TOM MOORE

_Chapter One_

_TOM MOORE GOES ANGLING_

Mr. Thomas Moore was certainly in a very cheerful mood. This was

evidenced by the merry tune with which he was delighting himself, and a

jealous-minded thrush, with head cocked on one side, waited with

ill-concealed impatience for his rival to afford him the opportunity of

entering into competition. As this was not forthcoming, the bird took

wing with an angry flirt of the tail and mental objurgation levelled at

the unconscious head of the dapper young Irishman, who lilted gayly as

he wandered along the path worn in the sward of the meadow by the school

children on their way to and from the institution of learning presided

over by Mistress Elizabeth Dyke.

"The time I've lost in wooing,

In watching and pursuing

The light, that lies

In woman's eyes,

Has been my heart's undoing."

Moore paused in his ditty and sat down on a convenient stone, while he

wiped his brow with a ragged silk handkerchief which, though of

unmistakably ancient origin, was immaculately clean.

"Faith," he murmured, "there's no fiction in that last stanza. It's

broken-hearted I am, or as near it as an Irishman can be without too

much exertion."

He sighed almost unhappily, and drawing a knife from his breeches pocket

proceeded to manufacture a whistle from the bark on the end of the long

willow wand he had cut a few moments before to serve as a fishing-rod.

This last was accomplished after some little effort accompanied by much

pursing of lips and knitting of brows.

His labors completed, Moore regarded the whistle with the critical

approval of an expert, and putting it to his mouth blew a shrill blast.

As the result was eminently satisfactory, he bestowed the toy in the

crown of his beaver and, crossing his legs comfortably, proceeded to

take his ease.

His appearance was decidedly attractive. While quite a little below

middle size, his wiry figure was so well proportioned that in the

absence of other men nearer the ordinary standard of height, he would

have passed as a fine figure of a lad. He carried himself with easy

grace, but affected none of the mincing, studied mannerisms of the dandy

of the period. He had a round, jolly face, a pleasing though slightly

satirical mouth, an impudent nose, and a pair of fine eyes, so brightly

good-humored and laughingly intelligent, that no one could have looked

into their clear depths without realizing that this was no ordinary

youth. And yet at the period in his career from which dates the

beginning of this chronicle Tom Moore's fortunes were at a decidedly low

ebb. Disgusted and angry at the ill success which attended his attempts

to sell his verses to the magazines and papers of Dublin, for at this

time it was the exception, not the rule, when a poem from his pen was

printed and paid for, Moore gathered together his few traps, kissed his

mother and sisters good-bye, shook the hand of his father, then

barrackmaster of an English regiment resident in Ireland, and hied

himself to the sylvan beauties of the little town of Dalky. Here he

secured lodgings for little more than a trifle and began the revision of

his translation of the Odes of Anacreon, a task he had undertaken with

great enthusiasm a year previous. Thus it was that he chanced to be

wandering through the fields on fishing bent this bright and beautiful

morning in the year of our Lord 179-.

[Illustration: Tom Moore]

A small boy, barefooted and shock-headed, came across the meadow in the

direction of the schoolhouse visible in the distance on the crest of a

long, slowly rising hill. He carried a bundle of books and an old slate

tightly clutched under one arm, while from the hand left disengaged

swung a long switch with which he smartly decapitated the various weeds

which had achieved altitude sufficient to make them worthy of his

attention.

Noticing Moore for the first time, the boy's face brightened and lost

its crafty look of prematurely developed cunning and anxiety, as he

approached with a perceptible quickening of his gait.

"Is it you, Mr. Moore?" he said, a rich brogue flavoring his utterance.

"Unless I am greatly mistaken, Micky, you have guessed my identity,"

admitted the young man, making a playful slap with his rod at the

new-comer's bare shins, which the lad evaded with an agility that

bespoke practice, at the same time skilfully parrying with his switch.

"Goin' fishin'?"

"Shooting, my boy. Don't you perceive my fowling-piece?" replied Moore,

waving his fish-pole in the air.

"Sure," said Micky, grinning broadly, "you will have your joke."

"None of the editors will, so, if I did n't, who would?" responded

Moore, with a smile not altogether untinged by bitterness. "Where are

you going, Micky?"

"To school, sir, bad cess to it."

"Such enthusiasm in the pursuit of education is worthy of the highest

commendation, my lad."

"Is it?" said Micky doubtfully. "What's that, Mr. Moore?"

"Commendation?"

"Yis."

"Well, if I said you were a good boy, what would that be?"

"Father would say it was a d--n lie."

Moore chuckled.

"Well, we will let it go at that. You seem to be in a great hurry,

Micky."

"So do you, sir."

"Humph!" said Moore. "I perceive you are blessed with an observing

mind. Have you observed the whereabouts of a trout brook that is

located somewhere in this neighborhood?"

"Yis," replied Micky, himself an enthusiastic fisherman. "I have that.

Don't ye know the place, Mr. Moore?"

"Not I, my lad, but, since Providence has sent you along to show me the

way, I 'll speedily be possessed of that knowledge."

Micky looked doubtfully in the direction of the schoolhouse. It was

almost time for the afternoon session, but the day was too beautiful to

be spent in the dull depths of the school without regret.

"I 'd show you the way, sir, gladly, but it 'll make me late."

"Are you afraid of Mistress Dyke?" queried Moore, noticing the boy's

hesitation.

"Yis, sir."

"So am I, my lad."

Micky looked surprised. That this dashing young blade in whose person

were apparently embodied all the manly virtues, at least from the lad's

point of view, should stand in dread of such a soft-eyed, red-cheeked

little bundle of femininity as his schoolmistress was a matter beyond

his juvenile comprehension.

"And why, sir?" asked the boy curiously.

"She 's very pretty," replied Moore. "When you are older you will

understand what it is to be in awe of a trim little miss with the blue

sky in her eyes and a ripple of red merriment for a mouth. In the

meantime you shall show me the way to the brook."

"But she 'll lick me," objected Micky, numerous ferulings keenly in

mind.

"Not she, my laddybuck. To-day I 'm coming to visit the school. Tell

her that and she 'll not whack you at all."

"Won't she?"

"No, she will be so pleased, she will more than likely kiss you."

"Then why don't you go and tell her yourself? You would like the kiss,

would n't you?"

"Micky," said Moore solemnly, "you have discovered my secret. I

_would_. Ah me! my lad, how little we appreciate such dispensations of

Providence when we are favored with them. Now you, you raparee--you

would much rather she did n't practise osculation upon you."

Micky nodded. He did not understand what his companion meant, but he

was quite convinced that the assertion made by him was absolutely

correct.

What a beautiful thing is faith!

"A pretty teacher beats the devil, Micky, and you have the prettiest in

Ireland. I wish I could be taught by such a preceptress. I 'd need

instruction both day and night, and that last is no lie, even at this

day, if the lesson were to be in love," he added, a twinkle in his eyes,

though his face was perfectly sober.

"Sure," said Micky, "she don't think you nade lessons. I heard her tell

Squire Farrell's daughter blarney ran off your tongue like water off a

duck's back."

"What is that?" said Moore. "I 'll have to investigate this matter

thoroughly."

At this moment the metallic clang of an old fashioned hand-bell sounded

faintly down the hillside mellowed into comparative melodiousness by the

intervening distance.

"Ah," said Moore, "your absence has been reported to Mistress Dyke, and

she has tolled the bell."

It seemed as though the young Irishman's execrable pun decided the

ragged urchin that the way of the transgressor might be hard, for,

without further hesitation, he took to his heels and fled in the

direction of the schoolhouse.

After a moment's thought Moore followed him, beating time with the

willow fishing-rod to the song which half unconsciously issued from his

lips as he turned his steps in the direction of the headquarters of

Mistress Bessie Dyke.

Tom Moore was going angling, but not for trout.

_Chapter Two_

_CERTAIN HAPPENINGS IN MISTRESS DYKE'S SCHOOL_

Over her desk, waiting for developments, leaned Mistress Dyke. A moment

passed, then the tousled head of the tardy Micky appeared above the

level of the bench behind which he had secured shelter after carefully

crawling on hands and knees from the door, having by extreme good

fortune, made the hazardous journey undetected. Only the fatally

unwelcome interest displayed in this performance by the red-headed boy

on the front row prevented the success of Micky's strategy. As it was,

the blue eyes of Bessie met his with a glance of reproof as he slid

noiselessly into his place.

"Micky."

The boy rose reluctantly to his feet.

Bessie looked at him severely. To his youthful mind she appeared very

stern indeed; but, if the truth were known, to the ordinary adult eye

she presented no fiercer exterior than that ordinarily produced by a

slight feeling of irritation upon the aspect of a kitten of tender age.

Smiles always lurked in Bessie's big blue eyes, and little waves of

mirth were ever ready to ripple out from the corners of her mouth at the

slightest provocation, so it can readily be understood that it was no

easy task for her to sternly interrogate the freckle-faced youth who,

beneath her disapproving gaze, shifted uneasily from one bare foot to

the other.

Mistress Dyke ruled by love, and if she did not love by rule, it is

merely another instance where exception can be taken to the old saw

which so boldly and incorrectly states that a good maxim must of

necessity be reversible.

"Why are you late, Micky?" demanded Bessie.

"Sure, mistress, I dunno," was the hopeless response.

"You don't know, Micky? How foolish!"

"Yis 'm," assented Micky. "I was foolish to be late."

Bessie smiled and then tried to deceive the school into the belief that

it was only the beginning of a yawn by patting her mouth with a dimpled

palm. The school knew better and anxiety grew less.

"But there must be some reason for it," she persisted.

"I know," said a little lad with long yellow curls, which were made

doubly brilliant by the red flannel shirt that enveloped him, materially

assisted by diminutive trousers, with a patch of goodly proportions upon

the bosom. "I saw him goin' fishin' wid Mr. Moore."

"Tattle-tale! Tattle-tale," came in reprimanding chorus from the other

pupils. Dicky, quite unabashed by this disapproval, made a gesture of

defiance and returned to his place. Unfortunately the copper-tipped

brogan of one Willy Donohue, who chanced to be sitting immediately in

the rear of the youthful informer, was deftly inserted beneath Dicky as

he started to seat himself.

The result of this was that the cherubic Richard arose, with an

exclamation of pain and surprise, much more quickly than he sat down.

"Dicky, you may remain after school. I want no tell-tales here," said

Bessie.

"Teacher, Willy Donohue put his foot in me seat," expostulated Dicky, on

whom the lesson was quite thrown away.

"Willy shall stay after school, also."

"Ah-h-h!" remarked Dicky, mollified at the prospect of his unkind fate

being shared by an old-time enemy.

"I wish you wuz big enough to lick," growled Willy, under his breath.

"Your own mother would n't know you after the flakin' I 'd give you. I

'd snatch you baldheaded, baby."

Dicky turned his head far enough over his shoulder to prevent Mistress

Dyke from observing the protrusion of his tongue, and was so unlucky as

to be hit fairly in the eye with a paper pellet, amply moistened,

propelled with all the force the vigorous lungs of the prettiest girl in

school, aided by a tube of paper torn from the back of her geography,

could impart to it.

"Teacher, Milly O'Connor hit me in the eye wid a spit ball," snivelled

Dicky, who, being of tender years, did not share in the general

masculine scholastic worship of the youthful belle, who was admired and

fought over by the larger boys, on whom she bestowed her favors quite

impartially.

"Oh dear!" sighed Bessie. "Was there ever such a lot of children?

Milly, rise."

Milly stood up without any visible sign of contrition or embarrassment.

She was a pretty, dark-curled lassie of ten, dressed neatly and

becomingly, which made her doubly prominent in her present surroundings,

for most of the children were of such poverty-stricken parentage that

the virtue possessed by their wearing apparel consisted almost entirely

in sheltering and hiding rather than ornamenting their small persons.

"What shall I do to punish you?" asked Bessie, wearily.

"You might ferule her, teacher," suggested Dicky, good-humoredly coming

to the rescue.

"Dicky, mind your own business," said Bessie severely, "or I 'll ferule

you. Now I shall punish you both. Milly, kiss Dicky immediately."

"I don't want to kiss a tattle-tale," said Milly, who placed fully the

proper valuation on her caresses.

"Exactly," said Bessie. "This is a punishment, not a reward of merit."

"Not for Dicky," corrected Milly. "He will like it, teacher."

But here the little lady was in grievous error, for when she, resignedly

obedient, approached the small rascal, he promptly burst into tears and,

dropping on the floor, hid his head under the bench. This was more than

Bessie had bargained for, and she was about to motion Milly to return to

her seat when Patsy, a youth with carroty red locks already mentioned,

rose from his place on the front bench, burning with the noble flame of

self-sacrifice.

"She can kiss me instead, teacher," he announced heroically, "and you

can let Dicky off this time."

Bessie laughed outright in spite of herself, but Milly, regarding

Patsy's suggestion as nothing short of positive insult, turned her back

on the admiring gaze of the gallant youth.

"I think we will excuse you, Patsy. Dicky is punished sufficiently, and

I fancy Milly will behave herself in the future."

Patsy sat down with a gulp of regret, not comforted by Milly's whisper:

"I 'd do anything rather than kiss that red-headed monkey."

Micky, to whom she had imparted this welcome information, nodded

approval.

"Wait till I catch him after school," he murmured hostilely. "I 'll

dust his jacket for him."

Meanwhile Bessie had rescued Dicky from his grief and apprehension, and,

when the curly-headed youth had had his nose blown and resumed his seat,

school assumed its wonted quiet until the sight of a tiny mouse nibbling

a bit of cracker under an unoccupied bench drew forth a scream of terror

from Milly, who considered herself entitled by age to the enjoyment of

all the follies peculiar to her sex.

"A mouse!" she shrieked. "Oh, teacher, teacher, save me!"

And she immediately sought a position of safety upon the seat.

Pandemonium broke loose. The other little girls not to be outdone

became equally as frightened, and followed Milly in her ascent, an

example which was most shamefully emulated by Bessie herself, with her

desk as the base of operations.

Patsy plunged headlong in the direction of the small disturber bent on

demolishing it with his geography. The other boys were equally prompt in

following the chase, with the exception of Micky, who, realizing this

was an excellent opportunity for administering a rebuke to his latest

rival's amatory ambition, stepped quickly behind his enemy and kicked

him in the place handiest at the time with an enthusiasm worthy of a

better cause. Patsy, justly aggrieved, abandoned the pursuit, and,

rising to his feet, smote Micky in the neck with a force that jarred him

mentally as well as physically. Retaliation followed in a swinging blow

on Patsy's snub nose, and a clinch ensued which continued in spite of

Bessie's desperate remonstrances until Tom Moore put his head in the

window, realized the necessity for prompt action, ran to the door,

entered, and, seizing the combatants by their collars, tore them apart

by main strength.

_Chapter Three_

_TOM MOORE ENTERTAINS TEACHER AND PUPILS_

Moore 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?'"

[Illustration: "'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."

[Illustration: "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 roue 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.

"Mine? How the devil can that be?" asked Moore, leaning against the

desk for comfort and support.

"It is very simple. I thought you were sweet on Winnie."

"Me? Never!" cried Moore. "Not for a fraction of a minute. Not that

Winnie is n't a dear girl, for none knows that she is such better than

I, but we would never do for a couple."

"Unfortunately I thought otherwise," responded Farrell. "That is the

trouble."

"You interest me very much," said the poet, helping himself to a seat on

the desk. "Go on with your tale of woe."

"I was so sure of it," continued Farrell, "that I bet Lieutenant

Cholmondely you would propose to her before the first of the month."

"A nice performance," commented Moore, swinging his feet. "Then what?"

"Arbuckle heard me, and, like a sneak, went off quietly and asked Winnie

the next day."

"And was accepted? Serves him right, Terry."

"But the bet stands," persisted Farrell, sorrowfully. "And to-morrow is

the first of the month. I have n't a penny to pay Cholmondely."

"It is too bad, Terry," replied Moore, sympathetically, "but you should

never have made such a bet. It shows lack of respect for Winnie. At

least some people would think so, though I am sure you never meant to

convey any such impression."

"I thought you might help me," said Farrell, disconsolately. "Can't

you, Tom?"

"I have n't quarter the money, Terry."

"But you are wanting to go to London, are n't you? Remember you are n't

supposed to know Winnie is promised."

"True."

"Then, why can't you ask her and be refused? Cholmondely would pay me

the money, and there would be fifty pounds to divide between us, for I

'll give you half if you help me out of the scrape."

Moore frowned.

"That would n't be honest, Terry," he said severely.

"Was it fair for Arbuckle to propose before the first, knowing, as he

did, that I had till then to win?" demanded Farrell, in an injured tone.

"No," said Moore, "it was n't, though, of course, if he had waited a

thousand years, I would n't have proposed in sober earnest."

"But you'll do it in fun?"

"She is already engaged?"

"She is crazy over the captain," said Farrell, enthusiastically.

"Then she would be sure to refuse me."

"She would, and, Tom, you 'll have saved my honor," said Farrell,

pleadingly.

"It is a shame for Cholmondely to get your money and Arbuckle your

sister. I 'll do it to oblige you, Terry," said Moore, "but I want none

of your winnings. What I do is to help you out of a bad scrape, for

friendship's sake, my lad."

"How can I thank you, Tom?" said Farrell, inwardly exultant, but to all

appearance almost overcome at his friend's willingness to come to the

rescue.

"By being more careful in the future about your betting," said Moore,

kindly. As he spoke he drew nearer the window and caught a glimpse of

Mistress Farrell approaching.

"By the powers, here comes Winnie now," he exclaimed.

"True for you, Tom, and headed this way."

"Now you get out of here, Terry, and we will have my rejection over with

at once. I 'll be through in a jiffy."

"Don't be too precipitate or she will suspect something," advised

Farrell.

"Leave it to me," said Moore. "You stand just outside the door there

and you can listen to it all. Oh, it will be fine, Terry."

"Say, 'Will you have me?' Tom," said Terence, going to the door opposite

to the one which his sister was now approaching.

"Don't try to teach me," said Moore. "It's myself that's to do this

proposing, and I need no instruction. All you have to do is to listen.

Don't go away now."

"Not I," said Terence. "I won't be easy till it's over," and, laughing

under his breath, he shut the door.

Truly fortune favored him this day, for coming up the hill was Bessie,

not more than a moment or two behind Winnie Farrell, who by this time

had entered the school.

"Good-day, to you, Winnie," said Moore, politely. "Sure, it is blooming

you are this afternoon. Like a whole bouquet of blossoms, let alone a

single flower."

Winnie looked pleased at the compliment and smiled upon its bestower.

"How gallant you are to-day," she said in a flattered tone.

"Oh, I _said_ it this day, but I _think_ it all the week," replied

Moore, placing a stool for the lady.

"Where is Terence?" she asked, seating herself. "He promised to wait for

me here."

"I expect him back in a little while," replied Moore, casting a furtive

glance in the direction of the door behind which he believed his friend

to be concealed. "You can wait for him, Winnie. I have n't seen much of

you lately."

"You know the road that leads to Farrell's, Tom," said the girl with a

laugh. She was a plump little morsel with a soft voice, and a saucy

tip-tilted nose; a pleasant, generous-hearted little soul, decidedly

good to look upon.

"I have not forgotten the road," said Moore, meaningly.

"Then, why don't you come to see me?"

"For fear that I would n't be as welcome as Captain Arbuckle," said

Moore, trying to look knowing.

Winnie looked surprised.

"Captain Arbuckle?" she said, wonderingly. "What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean, Winnie."

"No, I don't, Tom."

"You do, too, you artless creature," said Moore, laughing.

"What _are_ you driving at, Tom?" asked Winnie, genuinely puzzled.

"At you, Winnie, dear," replied Moore, and then, conscious that his

courage was rapidly leaving him, he proceeded desperately with his

performance.

"Winnie Farrell, I love you."

"What?" cried the girl, rising from the stool.

"I love you, Winnie. Say you won't marry me," said Moore, relieved that

he had finished. His satisfaction lasted only a moment for Winnie threw

her arms around his neck with a little, joyous cry.

"Tom," she whispered, "I 'll be your wife gladly, for I 've loved you

for weeks."

"What?" cried Moore. "Oh, Winnie, you are only joking? You don't mean

it, Winnie? You don't, do you?"

Bessie gave a little sob. She had quietly opened the door in time to

hear Moore's declaration, and, thunderstruck, had stood there,

unperceived until now.

Winnie, abashed at Bessie's look of scorn and hatred, did not linger.

The door closed behind her, and Moore, just beginning to realize his

predicament, stood facing his angered sweetheart.

"Bessie," he said, chokingly. "Bessie, I can explain."

"I do not wish you to explain," she answered, her voice all a-tremble.

"Hear me, Bessie," he began, desperately, but she turned a deaf ear to

his words.

"I 'll never believe you again, Tom Moore," she said, flinging from her

bosom the rose he had given her. "I am done with you."

Then, turning, she closed the door in his face, and left him.