The Magic Circle
by
The persistent chirping of a sparrow made it almost harder to bear. Lady Brooke finally rose abruptly from the table, her black brows drawn close together, and swept to the window to scare the intruder away.
“I really have not the smallest idea what your objections can be,” she observed, pausing with her back to the room.
“A little exercise of your imagination might be of some assistance to you,” returned her husband dryly, not troubling to raise his eyes from his paper.
He was leaning back in a chair in an attitude of unstudied ease. It was characteristic of Sir Roland Brooke to make himself physically comfortable at least, whatever his mental atmosphere. He seldom raised his voice, and never swore. Yet there was about him a certain amount of force that made itself felt more by his silence than his speech.
His young wife, though she shrugged her shoulders and looked contemptuous, did not venture upon open defiance.
“I am to decline the invitation, then?” she asked presently, without turning.
“Certainly!” Sir Roland again made leisurely reply as he scanned the page before him.
“And give as an excuse that you are too staunch a Tory to approve of such an innovation as the waltz?”
“You may give any excuse that you consider suitable,” he returned with unruffled composure.
“I know of none,” she answered, with a quick vehemence that trembled on the edge of rebellion.
Sir Roland turned very slowly in his chair and regarded the delicate outline of his wife’s figure against the window-frame.
“Then, my dear,” he said very deliberately, “let me recommend you once more to have recourse to your ever romantic imagination!”
She quivered, and clenched her hands, as if goaded beyond endurance. “You do not treat me fairly,” she murmured under her breath.
Sir Roland continued to look at her with the air of a naturalist examining an interesting specimen of his cult. He said nothing till, driven by his scrutiny, she turned and faced him.
“What is your complaint?” he asked then.
She hesitated for an instant. There was doubt–even a hint of fear–upon her beautiful face. Then, with a certain recklessness, she spoke:
“I have been accustomed to freedom of action all my life. I never dreamed, when I married you, that I should be called upon to sacrifice this.”
Her voice quivered. She would not meet his eyes. Sir Roland sat and passively regarded her. His face expressed no more than a detached and waning interest.
“I am sorry,” he said finally, “that the romance of your marriage has ceased to attract you. But I was not aware that its hold upon you was ever very strong.”
Lady Brooke made a quick movement, and broke into a light laugh.
“It certainly did not fall upon very fruitful ground,” she said. “It is scarcely surprising that it did not flourish.”
Sir Roland made no response. The interest had faded entirely from his face. He looked supremely bored.
Lady Brooke moved towards the door.
“It seems to be your pleasure to thwart me at every turn,” she said. “A labourer’s wife has more variety in her existence than I.”
“Infinitely more,” said Sir Roland, returning to his paper. “A labourer’s wife, my dear, has an occasional beating to chasten her spirit, and she is considerably the better for it.”
His wife stood still, very erect and queenly.
“Not only the better, but the happier,” she said very bitterly. “Even a dog would rather be beaten than kicked to one side.”
Sir Roland lowered his paper again with startling suddenness.
“Is that your point of view?” he said. “Then I fear I have been neglecting my duty most outrageously. However, it is an omission easily remedied. Let me hear no more of this masquerade, Lady Brooke! You have my orders, and if you transgress them you will be punished in a fashion scarcely to your liking. Is that clearly understood?”
He looked straight up at her with cold, smiling eyes that yet seemed to convey a steely warning.