The trumpet in the dust

BY THE SAME AUTHOR
CRUMP FOLK GOING HOME THE LONELY PLOUGH THE OLD ROAD FROM SPAIN BEAUTIFUL END THE SPLENDID FAIRING
THE TRUMPET IN THE DUST
BY CONSTANCE HOLME SECOND EDITION MILLS & BOON, LIMITED 49 RUPERT STREET LONDON, W. 1
Published 1921
TO LORD HENRY BENTINCK, THIS WEED FROM AN UNCULTIVATED GARDEN
“I was on my way to the temple with my evening offerings, Seeking for the heaven of rest after the day’s dusty toil; Hoping my hurts would be healed and stains in my garment washed white, When I found thy trumpet lying in the dust. Has it not been the time for me to light my lamp? Has my evening not come to bring me sleep? O, thou blood-red rose, where have my poppies faded? I was certain my wanderings were over and my debts all paid When suddenly I came upon thy trumpet lying in the dust.
From thee I had asked peace only to find shame. Now I stand before thee—help me to don my armour! Let hard blows of trouble strike fire into my life. Let my heart beat in pain—beating the drum of thy victory. My hands shall be utterly emptied to take up thy trumpet.”
The Trumpet —Rabindranath Tagore.
Mrs. Clapham got up on that fine September morning like some king of the East going forth to Bethlehem. She awoke with a heady sense of excitement and power, not wearily, and with a dulled brain, as she so often did now that she was beginning to grow old, but with vivid perceptions and a throbbing heart. First of all, opening her eyes on the sunny square of her little window, she was conscious of actual enrichment, as if the sunshine itself were a tangible personal gift. To the pleasure of this was added the happy anticipation of something not yet quite within reach, thrilling her nerves as they had not been thrilled for years. Then, as the thought of what the day might possibly bring flashed upon her in full force, she warmed from head to foot in a passion of exultation, wonder and grateful joy.
She started up presently to peer at the little clock by the bedside, and then remembered that she had no engagement, and sank back happily. Had not the Vicar’s wife called, only the evening before, to inform her that she would not want her to-day? Mrs. Clapham chuckled as she lay in bed, telling herself that if Mrs. Wrench did not have her to-day, in all probability she would never have her again at all.