frost in the moonlight; and the dress itself was
made of some strange stiff silk, which rustled softly like dry rushes
and grasses in the autumn,--a rustling noise that carries a chill with
it. She came close to me, a sorrowful little figure very dreary at
heart, standing still as the flowers themselves; and for several
minutes she did not speak, but watched me, until I began to be afraid
of her. Then she held out her hand, which trembled as if it were
trying to shake off its rings. "My dear," said she "I bid you welcome:
I have known your father. I was told of your coming. Perhaps you will
walk with me? I did not think to find you here alone." There was a
fascinating sweetness in Madam's voice, and I at once turned to walk
beside her, holding her hand fast, and keeping pace with her feeble
steps. "Then you are not afraid of me?" asked the old lady, with a
strange quiver in her voice. "It is a long time since I have seen a
child."--"No," said I, "I am not afraid of you. I was frightened
before I saw you, because I was all alone, and I wished I could see my
father and mother;" and I hung my head so that my new friend could not
see the tears in my eyes, for she watched me curiously. "All alone:
that is like me," said she to herself. "All alone? a child is not all
alone, but there is no one like me. I am something alone: there is
nothing else of my fashion, a creature who lives forever!" and Lady
Ferry sighed pitifully. Did she mean that she never was going to die
like other people? But she was silent, and I did not dare to ask for
any explanation as we walked back and forward. Her fingers kept moving
round my wrist, smoothing it as if she liked to feel it, and to keep
my hand in hers. It seemed to give her pleasure to have me with her,
and I felt quite at my ease presently, and began to talk a little,
assuring her that I did not mind having taken the journey of that day.
I had taken some long journeys: I had been to China once, and it took
a great while to get there; but London was the nicest place I had ever
seen; had Lady Ferry ever been in London? And I was surprised to hear
her say drearily that she had been in London; she had been everywhere.
"Did you go to Westminster Abbey?" I asked, going on with the
conversation childishly. "And did you see where Queen Elizabeth and
Mary Queen of Scots are buried? Mamma had told me all about them."
"Buried, did you say? Are they dead too?" asked Madam eagerly. "Yes,
indeed!" said I: "they have been dead a long time."--"Ah! I had
forgotten," answered my strange companion. "Do you know of any one
else who has died beside them? I have not heard of any one's dying and
going home for so long! Once every one died but me--except some young
people; and I do not know them."--"Why, every one must die," said I
wonderingly. "There is a funeral somewhere every day, I
suppose."--"Every one but me," Madam repeated sadly,--"every one but
me, and I am alone."
Just now cousin Agnes came to the door, and called me. "Go in now,
child," said Lady Ferry. "You may come and sit with me to-morrow if
you choose." And I said good-night, while she turned, and went down
the walk with feeble, lingering steps. She paced to and fro, as I
often saw her afterwards, on the flag-stones; and some bats flew that
way like ragged bits of darkness, holding somehow a spark of life. I
watched her for a minute: she was like a ghost, I thought, but not a
fearful ghost,--poor Lady Ferry!
"Have you had a pleasant walk?" asked cousin Matthew politely.
"To-morrow I will give you a border for your own, and some plants for
it, if you like gardening." I joyfully answered that I should like it
very much, and so I began to feel already the pleasure of being in a
real home, after the wandering life to which I had become used. I went
close to cousin Agnes's chair to tell her confidentially that I had
been walking with Madam in the garden, and she was very good to me,
and asked me to come to sit with her the next day; but she said very
odd things.
"You must not mind what she says," said cousin Agnes; "and I would
never dispute with her, or even seem surprised, if I were you. It
hurts and annoys her, and she soon forgets her strange fancies. I
think you seem a very sensible little girl, and I have told you about
this poor friend of ours as if you were older. But you understand, do
you not?" And then she kissed me good-night, and I went up stairs,
contented with her assurance that she would come to me before I went
to sleep.
I found a pleasant-faced young girl busy putting away some of my
clothing. I had seen her just after supper, and had fancied her very
much, partly because she was not so old as the rest of the servants.
We were friendly at once, and I found her very talkative; so finally I
asked the question which was uppermost in my mind,--Did she know any
thing about Madam?