Shall you write a book? Will it be a
play? They always seem to walk to London with a play in their pockets, a
tragedy that the theatres won't look at; and then their troubles begin."
Young Musgrave smiled superior at Bessie's sentiment and Bessie's
syntax. "There is the railway, and Oxford is on the road. I intend
always to travel first-class," said he.
Bessie understood him to speak literally. "First-class! Oh, but that is
too grand! In the _Lives_ they never have much money. Some are awfully
poor--_starving_: Savage was, and Chatterton and Otway."
"Shabby, disreputable vagabonds!" answered young Musgrave lightly.
"And Samuel Johnson and ever so many more," continued Bessie, pleading
his sympathy.
"There is no honor in misery; it is picturesque to read about, but it is
a sorry state in reality to be very poor. Some poets have been scamps. I
shall not start as the prodigal son, Bessie, for I love not swinish
company nor diet of husks."
"The prodigal came home to his father, Harry."
"So he did, but I have my doubts whether he stayed."
There was a silence. Bessie had always believed in the prodigal as a
good son after his repentance. Any liberty of speculation as concerning
Scripture gave her pause; it was a new thing at Beechhurst and at Brook.
Young Musgrave furled over the pages of his book. A sheet of paper,
written, interlined, blotted with erasures, flew out. He laid a quick
hand upon it; not so quick, however, but that Bessie had caught sight of
verses--verses of his own, too.
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