Fighting the Air. A novel

Front matter

VOL. I. & jj_.obtl. BY FLORENCE MARRYATv AUTHOR OF 'LOA-E'S CONFLICT,' ' VERONrQ.- E,' ETC. ETC. ' Give me something to meet and to fight ; I faint with fighting these things of air.' IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: TINSLEY BROTHERS, 8, CATHERINE ST., STRAND. 1875. [All Rights reserved.] JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS. FROM FLORENCE MARRYAT T'i %\t J abg #Iik Ctahraess IN MEMORY OF AN IRISH WELCOME. CONTENTS OF VOL. I. XTHAP. PAGE I. LATJBENCE FANE SEEKS HtS EOBTTJNE 1 H. AN OLD FRIEND TTJENS Up . . . . 15 III. LADY FLTTTEES' ' AT HOME ' 27 IT. MAPLE FAEM . . . . . . 43 V. MAEGAEITA AND HEE GODCHILDREN 54 VI. DAISY DISAPPOINTS THEM . . . . 70 VII. LAUBENC'E FANE ALTERS HIS MIND . . SI VIII. 'TWIN CHEEEIES ON ONE STALK.' .. 95 IX. GEOBGE WEST MAKES A MISTAKE . . 100 X. DAISY CEIES FOE NOTHING . . 121 XI.

DAISY'S ' TEEMENDOTJS SECRET ' . . 132 XII. JACK BEEVES' OPINION . . . . 145 XIII. THE HOUSE AT NOTTING-HILL . . 155 XIV. ' WOOED AND MAEEIED AND a'.' . . CONTENTS. CHIP. PAGT! XV. THE FATE OF THE NEW BOOK . . 182 XVI. LATJBENCE FANE IS ETJINED . . 191 XVII. THE CHEISTMAS AFTEE . . . . 206 XVIII. ' HOME AGAIN ' . . . . . . 222 XIX. DAISY THINKS IT LOOKS LIKE IT . . 230 XX. GOOD-BYE TO ENGLAND . . . . 245 XXI. DAISY BECOMES PEOPHETIC . . . . FIGHTING THE AIE.

Chapter I. Laurence Fane Seeks His Fortune

LAURENCE FANE, of middle-class birth, and the only child of an only child, grew up to manhood Avith (happily for himself) but few relations to trouble him. Orphaned at an age when his mind was too little formed to feel the loss he had sustained, he was confided to the care of his bachelor godfather Laurence, a rich merchant of Liverpool, who fully intended his godson to suc ceed him in his business. But the children of the present day are apt to have opinions of their own ; and the more young Fane saw of the counting house the less he liked it. The strict confinement, VOL. I. the dull routine, the monotonous duties, sickened him. He had already felt within himself that mysterious, irrepressible desire to go forth and do something above the level of the ordinary world : vague dreams of rendering famous the unstained though humble name his father had bequeathed him, had made him restless, and at last the feeling was no longer to be restrained.

He confided his wishes to his godfather. Old Laurence's fury Avas unbounded. ' You presume to think for yourself,' he ex claimed, ' to find fault Avith the position in which I have placed you. You — a mere lad of two-and twenty, without name, money, or relations ! — ' ' It is because I have no relations that I must think for myself,' returned the young man. ' It is because I have neither name nor money that I wish to make them, sir ! I hate the counting house. Copying letters and book-keeping weary me to death. I would rather break stones on the high road.' ' And this is what you called gratitude,' re joined his godfather. ' Do you know that I have kept you beneath my care ever since you Avere seven years old ; and that the few hundreds your poor muddle-headed father left behind him have almost all been expended on your education.' ' I know that I have much to thank you for sir, and I am not ungrateful.

But you have mistaken my A'ocation in putting me in business. I shall never make a good merchant. Let me have what money may remain to me, and for the future I will keep myself.' ' And in Avhat way — what way ? ' demanded Mr Laurence, trembling with anger. Young Fane reddened. ' By my pen, sir,' at last he said boldly. ' I know I have it in me, and whatever happens I must be an author.' The merchant burst into a derisive peal of laughter. ' An author ! poor fool. And supposing you were an author, what then ? You would join a set of beggarly wretches who never know from one day to another how they will buy bread to feed themselves with on the next, and end by rattling off to their graves at the expense of the parish. Why, there's not an author on the list that would not change places to-morrow with the lad that sweeps out my offices, or that wouldn't be an ass if he didn't,' he added in a more uncer tain tone. ' Be that as it may,' returned young Fane, ' my mind is made up on the subject, for I have been thinking over it the last two years.

And here, at least, is a proof,' he continued modestly, as he dreAv a gaily covered magazine from his coat pocket, ' that I am not mistaken in supposing I have some taste for writing. The editor of this periodical has not only accepted and printed my article on the late change of government, but sends a letter with it desiring to hear from me > again. His godfather's face grew purple. ' And do you mean to tell me that you have dared — yes, dared — to commence writing and publishing without referring to me ? That you have stolen the time due to the transaction of my business for your idiotic scribbling ? You're a thief, sir ; no better than a common thief.' ' Mr Laurence, I will not stand such an epithet, even from you.' 'I cast you off; I will have nothing more to do with you. For fifteen years you have been brought up under this roof, and if you had be haved yourself properly you might have succeeded me in my business, and risen to wealth and re nown.

But I'll have no author's name confounded with mine. I'll haA-e no romantic fools letting my good property go to rack and ruin, nor a pack of nonsense go forth to the world from my offices ; you shall date it from the workhouse first.' ' Very good, sir. At least, we are agreed on that point. I don't know how much of my money may be left. I think you told me the other day it was only a few hundreds, but Avhatever it is I will take it and relieve you of my presence.' ' The sooner the better ; the sooner the better,' replied the old man testily. 'Your father left two thousand pounds behind him ; you don't suppose he saA'ed that out of his beggarly parson's income, do you ? It was part of the money he received with your mother.' ' So I have heard you say before.' ' From seven to twelve you cost me fifty pounds a year, from twelve to eighteen a bundred ; and then I reckon your board and lodging at another fifty.

You didn't suppose I was going to keep you all these years for nothing,' continued the merchant, looking up halfmaliciously and half-shamefacedly into the young man's countenance. ' I have never thought about it, but I am glad you have, since it lays me under less obligation to you. By your reckoning, sir, there still remains upwards of nine hundred pounds due to me. With that in hand I feel rich, and am sure that I shall make my way in the world.' ' And who is to pay me for all the trouble and anxiety I have incurred in your bringing up ? ' demanded Mr Laurence. ' I ha\re worked for you four years without pay,' replied young Fane, indignantly. 'But without a premium.' ' If you consider a premium is still due to you, let me know hoAV much it is, in Heaven's name, and I will pay it and go.' ' Well, a premium in the first instance would have been too high for you to pay — and as you say, you have given me four years.

Yet a hundred or two would not be much of a remuneration. I shall have to pay some one to do your work, remember.' ' Give me eight hundred and let us be quits,' cried the young man, disgusted beyond measure at the parsimony of his godfather, and on these terms they parted, the old man vowing that what ever happened he would never see or speak with his godson again. Laurence Fane went, of course, to London. It was thence he had first received encouragement — it was there he hoped to make his name. With eight hundred pounds in his pocket, and a strong belief in the future, he felt himself to be inde pendent, and he was not entirely mistaken. He had brains of a very high order — much poetic genius, and a vivid imagination ; and, had his education tended to correct the errors of his nature, might have possessed a mind strong enough for anything.

But the sensitive, highly organised child had been left, since the death of his parents, entirely to the charge of servants and masters ; he had been scared and scolded in the nursery ; bullied and broAvbeaten in the schoolroom, and all because those placed about him were too ignorant to distinguish between wilful inattention and disobedience, and the wanderings of a wondering newly-opened soul. In the counting-house it was little better. The senior clerks blamed him for carelessness, whilst he was striving with all his might to bring back his thoughts from the realms of fancy, whither, despite his best efforts, they would wander, and pin them down to the business he had in hand. His godfather (as has been shown) had no more sympathy with him than the rest ; and Laurence Fane was well parted from the surroundings of his earliest years.

In London he found friends. The editor who had accepted his first production was so struck by the young man's manners, bearing, and ap pearance, that he gave him several valuable intro ductions, and before Laurence Fane had been in town a twelvemonth he had a large circle of acquaintances and a fair literary connection. Of course he began low. Rome was not built in a day ; and there is no more up-hill path than that which leads to the temple of Fame. Popularity maybe, and often is. won in an hour, and for no particular merit of the winner's ; but Laurence Fane's talent was not of this kind. His was a deep, steady-going, dependable brain. He never wrote trash ; but his articles lacked the glittering smartness which magazine writers aim at in the present age. His papers would live, and probably be referred to, ages after he had turned to dust, but editors could not afford to pay for them as liberally as they could for sensational and improbable fiction.

This was injustice ; but it was fact. The public seemed to think that if an essay were good enough to outlive them, it might bide their time. But the ephemeral matter that was born in the morning and died at night would not brook delay ; — like some wine that requires to be drunk as soon as opened or its flavour is lost. Laurence Fane soon found out the truth of this. Yet he was both hopeful and happy. The ready money he had brought to London enabled him to make a permanent home for himself in two small rooms in the west centre of the town, where he devoted his time to the cultivation of his art. Even for the sake of gain he would not have assimilated himself with those triflers in the field of literature who did not hesitate to sacrifice art, grammar, and even decency to the false taste of the day.

He looked upon his work as sacred — on his talents as a responsible gift entrusted to him from above — on his profession as something with which he must either rise or fall, and by which he had determined to rise. He entered the world of letters under no false pretensions, but took his own name boldly, and laboured for it faithfully ; and sooner or later such work must tell. Of course he had enemies — success is a sufficient guarantee for that — but as he had no near relations to die of envy at his good luck, they were less secret and less bitter than they might have been. At all events he knew where to find and how to meet them, and Avas not stabbed in the dark at each fresh turn he made. And he had been living thus upon his own resources for eight years when we first met him. It was a broiling day in July, towards the close of the London season, when even the most hard ened and inveterate of diners-out and dancers began to confess they had almost had enough of it.

The street in which Laurence Fane's apartments were situated was as hot as an OA-en, and the effect of discoA-ering his whereabouts seemed almost too much for the handsome fresh-coloured young man Avho knocked so perseveringly from door to door, inquiring for him by name. At last he was suc cessful. The landlady, at number forty-five, was induced to acknowledge that a ' party by the name of Fane occupied her first floor, but she didn't think the gentleman could see him, as he was still in bed.' ' Still in bed ? ' cried the stranger, who was evidently from the country, as he consulted his old-fashioned silver watch. ' Why, it's past twelve o'clock — he can't be in bed at this hour. Is he ill?' ' 0 dear ! no, sir, not as I knows of ; but, young gentlemen, they will be late during the season, you see.

Not but what Mr Fane is most regular, and the least trouble of any party I ever lodged. But if you'll step up, sir, if you want particular to see him, I'll ask if he's awake/ 'I do wish to speak to him most particularly,' said the young man, as he complied with her re quest, 'for I am returning to the country to morrow morning. Perhaps I could wait for a little till he does wake.' ' 0, I'll rouse him, sir, never fear. He'll be sure to get up when he knows you've come. Shall I take your card ? ' The stranger reddened, and smiled. ' AVell, I haven't got such a thing about me, but if you'll say Mr West would like to see him, I dare say he'll remember Avho I am.' By this time he had been ushered into the sitting-room, which was divided from the bed chamber by folding doors. It was a comfortable looking apartment, but furnished more like the study of some antiquated philosopher, than a young bachelor's sanctum.

It contained but seAv decorations, and those of the gravest order : books and papers being its chief ornaments. Mr AVest' s attention, however, was immediately arrested by a bronze cast of the Ariadne, which he took to be the model of some black woman or other, and stood gazing at in utter astonishment, whilst the landlady made her presence known by thumping with horny knuckles on the panels of the folding doors. ' Mr Fane— Mr Fane— Sir ! ' ' Holloa ! Yes ! All right,' in a drowsy tone from within. ' There's a gentleman wants to see you, sir.' ' I can't see any one.' ' But he's going into the country to-morrow, sir, and he must speak to you first.' ' What's his name ? ' ' Mr West, sir ! ' ' Don't know him. Tell him to go to the devil.' 'Not just yet, my dear fellow, please,' inter posed the stranger in a loud genial voice. ' By Jove !

Are you there ? Why didn't the woman say so ? ' ' I am here. May I come in ? ' ' If you like, though I've not the least idea who you are.' Mr West did not wait for a second invitation, but, opening the folding doors, at once entered the bed-chamber. As his eye fell on the young man, Avho was sitting up in bed and passing his hands through his dishevelled hair, he sprang forward, exclaiming cordially, ' My dear Laurence, I should have known you anywhere.' 'And I don't believe I ever set eyes on you before,' returned the other with a look of blank amazement. ' Can I be so altered ? AVhy, don't you re member George West, and the old Maple Farm, where you spent your summer holidays once, whilst we were having our " laming " thrashed into us by old Wilkins ? ' ' George West ! Is it possible ? Why, of course I do, though it must be twenty years ago. Give us your fist, old fellow ! George West ! No wonder I had forgotten. And where on earth have you sprung from ? '

Chapter II. An Old Friend Turns Up

GEORGE WEST laughed heartily. ' Do you think I have come from the bowels of the earth ? You have forgotten your geography as well as your friends, Laurence ? Maple Farm is no further away than Somersetshire, and the real business that brought me up to town this week, was the cattle show. But I told father if it was possible I'd find you out before I went home again.' ' But how did you come to think of me after so many years ? ' said Laurence Fane. ' Many years — ah, 'tis many years, isn't it, since we cut up such a shine in the orchard, and stripped all father's best trees of their fruit — do you remember that ? ' ' Perfectly, and how he thrashed you for both of us, because I was a visitor.' ' Ugh,' responded George West, with a comical face. ' I remember that thrashing to this day. Well, after that you know we lost sight of each other.

You stayed with old Wilkins and I went up to Yorkshire, where I wouldn't learn anything, and showed such a sorry kind of a disposition that father shipped me off to my uncle in Australia, and I haven't been home above a couple of years 9 or so. ' Didn't you like it ? ' ' Not over much. It was altogether different from what I expected ; and then my poor mother died, and I got a bit homesick and tired of rambling, and father thought I had better come back and stick to the old place. I'm his only son, you know.' ' But what made you think of me, George ? ' ' Well, I've often mentioned you since I came back. We thought you Avere still with Mr Laurence, at Liverpool ; and several times I talked of going over there and looking you up, but something prevented. And the other day a friend of mine, to whom I was speaking of you, told me that you had left your godfather and set up as a writer in London, and if I went to the people who sold your books they'd tell me where you lived, so when I came up to the show last Aveek I said to father, if you were to be found I'd find you.' ' It is very kind of you,' rejoined Fane. ' I would not have missed seeing you for worlds.

I have not too many friends worthy of the name in this Babylon, as you may suppose.' ' But what made you quarrel with your godfather, Laurence ? Did he behave badly to you ? ' ' Scarcely that, but he did not understand my disposition, and the life I lived there was most un congenial to me. Besides, I have an independent spirit, West, and the idea of receiving benefits from a man on whom I had no claim, galled me. I felt I coidd support myself, and the result has proved that I was right.' ' And you live by writing books ? ' said George AVest, with an air of incredulity. ' It is wonder ful to me. I cannot even read them. How do 3Tou do it now ? Do tell me.' i Laurence Fane laughed. How often had that VOL. I. question been put to him before by ignoramuses or noodles ? 'I like to see you laugh,' exclaimed his friend, ' it makes you look so like your old self.

There is one thing about you, Laurence, that will never change, and that is, your eyes.' They formed a great contrast as they sat to gether, those young men who were almost of an age. George AVest was by far the handsomer of the two. He possessed a magnificent build, with large well-formed features, a florid complexion, bold blue eyes, and a profusion of brown hair and beard. Laurence Fane, on the other hand, though tall, was slightly built. His features were re markable neither for beauty nor ugliness ; but he had a pair of honest, serious, earnest eyes that Avere apt to haunt even the casual observer long after their possessor had passed from his memory. It was to the unusual expression in these eyes that George AVest alluded when he said there was one thing about him that would never alter. ' But come ! ' cried Fane cheerily, ' it strikes me that if I am to have any breakfast this morning I had better be thinking of a bath and a change of raiment.' ' AVhat made you so late to-day ? ' demanded AVest, as, half-an-hour afterwards, they sat before the breakfast tray together. 'When I arrived here first and the landlady said you were still in bed, I thought she must be joking.' ' My dear fellow, it's nothing for the season.

I am never in bed until three or four in the morning (worse luck), so how can I be expected to rise before noon ? Indeed, I am considered rather a wonder about here for keeping such regular hours as I do. I work through it all, anyway.' ' But why need you go out so much ? ' ' Can't be avoided. If once you get in the stream of fashionable folly you must go with it, or you will find the current of popular favour turn against you. Besides, most of my engage ments are with people who can assist me, or to whom I owe benefits, or whom I dare not offend for my life.' ' AVell, you don't look as if it agreed with you, Laurence ; your face is as white as a sheet, and you seem to have precious little muscle. Look here, old fellow, you must come back with me to Maple Farm to-morrow, and take a few weeks' rest.' ' Impossible !

I couldn't leave London for the 'next three weeks. I am engaged out every night.' ' Hang the engagements. I'm sure you're not the felloAv to care about dancing, and that ort of thing.' ' Never danced in my life ! No, it's not that, but there are reasons ; in fact, my dear AVest, it's out of the question.' ' Ah ! I've found you out,' cried the young farmer, bluntly. ' There's a woman in the case. I know there is ; confess it, Laurence.' ' I'm quite sure there is not ! ' ' Nothing but the desire to please a woman, or to enjoy her company, could keep a man in this broiling city when he could be out amongst the trees and bushes.' ' That may be your experience, but it is not 9 mine. ' There is not a fair lady in all this great Babylon (as you call it) whose charms are weigh ing against those of Maple Farm ? ' ' There is not — and never has been ! ' ' Oh, come, Fane !

I can't quite swallow that. You may not be in love with any one particular at the present moment, but you can't tell me that you don't know what it is.' ' I assure you I do not.' ' Thirty years old, and never been in love yet ! ' ' It is a fact.' ' Lord bless you, man ! I couldn't believe it from any lips but your own. Never been in love ! AVhy I've been over head and ears regularly every twelvemonth since I was able to know what the word meant.' 'You haven't associated with the kind of women I am thrown in with perhaps, or you would tell a different story. I should just like to show you a few specimens. Fall in love with them indeed ! I'd as soon think of becoming enamoured of my landlady.' ' But there must be plenty of nice pretty girls in London.' ' They don't come my way then ! You forget I am literary.

No ! I've seen a good deal of life, and I've mixed in various phases of society, but I've neA'er seen a woman yet Avho came up to my standard of what a woman should be. And perhaps it's as well I haven't, for if I were to meet such an one she would be very unlikely to take a fancy to me. I shall continue to live as I have lived — alone.' ' A confirmed old bachelor, eh ? ' ' I don't say that, but I will neA'er marry where I am not loved, and love has gone out of fashion. All the girls think of now are money and position, and I have neither. Besides, I am not at all sure that the goddess of Love herself wouldn't upset va.y literary arrangements to that degree that I should Avish her gone in a month. A wife and family must seriously interfere with study.' ' You are fond of it ? ' ' Devotedly ; I care for nothing else, I would give it up for nothing — even a wife,' he added with the sly, arch look that was a peculiar charm of his. 'I am ridiculed by some of my compeers because I will not consent to relinquish what appears to me to be a duty, that is, to keep up my profession, as far as my humble efforts avail, to its highest standard, instead of simply making as much money out of it as I can.

But I have tried and failed — not in the work, but in satisfying my conscience. My art is my religion, and I woidd rather starve in her defence than live on the wages of her prostitution.' ' A fine theory, my dear fellow ; but I've roughed it so long in this world that you must pardon me for saying it won't hold water.' ' Then I shall die of thirst. Have you read my last article in the Edinburgh Review ?' George West blushed and looked conscious. ' Look here ! my dear Laurence, you mustn't be angry with me, but I never read anything. 'Pon my word I don't, except it is the Somerset shire Chronicle, just to keep father up with the markets. We haven't time for it down at Bush thorne.' ' Don't say a word about it, West. It was my egotism prompted the question — but the article I alluded to dealt with the subject we were dis- 9 cussing. ' I take a great interest in everything of that kind,' continued AVest with a praiseworthy but awkward attempt to soothe his friend's wounded A'anity, ' only you see it's the want of time.

You have no idea how much we have to do in the country. The days are not half long enough.' ' I should have imagined it was just the other Avay,' replied our hero, smiling. ' I always won der Avhat people Avho have none of these abomin able parties to go to can do with their evenings.' ' Come and see,' interposed George AArest, quickly. ' I have not given up the hope of per suading you to do that yet, Laurence. Now, be reasonable, the season, as they tell me, is all but over, and you want change of air. AVhy shouldn't you return with me to Maple Farm ? My father expects you, for I Avrote him word yesterday that I had procured your address, and should certainly persuade you to visit us. And though my sister is away for the present, my cousin is at home, and Avill do all she can to make you comfort able.' ' I don't remember your sister,' mused Laur ence Fane. ' She is but seventeen.

She was not born when you stayed at Maple Farm. But I wait for your answer.' ' I will strike a bargain Avith you,' said the other. ' If you wdl accompany me this evening to Lady Flitters' " At Home," I will go back with you to Maple Farm to-morrow. After all, my remaining engagements are such as I would gladly be freed from.' 'To Lady Flitters' "At Home." Who on earth is Lady Flitters ? ' ' Your question would condemn you at once in society, my dear fellow. Lady Flitters is one of our most fashionable authoresses, but I avo'i'' give you a list of her works, because she issues one every three months.' ' But I have no evening clothes with me — I mean I don't possess any,' said George West, honestly correcting himself. ' You know we have no use for them down at Bushthorne.' 'That's of no consequence.