58
THE POEM
VAUGHAN.
But, boy, you are starving physically.
Come home with me and have some dinner.
Only my daughter will be there.
PERCY.
You are very kind. Thank you.
FRIEND [aside].
He is a gentleman.
VAUGHAN.
But what are you doing to be alone in
London?
PERCY.
Where should I go?
VAUGHAN.
Your father—
PERCY.
‘Has shown me the door.
VAUGHAN.
How have you quarrelled?
PERCY.
Because I must write.
VAUGHAN.
What do you write about that he dislikes?
PERCY.
He calls it waste of time.
VAUGHAN.
He may be right. What do you write
about?
PERCY.
I write about all the horrible things I see,
and try to find beauty in them, or to make
beauty; and I write about all the beautiful
things I only dream of. I love them all ;
yes, even that woman yonder.
VAUGHAN.
Do you find beauty in her?
PERCY.
No, but I see in her history a poem, to
which I trust that God will write an end.
VAUGHAN.
What end can come but evil?
PERCY.
O! if I had no hope for her I should have
none for myself. ,
VAUGIIAN.
How? Have you then fallen?
PERCY.
Oh, yes, I have fallen. I am older every
hour. I have wasted time, I have wasted
love. |
VAUGHAN.
Perhaps it is notall wasteafter all. There .
is a use for everything, nothing is destroyed
—believe so, anyhow !
FRIEND.
What about this dinner of yours, Vaughan?
Esmé will think us a long while gone.
VAUGHAN.
Hansom ! [ Hxeunt. —
SCENE II.
A year later. VAUGHAN’S house tn Mayfatr.
Percy’s bedroom. Aloonlight streams
through an open window in the corriutor.
PERCY asleep. He dreams uneasily, and
after a little wakes up with a start and
aCVvy.
PERCY.
Ou! Thad sucha bad dream. I dreamt I
was straining out after a beautiful bird, and |
suddenly it stopped, and then I held it in