A Sorrowful Guest

"A Sorrowful Guest" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant short story that explores themes of compassion, isolation, and the healing power of human connection. Set in a small coastal town, the narrative centers around a weary traveler who, seeking refuge, encounters a woman who offers her hospitality. Through their interaction, Jewett delves into the complexities of grief and the ways in which kindness can illuminate dark moments. The story is characterized by Jewett's signature lyrical prose and deep understanding of human emotions, making it a moving reflection on the significance of relationships in times of sorrow.

• Short story

								
Dear Helen,--What do you say to our going to housekeeping together?
I'm a very old bachelor, with many whims; but I'm your brother, and I
don't know that there was ever an act of Parliament that we should
spend our lives on opposite shores of the Atlantic. The Athertons'
lease of our house is out next month, and I have a fancy for taking it
myself. We will call it merely an experiment, if you like; but I'm
tired of the way I live now. I'm growing gray, and I shall be
dreadfully glad to see you. We will make a real home of it, and see
something of each other; you must not ask for any more pathos than
this. Pick up whatever you can to make the house look fine, but don't
feel in the least obliged to come, or put it off until the spring. Do
just as you like. I hear the Duncans are coming home in October;
perhaps you could take passage on the same steamer. I can't believe it
is three years since I went over last. Do you think we shall know each
other? "L'absence diminue les petits amours et augmente les grandes,
comme le vent qui éteint les bougies et rallume la feu." I met that
sentiment in a story I was reading to-day, and I thought it would seem
very gallant and alluring if I put it into my letter. I think you will
not be homesick here: you will find more friends than seems possible
at first thought. I'm in a hurry to-day; but I'm none the less

Your very affectionate brother,

   JOHN AINSLIE.

Boston, Aug. 2, 1877.

This was a letter which came to me one morning a year or two ago from
my only brother. We had been separated most of the time since our
childhood; for my father and mother both died then, and our home was
broken up, as Jack was to be away at school and college. During the
war he was fired with a love of his country and a longing for military
glory, and entered the army with many of his fellow-students at
Harvard. I was at school for a time, but afterwards went to live with
an aunt, whose winter home was in Florence; and when Jack left the
army he came to Europe to go on with his professional studies. He was
most of the time in Dublin and London and Paris at the medical
schools; but we were together a good deal, and he went off for several
long journeys with my aunt and me before he went back to America. I
always hoped that we might some day live together: but my aunt wished
me never to leave her; for she was somewhat of an invalid, and had
grown to depend on me more or less in many ways. She could not live in
Boston, for the climate did not suit her. If Jack and I had not
written each other so often, we should have drifted far apart; but, as
it was, I think our love and friendship grew closer year by year. I
should have begged him to come to live with me; but he was always in a
hurry to get back to his own city and his own friends when he
sometimes came over to pay us a visit in my aunt's lifetime, and I
knew he would not be contented in Florence.

At Aunt Alice's death I went on with the same old life for a time from
force of habit; and it was just then, when I was with some friends in
the Tyrol, and had been wondering what plans I should make for the
winter,--whether to go to Egypt again, or to have some English friends
come to me in Florence,--that Jack's letter came. I was only too glad
that he made the proposal, and I could not resist sending him a cable
despatch to say, "Hurrah!" I had not realized before how lonely and
adrift I had felt since Aunt Alice died. I had a host of kind friends;
but there is nothing like being with one's own kindred, and having
one's own home. It was very hard work to say so many good-byes; and my
heart had almost failed me when I saw some of my friends for, it might
be, the last time, as some of them were old people. And, though I said
over and over again that I should come back in a year or two, who
could be certain that I should take up the dear familiar life again?
But, though I had been so many long years away from dear old Boston, I
never had been so glad in my life to catch sight of any city as I was
that chilly, late October morning, when I came on deck, and somebody
pointed out to me a dull glitter of something that looked higher and
brighter than the land, and said it was the dome of the State House.

I felt more sure than ever that I was going home when I saw my brother
standing on the wharf, and I remembered so clearly many of the streets
we drove through; and when we came to the house itself, and the
carriage had gone, and we stood in the library together where the very
same books were in the cases, and the same dim old Turkey carpet on
the floor, the years seemed suddenly to vanish, and it was like the
dear old childish days again: only where were my mother and my father?
And Jack was growing gray, as he had written me, and so much had
happened to me since I had been in that room last! I sat down before
the wood-fire; and the queer brass dragons on the andirons made me
smile, just as they always used. Jack stood at the window, looking
out; and neither of us had a word to say, though we had chattered at
each other every minute as we drove over from the steamer.

That first evening at dinner I looked across the table at my brother:
and our eyes met, and we both laughed heartily for very contentment
and delight.

"I'm sure Aunt Marion ought to be here to matronize you," said Jack.
Neither of us like Aunt Marion very well; and this was a great joke,
especially as she was ushered in directly to welcome me home.

Jack had been living at the house for a few weeks already; but it was
great fun, this beginning our housekeeping together, and we were busy
enough for some time. I had brought over a good many things that my
aunt had had in Florence, and to which I had become attached; and in
the course of many journeys both Jack and I had accumulated a great
many large and small treasures, some of which had not been unpacked
for years. I very soon knew my brother's best friends; and we both
tried to make our home not only cheerful and bright and pleasant in
every way, but we wished also to make it a home-like place, where
people might be sure of finding at least some sympathy and true
friendliness and help as well as pleasure. Mamma's old friends were
charmingly kind and polite to me; and, as Jack had foretold, I found
more acquaintances of my own than I had the least idea I should. I had
met abroad a great many of the people who came to see me; but the
strangest thing was to meet those whom I remembered as my playmates
and schoolmates, and to find them so entirely grown up, most of them
married, and with homes and children of their own instead of the
playhouses and dolls which I remembered.

We soon fell into a most comfortable fashion of living, we were both
very fond of giving quiet little dinners, my brother often brought
home a friend or two, and we were charmingly independent; life never
went better with two people than it did with Jack and me. We often had
some old friends of the family come to stay with us, and I sent hither

								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes