"Now, then, children, all together!"
They needed no rehearsal. Children have their own little notes like birds and cherubim, and, as for the tempo, the author and composer took care of that.
"Splendid!" cried the curate at the end of the first repetition. "Now, once more! And this time, children, you must keep your eyes fixed on the ground, and, when I shake the tree, if you are very careful not to look up, the peppermints will be sure to fall."
Once more the cherub chorus rang through the wood and this time the branches of the peppermint tree were heard to swish and shiver and shake in the most exciting manner. Then all of a sudden the swishing and shivering and shaking stopped and down came a terrific shower of peppermints like big round sugar pennies, skipping and rolling on the grass at the children's feet.
"Here they come!" cried Merle, flushed with the success of his invention. "Fresh from the tree, pink peppermints! White peppermints! All ready to eat—fresh from the—" his voice stopped suddenly, the flush died on his face, leaving it a white mirthless mask of laughter. He was staring at the footpath only a few strides away, staring in consternation, for there stood Harriet with a look on her face that Horatio would remember to the end of his days. He called her name imploringly, he knew that she must have heard him, but she made no answer, she turned away and walked straight on.
The clock of St. Timothy's was striking. One—two—no need to count, he knew it was four o'clock. Harriet's look had told him everything. He had failed in his duty, he was disgraced—before everybody—and Harriet—how she must have suffered!
Close by, the children shouted and laughed and scrambled for peppermints. How little they knew the cost of their laughter. Their voices grew fainter as Horatio ran, ran despairingly, to overtake his wife. A moment later he was by her side breathless, pleading.
"Harriet—I forgot the time—I—— Don't leave me like this——"
Her only answer was to quicken her pace. He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it away quickly, contemptuously.
Horatio stood still. Dazed, stupefied, he watched his wife until she was out of sight, then, with unsteady steps, he turned into the shadow of the quiet, questionless woods and sank face downward among the ferns. Presently there was a sound of something moving through the ferns and bushes. Nearer and nearer it came until it was quite close to him, then a warm little hand, a pepperminty hand, stroked his wet cheek and a tear-shaken voice, the voice of An Petronia, quavered close to his ear, "Don't cwy, Daddy Merle."