# My Lord and Lady

Extracted The Smart Set, June 1902 (pp. 115-117).
MY LORD AND LADY
By Ralph Henry Barbour
WE were seventeen around the table that night at Kenyon Oaks. I am counting the host, Sir Roger—an unusual procedure, since no one, not even his wife, ever does count him in anything.
"Oh, pray don't mind Chuckles," she will protest. "Leave him to his guns; he'd much rather you would, you know."
So Sir Roger is usually left with his guns, a fact that pleases him vastly. Sir Roger collects guns; he has rooms full of them, each in its mahogany case glinting dully along the length of its polished barrel. Tradition says that Sir Roger has never used one in all his fifty years; and I have been assured that he could not bring down a pheasant at two yards. He possesses firearms of every description, preferring, however, the accumulation of rifles and shotguns. He has some costing—but, there! I am afraid to say how much. And, after all, it does not matter, for what I have to tell does not concern him.
I had taken in Lady Cicely Grey, an honor I would gladly have relinquished to another. For the mere fact of being an American, the author of a peculiarly dry work on Borneo and an F.R.G.S., does not necessarily imply conversational ability.
I am sure Lady Cicely Grey, if she remembers my existence, will readily agree to this.
She was, and I trust still is, a wonderfully beautiful woman, tall, slender without being thin, bronze of hair, and possessing that marvelous red-and-white coloring which we in the States call the English complexion. She impressed me at once as being a woman who had got most of what life has to offer, and had found it disappointing. Not that she exhibited symptoms of pessimism; on the contrary, her expression was usually one of unruffled calm. But such is the impression I received, and my impressions are sometimes correct.
I rearranged the silver at my place to my liking, and turned toward her. Had I been at home and unaware of her nationality, I should have asked her whether she thought English Winters more severe than those of Boston. She showed much of that polite hauteur which marks the feminine resident of the Hub. As it was, I spoke of the shooting—which, by the way, had been miserable that day—and she responded with a remark that clearly implied: "Please, if you have nothing to say, leave me to my thoughts, which, I assure you, sir, are far more interesting than yours." It was not a snub, but it sufficed. I turned in desperation to my left-hand neighbor, the canon's wife. She was talking rapidly in a rasping falsetto to a young barrister, who—but I have forgotten just what he had done; it was important, however, and made him a man of prominence. I went back to my soup, and wished that English country houses were steam-heated; I detest shivers around my spine.
Presently I heard Lady Cicely's mellow voice. I roused myself, and looked up quickly to reply. Alas! her head was turned from me, and I saw only a piled-up mass of burnished hair that was like red bronze in the light from the candelabra.
"You came down this afternoon?" she was asking.
"Yes, twenty after two, from Charing Cross."
The man's voice pleased me immensely. Its deep timbre told me at once that he was well over six feet, and had muscles. Being a small-statured collection of nerves myself, I naturally admire height and strength. I craned my head forward to see him, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a long, straight nose, two healthy-colored cheek-bones, a pair of handsome brown eyes and a rather straggling yellow mustache. I liked what I saw. After that, save for one or two perfunctory exchanges of commonplaces with the canon's lady, I played eavesdropper to the conversation on my right.
"And you," he asked, "you have been here all week?"
"Since Tuesday."
"They told me at the house you were away. I thought they said in Wessex."
"I had intended going to the Malters for a fortnight; but, of course, after their bereavement, it was out of the question."
"What is it? You know I only reached London yesterday. Up in the Highlands one doesn't hear things."
"Really? Hughie—he was the second son, you know—died last week, somewhere abroad. It is very sad. Grace is heartbroken; I think he was her favorite."
"Of course," he muttered. "Very sad. I think I remember the lad; thin, dark chap; awfully quiet; looked—er—weak, eh?"
"Yes, that was Hughie; a dear boy. The elder son, Courtney, is in the army."
"I know. Regular beast. I've met him."
"I fear he's not very nice," answered Lady Cicely, softly. "But what can one expect? You know what the father is."
"By Jove! I should rather think so! I heard a new story about him last week from Guernsey of the Fourteenth." The man paused and laughed deeply. Then he coughed, embarrassed. "Fancy you wouldn't care for it, though," he muttered.
"Probably not, if Mr. Guernsey told it," answered Lady Cicely, quietly and a trifle coldly.
"Come, now, I say! Guernsey's not such a bad sort, 'pon my honor; a bit—er—rough, you know."
"Yes."
Lady Cicely gazed calmly about the table. I offered her olives. She said: "Thank you, no." Then she turned her back hair toward me again.
"You had a pleasant stay?"
"Scotland? Yes, so—so. Beastly crowd there; slept in a sort of outbuilding. That reminds me—remember Burdenthorp?"
"Very well."
"Oh!" The man, paused as though in surprise. Then: "Have you seen him lately?"
"Not very."
"Ah!" Another pause. The man's voice sank a little, and was not so pleasant to the ear. "See much of him nowadays?"
"Very little." Lady Cicely's tones were calmly indifferent. She might have been speaking of—of me! The man hemmed, gruffly.
"Well, that's all right, you know. I heard—that is, somebody said——"
"Mr. Guernsey?" Lady Cicely's voice was icy.
"Well—yes, it was Guernsey, but——"
"Then never mind what he said, please; it doesn't matter."
"By Jove! but maybe it does matter!" The man's voice was wrathful.
Lady Cicely sipped her claret. "Not a particle. Mr. Guernsey can have nothing to say about me——"
"And Burdenthorp!"
"—and Mr. Burdenthorp—that can interest me in the least."
"Well—" The man paused and drank deep from his glass. "Then—there's nothing—in it?"
"Whatever it was, nothing. I hardly think it necessary for you to ask. Why should you? It isn't as though you cared."
"Oh, I, say, now! That's not fair!"
Lady Cicely made no answer. There was a long silence. Then: "The children are well?" asked the man, restrainedly.
"Quite. Alfred had some trouble with his throat last month, but it has disappeared now. Mel is staying with her aunt Alice for a few days."
"Hum!" said the man.
"Margey is going into long dresses in the Spring," went on Lady Cicely.
"Fancy! Long dresses!" exclaimed the man. "I say, how old is Margey now?"
"Fifteen in May; but I think she looks older."
"By Jove! Fifteen?" I knew the man was looking at Lady Cicely during the little pause that followed. Lady Cicely was looking at her hostess. "Fancy you having a daughter that old; you—you don't look it, you know!" There was warmth in his tones. The slim hand next to me stirred uneasily.
"Thank you," said Lady Cicely. "Shall you stay here long?" she added.
"Until Wednesday, I fancy. And you?"
"I leave Monday. I have promised next week to Lady Thierwell."
"Couldn't you—I say, I wish you'd stay on here awhile, eh? I don't see much of you lately."
"No, we don't meet very often, do we? But I fear I can't disappoint Lady Thierwell even—" I thought I caught, a trace of irony in her voice—"even for you."
The man muttered something. Then he spoke aloud. "Well, let's have a bit of a talk after dinner, eh? You—er—you don't mind?"
The hostess gave the signal, and there was a deal of rustling from silken skirts. Lady Cicely rose.
"I fear it will be short, then," she answered, smiling very calmly. I didn't like that smile. "We are to dance, you know."
I had jumped to my feet, but the man was before me at the door.
"Damn dancing!" he muttered.
He stood very straight, very handsome, one hand on the open portal, the other tugging vexedly at his yellow mustache. Lady Cicely swept by him, acknowledging the courtesy with a little gracious, smiling inclination of her head.
"I shall look for you," said the man, in lowered tones. Whether she heard him I do not know. He went back to his seat, and scowlingly reached for the decanter. I slid my chair up to that of the prominent barrister who had done something.
"Pardon me," I said, "but who,is m y neighbor there on the right?"
"That?" The barrister stared over his glasses. "Why, that's Lord Colton Grey."
"Ah!" I said. "Any relation to Lady Grey?"
The barrister looked surprised, I thought.
"Well, yes, in a way," he drawled; "he's her husband."
"But—" I exclaimed, after a moment of bewilderment, "but——"
"Yes?" asked the barrister.
"Oh, well, I guess it's none of my business," I said.
"Quite so," the barrister agreed.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1944, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 79 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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