A Late Supper

"A Late Supper" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant narrative that explores themes of friendship, nostalgia, and the passage of time. Set against the backdrop of a small New England community, the story centers around a gathering of friends who come together for an evening meal, reflecting on their shared experiences and the changes in their lives. Jewett’s evocative prose captures the warmth of human connection, the simplicity of everyday moments, and the bittersweet nature of memories, inviting readers to appreciate the beauty of companionship and the fleeting nature of time.

• Short story

								
The story begins one afternoon in June just after dinner. Miss
Catherine Spring was the heroine; and she lived alone in her house,
which stood on the long village street in Brookton,--up in the country
city people would say,--a town certainly not famous, but pleasant
enough because it was on the outer edge of the mountain region, near
some great hills. One never hears much about Brookton when one is away
from it, but, for all that, life is as important and exciting there as
it is anywhere; and it is like every other town, a miniature world,
with its great people and small people, bad people and good people,
its jealousy and rivalry, kindness and patient heroism.

Miss Spring had finished her dinner that day, and had washed the few
dishes, and put them away. She never could get used to there being so
few, because she had been one of a large family. She had put on the
gray alpaca dress which she wore afternoons at home, and had taken her
sewing, and sat down at one of the front windows in the sitting-room,
which was shaded by a green old lilac-bush. But she did not sew as if
she were much interested in the work, or were in any hurry; and
presently she laid it down altogether, and tapped on the window-sill
with her thimble, looking as if she were lost in not very pleasant
thought. She was a very good woman, and a very pleasant woman; a good
neighbor all the people would tell you; and they would add also, very
comfortably left. But of late she had been somewhat troubled; to tell
the truth, her money affairs had gone wrong, and just now she did not
exactly know what to do. She felt more solitary than she had for a
long time before. Her father, the last of the family except herself,
had been dead for many years; and she had been living alone, growing
more and more contented in the comfortable, prim, white house, after
the first sharp grief of her loneliness had worn away into a more
resigned and familiar sorrow. It is, after all, a great satisfaction
to do as one pleases.

Now, as I have said, she had lost part of her already small income,
and she did not know what to do. The first loss could be borne; but
the second seemed to put housekeeping out of the question, and this
was a dreadful thing to think of. She knew no other way of living,
beside having her own house and her own fashion of doing things. If it
had been possible, she would have liked to take some boarders; but
summer boarders had not yet found out Brookton. Mr. Elden, the kind
old lawyer who was her chief adviser, had told her to put an
advertisement in one of the Boston papers, and she had done so; but it
never had been answered, which was not only a disappointment but a
mortification as well. Her money was not actually lost: it was the
failure of a certain railway to pay its dividend, that was making her
so much trouble.

Miss Spring tapped her thimble still faster on the window-sill, and
thought busily. "I'm going to think it out, and settle it this
afternoon," said she to herself. "I must settle it somehow, I will not
live on here any longer as if I could afford it." There was a niece of
hers who lived in Lowell, who was married and not at all strong. There
were three children, with nobody in particular to look after them.
Miss Catherine was sure this niece would like nothing better than to
have her come to stay with her. She thought with satisfaction how well
she could manage there, and how well her housekeeping capabilities
would come into play. It had grieved her in her last visit to see the
house half cared for, and she remembered the wistful way Mary had
said, "How I wish I could have you here all the time, Aunt Catherine!"
and at once Aunt Catherine went on to build a little castle in the
air, until she had a chilly consciousness that her own house was to be
shut up. She compared the attractions of Lowell and Brookton most
disdainfully: the dread came over her that most elderly people feel at
leaving their familiar homes and the surroundings to which they have
grown used. But she bravely faced all this, and resolved to write Mary
that evening, so the letter could go by the morning's mail. If Mary
liked the plan, which Miss Catherine never for an instant doubted, she
would stay through the early fall at any rate, and then see what was
best to be done.

She took up her sewing again, and looked critically at it through her
spectacles, and then went on with her stitching, feeling
lighter-hearted now that the question was decided. The tall clock
struck three slowly; and she said to herself how fast the last hour
had gone. There was a little breeze outside which came rustling
through the lilac-leaves. The wide street was left to itself, nobody
had driven by since she had sat at the window. She heard some children
laughing and calling to each other where they were at play in a yard
not far away, and smiled in sympathy; for her heart had never grown
old. The smell of the roses by the gate came blowing in sweet and
fresh, and she could see the great red peonies in generous bloom on
the borders each side the front walk. And, when she looked round the
room, it seemed very pleasant to her, the clock ticked steadily; and
the old-fashioned chairs, and the narrow high mirror with the gilt
eagle at the top, the stiff faded portraits of her father and mother
in their young days, the wide old brass-nailed sofa with its dim
worsted-worked cushion at either end,--how comfortable it all was! and
a great thrill of fondness for the room and the house came over our
friend. "I didn't know I cared so much about the old place," said she.
"'There's no place like home.'--I believe I never knew that meant so
much before;" and she laid down her sewing again, and fell into a
reverie.

In a little while she heard the click of the gate-latch; and, with the
start and curiosity a village woman instinctively feels at the
knowledge of somebody's coming in at the front-door, she hurried to
the other front-window to take a look at her visitor through the
blinds. It was only a child, and Miss Catherine did not wait for her
to rap with the high and heavy knocker, but was standing in the open
doorway when the little girl reached the steps.

"Come in, dear!" said Miss Catherine kindly, "did you come of an
errand?"

"I wanted to ask you something," said the child, following her into
the sitting-room, and taking the chair next the door with a shy smile
that had something appealing about it. "I came to ask you if you want
a girl this summer."

"Why, no, I never keep help," said Miss Spring. "There is a woman who
comes Mondays and Tuesdays, and other days when I need her. Who is it
that wants to come?"

"It's only me," said the child. "I'm small of my age; but I'm past
ten, and I can work real smart about house." A great cloud of
disappointment came over her face.

"Whose child are you?"

"I'm Katy Dunning, and I live with my aunt down by Sandy-river Bridge.

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes