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.