Christmas stories

CHAPTER III. THE BROWN HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW.

CHAPTER III.

THE BROWN HOUSE IN THE HOLLOW.

Nearly a year has passed by since we left the blind man weeping over his unburied dead, and our story leads us now to the handsome rural town of Oakland, which is nestled among the New England hills, and owes much of its prosperity and rapid growth to the untiring energy of its wealthiest citizen—its one “aristocrat,” as the villagers persisted in calling Richard Howland, the gentleman from Boston, who came to Oakland a few years ago, giving to business a new impetus, and infusing new life into its quiet, matter-of-fact people, who respected him as few men have ever been respected, and looked upon him as the founder of their good fortune. He it was who built the factory, bought the mills and owned the largest store and shoe shop in the town, furnishing employment to hundreds of the poor, many of whom had moved into the village, and rented of him the comfortable tenements which he had erected for that purpose.

Richard Howland’s home was very beautiful, overlooking, as it did, the town and the surrounding country, and the passers-by often stopped to admire its winding walks, its fountains, its grassy plats, graceful evergreens, and wealth of flowers, the latter of which were the especial pride of the stately Miss Elinor, the maiden sister, who was mistress of the house, for Richard Howland had no wife, and on the night when we first introduce him to our readers, he was seated in his pleasant sitting-room, with his sister at his side, and every possible comfort and luxury around him. The chill December wind which howled among the naked branches of the maples, or sighed through the drooping cedar boughs, could not find entrance there. The blinds were closely shut—the heavy curtains swept the floor—the fire burned brightly in the grate, casting fantastic shadows on the wall, and with his favorite paper in his hand, he almost forgot that in the world without there were such evils as poverty or pain. Neither did he see the fragile form toiling through the darkness up the street, and pausing at his gate. But he heard the ringing of the door-bell, and his ear caught the sound of some one in the hall, asking to see him.

“I wish I could be alone for one evening,” he said, and with a slight frown of impatience upon his brow, he awaited the approach of his visitor.

It was a delicate young girl, and her dress of black showed that sorrow had thus early come to her.

“Are you Mr. Howland?” she asked, and her eyes of blue timidly sought the face of the young man, who involuntarily arose and offered her a seat.

Her errand was soon told. She had come to rent his cheapest tenement—the brown house in the hollow, which she had heard was vacant, and she wished him to furnish her with work—she could make both shirts and vests tolerably well, and she would try hard to pay the rent!

The stranger paused, and Miss Elinor, who had been watching her with mingled feelings of curiosity and interest, saw that the long eyelashes were moist with tears. Mr. Howland saw it, too, and wondering that one so young and timid should come to him alone, he said:

“Little girl, have you no friends—no one on whom to depend, save yourself?”

The tears on the eyelashes now dropped upon the cheek, for the little girl, as Mr. Howland had called her, mistook his meaning and fancied he was thinking of security, and payment, and all those dreadful words whose definition she was fast learning to understand.

“I have a father,” she said, and before she had time for more, the plain-spoken Miss Elinor asked:

“Why didn’t he come himself, and not send you, who seem so much a child?”

There was reproach in the question, and the young girl felt it keenly, and turning toward Miss Elinor, she answered:

“My father could not find the way—he never even saw my face—he couldn’t see my mother when she died. Oh! he’s blind, he’s blind,” and the voice, which at first had merely trembled, was choked with bitter sobs.

The hearts of both brother and sister were touched, and the brown house in the hollow, nay, any house which Richard Howland had to rent, was at the girl’s command. But he was a man of few words, and so he merely told her she could have both tenement and work, while his sister thought how she would make her brother’s new tenants her especial care.

Miss Elinor was naturally of a rather inquisitive turn of mind and she tried very skillfully to learn something of the stranger’s history. But the young girl evaded all her questioning, and after a few moments arose to go. Mr. Howland accompanied her to the door, which he held open until she passed down the walk and out into the street. Then the door was closed, and Alice Warren was alone again in the cold, dark night, but she scarcely heeded it, for her heart was lighter than it had been for many weeks. The gentleman whom she had so much dreaded to meet had spoken kindly to her; the lady too, had whispered “poor child” when she told her of her father, while better far than all, she had procured a shelter for her father, the payment for which would come within their slender means.

Not time, but the joy or sorrow it brings, changes people most, and the Alice Warren of to-day is scarce the same we saw one year ago. Then, petted, caressed and glowing with youthful beauty, she presented a striking contrast to the pale-faced girl, who, on the wintry night of which we write, traversed street after street, until she came to the humble dwelling which for the last few days had been her home. Every cent of his large fortune had Mr. Warren given up, choosing rather to starve and know he had a right to do so, than to feed on what was not his own. His handsome house and furniture had all been sold, and with a mere pittance, which would not last them long, they had gone into the country, where Alice hoped to earn a livelihood by teaching. But she was “too small, too childish, too timid,” the people said, ever to succeed, and so at last she resorted to her needle, which in her days of prosperity, she had fortunately learned to use.

As time passed on a kind-hearted woman, who visited in their neighborhood, became interested in them and urged their removal to Oakland, her native town, whither they finally went, stopping with her for a few days until further arrangements could be made.

Hearing that the brown house in the hollow, as it was called, was vacant, Alice had applied for it, with what success we have seen, and returning home, she told her father the result of her application, and how small a sum they would have to pay for it, and how neatly she could fit it up, and how in the long winter evenings he should sit in his arm-chair before the cheerful fire, and listening to her as she talked, the blind man thanked God that the wife-love he had lost forever was in a measure made up to him in the love of his only child.

Two weeks went by, and then, in the shoe shop and store the workmen said to each other, “to-morrow is Christmas,” wondering if Mr. Howland would present each of the families in his employ with a turkey, as he was wont to do.

He had always done it before, they said, he would surely do so now.

Nor were they disappointed, for when the day’s labor was over, each man was given his usual gift, and when all had been served, there was one turkey left, for which no owner came.

“We shall need it ourselves perhaps,” Mr. Howland thought, as he remembered the numerous city friends expected on the morrow; and, as he was not ashamed to carry it himself, he placed it in a covered basked and started for home, turning involuntarily down the street which would take him through the hollow. He did not often go that way for though it was quite as near, it was not a pleasant portion of the town. But he was going that way now, and as he came near the brown house, from whose windows a cheerful light was shining, he thought of his new tenants, and half decided to call; then, remembering that one of his clerks had told him of a young lady who had inquired for him that afternoon, expressing much regret at his absence and saying she should call at his house early in the evening, he concluded to go on. Still the light shining out upon the snow, seemed beckoning him to come, and turning back he stood before the window, from which the curtain was drawn aside, revealing a picture, at which he paused a moment to gaze. The blind man sat in his old arm-chair, and the flickering flame of the blazing fire shone on his frosty locks and lighted up his grief-worn face, on which there was a pitiful expression, most touching to behold. The sightless eyes were cast downward as if they would see the fair young head and wealth of soft brown tresses resting on his knee.

Alice was crying. All day long she had tried to repress her tears, and when, as she sat in the gathering twilight with her father, he said, “She was with us one year ago,” they burst forth, and laying her head upon his lap she sobbed bitterly.

There were words of love spoken of the lost one, and as Mr. Howland drew near, Mr. Warren said:

“It is well, perhaps, that she died before she knew what it was to be so poor.”

The words “to be so poor” caught Mr. Howland’s ear, and glancing around the humble apartment he fancied he knew why Alice wept. Just then she lifted up her head and he saw the tears on her cheek. Mr. Howland was unused to tears—they affected him strangely—and as the sight of them on Alice Warren’s eyelashes, when she told him her father was blind, had once brought down the rent of the house by half, so now the sight of them upon her cheek as she sat at her father’s feet brought himself into her presence and the turkey from his basket. Depositing his gift upon the table and apologizing for his abruptness, he took the chair which Alice offered him, and in a short space of time forgot the young lady who had so nearly prevented him from being where he was—forgot everything save the blue of Alice’s eyes and the mournful sweetness of her voice as she answered the few questions he addressed to her. He saw at once that both father and daughter were educated and refined, but he did not question them of the past, for he felt instinctively that it would be to them an unpleasant subject, so he conversed upon indifferent topics, and Alice, as she listened to him, could scarcely believe he was the man whom she had heretofore associated with her wages of Saturday night, he seemed so familiar and friendly.

“You will come to see us again,” Mr. Warren said to his visitor, when the latter arose to go, and smiling down on Alice, who stood with her arm across her father’s neck, Mr. Howland answered:

“Yes, I shall come again.”

Then he bade them good night, and as the door closed after him, Mr. Warren said:

“It seems darker now that he is gone,” but to Alice, the room was lighter far for that brief visit.

Mr. Howland, too, felt better for the call. He had done some good, he hoped, and the picture of the two as he had left them was pleasant to remember, and as he drew near his home, and saw in imagination his own large easy-chair before the fire, he tried to fancy how it would seem to be a blind man, sitting there, with a brown-haired maiden’s arm around his neck.