The Chancellor’s Ward

I.

One really ought to write, She married him, not He married her.

“The simple question is, my dear Tommy, are you going to take me or leave me?”

This was in Hyde Park. They were seated on one of those seats which are in front of the police-station. Neither of them ought to have been there, which, of course, was one of the reasons why they were. Mr. Stanham turned his eye-glass full upon Miss Cullen. Perhaps he thought that that was sufficient answer. Anyhow, she went on:

“In other words, are you going to marry me, or are you not?”

“I am; gad, I should rather hope so. I say, don’t be too hard upon a fellow, Frank.”

“Call me Fanny, don’t call me Frank! Don’t you know that my name is Frances, sir, which has absolutely no connection with Frank?”

“That’s all right, old man.”

That is what Mr. Stanham murmured. Extraordinary how some men do talk to women nowadays, even to the women whom they love!

“Then, if you do intend to marry me, Mr. Thomas Stanham, you’ll be so good as to do so on Thursday morning next, before noon.”

Mr. Stanham began to scratch the gravel with his stick.

“And get seven years’ penal.”

“Stuff! They don’t give you penal servitude for marrying wards in Chancery. It’s contempt of court.”

“Yes, I know. Have to wash out your cell at Holloway, and stand at ‘attention,’ with your hat off, while the governor cuts you dead.”

“Then perhaps you will be so good as to tell me what it is that you do propose to do. Do you imagine that you are the sort of person the Court of Chancery will ever allow to marry me?”

“Haven’t so much imagination, my dear Frank.”

“Call me Fanny, not Frank! You are not to call me Frank. Then do you suppose that I’m the sort of girl who’s willing to wait, and not to marry her sweetheart, until she’s twenty-five? because if you suppose anything of that kind we must be perfect strangers.”

“It’s very good of you, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I daresay. You don’t love me that much.” Miss Cullen flicked her parasol. “Because a horrid old uncle chooses to say that I’m to be a ward of the court until I’m five-and-twenty am I to be a spinster all my life? If you love me the least little bit you’d invite the Lord Chancellor to come and see you marry me in the middle of Hyde Park, even if, directly the deed was done, he had your head cut off on Tower Hill.”

“Thanks, dear boy.”

Of course he married her. On the morning of the specified Thursday she went out for a stroll, and he went out for a stroll, and they met at the registrar’s, and, as she put it, the deed was done.

And, when the deed was done, she went home to lunch, and he went, not home to lunch, but to a private place, where he could swear. Now here they were, both of them, at Tuttenham. They encountered each other on the doorstep. She said, “How do you do, Mr. Stanham?” And he said, “How do you do, Miss Cullen?”

“Nice way in which to have to greet your own wife,” he told himself, having reached the comparatively safe solitude of his own apartment.

Then the Duke got him into his own particular smoking-room. The Duke was in an arm-chair. Mr. Stanham stood before the fireplace with his hands in his pockets. The talk wandered from Dan to Beersheba. Then, a good deal à propos des bottes, the Duke dropped what he evidently intended to be taken as a hint.

“If you take my advice, young man, you’ll keep clear of Frances Cullen. She’s here.”

Mr. Stanham winced.

“Is she? Yes, I know. I met her on the steps.”

“Did you!”

The Duke eyed him. He, not improbably, had observed the wince.

“Warnings are issued all along that coast. Steer clear.”

“What do you think they’d do to a man if he were to marry her?” “Do to him! Tommy! I hope you’re not meditating such a crime. She’s not an ordinary ward of the court, any more than she’s an ordinary millionaire.”

“So I suppose.”

“You had a little run with her in town. Everybody had their eyes on you, as you’re aware. And when the Duchess told me she was coming I’d half a mind to write and put you off--fact! This is not a house in which even tacit encouragement can be offered to a dalliance with crime. Not”--the Duke puffed at his pipe--”not that she’s half a bad sort of girl. She’s clever. Very pretty. And she’s got a way about her which plays havoc with a man.”

“Much obliged to you, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

“For saying a good word for my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“Mrs. Thomas Stanham--née Cullen.”

“Tommy! You don’t mean it!”

“You can bet your pile I do, and then safely go one better. I’ve got a copy of the marriage certificate in my pocket, and I rather fancy that she’s got the original document in hers.”

“You--young blackguard!”

“Sort of cousin of yours, ain’t I, Datchet? It’s all in the family, you know, blackguard and all.”

“How did you do it?--And when?--And who knows?”

“Only you and me, and the lady. That’s what’s weighing on my mind. What’s the good of having a wife if she ain’t your wife--or, at any rate, if you daren’t say that she’s your wife, for the life of you?”

The Duke suddenly rose from his seat. He seemed to be in a state of actual agitation.

“Tommy, do you know that the Chancellor is coming here?”

“Who?”

“The Lord Chancellor. The carriage went to meet him an hour ago. I expect him every moment.”

Mr. Stanham looked a trifle blank.

“I didn’t know the ministry was formed.”

“It’s formed, but it’s not announced; Triggs is to be the Chancellor.”

“And what sort of gentleman may Triggs be when he’s at home?”

“Sir Tristram? Well!” The Duke was walking up and down the room. He appeared to be reflecting. “He’s rather a queer card, Triggs is. He’s been a bit of a wildish character in his time--and they do say that his time’s not long gone. He has a temper of his own--a nasty one.” Pausing, the Duke fixedly regarded Mr. Stanham. “I should say that when Triggs learns what you have done he will clap you into gaol, and keep you there, at any rate until Miss Cullen ceases to be a ward of the court.”

Mr. Stanham’s countenance wore a look of dire consternation.

“No! She’s to be a ward until she’s twenty-five, and she’s not yet twenty-two.”

“Then, in that case, I should say that, at the very least, you are in for three good years of prison. My advice to you is----”

The Duke’s advice remained unuttered. Just at that moment the door was opened. A servant ushered in a new-comer.

“Sir Tristram Triggs.”

The Duke, striding forward, held out both his hands. “Sir Tristram! And how long is it to be Sir Tristram?”

The other shrugged his shoulders.

“For a few hours, more or less, I suppose. I don’t know much about this kind of thing. I daresay I shall know more about it when I’ve done.”

“When you’ve done? May that not be for many and many a year! Allow me to introduce to you a friend of mine--Mr. Thomas Stanham.”

Sir Tristram turned. For the first time he appeared to notice Mr. Stanham.

Physically the new great man was short, and inclined to ponderosity. The entire absence of hair upon his face served to accentuate its peculiar characteristics. It was a square face--and, in particular, the jaw was square. His big eyes looked from under a penthouse formed by his overhanging brows. As one looked at him one instinctively felt that this was a man whom it would be safer to have as a friend than an enemy. As he turned a faint smile seemed to be struggling into existence about the corners of his great mouth. But directly his glance alighted upon Mr. Stanham that smile vanished into the ewigkeit. He looked at him very much as a bull-terrier might look at a rat. And he said, in a tone of voice which seemed fraught with curious significance--

“I have had the pleasure of meeting this gentleman before.”

On his part Mr. Stanham regarded Sir Tristram with a supercilious air which, perhaps unconsciously to himself, was only too frequently seen upon his face--as if Sir Tristram were an inferior thing.

“I’d no idea that your name was Triggs.”

The Duke, standing behind Sir Tristram, clenched his fists, and glared at Mr. Stanham as if he would like to have knocked him down.

It happened, shortly afterwards, that Miss Cullen left her bedroom to come downstairs. As she went along the corridor she met a gentleman who was being conducted by a servant, probably to his own apartment. The gentleman was Sir Tristram Triggs. When Sir Tristram saw Miss Cullen, and Miss Cullen saw Sir Tristram, they both of them stopped short. The great man’s complexion was, normally, of a ruddy hue. At sight of the lady he turned the colour of a beetroot, boiled. She drew herself up to the full capacity of her inches. And she uttered a single monosyllable.