Читать книгу Tom Moore - Theodore Burt Sayre - Страница 4
ОглавлениеMoore held the boys at arm's length, thus frustrating their desperate attempts to continue the battle, and glancing up at Bessie, who was still perched on the desk, favored her with a look of mingled astonishment and admiration.
"What a nice quiet time you have been having! Quite like a baby Donnybrook," he remarked cheerfully. "Are you trying to fly, Bessie, that you are up so high?"
"Oh, Tom, you came just in time."
"That is a habit of mine," replied Moore, and then, turning his attention to his prisoners, he continued:
"Now, my bully gladiators, what is the cause of this gentle argument?"
"Misther Moore, he said I looked like a monkey the other day," answered Micky, harking back to an insult that had long rankled in his memory.
"He kicked me, he did," said Patsy, "and I gave him a oner in the neck for it, I did."
"Red-head!" ejaculated Micky in tones of scorn. "He wanted Milly to kiss him, the puckorn!"
"Which is Milly?" inquired Moore, scanning the other scholars interrogatively.
"I am," answered that young lady, delightfully free from embarrassment.
"I don't blame you at all, Patsy," observed the poet regarding the youthful belle with approval. "Are you desperately fond of her?"
"To be sure," responded Patsy, valiantly. "I 'm going to marry her."
"As though I 'd marry that," remarked Milly, in accents by no means admiring.
"Never mind that, Miss Milly! An honest man's love is not to be scorned even when it's in short breeches," said Moore, reprovingly. "So it is jealousy that is at the bottom of this quarrel? Faith, I 'll settle it right here. Neither of you lads shall have Milly. I 'll marry her myself."
"All right," said Milly, cocking her eye at Bessie, "if teacher has no objection, I haven't."
"What an idea!" ejaculated the schoolmistress, descending from her desk. "Tom, how can you talk such nonsense?"
"Don't mind her, Milly. It's only jealousy," said Moore. "Boys, this fight is postponed till after hours." Then he added, in a whisper, "I 'll referee it myself. Go to your seats."
"Each of you boys will remain in an hour after school is dismissed," said Bessie, severely.
Moore stepped quickly to the desk where she had seated herself preparatory to continuing the session.
"Oh murder, no!" he expostulated in an undertone. "How can I talk to you, Bessie, if they are here?"
"Do you wish to talk to me, Mr. Moore?" asked the guileless maiden, as though surprised.
"I am dying to, Bessie," said he.
"On second thoughts, boys," she announced, "since Mr. Moore has interceded for you, you need not stay in, but there is to be no more fighting after school. I don't like quarrelling."
"Then you have made up your mind to be an old maid, have you?" murmured Moore.
Bessie tossed her head disdainfully.
"Are you sure the mouse is gone?" she asked, evading the question.
"I think I see it there," exclaimed Moore. "Look out, Bessie!"
"Oh!" cried the girl, relapsing into fright and seizing hold of her companion for safety's sake. "Don't let the horrid thing come near me!"
Moore chuckled and released himself from her appealing grasp.
"Please be more respectful, Mistress Dyke," he said reprovingly. "I 'll not have you seizing hold of me like this. It is entirely too familiar treatment for a young unmarried man to submit to at such short notice and unchaperoned. Have you no bringing up at all? What do you suppose my mother would say if she thought I permitted you to take such liberties?"
"Oh, never mind your mother," said Bessie pettishly, deciding that she was in no particular danger at the present moment.
"That is nice advice to give a young lad," commented Moore, drawing a rose from his button-hole. "See, Bessie, I have brought you a posey, the last blossom on the bush. Some day, if I have the time, I shall write a poem on the subject."
"Thank you, Tom."
As she spoke, Bessie put the flower in a glass of water on the desk that already held a bunch of clover plucked for her by the grimy fingers of one of her pupils.
Dicky stood up and raised his hand.
"Please, teacher," he lisped, "is Mr. Moore going to sing for us?"
"Sure as life," said Moore, his vanity tickled.
A murmur of approval came from the children. The young Irishman had amused them with his fine voice more than once, extracting in return from their evident enjoyment quite as much pleasure as his music afforded them.
"What shall it be, teacher?" he asked, turning to Bessie.
"Oh, anything but one of those odes from Anacreon, Tom. They are simply terrible."
"But you read them all."
"I blush to admit it," answered the girl, frowning at his lack of tact in recalling such an indiscreet proceeding.
"Ah, Bessie," he murmured tenderly, "I'd admit anything for the sake of seeing the roses steal in and out of your dear cheeks. Why, it is like watching the sunset sweeping over the clouds in the west on a summer evening."
"Sing, Thomas Moore," commanded the girl, but a softer look came into her eyes as she settled comfortably back in her chair to listen.
"I 'd like to pass my life singing to you, Bessie."
"That's all very well, Tom, but the notes from your throat are not taken at the bank."
"Well," retorted he, cheerily, "to get even, it is not many bank-notes I take."
Moore, after fetching a high stool from a distant corner of the room, perched himself upon it and began to sing, the school-room echoing with the clear ringing voice that was destined in after years to be the delight of the most fashionable circle in Europe. He had selected an old ballad setting forth the emotions felt by a world-worn traveller as he threaded the streets of his native village after years of wandering abroad, and, as the chorus was composed of the various song-game rhymes sung by the children in their play, it was quite familiar to the pupils of Mistress Dyke, who joined in heartily.
"Ready," cried Moore, beckoning the children from their places. "Now, all together.
"'I came to see Miss Jenny O'Jones,
Jenny O'Jones, Jenny O'Jones,
I came to see Miss Jenny O'Jones,
And how is she to-day?'"
"'Ready,' cried Moore, 'Now, all together.'"
Hand in hand the children, their shrill voices raised tunefully under the leadership of Moore, marched gayly forward and back, the poet prancing as joyously as any of them, as he beat time with a ruler.
"Second verse," he said, and, enjoying every note, sang it through to the huge delight of his audience, who, when the chorus was reached a second time, danced around him in a circle, their pleasure proving so infectious that Bessie herself deserted her desk to take part in the wind-up, which was both uproarious and prolonged.
"That will do you," said Moore, mopping his face with his handkerchief. "Faith, it is great fun we have been having, Bessie."
"So it appears," she replied, rapping on the desk for order.
"You have a fine lot of pupils, Bessie. I 'd like to be father of them all."
"Mr. Moore!" exclaimed the girl, horrified at such a wish.
"I mean I 'd like to have a family as smart as they look," explained Moore, helping himself to a chair.
"That would not require much effort," replied the girl, coldly.
"But it would take time," suggested the graceless young joker. Then he continued, as Bessie gave him a freezing glance, "I mean, never having been married, I don't know, so I will have to take your word for it."
"You deserve to be punished for your impudence, Tom Moore."
"Since I 'm a bachelor, that is easy brought about, Bessie."
"Who would marry such a rogue as you?"
"I 'm not going to betray the ladies' confidence in my honor by giving you a list of their names," replied Moore, virtuously. Then he added softly:
"I know something--I mean some one--I deserve, whom I am afraid I won't get."
"Sooner or later we all get our deserts," said Bessie, wisely.
"I want her for more than dessert," he answered. "For three meals of love a day and a light lunch in the evening."
"It is time to dismiss school."
"I am not sorry for that; send the darlings home."
"And another thing, Tom Moore, you must never come here again during school hours. It is impossible to control the children when you are around."
Moore laughed.
"You had them nicely controlled when I arrived, didn't you?" said he. "Oh, well, I'll come later and stay longer. Dismiss them."
Bessie rang the bell, and school broke up for the day immediately.
Chapter Four
THE BLACKMAILING OF TOM MOORE
After bidding good-bye to the visitor most of the children crowded noisily out of the door, rejoicing at their resumption of freedom, but Patsy, he of the red hair, seated himself deliberately on the front bench and immediately became deeply interested in his arithmetic, his presence for the moment being completely overlooked by Moore, whose attention was attracted by the attempt of a ragged little miss to make an unnoticed exit.
"Little girl," said Moore, gently, "why are you going without saying good-bye to me? What have I done to deserve such treatment from a young lady?"
The child thus reproached, a tiny blonde-haired maiden, dressed in a faded and ragged frock, looked timidly at her questioner, and flushed to her temples.
"I thought you would n't want to say good-bye to me, sir," she answered, shyly.
"And why not, alanna?"
"'Cause I 'm poor," she whispered.
A tender look came into Moore's eyes and he crossed to the side of the child, his generous heart full of pity for the little one's embarrassment.
"I 'm poor, too," he said, patting her yellow curls. "Where do you live, my dear?"
"Down by the Mill, sir, with my auntie."
"And is this the best dress she can give you?" he asked, trying the texture of the little gown and finding it threadbare and thin.
The child looked down at her feet, for the moment abashed, then raising her eyes to the young man's face, read only sympathy and tenderness there, and, thus encouraged, answered bravely:
"It is better than hers."
"Then we can't complain, dear, can we? Of course not, but is n't it very thin?"
"Yes, sir, but I would n't mind if it was a bit more stylish."
Moore looked at Bessie, smiling at this characteristic manifestation of femininity.
"The size of her!" he said. "With a woman's vanity already."
Then, turning to the child again, he continued:
"Well, we poor people must stick together. I 'll call on your aunt to-morrow."
"Will you?" cried the girl in delight. "And you 'll sing to us?"
"That I will," said Moore, heartily. "Now run along like a good girl, and mind me, dear, never be ashamed of your honest poverty. Remember that the best man of us all slept in a manger."
"Yes, sir," responded the child, happily, "I 'll not forget."
As she started for the door Moore called her back and put a shilling in her little pink palm.
"What will you do with it?" he asked, chucking her under the chin.
"Buy a ribbon, sir."
"A ribbon?" echoed Moore in imitation of her jubilant tone.
"For me auntie."
"Bless your generous little heart," said Moore, drawing another coin from his pocket. "There is the like of it for yourself. Buy one for each of you. Now off you go. Good-bye."
The child ran lightly to the door, but, as she reached the steps, turned, as though struck by a sudden thought, and beckoned to Moore.
"You may kiss me, sir," she announced with as much dignity as though she were bestowing upon her benefactor some priceless gift, as indeed she was, for certainly she possessed nothing more valuable. Then, after he had availed himself of her offer, she courtesied with childish grace and trotted gayly off, her two precious shillings tightly clutched in her hand. Believing himself to be alone with Bessie, Moore hastened toward her with outstretched arms, but was suddenly made aware of the presence of a third party by Patsy, who discreetly cleared his throat as he sat immersed in his book.
Moore turned to Bessie.
"What is that lad doing there?" he whispered. "Does n't he know school is over?"
"How should I know?" she answered, though a glint of fun in her eyes showed she was not without her suspicion as to the reason of Patsy's presence.
"You might ask him what he wants," she suggested encouragingly.
"I will," said Moore, approaching the interrupter of his wooing with a disapproving expression upon his face.
"Look here, my son, don't you know school is dismissed?"
"Yis, sir," replied Patsy, loudly.
"And yet you are still here?"
"Yis, sir."
"Bad luck to you, can't you say anything but 'Yis, sir'?"
"No, sir," responded Patsy, not at all intimidated by Moore's glowering looks.
"That is better," said Moore. "You are going home now?"
"No, sir."
"There you go again! Faith, I wish you would say 'Yes' and stick to it. What are you doing here at this unseasonable hour?"
"I wish to study me lessons," replied Patsy, enthusiastically.
Fairly dashed, Moore returned to Bessie.
"I never saw a lad so fond of his books before," said he.
"It is a new thing for Patsy," said Bessie with a laugh. "There is no bigger dunce in school."
"Is that so?" asked Moore. "Faith, I'm beginning to understand."
Patsy looked sharply over his book at the young poet.
"Can't you study at home, my lad?"
"No, sir."
"Will you never say 'Yes, sir,' again?"
"No, sir."
"Now look here, my young friend, if you say 'Yes, sir,' or 'No, sir,' again I 'll beat the life out of you."
"All right, sir," responded Patsy, plunging his face still deeper into his book.
Moore regarded his small tormentor with a look of dismay.
"You will strain your eyes with so much study, Patsy," he said, warningly. "That is what you will do,--and go blind and have to be led around by a stick, leaning on a small dog."
A suppressed giggle from Bessie drew his attention to his mistake.
"It 's the other way round I mean. Are n't you afraid of that sad fate, my bucko?"
Patsy shook his head and continued his energetic investigation of his arithmetic, while Moore sought counsel from the schoolmistress, who was keenly enjoying her admirer's discomfiture.
"What will I say to the little tinker, Bessie?" he asked, ruefully.
"How should I know, Tom? I am his teacher and will have to help him if he wishes it."
"What is it troubles you?" demanded Moore, looking down on Patsy's red head.
"A sum, sir," replied Patsy.
"Show it to me."
The boy designated an example with his finger.
"'If a man sold forty eggs at one ha'penny an egg,'" read Moore from the book, "'how many eggs--'?"
Shutting up the arithmetic, he put his hand in his pocket and jingled its contents merrily.
"Is the answer to this problem sixpence?" he asked.
"Oh, no, sir," replied Patsy ingenuously.
"What is, then?" demanded Moore, baffled.
"Two shillings," announced the graceless youth.
"I 'll give you one," said Moore, suggesting a compromise, but Patsy was not to be so lowered in his price.
"Two is the answer," he replied in a determined tone.
Moore yielded without further protest and produced the money.
"There you are, you murdering blackmailer," said he. "Now get out before I warm your jacket."
Patsy seized his books, and, dodging a cuff aimed at him by his victim, ran out of the schoolhouse with a derisive yell.
"Bessie," said Moore, solemnly, "that little spalpeen will surely come to some bad end."
"And be hanged?" asked the girl, taking a handful of goose-quills from her desk preparatory to sharpening them into pens with an old knife drawn from the same storehouse.
"Or get married, my sweet girl, though they say death is better than torture," replied Moore, approaching the schoolmistress. "Do you know it cost me two shillings to get a talk with you?"
Bessie smiled and finished a pen with exquisite care.
"Talk is cheap," she observed, carelessly.
"Whoever said that never called at your school, Bessie Dyke," said Moore, perching himself upon her desk. "Turn your face a bit the other way, if you please."
As he spoke he took the girl's round chin in his hands and moved her head until only a side view of her pretty face could be obtained from his post of vantage.
"Do you like my profile so much, Tom?" she asked, submitting docilely to his direction.
"It's not that, Bessie," answered Moore, "it's because I can't stand two such eyes at once. Now there is but one of them looking at me. And such an eye! My heart's jumping under my jacket like a tethered bullfrog with the glance of it. Ah, Bessie, there is only one in the wide world like it."
"And where is that?" asked the girl, a shade of jealousy perceptible in her inquiry.
"Just around the bend of your nose, mavourneen," laughed Moore. "Filled with melted moonshine are both of them. Sure, one soft look from those eyes would make a cocked hat out of starlight."
"Would it?" murmured Bessie, charmed in spite of herself. "Do you really mean all you say?"
"Mean it? It's poor justice my words do your beauty, Bessie dear. You have the sauciest, darlingest, scornfullest nose, and such a mouth! Why, to look at it makes my lips pucker."
"A lemon would do the same," observed Bessie, foiling Moore's attempt to snatch a kiss by sitting back in her chair. "You need not think I believe all your nonsense, Thomas Moore."
"Don't you believe what I have just said, Bessie?"
"Not I. You need n't flatter yourself."
"Why needn't I? Will you do it for me?"
"I have something better to do," replied Bessie, paring another quill with much vigor.
"That is what I call a cutting remark," said Moore, looking at the knife.
Bessie sighed, and temporarily abandoned her labors.
"Tom Moore," she said solemnly, "why will you make such awful puns?"
"Practice makes perfect, my dear. If I keep on, some day I may make a good one."
"I wonder if there ever was a good pun?"
"Keep on wondering. You look like an angel pondering over the fit of her wings."
"Tom, that is sacrilegious."
"You 're wrong, Bessie, it's only poetry."
Bessie frowned. Like all good women, she did not like to hear religion spoken of lightly, so she rebuked the erring Thomas with a glance.
"You are pretty even when you frown, Bessie," remarked the unregenerate versifier.
Bessie attempted to look doubtful as to the truth of this last statement.
"Why should n't you believe me? Has n't your mirror showed you day after day what I am telling you?"
As he spoke Moore took her hand in his, not noticing that one slender finger was wound round by a bandage. Bessie gave a little cry of pain.
"What is the matter?"
"You hurt me," she answered, exhibiting her finger.
"I 'm more than sorry, Bessie, but what ails your pinkie?"
"I burned my hand."
"Shall I burn the other for you?" asked Moore, extending his in invitation.
"How could you?" she demanded, suspecting a trap.
"Why," said Moore, "with a kiss half as warm as my heart."
Bessie giggled, then tried to resume her dignity, but Moore had no intention of letting such an advantage pass unutilized, and, seizing her uninjured hand, planted a hearty smack in its warm palm.
"Mr. Moore!"
"Mistress Dyke!"
"I shan't allow you to stay here if you cannot behave in a sensible manner," she threatened.
"I'm not sensible?"
"Not now."
"Then, if I am not sensible, I am unconscious, and, if I am unconscious, I am not responsible for what I do."
Moore with this justification made a sudden attempt to embrace Bessie, who, always prepared for such lawlessness, evaded his outstretched arms and retaliated by pricking him with her knife, a proceeding which resulted in the instant removal of the poet's person from her desk, accompanied by an ejaculation that sounded suspiciously like profanity.
"What did you say, Tom?" asked Bessie with a gurgle of satisfaction. For once she had the better of her resourceful admirer.
"You will have to guess that, Bessie," he remarked. "Do you think that is a nice way to treat a young man?"
"Oh, it was only a joke," said Bessie, quite unrepentant.
"Your jokes are too pointed," said Moore. "After this please refrain from any that are sharp enough to go clean through doe-skin breeches and I 'll thank you."
The door opened suddenly and Dicky, still resplendent in red shirt and golden curls, appeared, carrying a book. He halted on the threshold and looked inquiringly at his teacher.
"Egad, it's the cherub!" exclaimed Moore.
Taking courage, Dicky toddled in, book in hand, and approached Moore, who gazed wonderingly down at him.
"Well, my lad, what do you want?"
"Please, sir," piped Dicky, "I wants help wid me lessons," and he held up his book. Bessie stuffed her handkerchief into her mouth to smother her laughter, while a look of understanding came into Moore's eyes.
"Oh, you want help, do you?" said the latter.
"Yis, sir, wid me aris'metic," announced Dicky, laboring earnestly to bring forth the big word and catching some of the edges with his teeth in spite of the exertion. "It's a sum, sir."
"A sum indeed?" echoed Moore.
"Yis, sir, and the answer is one shillin', sir."
Moore looked over at Bessie, who almost choked and had to seek relief in coughing. Then he regarded the recently arrived blackmailer with a glance that he vainly endeavored to make severe, but Dicky perceived the twist of mirth at the sides of his victim's mouth, and took heart accordingly.
"A shilling, my young Jack Sheppard?" said Moore, feeling in his pocket. "I 'll give you a six-pence."
"Patsy said it was a shillin'," insisted Dicky, stamping his feet by way of emphasis.
Moore yielded in shameful defeat.
"There you are, you highwayman, and you tell Patsy I 'll flake him when I catch him again," he said, handing out the desired coin. "You see that door? Well, get through it as quickly as you can, or I may do you bodily injury."
Dicky fled wildly across the school-room with Moore galloping at his heels, then the door shut with a bang, and the pair were alone again.
Chapter Five
TOM MOORE GIVES MISTRESS DYKE AN INKLING
Moore regarded Bessie with a glance of reproving indignation, which was quite lost upon the young lady.
"I 'm in a den of thieves, I am," he remarked, sternly. "Bessie, I half believe you put those lads up to that same game. What share do you get? Half, I 'll wager."
"When do you go back to Dublin, Tom?" asked the girl, waving aside his insinuation with a flirt of her handkerchief.
"I don't know," responded Moore. "I should be there now."
"Should you, Tom? What is keeping you, then?"
Simple child! She, of course, had not the slightest suspicion that she was in any way concerned in the poet's prolonged tarrying at Dalky. Innocence is a truly beautiful thing, and that it is not more popular is much to be regretted.
"Keeping me?" repeated Moore. "Nothing but my heart, mavourneen."
"Indeed? Who has it in their possession, if it is no longer in yours?"
"You, Bessie," answered Moore, earnestly. "And pray do not return it. After being in your keeping, no other woman would satisfy it, and I 'd have no peace at all. Ah, alanna, when I left Dublin, weary and discouraged at my failure to sell my poetry, and came to this quiet country place in search of rest, it is little I dreamed I would run across such a girl as you. You have put new thoughts in my head, Bessie. My soul is not the same at all."
Touched by the tenderness of his tone, the girl grew sober in her turn.
"And you must go, Tom?" she asked, regretfully.
"I have my fortune to make, Bessie. Why, mavourneen, I have n't a penny of my own."
"And no pennies of anybody else's?"
Moore smiled broadly.
"How could I have?" said he. "I never went to school here. I don't know the system like your pupils."
Bessie laughed and looked so tempting in her mirth that Moore made another attempt to kiss her, with no better success than had rewarded his previous efforts.
"Poverty is a common complaint," she observed, shaking her head at the disappointed youth.
"I had rather be poor than a miser," said Moore, sitting down on a stool.
"A miser? Am I one?"
"Yes, with your kisses. Faith, they are spoiling to be picked."
"I am the best judge of when and by whom they shall be picked, good sir," replied Bessie, pensively nibbling on the end of a brown curl.
"It is hard to be poor, Bessie," sighed Moore, resting his feet on a rung of the stool, his elbows on his knees, and his chin in his hand, this being a favorite attitude of the poet's.
"If you would marry Winnie Farrell you would have slews of money," suggested Bessie, leaning on the back of the bench with affected carelessness of demeanor, but there was a gleam in her eye, hidden 'neath drooping lids and long lashes, that seemed indicative of no little interest in the forthcoming answer.
Moore looked inquiringly at his fair companion.
"Winnie Farrell is it?" he said, laughing at the idea. "Not for me, Bessie. I have picked out another lassie."
"But I 'm told you often call at Squire Farrell's," persisted the girl, not wholly reassured.
"To be sure I do, Bessie," replied Moore frankly. "And no wonder. The Farrells are pleasant people. Winnie is nice to chat with, and I like her brother. He is the cleverest lad in the country."
Bessie shook her head doubtfully, and a sunbeam that, slanting in the window, had comfortably nested in a coil of her bonny brown hair was rudely thrown forth to find no better resting-place than the floor, for the girl moved nearer to Moore as she spoke.
"He is too clever for his own good, I fear," she said. "The fewer dealings you have with Terence the better it will be for you."
Before Moore could reply the door opened, and Patsy, Micky, and Willy Donohue filed in, each clutching an arithmetic.
"Look, Tom," said Bessie, pointing out the new-comers.
Moore regarded the little party with wide-open eyes.
"Egad, Bessie," said he, "it's a committee. What do you lads want now?"
"Please, sir," said Patsy, acting as spokesman, "these two boys wants help wid their lessons. They each has a sum, sir, and their answer is sixpence apiece."
"Come here, then," said Moore, sweetly, "and I 'll hand it to you."
The boys, made confident by past successes, came forward without hesitation as their victim put both hands in his pockets.
"It is a long worm that has no turning," remarked Moore, seizing Patsy by the collar with one hand, while with the other he picked up the ruler from the desk. "This is where Thomas Moore worms--I mean turns. There is sixpence where you won't lose it, my lad."
The dust flew from Patsy's breeches, while from his mouth proceeded vigorous objections to his present treatment.
"Now run, you divil, or I will repeat the dose," cried Moore, throwing the ruler at Micky's bare shins as that youthful conspirator sought safety in headlong flight with Willy before him and Patsy close at his heels. A moment later they appeared outside the window and retaliated with derisive gestures for their recent defeat until Moore ran towards the door as though about to give chase, when the lads, squealing with fright, fled across the fields, disappearing in the distant trees.
"How do you like teaching?" asked Bessie, mischievously, as Moore returned.
"Fine," he said. "Fine, and it's I that pays the fines, little limbs of Satan."
"Remember, you are speaking of my pupils, Mr. Moore," she said threateningly.
"All right," said Moore, "little limbs of Bessie Dyke!"
"Tom!"
"I did n't mean it that way, my dear. Far be it from me to make such indelicate remarks intentionally."
"I am not so sure," said Bessie, suspiciously.
"I did n't think what I was saying, Bessie."
"Do you always say what you think?"
"Do you want me to be arrested?" demanded Moore. "I conceal my thoughts almost as often as you do, mavourneen."
"You can omit that 'Mavourneen,'" said Bessie, refusing to be so soon cajoled into good humor. "I 'm not to be blarneyed so easily."
"Oh," said Moore, "it's a terrible thing to be haunted by a girl's face."
"Is it?" asked Bessie, mollified.
"I should think so," responded Moore. "I can't work for thinking of one."
"Is her name 'Laziness'?"
"You 'll get no more information on the subject from me. Do you know, Bessie, I have half made up my mind not to go back to Dublin at all?"
"No? Where else would you go, Tom?"
"To London," announced Moore, dramatically. "To London, Bessie, and once there I 'll take Dame Fortune by the throat and strangle the hussy till she gives me what I deserve."
"Ah," cried Bessie, "that would be splendid, Tom!"
"I 'd go to-morrow only I dare n't leave you, darlin', for fear you will be stolen from me in my absence."
"What do you mean?" asked Bessie, looking at him in surprise.
"As though you did not know, Bessie!" answered Moore, rising to his feet. "I mean this Sir Percival Lovelace, who is seen so often in your company of late. Lord Brooking's friend. Don't I know what he is after when I see a great gentleman like him, the odor of Court still in his ruffles, walking and talking with a pretty bit of a school-teacher like you?"
Bessie flushed a little, but her tone was sad instead of angry when she answered:
"Tom, have you no faith in me?"
"Well, it is precious little I have in Sir Percival," he replied, turning away angrily, "and the less you have the better it will be for you."
Bessie's eyes twinkled maliciously. Here was her chance to pay her lover back for some of the plaguements he had practised upon her.
"You don't like Sir Percival?" said she, calmly.
"Not I," said Moore. "I see through his fine manners easy enough."
"He says I would make a good actress," continued Bessie, as though flattered by the idea.
Moore bit his lip in anger, but spoke calmly enough when he answered:
"He did n't say you would make a good wife?"
It was Bessie's turn to lose her temper.
"Oh, Tom," she snapped crossly. "I shall be angry."
Moore sat down on the bench previously ornamented by Patsy's youthful form.
"I'd rather you would be angry than sorry," he said, moodily.
There was a short silence. For a moment Bessie hesitated between anger and apology, then her real regard for Moore triumphed and she decided not to torment him further.
"Tom," she said softly.
Moore showed no sign of having heard her.
"Tom," she said as sweetly as a deliciously modulated voice could sound the word.
Still no reply. She stepped lightly towards him.
"Tom, dear, don't be sulky," she said, laying one hand upon his sturdy shoulder. "Why I care more for your little finger than I ever could for Sir Percival."
"Will you tell him so?" asked Moore, taking her hand as he rose.
This was asking entirely too much and Bessie raised her head very haughtily, indignant that her condescension in making so confidential a statement had led to such an extravagant request.
"Indeed, I will not," she declared, defiantly, returning as she spoke to her chair behind the desk at the front of the schoolroom. Moore followed her and they stood face to face, the desk between them.
"Very well," he said determinedly, "if you won't, I will."
"If you dare, Thomas Moore," cried Bessie, shaking one pink forefinger at the poet, admonishingly. "If you dare!"
"Faith, I dare do anything," he replied, and, seizing her hand, plunged the lifted finger up to the second joint in the contents of the inkstand, thus effectually ending the argument.
"Oh!" cried Bessie, holding her hand, so the jetty fluid would not fall upon her gown or apron. "You horrid, horrid thing, see what you have done!"
Moore laughed heartily at her discomfiture, and in so doing recovered his usual cheerful spirits.
"Oh, the ink will wash off," he chuckled. "That is more than the mark you have left on my heart will do, for that is indelible."
Bessie stamped her tiny foot in her rage and made as though she would wipe her hand on Moore's coat, which caused the triumphant young man to seek sudden shelter behind the benches.
"I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."
