The trumpet in the dust

by Constance Holme

Then at last they were all gone, with the exception of Mrs. Tanner, and there was no need to thank them or answer them any more. Mrs. Clapham sat back in her chair with a long sigh. She did not sit forward, this time, sunk upon herself, staring sullenly at the floor. She sat back easily, wearily, closing her tired eyes....

CHAPTER IV

And still it was not much more than half-past six.... Mrs. Clapham, lifting her lids at last with the effort of one to whom every inch of her body is insisting that the business of life is distinctly over, could hardly bring herself to believe the face of the little clock. The whole of her world had changed twice since it was half-past six before. It seemed impossible that so much could have happened within the round of a little day; just as it is sometimes incredible that so little should happen in the tale of a lengthy year.

But the business of life, far from being over, was, from more points of view than one, about to begin again. That it would begin again, when the moment arrived, she was now able to believe, though even now it seemed to her that it could be only a miserable parody at the best. Nevertheless, before long it would be creaking and jolting again in the ancient grooves, although with ever so many extra drags on the wheels. Foremost among them would be the children, hard as it seemed to call them by such a name; but, dear as they would undoubtedly grow to be, she could describe them as nothing else. Some day, indeed, they would be a help instead of a drag, but that was a long way to look ahead. Not even Libby would be able to bring any grist to the mill for the next half-dozen years, and somehow the three of them had to live through those difficult years first.

There was also the undoubted fact of her gradually failing health, that terrible drag on the wheel of which all with their living to earn go in constant dread. She was not worn-out, as Emma had cruelly said, but it was certainly cruelly true that she was worn. Weariness at least was in front of her, if nothing worse, stiff limbs and aching joints that would not allow her to sleep. When the present strain had relaxed a little she would be better than she was now, but, however much better she was, she would never be quite better. Never, whatever happened, would she be the same woman again. She would never be even the woman who had awakened so happily that morning. Both beauty and bitterness had taken their toll of her since then, and made her pay too dear.

The third and perhaps the worst drag on the wheel would be the inward reluctance of her own heart. Again, as Emma had so meanly and cleverly said, she would find it harder to go on now than if she had never stopped. She had taken her hand from the plough, and it would be a bitter business forcing it back. All through the hours of work, and the aching, wearisome nights, her heart would go stealing in spite of her to the House of Dreams.

Yet somehow or other this new fight that had been thrust upon her would have to be fought bravely and fought through. No matter what happened to lie before her, she must contrive to hold on until the children were old enough to fend for themselves. Her only consolation lay in the fact that every year that passed would be so much won by her in their favour. Even if the worst came to the worst, and her body gave out before her spirit—even then the struggle would not have been quite wasted. With each year that passed they would be not only older but braver and stronger, more and more able to cope with Emma should they fall to her banner in the end.

Thinking of Emma, she was again driven to wonder whether in all that tangle of plotting and planning there had lurked so much as a seed of sound, selfless and honest love. Nobody who had known her of old would condescend to believe in it for a moment, and indeed the feat would seem just as unlikely to those who happened to know her now. Yet who could really say that beneath that growth of lies there might not be springing somewhere the tender sprout? Who could really say that a new Emma might not be quickening into being, brought to new life and growth by the strong forcing-house of the War?

That question, she knew, would be a further drag on the wheel, returning from time to time in order to give her pause. Again and again she would be tempted to go back on her word, to take her hand from the plough and forswear herself, even then. Always it would be in the background, ready to harry her at her weakest moments. Yet it was true that its antidote also would be always at hand—the memory of the inconceivable thing which Emma had done that day. The consideration of her possible motives went under again in an eddy of grief. If by any chance Tibbie had asked for her mother, and thought that she would not come!

Mrs. Tanner found her with the slow tears again stealing down her face, but she sat up at once and tried to stem them. Getting up, she limped to the glass, and began to smooth her hair with a comb taken from a near drawer. She also produced a clothes-brush, and allowed Mrs. Tanner to ply it; afterwards tying herself into one of her best aprons. She came back to the table looking a totally different creature, and addressed herself to the task of eating her supper like a tearful but plucky child.