Chapter Sixteen Tom Moore separates a Young Lady from her Skirt
It was at the splendid mansion of Lady Donegal that Moore first met Mr. Sheridan. Introduced to the famous wit by no less a person than George Brummell himself, Moore found not unworthily bestowed the reverence he had felt from his boyhood for the brilliant but erratic Irishman whose previous success in the fashionable world of London had served to render less difficult the progress of his younger countryman when once begun, and on this evening was laid the foundation of the friendship destined to endure until the melancholy end of the elder genius. Mr. Walter Scott, as yet famed only for his verse romances, for this was some years before the fiery genius of Lord Byron, now a fat youth at Eton, drove the genial Scotchman from the lyric field into the world of prose where he has reigned supreme even to this day, was another notable with whom Moore became immediately and delightfully intimate. The sturdy intellect of Scott, who infused his vigorous personality into all that flowed so readily from his pen, was delighted and amazed at the grace and beauty of the Irishman’s more delicate imagery, while the refined and subtler fancy of the younger poet was filled with wonder by the other’s stirring, rakehelly border ballads. Scott was the sturdy, gnarled, and defiant oak in the literary forest; Moore the tender, clinging ivy, enfolding and beautifying all that he touched and lingered on. No wonder, then, that their admiration should be reciprocal. The intimate crony of these brilliant men, the hostess herself was a woman of refined taste and much personal charm. In her Moore found a true and admiring friend, and whenever he, for business or pleasure, was compelled to absent himself from London, a delightful correspondence was kept up, as pleasing to the great lady of fashion as to the poet, for Moore, ever a favorite among men, was not less popular with the opposite sex, no matter what their rank in the world might be.
While he had good reason to treasure the friendship of Lady Donegal for the sake of the brilliant acquaintances whom he met at her mansion for the first time, even a more tender and pleasing opportunity for gratitude was to be afforded him, for here it was that transpired the series of incidents which resulted finally in his reconciliation with Bessie Dyke.
On the night in question Moore arrived in company with Sheridan and Brummell, the two Irishmen having spied the Beau in a cab driving to the reception at Lady Donegal’s as they were making their way toward the same destination on foot. They hailed the vehicle, and when the driver had pulled up in obedience to a signal somewhat unwillingly given by Brummell, climbed in with hardly as much as a beg your leave, making themselves quite comfortable in spite of the remonstrances of the crowded and berumpled dandy, the three thus reaching her ladyship’s great mansion together.
Moore paid his respects to his hostess, then, after a brief session in the card-room with Mr. Sheridan, which resulted in the enrichment of the elder Celt to the extent of two guineas, made his way to a room usually little frequented by the less intimate company, intending to give definite shape in black and white to a new song as yet unwritten, the garbled and uncompleted verses of which had been running and jumping in his head all day.
Much to his surprise, Moore found the writing desk in use, the young lady who was busy scribbling being no other than Bessie Dyke. His first impulse was to make a quiet exit, trusting to his noiselessness to effect escape undiscovered, but reflecting that, as hitherto he had not had so excellent an opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation, he would be foolish to allow such a chance for attempting to right himself in her estimation to go unutilized, he thought better of it, and so remained, announcing his presence by a polite little cough, highly suggestive of a timidity but slightly feigned.
Bessie looked up from her writing, then continued her occupation until she had completed her task.
“Am I interrupting you, Mistress Dyke?”
“Does it look as though you were, Mr. Moore?” she asked, tartly.
“Not exactly,” he admitted, not at all encouraged by her manner; “but appearances are deceiving, you know.”
“I usually accept them as conclusive,” said she, folding the sheet of paper which she had just finished.
“I know you do,” said Moore, plaintively. “It is a bad habit to get into.”
“No doubt you speak as an authority on the subject, Mr. Moore?”
“On bad habits? It is a bad habit I have of speaking, you mean, Mistress Dyke?”
Bessie nodded and turned toward him, resting one chubby elbow upon the desk.
“How London has changed you,” sighed Moore, regretfully, shaking his head as he spoke.
“And you?” said the girl in a critical tone. “Surely Mr. Thomas Moore, the friend of the Prince, is very different from an unknown Irish rhymer?”
“Rhymer?” repeated he. “I see you have been talking with Sir Percival.”
“To be sure,” said Bessie. “So pleasant and witty a gentleman is worthy of attention.”
Moore sighed, and drawing a chair nearer to the desk sat down and crossed his legs comfortably.
“See here, Bessie,” he said in his most persuasive tones, “why should we quarrel in this foolish fashion?”
The girl laughed in rather an embarrassed way and shifted a little on the chair.
“If there is some other fashion in which you would prefer to quarrel, perhaps it will be as acceptable as this,” she replied, lightly.
“Will you never be serious?” demanded the poet.
“Why should I be serious, sir?”
“To please me, if for no other reason.”
“Ah, but why should I wish to please you, Mr. Moore?”
“It is a woman’s duty to make herself agreeable.”
“Not to every impudent young versifier who thinks to do her honor with his attention,” replied Bessie, smiling mischievously as she rebuked an unruly ringlet with one dimpled hand.
“But I have no such idea,” protested Moore, quite baffled by her behavior.
“No? Surely a young man who proposes marriage to two different girls in one afternoon must think very well of himself?”
Moore groaned, and gave the girl an appealing glance that failed to accomplish anything.
“Ah, Bessie, you have no heart!”
“Have you, Mr. Moore?”
“You have had it these two years, Bessie,” he replied, fervidly.
“You are quite mistaken, sir,” quoth she, in tones of conviction. “I would have no use for such a thing, so would not accept it. You are thinking of some other girl, Mr. Moore.”
“I am thinking of you, Bessie.”
“Then you are wasting your time, Mr. Moore, and I ’ll thank you to say ‘Mistress Dyke’ in the future when you address me.”
“I ‘d like to say ‘Mrs. Moore,’” replied the poet.
“What did you say, sir?” she demanded shortly, an angry flash in her eyes.
“I said I ’d know more some day.”
“That is certainly to be hoped,” said Bessie. “One should be sanguine, no matter how futile such cheerfulness may appear at the present time.”
So far Moore had succeeded but poorly in breaking down the girl’s reserve, and though painfully conscious of his failure, was nevertheless quite resolved that the interview should not end with their present attitudes unaltered.
That she herself was not averse to listening to his arguments this evening was already fully proved, for she had made no effort to conclude their conversation, and in fact seemed waiting with no little interest for the next attempt he might make to restore himself to his old-time place in her regard.
“Mistress Dyke,” began Moore, hopefully, favoring the girl with a look as languishing as love could make it, “do you know what your mouth reminds me of as you sit there?”
“Cherries?” suggested the girl promptly. “I believe that is the usual comparison made by lame-witted poets.”
“No, indeed. Cherries conceal pits, and, as you no doubt remember, Joseph fell into one. Now I am no Joseph.”
“No,” said Bessie. “You are more like Charles Surface, I fancy.”
“Never mind mixing the Drama with this conversation,” replied Moore, chidingly. “Forget for a moment that you are an actress and remember you are a woman, though no doubt it amounts to the same thing.”
“Well, what does my mouth remind you of, Mr. Moore?” asked the girl, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“Of better things, Mistress Dyke.”
“Indeed? What may they be, sir?”
“Kisses,” replied the poet lightly. “Ah, Bessie, it is glad that I am that your mouth is no smaller.”
“And why so?” she asked, suspiciously.
“The smaller a woman’s mouth, the greater the temptation.”
“Is that what you call me?”
“Your mouth, my dear. Alluring is no name for it. Temptation? Aye, that it is. Twin ribbons of rosy temptation, or I ’m no Irishman.”
“We won’t dwell upon that subject,” announced Bessie.
“If I were a honey-bee, I ’d live and die there,” said Moore, sincerely.
“Where?” asked the girl.
“On the subject, if I were a honey-bee.”
“The subject is closed,” she answered, compressing her lips in anything but an amiable expression.
“I don’t like it so well that way.”
“How you like it does not interest me at all, sir.”
“Now I wish to speak to you seriously,” said Moore with becoming gravity. “Please give me your attention.”
“I am listening, sir,” she answered, a trifle uneasily.
“Very well, then. Don’t you think women should try to make men better?”
“Yes.”
“And to reduce their temptations?”
“Yes.”
“Then, for instance, if you had a loaf of bread you did not need and knew a man was starving for it, would n’t you rather give it to him than have him steal it and be responsible for the sin?”
“Yes,” said Bessie, “I would, undoubtedly.”
“Ah,” exclaimed Moore, happily, “then if I tell you I am starving for a kiss and feel afraid I may steal it, you will give me one to put me out of temptation?”
“On the contrary, I shall request you to cease talking nonsense, and suggest that you had better sit down.”
“I will, if it pleases you,” replied Moore, smiling sweetly at the girl, as he resumed the chair from which he had risen in his eagerness a moment before.
“Oh,” said Bessie, in a sarcastic tone, “you think you are very clever, don’t you?”
“Why should I deny it? A good opinion is like charity, and should begin at home.”
“Does any one else think you are clever, Mr. Moore?”
“I don’t know,” answered the poet cheerfully; “but if they do not, it only makes my opinion more valuable on account of its rarity.”
Bessie was compelled to smile by this ingenious argument, and sought refuge behind her fan; but Moore, seeing he had scored, followed up his success resolutely.
“As you say,” he continued, “I am clever.”
“But,” said Bessie indignantly, “I did not say that.”
“You forget,” replied Moore, loftily, “that a man’s opinion of what a woman thinks is based largely on what she does not say.”
“You surprise me, Mr. Moore. Pray explain your last assertion.”
“Well, then, for example, I linger by your side and you do not say ‘Go away,’ so my opinion is that you wish me to remain.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Bessie, shocked at the mere idea of such a thing.
“You do not say ‘I hate you,’ so my opinion is that you l—”
“Mr. Moore,” cried Bessie, sternly, and the poet diplomatically allowed her interruption to finish his remark.
“Men are so foolish,” observed the girl, knitting her brows in sad contemplation of masculine idiocy. “Really it is quite saddening when one considers their stupidity.”
“And yet,” said Moore, “if we were not such fools you wise little ladies would find it much more difficult to work your wills.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said Bessie, with a sniff of superiority. “Men are great nuisances at best.”
“Had you rather I went away?” asked Moore, in his most honeyed accents. “Shall I go?”
“You must suit your own inclination, sir,” replied Bessie, too clever to be so entrapped.
“And you?” he returned. “Can’t you say ‘I wish you to stay’?”
“No, Mr. Moore.”
“And why not, Mistress Dyke?”
“Girls do not say such things to men.”
Moore sighed regretfully.
“I wish they did,” said he. “Don’t you like me at all any more?”
“Not very much,” replied Bessie, with seeming frankness.
“Won’t you smile at me?”
“No,” said Bessie, determinedly, “I will not.”
As she spoke she turned away from the poet, but he was not to be so easily defeated.
“Bessie,” he whispered tenderly. “Smile at me, dearest, smile just once.”
“No,” she answered firmly, “I will not. I don’t have to smile if I don’t wish to, do I?”
But, alas for her determination, as she replied her eyes met those of Moore; the twinkling merriment which she read in her lover’s gaze was too much for her gravity, and so, in spite of her effort to keep a sober face, she smiled back at him, and if it was not the love-light that shone beneath her long lashes, it was a something so entirely like it that a wiser man than the young Irishman would have been pardonable for making such a mistake.
“Oh,” he said, lovingly triumphant, “what do you think about it now?”
“Well,” said Bessie, in quick equivocation, “I wanted to smile then. You are very ridiculous, Mr. Moore.”
“You make me so, Bessie.”
“What did I tell you about that name?” she demanded, rising to her feet.
“I forgot, Bessie,” he replied defiantly.
“If that is the case you shall have the opportunity to recall it to mind,” said she, sternly, at the same time moving towards the door. But her foot caught in her skirt and as she recovered her balance with a little cry there was an ominous sound of ripping plainly heard.
“There,” cried Bessie in a rage, “I ’ve stepped on a ruffle. It is all your fault, Tom Moore.”
“Of course it is,” replied the poet. “It always is, as we both know.”
Bessie, meanwhile, had investigated the extent of the damage she had sustained. The lace ruffle on her underskirt had been torn off for at least two feet. The thing was utterly ruined, and, gritting her teeth as she realized this, Bessie tried to tear off the loose piece. This, however, proved to be beyond her strength, so, abandoning the attempt with an exclamation of rage, she stamped her foot in anger.
“Let me help you,” said Moore politely. “No doubt, I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke.”
“You are the cause of all the trouble,” said Bessie, crossly.
“All the more reason, then, for letting me help you repair the damage. You can’t dance with that trailing in front of you.”
Moore took the end of the ruffle which Bessie held out to him, and, securing a firm grip upon it, marched across the room, thus ripping off the entire bottom of the skirt.
“Thank you,” said Bessie, more graciously, extending her hand for the torn piece.
Moore shook his head and held the ruffle behind him.
“Give it to me, sir,” exclaimed the girl indignantly.
“It is the foam on the wave of loveliness,” declared the poet, waving his prize as though it were a pennant, but carefully keeping it out of Bessie’s reach.
“You cannot have it, sir,” she said, sternly.
“Women are enveloped in mystery,” he continued, quite unrebuked, “yards of it. If there is anything I love, it is mystery, so I ’ll keep this for myself.”
“Why?”
“For a souvenir. Think of the memories associated with it, Bessie.”
“What good will it be to you?” she asked, rather more pleasantly.
“It would be a great success as a necktie,” Moore went on, draping it beneath his chin. “Thusly, for instance, or I might wear it on my arm, or next my heart.”
“Give me that ruffle,” cried Bessie, snatching at it as she spoke, and by good luck catching it.
“Let go,” commanded Moore. “If you don’t I ’ll kiss your hands for you.”
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
But he did.
“Please,” pleaded the girl, not letting go.
“I don’t intend to keep it, Bessie, on my word of honor.”
Confident that she had secured her object, the girl released the ruffle and stepped back.
“Thank you, Mr. Moore,” said she, waiting expectantly.
“Oh, not at all, Mistress Dyke. What are you waiting for?”
“For that.”
“But you do not get this, Mistress Dyke.”
“But you promised, sir.”
“I did not say I would give it to you,” explained Moore, genially. “I merely promised that I would not keep it. Well, I won’t. I happen to have your card in my pocket—it’s a wonder it is n’t the mitten you have presented me with so often—and this card I shall pin on the ruffle, which I shall then hang on this candelabra, where it will remain until found by some one, and what they will think of you then is beyond my power to imagine.”
Moore suited the action to the word as he spoke, and the bundle of frills was securely perched on the candle-rack protruding from the wall a good seven feet from the floor before Bessie fully realized how completely she had been outwitted.
Then she lost her temper entirely.
“You cheat,” she cried furiously. “Oh, I should have known better than to trust you.”
“Certainly you should,” replied the poet, politely agreeing with the irate damsel. “I was surprised myself at the simplicity of your behavior.”
“However,” she continued, “I shall never believe you again.”
“Never?”
“Never, Mr. Moore, and I am very angry with you.”
“Really?” asked he. “Why, whoever would have suspected it, Bessie?”
“Luckily I can get it without your assistance,” she went on. “You are not half so smart as you imagine.”
“Of course not,” observed Moore, watching her as she stood on tiptoe and vainly endeavored to reach the cause of all the trouble. “Take care, Bessie, or you ’ll tear something else.”
The girl was baffled only for the moment, for directly beneath the candelabra stood the desk at which she had been writing a few moments before. As the top, which when open formed the writing table, was let down, it was an easy thing for her to step up on it from the seat of a chair, and then from there to the top of the desk. This was what Bessie did as quickly as was possible, for she was considerably handicapped in her climbing by her long train.
“There is nothing like independence,” remarked the poet, observing her with a broad smile, as she performed this manoeuvre and stood in triumph on the desk. “Like marriage, it usually begins with a declaration and ends with a fight. It did in America.”
“You imagine you are witty,” said Bessie, in icy tones, picking the ruffle from its perch on the candelabra.
Moore stepped quickly forward and shut up the desk. This done he removed the chair by which she had mounted and had her completely at his mercy.
“And you,” he said pleasantly, “imagine you are independent.”
Bessie turned carefully and discovered her plight with a little exclamation of dismay.
“Put that chair back and open this desk immediately,” she commanded sternly.
“The chair is doing very well where it is,” replied Moore, calmly sitting down upon it.
Bessie bit her lip in anger.
“It is not customary for a gentleman to sit while a lady remains standing.”
“Nor is it usual,” answered Moore, “for a lady to climb up on a desk.”
“You think you know a lot about women, don’t you?”
“I am always willing to learn more,” responded the victorious poet, blithely.
“Oh, dear,” sighed the girl, “I don’t dare jump with these high-heeled slippers on.”
“I observe that your tastes are elevated, even in shoes. Give me the ruffle and I ’ll help you down.”
“No, sir, you shall not have it.”
“Hurry, I think I hear some one coming,” exclaimed Moore in an alarmed tone.
“Do help me down.”
“The ruffle first.”
“Oh, there you are,” she cried, abandoning herself to utter defeat as she tossed him the bribe he demanded.
Once safely on the floor, Bessie ran lightly to the entrance leading to the adjoining room and peeped out to see who was approaching. Much to her astonishment she discovered no one near, then, turning, read in Moore’s laughing eyes how cleverly she had been tricked.
“There is no one coming,” she said severely.
“Is there not?” asked the poet, stowing away the prize he had won in his coat-tail pocket. “Shall I help you up on the table again?”
Bessie looked daggers at him, but he smiled blandly back at her in innocent good-nature.
“I am very angry with you,” she announced, decisively. “Really, Mr. Moore, your behavior is perfectly intolerable.”
“And why are you so provoked? Because I took your ruffle?” queried the poet. “Why angry, since I left the skirt?”
“Mr. Moore!” she cried warningly.
“Well, Mistress?”
“Be careful, sir!”
“I do not have to be,” he answered, “but you are very different. Now you dare not be long cross.”
“Oh, don’t I, indeed? And if I dare not, what is the reason, sir,” she demanded in a tone as sarcastic as she could make it, though this, it must be admitted, was not saying much.
“Because,” he said, slowly and coolly, “if you do let your temper get the better of you the skirt is liable to follow the ruffle into my possession.”
“Insolent,” exclaimed the girl, sitting down and carefully turning her back towards her tormentor.
That she was very angry with Moore cannot be doubted. Probably it was because she was so exasperated at his behavior and so desirous of being plagued no further by him that she remained in this secluded nook instead of returning to the adjacent rooms, the greater number of which were thronged with guests. Certainly her staying where she was could not be regarded as anything but indicative of a sincere desire to be rid of his company. Unfortunately this very evident fact was not plain to the poet, for he proceeded quite as though he interpreted her tarrying as proof of his own success in providing her with pleasant diversion, a grievous error, as any one conversant with the real state of affairs would have admitted.
“Lady Donegal is a delightful hostess, is n’t she, Mistress Dyke?”
“At last you have suggested a subject on which we can agree,” replied Bessie, stiffly.
“Oh, I can suggest another,” said Moore, trying to catch her eye, an undertaking Bessie rendered a failure by resolutely turning her head away.
“What is that, Mr. Moore?”
“You know I think you are very pretty, Bessie.”
“As though I care what you think.”
“And I know you think you are very pretty, so we agree again.”
“You think I am conceited.”
“I know you have good reason to think well of yourself,” answered Moore, sweetly.
“Indeed, sir?”
“Indeed, ma’am, for are you not favored with the undying devotion of one Thomas Moore?”
“Oh,” said Bessie, disappointed.
Moore approached her chair and, circling round it, tried to make her look him in the face, but she foiled all his attempts by twisting from side to side like a sulky schoolgirl.
“You ’ll choke yourself, Bessie,” he said, apprehensively. “You ’ll have a neck like a corkscrew before long.”
“There would be no danger if you would cease intruding yourself upon my meditation,” snapped the girl, crossly.
“‘She who meditates is lost,’” quoted the poet. “Ah, Bessie darlin’, look around at me. Won’t you, Bessie? Do, there’s a dear.”
“I am not to be fooled by your blarneying tongue, Mr. Moore. I, too, am Irish.”
“You don’t behave like it,” said he.
“You do not regulate my behavior, sir.”
“I wish I did,” remarked Moore. “I could improve it a good deal without much effort.”
“You need not trouble.”
“Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you.”
“Your assurance is the best part of you, Mr. Moore.”
“I could n’t say what part of you is the best, dearest,” he answered in a soothing tone, that only made the girl more angry. “Collectively you outclass any colleen in the Kingdom. Now will you look around at me?”
“No.”
“You won’t? If you do not behave I will have to punish you.”
“You punish me?” she repeated scornfully. “You forget yourself, Mr. Moore.”
“That is because when I am near you I can think of no one else. If you don’t look around and bestow on me one of your sweetest smiles I shall not permit you to leave the room.”
“I ’ll go the moment I am ready.”
“Oh, no you won’t, if I decide to make you my prisoner,” he predicted. “Your last chance, my dear young lady; will you do as I ask?”
“Not I, Mr. Moore,” she answered, keeping her face resolutely turned from him. This was what he desired, for without attracting her attention he lifted the hem of her dress, and putting perhaps a foot of the skirt in one of the drawers of the desk, shoved it shut and locked it, thus effectually tethering her. She heard the click of the key, but not suspecting the cause of the noise, continued her inspection of vacancy, while Moore, bubbling over with his merry triumph, retired to the opposite side of the room.
“You are locked up now, Bessie,” he announced with a chuckle. “If you will cast your eye to the left you will see how securely I hold you.”
Bessie, her curiosity aroused by the satisfaction perceptible in the poet’s voice, rose, intending to investigate the state of affairs from the centre of the room. A sudden tug at her dress which nearly tilted her over backwards on her little high heels brought her to an astonished standstill, and turning, she perceived the result of Moore’s scheming.
“How dare you?” she cried, this time really angry.
“I hardly know myself,” he answered gayly. “I think it must be the courage of despair.”
Meanwhile the girl had made several unsuccessful attempts to withdraw her dress from the closed drawer, and, abandoning the effort, turned in maidenly fury upon her captor.
“You wretch!”
“You are locked in, Bessie, dear.”
“Give me the key instantly, Mr. Moore. Do you hear?”
“Yes,” replied the poet. “I hear.”
“I never saw such a fellow,” she began, but he interrupted her blandly.
“There is none like me,” he asserted.
“A very fortunate thing for the world, sir.”
“But, Bessie, think how many poor young girls there are just pining for such a love as I ’ve offered you, and who will never have the luxury, since there is only one Moore.”
“I did n’t know you could be so horrid,” she said, her voice trembling with anger.
“Oh, I can be even more so,” he answered. “In fact, if I want to, I can be about the horridest person there ever was.”
“I believe you,” she said sincerely. “Once I did rather like you—”
“Indeed? You concealed it amazingly well.”
“—but, now I—I—”
“Well, what now?”
“I fairly hate you,” she stormed, tugging impatiently at her skirt.
“I am not surprised to hear you say that, Bessie. What is it the poet says?”
“I abominate all poets.”
“Let me see. I have it.
“‘What ever’s done by one so fair
Must ever be most fairly done—’
“Even hating, Bessie.”
“I ’ll call for help unless you release me instantly,” she threatened.
“Do you wish everybody to say you were so saucy to me that I had to lock you up? To the ordinary observer, less appreciative of your beauty, you might appear rather ridiculous tethered here. Think how pleasant that would be for all the other young girls, who are already envious of your superior attractions.”
This supposition was altogether too likely to prove true for Bessie to force matters as she had announced she intended doing, so she abandoned all idea of outside assistance. Having failed in intimidation she, woman-like, resorted to cajolery.
“Please give me the key, Tom,” she said in her sweetest tone.
“I ’ll trade with you, Bessie. I ’ll give you the key of the desk for a lock of your hair.”
“Very well,” she answered, much relieved at the insignificance of the ransom demanded.
“I want that little curl to the left of your forehead just in front of your ear,” he continued, cunningly selecting a ringlet that could not be shorn without utterly spoiling the girl’s appearance indefinitely.
“I can’t give you that one,” she said, indignantly.
“Oh, very well, then. You shall enjoy solitary confinement for the next five minutes. When that time has expired, I will return and afford you the opportunity of assuring me how much you regret all the cross and inconsiderate things you have said to-night.”
“I ’ll never do that,” she cried.
“Usually,” asserted Moore, “a girl’s never means to-morrow.”
“This instance is an exception.”
“True, Bessie, for this time it means five minutes. Behold the key to the problem.”
With a teasing gesture Moore held up the bit of brass, the possession of which had made the girl’s punishment possible.
“If you go,” said the girl, firmly and slowly, “it means we shall never be friends again.”
“Pooh!” observed the poet with an indifference most insulting, “you do not frighten me in the least, my dear. I do not wish to be your friend.”
So saying, he deposited the key in his pocket and walked toward the door with a self-satisfied swagger.
Bessie, driven to desperation, was about to call to him not to go, hoping he would propose some other terms of settlement, when he took his handkerchief out of his pocket and waved it at her before stepping out of the room. She smothered a little cry of delight and waited impatiently for his steps to die away as he walked toward the farther door of the apartment adjacent. Moore had carelessly drawn the key out of his pocket with his handkerchief, and it had dropped noiselessly upon the floor, the sound of its fall deadened by the soft carpet.
“Now, how can I get that key?” thought Bessie. “If I only had a long stick! I ’ll try to reach it with a chair.”
But she could not come within a yard of it even with this help.
“I wish I knew how to swear,” she murmured. “I really believe I would. Perhaps I can pick the lock with a hairpin. I have heard of prisoners escaping in that way. Prisoner. Tom’s prisoner.”
She smiled involuntarily, and then, realizing what she was doing, gave herself a shake of disapproval.
“You should be ashamed of yourself, Bessie Dyke,” thought she. “After the way that man has treated you, you should hate him. I will hate him, the horrid thing.”
Leaning over, she strove to unlock the drawer with the hairpin but scored a decisive failure, and in consequence again waxed wrathful. The next bright idea that suggested itself to her mind was that she might possibly drag the desk across the floor to where the key lay exasperatingly plain in view, but she found her young strength far too little to even budge the cumbersome old piece of furniture. Then another plan came to her and she gave a little gurgling laugh, half delight, half fear, and began to consider it in detail.
“If I dared, oh, if I dared,” she whispered. “I wonder if I can risk it? It would n’t take a minute. I will do it, so there.”
As she spoke, she fumbled with the fastening of her dress. The next moment it fell from around her waist, and stepping out of the circular heap of millinery surrounding her which it made upon the floor, she was free to go where she pleased.
Flushed with success, and yet frightened beyond measure lest she should be caught by some stray guest in her present incomplete costume, the girl danced laughingly across the floor, keeping out of line with the door for fear some one might enter the next room, and, reaching the key, pounced on it in triumph.
“Now we will see,” she laughed. “Oh, you think you are very clever, Mr. Thomas Moore, but I fancy there are one or two others just as sharp as you are.”
Hastening back to the desk, she inserted her prize in the lock and endeavored to turn it, but did not succeed in doing so, for it did not fit at all well. She tried again and again, but no better success rewarded her efforts, and slowly it dawned upon her that this was not the required key. She had again fallen victim to the cunning of the young Irishman.
“It is n’t the one,” she cried. “It is much too big. Oh, he did it on purpose. What shall I do?”
It was quite evident that she could not long remain in such abbreviated attire without being detected by some one.
A vigorous pull at the skirt now limply pendant from the prisoning drawer proved that it was just as impossible to release it when vacated by its owner as when it adorned her person. In fact, Bessie’s brilliant idea had availed her not in the least, and, realizing this, she was about to step into the skirt with a view to assuming her shackling finery, when the sound of her tormentor’s voice, singing softly to himself as he approached, gave her warning of his coming.
With a little gasp of alarm Bessie fled to the cover of the portières which separated the window recess from the room and sheltered by their clinging folds waited for developments.