An Arrow in a Sunbeam, and Other TalesJewett, Sarah Orne
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An Arrow in a Sunbeam, and Other Tales
Jewett, Sarah Orne
United States -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Juvenile fiction
"Don't scare the child with such foolishness," said his aunt
disdainfully. "You'll be seein' worse things a-dancin' before your
eyes than that poor, harmless old creatur' if you don't quit the ways
you've been following lately. If that was last night, you were too
drunk to see anything;" and the fellow muttered, and went out banging
the door. But the story had been told, and I was stiffened and chilled
with fright; and all the way home I was in terror, looking fearfully
behind me again and again.
When I saw cousin Agnes, I felt safer, and since cousin Matthew was not
at home, and we were alone, I could not resist telling her what I had
heard. She listened to me kindly, and seemed so confident that my
story was idle nonsense, that my fears were quieted. She talked to me
until I no longer was a believer in there being any unhappy mystery or
harmfulness; but I could not get over the fright, and I dreaded my
lonely room, and I was glad enough when cousin Agnes, with her
unfailing thoughtfulness, asked if I would like to have her come to
sleep 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 no
longer unhappy, because her dear arm was over me, and I was perfectly
safe. I waked up for a little while in the night, and it was light in
the room, so that I could see her face, fearless and sweet and sad, and
I wondered, in my blessed sense of security, if she were ever afraid of
Lady Ferry.
I will not tell other stories: they are much alike, all my memories of
those weeks and months at the ferry, and I have no wish to be
wearisome. The last time I saw Madam she was standing in the garden
door at dusk. I was going away before daylight in the morning. It was
in the autumn: some dry leaves flittered about on the stone at her
feet, and she was watching them. I said good-by again, and she did not
answer me: but I think she knew I was going away, and I am sure she was
sorry, for we had been a great deal together; and, child as I was, I
thought to how many friends she must have had to say farewell.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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