Chapter VII: Part 7

Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed by Sheridan and the others. Bessie never looked prettier. The proud consciousness of her success gave her a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with the witty throng assembled to celebrate her triumph as brightly and merrily as though she had never moved in any but the upper circle of society. Mrs. FitzHerbert mischievously told her of Sir Percival's intentional neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman, and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarrassing position in which she had placed him, sought safety in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by the beauty's condescension, was already vaguely meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent.

"Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him.

"Angry?" she repeated. "What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?"

"You must know why I have done this," he said boldly.

"Why, Sir Percival?"

"Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual impudent manner."

"You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached.

"The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he announced to his master.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival. "His Highness' tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming."

"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales," announced the footman a moment later, "_and Mr. Thomas Moore!_"

The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's surprise and disappointment.

"Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore with me."

"Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad to welcome any friend of yours," glibly replied Sir Percival.

Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer disfiguring his handsome face:

"Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored."

"I believe you, Sir Percival," responded the poet, promptly, "so that need not worry you."

"Nothing ever worries me, sir."

"Not even conscience, Sir Percival?"

"No, Mr. Moore," replied the baronet, as Wales and Sheridan drew nearer.

"Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no longer in style."

"Tut, tut, Tom," said Sheridan reprovingly. "I still cling to the old fashion."

Moore eyed the speaker's wig with tolerant eye.

"Faith, Sherry," said he, "brains such as yours are an excuse for anything."

"Perhaps," said Sheridan. "But it is a poor rule that does n't work both ways, and surely you will not have the temerity to assert that 'Anything is an excuse for brains.'"

"In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?"

"It takes a sinner to be cynical," said Sheridan, having recourse to his snuff-box.

"Then," said Moore, "what a doubter our greatest dramatist must be."

"I have been described as a doubtful character more than once," returned the old gentleman. "Your Highness, when you arrived we were discussing matrimony."

"An amatory eccentricity," drawled Brummell, who had joined the little group now surrounding the Prince.

"The connecting link between bankruptcy and the Bank of England," declared Sir Percival.

"The straight-jacket in which are confined couples suffering from sentimental insanity pronounced incurable by the church," said Moore.

"Ah," said Wales, "recovery is sometimes rapid, nevertheless."

"Marriage is deceptive," said Mr. Sheridan, with a sigh. "Lovers go to church for a bridal and return home to find they have been given a yoke."

"What would you suggest, Sherry?" asked the Prince. "Would you abolish matrimony?"

"I 'd make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three years' sight."

"I fear most couples would seek to discount the bill," said Moore.

"You take it too seriously," said Brummell, smothering a yawn.

"Is it supposed to be a joke?" asked Wales, whimsically.

"Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the benefit of posterity," said Moore.

"Tut, tut, Tommy," said Sheridan reprovingly. "You are too young to be such a scoffer."

"Indeed?"

"You young fellows are led astray by your own importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations."

A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but the younger was not to be so quickly defeated.

"And you old boys," said he, "make another mistake. You regard yourselves as attractions long after you have become ornaments."

"Personalities are to be avoided," returned Sheridan good-humoredly. "We were talking of marriage."

"Don't mention it," retorted Moore politely. "It is a queer thing at best. Before a wedding a woman has a husband to look forward to."

"And when married?"

"Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after."

"Imagine it, Brummell."

"Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits to my imagination," replied the Beau.

"Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking," observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite's lace cravat through his eye-glass. "'T is well to remember that imagination is the thief of truth."

"You have dismembered marriage," said Wales, smiling, "what of love?"

"Surely the subjects have nothing in common?" cried Moore.

"The two together would be most uncommon," remarked Sheridan. "Love is the incidental music in the melodrama of life."

"The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by the sentimental apothecary," retorted Moore. "Love is the devil, matrimony is hel--hem!--heaven."

"How do you know, Moore?" demanded the Prince. "You have never been married."

"I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but I know it is hot just the same."

The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell, strolled away in search of Mrs. FitzHerbert, while Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room, leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.

That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his quest than at the beginning of the evening. Just then there came a request from the Regent that he should favor the assemblage with one of his own songs, so, inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his good-nature was at par with his fellow guests' appreciation.

Having sung "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms," he followed it with the mournful ditty, "She is Far from the Land," and finished with "The Last Rose of Summer" by royal command, the close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering; but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords, publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given the assemblage.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle. Finding a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited the young Irishman's coming, absorbed in pleasant rumination on the probable happenings of the by no means distant future.

"Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"

Farrell drew a copy of the _Examiner_ from his pocket.

"Here it is in the evening's issue," said he. "Evidently his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though every one else seems to have done so."

"Droll that the Prince should come here in the author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had purloined from Moore's garret.

"A propitious happening, sir," returned Farrell. "I have not begun the circulation of the author's name. Is it the proper time, think you?"

"Not yet, my dear Terence. Half an hour from now will be quite soon enough. Egad, these verses sting, or I 'm no judge of satire. When the Prince does finally set eyes upon them there will be an outburst. A flood of anger will result on which the writer of this masterpiece will be borne away to oblivion."

"Moore is high in favor now."

"The higher the elevation the greater the fall, Terence."

Farrell nodded.

"Our visit to his garret was a fortunate one. But for what we found there I fear Tom's position in royal favor would be too firm for even you, Sir Percival, to successfully assail. May I ask the programme you have planned in regard to Bessie?"

"It differs very little from the scheme we discussed a fortnight ago. Already the bailiffs are on post both at the front and rear, waiting patiently to seize the person of Mr. Dyke unless otherwise directed by my humble self, which will only result from the girl's compliance or the payment of the thousand her father owes me. I anticipate with their aid finding little difficulty in persuading Mistress Bessie to go through the marriage ceremony to-night. Once this is accomplished I'll take her on the Continent for a glimpse of Europe."

"You will marry her?" said Farrell in surprise.

"Not really, you fool," laughed his patron. "Foreseeing such a compromise as marriage, I have provided a clergyman of my own manufacture. Jack Hathaway has kindly consented to assume the role for a liberal consideration."

"That devil's bird," muttered Farrell.

"Aye, no angel child is Jack, but a gentler rogue might not care to risk liberty to oblige a friend who had found a difficult damsel."

"And where is this gallant rascal?"

"He, with the proper ecclesiastical caparisons ready at hand, is waiting for my coming round the corner a little way. You see how confident I am that to-night I will have my will."

"You think she will suspect nothing?"

"I rely on Jack's appearance to silence any vague doubts that may haunt her gentle bosom. Jack can look most reverent. Aye, and act it, too, if he be not in his cups."

"You are a remarkable man, Sir Percival."

"At all events industrious," returned the baronet, rising and putting the paper in his pocket. "Come, Farrell, our absence may be remarked. Your arm."

Then, as these two very worthy gentlemen strolled leisurely away, a little old man in a powdered wig all awry in its set upon his clever old head, staggered out from behind the portieres screening the window recess, and, balancing himself uncertainly as he stood, groaned aloud at the impotence of his intoxicated brain.

The little gentleman was Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan; the reason for his sudden impatience with drunkenness being that he had heard every word of the conversation between Sir Percival and his creature, and now found his wine-drenched intellect unequal to planning the proper course for him to follow to checkmate the benevolent intentions of his host.

_Chapter Nineteen_

_MR. SHERIDAN, MR. BRUMMELL, AND MR. MOORE HOLD COUNCIL OF WAR_

His Royal Highness did not at first succeed in locating the lady who enjoyed so much of his favor and admiration at this time. Mrs. FitzHerbert took possession of Moore when a servant informed Farrell of Sir Percival's wish to see him, and, laughing mischievously, kept on the move from one room to another, resolved that Wales should make at least a fairly determined effort before he obtained the pleasure of her company. Finding a secluded corner behind some palms in the conservatory, she proceeded to catechise Moore in regard to his affair with Bessie Dyke, at the same time keeping a sharp look-out for the approach of the Regent.

"I 'll vow you were at Old Drury to-night, Mr. Moore," said she.

"Do you think that shows marvellous perception on your part?" demanded the poet, lightly.

"What do you think of actresses?"

"I don't think of them, Mrs. FitzHerbert."

"Not of Bessie?"

"Never as an actress."

"Yet she is one, and clever too,"

"If I had my way she 'd never walk the boards after to-night."

"But you have n't your way, Mr. Moore."

"Worse luck!"

"Oh, perhaps it is fortunate for Mistress Bessie that you do not direct her destinies."

"I think no man enjoys seeing a woman he cares for upon the stage."

"Fie, Mr. Moore. A man should be proud of the admiration accorded her if she be successful."

"There is no place half so fitting for a woman as her husband's home. No profession for her one hundredth part so appropriate, so complete in happiness and content as the care of her children."

"You are very old fashioned, Mr. Moore."

"True love is always old fashioned. It is one thing that has never changed an iota since the first man was given the first woman to worship."

"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. FitzHerbert, "you have the morals badly this evening. Mr. Brummell, I fear your friend Tom is contemplating priesthood."

"Religion is an excellent thing to ponder on," said the Beau, drawing near. "It is so completely non-exciting that much thought may be expended, thus furnishing extensive intellectual exercise without causing the nervous mental activity so completely demoralizing to placid natures."

"Perhaps he means something by that procession of words, Mrs. FitzHerbert," said Moore, doubtfully. "We must not judge entirely by appearances."

"It is not impossible, I presume," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, apparently possessed of serious misgivings upon the subject.

"Because the prattle of certain people is entirely devoid of either sense or sentiment, it is not to be concluded that the conversation of every one else is at so completely a low ebb of mentality," remarked the Beau, sententiously. "Oh, Tommy, Tommy, why will you tie your cravat in that horrible, horrible fashion?"

"It's like this, Brummell. I 'm tired of following your styles, so at present seek to set one of my own."

"Then I 'll quell your insubordination without further delay," returned the Beau, laying skilful hands on Moore's tie. "A touch to the left, a twist to the right, a pucker here, and a graceful fall of lace thus, Thomas, and you are a credit to Ireland."

"Thanky," said Moore. "If I look half as fine as you do, George, I 'll need some one to see me home. The ladies will never allow me to escape unkissed."

"A kiss in time saves nine," said Mr. Sheridan, thickly, having approached unnoticed. "I can't prove it, but it sounds curst clever, at least after the second bottle."

"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fitz," said Brummell, languidly, "his Highness is searching for you, or I misread his behavior."

"If that is the case," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, smiling into existence the prettiest dimple in the world, "there is only one thing for me to do."

"To hide, Mrs. FitzHerbert," suggested Moore, who understood all women save one; at least it was to this effect that he flattered himself.

"Really, Mr. Moore, you should have been born a woman."

"Not so," said the poet, "for then, like other women, I should be blind to the good fortune of his Highness in enjoying your ladyship's favor."

"But," said Brummell, pompously, "if you had been a woman, Tom, _I_ might have loved you."

"Egad, George, for the first time in my life I regret my sex."

"I 've regretted m' sex all m' life," observed Sheridan, swaying a trifle.

"And tried to drown all recollection in a crimson tide, eh, Sherry?"

"Don't you be so f'miliar, Tommy. I 'm not half drunk."

"Which half is sober, sir?"

"I am still in doubt 's to that, sir. I think it's first one half and then the other."

"You seem quite content, Mr. Sheridan."

"That, Mrs. FitzHerbert, is because I have made myself familiar with Sir Percival's wine, and familiarity breeds content."

Just then Mrs. FitzHerbert caught a distant view of the Regent, and, seeing Sheridan was bent on continuing to enjoy the society of his young fellow-countryman, she took the arm of the Beau and hied herself in the opposite direction, thus prolonging the quest of her royal lover.

Once by themselves, Sheridan seized Moore's arm.

"Tommy," said he, "I 'm a drunken old reprobate."

"They say confession is good for the soul, Sherry," replied Moore, politely.

"But I 'm not such a rascal as s'm' others I know of."

"I hope you mean nothing personal?"

"Shut up, Tommy."

"Yessir," replied the gentleman thus admonished.

"Goo' boy, Tommy. Now listen. Having had a drink or two or pos'bly three to be 'tirely frank, Tommy, I 'cided to get a little air."

"I thought you had a little heir, Sherry."

"Y'r a fool, Tommy."

"I can't conscientiously deny it."

"Oh, H--l!" remarked the elder Irishman, "it's too important to be so curst silly about."

"I beg your pardon," said Moore, contritely. "Proceed."

"Where was I?"

"You were looking for air."

"So I was. Well, so in I go to a room ver' little frequented. And there I raise a window and have a shock, fo' outside I see quite plainly the ugly mug of a bailiff. A bailiff I 'm quite attached to f'r ole times' sake. 'Shoo' old acquaintance be f'rgot,' and so forth. Understan', Tommy?"

"Perfectly."

"So of course I think he is after me. Understan'?"

"The presumption is quite natural."

"And bob back my head f'r fear he mi' see me. Then down comes window on m' crown, tips my wig over m' ear, and lays me out cold on the floor behind the por'chers. Understan'?"

"Very clearly, Sherry."

"Then when I become sens'ble, I hear voices outside window recess in the room, Sir Percival and Farrell having confidential chat. Thass what I want tell you."

"Oh," said Moore, in sudden interest, "what were they talking about?"

"Curst 'f I know now," said the dramatist, blankly, all recollection of the important information he had to convey suddenly obliterated.

Moore immediately waxed anxious.

"Think, Sherry, think!"

"I 'm too drunk to do anything but--"

"But what?"

"--but drink some more drinksh."

"Sit down here now and take things easily," urged Moore, resolved to learn what had weighed so heavily upon the old gentleman's mind.

"I 'm ver' thirsty," observed Sheridan, thoughtfully. "Go' lump on m' head, Tommy. Ver' dis'oblegin' window, most inconsid'rate. Almost scalped ven'rable author of 'Schoo' f'r Scan'al.'"

"Now there are only two subjects on which Sir Percival could converse that would interest me in the least, Sherry."

"Two. Thass ver' few f'r so clever a man as you, Tommy. I fear you lack ver'--ver'--vers'tility, m' boy."

"The first subject is, of course, Bessie."

"Curst nice lil' girl," observed Sheridan, conscious that the young lady spoken of was in some way connected with the idea that had so suddenly vanished.

"The other is myself."

"Natura--er--rally so."

"Now of which of these did he speak?"

"Thass the question, Tommy," replied Sheridan stupidly.

"Oh!" exclaimed Moore in disgust.

A flash of recollection stirred into new life by the ejaculation illumined the face of the wit.

"Yesh, thass it. Owe. Thass it, Tommy."

Moore became imbued with new hope, but did not hasten his inquiries as before, lest he should again daze Sheridan's semi-somnolent memory.

"Owe?" he repeated. "Some one is indebted to Sir Percival, Sherry?"

"Thass it, Tommy."

"I wonder who it can be? Of course you do not remember, Sherry?"

"Yesh I do," asserted his companion. "Itsh Mr. Dyke. He owes Sir Percival thoushand pounds."

"Good God!" exclaimed Moore, beneath his breath, horrified at what he heard.

"The bailiffs I s'posed present in m' honor are here to seize him if he don't return the moneysh to-night."

"What is the alternative the scoundrel offers?" asked Moore, confident that the debt was merely a weapon of intimidation.

"If Bessie marries him to-night he will let her father off on his debt. Otherwise he goes in limbo. She 'll have to do it, m' boy. He 'd die in Fleet Street. Oh, Tommy, what a dirty scoundrel he ish!"

"Sherry," said Moore, gratefully, pressing the old gentleman's hand as he spoke, "if I live to be a thousand years old I 'll never cease to thank you with all my heart for what you have done to-night."

"Thass all right, Tommy, thass all right. We 're both Irishmen," responded the dramatist.

As Sheridan spoke he opened the window and standing beside it drew long draughts of the cool fresh evening air into his lungs. Moore sat quietly waiting for his friend to regain the sobriety he knew would not be long in returning, now that he had passed through the muddled stage and emerged upon the borders of ordinary intelligence. Meanwhile he was trying to evolve some plan to avert the danger threatening his friends with such dire misfortune. For the aged poet to languish in the foulness of a debtor's prison for more than a week would be to sign his death-warrant. The horrible condition of the places of confinement consecrated to the incarceration of gentlemen who involved themselves to an extent beyond their ability to pay was one of the strongest inducements that could be brought to bear by a creditor to force to the settlement of long-standing obligations a certain type of debtor--he who could pay if he willed to make the sacrifice of personal convenience, and to curtail the indulgences common usage made the essential pleasures of the gay life of the sporty young buck of the period. For this reason more than any other was the condition of these vile dens allowed to go unimproved in spite of an occasional vigorous protest from some noble but impoverished family whose ne'er-do-well offspring was compelled to lie indefinitely in squalor as new as it was repugnant to his elegant sensibilities. That Bessie would make any sacrifice to keep her father from such a fate Moore felt assured. There was only one way to block Sir Percival's game. The money must be paid. But how? The returns from Moore's book had enabled him to settle his debts in both Ireland and England, but, up to this time, very little more than enough to accomplish this result and support him as his new position demanded had come from his publisher, McDermot. It was true that the sudden glow of enthusiasm usually experienced by a bookseller after the publication of a successful book had led the close-fisted and stony-hearted old Scotchman to declare his willingness to pay a generous sum in advance for a new poem, upon an oriental theme, which Lord Lansdowne had suggested to Moore, providing this bonus should give him the exclusive right of publication for the term of two years to all literary output from the pen of the young Irishman. However, Moore felt confident that the sum McDermot would be willing to pay to bind the bargain would be far less than the thousand he required. How, then, could he raise such an enormous amount?

Sheridan, who was fast sobering, thanks to the bracing air, closed the window with a shiver and turned to his young friend.

"What will you do, Tommy?" he asked, only a slight trace of his former thickness of tongue perceptible.

"Do, Sherry? I 'll have to raise the money."

"Have you it?" demanded the wit, regarding Moore in amazement.

"Not I, Sherry. It's taken all I 've earned so far to pay my debts."

"Debts?" snorted Sheridan, contemptuously. "Let this be a lesson to you, Tom. Never pay anything. I never do."

"You, Sherry? Have you any money?"

"None, except what I have in my pockets," replied Sheridan, hopelessly. At this moment Mr. Brummell, deserted by Mrs. FitzHerbert, and weary of the senseless gabble so liberally dispensed by nine of every ten females gracing social functions of magnitude, wandered back into the conservatory in search of quiet. Spying two of his closest cronies, he made haste to join them.

"Here is the Beau," said Moore. "Ah, George, you have come just in time for the collection."

"Indeed?" said Brummell, curiously. "Have I missed the sermon?"

"Yes, but you are in time for the blessing, if you have any money to lend a poor devil of an Irishman."

"Money," sighed the Beau, "is too vulgar for me to long endure its possession, Tom."

"I am not joking, Brummell," declared Moore, seriously. "I need money, sir. Every penny you can let me have. How much do you think you can raise for me within the hour?"

Brummell, assured by Moore's manner that he was not jesting, began to sum up his resources.

"I think," said he, hopefully, "that I can borrow fifty pounds from my landlady, and I have a guinea or two in my clothes."

"Fifty pounds," said Moore. "And you, Sherry?"

The gentleman addressed had ransacked his pockets and was rapidly counting out a handful of small coins.

"I have five shillings and sixpence," he announced.

Moore groaned.

"And I think," continued the old gentleman, "that I can borrow five pounds from my valet if the rascal is not in a state of beastly sobriety."

"And I 've not twenty pounds to my name," said Moore, losing hope for the moment.

"Your name should carry more weight than twenty pounds," returned Sheridan. "Perhaps I can borrow some from a stranger."

"But a stranger would not know you, Sherry," objected Brummell.

"But if he knew him he wouldn't lend him a penny," said Moore. "Think of it, gentlemen. What would posterity say if it knew? Beau Brummell, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Tom Moore together cannot raise one hundred pounds in a time of desperate need."

"What would posterity say?" sighed Brummell in disgust.

"Oh, d--n posterity!" cried Sheridan. "What has posterity ever done for us?"

"Give it time, Sherry, give it time."

"That is one thing I am never short of, Tommy."

"May I, without impropriety, ask what is the trouble?" inquired the Beau.

"A friend of mine is in danger, Brummell. I must raise one thousand pounds before dawn."

"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Brummell, horrified. "Good Lord!"

Then, as the Beau had recourse to his scent-bottle for the stimulation necessary to revive him from the shock inflicted by Moore's words, the poet gripped Sheridan by the arm in sudden hope.

"I 'll appeal to the Prince Regent himself, Sherry."

Sheridan shook his head in dissent.

"Tommy, boy, remember he is Sir Percival's intimate friend."

"But his Highness likes me. Surely he would interfere?"

"Tom," said Brummell solemnly, "if there is a woman in the case do not waste your time and exhaust the patience of Wales. His Highness is a greater rake than Percy Lovelace ever dreamed of being."

"He would not see a woman so coerced," persisted Moore.

"Remember, lad," advised Sheridan, "you are a friend and courtier of only three months' standing. Sir Percival has been Wales's companion since their boyhood."

"Then God help us," said Moore in despair. "There is nothing I can do. Stay! I forgot McDermot. He has asked me to write him an eastern romance in verse and offered to pay liberally in advance."

"That old skinflint will faint at the thought of a thousand pounds."

"It is my only chance, Sherry. Where is the old fellow?"

"I saw him in the smoking-room a few minutes ago," said Brummell. "No doubt you will find him still there."

"I 'll not lose a moment," said Moore. "It is a forlorn hope, but he 'll find the hardest task of his life will be to give me 'No' for an answer."

"But first, Tom," said Sheridan, wisely, "you must see Mr. Dyke. Perhaps it is not so bad a matter as we think."

"You are right, Sherry," replied Moore, his spirits recovering a little at the thought that, after all, the danger might have been exaggerated.

But this desperate hope was not destined to be of long life, for Moore found Mr. Dyke in a quiet nook, crushed and despairing. He had just left Sir Percival, who in a few cold words had explained to the hapless old man the terrible trap in which he had been caught.

"Take a half hour to think over my proposition," the baronet had said as he left the aged poet. "When that time has passed, acquaint your daughter with my wishes. She will do anything, even marry me, I feel sure, to extricate you from your present predicament."

Moore listened in silence to his friend's story, and when he had finished said:

"You have not told Bessie, sir?"

"Not yet, Thomas."

"Then do not tell her. Let me settle with Sir Percival. I 'll find some way to beat him yet."

Leaving Mr. Dyke where he had found him, Moore went in search of the publisher.

_Chapter Twenty_

_TOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAIN_

Mr. McDermot raised his bald head as Moore approached him in the smoking-room. His keen, hatchet-shaped face was framed on either side by a huge mutton-chop whisker which was like nothing else half so much as a furze bush recently sifted over by a snow-storm. This worthy gentleman regarded Moore with a keenness that seemed to the poet to penetrate and to coldly scrutinize his troubled mind, for Moore was ever a poor hand at dissimulation and bore on his unusually cheery countenance only too plainly the mark of the mental anxiety he was now enduring.

"Weel, Mr. Moore, what can I do for ye, sair?"

"Sir," said Moore, trying to hide his eagerness, "I have been thinking over the proposition you made a week ago at the instigation of Lord Lansdowne."

"Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing at a single glance that the person addressing him was much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the result of this interview, and wisely concluding that this something was money.

"You wished me to write a long poem, for which you asserted you were willing to pay in advance, if by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all my work for the next two years."

"So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago, sair. However, continue your remarks."

"At that time I did not regard the matter favorably," continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my mind. I accept your offer, sir."

"Ah, do ye? And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?"

"You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable bargain I might propose."

"True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by anither. Ha' the kindness to name in figures, Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."

McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference ringing its baleful note in each word. Moore's heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing should be forced upon him beyond all denying.

"I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold, but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman made him hesitate and falter with the words upon his lips unspoken.

"One thousand poonds!" ejaculated McDermot, terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings. "One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore? What jest is this, sair?"

"Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood rushing to his face.

"Worth it? _Worth it_? You must be mad, sair. No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye half that in advance."

"Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a result.

"I too ha' been considering the matter o' which ye speak, Mr. Moore."

"You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?" cried Moore, in great alarm.

"That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean," declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath his bristling brows. "I ha' decided, sair, that I much exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents. This determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha' just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole matter. Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore. Try Longmans or Mooray."

"Mr. McDermot," said Moore, forcing himself to speak calmly, thankful that the publisher and he had the smoking-room to themselves, "if the proposition I have made is unsatisfactory, pray suggest one in your turn. I will consider any you may see fit to offer."

McDermot coughed a little and shook his shining old head. That Moore was in desperate need of money was quite evident. The wily old publisher had no intention of allowing the most promising young poet of the day to slip through his fingers, yet he was quite resolved to take advantage of his extremity to drive him to as desperate a bargain as could be obtained by the craft which forty years of business life had endowed him with in addition to his natural astuteness.

"No," said he, "I 'll not haggle wi' ye. No doubt there are ithers who will gi' ye what ye ask."

This last was said in a way that plainly stated his sincere conviction that no one else would even consider the matter.

"Oh, sir!" cried Moore, despairingly, "I have relied upon this bargain."

"No fault o' mine, Mr. Moore, no fault o' mine, sair."

"Do you think I would ask you to reconsider your words if I had any hope of obtaining the money in any other quarter?"

"Where is Lord Brooking? He should help ye if ye ask him."

"Lord Brooking is on the Continent."

"Really, Mr. Moore, ye accomplish nothing by this perseestance."

"Have you no heart, Mr. McDermot?"

"Weel, it has no voice in my business affairs, sair."

"If you will give me one thousand pounds to-night and three hundred more during the year you shall own and publish all that I write these two years."

"No, no, Mr. Moore."

"One hundred during the year and the thousand pounds to-night, sir."

"Let us end this useless discussion," snarled McDermot, rising from the easy chair he had occupied until now.

"No," cried Moore, "you shall not deny me. I 'll give you a bargain you cannot refuse, sir. Give me one thousand pounds which shall be payment in full for the long poem, and I will write when and how you will for the next year at your own price. Yes, I will do this and bless you for it. Oh, sir, it means more than life to me. It is my whole future. It's love, it's honor. I beg that you will not use my extremity to drive me to despair. Surely my work is worth as much as it was a week ago when you would have gladly accepted such terms as I offer you now?"

"That is not the question," replied McDermot, coldly. "Ha' the goodness to get out o' my way, Mr. Moore."

Moore seized the publisher by the arm.

"An old man's liberty, perhaps his life; the happiness and good name of a mere girl depend upon me, sir. I have no other way of raising the money. Have pity."

"I am sorry," began McDermot in cold, merciless tones, but he got no farther.

"Then dictate your own terms, sir. I must have one thousand pounds. For that sum I will bind myself to anything you may propose."

"Ye mean that, Mr. Moore?"

"I do, sir."

"For one thousand poonds ye will gi' me, _without further compensation_, the entire literary labor o' your life, sair? All that ye may write so long as ye live, Mr. Moore?"

"Is that the best you will offer me?"

"That's all, sair."

"I accept your terms," said Moore in a choking voice.

McDermot sat down at a desk near by and wrote out the check for the desired amount.

Moore, accompanied by Mr. Sheridan, went in search of Sir Percival armed with the check made payable to the order of the baronet by Mr. McDermot, who immediately after drawing it went home to bed, entirely satisfied with his evening's work.

The two Irishmen found Sir Percival idly chatting with Mr. Walter Scott and that gentleman's most intimate friend, Mr. Samuel Rogers, these two giants being as usual surrounded by a circle of the lesser lights in the world of literature. Their host, seeing that his company was evidently desired, excused himself to his other guests, and the trio withdrew to a secluded corner of the room.

"Sir Percival," said Moore, in reply to the baronet's inquiring glance, "I have been informed by my friend, Mr. Dyke, that he is indebted to you for the amount of one thousand pounds."

Sir Percival allowed an expression of gentle surprise to play over his clever face.

"It is quite true, Mr. Moore, but really I fail to see how the transaction concerns you in the least."

"Perhaps your comprehension of the affair in its entirety is quite as unnecessary as you seem to regard the interest I feel in the matter," replied Moore, taking the same key as his host.

"Will you pardon me if I ask the business in regard to which you wish to see me?"

"Certainly, Sir Percival, I desire you to give Mr. Dyke a receipt for one thousand pounds."

"Tut, tut!" said the baronet, as though slightly irritated by the apparent silliness of Moore's request. "I shall do nothing of the sort unless I am paid in full."

"Allow me to pay you, sir. Here are a thousand pounds."

Sir Percival took the check from Moore, for once astonished out of his usually indifferent demeanor.

"The devil!" said he.

"Yes, a publisher," replied Moore, with a wink at Sheridan. "Kindly write me out a receipt, Sir Percival. Sherry, you will witness this transaction?"

"Faith, that I will gladly," said the dramatist, regarding Sir Percival's discomfiture with a humorous twinkle in his keen old eyes. "Damme, this is really a joyous occasion for all concerned."

To say that Sir Percival was surprised would be but to feebly express the feelings of that gentleman when he received payment of the debt which he had fondly hoped would be sufficient to gain his ends with Mistress Bessie. However, quickly rallying from his momentary discomposure, he put the check in his pocket.

"Believe me, gentlemen, I receive this with pleasure," said he, scribbling off a receipt with pen and ink brought by a servant.

"Yes, I know how pleased you are," replied Moore, politely. Then taking the acknowledgment of liquidation from the baronet, he carefully folded it before depositing it in his wallet.

"Some day, Sir Percival, when the time comes for us to make a settlement, I shall ask you for my receipt," he said in a tone that there was no mistaking.

"When that time comes, Mr. Moore, you will find me as eager and prompt as yourself," replied Sir Percival.

Moore looked his enemy calmly in the face and read there a courage fully the equal of his own.

"Egad, Sir Percival," said he, "for once I believe you. No doubt you will find it in your heart to release the bailiffs from further attendance this evening?"

"Your suggestion is a good one, Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, smothering his rage. "Carry to Mr. Dyke my thanks and add one more to the list of the many kindnesses for which I am already indebted to you, sir."

Moore and Sheridan lost but little time in the exchange of social amenities with their discomfited host. The younger man sought the card-room, bent on forgetting, for a while at least, the slavery into which he had sold his pen; the elder picked up the temporarily abandoned thread of his intoxication without further delay.

_Chapter Twenty-One_

_THE POET FALLS FROM FAVOR_

About fifteen minutes elapsed before some zealous courtier brought the poem in the _Examiner_ to the attention of the Regent, who thereupon, forgetting the presence of Mrs. FitzHerbert, who had allowed him to overtake her a few minutes previous, swore with an ease and variety that would have been a credit to the proverbial Billingsgate seller of fish. As the rage of Wales was not of the repressed order, the voice of royalty raised high in anger drew about him a crowd of courtiers who had been eagerly expecting such an outbreak all the evening.

"Sir Percival!" cried the Regent, catching sight of the baronet in a distant corner where Farrell and he were enjoying the tumult consequent on the culmination of their plot. "Have you seen this devilish set of verses?"

"I regret to say I have, your Highness," responded the baronet both shocked and grieved.

"It is infamous!" stormed Wales. "Gad's life! it is intolerable. I devote my best efforts to my country's service only to be foully lampooned in the public Press. Why, curse me--!"

"Your Highness, calm yourself, I beg of you," said Mrs. FitzHerbert, soothingly, but the Prince was not to be so easily restrained.

"Calm, indeed?" he shouted. "Calm, when such damnable insults are written and printed? Not I, madame."

"Rise superior to this malicious attack," persisted the beauty, little pleased that her influence should fail so publicly. "Remember your greatness, sir."

"A lion may be stung into anger by a gadfly, madame," retorted Wales, growing even more furious. "Brummell, have you read this infernal poem?"

"Not I, your Highness," replied the Beau, who, accompanied by Moore, had forsaken the card-table at the first outburst of royal wrath.

"Then do so now," commanded the enraged Regent, thrusting the paper into his hands.

Brummell ran his eyes hurriedly over the verses, while Wales continued pacing up and down the now crowded room in unabating fury.

"I saw them earlier in the evening, your Highness," said Sheridan, unable to keep his oar out of the troubled waters.

"Oh, did you, indeed?" demanded Wales. "And no doubt chuckled like the devil over them?"

"Your Highness!" said the aged wit, trying to speak reproachfully, in spite of an internal laugh that threatened to break out and ruin him.

"I believe you are quizzing me now if the truth were known," asserted the Prince, wrathfully suspicious. "If I am not mistaken, these lines sound marvellously like the work of your pen, sirrah."

"On my honor you wrong me, Sire," declared Sheridan, in a tone so unmistakably truthful that Wales could not doubt his entire innocence.

"May I not see the poem, Mr. Brummell?" asked Dyke, who had just entered the room.

The Beau obligingly handed over the paper to the old gentleman. As the old rhymer turned away, Moore looked over his shoulder and, scanning with eager eyes the page in quest of the satire which had so enraged the Regent, found it before the elder man's less keen sight had performed a like service for him. Moore turned sick with horror and clutched the nearest chair for support. How had the verses found their way into print? Dyke was ruined if it were proved that he wrote them. Bessie, too, would feel the weight of the Regent's displeasure, and without doubt would be deprived of her position at Drury Lane for her father's additional punishment. He had saved them from one disaster only to see them plunged hopelessly into another almost as dire.

A groan from the unhappy author announced that he, too, had recognized his poem. The next moment he turned on Moore with a look of despair on his usually placid face.

"Tom," he whispered, "you have ruined me. My poem is printed. Oh, Tom, how could you? How could you?"

"Surely you do not believe that I gave it to the Press?" said Moore, hoarsely, stung to the heart by the accusing look he read in his old friend's eyes.

"Who else could have done it? I gave you the only copy three months ago."

"I remember, sir. Ah, I can explain it. I left my garret in the afternoon and went for a stroll. When I returned home I found Sir Percival and Farrell there. Since that day I have never thought of it. They have done this, Mr. Dyke."

"I do not believe you," answered Dyke in a voice so scornful and suspicious that Moore felt as though he had received a blow in the face.

Meanwhile Wales's anger had not cooled in the least.

"Egad!" he was saying, "if I but knew the author's name!"

"There is still a chance, Mr. Dyke," whispered Moore. "Deny all knowledge of the matter. Swear you did not write it if necessary."

"Is it impossible to learn the identity of the writer?" asked Brummell seriously.

"Impossible?" repeated Wales. "Of course it is impossible, Beau! You do not think he will acknowledge this slander as his own, do you?"

"It does seem unlikely," admitted the exquisite.

"So unlikely," snorted the Prince, "that I 'd give a thousand pounds to find the rascal out."

Farrell, spurred on by a nudge from the elbow of his patron, stepped forward.

"Your Highness," said he, calmly, "I accept your offer."

Wales gazed at the dapper young law student in surprise.

"You know the author of this attack upon me, sir?" he asked.

"I do," answered Farrell, firmly.

Moore, resolved to anticipate and if possible prevent the accusation of Dyke which he felt sure was about to follow, stepped hurriedly forward.

"One moment, your Highness," said he. "Do you know this gentleman? He is a liar, a blackleg, and a coward, unworthy of your Highness' belief or consideration."

"Curse you," began Farrell, white to his lips with shame and passion, but Moore did not allow him to finish.

"I struck him in Ireland, yet he never resented my insult. Think, your Highness, is such a poltroon worthy of belief?"

"Sire!" stammered Farrell.

"Damn your private quarrels!" roared Wales, turning on Moore. "Have I not my own wrongs to resent, that you must annoy me with yours now?"

"He will lie to you as he has to others, Sire," replied Moore, refusing to be silenced.

"That remains to be seen, sirrah."

Sir Percival stepped out of the throng surrounding the angry Prince, smiling and debonair as usual.

"I will answer for the truth of any statement Mr. Farrell may make, Sire," said he.

"Continue," growled the Prince, waving Moore back with an impatient gesture.

"Your Highness," said Farrell, quick to take advantage of his opportunity, "the author of this vile attack upon you is one of your friends, a favorite protege, who, owing all to your favor, thus rewards your kindness by base ingratitude. To your Highness he owes everything; thus he repays you."

"His name?" demanded Wales.

There was a moment's pause, during which silence reigned, as Farrell artfully hesitated in his reply that, thus delayed, it might fall with even more crushing effect upon the object of his hatred. Short as was the time, it sufficed for Moore. Convinced that this was the only opportunity which would be afforded him to avert the disaster he believed to be about to overtake the father of the girl he had loved so truly and patiently, he resolved not to let it pass unutilized.

"I wrote that poem," he cried. "I am the author whose name your Highness would know."

"You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by what he had heard.

Dyke made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm.

"For Bessie's sake," he whispered. "Now do you believe me?"

"But, Tom--"

"Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's receipt into Dyke's hand. "Read that, and be silent if you love your daughter."

Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in utter silence. Then, as he recovered speech, his voice sounded hoarsely, but under perfect control.

"Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for Mr. Moore."

Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from the room. Sir Percival started toward the door, a triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to face. Suddenly the desperate expression left the countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem instead of a disgraceful dismissal.

"You heard his Highness' order, my man?"

He seemed to be addressing a servant, if one could judge from the tone in which he spoke.

"Then call my carriage, lackey!"

"Lackey!" cried Sir Percival, red with rage at the insult, thus forced upon him.

"Aye, lackey," repeated Moore, defiant and sneering in his turn. "And here is your pay!"

As he spoke, he struck the baronet a stinging slap in the face; then turned and strolled elegantly from the room.

Thus it was that Mr. Thomas Moore quitted the world of Fashion, which but a scant three months before he had entered in triumph by grace of the favor of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.

Book Four

"_If every rose with gold were tied,_
_Did gems for dewdrops fall,_
_One faded leaf where love had sighed_
_Were sweetly worth them all._"

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

_TOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE_

The morning after his enforced but by no means inglorious departure from Sir Percival's house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his hair. Sir Percival's honor was declared vindicated, as his having made a target of himself for Moore's shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he had received from the poet.

Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks of hair,--a loss which was not without significance as an indication of Sir Percival's good intentions. The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at this particular game he was no match for his sneering enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an expert marksman, and had never doubted that he would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning. However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival had come and gone, for he was far too wise to endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature of their encounter. Sir Percival's skill was widely known, and a no less deservedly popular individual than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth concerning Moore's shortcomings as a pistol shot. Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet that it was "a demned one-sided affair," and that Sir Percival's reputation, had he killed Moore, might have become "even a little more unsavory," comments which led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet's disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was considered a ruined man.

On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince's kindness had a few months before rescued him.

"No," said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady. "I 'm out of favor now and I 'll be saving of my pennies till I 'm righted again, if that shall ever be, which God knows and I 'm ignorant of, worse luck."

Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several flights between the poet's latest and earliest abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad to be back in their old quarters. Their cheerfulness could be easily accounted for. Rat-holes were an unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought incumbent on him to assume in honor of rising fortune had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.

Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the removal, Moore, after signing his contract with McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country, as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself to a little fishing village not far distant.

* * * * *

One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.