King Midas. Upton SinclairЧитать онлайн книгу.

      When Helen was left alone, she seated herself before her old music stand which had been brought down to welcome her, and proceeded to glance over and arrange the pieces she had learned and loved in her young girlhood. Most of them made her smile, and when she reflected upon how difficult she used to think them, she realized that now that it was over she was glad for the German regime. Helen had accounted herself an accomplished pianist when she went away, but she had met with new standards and learned to think humbly of herself in the great home of music. She possessed a genuine fondness for the art, however, and had devoted most of her three years to it, so that she came home rejoicing in the possession of a technic that was quite a mastership compared with any that she was likely to meet.

      Helen's thoughts did not dwell upon that very long at present, however; she found herself thinking again about Arthur, and the unexpected ending of her walk with him.

      “I had no idea he felt that way toward me,” she mused, resting her chin in her hand; “what in the world am I going to do? Men are certainly most inconvenient creatures; I thought I was doing everything in the world to make him happy!”

      Helen turned to the music once more, but the memory of the figure she had left sunken helplessly upon the forest seat stayed in her mind. “I do wonder if that can be why he did not wait for me,” she thought, shuddering—“if he was too wretched to see me again; what CAN I do?” She got up and began walking restlessly up and down the room for a few minutes.

      “Perhaps I ought to go and look for him,” she mused; “it was an hour or two ago that I left him there;” and Helen, after thinking the matter over, had half turned to leave, when she heard a step outside and saw the door open quickly. Even before she saw him she knew who it was, for only Arthur would have entered without ringing the bell. After having pictured him overcome by despair, it was rather a blow to her pride to see him, for he entered flushed, and seemingly elated.

      “Well, sir, you've treated me nicely!” she exclaimed, showing her vexation in spite of herself.

      “You will forgive me,” said Arthur, smiling.

      “Don't be too sure of it,” Helen said; “I looked for you everywhere, and I am quite angry.”

      “I was obeying your high command,” the other replied, still smiling.

      “My command? I told you to wait for me.”

      “You told me something else,” laughed Arthur. “You spent all the morning instructing me for it, you know.”

      “Oh!” said Helen. It was a broad and very much prolonged “Oh,” for a sudden light was dawning upon the girl; as it came her frown gave place to a look of delight.

      “You have been writing me a poem!” she cried, eagerly.

      “Yes,” said Arthur.

      “Oh, you dear boy!” Helen laughed. “Then I do forgive you; but you ought to have told me, for I had to walk home all alone, and I've been worrying about you. I never once thought of the poem.”

      “The muses call without warning,” laughed Arthur, “and one has to obey them, you know.”

      “Oh, oh!” exclaimed the other. “And so you've been wandering around the woods all this time, making verses! And you've been waving your arms and talking to yourself, and doing all sorts of crazy things, I know!” Then as she saw Arthur flush, she went on: “I was sure of it! And you ran away so that I wouldn't see you! Oh, I wish I'd known; I'd have hunted you up and never come home until I'd found you.”

      As was usual with Helen, her momentary vexation had gone like April rain, and all her seriousness had vanished with it. She forgot all about the last scene in the woods, and Arthur was once more the friend of her girlhood, whom she might take by the hand when she chose, and with whom she might be as free and happy as when she was alone with the flowers and the wind. It seemed as if Arthur too had vented all his pent up emotion, and returned to his natural cheerful self.

      “Tell me,” she cried, “did you put in all the things I told you about?”

      “I put all I could,” said Arthur. “That is a great deal to ask.”

      “I only want it to be full of life,” laughed Helen. “That's all I care about; the man who wants to write springtime poetry for me must be wide awake!”

      “Shall I read it to you?” asked Arthur, hesitatingly.

      “Yes, of course,” said Helen. “And read it as if you meant it; if I like it I'll tell you so.”

      “I wrote it for nothing but to please you” was the reply, and Arthur took a much bescrawled piece of paper from his pocket; the girl seated herself upon the piano stool again and gazed up at him as he rested his elbow upon the top of the piano and read his lines. There could not have been a situation in which the young poet would have read them with more complete happiness, and so it was a pleasure to watch him. And Helen's eyes kindled, and her cheeks flushed brightly as she listened, for she found that the verses had taken their imagery from her very lips.

      In the May-time's golden glory

       Ere the quivering sun was high,

       I heard the Wind of Morning

       Through the laughing meadows fly;

       In his passion-song was throbbing

       All the madness of the May,

       And he whispered: Thou hast labored;

       Thou art weary; come away!

       Thou shalt drink a fiery potion

       For thy prisoned spirit's pain;

       Thou shalt taste the ancient rapture

       That thy soul has sought in vain.

       I will tell thee of a maiden,

       One who has thy longing fanned—

       Spirit of the Forest Music—

       Thou shalt take her by the hand,

       Lightly by her rosy fingers

       Trembling with her keen delight,

       And her flying steps shall lead thee

       Out upon the mountain's height;

       To a dance undreamed of mortal

       To the Bacchanal of Spring—

       Where in mystic joy united

       Nature's bright-eyed creatures sing.

       There the green things of the mountain,

       Million-voiced, newly-born,

       And the flowers of the valley

       In their beauty's crimson morn;

       There the winged winds of morning,

       Spirits unresting, touched with fire,

       And the streamlets, silver-throated,

       They whose leaping steps ne'er tire!

       Thou shalt see them, ever circling

       Round about a rocky spring,

       While the gaunt old forest-warriors

       Madly their wide branches fling.

       Thou shalt tread the whirling measure,

       Bathe thee in its frenzied strife;

       Thou shalt have a mighty memory

       For thy spirit's after life.

       Haste thee while thy heart is burning,

       While thine eyes have strength to see;

       Hark, behind yon blackening cloud-bank,

       To the Storm-King's minstrelsy!

       See, he stamps upon