“And take him in as a partner?” said Augusta. “Papa has got that spirit that he couldn’t do it.”
“It doesn’t follow that your papa should take Mr. Rowan in as a partner because he gives up the lawsuit. He might pay him the money that he asks.”
“But has he got it?” demanded Martha.
“Besides, it’s such a deal; isn’t it?” said Augusta.
“Or,” continued Mrs. Tappitt, “your papa might accept his offer by retiring with a very handsome income for us all. Your papa has been in business for a great many years, working like a galley-slave. Nobody knows how he has toiled and moiled, except me. It isn’t any joke being a brewer—and having it all on himself as he has had. And if young Rowan ever begins it, I wish him joy of it.”
“But would he pay the income?” Martha asked.
“Mr. Honyman says that he would; and if he did not, there would be the property to fall back upon.”
“And where should we live?” said Cherry.
“That can’t be settled quite yet. It must be somewhere near, so that your papa might keep an eye on the concern, and know that it was going all right. Perhaps Torquay would be the best place.”
“Torquay would be delicious,” said Cherry.
“And would that man come and live at the brewery?” said Augusta.
“Of course he would, if he pleased,” said Martha.
“And bring Rachel Ray with him as his wife?” said Cherry.
“He’ll never do that,” said Mrs. Tappitt with energy.
“Never; never!” said Augusta—with more energy.
In this way the large and influential feminine majority of the family at the brewery was brought round to look at one of the propositions made by Rowan without disfavour. It was not that that young man’s sins had been in any degree forgiven, but that they all perceived, with female prudence, that it would be injudicious to ruin themselves because they hated him. And then to what lady living in a dingy brick house, close adjoining to the smoke and smells of beer-brewing, would not the idea of a marine villa at Torquay be delicious? None of the family, not even Mrs. Tappitt herself, had ever known what annual profit had accrued to Mr. T. as the reward of his life’s work. But they had been required to live in a modest, homely way—as though that annual profit had not been great. Under the altered circumstances, as now proposed, they would all know that papa had a thousand a year to spend;—and what might not be done at Torquay with a thousand a year? Before Mr. Tappitt came home for the evening—which he did not do on that day till past ten, having been detained, by business, in the bar of the Dragon Inn—they had all resolved that the combined ease and dignity of a thousand a year should be accepted.
Mr. Tappitt was still perturbed in spirit when he took himself to the marital chamber. What had been the nature of the business which had detained him at the bar of the Dragon he did not condescend to say, but it seemed to have been of a nature not well adapted to smooth his temper. Mrs. Tappitt perhaps guessed what that business had been; but if so, she said nothing of the subject in direct words. One little remark she did make, which may perhaps have had allusion to that business.
“Bah!” she exclaimed, as Mr. Tappitt came near her; “if you must smoke at all, I wish to goodness you’d smoke good tobacco.”
“So I do,” said Tappitt, turning round at her sharply. “It’s best mixed bird’s-eye. As if you could know the difference, indeed!”
“So I do, T. I know the difference very well. It’s all poison to me—absolute poison—as you’re very well aware. But that filthy strong stuff that you’ve taken to lately, is enough to kill anybody.”
“I haven’t taken to any filthy strong stuff,” said Tappitt.
This was the beginning of that evening’s conversation. I am inclined to think that Mrs. Tappitt had made her calculations, and had concluded that she could put forth her coming observations more efficaciously by having her husband in bad humour, than she could, if she succeeded in coaxing him into a good humour. I think that she made the above remarks, not solely because the fumes of tobacco were distasteful to her, but because the possession of a grievance might give her an opportunity of commencing the forthcoming debate with some better amount of justified indignation on her own side. It was not often that she begrudged Tappitt his pipe, or made ill-natured remarks about his gin and water.
“T.,” she said, when Tappitt had torn off his coat in some anger at the allusion to “filthy strong stuff,”—“T., what do you mean to do about this lawsuit?”
“I don’t mean to do anything.”
“That’s nonsense, T.; you must do something, you know. What does Mr. Honyman say?”
“Honyman is a fool.”
“Nonsense, T.; he’s not a fool. Or if he is, why have you let him manage your affairs so long? But I don’t believe he’s a fool at all. I believe he knows what he’s talking about, quite as well as some others, who pretend to be so clever. As to your going to Sharpit and Longfite, it’s quite out of the question.”
“Who’s talking of going to them?”
“You did talk of it.”
“No I didn’t. You heard me mention their names; but I never said that I should go to them at all. I almost wish I had.”
“Now, T., don’t talk in that way, or you’ll really put me beside myself.”
“I don’t want to talk of it at all. I only want to go to bed.”
“But we must talk of it, T. It’s all very well for you to say you don’t want to talk of things; but what is to become of me and my girls if everything goes astray at the brewery? You can’t expect me
