She walked slowly to the fireplace and resting her arm on the mantel above stood looking into the blaze. Moore, encouraged by her return, drew near her.

"You know I love you deeply and truly as any woman has ever been loved,"

he murmured, standing so close that his warm, eager breath gently stirred and set a-quivering the tiny ringlets cl.u.s.tered on her neck.

"And I can't bear to go on like this. You must hear me to-night, Bessie darlin', once and for all. I love you; with all my heart and all my soul I love you, dearest of girls. You planted my heart full of roses of pa.s.sion the first day that I met you, and each and every bud has come to blossom. Your dear eyes have looked into mine and written your name upon my heart. There is not a curl that steals kisses from your cheek I 'd not give my life to be, unless that curl and the proud head it graces can both be mine. Ah, Bessie, dearest, Bessie, darling, be my wife and make me the happiest man on earth. Aye, or in heaven."

If he could have seen her eyes he would never have listened to the words of her reply, for in their depths shone an answer so sweet and tender and surrendering that even he, oft rejected and almost despairing wooer that he was, could not have mistaken or read as aught else but final.

But, resolved not to yield yet, though a love as strong and pa.s.sionate as his own was tugging at her heart-strings, she kept her face turned from him till her original determination, aided by mischief which prompted her to punish him for all the humiliation she had just suffered at his hands, sufficed to give her control of her emotions. Then she turned coldly and said:

"Tom, you really should put that into rhyme. You have never written a prettier poem."

He started at her words and drew back a pace or two.

"You make a jest of me," he said in an offended tone.

"And why so, sir? I refused to marry you when you were poor."

"Do you think I've forgotten it?" he demanded.

"Now, if I married you, people would say I took back my 'No' because of your rise in the world. Why, even you once spoke as though you thought I might be influenced by such sordid considerations."

"You do not believe--you never have believed--that I thought you capable of such a vile thing," he responded hotly. "You seized on that as a means to hold me off. You must needs play your game of hide-and-seek till you are weary, regardless of my pain and despair."

"The world would say I married you for your money," she continued, paying no heed to his words. "You know how quick it is to misinterpret the best of motives."

"If they said that they 'd lie, Bessie," said Moore. "Save that I have paid my debts and incurred no others, I 'm no richer, for as yet I 've made no fortune. On my honor, I 'm still as poor as you are pretty, and the gla.s.s will show you I must be little better than a beggar. Like your father, dearest, my future--all my hope of wealth and fame these next few years--depends upon the Regent's favor, so it couldn't be for aught but love. Ah, alanna, say you 'll have me?"

"No," she answered with great emphasis, and crossed the room. Once on the other side she repeated her reply, but this time in a tone soft and cooing, but if she expected by this last manoeuvre to elicit further wooing from her lover she made a mistake, for, justly wrathful at the treatment she accorded him, he threw caution to the winds.

"So?" he cried, hoa.r.s.ely. "You still refuse? Then listen to me. I 've courted you from the first day I saw you. From the moment our eyes met I 've loved you faithfully and truly. I 've sung to you of love--I 've talked to you of love--I 've begged for it upon my knees--and you? You have laughed at me. Because my heart was full of you there was no room for resentment, and I, too, laughed and made a jest of what was breaking it. That is past; I've offered it to you for the last time. I 'll never again ask you to be my wife."

"Oh," said the girl, momentarily shocked at his vehemence, but quickly recovering. "Tom, you 'll never again ask me to marry you?"

"No," he answered roughly, and sat down beside the fire.

"Then," she went on mournfully, "there is only one thing for me to do."

"What is that?" he asked moodily.

"If you won't ask me to marry you, then some day I--I--"

She hesitated, the words hindered by the smile that could not be denied.

"Well?"

"_Then some day I'll have to ask you to marry me._"

Moore leaped to his feet.

"Will you, Bessie?" he cried.

"Who knows?" she answered, backing towards the door.

"What would you say?"

"I 'd say 'I love you, Tom; will you be my husband?'"

"You would?"

"_That is, if I should happen to want you, which is n't at all likely._"

Then, with a rippling laugh, Bessie turned her back on him, and strolled off, satisfied that she had avenged her wrongs of the evening. And had she not?

_Chapter Eighteen_

_TOM MOORE MOVES IN DISTINGUISHED COMPANY_

Sir Percival Lovelace gave a reception in honor of the first appearance of Mistress Bessie d.y.k.e as Lydia Languish in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's successful comedy "The Rivals." So sure was the baronet of his protegee's success that some days previous to the date of the first performance he publicly announced the function to be for the purpose of extending to the winsome actress congratulations upon the triumph he expected her to win. Invitations to the reception were eagerly sought, and correspondingly difficult to obtain, for Sir Percival enjoyed an enviable reputation as a lavish entertainer. The Prince himself promised to attend, for he found amus.e.m.e.nt in the girlish piquancy of the little player's conversation conspicuously lacking in the more reverential prattle of the great ladies who owed their presence in the upper circle of society to birth instead of brains. Even Mrs. FitzHerbert, once more on friendly terms with the baronet, consented to honor the a.s.semblage with her presence, and all the other leaders and lions of the world of wealth and breeding were favored with invitations--that is, all except one. Thomas Moore, now at the height of his popularity, was overlooked.

This was no surprise to the poet, for he had not been deceived by Sir Percival's apparent desire to overlook their past differences. He felt confident that the baronet would not rest content until he had made every effort to undermine the popularity which he had won as much by his personal charm as by the merit of his poetry, yet, seeing no way in which he could be successfully attacked by his old enemy, he grew more confident as weeks pa.s.sed with no visible effort to injure his prosperity.

Sir Percival, however, was not losing sight of the main object he had in view when he brought about Bessie's journeying to London. While he fully intended to put an end to Moore's success eventually, he had busied himself in the last few weeks more particularly with his plans for bringing about the forcing of the girl to do his will. By skilful manipulation of the various influences he was able to bring to bear upon persons important in the administration of matters in regard to the smaller dealings in the way of finance, together with the fatuous confidence reposed in him by Mr. d.y.k.e, this ingenious gentleman succeeded in obtaining the issuance of a warrant for the body of the old rhymer in default of complete settlement of his outstanding indebtedness. This accomplished without his intended victim being at all the wiser, he held the doc.u.ment in readiness for his purposed attempt at intimidation. Now it was of course imperative, when he should have kicked from beneath Robin d.y.k.e the props which at present held him above ruin as exemplified in limitless incarceration in a Fleet Street debtors' prison, that Thomas Moore should be in no position to hold forth means of relief. Such being the case Sir Percival devoted himself to making all ready for the disaster which he hoped and believed would be the culmination of the young Irishman's social career, availing himself in this matter of the advice and services of his agent and mentor, Terence Farrell. Success in all the preparations crowned his efforts to a degree that would have seemed unusual even in a better cause,--a state of affairs that led to much cynical reflection as to the relative easiness of the practices of philanthropy and its ant.i.thesis upon the part of the gentleman from whom the impetus for the plotted evil business was obtained.

This was the state of affairs on the evening of Sir Percival's reception.

Mrs. FitzHerbert regarded Mr. Sheridan with a doubtful expression in eyes famed for their beauty and innocence.

"Mr. Sheridan," she remarked, severely, "I am not sure that Parliament is sufficient excuse for your absence from Drury Lane to-night.

Everybody who is anybody was present except the author. Fie, sir!

Surely you should take enough interest in your own play to witness its revival."

"Hum," said Mr. Sheridan, "I will promise not to let even Parliament prevent my attendance at the theatre when a play by you shall be presented, madame."

"Do you fancy, sir, that I am not capable of writing a play?"

"Heaven forbid that I should declare any woman incapable of anything in the world, possible or impossible," replied the gentleman thus addressed.

"I am not sure that you intend that remark as a compliment, sir."

"A woman should accept as complimentary all that she is not absolutely certain is intended to be the opposite."

"You would have women very conceited, Mr. Sheridan."

"If you mean, dear lady, that I would not change the sweet creatures, you comprehend me perfectly," replied the old gentleman. "Did you know, Mrs. FitzHerbert, that our friend, Tommy Moore, has been slighted to-night?"