Tom Moore Part 16

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 la.s.s, 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 gla.s.s 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.