themselves naturally and
comfortably to the conditions of country
life. Beryl, Mrs. Gaspilton, had always looked indul
gently on the
country as a place where people of irreproachable
income and
hospitable instincts
cultivated tennis-lawns and rose-gardens and
Jacobean pleasaunces,
wherein selected gatherings of interested
week-end guests might disport themselves. Mrs. Gaspilton considered
herself as
distinctly an interesting
personality, and from a limited
standpoint she was
doubtless right. She had indolent dark eyes and
a comfortable chin, which belied the
slightlyplaintive inflection
which she threw into her voice at
suitable intervals. She was
tolerably well satisfied with the smaller advantages of life, but
she regretted that Fate had not seen its way to reserve for her some
of the ampler successes for which she felt herself well qualified.
She would have liked to be the centre of a
literary,
slightlypolitical salon, where discerning satellites might have recognised
the
breadth of her
outlook on human affairs and the undoubted
smallness of her feet. As it was, Destiny had chosen for her that
she should be the wife of a
rector, and had now further decreed that
a country
rectory should be the
background to her
existence. She
rapidly made up her mind that her surroundings did not call for
exploration; Noah had predicted the Flood, but no one expected him
to swim about in it. Digging in a wet garden or trudging through
muddy lanes were exertions which she did not propose to undertake.
As long as the garden produced
asparagus and carnations at
pleasingly
frequent intervals Mrs. Gaspilton was content to approve
of its expense and
otherwiseignore its
existence. She would fold
herself up, so to speak, in an
elegant, indolent little world of her
own, enjoying the minor recreations of being
gently rude to the
doctor's wife and continuing the
leisurely production of her one
literary effort, The Forbidden Horsepond, a
translation of Baptiste
Leopoy's L'Abreuvoir interdit. It was a labour which had already
been so long drawn-out that it seemed
probable that Baptiste Lepoy
would drop out of vogue before her
translation of his temporarily
famous novel was finished. However, the
languidprosecution of the
work had invested Mrs. Gaspilton with a certain
literary dignity,
even in Kensingate circles, and would place her on a
pinnacle in St.
Chuddocks, where hardly any one read French, and
assuredly no one
had heard of L'Abreuvoir interdit.
The Rector's wife might be content to turn her back complacently on
the country; it was the Rector's
tragedy that the country turned its
back on him. With the best
intention in the world and the immortal
example of Gilbert White before him, the Rev. Wilfrid found himself
as bored and ill at ease in his new surroundings as Charles II would
have been at a modern Wesleyan Conference. The birds that hopped
across his lawn hopped across it as though it were their lawn, and
not his, and gave him
plainly to understand that in their eyes he
was
infinitely less interesting than a garden worm or the
rectory
cat. The hedgeside and
meadow flowers were
equally uninspiring; the
lesser celandine seemed particularly
unworthy of the attention that
English poets had bestowed on it, and the Rector knew that he would
be utterly
miserable if left alone for a quarter of an hour in its
company. With the human inhabitants of his
parish he was no better
off; to know them was merely to know their ailments, and the
ailments were almost
invariablyrheumatism. Some, of course, had
other
bodily infirmities, but they always had
rheumatism as well.
The Rector had not yet grasped the fact that in rural
cottage life
not to have
rheumatism is as glaring an
omission as not to have been
presented at Court would be in more
ambitious circles. And with all