"Papa, you are an old dear," said Milly with enthusiasm. Perhaps he did not like the familiarity of the address, or the rush she made at him to give him a kiss. At least, he put her aside somewhat hastily.
"There, there," he said, "that will do. I have got a great many things to look after. Have my things packed, my dear, and send them over to Lime Street Station to meet me. You can put in some light clothes, in case the weather should change. One never knows what turn it may take at this time of the year."
It was April, and the weather had been gloomy; it was quite likely it might change, as he said, though it was not so easy to tell what he could want with his grey suit in town. This, however, the ladies thought nothing of at the moment, being full of young Fareham and his sudden declension from the paths of duty. "And he was always so steady and so well behaved," cried Mrs Lycett-Landon. She saw after her husband's packing, which was a habit she had retained from the old days, when they were not nearly so rich. "He was always a model young man; that was why I was so pleased to think of him as a companion for Horace."
"These model young men are just the ones that go wrong," said Milly, with that air of wisdom which is so diverting to older intelligences. Her mother laughed.
"Of course your experience is great," she said; "but I don't think that I am of that opinion. If a boy is steady till he is five-and-twenty, he is not very likely to break out after. Perhaps your father's prejudice in favour of business habits – "
"Mamma! It was you who said a young man seldom stopped there."
"Was it? Well, perhaps it was," said Mrs Lycett-Landon, with a little confusion. "I spoke without thought. One should not be too hard on young men. They can't all be made in the same mould. Your father was always so exact, never missing the boat once – and he cannot bear people who miss the boat; so, I hope, perhaps it is not so bad as he thinks."
"It would never do," said Milly, still with that air of solemnity, "to have Horace thrown in the way of any one who is not quite good and right."
At this her mother laughed, and said, "I am afraid he must be put out of the world then, Milly. I hope he has principles of his own."
Notwithstanding this sudden levity, Mrs Lycett-Landon fully agreed – later in the day, when the portmanteau had gone to the Lime Street Station, and she and her daughter had followed it and seen papa off by the train – that it was very important Horace should make his beginning in business under a prudent and careful guide; and that if there was any irregularity in young Fareham, it was very good of papa to take so much pains to put it right. Horace, who went home with them, was but partially let into the secret, lest, perhaps, he might be less careful than they were, and let some hint drop in the office as to the object of his father's journey. The ladies questioned him covertly, as ladies have a way of doing. What did the office think of young Mr Fareham in London? Was he liked? Was he thought to be a good man of business? What did Mr Pearce say, who was the head clerk and a great authority?
"I say," said Horace, "why do you ask so many questions about Dick Fareham? Does he want to marry Milly? Well, it looks like it, for you never took such notice of him before."
"To marry me!" said Milly, in a blaze of indignation. "I hope he is not quite so idiotic as that."
"He is not idiotic at all; he is a very nice fellow. You will be very well off if you get any one half as good."
"I think," said the mother, "that papa and I will make all the necessary investigations when it comes to marrying Milly. Now make haste, children, or we shall miss the first boat."
It was an April evening, still light and bright, though the air was shrewish, and the wind had some east in it, blighting the gardens and keeping the earth grey, but doing much less harm to the water, which was all ruffled into edges of white. The ten minutes' crossing was not enough to make these white crests anything but pleasant, and the big ships lay serenely in midstream, owning the force of the spring breeze by a universal strain at their anchors, but otherwise with a fine indifference to all its petty efforts. The little ferry steam-boat coasted along their big sides with much rustle and commotion, churning up the innocent waves. It was quite a considerable little party of friends and neighbours who crossed habitually in this particular boat, for the Lycett-Landons lived a little way up the river – not in bustling Birkenhead. They were all so used to this going and coming, and to constant meetings during this little voyage, that it was like a perpetually recurring water-party – a moment of holiday after the work of the day. The ladies had been shopping, the men had all escaped from their offices; they had the very last piece of news, and carried with them the evening papers, the new 'Punch' – everything that was new. If there was any little cloud upon the family after their parting with papa, it blew completely away in the fresh wind; but there was not, in reality, any cloud upon them, nor any cause for anxiety or trouble. Even the mother had no thought of anything of the kind, no anticipation that was not pleasant. Life had gone so well with her that, except when one of the children was ailing, she had no fear.
Mr Lycett-Landon on this occasion was a long time in London. He did not return till nearly the end of May, and he came back in a very fretful, uncomfortable state of mind. He told his wife that he was more uneasy than ever; he did not blame young Fareham; he did not know whether it was he that was to be blamed; but things were going wrong somehow. "Perhaps it is only that he doesn't know how to keep up discipline," he said, "and that the real fault is with the clerks. I begin to doubt if it's safe to leave a lot of young fellows together. It will be far safer to keep Horace here under my own eye, and with old Fareham, who is exactitude itself. He will do a great deal better. I don't think I shall send him to London."
"Of course, Robert, I should prefer to keep him at home," she said, "but I am afraid, after all that has been said it will disappoint the boy."
"Oh, disappoint the boy! What does it matter about disappointing them at that age? They have plenty of time to work it out. It is at my time of life that disappointment tells."
"That is true, no doubt," said the mother; "but we are used to disappointment, and they are not."
He turned upon her almost savagely. "You! What disappointments have you ever had?" he cried, with such an air of contemptuous impatience as filled her with dismay.
"Oh, Robert!" She looked at him with eyes that filled with tears, "Disappointment is too easy a word," she said.
"You mean the – the children. What a way you women have of raking up the departed at every turn. I don't believe, in my view of the word, you ever had a disappointment in your life. You never desired anything very much and had it snatched from you just when you thought – " He stopped suddenly. "How odd," he said, with a strange laugh, "that I should be discussing these sort of things with you!"
"What sort of things? I can't tell you how much you astonish me, Robert. Did you ever desire anything so very much and I not know?"
Then he turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. "You are so matter of fact. You take everything au pied de la lettre," he said.
This conversation remained in Mrs Lycett-Landon's mind in spite of her efforts to represent to herself that it was only a way of speaking he had fallen into, and could mean nothing. How could it mean anything except business, or the good of the children, or some other perfectly legitimate desire? But yet, in none of these ways had he any disappointment to endure. The children were all well and vigorous, and, thank God, doing as well as heart could desire. Horace was as good a boy as ever was; and business was doing well. There was no failure, so far as she was aware, in any of her husband's hopes. It must be an exaggerated way of speaking. He must have allowed the disorder in the London office to get on his nerves; and he had the pallid, restless look of a man in suspense. He could not keep quiet. He was impatient for his letters, and dissatisfied when he had got them. He was irritable with the children, and even with herself, stopping her when she tried to consult him about anything. "What is it?" or "About those brats again?" he said, peevishly. This was when she wanted his opinion about a governess for little Fanny and Julian.