THE TRUMPETER
The fault is mine, for I knew, and Geraldine knew nothing.
I knew the past. I knew of my sin. I knew, by some instinct, that God
had brought the past to me. As a means of redeeming my crime He had
imposed renunciation upon me as a penance, and I had chosen instead of
renunciation this deathly masquerade. I would not be debased, I would
not be humbled. God help me--I am humble enough now. All that is what I
see now; just then I saw nothing and cared for nothing but Geraldine.
We kissed only once, just like two frightened children, then we both
passed into the garden. Geraldine's arm I had drawn round my waist. We
wandered, locked together, through the dusk of the garden. We found
the dark yew tree walk by instinct; there was a seat and we sat down.
We could scarcely see each other, we were utterly dumb, confounded with
love.
We heard the wind pass by: we heard the dew fall, and the crying of the
night-bird--a hooting sound.
The rest of that evening I only remember in silhouettes, just as a
drunkard remembers his drunkenness. I remember the parting. I remember
it well, for I saw it reflected in a long mirror. Across the room where
we had been sitting, I can see the picture still--a cavalier standing
by a girl.
Then I found myself in my bedroom all alone, the clock on the mantel
striking twelve. The window-sash was open: the clouds had all broken
up, and the moon was shining on the trees. I leaned on the sill, my
head supported on my right hand, my left hand on the hilt of my sword.
I listened. The wind was sighing amongst the trees, and on the wind
I heard something far away and strange. A confused noise, it seemed
like the noise of a battle in the distance. I tossed back my hair,
and my left hand worked at the hilt of my sword. Yes, it must be a
battle, a great battle in the distance. I caught the cry, "Sinclair,
Sinclair," and then a cry like the distant sound of a thousand voices,
"For the King." I heard the far-off tramp of horses, the vague cries,
the clash of steel. Then the imperious call of a trumpet, the call of
a battle-trumpet. I sprung to my feet from my stooping attitude. I
swung the trumpet from behind me, and seizing it, placed the silver
mouthpiece to my lips; then I blew. I blew till the rafters rang and
the ceiling shook. I paused, then again I blew. I was drunk, and mad,
mad--with the madness of battle. I left the room. The soul of the
trumpet seemed to have possessed me, the mad sound of the trumpet
beaten back from the walls drove me onwards. Through the corridor,
down the great staircase, across the hall, then back up the staircase,
along the corridor to my room I passed, the whole house ringing to the
sound of the silver trumpet.
Then I found myself lying on my bedroom floor, sick, faint, and covered
with a cold perspiration. The trumpet lay beside me. Away upstairs
I thought I heard frightened cries, and the banging of a door, then
silence. I crawled to the bed. I could scarcely drag my body on to
it, my exhaustion was so great. Then I fell into a deep and dreamless
sleep.