Mischievous Maid Faynie written by Laura Jean Libbey

L >> Laura Jean Libbey >> Mischievous Maid Faynie

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10

MISCHIEVOUS MAID FAYNIE

Author's Special Edition

by

LAURA JEAN LIBBEY

Author of _Ione_, _Parted By Fate_, _Sweet Kitty Clover_, etc.

1899

[Illustration: Cover of Mischievous Maid Faynie]

CHAPTER I.

THE LOVER'S TRYST.

It was five o'clock on a raw, gusty February afternoon. All that day and
all the night before it had been snowing hard. New York lay buried
beneath over two feet of its cold white mantle, and with the gathering
dusk a fierce hurricane set in, proclaiming the approach of the terrible
blizzard which had been predicted.

On this afternoon, which was destined to be so memorable, two young men
were breasting the sleet and hail, which tore down Broadway with
demoniac glee, as though amused that the cable cars were stalled fully a
mile along the line, and the people were obliged to get out and walk,
facing the full fury of the elements, if they hoped to arrive at their
destinations that night.

It could easily be ascertained by the gray, waning light that both young
men were tall, broad-shouldered and handsome of face, bearing a
striking resemblance to one another.

They were seldom in each other's company, but those who saw them thus
jumped naturally to the conclusion that they were twin brothers; but
this was a great mistake; they were only cousins. One was Clinton
Kendale, whom everybody was speaking of as "the rage of New York," the
handsomest actor who had ever trod the metropolitan boards, the idol of
the matinee girls, and the greatest attraction the delighted managers
had gotten hold of for years.

His companion was of not much consequence, only Lester Armstrong,
assistant cashier in the great dry goods house of Marsh & Co., on upper
Broadway.

He had entered their employ as a cashboy; had grown to manhood in their
service, and he had no further hope for the future, save to remain in
his present position by strict application, proving himself worthy of a
greater opportunity if the head cashier ever chose to retire.

He lived in the utmost simplicity, was frugal, dressed with unusual
plainness, and put by money.

He hadn't a relative on earth, save his handsome, debonair cousin, who
never sought him out save when he wanted to borrow money of him.

Clint Kendale's salary was fifty dollars per week, but that did not go
far toward paying his bills at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, keeping a fast
horse and giving wine suppers. In his early youth he had begun the pace
he was now going. He had received a fine collegiate education, and at
his majority stepped into the magnificent fortune his parents had left
him. It took him just one year to run through it, then, penniless, he
came from Boston to New York and sought out his poor cousin. Lester
Armstrong succeeded in getting a position for Kendale with the same firm
with which he was employed, but at the end of the first week Clinton
Kendale threw it up with disgust, declaring that what he had gone
through these six days was too much for him. He had rather die than
work.

He borrowed a hundred dollars from his Cousin Lester and suddenly
disappeared. When he was next heard from he blossomed out, astonishing
all New York as the handsomest society actor who had ever graced the
metropolitan boards, and caused a furore.

There was another great difference between the two cousins, and that was
a heart; just one of them possessed it, and that one was Lester
Armstrong.

On this particular afternoon Kendale had lain in wait for his cousin at
the entrance of Marsh & Co.'s to waylay him when he came from the
office. He must see him, he told himself, and Lester must let him have
another loan.

Lester Armstrong was glad from the bottom of his true, honest heart to
see him, but his brow clouded over with a troubled expression when he
learned that he wanted to borrow five hundred dollars. That amount
seemed small, indeed, to the lordly Kendale, but to Lester it meant
months of toil and rigid self-denial.

"Come into the cafe, and while we lunch I will explain to you why I must
have it, old fellow," said Kendale, always ready with some plausible
story on his glib tongue.

"Haven't time now," declared Armstrong. "I must catch the five-twenty
train from the Grand Central Depot; haven't a moment to lose. I will be
back on the nine o'clock train. If you will come over to my lodging
house then I'll talk with you. I cannot let you have the sum you want.
I'll tell you why then, and you will readily understand my position. Ah,
this is your corner. We part here. Wish me luck on the trip I am about
to take, for I never had more need for your good wishes."

"You are not going off to be married, I hope?" exclaimed Kendale in the
greatest of astonishment.

A light-hearted, happy, ringing laugh broke from Armstrong's mustached
lips, the color rushed into his face, and his brown eyes twinkled
merrily.

"There's the dearest little girl in all the world in the case," he
admitted, "but I haven't time to tell you about it now. I'll see you
later."

With this remark he plunged forward into the gathering gloom, leaving
Clinton Kendale standing motionless gazing after him in the greatest
surprise. But the cold was too intense for him to remain there but an
instant; then wheeling about, he hastily struck into a side street,
muttering between his teeth:

"He must let me have that five hundred dollars, or I am ruined. I must
have it from him by fair means or foul, ere the light of another day
dawns. I've borrowed a cool two thousand from him in four months. I
wonder how much more he has laid by? I must have that five hundred, no
matter what I have to resort to to get it, that's all there is about it.
I am desperate to-night, and a person in my terrible fix fears neither
God nor man."

Meanwhile Lester Armstrong pushed rapidly onward, scarcely heeding the
bitter cold and terrible, raging storm, for his heart was in a glow.

He reached the Grand Central Depot just as the gates were closing, but
managed to dash through them and swing himself aboard of the train just
as it was moving out of the station.

The car was crowded; standing room only seemed to be the prospect, but
the young man did not seem disturbed by it, but settled his broad frame
against the door and looked out at the sharp sleet that lashed against
the window panes with something like a smile on his lips.

He had scarcely twenty miles to ride thus, but that comforting
remembrance did not cause the pleasant smile to deepen about the mobile
mouth.

He was thinking of the lovely young girl who had written him a note to
say that she expected him at the trysting place, without fail, at seven
that evening, as she had something of the greatest importance to
communicate to him.

"Of course my dear little girl will not keep the appointment in such a
blizzard as this. She could not have foreseen how the weather would be
when she wrote the precious little note that is tucked away so carefully
in my breast pocket; but, like a true knight, I must obey my little
lady's commands, no matter what they may be, despite storm or
tempests--ay, even though I rode through seas of blood!"

Half a score of times the engine became firmly wedged in snowdrifts in
traversing as many miles. There were loud exclamations of discomfiture
on all sides, but the handsome young man never heard them. He was still
staring out of the window--staring without seeing--and the smile on his
face had given place to an expression of deep wistfulness.

"Sometimes I wonder how I have dared to aspire to her love--the
beautiful, petted daughter of a millionaire, and I only an assistant
cashier on a very humble salary--ay, a salary so small that my whole
year's earnings is less than the pin money she spends each month.

"If she were but poor like myself, how quickly I would make her mine.
How can I, how dare I, ask her to share my lot? Will her father be
amused, or terribly angry at my presumption?

"This sort of thing must stop. I cannot be meeting my darling
clandestinely any longer. My honor forbids, my manhood cries out against
it.

"But, oh, God! how the thought terrifies me that from the moment they
find out that we have met, and are lovers, they will try to part
us--tear my darling from me!"

They had met in a very ordinary manner, but to the infatuated young
lover it seemed the most ideal, most romantic of meetings. The pretty
little heiress had gone to the office of Marsh & Co. to settle her
monthly account. The old cashier was out to lunch. His assistant, Lester
Armstrong, stepped forward and attended to the matter for the pretty
young girl, surely the sweetest and daintiest that he had ever beheld.

That night he dreamed of the lovely, dimpled rosebud face, framed in a
mass of golden curls; a pair of bewildering violet eyes, and a gay,
musical voice like a chiming of silver bells, and lo! the mischief was
done. The next day the assistant cashier made the first mistake of his
life over his accounts. The old cashier, Mr. Conway, looked at him
grimly from over the tops of his gold-rimmed glasses.

"I hope you have not taken to playing cards nights, Mr. Armstrong," he
said. "They are dangerous; avoid them. Wine is still worse, and above
all, let me warn you against womankind. They are a snare and a delusion.
Avoid them, one and all, as you would a pestilence."

But the warning had come to the handsome young assistant cashier too
late.

CHAPTER II.

"YOU MUST NOT MARRY HIM--HEAVEN INTENDED YOU FOR ME."

Slowly but surely the sturdy engine struggled on through the huge
snowdrifts, reaching Beechwood a little after seven, over an hour and a
half behind time.

Lester Armstrong swung himself off the rear platform into fully five
feet of snow, floundering helplessly about for an instant, while the
train plunged onward, and at last struck the path that led up over the
hills in the village beyond.

Beechwood consisted of but a few elegant homes owned and occupied by
retired New Yorkers of wealth. Horace Fairfax was perhaps the most
influential, as well as the wealthiest of these; his magnificent home on
the brow of the farthest hill was certainly the most imposing and
pretentious.

Lester Armstrong's heart gave a great bound as he came within sight of
it, standing like a great castle, with its peaks and gables, and windows
all blazing with light and the red glow of inward warmth against its
dark background of fir trees more than a century old, and the white
wilderness of snow stretching out and losing itself in the darkness
beyond.

All heedless of the terrible storm raging about him, the young man
paused at the arched gate and looked with sad wistfulness, as he leaned
his arms on one of the stone pillars, up the serpentine path that led to
the main entrance.

"What I ought to do is never to see Faynie again," he murmured, but as
the bare thought rushed through his mind, his handsome face paled to the
lips and his strong frame trembled. Never see Faynie again! That would
mean shut out the only gleam of sunshine that had ever lighted up the
gray somberness of his existence; take away from him the only dear joy
that had made life worth the living for the few months. He had drifted
into these clandestine meetings, not by design; chance, or fate, rather,
had forced him into it.

Mr. Marsh, the senior member of the firm by whom he was employed, also
resided in Beechwood. It was his whim that the keys of the private
office should be brought to him each night. Thus it happened that the
performance of his duties led Lester each evening past the Fairfax home.

One summer evening he espied Faynie, the object of his ardent
admiration, standing in the flower garden, herself the fairest flower of
all. It was beyond human nature to resist stopping still to gaze upon
her. This he did, believing himself unseen, but Faynie Fairfax had
beheld the tall, well-known form afar down the road, and she was not
displeased at the prospect of having a delightful little chat with the
handsome young cashier.

Faynie's home was not as congenial to the young girl as it might have
been, for a stepmother reigned supreme there, and all of her love was
lavished upon her own daughter Claire, a crippled, quiet girl of about
Faynie's own age, and Faynie was left to do about as she pleased. Her
father almost lived in his library among his books, and she saw little
of him for days at a time.

Therefore there was no one to notice why Faynie suddenly developed such
a liking for roaming in the garden at twilight; no one to notice the
growing attachment that sprang up and deepened into the strongest of
love between the petted heiress and the poor young cashier.

Lester Armstrong had struggled manfully against it, but it was for a
higher power than man's to direct where the love of his heart should go.
He made strong resolutions that the lovely maiden should never guess the
existing state of affairs, but he might as well have attempted to stay
the mighty waters of the ocean by his weak will. All in an unforeseen
moment the words burst from his lips--the secret he had attempted to
guard so carefully was out.

He had expected that beautiful Faynie Fairfax would turn from him in
anger and dismay, but to his intense surprise, she burst into a flood of
tears, even though she looked at him with smiling lips, April sunshine
and showers commingled, confessing with all a young girl's pretty,
hesitating shyness that she loved him, even as he loved her, with all
her heart. Then followed half an hour of bliss for the lovers such as
the poets tell of in their verses of a glimpse of Paradise.

Although they exchanged a hundred vows of eternal affection, Lester
Armstrong hesitated to speak of marriage yet. Faynie was young--only
eighteen. There was plenty of time. And to tell the truth, he dared not
face the possibilities of it just yet. It required a little more courage
than he had been able to muster up to seek an audience with the
millionaire--beard the lion in his den, as it were--and dare propose
such a monstrously preposterous thing as the asking of his lovely,
dainty young daughter's hand in marriage. Lester was timid. He dreaded
beyond words the setting of the ball rolling which would tear his
beautiful love and himself asunder. Heaven help him, he was so
unutterably happy in the bewildering present.

His reverie was suddenly interrupted by seeing a little black figure
hurrying down the path. Another instant, and the little breathless
figure was clasped in his arms, close, close to his madly throbbing
heart.

"Oh, Faynie, my love, my darling, my precious, why did you brave the
fury of the tempest to keep the tryst to-night? I am here, but I did not
expect you, much as I love to see you. I was praying you would not
venture out. Oh, my precious, what is it?" he cried in alarm, as the
fitful light of the gas lamp that hung over the arched gate fell full
upon her. "Your sweet face is as white as marble, and your beautiful
golden hair is wet with drifted snow, as is your cloak."

To his intense amazement and distress, she burst into the wildest of
sobs and clung to him like a terrified child. All in vain he attempted
to soothe her and find out what it was all about.

The first thought that flashed through his mind was that their meetings
had been discovered, and that they meant to put him from Faynie, and he
strained her closer to his heart, crying out that whatever it was,
nothing save death should separate them.

Little by little the story came out, and the two young lovers, clasped
so fondly in each other's arms, did not feel the intense cold or hear
the wild moaning of the winds around them. Through her tears Faynie told
her handsome, strong young lover just what had happened. Her father had
sent for her to come to his library that morning, and when she had
complied with the summons, he had informed her that a friend of his had
asked for her hand in marriage, and he had consented, literally settling
the matter without consulting her, the one most vitally interested. She
had most furiously rebelled, there had been a terrible scene, and it had
ended by her father harshly bidding her to prepare for the wedding,
which would take place on the morrow, adding that a father was supposed
to know best what to do for his daughter's interests; that the fiat had
gone forth; that she would marry the husband he had selected for her on
the morrow, though all the angels above or the demons below attempted to
frustrate it.

"You will save me, Lester?" cried the girl, wildly clinging to him with
death-cold hands. "Oh, Lester, my love, tell me, what am I to do? He is
very old, quite forty, and I am only eighteen. I abhor him quite as much
as I love you, Lester. Tell me, dear, what am I to do?"

He gathered her close in his arms in an agony that words are too weak to
portray.

"You shall not, you must not, marry the man your father has selected for
you, my darling. You are mine, Faynie, and you must marry me," he cried,
hoarsely. "Heaven intended us for each other, and for no one else. You
shall be mine past the power of any one human to part us ere the
morrow's light dawns, if--if you wish it so."

She clung to him, weeping hysterically, answering:

"Oh, yes, Lester, let it be so. I will marry you, and you will take me
away from this place, where no one, save Claire--not even my
father--loves me."

He strained her to his throbbing heart with broken words, but at that
instant the shriek of an approaching train sounded upon his ears. He
tore himself away from her encircling embrace.

"To do all that I have to do, I must return to the city, quickly arrange
for the marriage and a suitable place to take my bride. I will return by
ten o'clock. Be at this gate, my darling, with whatever change of
clothing you wish to take with you. I will bring a carriage. The way by
carriage road from the city is less than seven miles, you know. We will
drive to the minister's in the village below. A few words and I shall
have the right to protect you through life, and oh! my darling, my idol,
my trusting little love, may God deal by me as I deal with you!"

Those were the last words Faynie heard, for in the next instant her
lover had torn himself free from her clinging arms and was dashing like
one mad through the drifts toward the railroad station again. Then, with
a strange, unaccountable presentiment of coming evil, Faynie Fairfax
turned and stole up the serpentine path into the house again.

In just an hour's time Lester Armstrong was hurrying along Broadway
again, making all haste toward his lodgings. Suddenly some one tapped
him on the shoulder, and a voice which he instantly recognised as his
cousin's said, laughingly:

"Both bent in the same direction, it seems. Well, we'll travel along
together to your lodging house, Lester."

But alas! Who can see the strange workings of destiny? In that instant
Lester Armstrong slipped on the icy pavement, and Kendale, bending
quickly over him, exclaimed:

"He has broken his neck! He is dying. He won't last five minutes!"

CHAPTER III.

A TERRIBLE PLOT AGAINST A HELPLESS YOUNG GIRL.

A gasp of horror broke from Kendale's lips. Yes, Lester Armstrong was
fatally injured, he could see that.

Glancing up, he saw that they were within a few doors of his lodgings.
Picking him up by main force, he carried him thither at once and placed
him upon his couch. He had expected to see him breathe his last, but to
his great surprise Lester Armstrong opened his eyes and whispered his
name.

"It is all over with me, Clinton," he whispered. "I--I realize that my
fall was fatal, and that it is a question of moments with me, but I--I
cannot die until I have told you all, and you have promised to go
quickly to my darling and tell her my sad fate."

"Any commission you have you may be sure I will execute for you,"
replied Kendale, and even while he spoke he was wondering whereabouts in
that room Lester Armstrong kept his cash.

Between gasps, his voice growing fainter and fainter with each word,
poor Lester told his story, of his love, his wooing and the climax which
was to have taken place in two hours' time.

Kendale listened with bated breath. To say that he was amazed,
dumfounded, scarcely expressed his intense surprise.

Armstrong, his poor plodding cousin, to strike such luck as to be about
to marry an heiress! It seemed like a veritable fairy story. Who would
have thought the poor cashier would have known enough to play for such
high stakes?

Almost as soon as Lester Armstrong had uttered the last word, he fell
back upon his pillow in a dead faint.

"The end is not far," muttered Kendale. "I suppose it would look better
to send a call for an ambulance and have him sent to the hospital."

He acted upon the thought without a moment's delay, and while the wagon
was _en route_ made a quick search of his unfortunate cousin's
apartment, a sardonic smile of triumph lighting his face. And as he
transferred the money to his pocket, a sudden thought rushed through his
brain--a thought that for the instant almost took his breath away.

Like one fascinated, he looked down at the white face. "I could do it;
yes, I am sure I could do it," he muttered, drawing his breath hard.

At that moment the ambulance wagon rattled up to the door. In another
instant the two attaches entered the room.

"What is the difficulty?" queried the man, and briefly Kendale
explained.

"It seems hardly worth while to take him to the hospital," said one of
the men; "he would hardly last until we reach there. Still, if you
insist--"

"Yes, I insist," he cut in sharply.

"What name is to be entered?" asked the surgeon.

"Clinton Kendale. He is an actor, and my cousin," he responded in a low
even voice.

He watched them while they carried forth the unconscious man.

"My first test will be with the people of this house," he muttered,
shutting his teeth hard.

Thrusting the money still deeper in his pocket, he walked boldly down
the stairs, tapping at the door to the right, which he knew to be the
living room of the family.

"I am going to give up my room," he said.

"Laws a mercy, Mr. Armstrong!" exclaimed the old lady. "What sudden
notice! I am so sorry to lose you!"

He chatted for a few moments, paid what was due her, then turned hastily
and left the place, remarking before he went that he should not need the
few things that he left in his room; that she could keep them if she
liked as remembrances.

Once again he was out on the street, with the cold wind blowing on his
face.

"Nothing ventured, nothing won!" he said, under his breath. "Now for the
heiress and the million of money. By Jove! it's better to be born lucky
than rich. I shall need an accomplice in this affair, and that imp of
Satan, Halloran, is just the one to help me out with my scheme. It's
lucky I have an appointment with him to-night. I shall be sure to catch
him. I think it was a stroke of fate that I wasn't in the cast for the
rest of the week, though I kicked pretty hard against it at the time.
Good-by, footlights and freezing dressing-rooms. I can make a million of
money ere the day dawns."

He hailed a passing cab, jumped into it and was driven across the city.

Halloran, the comedian at the same theatre, was sitting in his room
half asleep over a half-emptied rum bottle. He always resorted to this
course to drown his sorrows when he was laid off.

An hour later the two men were driving with lightning-like rapidity
toward the direction of Beechwood.

"Ten," sounded from the belfry of a far-off church as the horses,
plunging and panting, struggled up the road that led to the Fairfax
mansion.

"Now see that you play your cards right," warned Halloran.

"Trust me for that," replied his companion, removing a cigar from his
white teeth, and blowing forth a cloud of smoke. He was about to draw a
flask from his breast pocket, but Halloran put a restraining hand on his
arm.

"Remember that is your besetting sin," he said. "You have had enough of
that already. It will require a steady nerve to meet the girl and carry
out the deception, for the eyes of love are quick to discern. If she
should for an instant suspect that you are not her lover, Lester
Armstrong, the game is up, and you have lost the high stake you are
playing for."

"You are right," exclaimed the other, "nothing must interfere with the
marriage."

"This must be the place," exclaimed Halloran, in a low voice; "large
gabled house, arched gate, serpentine walk; yes, there is the figure of
a woman in the shadow of the stone post this way. You are actually
trembling. Remember, it's only a young girl you are to face on this
occasion, and a deucedly pretty one, at that. The time that you will be
more apt to be shaky is when you face her father; but I guess you're
equal to it."

A low laugh was his companion's only answer. The next moment Kendale
called to the driver to halt, threw open the door and sprang out into
the main road, hastening toward the little figure that had emerged out
of the shadow.

"Oh, Lester, you have been so long," cried the girl, springing into his
arms with a little sobbing cry. "I have been waiting here almost half an
hour."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10