University of Virginia Library

A STORY FOR CHRISTMAS.

It was with a clouded brow and an angry eye that
young Frank Harlowe stood looking upon his father's
face, and hearkening to his words, as he violently rebuked
him. The flush upon the old man's cheek betokened the
tempest that raged within his breast, and his raised and
clenched hand descended in fearful emphasis as he uttered
the words — “Obey me, or, by Heaven, you leave my
house forever!”

Mr. Harlowe, the father of Frank, was one of those
unfortunate men, whose impulses are stronger than their
powers of resistance. His passion once aroused, reason,
affection, common kindness were forgotten in the storm
that held him in mastery. The hasty and severe word
that conveys such bitterness in its utterance, in his moods
of temper was always ready, and the hasty blow fell
upon his children with cruel violence, at the least provocation.
Correction they never received. It was the
vindictive visitation of an avenger of wrong rather than
the chastisement of a parent.

At heart Mr. Harlowe was a kind man, and oftentimes
and bitterly, when the storm had blown by, and his
mind was calm again, did he repent with a sincere repentance
the evil he had done, of which he was fully
sensible. Benevolent, intelligent, noble-spirited, self-sacrificing,
as occasion called for action, he had won
himself a name for probity and usefulness that was

enviable, and, but for the turbulence of temper above
described, few finer men could be found. This weakness
was his besetting sin, his temptation, and his will was
insufficient to resist it.

Frank Harlowe, his youngest son and favorite, was
his counterpart in body and mind. Handsome, intelligent
and witty, at seventeen he was the favorite of all
in the village in which he lived. His generosity was
unbounded, and the tendrils of his youthful nature shot
forth and strengthened in the fertile soil of congeniality.
At social gatherings he was the crowning spirit. His
voice rang merriest at the harvest home, his story elicited
the warmest plaudits at the husking-frolic, and in the old
woods his song echoed through its sombre arches with
the joyousness of unrestricted freedom. No jealous
rivalry stood in the way of his supremacy; young and
old admitted his claim to the distinction, and the smile
of beauty — the rustic rose of rural artlessness —
beamed for him with constant and kindly glow.

Such was Frank Harlowe in his social intercourse,
petted and happy in the genial flow of his unembittered
enjoyment; but at home he was a different being.
The contrast between the sphere of home and that of
neighborhood was too marked. The reverence due parental
authority was too little excited by parental love.
Disobedience to imperious command was followed by
violence of invective or blows, and his high spirit revolted
at the irksomeness of domestic oppression. His two elder
brothers had no sympathy with him. They were plodding
and matter-of-fact men. Taking from their mother
a more passive and quiescent nature than his own, they

grubbed along the way of life, like the oxen they
drove, that knew no joy beyond the herbage they
cropped, having no aspiration beyond the bound of their
enclosure. Content with old routines, no new hope
obtruded upon their ruminations. They frowned upon
the bold boy, whose spirit and brilliancy cast a reproach
upon their lethargy, and they rejoiced when the reproof
came to curb his ambition. Home was no longer home
to him; the ties of consanguinity were to him iron bonds
from whose release he would pray to be freed; his mother's
love alone sanctified the existence he led, — it was
the one solitary star in his night of domestic gloom.

His affections, thus turned from the home circle, had
concentrated upon one, the fairest of the village, but
whose coquettish predilections had rendered her obnoxious
to censure, and her fame having reached his father,
the knowledge of Frank's attachment for her had provoked
a discussion, the result of which was the imperative
command with which my story commences, a command
that he must renounce her forever.

The boy stood gazing upon his father, with a flashing
eye and a swelling breast, as he spoke. Feelings too
powerful for utterance were depicted in the look he
gave, and he left the room with an expression of bitter
rage.

The next morning there was confusion in Mr. Harlowe's
house. Frank had fled, no one knew whither,
and the circle, whose union was so illy cemented, was
broken. A letter in the village post-office explained the
reason. It read as follows: —

The letter fell like a thunderbolt upon that household,
so unprepared for such an event, and deep contrition
wrung the erring father's heart, who saw too late the
evil he had wrought. The spirited boy had been his
favorite, so like him was he in form and mind. He remembered
that no word spoken to him in kindness had
been unheeded. He heard his praise in every mouth,
admitted the justness of the meed that was awarded him,
and every word and every thought was a dagger to his
soul in view of the ruin he had caused. Then, for the
first time, he felt the weight of the responsibility that
rested upon him as a parent, and trembled as he reflected
how far he might be instrumental in his son's
eternal doom. Too late came penitence for the past, but
he vowed reform for the future, and prayed for strength
to fulfil his vow.

A change came over the man and his home. The
mould of years and care mingled with the raven hues of
youth, for years had passed and no line of remembrance

had come from the absent boy. The brothers had married,
and had children, and the old homestead was glad
with the music of childish laughter, and a sad happiness
smiled upon the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Harlowe. The
mother had mourned for her child, and his remembrance
often came to her in the voices of her grandchildren, and
in the sweet reminiscences which solitude brought. The
hope of seeing him had long died out in her breast; for
twelve weary years had elapsed since he went away.

The village had changed. The young and joyous
companions of Frank had turned into grave family men,
or had moved to strange cities, and become the devotees
of the money-god, or worshipped Fame in high places.
The maids with whom he had sported had lost their
smiles in the matronly cares of life, or had transferred
them to their children, upon whom they bloomed again.
The coquette of Frank's old idolatry had years before given
place to younger rivals, and mourned her faded charms
in singleness of state. The village had become populous,
and new steeples gleamed above the trees in the sunlight,
and new streets and houses marked the steps of progress.
A railroad whistle greeted the morning sun instead of the
song of birds as of old, and the quiet of village life had
been usurped by the confusion of city habits.

Frank was forgotten in the march of present excitement,
or only remembered as a pleasant dream.

It was Christmas night in the year of grace '50, and
a pleasant party had met in the house of Mr. Harlowe,
to celebrate the birthday anniversary of his eldest grandson.
The wind howled around the old mansion-house,
and growled down the spacious chimney, as if threatening

the elements of geniality, that reigned below, with a
submerging visit. The snow rattled against the windows,
red with indoor light, and piled itself in little heaps upon
the sills. But all was unheeded by the party within,
and the wind and snow were unheard amid the music of
mirth. The song was trilled from pretty lips, and manly
voices joined in a chorus of praise to the festive season,
when a loud knock of the ancient brazen lion upon the
door arrested every attention. The sound reverberated
along the old entry, and up the broad stairway, and
through the large and airy rooms, with remarkable freedom
for such an intruder, at such a time. The timid
shrunk at the sound, as from a boding of evil, and anxiety
marked every face. The door was opened, and a
female form was ushered in, in whose scant and ragged
habiliments poverty was but too plainly read, and in the
bronzed and wrinkled face, revealed by the removal of
a red hood, were seen the traces of want and exposure.
Her keen, black eye, as she entered, surveyed the scene,
and her bronzed complexion glowed ruddily in the firelight.

“Good people,” she said, in a cracked and tuneless
voice, that made the flesh of her hearers creep at its
sound, “I am weary and hungry, — give me of your
bounty, in the name of Him who upon this day took
upon himself the condition of man. I am weary, — I
am hungry.”

An appeal thus made could not be resisted, and the
best the house afforded was provided for the poor
stranger. The voracity with which she ate attracted the
attention of the circle, fully attesting her famished condition;

and a glance at her apparel confirmed the impression
of want and distress, and mercy conquered the
disgust which her presence had at first occasioned. Her
feet protruded through her travel-worn shoes, and the
snow melted from their soles and ran down upon the
sanded floor.

As soon as her hunger was appeased, she turned to
depart, but the voice of Mr. Harlowe asked her to remain,
and, in sympathetic tones, reminded her of the
inclemency of the night.

The woman expressed her thanks gracefully, and seated
herself by the fireside. The sport went on, noisily and
happily, when it became whispered that the old dame
was one of those weird people who tell fortunes by the
stars, or more ignoble means, and open to view the destinies
of men that lay concealed in the future.

“Can you tell fortunes, good woman?” asked one of
the youngest and boldest.

“I have travelled far,” replied the beldame; “and I
have learned strange arts in my wanderings. The
heavens are open to my gaze, and the stars, where the
mysteries of fate are hid, are as the printed page. The
human palm is to me a key to character. Who will test
my power?”

One by one did the company pass before her, and the
prescience she displayed was most marvellous. The lines
of the hand seemed pregnant with meaning, and the past
life of each individual was read with an accuracy that
gave importance to her predictions for the future. Scenes
were recalled to many that had long been forgotten, —
loves that had been disappointed, hopes that had been

destroyed, prospects that had been blasted, and many a
tear was shed at the recollection of some old grief revealed
by the power of that singular woman.

At length Mr. Harlowe presented his hand for examination.
Gazing upon it a moment intently, with a voice
choked by emotion, she said, — “Here is violence and
strife; the line of life is crossed by threads of bitterness
and woe, and the whole of its deep course is marked
by traces of grief. Tears, tears are here, and the lines
of penitence and anguish of soul are strangely interwoven
with the strong lines of resolution. I see that a deep
sorrow is yours, — the result of fierce passion, repented
of and subdued. Is it not so?”

She fixed her eyes suddenly upon Mr. Harlowe's face.
It was pallid as death, and the tears stood in his eye.
“Yes,” answered he, and trembled as he spoke; “God
knows my sin, and God knows my repentance. Secret
tears have been my portion for years; and, O, what would
I not give if the memory of my wrong might be wiped
away!”

He bowed his head upon his hands, and sobbed in the
anguish of his spirit, and Mrs. Harlowe wept in sympathy
with her husband, whose deep grief she had thus
discovered, which had long been concealed beneath the
calm exterior of philosophical resignation.

“Woman!” he cried at last, “what is the future of
this picture? Is there no balm in store for my wounded
spirit?” He grasped her hand forcibly, as if he would
have wrung from it an answer to his question.

“Yes,” said she, with deep emotion, “there is a future
of peace and happiness in store for you, and the sun of

your declining years shall be radiant with serene splendor,
and, — thank God, who has given me power to verify
my prophecy, — “Father! mother! behold your son!”

He threw off his ragged habiliments as he spoke,
removed the gray and matted hair from his brow, and
the patches from his cheeks, and stood before the company
in the noble form — matured in manly strength
and beauty — of Frank Harlowe.

There was a new joy in the house that night at the
wanderer's return, and tears and smiles mingled at the
recital of his story. The wide world he had travelled,
and he had learned and profited by the lessons it had
taught him. He had returned home rich in gold, but
he was richer in the spirit he had gained. It had
become softened by the trials it had suffered, until it had
brought him back to his father's house, and to his mother's
feet.

His letters home had failed to reach their destination,
and, deeming himself an outcast, he had at length refused
to write at all. He had married a lady of wealth, and
had become a denizen of a far-away city. But the
thoughts of home pressed upon him, and the smile of his
mother haunted his sleep with fond persistence, and he
longed to see once more the “old, familiar faces” that
were his companions in childhood. He had thus come
back to revisit the home of his early life. Stopping at
the hotel he had made such inquiries concerning his old
friends as led him into the secret of their past lives.
Then, assuming his disguise, he went to his father's
house in the manner above stated. The secret of his
soothsaying ability was thus revealed. The whole of

Christmas night was occupied with the story of Frank's
adventures, and in thanksgivings for the reünion.

The next summer a splendid mansion graced the hill
opposite the old homestead, which soon became and is
now the residence of Frank Harlowe, Esq., who, retired
from business, has here settled down to enjoy himself
amid the never-forgotten scenes of his boyhood, and to
endeavor to make up by attention to his parents for the
long years he had failed in his duty to them.

Mr. Harlowe is a happy old man, and instils it as a
sacred lesson into the minds of his grandchildren to
beware of cultivating a hasty temper, which had been so
full of misery to himself.