An Arrow in a Sunbeam

"An Arrow in a Sunbeam" by Sarah Orne Jewett is a poignant collection of short stories that delve into the lives of women in rural New England during the late 19th century. Through richly detailed characterizations and vivid landscapes, Jewett explores themes of love, community, and the complexities of human relationships. Her narrative style blends a deep appreciation for local color with keen psychological insights, offering readers a window into the nuanced lives of her characters as they navigate the challenges and joys of their world. The collection reflects Jewett's profound empathy and her mastery of capturing the essence of life in a changing America.

• Short story

								
The minister of a fashionable church had noticed Sunday after Sunday a
little old lady with a sad, patient face, dressed in very shabby
mourning, sitting in the strangers' pew.

Like Job this good man could say, "The cause that I knew not, I sought
out."  He soon learned from the sexton her name and residence, and was
surprised to find her in the very topmost room of a house, amid
evidences of real poverty.

In the one little window bloomed a monthly rose and a vigorous
heliotrope, and beside the pots lay half-a-dozen books, such as are
rarely seen in the homes of the very poor.  On the wall hung two fine
engravings, and an old fashioned gold watch was suspended from a faded
velvet case over the mantel piece.

Her story, when she was induced to tell it, was neither new nor
startling.  She had long been a widow.  Her children had been called
from her, till now she had but one, and he, being a cripple, could do
little more than supply his own absolute wants by his work as a
repairer of watches.

The pastor was charmed with her patient endurance of what others would
call the hard discipline of life, and when he left her he felt that he
had been a learner instead of a teacher in that poor room.

Being too delicate to allude to her apparent poverty, he said at
parting, "As you are a stranger among us, I will send some of the
visitors of the church to cheer and comfort you."

He selected two bright, rosy girls, full of life and happiness, of
whose visits among the poor he had often heard.

They came to the widow like sunbeams through a storm.  They talked
cheerily, and did not appear to notice the bareness of the room.  They
asked something of her history, and told of their grandmothers, who
also had seen much sorrow; and in this way drew her out till she told
of her former competency, of her early advantages in England, and of
all the misfortunes which had brought her to her present position.
"And yet," she said, "I have little to complain of while I have the
love and tender care of such a son as Walter."

Little by little, without a complaint from her, they found that the old
lady lacked many things for her comfort.  Their sympathies were
aroused.  It would be a delight to make her happy by gifts that would
be of service to her.

Lucy Grey, a girl full of fun as well as of kindness, said, "I wish you
would let me make you a bonnet; I make lovely ones.  Grandma won't wear
a milliner's bonnet, she likes mine so much better."

Grace Wheeler volunteered to make a dress and caps, adding, playfully,
"As my dear grandma is gone, you must let me adopt you and do all I can
for you.  There are four of us girls always looking round for somebody
to help.  You can call on us for anything you want."

Four young girls, who laughingly styled themselves "The Quartette of
Mercy," met at Grace Wheeler's house with materials for a dress, and a
bonnet and caps.  The old lady was coming two hours afterward to be
fitted, having being measured before they left her house.

The girls were in a perfect gala of joy that bright afternoon.  They
chatted merrily while working, and one would have thought they were
making costumes for comic tableaux rather than the garb of a sorrowful
widow.

"I'll tell you, girls," said Lucy Grey, "the old dowager will shine
when she gets my bonnet on!" and trying it on over her chestnut curls,
she added, "I half-wish I was a downfallen lady myself,--a
haberdasher's daughter from England!  Oh, I hope I shall be a widow
some time!  Widows' caps are so becoming!"

"Well," replied Grace, laughing, "do your best for Goody Horn, and
maybe she'll let you have 'dear Walter.'  Then you'll be a widow
soon,--he's so feeble."

"Oh, I wish I had the dressing of her!  'She'd surprise herself,' as
the Dutchman said.  I'd put a canary-coloured pompon and a white
aigrette in that bonnet, and"--here she slipped a scarlet bird out of
her own hat and stuck it into a fold of the crape Lucy was laying on to
the old fashioned close frame--"I'd make her an upper skirt with a
tie-back, get scarlet stockings and low shoes, and"----

"Pho! you'd make the dear old soul look like Mother Hubbard!" cried
another.

"No," said Grace; "but she looks now like

   "Little Dame Crump, with her brand-new broom;"

and no doubt Walter looks either like Mother Hubbard's dog, or--or I
don't know what."

"Oh, by-the-way, did you notice a violin on the bureau?  Whoever gets
'dear Walter' will have a chance to do all the family dancing.  The
dowager's too old, and Walter's too lame; but there, what stuff I'm
talking; it's well mother isn't within hearing.  She won't let me have
any sport.  But I do think old folks are so comical!  I'll do anything
in the world to help them, though."

They worked on some time, and in the real kindness which was hidden
under this nonsense they laid plans for the dear old stranger's future
comfort.

"Why, girls, it's time she was here now!"

"Nora," called Grace, as a girl passed the door, "when an old lady
comes, send her right up stairs."

"There was an old person here an hour ago, and as you told me not to
let any one in who asked for you for an hour, I told her to sit down in
the hall.  I suppose she's there now.  I forgot all about her," was the
reply.

Grace flew down, but there was no one there.

"That was some old beggar who got tired of waiting.  I'm sure she'll be
here soon," said Lucy.

But she did not come, and they grew tired of waiting to try on the
dress and hat.  So they resolved to go, all four together, the next
day, to the "opening at Madam Horn's," and carry the things themselves.

They did so; but when the "dowager" opened the door at their knock,
they hardly knew her.  She looked straight, and solemn, and cold.  She
did not even ask them in; but they went in and seated themselves.

Grace said, "You didn't come yesterday to try on the dress, and
thinking you might be ill, we brought it here."

"But I did go, ladies.  I went an hour earlier than you asked me, to
beg that the dress might be cut perfectly plain, without upper skirt or
flounce.  The girl seated me in the hall, and while I sat there, I was
forced to hear myself and my son ridiculed and turned to scorn in a way
I could not believe possible.

"I have done nothing to merit this.  I never begged of you, nor sought
your sympathy in my sorrows, and I cannot understand why I am made the
butt of your scorn."

"Oh, Mrs. Horn," cried Lucy, "we were only in sport!  I hope you will
forgive us."

"Is it sport to cast contempt on an aged woman who has been walking for
years in a fiery furnace upheld and comforted by God?  Is it sport to
ridicule an unfortunate boy who has a continual warfare with pain to
keep up this poor home?"

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