King Midas: A Romance | Page 5

of his, just as if God had never made anything beautiful! And since I've been away that dreadful Mrs. Dale has gotten complete charge of the church, and she's one of those creatures that wouldn't allow you to burn a candle in the organ loft; and father never was of any use for quarreling about things." (Helen's father, the Reverend Austin Davis, was the rector of the little Episcopal church in the town of Oakdale just across the fields.) "I only arrived last night," the girl prattled on, venting her happiness in that way instead of singing; "but I hunted up two tallow candles in the attic, and you shall see them in church to-morrow. If there's any complaint about the smell, I'll tell Mrs. Dale we ought to have incense, and she'll get so excited about that that I'll carry the candles by default. I'm going to institute other reforms also,--I'm going to make the choir sing in tune!"
"If you will only sing as you were singing just now, nobody will hear the rest of the choir," vowed the young man, who during her remarks had never taken his eyes off the girl's radiant face.
Helen seemed not to notice it, for she had been arranging the marigolds; now she was drying them with her handkerchief before fastening them upon her dress.
"You ought to learn to sing yourself," she said while she bent her head down at that task. "Do you care for music any more than you used to?"
"I think I shall care for it just as I did then," was the answer, "whenever you sing it."
"Pooh!" said Helen, looking up from her marigolds; "the idea of a dumb poet anyway, a man who cannot sing his own songs! Don't you know that if you could sing and make yourself gloriously happy as I was just now, and as I mean to be some more, you could write poetry whenever you wish."
"I can believe that," said Arthur.
"Then why haven't you ever learned? Our English poets have all been ridiculous creatures about music, any how; I don't believe there was one in this century, except Browning, that really knew anything about it, and all their groaning and pining for inspiration was nothing in the world but a need of some music; I was reading the 'Palace of Art' only the other day, and there was that 'lordly pleasure house' with all its modern improvements, and without a sound of music. Of course the poor soul had to go back to the suffering world, if it were only to hear a hand-organ again."
"That is certainly a novel theory," admitted the young poet. "I shall come to you when I need inspiration."
"Come and bring me your songs," added the girl, "and I will sing them to you. You can write me a poem about that brook, for one thing. I was thinking just as I came down the road that if I were a poet I should have beautiful things to say to that brook. Will you do it for me?"
"I have already tried to write one," said the young man, hesitatingly.
"A song?" asked Helen.
"Yes."
"Oh, good! And I shall make some music for it; will you tell it to me?"
"When?"
"Now, if you can remember it," said Helen. "Can you?"
"If you wish it," said Arthur, simply; "I wrote it two or three months ago, when the country was different from now."
He fumbled in his pocket for some papers, and then in a low tone he read these words to the girl:
AT MIDNIGHT
The burden of the winter The year haa borne too long, And oh, my heart is weary For a springtime song!
The moonbeams shrink unwelcomed From the frozen lake; Of all the forest voices There is but one awake
I seek thee, happy streamlet That murmurest on thy way, As a child in troubled slumber Still dreaming of its play;
I ask thee where in thy journey Thou seeest so fair a sight, That thou hast joy and singing All through the winter night.
Helen was silent for a few moments, then she said, "I think that is beautiful, Arthur; but it is not what I want."
"Why not?" he asked.
"I should have liked it when you wrote it, but now the spring has come, and we must be happy. You have heard the springtime song."
"Yes," said Arthur, "and the streamlet has led me to the beautiful sight."
"It is beautiful," said Helen, gazing about her with that naive unconsciousness which "every wise man's son doth know" is one thing he may never trust in a woman. "It could not be more beautiful," she added, "and you must write me something about it, instead of wandering around our pasture-pond on winter nights till your imagination turns it into a frozen lake."
The young poet put away his papers rather