Fay Banning, by Will J. Banning. A novel

Chapter 1

The mountain was covered with a thick growth of oaks through which the road wound round and round to the crest. Here a little clearing of several acres had been made, in the midst of which stood a giant oak spreading its broad top protectingly over a log cabin that had been reared beneath its branches. The cabin door faced the west, which was now flaming with gold and crimson, and the mountain was bathed in the mellow glow, while far below in the valley, the purple shadows were verging into darkness.

In the open door of the cabin stood an ag6d black woman, leaning wearily against the door-post, her arms akimbo, her eyes with a wrapt expression fixed on the glories of the sky; her lips apart; she was saying: “ Sixty year I’ve watched de sun lightin’ up de mountain night an’ mawnin’ an’ a colorin’ it off wid gold an’ eb’ry night I’ve done said de Tord be praised I’m anudder day nigher etarnal rest. I long fo’ de time when I’ll lay my ole bones down and gib up de gose. No moah worry in’ den ’cause its cold, ’cause its warm, ’cause its wet, ’cause its dry; no moah pinin’ den fo’ dem dat’s gone — all togeddah ober yander.”

Up from the gathering darkness of the valley, the gentle zephyrs that began to rustle the leaves of the oak, brought to her ears snatches of a song; a man’s voice, sweet and clear, was singing, “ W’en Dese Ole Dry Bones Meet.”

‘ ‘ Dat am Remus draggin’ his shaky ole bones home. Wondah what has kep’ ’im so late,” remarked the woman.

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A little later, an old negro, bent with age, leaning wearily on a hickory staff, came slowly up to the cabin door.

“W’at on arf hez kep’ ye so, ole man? De hoe-cake is done colder dan a. wedge an’ spilt!” said Chloe, his wife.

“Ole age is fast creepin’ on, Chloe,” was his answer.

He entered the cabin and after washing they sat down to their humble meal. Both had been silent for semetime when Chloe said: “I done feel zif somethin’ strange gwine to happin’ soon. I’ve felt it in my bones fo’ a week. Constantly befo’ me is de image ob dat poor Fay Banning dat am roamin’ de worl’, de good Lord o’ny knows whar, — Ispect friendless an’ homeless, — drove away by dat step-mudder o’ hern. De ole Nick’ll kotch dat ole woman some day. Fay war an angill an’ did’nt I nuss her, poor little weak lam,’ from de time her dear mother gib her her into my arms an’ say: ‘heahdeah ole Chloe, de Lord hez seen fit to take me from my family an dis worl’ an’ now I gib dis little weaklin’ into yo hands knowin’ yo’ll be to her wot yo’ve been to me. Be kin’ to little Fay for my sake an’ the Lord will bless yo’, till dat she b’ar cum to be her mudder.

Den arter her dear ladder died an’ all de property must go to dat sour, scowlin’ critter bekase de will said so, an’ poor Fay dun turned away when she w’as yit heartbroken fo’ her fadder.

I know well nuf Mars Banning made anudder will onbeknown to dat ravin,’ jawin’ critter an’ left Fay suthin’ ef could o’ny be found.

“Now Remus,” Chloe resumed, “ef I waz you w’en I be workin’ round down dar I’ud keep an eye open for dat iron chist what Mars kep’ his things locked in wot he did’nt want Madum Julia skulkin’ through. Duz yo’ eber think of it?”

“Yes, yes honey, I’se watchin’ for dat box all de time,

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an‘ I done tink de I^awd gwine to bring dat box to light ’fore long.”

In the valley at the foot of the mountains, was once the happy home of the Bannings. Robert Banning, while traveling abroad had wedded an English lady of beauty, wealth and position, and brought her back with him to become the happy mistress of his ancestral home. His plantation was one of the largest and richest in Kentucky; his home all that v/ealth and cultured taste could make it. But after one short year of wedded bliss his happiness was blasted by the sudden death of his beautiful and accomplished wife, who left him as a precious legacy a little daughter only one month old. For ten years he remained inconsolable. At the end of that time he was induced to marry the governess of his daughter Fay, an artful and designing woman who had succeeded in deceiving him as to her true character. The second Mrs. Banning ruled her home with an iron hand, and so harrassed her husband that in a moment of desperation he yielded to her wishes and drew up a will leaving to her his entire estate. It was conjectured that a later will had been made but as no trace of it was ever found Mrs. Julia Banning, upon the death of her husband, came into undisputed possession of the entire property and Fay Banning, at the age of eighteen, found herself penniless, and obliged to depend for the necessaries of life on the cold and grudging bounty of her stepmother.

Mrs. Banning soon married again and chief among her gains was a new step daughter. Miss Celia Tewksburry, a beautiful and alluring woman, but dangerous, subtle, capable of any cruelty, and treachery.

On an adjoining plantation to the Bannings lived the Ellsmeres. Arthur EUsmere and Fay Banning had been playmates and companions in their childhood, and as they grew older their friendship had ripened into love, and

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they were to have been married on Fay’s nineteenth birthday. But a shadow in the form of Celia Tewksburry had fallen across their path. By cunning art she had forged letters purporting to be from Arthur Ellsmere to herself, and let them fall into the hands of Fay. These letters proved to Fay’s mind the inconstancy of her lover. One night after suffering slings and arrows from the tongues of Celia and her stepmother, she fled no one knew whither, from the^ home that had been so dear to her before the advent of the crafty three that now infested it.

Arthur Ellsmere had spent five years in ceaseless search for her, but his quest had been entirely fruitless, and he almost despaired of ever seeing her again.

Remus and Chloe, or “Uncle Remus’’ and “Aunt Chloe,’’ as they were familiarly called, had been slaves of Robert Banning’s father, but had been given their freedom by Robert before he died; after the death of their master, they had taken up their abode on the mountain, and Uncle Remus earned a living by working for the Tewksburrys. So sure was Aunt Chloe of the wrong done Fay that scarcely a day passed but she alluded to the “iurn box’’ in which she was sure could be found the necessary paper for the restoration of the Banning estate to its rightful owner.

Why was Mrs. Julia Tewksburry the uneasy creature that she was, surrounded with wealth and luxury, and Fay Banning well out of her way? Why could she not be content? Yet she was always moving restlessly about like a shadow in an uneasy dream. Cato, a black boy at her heels, always armed with, a spade, digging at the direction of his mistress here and there for what he knew not. Dog-kennels, smokehouse, pigstys, etc., had been moved, but Cato’s spade failed to unearth anything that satisfied the searching look in Madame Julia’s piercing gray eyes.

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Colonel Tewksburry, as he was called by Madame Tewksburry, though how he earned the title was not known, was a perfect little burst of corpulence with a sort of sleepy mein. He had feathered his nest by sharing his joys and sorrows with the widow Banning. His first marriage had brought him a snug little fortune, but living a sort of butterfly life, he soon found the bottom of his coffers. After the death of his first love, when he sued for the hand of the heart broken /ulia, forsooth, he had naught to offer, but his throbbifig heart and his amiable daughter Celia. Happily he was not rejected. His glibness of tongue had been the chief means of winning the affections of Mad mie Banning, and after their marriage, having no high- ambition than to eat and drink at her table, Madame Tewksburry grew weary of the Wilkins Macawber life the Colonel was leading, always waiting for something to turn up, when he would make himself felt in the sphere in which he moved, and made the house so warm for him at times that at last he was seized upon with an ardent desire to travel, and Madame Tewksburry, to rid the house of him for a season, till she could muster patience to abide him again, furnished means, a scanty allowance, however, to carry his weary body up and down this world.

In truth he was a merry devil, and we shall see more of him anon.

Miss Celia, unlike her father, was a crafty, artful creature, as has been already said, an excellent cat’s-paw for Madame Tewksburry for any chicanery in which it pleased her fancy to indulge. The friendship between the two women was mutual, and Miss Celia was veritably a hawk in an eagle’s nest.

On the day following the conversation between Uncle Remus and Aunt Chloe, the former was set at work, in the rear of the Tewksburry mansion, cleaning out an old

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well to be used as a cistern, that had been dug and proven a failure while the property was yet in the hands of the Bannings. It had been filled with old rubbish, stones and earth. About four feet from the surface his pick struck something that gave a metallic ring, a little digging unearthed an iron box about a foot square securely locked.

“I bet dat am de same identical box,’’ ejaculated Uncle Remus, “ dat Chloe am alius tellin ’bout what she used to see hid away in Mars. Banning’s closet. Now, how on de livin arf am I to git dis yeah box outen heah dout dat gaupin, chatterin idit wots helpin, seein it, an tellin Miss’y July. I hab it ^^w.”

At this moment his assista c, a wide-eyed darky lad, appeared around the corner oi the stables. “Hey, yo’ Sambo!” shouted Remus “I je.s seed dat ole brindle cow jump into de cornfield! Git yo long now quick an git ’er out! Hump yo’sef!” Already Sambo was on the road for the cornfield calling the dogs after him. “Now’s my time,” said Uncle Remus. He hastily placed the box on the cart, covering it with earth, and hurried off with it to the ravine where he had been dumping the rubbish. He placed the mysterious box in a hole, carefully covering it with earth, and marked the spot, resolving to remove it that night and satisfy himself as to its contents. After Uncle Remus had finished his day’s work he started for home as usual. When he reached the woods at the foot of the mountain, he hid himself and waited for darkness to enable him to recover the box.

Chapter II

On the banks of the beautiful Hudson was the summer home of the Lelands. The house was built of that colossal masonry which the primeval deep piled up when it began fashioning the hills — a massive structure of wings and galleries and colonades. Around it a broad grassy lawn, with rows of maple and Tombardy poplar trees, flights of steps, with vases holding beautiful tropical plants, fountains, miniature lakes, gardens with clipped hedges, and beyond were grassy meadows, dotted over with flowers and long shady drives. A quiet, restful nook, situated a short distance from the thriving town of M— .

Mr. Iceland was a rich merchant of New Orleans and to this beautiful spot he brought his family to spend the warm summer months.

Guy Leland had found himself a widower at the age of twenty-eight. Deprived of the love of his fair young wife, his affections naturally turned to his daughter and only child, upon whom he lavished all his wealth and love.

Fern Iceland! Did ever the light of heaven fall on a sweeter, fairer face ?

No human eyes could rest on that fairy-like form, those perfectly moulded features, without feeling a quick warm heart throb, and a desire to cover with kisses those cherry red lips closing over pearly teeth. Her gold-tinted silken hair, falling in showers over her shoulders, made her look as fair and pure as the very angels in heaven. Yet she was a giddy little sprite, having grown up, perhaps, too much after the manner of the wild flowers that bloomed in the mossy dells around her home.

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It was a lovely May morning, and Fern unclosed her beautiful blue eyes and murmured sleepily:

“ Oh, it is such hard work to open my eyes, and I am so sleepy! There, Mrs. Rouncer is ringing for me to come down. Wonder how late it is,” glancing over at the clock. “Oh, fie! lam an hour late again for breakfast and papa wanted me to be more punctual.

” I do wonder if Mrs. Rouncer will tell him how lazy I am when he comes from New Orleans. I’ll tell Mrs. Rouncer I won’t do so any more and then she will kiss me, and-now-I-lay-me-down-to — ’’and the curly golden head sank -down in the pillows, the lustre of the hair reminding one of glowing sunshine on drifts of snow, and she was soon fast asleep again.

Mrs. Rouncer, the housekeeper, a buxom dame, went on about her morning duties for another hour, then called Miss Farjda)", Fern’s governess. When she answered the summons Mrs. Rouncer broke forth:

“ Please do go an’ see if that girl is dead. I’ve rung the bell an’ hollered fer’er till I’m hoarse!”

Miss Fariday, a queenly creature, with a pale, sad sweet face, no less beautiful than little Fern herself, though of a different style, slowly ascended the broad gilded stairway. She paused at Fern’s door, lightly rapping, but receiving no answer, quietly entered the room.

“Fern, sweet flower, wake up dear. Don’t you see how how high the sun is, little sleepy head ?”

And Faith Fariday bent lovingly over the little fairy, patting the rose tinted cheek with tender hand.

lyike a flash the blue eyes opened, and springing from her bed, light as a thistle down, she flew to the window, throwing aside the curtains and looking out upon the landscape, clapped her hands with delight: White winged boats were gliding to and fro on the tranquil bosom of the river, and the birds were trilling forth their joyous songs from the trees.

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Great banks of lilacs — sweet masses of the fragrant, fluffy things grew directly under her window. No wonder Fern Iceland was such a dainty flower herself, born and reared in the midst of flowers, and lulled to sleep at night by the songs of birds, and the murmuring of water-falls.

“Oh, Faith,” she exclaimed, meanwhile hastily dressing, “do come and look out upon the beautiful scene. Do just look at the flowers and birds, and the boats on the river. Oh, that I were an artist, that I might paint the feelings of the soul. But I’m not. I’m only plain Miss Fernl Heigho!” And with that she gave her slipper a toss and dextrously caught it on her foot.

“ Oh, say, Faithy dear, is Mrs. Rouncer storming the castle this morning ? Really I didn’t mean to sleep so late; but I’ll hie me down and pat her cheek and call her some dear old pet names and we will be good friends again until tomorrow morning, eh ? ”

After kissing her companion she bounded down stairs like a fawn and before Faith reached the bottom of the stairs she heard Mrs. Rouncer laughing, which convinced her that Fern had already made her peace with that lady. Faith passed into the parlor and sitting down at the piano, lightly hummed a plaintive little air. There is something in that sad, sweet voice that tells the listener there is some hidden sorrow in her life, though what it is is unknown to the Felaiids. All they can tell of her is that five years ago she answered Mr. Iceland’s advertisement fora governess for Fern, and he, feeling a sudden sympathy for and interest in the sad pale face, with its large beautiful beseeching eyes, somewhat rashly engaged her. But he never had cause to repent his kindly action, and had come by degrees to trust his daughter entirely to her care.

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Another member of Mr. Iceland’s family is his sister, Miss Isabelle Iceland, who came to live with her brother Guy after the death of his wife.

She boasts of having withstood all the onsets of fortune hunters, and will only wed a man of twice her wealth. She is a haughty woman, proud of her riches and position.

Judging from appearances she is at least thirty, and her beauty, though not in its hey-day, is not yet in its autumn. She is handsome still.

But, ah ! She has a prying disposition, peeping into dark closets and unlocked drawers, and a sharp tongue, a veritable two-edged sword.

She has ofteu tried to fathom the mystery of Faith Fariday’s past, but without success ; so not even sharp Isabelle Iceland can glean Miss Fariday’s secret.

She has always carried on a warfare with her niece, and now that Fern is sixteen the conflicts are sometimes bitter. She disapproves of the friendship of Fern and her governess, and holds people in contempt who have dark secrets locked up in their bosoms like Faith Fariday, and is confldent that Miss Fariday is no fit companion for Fern.

She refused to go north with them this summer, but persisted in remaining at New Orleans, thinking, spitefully, that she might get a little rest with Fern, and Faith Fariday both out of the house.

Mr. Leland is annoyed at the strained relations existing between his sister and daughter, and often chides Fern for tormenting her aunt Isabelle, but receives no sign of relenting from that willful young lady, whose voice is now heard in the hall calling :

“Come, Faithy, let us take our morning drive. Deoil' t- I-need-a constitiUioneal-^ieowf''* she drawled in a nasal twang in imitation of the Yankee dialect used by

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the menials at Glen Hazel (the name of their northern home), as she viewed herself in the hall mirror — a perfect picture of health and beauty.

Faith had only to don her hat and they were ready. '

They passed out of the house, down the broad stone steps, and Fern instead of keeping the path, danced along over the short, green grass toward the gate, her tiny feet scarcely seeming to touch the ground, her golden curls fluttering in the May breeze.

“ My heart is so happy that it almost seems as though I could fly through the air like a bird,” she said, with one of her rippling laughs. ” We have no puss here to watch. She is far, far away in the sunny South,” gaily waving her hand in that direction.

“ But you must not talk that way,” interrupted Faith. ‘ ‘ Your aunt Isabelle only desires to exercise great care over you.”

” Oh, fie on aunt Isabelle’s care ! I wish I might always remain here and have only you and dear papa for companions. But my dear gentle Faith is growing so pale and delicate of late that I sometimes fear she is going to die. Oh, how terrible that would be, for I think her an angel, and how could I ever live without her! ”

Her bright eyes filled with tears and she threw her arms around Faith’s neck, and the two girls nestled their heads together and wept.

” What be you ' uns whimperirC abeout in thar called

a voice from without the gate.

‘ ‘ There is Tubbs with the carriage now,” whispered Fern, and they relinquished their embrace and hurried out of the gate.

Tubbs was holding the horse and smiling broadly as they came out.

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Elijah Tubbs was a good natured Yankee, having been “ born and brought up ” he said “ way deown in Maine.” He had been in the service of the Eelands ever since the purchase of Glen Hazel, and wondered how they had* ever existed without his indispensable services. He prided himself on being the best farmer in the country, and in truth he was, for the crops of Glen Hazel and the stock reared by him were the envy of all the rustics in that vicinity.

He lived on one end of the farm, in a snug little cottage, and his home was made blissful by four bouncing, romping, rosy-cheeked boys, ranging in years from six to ten, who made the welkin ring from dawn till night with their vociferous din. His good spouse, Emily, sometimes grew tired of their clamor, and mustered sufficient courage to exclaiiA ‘ ‘ drat them air bo3^s. ’ ’ But they were born images of their ‘ ‘ pap, ’ ’ and therefore ever pardonable in the eyes of sweet tempered Emily.

Tubbs was a brother of Mrs. Rouncer, whose husband had left this sin-embittered life soon after their marriage, and she said, when, often approached on the subject of her forlorn condition by Polly Dutton, the neighborhood gossip, that she would “ continer to tarry single” the remainder of her life. She had taken up her abode at Glen Hazel as housekeeper, and there was naught to ruffle her tranquil life save the annual visits of Miss Isabelle Leland. She never could abide Miss Isabelle, and, therefore, rejoiced that she remained in New Orleans this summer.

Tubbs ducked his head and kept bowing low until the young ladies were snugly ensconced in the phaeton.

“ Better watch that mare a leetle grain, she’s growin’ vicious ev’ry day. Yisterday she tried to throw me when I was ridin’ of ’er tew water. Hold a tight rein, Ferny.”

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Fern only laughed, and giving the horse a sharp crack with the whip they were soon gliding along the smooth turnpike at a lively rate.

Fern had already forgotten the little scene at the gate; but not so with Faith Fariday. An old wound had been opened, and despite her efforts to conceal her grief, the tears had unbidden started. She had braved “ the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” well, for indeed such had been her lot. But ’tis sweet sometimes to give way to sorrow and ease the pent up grief we bear by indulging in a flood of tears.

Presently Fern, noticing Faith’s gloomy mood, looked up and beheld the great blue eyes filled with tears and gazing pensively at the sky.

“Oh, Faithy, dear, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am for saying anything that may have awakened any sad feelings. I am always saying or doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. Wish aunt Isabelle had been near to have reprimanded me in her sharp way. But tell me, dear, why do you chase those dark shadows that someday must have crossed your path? You are so beautiful and talented it seems to me you might always be happy. If you have been disappointed in love,” she said coyly, glancing up at Faith, who could not repress a smile even through her tears — ‘ ‘ now methinks I hear aunt Isabelle say ‘Miss Sauciness’ — why not console yourself with a bit of Burns’ philosophy:

‘ Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi’ him;

I may be distress’d but I wiuua complain,

I flatter may fancy I may get auither,

My heart it shall never be broken for ane.’

I heard papa telling aunt Isabelle one day — and my, how her nose went up I — that Dr. Forrester was deeply in love with you and you could wed him if you chose. And isn’t he the richest, handsomest doctor in all New

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Orleans ? How the belles — Isabelles — all rave over him. I don’t believe as you do, that you can love but once. I take it for granted that you have loved, see? Why I could love a new lover every day. I could tread a v/alk paved with lovers broken hearts,” said Fern lightly.

Her lively prattle quickly restored the smiles to Faith’s grave face, and soon they were gaily chatting together as usual, little dreaming of the catastrophe awaiting them.

They were driving along a narrow road where the hill rose perpendicularly on one side, and on the other ran the river, broad and deep, below them, when suddenly, around a curve, before them appeared something that terrified their horse beyond control. It was an old farmer and his wife driving a one horse wagon loaded with vegetables, evidently going to market.

The steed they were driving seemed fashioned after a saw horse, and to prevent the flies from sapping his vitality, was enveloped in a light colored covering, fantastically trimmed with red. The old lad}^ wore a huge poke bonnet, and carried a prodigious green umbrella — the whole outfit making up an apparition not often met with in broad day-light.

Both girls grasped the reins, as their horse gave a bound forward and reared high in the air, but in another instant they were hurled from their seats and horse and buggy went over the bank into the river below.

When Faith Fariday opened her eyes she gazed at the objects in the room with a bewildered stare, and in vain tried to recall what had occured. Mrs. Rouncer was sitting by her bedside fanning her ; glasses and bottles of medicine were on a stand by the window. She felt a stinging pain in her head, and when she tried to raise her arm, found it powerless.

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Mrs. Rouncer, discovering she had regained consciousness, bent over her, kissing her forehead and saying :

“ Oh, my darling girl, you hev come to at last ! ”

“ Where am I and what has happened,” she faintly whispered.

“You are in your room darling, and you and Fern come very nigh bein’ killed up at the narrers, don’t you know ? ” said Mrs. Rouncer, gently bathing her head.

“ Where is Fern and was she very badly injured ?'’

“Oh, no, honey, not so bad as you. On’y she was nigh skairt to death. She has a fever now. She calls fer you all the time, and sez if she could see you she would be well.”

“ Mayn’t I go and see her? ” pleaded Faith, and before Mrs. Rouncer could prevent her she had half risen in bed, but fell back fainting.

A week passed ere Faith could leave her room She had received a severe cut on the head and one arm was fractured. She was at last permitted to go to Fern, whose illness, at first, slight, had increased until now her condition was critical. She had received but slight injuries compared with Faith, but the shock had been too great for her.

Mr. lyeland had been sent for and was expected daily.

When Faith saw Fern moaning and tossing on her pillow she gave a low cry, ran forward, and threw herself on her knees beside her bed murmuring :

“Oh, my pretty darling! What will your poor father say when he sees you ? ’ ’

The days dragged wearily by and no tidings of Mr. Iceland.

Faith began to have grave fears concerning him. Fern lingered for some time between life and death, and in her delirium Faith’s name was constantly on her lips and Faith overtaxed her still slender stock of strength in

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ministering to her dear little pupil and friend, but at last had the blessed satisfaction of hearing the doctor pronounce her out of danger, and on the road to recovery. One evening during Fern’s convalesence. Faith having watched by the little invalid until she fell into sweet, sound slumber, had withdrawn to the adjoining room to sit by the open window and get the benefit of the fresh evening breeze. But her enjoyment was destined to be short lived, for she had scarcely settled herself comfortably in her easy chair until callers were announced, and, fatigued as she was, she was obliged to exert herself to play the agreeable hostess.

The callers were, however, agreeable and intelligent ladies from the village, and Faith in part forgot her weariness in the pleasant chat that followed, but again the door opened, and Mrs. Rouncer ushered in Emily Tubbs and Polly Dutton, spinster. Faith noticed the smiles that flitted over the faces of the ladies, but received the newcomers with her usual courtesy.

Polly was fair, fat and forty, and was wheezing and pufifing like a kettle of mush from the exercise in climbing the stairs.

“How d’y’ do, ladies,” she said, bowing in a most obsequious manner, then, falling into the arm chair offered her, began apparently taking an inventory of every article of furniture in the large and elegant apartment, winking slowly, meanwhile, like a huge overgrown toad. Regaining her breath she soon became the orator of the evening.

Meek Emily Tubbs winced and moved uneasily in her chair as Polly berated some new victim.