HORATIO DISCOVERS A PEPPERMINT TREE
A charity bazaar, generally speaking, is an invention designed to
mitigate the sufferings of the rich during the painful operation of
removing a small portion of their superfluous wealth for the benefit
of the poor.
Charity, however, to appeal successfully to the taste feminine, must
come in various shades and styles, and each of the ladies of St.
Timothy's parish had her pet shade. So it happened that the date of
this bazaar had been fixed and most of the arrangements completed
long before the good ladies had agreed upon the charity to be
benefited.
It was only after several stormy meetings that, for the sake of
peace, it was agreed to leave Charity out of the question. And then
it was that the Bishop of Bunchester, by a happy inspiration,
suggested starting a branch of the Progressive Mothers' Society at
Ippingford and, as the expenses of stationery, stamps and the salary
of a secretary must be met, the object of the bazaar settled itself
without further discussion.
Thanks to the untiring energy and unfailing tact of Mr. Ferdinand
Spooner, secretary of the Progressive Mothers' Society, the ladies of
the committee were not only on actual speaking terms with each other,
but were working harmoniously together for the great cause. Each of
these ladies was happy in the consciousness that she had obtained,
not through undue favor, but in recognition of her peculiar social
preëminence, the table occupying the very best position in the hall.
This also, it may be noted, was due entirely to the unfailing tact of
Mr. Ferdinand Spooner.
Whenever Mr. Ferdinand Spooner was asked to admire any particular
table, he praised it without stint, but he was ever careful to add
that each of the tables was quite perfect in its own way, and, in the
minutes of a subsequent meeting of the Progressive Mothers' Society,
the resolution proposing that a vote of thanks be tendered to Mr.
Ferdinand Spooner, for his untiring energy and unfailing tact, was
moved, seconded and carried unanimously.
The bazaar had been advertised to open at half past three o'clock,
and keenest interest had been aroused by the announcement that, on
account of the indisposition of Dr. Dibble, the address would be
delivered by the Reverend Horatio Merle. Almost every one in the
parish knew Horatio Merle by sight. More often than not the curate
and his wife were the only occupants of the Baxter pew, but such was
his shrinking from grown up human society and so retired his walks
that very few knew him personally. Harriet, too, for reasons of her
own, worldly reasons, of which she was secretly ashamed, had
responded meagerly to the friendly advances of the ladies of St.
Timothy's. Nor, in this respect, were the Merles any exception in
the Baxter household. Hiram, who with his son spent most of his time
in America, regarded English society very much as he regarded the
English climate and English business methods, and Eleanor preferred
to share his seclusion to braving the leveled lorgnettes and monocled
stares at Hiram's homely American speech and manners.
As for Lionel Fitz-Brown and Kate Clendennin, they were sufficiently
occupied with each other and dismissed the entire parish as a
"beastly bore."
From her chair at the back of the hall Harriet Merle watched the
clock anxiously. The hands now pointed exactly to half past three,
the time fixed for the opening address. For twenty-seven hours
Harriet had waited for this moment, had mentally rehearsed the scene
to its minutest detail--the expectant hush that would follow the
introductory remarks by the harmless but necessary Spooner--then
Horatio, solemn, transfigured, in the black surplice that Harriet had
only the morning before shaken from its long camphorous sleep, would
slowly mount the steps to the platform, looking neither to the right
nor to the left--and, when the hush had become absolutely unbearable,
he would cough nervously and----
In sudden panic Harriet looked at the clock. It was five minutes
past the time. The decorous applause that had followed the
secretary's remarks on the duties of Progressive Mothers (a
Progressive Mother must be progressive, she must nurse her
babies--progressively, she must bathe them--progressively, she must
punish them--progressively, etc.) had died away a long minute ago.
The expectant hush was becoming unbearable. Where was Horatio? Why
didn't he come? What had happened?
Ferdinand Spooner tiptoed importantly from one to another of the
ladies of the committee. People were beginning to whisper. Harriet
shrank into her meager feather boa. She clasped her hands till they
hurt in her effort to keep from crying. Tears came into her eyes and
dropped upon the white gloves that she had worked so hard to clean
for the occasion. Oh, why didn't he come? She had sat up half the
night with him and made coffee to keep him awake till the address was
written.
She thought of the money that Horatio would have received--one pound,
perhaps even two pounds--and how she needed that money. Now there
would be nothing.
What was the secretary saying? He feared that Mr. Merle had been
unavoidably detained and the committee had decided that the address
should be omitted, and he now declared the bazaar formally opened,
and he asked them all to join in singing the national anthem. As the
harmonium groaned the first bar of "God Save the King" and every one
stood up, Harriet, grateful for the cover afforded by this ancient
custom, but, for the moment, past all caring whether his majesty was
saved or not, made her way to the door without attracting attention.
Her only thought was to get out, out into the air and away from
people--away from the sound of singing.
* * * * * * *
During this time Horatio, rejoicing in the thought that he was
leaving his young protégée, Hester Storm, in a peaceful and sheltered
haven, had turned down the shady drive on his way to the Progressive
Mothers' bazaar.
At the first bend of the road the curate came to a standstill. Here
a little green lane, leading to the woods, sidled off alluringly to
the right. Merle shook his head. "No, thank you; no short cuts for
me to-day," he said aloud, and quickly turned his back on the green
temptress.
As Horatio resumed his walk a small, plaintive voice close behind him
caused him to look round. "Why, Martin Luther!" he exclaimed,
pointing sternly down the lane. "You go straight home!" Then as
Martin Luther rubbed coaxingly against his legs: "It's no use, you
can't come. In the first place you've not been invited and in the
second place it's a very mixed party. You wouldn't like them," he
whispered consolingly as he lifted Martin Luther to his shoulder.
Fortunately it was only a couple of minutes' walk back to the lodge
and there the cat could be left in the care of Mrs. Pottle or little
An Petronia Pottle until his master was well out of range. Mrs.
Pottle was properly shocked at the tale of Martin Luther's
behavior--she had never seen the like of it, such a forward cat; she
would think shame before trying to go where she wasn't invited, and
what for would he be wanting to be mixing himself up with the likes
of the Progressive Mothers--my word!
Martin Luther could listen respectfully to Merle for various reasons,
one being that Merle was of his own authoritative sex, but Mrs.
Pottle's theatricals only bored him and he retired to the square cave
under the stone chimney seat which he assumed had been built for his
exclusive use when he condescended to visit the lodge.
Mrs. Pottle followed the curate to the porch. "How about this Storm
girl?" she asked.
"What do you mean? Don't you like her, Mrs. Pottle?" There was real
concern in the clergyman's voice.
Mrs. Pottle folded her arms; her whole attitude was an answer to his
question.
"I'm not saying if I likes the girl or don't like her," she went on;
"but there's one thing I do say: She's never been taught how to make
a bed, nor yet how to dust a room. And what's more," here Mrs.
Pottle fumbled in her pocket, "I found this on her table." She held
out a rabbit's foot, tinged at the end with pink powder.
"Bless my soul! The foot of a rabbit!" exclaimed Merle, in genuine
surprise. "Dear me! This is most astonishing. Perhaps Miss Storm
is interested in natural history."
"Natural 'istory?" cried Mrs. Pottle derisively. "Unnatural 'istory
I calls it; that's what she powders her face with."
"You don't say!" said the curate gravely, returning the rabbit's foot
to Mrs. Pottle. "I should never have known it. How does my little
friend An Petronia like her?"
"An Petronia?" The old woman shook her head. "There's no telling,"
she said. "It'll take a better head nor what I have to say what that
child's thinkin' on. She's that deep and only eight years old come
Michaelmas. She takes up with such funny people----" Mrs. Pottle
stopped, confused and reddening at Merle's amused smile of
acknowledgment. "Oh, Lor', sir; I beg your pardon, sir. I didn't
mean----"
"That's all right, Mrs. Pottle," said the curate kindly. "What do
you think? Your grandchild confided to me the other day that she is
writing a book."
"Petronia writing a book! Well, I never!" exclaimed the astonished
Mrs. Pottle. "It must be in her blood. And now I think of it, sir,
her stepfather once kept a little stationery shop down Millbrook
way--so it does come natural to her, doesn't it, sir?"
Merle laughed. "But you mustn't tell any one, Mrs. Pottle. It's a
secret. No one knows about it but Petronia and you and me." He
looked at his watch. "Half-past two; I must be going. The bazaar
opens at half past three; there's plenty of time, I know, but I fear
to take any chances."
As the wicket gate closed behind the curate Mrs. Pottle ran down the
path. "If you're going by the road, sir," she called after him,
"you'll be meeting Petronia. She walked to the village over an hour
ago with the little Royse girl and Freddy Nichol. It's Freddy's
birthday and he's got a bright new threepenny bit to spend, and
they're going to----"
Horatio, taking advantage of a compulsory pause for breath on the
part of Mrs. Pottle, thanked her hurriedly and set off at a brisk
pace toward Ippingford, and, so steadfastly did the good man set his
face against the temptations of the wayside, that in less than half
an hour he had passed the main street of the village and was within
five minutes' walk of St. Timothy's parish house.
Then, to his great relief, the curate found by his watch that he had
almost half an hour to spare. It was a welcome reprieve, such was
Horatio's dread of this sudden plunge back into public life. Every
moment was precious--what should he do?
"What a pity I did not meet An Petronia," he said to himself. She
was a great friend of Horatio's, this strange little maid with
gold-red hair and questioning deep-set eyes and that odd smile. Many
were the walks and talks they had together, Petronia holding on by
the curate's forefinger, asking questions. Such questions! How many
buttercups full of rain can a mouse drink? Telling him tremendous
secrets and confiding to him all her troubles, what mountains of
troubles! And yet Merle had never heard Petronia cry, not even the
time when she was bitten by the frightened squirrel, whose foot she
freed from the weasel trap, did An Petronia cry. Once when she had
been disobedient and Mrs. Pottle had felt it necessary to whip her
granddaughter, the child had not uttered a sound, which so frightened
the old lady that she had never lifted a hand to the child since and
never would.
The sound of children laughing startled Horatio from his reverie. He
was passing the little sweetshop at the end of the village street,
kept by one Mrs. Beadle, and behold, there was An Petronia surrounded
by a mob of laughing, chattering playmates. They were looking in at
the window and playing some game of Petronia's invention, in which
the objects displayed in the shop window played an important part.
"Freddy Nichol, that's not fair! Peppermints doesn't gwow on twees,"
Petronia was saying in her odd, low-pitched voice as Merle came up to
the group.
Instantly she was at her old friend's side and looking up in his
face. "Does they, Daddy Merle?" she asked.
"Does what, my dear?" said Merle, taking her hand. He had not heard
An Petronia's assertion.
"Does peppermints gwow on twees?"
"I didn't say peppermints, I said pepper," put in Freddy.
At this there was a perfect hubbub of "he dids" and "he didn'ts," as
the children took sides, all but Petronia, who, having started the
row, now stood tightly holding the curate's hand and watching the
conflict with wide, fascinated eyes.
When things had arrived at the hair-pulling and slapping stage,
Merle, feeling Petronia's hand tighten round his finger, had a sudden
inspiration. Clapping his hands to attract attention, he called out
suddenly in the most thrilling tones at his command, "Who wants to
know a secret?"
In an instant the clash of battle ceased, for a moment there was
perfect silence, tiny tears were brushed away by grimy little fists,
touzled hair was smoothed or tied back as the case might be, little
girl arms stole around little girl waists and little boy elbows
around little boy shoulders and then there burst forth a chorus of
voices clamoring as one child, "Tell us the secret! Tell us the
secret!"
"Children!" said the curate, when silence was restored, "I'm going to
show you a peppermint tree!"
"A weally twuely peppermint twee, Daddy Merle?" said An Petronia, her
eyes filled with wonder.
"A peppermint tree!" echoed the others.
"Yes," said Horatio, "a really truly peppermint tree with really
truly peppermints on it, and I'm going to shake the tree and you
shall catch the peppermints as they come down."
"Are we going to see it now?" asked An Petronia.
"Where is it?" eagerly chorused the others.
"It is only a little way from here," said the curate, as the plan
formed itself in his mind, "but before we start I must go into the
shop and see Mrs. Beadle. I am not quite sure just which tree is the
peppermint tree, and, as Mrs. Beadle is so fond of peppermints, she
will be able to tell me exactly how to find it. You had better wait
for me at the corner," he added, "I shall only be a moment or two."
As the children trooped across the street, chirping and chattering,
the curate, full of his happy little scheme and all oblivious of the
flight of time, stepped into the shop. A few moments later he
reappeared and, if in the interim Mrs. Beadle's stock of peppermints
had appreciably diminished, no corresponding increase of bulk was
apparent in the region of Horatio Merle's pockets, so artfully had
the sweets been bestowed about his clerical person.
At the corner of the lane the children awaited him in expectant
silence. Without a word An Petronia slipped her little hand in his
and down the lane they went, this strange hushed processional led by
the gray-haired curate hand in hand with little An Petronia.
"Here it is!" cried Merle at last, pointing to a small acacia, a
toy-like tree with slender trunk and bushy top that stood on the very
edge of the wood. An unmistakable peppermint tree, thought An
Petronia.
Following the clergyman's directions, the children formed a ring
around the tree, while he stood in the middle clasping the thin trunk
in both his hands.
"Now," said Merle, "I'm going to sing something and you must listen
and sing it after me." He thought a moment and then sang:
"Tree, tree, Peppermint Tree!
Let some peppermints fall on me!"
"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."