Tom Moore Part 9

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."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 pa.s.s, 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 n.o.ble 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 fas.h.i.+on, he had not hesitated to play his part in the masque of dissipation offered as entertainment to the middle and lower cla.s.ses by the aristocracy whom they were expected to envy and admire. But in his heart he felt only regret for his own partic.i.p.ation 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 lords.h.i.+p'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 n.o.blemen, 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."