Ah, how easy it was to say that! But not at all the sort of thing to secure Stella’s comfort, or her husband’s either, which, on the whole, was the most important of the two to Sir Charles.
“That’s just what we’ve got to make sure of,” said old Tredgold, chuckling more than ever. There was no such joke to the old man as this which he was now enjoying. And he did not look forbidding or malevolent at all. Though what he said was rather alarming, his face seemed to mean nothing but amiability and content. “Now, look here, Sir Charles, I don’t know what your circumstances are, and they would be no business of mine, but for this that you’ve been telling me; you young fellows are not very often flush o’ money, but you may have got it tied up, and that sort of thing. I don’t give my daughter to any man as can’t count down upon the table shillin’ for shillin’ with me.” This he said very deliberately, with an emphasis on every word; then he made a pause, and, putting his hand in his pocket, produced a large handful of coins, which he proceeded to tell out in lines upon the table before him. Sir Charles watched him in consternation for a moment, and then with a sort of fascination followed his example. By some happy chance he had a quantity of change in his pocket. He began with perfect gravity to count it out on his side, coin after coin, in distinct rows. The room was quite silent, the air only moved by the sound of a cinder falling now and then on the hearth and the clink of the money as the two actors in this strange little drama went on with the greatest seriousness counting out coin after coin.
When they had both finished they looked up and met each other’s eyes. Then Mr. Tredgold threw himself back in his chair, kicking up his cloth-shod feet. “See,” he cried, with a gurgle of laughter in his throat, “that’s the style for me.”
He was pleased to have his fine jest appreciated, and doubly amused by the intense and puzzled gravity of his companion’s face.
“Don’t seem to have as many as you,” Sir Charles said. “Five short, by Jove.”
“Shillin’s don’t matter,” said the old man; “but suppose every shillin’ was five thousand pounds, and where would you be then? eh? perhaps you would go on longer than I could. What do I know of your private affairs? But that’s what the man that gets Stella will have to do—table down his money, cent for cent, five thousand for five thousand, as I do. I know what my little girl costs a year. I won’t have her want for anything, if it’s ever so unreasonable; so, my fine young man, though you’ve got a handle to your name, unless you can show the colour of your money, my daughter is not for you.”
Sir Charles Somers’s eyes had acquired a heavy stare of astonishment and consternation. What he said in his disappointment and horror he did not himself know—only one part of it fully reached the outer air, and that was the unfortunate words, “money of her own.”
“Money of her own!” cried old Tredgold. “Oh, yes, she’s got money of her own—plenty of money of her own—but not to keep a husband upon. No, nor to keep herself either. Her husband’s got to keep her, when she gets one. If I count out to the last penny of my fortune he’s got to count with me. I’ll give her the equal. I’ll not stint a penny upon her; but give my money or her money, it’s all the same thing, to keep up another family, her husband and her children, and the whole race of them—no, Sir Charles Somers,” cried Mr. Tredgold, hastily shuffling his silver into his pocket, “that’s not good enough for me.”
Saying which he jumped up in his cloth shoes and began to walk about the room, humming to himself loudly something which he supposed to be a tune. Sir Charles, for his part, sat for a long time gazing at his money on the table. He did not take it up as Tredgold had done. He only stared at it vacantly, going over it without knowing, line by line. Then he, too, rose slowly.
“Can’t count with you,” he said. “Know I can’t. Chance this—put down what I put down—no more. Got to go to India in that case. Never mind, Stella and I——”