“I don't see what it has to do with the moon,” said the clergyman, gazing helplessly at the open window, and wondering if another crowd was gathering.
“That's what everybody's been trying to find out!” said Helen; then, as she heard the dinner bell out in the hall, she ended with half a dozen frantic runs, and jumping up with the last of them, took her father's arm and danced out of the room with him.
“Perhaps when we come to see the other side of the moon,” she said, “we may discover all about it. Or else it's because the moon is supposed to set people crazy.” So they passed in to dinner, where Helen was as animated as ever, poor Arthur and his troubles seeming to have vanished completely from her thoughts.
In fact, it was not until the meal was nearly over that she spoke of them again; she noticed that it was growing dark outside, and she stepped to the window just as a distant rumble of thunder was heard.
“Dear me!” she exclaimed. “There's a fearful storm coming, and poor Arthur is out in it; he must be a long way from town by this time, and there is no house where he can go.” From the window where she stood she had a view across the hills in back of the town, and could see the black clouds coming swiftly on. “It is like we were imagining this morning,” she mused; “I wonder if he will think of it.”
The dinner was over soon after that, and she looked out again, just as the first drops of rain were falling; the thunder was rolling louder, bringing to Helen a faint echo of her morning music. She went in and sat down at the piano, her fingers roaming over the keys hesitatingly. “I wish I could get it again,” she mused. “It seems like a dream when I think of it, it was so wild and so wonderful. Oh, if I could only remember that march!”
There came a crash of thunder near by, as if to help her, but Helen found that all efforts were in vain. Neither the storm music nor the march came back to her, and even when she played a few chords of the great chorus she had sung, it sounded tame and commonplace. Helen knew that the glory of that morning was gone where goes the best inspiration of all humanity, back into nothingness and night.
“It was a shame,” she thought, as she rose discontentedly from the piano. “I never was so carried away by music in my life, and the memory of it would have kept me happy for weeks, if Arthur hadn't been here to trouble me!”
Then, however, as she went to the window again to watch the storm which was now raging in all its majesty, she added more unselfishly: “Poor boy! It is dreadful to think of him being out in it.” She saw a bolt of lightning strike in the distance, and she waited breathlessly for the thunder. It was a fearful crash, and it made her blood run faster, and her eyes sparkle. “My!” she exclaimed. “But it's fine!” And then she added with a laugh, “He can correct his poem by it, if he wants to!”
She turned to go upstairs. On the way she stopped with a rather conscience-stricken look, and said to herself, “Poor fellow! It seems a shame to be happy!” She stood for a moment thinking, but then she added, “Yet I declare, I don't know what to do for him; it surely isn't my fault if I am not in love with him in that mad fashion, and I don't see why I should make myself wretched about it!” Having thus silenced her conscience, she went up to unpack her trunks, humming to herself on the way: