Читать книгу Tom Moore - Theodore Burt Sayre - Страница 5

"I can't wash it off, Tom Moore."

"Have you never been taught to perform your ablutions, Bessie?"

"Stupid! My other hand is burned and water will make it smart."

"I wonder if water would make me smart."

"I 'd like to," said the girl.

"I 've always tried wine when I thought I needed intellectual stimulation."

"I should think you would be drinking all the time," said Bessie, spitefully.

"Not all the time," corrected Moore. "Part of it I spend earning the price. There, now, don't worry, I 'll scrub your little fist for you if you will let me. Will you?"

Bessie's anger cooled as rapidly as it had warmed.

"If you will be very gentle, you may."

"Trust me for that," said Moore, going to the bucket that stood in the corner with a basin covering it. "It's empty, Bessie. There is not as much water here as would make a foot-bath for a flea."

"You can fetch it from the well," said Bessie.

"Will you come with me?"

"You can go alone, Tom Moore."

"I can, but I don't want to, Bessie."

"You would be almost there now if you had n't stopped to talk."

"Won't you come, Bessie?"

"I suppose I will have to do it to please you," said the girl, yielding with a little sigh.

"Won't it please you, too?" said Moore, stopping her.

"But, Tom--"

"Won't it?" he insisted.

"Yes,--yes,--yes!" she replied, with increasing emphasis on each reiteration.

Moore let her pass, and she paused at the door, looking over her plump shoulder.

"What a child you are, Tom Moore!"

"Child," he repeated. "Child? Maybe I am, Bessie, but when you are called 'Mama' it won't be by me, though I think I 'll not be far off."

"Oh!" she cried, and slammed the door.

Chapter Six

TWO GENTLEMEN OF WEALTH AND BREEDING

It is doubtful if a search prosecuted through the entire extent of the United Kingdoms over which the Prince of Wales ruled as Regent would have brought forth a more debonair or contented individual than Sir Percival Lovelace, gentleman, libertine, and chosen comrade of His Royal Highness. In the eyes of this gallant, morals were a mark of ancient barbarism that gentle breeding and a long line of ancestors should be expected to remove or render forgotten. As these views coincided almost exactly with those cherished by the First Gentleman of Europe, it is not to be wondered that the Prince found in the baronet an agreeable and, more than that, an amusing companion. But even London may pall upon one and, not being hampered by the restrictions limiting the peregrinations of royalty, which were often the cause for much princely profanity at Carlton House, Sir Percival sought change and diversion in a jaunt through Scotland and Wales, finally ending in a tour of Ireland, where, much to his surprise, he stumbled upon certain persons destined to furnish him with more or less food for thought for the next year or two. His companion on his travels was none other than Lord Brooking, nephew of Lord Moira, already known as one of England's most capable statesmen. The young gentleman first mentioned was quite popular in the Regent's set, but more widely known in the circles from whence the various arts drew encouragement and patronage. But, in spite of his leanings toward the more cultured pursuits scantily patronized by the profligate society immediately surrounding the Regent, Lord Brooking was much more popular with that noble gentleman than many whose daily and nightly labor was the effort to curry favor with England's ruler. Lord Brooking was no ordinary personage. There was small flavor of the roué in his character, though it cannot be denied that, following the general current of fashion, he had not hesitated to play his part in the masque of dissipation offered as entertainment to the middle and lower classes by the aristocracy whom they were expected to envy and admire. But in his heart he felt only regret for his own participation in such unworthy extravagance, and, in most instances, a profound contempt for those who found diversion and contentment in such existence. There were two conspicuous exceptions to his lordship's general condemnation. The first was Richard Brinsley Sheridan, poet, dramatist, and statesman, now in his decadence, who still sought and furnished entertainment in society, a garrulous, drunken, and witty old gentleman, with a heart as young and a thirst as dictatorial as when Fame first brought him well-merited reward. The only enemies owned by this lightsome veteran were those foolish enough to expect eventual settlement of bills or loans that they were so unwise as to allow him to add to his long list of personal indebtedness. It is almost unnecessary to mention that disappointment was the subsequent conclusion of all such hopes of his deluded creditors, for Mr. Sheridan was consistent in one thing to the last--entire lack of financial responsibility.

The other exception was Sir Percival, who was so gay, so generous, so witty that Brooking, blinded by the glitter of a sparklingly brilliant personality, neither saw nor felt the hideous moral imperfections that this winning gentleman hid beneath his splendid exterior. The several peccadilloes really beyond all extenuation or apology of which the baronet had been guilty had never been brought to the attention of his younger friend and so at the time of which this tale is a chronicle it would have been difficult to find two closer cronies than this pair of young noblemen, who were strolling leisurely in the direction of the schoolhouse.

Sir Percival looked at Brooking quizzically.

"You do not approve, lad," he said with a little laugh. "You 're too good a fellow, I am afraid."

"I wish I could be as timid about you," replied Brooking, pleasantly.

"Can't you, dear boy? No? Pray, why not?"

"Do you really wish to know?" asked Brooking, hesitating a little.

Sir Percival treated himself daintily to a pinch of snuff and brushed the dust from his coat with an embroidered handkerchief.

"I think you wish to tell me," he answered, smiling. "It amounts to the same thing between friends, doesn't it?"

"I think we may as well understand each other now," said Brooking, in a serious tone.

"I quite agree with you," remarked Sir Percival, inwardly wondering what this introduction would lead to.

"I have been postponing this conversation from day to day for the last week."

"Indeed? And why?"

"It is rather a delicate subject."

"I would prefer one that is indelicate, if it is not inconvenient," suggested Sir Percival.

"For once in your life, Lovelace, be serious."

"Even that I will not deny you. Proceed."

"We have been pals since boyhood. As little lads we blacked each other's eyes."

"We did," admitted Sir Percival, laughing gently, "and bled each other's noses, too."

"We licked the same stick of candy."

"Gad, yes. My favorite was peppermint. I remember it as well as though it were but yesterday."

"We grew up to manhood together," continued Brooking, half sadly. "A pretty couple of rakes we were, too."

"We are still, dear lad," corrected Sir Percival. "Two very pretty little libertines, upon my honor."

"In London, where we were well known as an unworthy couple, I have no fault to find with you."

"No?" said the baronet in surprise. "To tell the truth, that statement causes me some little astonishment."

"We sailed under our true colors there--"

"But," interrupted Sir Percival, "the same flag is still flying, old man."

"Ah," said his lordship, "while that is true, it must be remembered that they do not understand its meaning down here. I haven't much to brag of in the way of morals, more is the pity, but no woman has ever wept of shame from my wrong doing, nor will a woman ever do so."

Sir Percival gave his companion a smile of interrogation.

"And I?" he asked.

"I am not so sure about you," responded Lord Brooking, deliberately, "but in London, where you are known, the folly of a girl in trusting you would be so inexcusable that indiscretion upon your part might be readily condoned; but here in this peaceful, simple old town it is very different."

"Come to the point, Brooking. You are almost tiresomely wordy to-day."

"It amounts to this, Percy. I have done some things I 'm heartily ashamed of and I intend in the future to be a better fellow."

"Very commendable, indeed," observed the baronet, a trifle bored, "Does my approval encourage you?"

"What do you intend to do with Bessie Dyke?" demanded the younger man, halting as he spoke.

Sir Percival paused and pensively cut down a weed or two with his walking stick.

"Hum," he said slowly. "As I thought."

"Do you mean honestly by the girl?"

"Your last words are quite correct," said the baronet, coolly. "Buy the girl--I mean to do that, Brooking."

"You frankly avow that is your object?" began Brooking, genuinely shocked.

"Tut--tut!" interrupted his companion, good humoredly. "She is a pretty creature, is n't she? Clever, too, in her own innocent, foolish, little way. For her smiles and bread-and-buttery love--a welcome change, by the way, from the London brand of petulant passion--I 'll give her a carriage, horses, fine dresses, a necklace or two, and lastly my own charming self for--er--for probably as long a time as several months."

"And then, what will become of her?"

"Really, I don't know," answered Sir Percival. "Can't imagine, and I shan't bore myself by wondering. Perhaps she will marry some clodhopper like this Tom Moore. No doubt he would think her doubly valuable when I have finished with her."

"You are not in earnest," stammered Brooking, incredulously.

"Quite in earnest, my dear old chap. Ah, you think that I will not succeed? Pshaw, Brooking! Not here, perhaps, in this deliciously moral atmosphere, but elsewhere, yes. And I intend that she shall be elsewhere. Brooking, I shall fetch this rural beauty to London."

"She will not go," asserted his lordship.

"No?" returned the baronet. "Who, think you, will prevent her?"

"Tom Moore, or I am much mistaken," answered Brooking, confidently.

"Tut!" said Sir Percival, incredulously. "You do not give my tact sufficient consideration. I 'll wager the objections Mr. Moore may see fit to make will prove of no avail in influencing the lady. In fact, if I do say it myself, my plans are clever enough to discount the efforts of a dozen bogtrotters, let alone one and he a rhymester. To begin with I have read and gone in raptures over old Robin Dyke's verses. Egad, I have pronounced them beautiful, and really they are not half bad, Brooking. If they were not so crammed with anarchy they would sell in London. The old boy is a socialist, you know. Yes, i' faith, he bastes the Prince and Castlereagh soundly," and this ardent royalist chuckled gleefully at the memory.

"Then you have broached the subject to Mr. Dyke?" asked Lord Brooking, as they continued their stroll in the direction of the schoolhouse. Sir Percival nodded his head.

"Yes, Brooking, the old scribbler is half persuaded already. I have promised him my support and patronage in London if he comes."

"And the girl?"

"I am tempting Bessie with the promise of a place at Old Drury, where, as you know, I am not without influence. Stab me! with her eyes and rosy red cheeks she would need neither paint nor powder to make her an ornament to the boards. Like most clever women, she has ambitions of a histrionic nature. She will come to London, Brooking, and once there!--once there--she is mine, dear lad, she is mine."

Brooking's anger and disgust refused to be longer pent up beneath his calm, almost indifferent, demeanor.

"What a low scoundrel you are!" he ejaculated, much to Sir Percival's surprise. The baronet for a moment regarded him quizzically, as though suspicious that this uncomplimentary description of his character was intended as a humorous remark, but seeing severity in his lordship's face, he smiled pleasantly and refused to take offence.

"Don't be so serious, old cock," he drawled. "Earnestness is so tiresome. Ah, life at its best bores me. My friends bore me. Even you, Brooking, bore me at times. Toss me, if I know anything that does not bore me sooner or later."

"Sir Percival," said the younger gentleman, "if I whispered one half that you have said to me in Tom Moore's ear he would choke the life out of you and sink your body in the pond."

"And spoil the drinking water? Well, such treatment as you describe would not bore me at all events. 'T would be exciting, even unpleasant, 't is true, but interesting in the extreme, and anything which is not tedious is worthy of all consideration."

Brooking laughed, amused in spite of his disapproval.

"You are incorrigible," he said.

"Permit me to explain my view of the matter," continued Sir Percival, amiably.

"By all means, Percy."

"This piquant country damsel pleases me rarely. She is a sweet little thing whose view of life is about as comprehensive as that of a day-old kitten. She shall be educated, Brooking, and I will serve as tutor. You saw me stoop and pluck a primrose from beside the road as we walked this way, did you not? Here it is in my button-hole. This girl is a primrose, Brooking; I 'll wear her till she is faded,--then, like this wilted blossom, I will toss her aside. And why? Because there are other primroses as fair and sweet, unplucked and unfaded, that grow beside my path farther on, and I like fresh flowers and new faces."

This very pretty gentleman helped himself to snuff, and then beamed benevolently upon his companion. Brooking saw the baronet was in sober earnest in spite of his pleasant manner and humorous tone. A new comprehension of his friend's real character dawned upon his mind, and for the first time in the long years of their acquaintance and fellowship he was able to strip from the libertine the exterior of the winning and courtly gentleman that had hitherto served to conceal his imperfections. In that one moment vanished the affection and admiration the younger man had felt for the elder, leaving only the colder and less exacting friendship existing between men of the same circle in society, who find much to interest and amuse in each other's company, but nothing to love or respect.

There was a slight pause before his lordship spoke, but when he did so there was a new ring to his voice.

"If you harm this little girl, I 'll never take your hand in mine again. You hear, Percy? Do as you have said, and we are strangers forever."

"And why?" demanded his companion.

"Because I 'll not own friendship with so filthy a rogue as you will have proved yourself to be."

"Hum!" murmured Sir Percival, thoughtfully. "Then you will probably constitute yourself her protector?"

"If necessary, yes."

"And will no doubt seek to balk me by telling her what a villain you think me, lad?"

"You know better than that," replied Brooking, a reproachful tone perceptible in his voice.

"So I do," assented the baronet. "What do you say to making it a game? One hundred guineas I win."

The instinct of the gamester, without which no buck of the times was considered completely a gentleman in society's interpretation of the word, stirred in the blood of his lordship.

"Done," said he.

"Good lad," commented Sir Percival. "My cards are wealth and fame, London and Drury Lane."

"Mine are the girl's honesty and Tom Moore."

"Tom Moore?" repeated the other, inquiringly.

"Yes," answered Brooking, "for if Bessie Dyke does go to London with you as her patron, I 'll bring Tom Moore there and be his."

"Just as you like," said Sir Percival.

Reaching the door of the schoolhouse a moment later, the two bloods knocked vigorously and stood on the stone threshold, waiting patiently for a response from the interior. As this was not forthcoming, after another moment's delay, Sir Percival opened the door and led the way into the schoolroom.

Chapter Seven

TOM MOORE OBLIGES A FRIEND AND GETS IN TROUBLE

"Can it be Mistress Bessie has departed for the day?" said Sir Percival, surveying the deserted room with no little disappointment.

"I think not," replied his lordship, imitating his companion's look of investigation. "As I thought, Sir Percival! There is her hat."

As he spoke, Brooking pointed to a dainty affair composed of some complicated combination of white straw and blue ribbons, from which peered inquisitively forth a bunch of pink posies. This charming creation hung pendant by the strings from a nail in the wall behind the desk, making plain that the school-mistress intended to return.

"True, Brooking," said Sir Percival, and taking it down he pressed one of the ribbons to his lips. "Almost as sweet and pretty as its owner. Egad, how tuned in harmony with her own charm are the belongings of a dainty and tasteful woman. Like the scientists of the Museum who from a bone construct a skeleton, so could I from this little hat draw the portrait of the lady whom it might become."

"You are dangerously near sentimentality," said Brooking, as though warning the baronet of peril unperceived.

Sir Percival laughed.

"I sometimes forget that I am no longer a lad of two-and-twenty, though Heaven knows I lack not reminders. Impossible as it seems, it is nevertheless true that I found a gray hair this morning. A silver messenger from approaching Age. I plucked the rascally thing out and breathed more freely when I was rid of it."

A knock sounded on the door by which the pair had entered, and Sir Percival, peeking slyly through a convenient window, gave an exclamation of dismay.

"Pluck me, Brooking, if it is not old Robin Dyke himself. Devil take the old bore!"

Brooking pointed to the other exit.

"Perhaps we can escape this way."

Sir Percival, followed by his lordship, tiptoed across the room, but before they reached the other doorway, Mr. Dyke, weary of waiting, entered briskly, and their plan of evasion was abandoned as hastily as it had been adopted.

"Why, if it is not Mr. Dyke," cried Sir Percival, cheerily, quite as though he were overjoyed at the meeting. "Good-day to you, sir. I hope it finds you sound in health."

Dyke flushed with pleasure at the heartiness of the great gentleman's greeting. He was a pleasant-faced old man, simple and good-hearted, too prone to trust in the honor of others, but erring only by giving them credit for benevolence and honesty equal to his own. He was quite a portly old person, with a face strongly lined in spite of its placid expression. His hair, worn rather long as became a poet, was a wavy, shimmery gray, and he walked with a rambling sort of gait that suggested vaguely a compromise between a stride and a toddle. Sir Percival's quick eye caught sight of a suggestive roll of manuscript sticking out of the new-comer's pocket.

"Ah!" exclaimed the baronet, tapping the paper with his cane. "I see a paper peeking from your coat, Mr. Dyke. Another poem, I 'll be bound. Come now, sir, out with it. I swear, we will hear it, eh, Brooking?"

"I 'm afraid we will," murmured his lordship beneath his breath, but he bowed in pleasant assent in reply to the old gentleman's inquiring look.

"What?" continued Sir Percival. "Too modest, eh? Then I will read it myself," and, with a gesture gracefully apologetic for the liberty, he drew the roll from Dyke's pocket.

"Really, Sir Percival," stammered the old man, in pleased embarrassment. "My poor effort--"

"Your poor effort," repeated Sir Percival, scanning the first page through his eyeglass, as he spoke. "If this be his poor effort, Brooking, what would his best be?"

"God knows!" murmured Brooking to himself, "I hate to think of it."

Sir Percival's quick ear caught his lordship's muttered remark, so, as the flustered poet crossed to the window in hope of obtaining a glimpse of the absent schoolmistress, the baronet turned to Brooking with a laugh.

"Perhaps God knows," he whispered, "or perhaps it is better known in the other place. Look at it, Brooking."

"Must I?" replied the younger man, reluctantly.

"Of course you must," asserted Sir Percival. Then more loudly he continued:

"Genius in every line, and more between them. My dear Dyke, we must have you in England."

"You think so, Sir Percival?" said the old gentleman, greatly flattered.

"I am sure of it," answered the other as though convinced, returning the poem to its author. "But once you are there, no seditious political versifying like this. Why, sir, the Prince would foam at the mouth if he saw this. Love lyrics, sir, for the ladies. That must be your game, dear man."

Mr. Dyke hardly knew which to regard as the greater compliment, the implication that he had but to exert himself to write poetry that would be pleasing to the fair sex of London, or the assertion that the satire of his latest production was sufficient to cause annoyance even to Royalty itself. Still not quite decided in regard to the matter, he blew his nose resoundingly and modestly replied:

"I would restrain my opinions, since I cannot change them."

Sir Percival winked wickedly at Brooking to draw the latter's attention to his next remark.

"Have you thought over my proposal, Mr. Dyke?"

"I have given it much deliberation," answered that worthy, in a tone that but ill concealed the delight occasioned him by the mere suggestion of such an idea.

"Well, Mr. Dyke?"

"I feel most favorably inclined, I must confess," replied the old gentleman.

"Ah!" said Sir Percival, in an undertone to Lord Brooking, "d' ye hear that, lad? He must confess."

"I wish you had to, Percy. It would save me trouble."

"Then it is decided?" said Sir Percival, looking triumphantly at his friend.

Dyke hesitated.

"No," he said, "not exactly decided. It now rests with my daughter. If she agrees with me, I will be pleased to do as you have suggested."

"Then Bessie shall say 'Yes,'" responded the baronet.

Chancing to look out the window at this moment, Sir Percival caught a glimpse of a familiar figure passing on a path running near the schoolhouse.

"What, what?" he laughed. "There goes young Farrell. Who is the petticoat in tow?"

"That is his sister Winnie," replied Mr. Dyke, peering through his glasses. "A nice girl, Sir Percival, with a proper admiration for literature."

"Too dumpy, by far," responded that gentleman, surveying the lady with anything but approval. "By the way, I 've something to say to Terence. Brooking, while I run after them, you may tell Mr. Dyke your opinion of his poetry."

And hastening to the door, the baronet gave chase to the couple, already at quite a distance.

At this moment Farrell chanced to look around and, beholding the approaching macaroni, halted his companion and stood waiting, his sister feeling quite giddy with the thought of meeting so great a beau as Sir Percival.

"I 've a word or two to say that may interest you, Terence, if you can spare me a moment," began the baronet.

"My time is quite at your disposal, Sir Percival," replied Farrell. "Permit me to present you to my sister."

Sir Percival bowed with graceful formality.

"La, Mistress Farrell," he sighed, prettily, "your father is indeed fortunate. With such a son and such a daughter his old age should be crowned with happiness and content."

"Father finds much to criticise," said the girl. "I fear he takes no such flattering view of his children as you insinuate he should."

"Criticise?" repeated Sir Percival in a tone of astonishment. "What can he wish for?"

"Much, if one may judge from his complaints," answered Winnie, not a little puffed up by the baronet's condescension and approval. "I 'll not keep you from your business with my prattle, sir. Terence, I will go on to Mrs. McCloud's and stop for you at the school-house on my way back."

"You are most amiable, Mistress Farrell," said Sir Percival, gratefully.

The girl courtesied in what she hoped was a good imitation of the London manner, and continued on her way, leaving the two gentlemen to stroll toward the schoolhouse.

"Well, Sir Percival," said Farrell knowingly, "what is afoot?"

As he spoke he gave the baronet a searching look, which drew forth a pleasant smile by way of answer.

"You never lose time in getting to the point."

"Except when it's a sword," replied Farrell. "Then I can be devilish slow."

Sir Percival's face wore a pensive look as he regarded his friend.

"For a country squire you present a wonderfully fashionable appearance," he remarked, his eye travelling approvingly from the bell-crowned beaver on the youth's well-shaped head to the carefully tied stock and thence to the immaculately polished boots which ornamented feet both small and neatly turned. "Your costume would not be out of place on Pall Mall, Terence."

With characteristic cunning the courtier had detected young Farrell's weak point. The youthful Irishman's fondest wish was that he might some day be acknowledged as a beau in no less a place than London itself; a city which dictated fashion to the rest of the kingdom, drawing its own inspiration from the finicky fancy of George Brummell, now at the height of his power as dictator of society.

Farrell flushed with pleasure at Sir Percival's commendation.

"I' faith," he answered, "even in Ireland we are not entirely lacking in taste."

"No, not entirely," observed the baronet. "And the cards, Terence? Does Fortune smile upon you these days?"

"Not so frequently as my pocket demands, sir. To tell the truth, I 've played in most villainous luck this last week."

"Then possibly you would regard the opportunity to earn one hundred pounds with favoring eye?"

"Would I? Try me, Sir Percival," answered Farrell eagerly.

"Very well, Terence," replied the baronet, "but whether you accept or refuse my proposition you bind yourself as an honorable man to repeat to no one what I shall suggest?"

"Of course," answered Farrell. "You may confide in me, Sir Percival."

"I have work for that infernally clever brain of yours. One hundred pounds if you will devise a scheme that parts Bessie Dyke from this Tom Moore who annoys me."

It cannot be said that Farrell was astonished at the words of Sir Percival. Nevertheless, that such a great and clever man should consider it advisable to obtain assistance in outwitting so comparatively rustic an individual as Tom Moore, was, in the youth's eyes, rather a damaging admission of weakness. At least so he regarded it, for the moment not realizing that to a gentleman of large fortune it was far more satisfactory to busy another's brain than to greatly exert his own, even though the result of the latter might be more pleasing in the end.

"One hundred pounds," repeated Sir Percival, languidly.

"But Tom Moore is my friend."

"Ah!" said the baronet, "in that case one hundred and one pounds."

Farrell laughed a little.

"Very well, Sir Percival," said he, "I will undertake to earn the sum you mention. I must admit the airs and graces with which Moore sees fit to conduct himself are extremely offensive to me. His manner is one of extreme condescension, and more than once I have felt myself to be upon the verge of resenting it."

"Then," said the baronet, "it is agreed?"

Farrell nodded pleasantly.

"How will you do it?"

"Easily, Sir Percival. You leave the affair to me and I 'll fix it so Bessie Dyke will never look at Tom Moore again."

"If you succeed, I 'll make it one hundred and fifty."

"Ah," said Farrell, lifting the latch of the school-house door, "I like dealing with you, Sir Percival."

At almost the same moment Bessie Dyke entered at the opposite side. Sir Percival bowed in his most courtly manner.

"Here is the missing damsel at last," he said.

Moore pushed the half-closed door open and stepped in, bucket in hand.

"There is more to follow," he announced, setting his burden in an out-of-the-way corner as he spoke.

"More?" echoed Sir Percival, questioningly.

"Yes, Tom Moore."

"A villainous pun, upon my honor."

"A pun upon your honor might well be such," said Moore, coming forward.

Sir Percival allowed an expression of surprise to pass over his handsome face.

"Egad," he said, gently, as though in veiled wonderment. "Wit, and from such a source."

"A sauce of wit makes game more savory," returned Moore, not at all irritated at the baronet's accent of superiority. "And I know your game," he added in an undertone.

"Indeed?"

"In deed and in thought, too," answered Moore, cheerfully. "You will not succeed, my good sir."

"Will you prevent me, Mr. Moore?"

"I fancy so, Sir Percival."

The baronet raised his voice, so that the conversation, hitherto inaudible to the others, who were clustered at the side of the room, could be easily heard. He did this intending to overwhelm this youth, whom he despised both as a rustic and as an Irishman, with the apt and stinging wit that had made him famous even in London drawing-rooms accustomed to the sparkling sallies and epigrams of Sheridan and Rogers. He regarded the conversational defeat of Moore as an easy task, and proceeded to attempt it with a confidence born of many hard-fought victories won in the brilliantly flippant circle surrounding the Prince of Wales, a society that could only be described as pyrotechnically witty.

"I understand that you write poetry, Mr. Moore."

"But you would not understand the poetry I write."

"But I might buy some of it. I am not over particular as to merit, you see."

"I am very particular, you see, to whom I sell."

"Why?" demanded Sir Percival, taking snuff with a graceful flourish.

"Because I write for the masses and classes, not for the asses," replied Moore, as pleasantly as though paying a delicate compliment to the nobleman.

Sir Percival recognized that the first point had been scored by his hitherto despised rival, and rallied gamely, as became a gentleman of blood and breeding.

"That last accounts for your unpopularity with your fellow-countrymen," he suggested.

"Oh, they are not the asses I alluded to, Sir Percival."

"Perhaps you intended that for me, then?"

"Does a fellow feeling make you wondrous kind?" asked Moore, innocently.

"Hum. Rather clever, Moore," said Sir Percival, planning a particularly nasty retort, which he was prevented from delivering by Bessie's approach.

"How is my little schoolmistress to-day?" he said, winningly, to the girl.

Moore, loath to relinquish his victory, decided to continue the battle of wits, and thus brought about his undoing in the moment of his triumph.

"Your little schoolmistress?" he repeated. "Have you become a scholar, Sir Percival?"

"To be taught by Mistress Dyke, I would become anything."

"Except honest," suggested Moore.

"Sir!" exclaimed his rival, angrily.

"Why, sir, if you are honest already, there is surely no need of change."

"He had you there, Percy," said Lord Brooking, joining the group.

"On the contrary, Brooking, Mistress Dyke has me here," replied Sir Percival, his anger cooled.

"We all have our troubles," observed Moore, plaintively, "even Mistress Dyke."

This was the baronet's opportunity, and he made good use of it.

"Egad," he drawled, "have you been reading your own poetry, Mr. Moore?"

Bessie laughed merrily as Moore tasted the bitterness of defeat and allowed himself to be led away to the organ by Lord Brooking.

"A song, Mr. Moore. I 've heard such reports of your singing that I am more than eager to listen to one of your ballads. Mr. Dyke and our friend Farrell join me in the request."

"But, my lord," objected Moore, casting an inquiring glance towards where Sir Percival was talking glibly to the little schoolmistress, "I--er--really I 'm not in voice to-day."

"Nonsense!" said his lordship. "We will not be denied, Mr. Moore."

"Then since I 'm not Saint Peter, I 'll have to yield. What shall it be?"

A short discussion followed at the organ, and when this had been settled by Dyke and Farrell choosing "The Shamrock," Moore, calmly paying no attention to such a detail as that, proceeded to sing his latest poem, written only that morning in honor of Sir Percival.

Nothing could have been more to the point, for at this very moment the baronet was urging the girl to ratify her parent's decision in regard to the proposed move to London, painting for her in vivid words what a Successful career at Drury Lane Theatre would mean, at the same time dwelling upon her father's opportunity for advancement as poet and scholar.

"Oh! weep for the hour,

When to Eveleen's bower

The Lord of the Valley with false vows came;

The moon hid her light

From the heavens that night,

And wept behind her clouds o'er the maiden's shame.

"The clouds passed soon

From the chaste cold moon,

And heaven smiled again with her vestal flame;

But none will see the day

When the clouds shall pass away,

Which that dark hour left upon Eveleen's fame.

"The white snow lay

On the narrow pathway

When the Lord of the Valley crost over the moor;

And many a deep print

On the white snow's tint

Showed the track of his footsteps to Eveleen's door.

"The next sun's ray

Soon melted away

Every trace on the path where the false Lord came;

But there's a light above

Which alone can remove

That stain upon the snow of fair Eveleen's fame."

Moore's voice died away melodiously in the last plaintive note.

"A very pretty song, Mr. Moore. It tells a beautiful story and points a splendid moral," said Lord Brooking.

"Yes, my lord," answered Moore, glancing toward Bessie. "It shows the folly of a poor girl in believing aught told her by a nobleman. It is as true nowadays as it was then."

"Oh, Tom," said the girl, tremulously. "It is beautiful. Is it not, Sir Percival?"

"Oh, very, very," replied the baronet. "Extremely so. I congratulate you, Mr. Moore."

"Have you reason to do so, Sir Percival?" asked Moore.

His question was answered immediately, for Bessie turned toward the gentleman addressed.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," she said, "but I fear London is not for such as father and me."

As Moore gave a sigh of relief and turned away, satisfied that he had foiled the baronet in his attempt to entice Bessie from Ireland, Farrell touched him on the arm and led him to one side.

"Will you meet me here, Tom, in half an hour?" he asked.

"Is it important, Terry?" demanded Moore, who intended to devote the rest of the afternoon to courting Bessie.

"It may mean money enough to start you in London."

"The devil!" exclaimed the poet. "I 'll meet you then, for to London I am bound to go, sooner or later."

At this moment Lord Brooking, who had been chatting in a corner with Mr. Dyke, came forward, followed by the old gentleman.

"Sir Percival," said his lordship, a malicious twinkle in his eye, "Mr. Dyke has invited us to try a little wine of his own manufacture. You will be charmed, I know."

"A rare variety of grape, Sir Percival," said Mr. Dyke, delightedly. "In fact, I venture to assert that you have never tasted such a vintage."

"Very likely not, Mr. Dyke," replied Sir Percival, quite convinced that such was the case, and not at all sure that he might not regard himself as favored by fortune on that account.

"You will honor me?" asked Mr. Dyke, eagerly.

Sir Percival saw he could not refuse without wounding the pride of his would-be host, and therefore yielded politely.

"I shall be delighted, I am sure," he answered. Then, lowering his voice, he murmured in Brooking's ear:

"I owe you one, my lord."

Brooking laughed and took the baronet's arm.

"Come, then," said he, pointing to the door with his walking-stick.

"Perhaps Mr. Dyke will read us another poem," said Sir Percival, hopefully.

"Heaven forbid!" whispered his lordship.

"Could anything be more appropriate?" continued the baronet. "We drink the wine pressed from our friend's own grapes, while we listen to the poetry his muse has sipped from the fountain of the gods upon Parnassus."

"You should write poetry, Sir Percival," said Mr. Dyke, much flattered.

"I 'll leave that to Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, advancing towards Bessie.

"There are several other things I wish you would leave to me," said the poet.

"No doubt," replied Sir Percival. "My arm, Mistress Dyke?"

"I must decline that honor," said Bessie. "My duties require me to remain here for a while longer."

"I am sorry for that, Mistress Dyke. You will join us, Mr. Moore?"

"I never drink, Sir Percival," replied Moore, endeavoring to look virtuous without much success.

"Indeed?" said the baronet. "You had better begin, sir. Then perhaps you would write less poetry."

Moore failed to find a suitable retort, and therefore mounted the little platform on which stood the blackboard, as Mr. Dyke, Lord Brooking, and Farrell moved towards the door.

"Mistress Dyke," said Sir Percival, "if you can spare a thought this afternoon, perhaps you will oblige me by reconsidering your decision in regard to London?"

"I have quite made up my mind, thank you," answered Bessie, dusting off her desk with her apron. "Simple country folk would be out of place in so great a city."

"Brains and beauty are made welcome everywhere," answered the baronet. "Moreover, it is a woman's privilege to change her mind."

"Will you be long, my daughter?" asked Mr. Dyke, turning at the door.

"Not very long, father," she answered, demurely. "The--the arithmetic is very difficult for to-morrow, and I must be prepared for the lesson."

Moore helped himself to a piece of chalk, and began figuring on the blackboard.

"What are you doing?" asked Sir Percival, eying the poet through his glass.

"I am preparing the arithmetic," replied Moore, marking a huge six upon the board. Then turning he counted those present. "Six," said he. "One--two--three--four."

As he spoke he checked off all but Bessie and himself upon his fingers.

"Four from six," he continued, doing the subtraction with the chalk, "leaves two, Bessie and me. Good afternoon, gentlemen."

Every one laughed but Sir Percival, who contented himself with a faint smile.

"Quite so," said he, "quite a joke. My time for laughing will come later."

"The later the better," said Moore. "He who laughs last laughs best. Delay it as long as you can, and you will enjoy it the more."

"No doubt, Mr. Moore. Good afternoon to you, Mistress Dyke. Sir, I 'm your most obedient."

"Good-day, Sir Percival," said Bessie, dropping a courtesy as the baronet turned again at the door. Then, as his tall figure vanished from the threshold, she faced her lover with a little sigh of relief.

"Tom," she said reprovingly, "you must not speak as you do to Sir Percival. For a little while I feared you would have a real quarrel."

"Perhaps that would be the easiest way out of it, after all," said Moore, belligerently. "I 'd ask nothing better than to get a chance at him."

"I can't have you fighting with every stranger that comes to Ireland, Tom," said Bessie, assuming that slight air of proprietorship that is so soothing to an eager lover, implying as it does a regard not only of the present moment, but apparently keeping in sight possibilities of the future. Moore felt this subtle influence and yielded to it gradually.

"Thanks be to St. Patrick, they are gone at last," said he in a sulky tone. "Now you can do your arithmetic."

"Tom, you are cross," said Bessie, reproachfully. "This is what I get for staying here to please you."

"What was Sir Percival saying to you so confidentially just now?"

"He was coaxing me to go to London."

"I knew it," cried Moore, angrily. "I 'll do that gay lad an injury if he keeps on."

"Hush, Tom," said Bessie, reprovingly.

"I 'll do something desperate to him," continued Moore, striding up and down the room in his rage.

"Tom," said the girl, in her most persuasive tone. "Tom!"

"I 'll punish him terribly if he don't let you alone."

Bessie seized him by the arm and compelled him to halt.

"Tom dear," she asked, "what will you do?"

"I--I--I 'll dedicate a volume of my poems to him, if he don't look out," declared Moore, yielding to the girl's calming influence.

"But I am not going to London," laughed Bessie, "so you 'll let him off this time, won't you, Tom?"

"You promise you will not go, Bessie?" asked Moore, earnestly, taking her hands in his.

"I promise that while you are as true and kind as you have been to-day, I 'll not even think of it again,"' she answered, soberly.

"True?" repeated Moore, tenderly. "Why, every thought of mine has been faithful since first I met you. Kind? The devil himself could n't be anything but sweet to you, I 'm sure."

Bessie drew her hands away, satisfied that she had made sure of the public peace continuing unfractured so far as her lover was concerned.

"Now," she said, in pretty imitation of his previous cross speech, "now you can do your arithmetic."

"Can I?" answered Moore, laughing. "Then the first sum will be an addition. One added to two. One kiss to two lips."

"And the second?" asked Bessie, at a safe distance.

"Subtraction. Two kisses from two lips."

"That would leave nothing, Tom."

"Nothing but a taste of heaven," replied he, hopefully approaching her.

"A kiss is not right," objected Bessie, in her most moral accents.

"Then give me one that is left," urged Moore. "I see you have plenty, Bessie."

She shook her head.

"Time enough for that when you have been to London. You might see some girl there whom you would much prefer, and I 'll not run the risk till I know that it is n't so," she answered wisely.

"Ah, Bessie, Bessie darling, why will you doubt me so? Oh, I love you, dearest, I love you."

"Sometimes," she answered in a softer tone, "sometimes I almost believe you mean what you say. Ah, Tom, if I could only be sure!"

An eager light came into Moore's fine eyes.

"What can I do to make you sure?" he whispered, his voice vibrant with love and tenderness.

"I will tell you, Tom. Wait till time has proved your heart beyond all doubting. We are both young, and the world is all before us. For you, dearest Tom, it holds fame and fortune--"

"Ah, Bessie," he interrupted, "do you think so?"

"There will come a day," she answered, proudly, "when in all Ireland there will be no name so boasted of, so loved and reverenced, as Thomas Moore."

"And yet if this be true, I 'd throw it all away gladly, if by so doing, I 'd be sure of you," Moore answered, sincerity written on his face. "Bessie my darlin', why won't you believe in me? Won't you love me, Bessie? Can't you love me, Bessie, dear?"

For a moment the girl hesitated. In her heart she yielded, but before the words of surrender left her lips she rallied and remained outwardly true to her resolve. Had Moore taken her in his arms and kissed her, reading aright the soft glowing eyes bent on him with so loving a glance, she would have faltered in her determination, but he did not realize that the time had that second come when she would have sacrificed to her love for him her preconceived and carefully cherished idea of what was right and best for them both, and so he failed to take advantage of the one opportunity to have his own way that capricious fortune granted him. Had he been wiser, his whole future life might have been changed. London might never have known the sweetest poet ever brought forth by Ireland and the afterwards First Nightingale of Fashion's drawing-room might have lived and died an obscure rhymer in some country town.

Like a knowing lass, Bessie, finding herself on the verge of a tear, sought safety in the relaxing influence of a laugh, and extending an ink-besmeared finger in reproach, demanded if Moore intended to make good his promise to remove the stain.

Moore chuckled and the tenseness of the situation was removed.

"Faith," said he, abandoning his attempt to persuade Bessie from her way of thinking, "I 'll wash your hands for you, for fear, if I don't, you 'll wash your hands of me."

Turning on his heel, Moore crossed to the corner where he had left his bucket of water, and, picking it up, placed it beside the basin that lay on the bench.

"Come here, Bessie, and I 'll scrub you clean as a whistle," he announced cheerfully.

Bessie held her hand over the basin obediently, and Moore poured over it the water from the pail.

"Oh--h!" cried the schoolmistress.

"What ails you, Bessie?"

"My, but that water is cold."

"True for you," replied Moore, rubbing her hand with a cake of soap he found in the basin, "but you have so often thrown cold water on my heart it is only fair I should pour some on your hand."

"Oh, I see, Mr. Moore," replied Bessie, "and now that you have given me so much soft soap, you think you will try hard soap for a change."

Moore lathered her fingers vigorously.

"You have guessed my secret. It is a lovely little hand you have, Bessie, but your nails are too long, darlin'."

"If you behave yourself, they won't bother you, Tom."

"Each finger a lily with a rosebud for a tip," poetized Moore, presuming to kiss the bouquet. Bessie snapped her finger, sending a shower of tiny drops in the youth's face.

"A water lily?" asked she.

"Oh!" cried Moore. "Murder! Murder! You have put the soap in my eye," and he forthwith proceeded to dance around in a manner more vigorous than graceful.

Bessie was conscience-stricken at the result of her joke.

"What a shame, Tom. I am so sorry."

"Oh--h!" exclaimed Moore, sitting down on the bench with his face in his handkerchief. "Help! Thieves!"

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, full of regret, "does it hurt you dreadfully?"

"It does that."

"Oh, I am so sorry."

"Thank you kindly."

Kneeling down beside Moore, Bessie drew aside the handkerchief and kissed him soundly on the eye thus brought into view.

"Who did that?" demanded Moore, as though in doubt.

"I did," answered Bessie, boldly. "Is it better?"

"Yes," replied Moore, "but the other eye is full of soap. Cure that, too, like a darlin', Bessie."

"There," said the girl, decisively. "I don't believe it hurt you at all. You have made a fool of me."

Feeling himself detected, Moore abandoned his pretence of suffering.

"Well," he said, with a broad smile, "I am a kiss to the good at all events. Many thanks, Bessie."

"Tom, I am very angry with you."

"I don't believe it, Bessie. You ought to be complimented to see how hard I am willing to work for a kiss."

"I 'll not believe you again."

"That is nothing new, Bessie, darlin'. You are a most unbelieving young female at best."

"There is some one at the door, Tom," said Bessie, her quick ear hearing a foot on the doorstep.

"Come in," said Moore, in answer to Farrell's knock, and that young gentleman entered, carrying himself in so evident an imitation of Sir Percival Lovelace that the poet roared outright.

"What is the joke?" asked Farrell, not at all pleased at Moore's laughter.

"You are, Terry," replied the other. "Faith, it is too bad entirely that we have n't a glass so you could see. My, but you are a macaroni, Terence. Is Lovelace pleased with his pupil?"

And, drawing his handkerchief from his pocket in emulation of Farrell's manipulation of his, Moore proceeded to swagger up and down the schoolhouse in so accurate an imitation of Farrell's recently adopted manner of comporting himself that even Bessie laughed.

Farrell grew red with anger, but, deciding this was not the time to resent Moore's fun, apparently took the performance in good part.

"You are in fine spirits, Tom," he observed, laying his hat on a convenient stool.

"Never better," replied Moore, jovially. "Can I do anything for you, Terry, my boy?"

"Have you forgotten our engagement?"

"Faith, I had that, Terence."

Then, turning to Bessie, Moore continued:

"You see, alanna, how you drive everything but yourself out of my head?"

"That is as it may be," remarked Bessie, sagely, taking her hat from the nail in the wall supporting it. "I must be going. There is my arithmetic, Tom. You can carry it for me."

Moore took the book she held out to him.

"I 'll not be long," he said, as though in excuse. "I promised to have a bit of a confab with Terry. When that is over with, I 'll join you at your house."

Bessie nodded pleasantly and walked over to the door.

"Well," she said, looking out as she opened it, "I shan't lack for an escort. There is Sir Percival now."

"Wait a minute," said Moore, hastening towards her, but she bid him good-bye, laughingly, and shut the door behind her as she stepped out.

Moore, ill pleased, returned to Farrell.

"Did you hear that?" he demanded.

Farrell admitted that he had, and flicked an imaginary speck of dirt from his ruffle.

"You have her arithmetic to comfort you," he suggested.

"It's little comfort I ever get out of such books," said Moore, laying the volume down on Bessie's desk. "Now tell me what ails you, Terence?"

"If I do," said Farrell, cautiously, "you 'll never repeat it to a soul?"

"Shall I cross my heart, lad?"

Farrell shook his head gravely.

"I'll leave that for Mistress Dyke to attend to," he answered.

"Troth," said Moore, smiling, "she made it all criss-cross long ago. But go on, Terry. Unbosom yourself."

"It's this, Tom. My sister Winnie is secretly engaged to Captain Arbuckle of the Ninth Dragoons."

"Engaged to an Englishman!" ejaculated Moore, as though horrified. "And secretly. That adds insult to injury."

"Aye, secretly," repeated Farrell, dolefully.

"That's how you came to know, doubtless," remarked Moore. "Oh, it is awful, Terence, but cheer up, lad. You won't have to be Arbuckle's wife. Let that comfort you, Terry."

"That is not all, Tom. I am poorer than you are, and I have a debt of honor of fifty pounds due to-morrow."

"Whew!" ejaculated Moore, in astonishment. "Well, whose fault is that?"

"Yours, Tom," replied Farrell, boldly.