Tom Moore Part 39

answered Moore, eagerly taking his cue from Bessie.

"A note came to the house for him marked 'Immediate,'" continued the girl, ribbing adroitly, "so I thought best to follow him here."

"Won't you wait for him?" asked Moore, pus.h.i.+ng forward the arm-chair.

"I fancy," said Sir Percival, "I fancy Mistress d.y.k.e will not care to remain here since her father is absent."

"Why not?" demanded Moore, angrily.

"This is scarcely the place nor the company for a lady to remain in,"

replied the baronet.

"When you go, Sir Percival," said Moore, more calmly, "the only objectionable feature will be removed."

Sir Percival did not deign to reply to this rudeness, but, stepping towards the girl, extended his arm in mute invitation. Mistress d.y.k.e, however, had plans of her own, and was not to be thus led away.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," said she, "but I shall wait for my father."

Sir Percival raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, but was too wise to insist further, so took his departure with a courtly bow to the girl, and a sneering smile for Moore, who, quite unruffled, lighted an extra pair of candles in honor of his visitor.

As the sound of the baronet's steps died away in the hall Bessie gave a sigh of relief and sank down in the chair. Moore hesitated, then taking courage came to her side.

"Ah, Bessie," he said, softly. "I 've been starving for a sight of you.

It is like the old times to see you again."

"But," said the girl in a chilly tone, "the old times are pa.s.sed and done with. Nothing is as it was."

"You are wrong, Bessie," said Moore, gently. "My heart is the same."

Bessie rose from the chair and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.

"Then it belongs to Winnie Farrell," she said in a determined tone.

Moore winced as though he had received a blow. Nevertheless his voice was clear and unfaltering as he answered:

"Winnie Farrell is married to the man of her choice. Surely there is no need to throw her name in my face when I tell you that I love you?"

"You told Winnie the same thing," said Bessie, coldly.

Moore gave an exclamation of pain.

"I 've explained that misunderstanding a score of times," he said, bitterly. "They tricked me that you might think me unworthy of your trust and so be persuaded to come to London. Like a fool I walked into the trap and you believed me faithless. On my honor, you wronged me, dearest. I 've loved but you Bessie; you are all in all to me, mavourneen. Won't you--can't you--believe me?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: "You are all in all to me, mavourneen."]

Bessie's lips trembled as she averted her face, but her voice showed no signs of relenting as she answered:

"Whether you love me or not matters very little to me, Mr. Moore."

"The applause at Drury Lane has changed you, Bessie. You are like all the others; one glimpse of the footlights and the rest of the world may go hang."

"Nonsense!" said the girl. "I don't care a snap of my fingers for the theatre. I was never intended to be an actress."

"I know," a.s.sented the poet, "you were meant to be Mrs. Moore, darling."

"I think you are quite mistaken, sir."

"How cold you are to me," cried Moore in despair. "Is it because--? No, I can't believe _that_. Bessie, you don't care for Sir Percival?"

"Really, Mr. Moore, I cannot discuss my private affairs with you," said Bessie in a voice so cold and proud that Moore abandoned all hope of moving her.

"Then," he asked defiantly, "why have you come here?"

Bessie turned to him with a little sobbing sigh of relief. She had played her part well and kept up the artifice to the last moment required by the object which she had intended to accomplish, but the task had been more difficult than she had expected.

"Why?" she cried, her voice thrilling with love and happiness. "To tell you that you need battle with poverty no longer, Tom Moore. You have won, Tom, you have won. Fame, fortune--all that you have dreamed of and fought for so long--so patiently and courageously--shall be yours. I bring you a message from the Prince of Wales."

"From the Prince?" gasped Moore.

"Yes, Tom. He accepts the dedication of your book. Lord Brooking sent me to tell you the news."

"You mean it, Bessie?" cried the half-frantic poet, as the door was sent slamming back by the entrance of Lord Brooking with Buster and the bulldog close at his heels.

"Lord Brooking, is it true?"

"The Prince declares himself honored by the dedication," replied his lords.h.i.+p triumphantly. "McDermot publishes your book in a week."

Moore gave a choking sob of joy as he groped his way toward his benefactor.

"At last!" he whispered, "at last!" and buried his face on his lords.h.i.+p's st.u.r.dy shoulder, his eyes full of glad tears.

"There, there, Tom," said the young n.o.bleman. "It is quite true. Your luck has finally changed. There shall be no more striving and starving for you, my good lad. Your fortune is made."

"Ah," cried Moore, turning to where Bessie stood, her hands tightly clasped and her face radiant with gladness as she watched her lover's realization of the truth. "You hear, Bessie? It's success, girl, it's fortune and renown. Aye, fortune, Bessie. _Now_ you will marry me?"

The girl turned white with anger and shame. Moore had made a fatal choice of the words with which he re-declared his love, never thinking his meaning could be misunderstood.

"Tom," said Lord Brooking, warningly, but Bessie interrupted him before he could put things right.

"How dare you?" she cried, her cheeks suddenly flaming as she faced the luckless poet.

"Bessie?" cried Moore appealingly, seeing his error too late.

"How dare you?" she repeated, her voice quivering as she stamped her foot in her anger. "Fortune! You hurl the word in my face as though I were to be bought by wealth. Do you think because prosperity has come I must of necessity change my answer? You believe you could bribe me to say 'Yes' with your success. Oh, how could you, Tom Moore?"

"No, no, Bessie," cried the poet, "you know I did not think that."

"Hush, sir," she answered, moving towards the door with downcast eyes.