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- Herausgeber: Diamond Book Publishing
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
A young girl from the city, Ruth Thorne, visits her spinster aunt's house in the New England countryside. While exploring the attic, Ruth discovers a chest of mementos from her aunt's romantic past. Journalist Carl Winfield helps her unravel the past, and soon she finds herself reliving the old romance. A sweet Victorian romance novel with a bit of mystery, "Lavender and Old Lace" is Myrtle Reed’s most famous work.
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Myrtle Reed
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Classic Romantic Fiction
Table of contents
CHAPTER I. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
By
Myrtle Reed
Table of Contents
CHAPTER I. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
CHAPTER II. THE ATTIC
CHAPTER III. MISS AINSLIE
CHAPTER IV. A GUEST
CHAPTER V. THE RUMOURS OF THE VALLEY
CHAPTER VI. THE GARDEN
CHAPTER VII. THE MAN WHO HESITATES
CHAPTER VIII. SUMMER DAYS
CHAPTER IX. BY HUMBLE MEANS
CHAPTER X. LOVE LETTERS
CHAPTER XI. THE ROSE OF ALL THE WORLD
CHAPTER XII. BRIDE AND GROOM
CHAPTER XIII. PLANS
CHAPTER XIV. “FOR REMEMBRANCE”
CHAPTER XV. THE SECRET AND THE DREAM
CHAPTER XVI. SOME ONE WHO LOVED HER
CHAPTER XVII. DAWN
CHAPTER I. THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW
A rickety carriage was slowly ascending the hill, and from the place of honour on the back seat, the single passenger surveyed the country with interest and admiration. The driver of that ancient chariot was an awkward young fellow, possibly twenty-five years of age, with sharp knees, large, red hands, high cheek-bones, and abundant hair of a shade verging upon orange. He was not unpleasant to look upon, however, for he had a certain evident honesty, and he was disposed to be friendly to every one.
“ Be you comfortable, Miss?” he asked, with apparent solicitude.
“ Very comfortable, thank you,” was the quiet response. He urged his venerable steeds to a gait of about two miles an hour, then turned sideways.
“ Be you goin' to stay long, Miss?”
“ All Summer, I think.”
“ Do tell!”
The young woman smiled in listless amusement, but Joe took it for conversational encouragement. “City folks is dretful bashful when they's away from home,” he said to himself. He clucked again to his unheeding horses, shifted his quid, and was casting about for a new topic when a light broke in upon him.
“ I guess, now, that you're Miss Hathaway's niece, what's come to stay in her house while she goes gallivantin' and travellin' in furrin parts, be n't you?”
“ I am Miss Hathaway's niece, and I have never been here before. Where does she live?”
“ Up yander.”
He flourished the discarded fish-pole which served as a whip, and pointed out a small white house on the brow of the hill. Reflection brought him the conviction that his remark concerning Miss Hathaway was a social mistake, since his passenger sat very straight, and asked no more questions.
The weary wheels creaked, but the collapse which Miss Thorne momentarily expected was mercifully postponed. Being gifted with imagination, she experienced the emotion of a wreck without bodily harm. As in a photograph, she beheld herself suddenly projected into space, followed by her suit case, felt her new hat wrenched from her head, and saw hopeless gravel stains upon the tailored gown which was the pride of her heart. She thought a sprained ankle would be the inevitable outcome of the fall, but was spared the pain of it, for the inability to realise an actual hurt is the redeeming feature of imagination.
Suddenly there was a snort of terror from one of the horses, and the carriage stopped abruptly. Ruth clutched her suit case and umbrella, instantly prepared for the worst; but Joe reassured her.
“ Now don't you go and get skeered, Miss,” he said, kindly; “'taint nothin' in the world but a rabbit. Mamie can't never get used to rabbits, someways.” He indicated one of the horses—a high, raw-boned animal, sketched on a generous plan, whose ribs and joints protruded, and whose rough white coat had been weather-worn to grey.
“ Hush now, Mamie,” he said; “'taint nothin'.”
“ Mamie” looked around inquiringly, with one ear erect and the other at an angle. A cataract partially concealed one eye, but in the other was a world of wickedness and knowledge, modified by a certain lady-like reserve.
“ G' long, Mamie!”
Ruth laughed as the horse resumed motion in mincing, maidenly steps. “What's the other one's name?” she asked.
“ Him? His name's Alfred. Mamie's his mother.”
Miss Thorne endeavoured to conceal her amusement and Joe was pleased because the ice was broken. “I change their names every once in a while,” he said, “'cause it makes some variety, but now I've named'em about all the names I know.”
The road wound upward in its own lazy fashion, and there were trees at the left, though only one or two shaded the hill itself. As they approached the summit, a girl in a blue gingham dress and a neat white apron came out to meet them.
“ Come right in, Miss Thorne,” she said, “and I'll explain it to you.”
Ruth descended, inwardly vowing that she would ride no more in Joe's carriage, and after giving some directions about her trunk, followed her guide indoors.
The storm-beaten house was certainly entitled to the respect accorded to age. It was substantial, but unpretentious in outline, and had not been painted for a long time. The faded green shutters blended harmoniously with the greyish white background, and the piazza, which was evidently an unhappy afterthought of the architect, had two or three new shingles on its roof.
“ You see it's this way, Miss Thorne,” the maid began, volubly; “Miss Hathaway, she went earlier than she laid out to, on account of the folks decidin' to take a steamer that sailed beforehand—before the other one, I mean. She went in sech a hurry that she didn't have time to send you word and get an answer, but she's left a letter here for you, for she trusted to your comin'.”
Miss Thorne laid her hat and jacket aside and settled herself comfortably in a rocker. The maid returned presently with a letter which Miss Hathaway had sealed with half an ounce of red wax, presumably in a laudable effort to remove temptation from the path of the red-cheeked, wholesome, farmer's daughter who stood near by with her hands on her hips.
“ Miss Ruth Thorne,” the letter began,
“ Dear Niece:
“ I am writing this in a hurry, as we are going a week before we expected to. I think you will find everything all right. Hepsey will attend to the house-keeping, for I don't suppose you know much about it, coming from the city. She's a good-hearted girl, but she's set in her ways, and you'll have to kinder give in to her, but any time when you can't, just speak to her sharp and she'll do as you tell her.
“ I have left money enough for the expenses until I come back, in a little box on the top shelf of the closet in the front room, under a pile of blankets and comfortables. The key that unlocks it is hung on a nail driven into the back of the old bureau in the attic. I believe Hepsey is honest and reliable, but I don't believe in tempting folks.
“ When I get anywhere where I can, I will write and send you my address, and then you can tell me how things are going at home. The catnip is hanging from the rafters in the attic, in case you should want some tea, and the sassafras is in the little drawer in the bureau that's got the key hanging behind it.
“ If there's anything else you should want, I reckon Hepsey will know where to find it. Hoping that this will find you enjoying the great blessing of good health, I remain,
“ Your Affectionate Aunt,
“ JANE HATHAWAY.
“ P. S. You have to keep a lamp burning every night in the east window of the attic. Be careful that nothing catches afire.”
The maid was waiting, in fear and trembling, for she did not know what directions her eccentric mistress might have left.
“ Everything is all right, Hepsey,” said Miss Thorne, pleasantly, “and I think you and I will get along nicely. Did Miss Hathaway tell you what room I was to have?”
“ No'm. She told me you was to make yourself at home. She said you could sleep where you pleased.”
“ Very well, I will go up and see for myself. I would like my tea at six o'clock.” She still held the letter in her hand, greatly to the chagrin of Hepsey, who was interested in everything and had counted upon a peep at it. It was not Miss Hathaway's custom to guard her letters and she was both surprised and disappointed.
As Ruth climbed the narrow stairway, the quiet, old-fashioned house brought balm to her tired soul. It was exquisitely clean, redolent of sweet herbs, and in its atmosphere was a subtle, Puritan restraint.
Have not our houses, mute as they are, their own way of conveying an impression? One may go into a house which has been empty for a long time, and yet feel, instinctively, what sort of people were last sheltered there. The silent walls breathe a message to each visitor, and as the footfalls echo in the bare cheerless rooms, one discovers where Sorrow and Trouble had their abode, and where the light, careless laughter of gay Bohemia lingered until dawn. At night, who has not heard ghostly steps upon the stairs, the soft closing of unseen doors, the tapping on a window, and, perchance, a sigh or the sound of tears? Timid souls may shudder and be afraid, but wiser folk smile, with reminiscent tenderness, when the old house dreams.
As she wandered through the tiny, spotless rooms on the second floor of Miss Hathaway's house, Ruth had a sense of security and peace which she had never known before. There were two front rooms, of equal size, looking to the west, and she chose the one on the left, because of its two south windows. There was but one other room, aside from the small one at the end of the hall, which, as she supposed, was Hepsey's.
One of the closets was empty, but on a shelf in the other was a great pile of bedding. She dragged a chair inside, burrowed under the blankets, and found a small wooden box, the contents clinking softly as she drew it toward her.
Holding it under her arm, she ascended the narrow, spiral stairs which led to the attic. At one end, under the eaves, stood an old mahogany dresser. The casters were gone and she moved it with difficulty, but the slanting sunbeams of late afternoon revealed the key, which hung, as her aunt had written, on a nail driven into the back of it.
