Chapter VIII: Part 8

There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.

One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of the _Gazette_ printed upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a manuscript under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.

Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the street below.

"That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss 'em, they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they? Well, we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets through."

The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor. This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit.

"You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, "Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin' with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we 'as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer."

Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley" on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its success.

Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his melody.

"Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "you must n't do sich rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years' growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount."

"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady. "It's many the fright you 've given me, you little tinker. Is Mr. Moore back from the country?"

"See 'ere, his n't the rent pide?" demanded Buster.

"Av course it's paid," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. "D' ye t'ink I have no t'oughts at all but about me rint?"

"Well," confessed Buster, "once hupon a time, hit sorter looked has 'ow you wuz bestowing considerable medication hupon that topic. Hif hit did n't, bli' me, that's hall, just bli' me."

"Is Mr. Moore back from the country?" repeated Mrs. Malone.

"Yes, your Majesty," replied the boy, with a low obeisance. "'Ee his. 'Ee returned this werry noon from the 'onts hof nachoor."

"It is just a week since he wint away," observed Mrs. Malone, reflectively.

"'Ow does yer keep count?" asked Buster, surprised at the accuracy of her remark.

"Faith, thot 's an easy mather," she answered, sagely. "Has n't Misthress Dyke called to see him sivin times?"

"She 'as, your 'Ighness, she 'as."

"That's once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n't it?"

"Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi 'as faith in the correctness of your calculation," responded Buster.

"Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n't returned. Did yez give her his adthress?"

"Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome hevery day. Hit 'll do 'er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes 'em contented like. Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy female. She'll 'ave a master, she will."

Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the floor.

"Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently viewing the disaster she had wrought.

"My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone, "wot his this hany 'ow? His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag habout till death do hus part?"

"Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking about the holy state of matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which he had taken his seat. "Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady called?"

"No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party."

"Why not, me bucko?"

"Coz Hi wishes to surprise 'im, that's w'y," said the boy defiantly. "Hand hif you lays 'and hon me agin, Hi 'll 'ave Lord Castlereagh bite you good hand 'arty where it 'll do you the most good hand be the least missed."

"Niver mind thot."

"Hi won't hif you won't, Hi 'm sure, Mrs. Malone, and as for the young lidy, she has n't been 'ere to-day," said Buster.

"Oh, never fear," returned Mrs. Malone. "Shell come, and it's glad I am that he 's back agin."

"W'y? Did you miss 'im?"

"Niver mind. It's the young leddy I 'm tinking of. Faith, suppose she got discouraged and stopped a-coming?"

"That 'ud show she was n't worth 'aving," replied Buster wisely. "Now see 'ere, Mrs. Malone, w'en she comes Hi wants you to let 'er hup widout hany announcement. Does you 'ear?"

"Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?"

"You just leave it to me, your 'Ighness. Hi knows how these haffairs should be conducted."

"Oh, yez do, do yez?" said Mrs. Malone in a derisive tone, as she ambled toward the door. "It's in an orphan asylum yez ought to be."

"Not hat all," retorted Buster. "Hi 'as no time to waste hon 'aving horphings."

The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she quitted his apartments, and overwhelmed him with the heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of Buster's instructions, said never a word concerning the visits of Mistress Dyke. Moore, having made as speedy an escape as was possible without wounding the old woman's feelings, entered the attic, being received with much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who seemed to ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a puppy several years before.

"Good hevening, Mr. Moore," said Buster politely, about to deliver the post to his master.

"Good evening, _Montgomery_," replied Moore, severely, drawing off his gloves.

"Montgomery?" echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted. "Ho, don't call me that, sir, please don't."

"Well, that's your name, isn't it?"

"Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!" said Buster, in an injured tone. "Hi knows hit only too well. Wen Hi wuz too little to defend myself w'en put hupon, my hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien Hethelbert, hand 'itches hit hon to the family nime hof Spinks."

"Montgomery Julien Ethelbert--"

"_Spinks_. Yes sir, that's hit. Wuz n't that a crime? That's wot stunted my growth, most likely."

"It seems plausible," observed Moore, in secret vastly amused.

"Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly. "Say, sir, won't you allus call me Buster?"

"No, sir," responded Moore, sternly. "You were fighting again this afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster again to-day."

"Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment is horful. We wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir, just playin' like."

"Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won't have you half killing the neighbors' children that way."

"You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant gesture w'en I soaked 'im hon the nob? Did n't Hi do 'im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!"

"Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.

The lad wilted.

"Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes me _that_ fretful," he said pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."

"Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery."

"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the post, sir."

Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to examine them.

"From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster interestedly.

Moore nodded.

"That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first as he spoke. "Ah, here is an inclosure."

"Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly.

"Where else?" demanded the poet. "Did you think it would be wrapped around the outside? From the _Gazette_. One pound. Good. A pound is better than ten shillings any day."

"Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said Buster, shaking his round head.

"But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding to himself, "aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."

He found a note inside and read it aloud.

"MR. THOMAS MOORE--

"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."

"Hi likes their imperence," cried Buster in disgust. "'Little,' indeed!"

"That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt," observed the poet. "Two days ago it was 'Tom Brown;' next week it will be 'Tom Green' or 'Tom Fool.' However, it does n't matter if Tom Moore gets the money."

"Hi 'll let 'em use my nime," suggested the lad in noble self-sacrifice. "My folks his all dead, so the publis'ty won't kill 'em. Montgomery Julien Hethelbert would look grite hin print."

"I quite agree with you," said Moore, laughing. "Ah, Buster, me boy, it's sweet to be back in the old place. I 'd not give it, bare and ugly as it is, for one of the fine places I 've wined and dined in since leaving it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me."

Buster looked around him comprehensively.

"Hit does need cleaning hup a bit," he said apologetically. "Hi 'll see wot Hi can do to-morrer."

"And you say there has been no letter for me from her?" continued Moore.

"Not one letter, sir," replied Buster.

"And you have n't seen her, Buster?"

The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand to his face, at the same time executing a double shuffle with his feet.

"What ails you, lad?"' asked the poet in astonishment.

"My toot' haches me," explained Buster, who had invented this complaint by way of diverting his master's inquiries.

"Fall in love, Buster," advised Moore, "and the pain in your heart will make you forget the pain in your tooth."

"Hit's better now, sir," announced the boy, jubilant that he had kept his master from all knowledge of Mistress Dyke without real denial of her visits.

"Now for the other letter," said Moore.

This was the bulky package. Buster's suspicions that it inclosed a disappointment proved not unfounded, for there was a manuscript poem folded within.

"Humph," grunted Moore, scornfully. "What bad taste they display.

"'MR. THOMAS MOORE--

"'DEAR SIR,--In view of your present unpopularity--'

Oh, I hate that d--n word, Buster."

"Hit is a bit narsty," assented the boy.

"--we feel obliged to return your poem entitled 'To Bessie.'"

"Confound them!"

Unfolding the poem, Moore ran his eye over its neatly written lines.

At this moment the door behind him opened softly, and Bessie crept in as quietly as any mouse. Buster saw her, and, leaning over the table, asked his master to read him the rejected verses.

"Certainly, Buster, since you wish it," said Moore, good-naturedly. "It will help on your literary education."

"That hit will, sir," said Buster, stepping where he could motion Bessie to remain silent without being detected by his master.

"'To Bessie,'" announced Moore, beginning to read, little thinking that the girl was so near.

"Tho' brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
Life's cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there
I 'd spurn the draught away.

"Without thy smile the monarch's lot
To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, even the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.

"Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
For me would have no charms,
My only world thy gentle eyes,
My throne thy circling arms."

Suddenly a pair of soft round arms were around his neck, and the poem he had just read with such love and tenderness was plucked from his grasp without warning.

Moore sprang to his feet with a low cry of surprise.

"Bessie," he said, incredulously. "You?"

"Don't you know me?" she asked with a little pout, as Buster, followed by the bulldog, stole discreetly from the room. "Have you forgotten how I look so soon?"

"Forgotten?" he echoed. "Is it likely, Bessie?"

"You seem surprised to see me."

"I can't deny that," he answered in wonder. "Forgive me if I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?"

"Oh," said Bessie, indifferently, "I came to see if you have written any more poems about the Prince. Tom, how could you do it? He was so fond of you."

"That may be," replied Moore, assuming a dignified air, "but I can't let friendship interfere with my politics."

"Then it was your duty, Tom?"

"It was my duty," he answered, gloomily.

"I think you were unpardonable," said the girl.

"I see," replied Moore, "you came to reproach me, Bessie."

"What a deceitful fellow you are," she went on, shaking her pretty head in a sad way.

"I am," admitted the poet. "I am. Go on, Bessie, don't spare me."

She advanced a step or two as he, at a loss to understand why she was thus baiting him, turned bitterly away.

"I can't spare you," she said sternly.

"So it seems," he murmured, not looking at her, lest the sight of her girlish beauty make the pain in his heart too great to be endured.

"I can't spare you," she repeated, "I can't spare you," but this time her tone was one of loving tenderness and he turned to look at her in surprise.

She was standing with outstretched arms, her face eager and adoring, the old light shining soft and clear in her eyes.

"Without you, Tom, there is no happiness for me. Tom dear, Tom darling, can't you see I 've come here because I love you?"

"What?" he exclaimed, and then, mindful of past disappointments, he raised his hand imploringly. "You are sure you are not joking this time?"

"Joking?" she repeated, advancing toward him. "Let this assure you."

As she spoke she kissed him full on the mouth, not once but thrice.

"Now are you convinced I am in earnest?" she asked shyly.

"Partly," he replied, still unable to fully realize that she had surrendered at last. "Convince me some more, Bessie."

Then as she kissed him again, he folded her in his arms and held her to his heart so tightly that she released herself with a little gasp.

"Please remember, sir, that I have to breathe," she remonstrated.

"I forgot everything, except that I had you in my arms," he answered. "Ah, Bessie darlin', my heart was breaking for you. I love you so much, dearest."

He embraced her again, and pressed her soft cool cheek to his, and it must be admitted she appeared to enjoy this proceeding as much as he did.

"Sure," he whispered, "if heaven is half as sweet as this let me die to-morrow."

"You took the blame to save my father. Oh, Tom, I 'll never forgive you."

"Keep on not forgiving me," he suggested, for she had given him another kiss.

"I made him tell me," said she, complying with his request before sitting down by the table, "but the next day you had gone."

"I know," said Moore, "I went out into the country. It helped me, as it always does. It comforted me, but not as you have done."

"And while you were gone I came here every day to see if you had returned."

"What is that?" he demanded. "You came here, dearest?"

Bessie nodded gleefully.

"I did not miss a day, not even Sunday," she said.

"That little devil of a Buster!" cried Moore, glaring around the attic in quest of him. "The imp! Wait till I lay my hands upon him!"

"He didn't tell you, Tom?"

"Not a word. If I had known, it is no sight of me the trees and the fields would have had."

Bessie rose from her chair, and stepping back a little distance, looked archly at her lover.

"Have you forgotten what you said?" she asked.

"Since I don't remember, I think I must have," said Moore puzzled.

"Then I 'll tell you, sir."

"That's good of you, Bessie," said he.

"You told me I would have to ask you to marry me," she answered, a little timidly. "Tom dear, I love you; will you be my husband?"

"This is so sudden," said Moore, and he sat down in the chair she had vacated.

"What is your answer, Tom?" she asked, almost anxiously.

"I 'll have to be wooed further before I give it," he declared, keenly relishing the situation.

"I 'll do it," she murmured. "I 'll do it. Tom, I love you better than all the world. With all my heart and soul I love you."

She knelt beside him and drew his head down on her shoulder.

"I love you," she whispered again, and held him close.

"But," he sighed in happy endurance of the unwonted attentions he was receiving, "Why do you love me so desperately? Is it because of my beauty or my goodness?"

"It's both, Tom."

"Oh, I have it," he exclaimed, "it's my wealth."

"Tom," she said reproachfully and rose to her feet, but before she could reprimand him for his last assertion his arm was around her waist.

"Bessie dear," he said solemnly, "do you know, for a moment in the joy of your coming I forgot my poverty."

"I did not, Tom," she answered.

"You are an angel of love and beauty, dear girl; you have taken a load from my heart and brightened my life this day. I can't tell you how I adore you, how grateful I am for what you have said to me, but I cannot marry you."

"Tom," she cried reproachfully. "Do you think I do not know of that wretched bargain to which you were driven by that terrible publisher?"

"Who told you?"

"Mr. Sheridan."

"Will that old Irishman never learn to keep his mouth shut?"

"Never, while he can do good to a friend by opening it, Tom."

"I 'll sue him if he keeps on."

"That does n't seem to do much good, dear lad; I 've been suing ever since I came here this afternoon, and I do not seem to have accomplished anything. Tom, say we shall be married soon, there 's a dear."

"Bessie," he said slowly, holding her at arm's length, so that he could look deep into her eyes, "I 'll have to get a clerkship somewhere before that can be. My whole literary work is mortgaged for the future."

"You shall not keep that wicked agreement, Tom."

"Oh, Bessie, a promise is a promise," said Moore. "When I have found a position I 'll consider your proposal of marriage. Can't you see, dear, what poor proof of my love for you it would be to allow you to share my present lot? Think how we should struggle, perhaps almost starve."

"I should not care if I were with you," she said.

"But I, Bessie? It would break my heart to know you were bearing such desolation for love of me."

"Where there is love there can be no desolation."

Moore's voice shook as he answered her, but he remained firm in his determination.

"You are the bravest girl in all the world, Bessie, but even your sweet words shan't make me close my eyes to the truth. We will go on as we are now. I 'll fight it out, and when I am satisfied that I can offer you one tithe of what you deserve, if God wills that I succeed, I 'll come to you with open arms. I 've no head for business. It's a new world I 'll have to conquer, dear. We must wait and I 'll not let you bind yourself to me. Perhaps there will be some one else some day--"

She stopped his mouth with a kiss.

"How can you be so cruel?" she half sobbed. "There can never be any one but you."

"But," he said mischievously, "you took so long to make up your mind, I thought--"

"Tom, you don't love me or you would not tease me so."

"Oh, if you are to be believed, teasing is no sign of indifference," said Moore. "It's a leaf from the book you wrote me this last year that you are reading now, Bessie!"

"You are so obstinate," she sighed. "Ah, Tom, you will succeed in spite of all. I know you will."

"Then, dearest, let us wait. Think, how can I expect you to obey me as my wife if you disobey me as a sweetheart?"

"But," said the girl, pouting, "I am not used to being rejected."

"_I am_," said he. "It is good experience."

"I suppose I 'll have to let you have your way."

"I suppose you will, Bessie."

"Father is coming after me in half an hour," she continued, taking off her hat as she spoke.

"So soon?" responded Moore, regretfully.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," said Bessie, quite at home as lady of the house.

"What is that?" said Moore, looking at her.

"Come in," she repeated, blushing as she realized her presumption.

"So you have established yourself already?" said the poet, his eyes twinkling, as he opened the door.

It was Mrs. Malone, resplendent in the best her wardrobe could afford.

_Chapter Twenty-Three_

_THE POET HAS CALLERS AND GIVES A DINNER-PARTY_

"Good avening, Misther Moore. Oh, it's yourself, Mistress Dyke? The top of the afternoon, darling. I just dropped in for a moment to tell yez the news."

"Ah," said Moore, hopefully, "the rent has been lowered, I suppose?"

"You will have your joke, Misther Moore," chuckled the landlady, sitting down in the chair Moore placed for her.

"And you 'll have your rent, eh, Mrs. Malone?"

"Tom," said Bessie, "do be still. What is the news, Mrs. Malone?"

"You are a couple of gossips," declared Moore, sitting on the table between Bessie and the old woman. "Oh, well, scandal is the spice of life they say."

"Well," began Mrs. Malone, in a tone appropriate to the importance of her story, "it seems that Sweeny, who kapes the grocery next door but two, has been having throuble with his darter."

"My, oh, my!" exclaimed Moore, properly horrified at the unfilial behavior of the young person mentioned.

"Hush, Tom,"

"Why don't he spank the girl?" demanded the poet. "If my daughter--"

"Tom!" said Bessie, giving him a reproving pinch.

"Well, I mean if ever I have a daughter."

"When you have will be time enough to tell about her, won't it, Mrs. Malone."

"Faith," said that hopeful old female, "I luvs to hear young couples planning for the future."

"Go on out of that," said Moore, shaking with laughter, while Bessie was visibly discomposed. "You make me blush, Mrs. Malone."

"I niver t'ought I 'd do thot," observed the landlady. "I t'inks that must be one of your kump'ny manners. Howiver, to continyer."

"I would if I were you, Mrs. Malone."

"Well how can I, if yez kape on bletherin'?"

"I 'm silent as the grave, Mrs. Malone."

"Jane Sweeny is the purtiest gal in the neighborhood--"

"Bar one, Mrs. Malone, bar one," interrupted Moore.

"Prisent company is always accepted," said the landlady, politely wagging her frilled cap till it creaked in its starchy immaculateness.

"If you had been here a few moments ago, you would have heard it refused," said Bessie, ruefully.

"Who is interrupting now?" demanded Moore in wrathful tones.

"Well, the lassie has took up kapin kump'ny on the sly wid some strange laddybuck, whom nobody knows a t'ing about, and will hardly look at the dairyman's son Ike, wid whom she has been thrainin' these t'ree years."

"The faithless hussy!" ejaculated the poet, in scathing condemnation.

"Hush!" said Bessie, now scenting a love story, and correspondingly interested.

"So Isaac--that's the son of the dairyman, you know--"

"I 'm satisfied on that point, if the dairyman is," observed Moore, wickedly.

Bessie took a pin from her dress.

"I 'll punch you with this if you don't behave, Tom Moore."

"Is that a joke, Bessie?"

"Yes, you 'll think so."

"Well, I won't be able to see the point of it if you perforate me. Go on, Mrs. Malone."

"So he swore he 'd get even--"

"The dairyman? Oh, then he _did_ have his doubts after all? Whom did he suspect, Mrs. Malone?"

Moore leaped off the table just in time to escape a vicious thrust from the pin, as Mrs. Malone, good-naturedly indifferent to his interruption, continued her recital.

"Ike thracked the fine fellow home, or at least as far as he could, and though he lost sight of him without locatin' his house, he learned beyond all doubtin' that he is a great gentleman of wealth and fashion."

"Ike is? I 'll have to look him up if that is so," said Moore, pleasantly. "Evidently the dairyman was right to be suspicious, and what does Mrs. Dairyman say now?"

"I 'm not talkin' about Ike," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. "It's the strange lad who is the rich man."

"Oh, I see, Mrs. Malone. I thought you had discovered the reason for the dairyman's suspicions. Now I think he was quite unreasonable to have his doubts."

"Go on, Mrs. Malone. I think it is delightfully romantic," said Bessie, paying no attention to the remarks of her lover.

"Romantic!" repeated Moore, in a disgusted tone. "Sure, put a bit of a scoundrel after a lass of lower station and instead of shouting for the watch she always says 'How romantic!'

"You will have to leave the room, if you speak again before Mrs. Malone has finished her story," said Bessie, severely.

"So, by hook or by crook, who should get wind of Misther Gay Spark, but Sweeny himself."

Mrs. Malone paused dramatically, that the awful news of the situation should have time to take effect.

"Oh, dear!" said Bessie, "how terrible for poor Jane. Do tell me the rest without delay. I 'm getting so excited."

"I 'll not sleep to-night, thinking of it," declared Moore. "Really, Mrs. Malone, you do wrong to harrow up our feelings in this thrilling manner. Well, Jennie is discovered, and then--?"

"Then Sweeny learned that the unknown gintilman was to meet her to-night."

"How did he learn that?" asked Moore, greatly interested.

"From Jane."

"That girl talks too much. She does n't deserve to be the flame of such a spark," said the poet, utterly disgusted with the heroine of the tale.

"Niver mind thot. So Sweeny has locked up the gal in her room--"

"Alone?"

"Faith, who would be likely to be with her, sorr?"

"Well, you said something about a gay incognito, did n't you?" suggested Moore.

"I niver did in me loife. I 'll have yez to understand, Misther Moore, I 'd scorn to use such profane langwidge. I 'm a dacent Catholic, as Father O'Houlihan will tell yez, if yez ask him."

"I 'll ask him the next time I see him," said Moore. "It is always best to be sure about these things. But go on, Mrs. Malone."

"Where was I?"

"You were locked up in the room with Jane Sweeny."

"I wuz not, sorr."

"I 'm sure it could n't have been with Sir Incognito," said Moore, shocked.

"If I wuz locked up wid Jane Sweeny how could I be here now?" demanded the landlady.

"Perhaps you made a ladder of the bedclothes, and let yourself down from the window," suggested the poet.

"I did not, sorr," replied Mrs. Malone, quite puzzled by the web in which her lodger had entangled her.

"Then I 'll give it up, as I never was a good hand at conundrums," said Moore, bubbling over with merriment. "Go on with your story about Father O'Houlihan's gay friend."

"Well anniehow, Isaac and Sweeny and some other of the byes is laying for Masther Gay Spark."

"For what purpose, Mrs. Malone?"

"For what do yez t'ink?"

"Perhaps they wish to present him with the freedom of the city and a service of silver plate."

"Not much," said Mrs. Malone. "They are going to bate his head off for him, thot's what they are going to do."

"Are n't they good-natured, Bessie?" said Moore. "I hope he will see the humorous side of the affair and treat it all as a joke."

"Well, it will be no laughing matter," said Mrs. Malone, stoutly. "As I said before, they 'll make jelly of Masther Gay Spark."

"How terrible!" said Bessie, half frightened.

"Quite," said Moore. "He 'll have a sugary time I 'm thinking, for if heaven don't preserve him, Sweeny will turn him into jelly. I 'm afraid he will be badly jammed one way or another."

"Who can this strange gallant be?" asked Bessie.

"By Gad, what if he were Sir Percival?" exclaimed the poet, struck suddenly by the thought.

"You don't think so, Tom?"

"No, dear," said Moore, soothingly, "no such good luck I 'm afraid."

"Well, I t'ink I must be goin'," observed Mrs. Malone, rising from her chair reluctantly. "Good avenin' to yez both, darlin's. Oh, there will be doin's to-night, there will be doin's."

"Tell the dairyman I sympathize with him in his domestic disappointments," said Moore, "and give my regards to your friend Master Incognito, though he is a naughty boy. And a word to you, Mrs. Malone. Don't trust him too far yourself. I 'd never be alone with him, if I were you, for it is best to be on the safe side always,"

"Stop your tazing me, Tom Moore, or I 'll take you across me knee and give you what you deserve," retorted the landlady, with a broad grimace which was quite in keeping with her portly person.

Moore opened the door with a bow in his most drawing-room manner, and having bestowed upon Bessie a ponderous courtesy, the old woman waddled out, running into Mr. Sheridan, who, being about to enter, was thus rudely thrust back against Mr. Brummell, who, elegantly attired as usual, was directly behind him.

"Zooks!" exclaimed the Beau plaintively. "Sherry, I told you that you should not drink that last glass. You have ruffled my cravat in a most shameful manner."

"I beg your parding, gintlemen," said Mrs. Malone, remorsefully, "but divil a bit did I see yez."

"Mistress Bridget, no apologies are necessary," said Mr. Sheridan, graciously. "How well you are looking to-day."

"D'ye t'ink so?" giggled the ancient dame, more than tickled by her great countryman's condescension.

"On me honor," replied Mr. Sheridan. "You agree with me, don't you, George?"

"Entirely," drawled Brummell, "entirely, 'pon my soul. How d' ye do, Tom?"

Moore's face beamed with delight as he saw who his visitors were.

"I 'm fine," he said. "Come in, friends, and make yourself easy."

"Mistress Dyke," murmured Brummell, with a courtly bow.

"Mistress Moore that is to be," corrected Moore, proudly, "whenever I can afford such a luxury."

"What did I tell you, George?" said Sheridan, delightedly, nudging the Beau with his elbow.

"Do be careful, Sherry," replied Brummell, warningly. "Tom, I congratulate you."

"So do I," said Sheridan. "You have a cheerful den, Tommy. Here is a home for you, Brummell."

"Does Mr. Brummell need a home?" asked Moore, waving his guests to the most comfortable of the chairs.

"Faith, the Beau is better at breaking them than making them," remarked the elder man, with a chuckle.

"Zooks!" drawled Brummell, "that reminds me of an execrable jest of which the Regent was guilty a fortnight ago. 'Why am I like a farmer?' he inquired of Percy Lovelace, who politely confessed that he could detect no resemblance. 'Because,' said his Highness, 'I keep a rake within reach,' and pointed with his monocle at Richard Brinsley."

"That is a mighty bad pun, I 'm thinking," said Moore to Bessie.

"Tom," she said warningly, "are you not already sufficiently out of favor?"

"Pooh, Bessie, these lads are my friends. Tell me the news, you old gossip. Am I still in disgrace?"

Sheridan shook his gray wig dolefully.

"You are, Tommy, I regret to say," he answered. "The Regent honors you with his personal profanity almost daily."

Brummell took a dainty pinch of snuff and proceeded to change the subject.

"Have you heard of the Prince's quarrel with Mrs. FitzHerbert?" he asked.

"No," said Moore, "have those turtle-doves had a falling out?"

"Oh, it won't last long," said Sheridan, "but while it does endure it is a mighty warm little spat."

"What caused the trouble if I may ask, Sherry?"

"The drollest reason," said the Beau with a dignified smile. "You 'll never guess it, Tommy."

"Then I 'll not try."

"Tell him, Sherry," said the Beau, adjusting his ruffles.

"She became angry because the Regent visited his wife late in the evening without a chaperon," laughed the old Irishman.

"My, oh, my!" exclaimed Moore, horrified. "Has the Prince no sense of decorum?"

"How goes the world with you, children?" demanded Sheridan, kindly. "Do you manage to exist without the approval of royalty?"

"We are getting on somehow. I have enough to eat, almost enough to drink--"

"You are indeed fortunate," interjected Sheridan. "I cannot recall any period in my career when I had anywhere near enough to drink."

"You must remember, Sherry," said the Beau, languidly, "every Irishman does not have a bottomless pit where nature usually places a stomach. Your pardon, Mistress Dyke, for using so corporeal a term."

"Well, to continue," said Moore, "besides the possessions already enumerated I have a roof over my head, and these same luxuries I can offer to my wife when I get her."

Bessie looked up at him lovingly as he sat down on the arm of the chair she occupied.

"We will be so happy," she said shyly to Mr. Sheridan.

"And we will need no chaperon, I 'm thinking," said Moore.

"I 'll wager you won't," said Sheridan, wisely. "Well, George, let's get on our way."

"What's that?" said Moore, quickly. "Get on your way? Not much. You are going to stay to supper with us."

"Well," said Sheridan, who had risen in a hesitating way, "I--"

"Oh," said Moore, divining the cause of his countryman's embarrassment, "it is true that you won't get much to eat, but you are more than welcome to whatever there is; and besides, think of the company you will be in."

"That last decides me, if Mistress Dyke extends the invitation," said Sheridan, yielding in response to a nod from the Beau, who had decided to remain.

"Tom speaks for both of us," said Bessie. "Don't you, Tom?"

"Yes, and some day I 'll listen for both of us, no doubt. That will be when she points out my faults, lads. You must stay. Bessie will make the tea--that is, if there is any tea. If there is n't any, she 'll mix the whisky."

"Good," said Sheridan, smacking his lips.

"But there is tea," said the girl, opening the caddy which she found in the cupboard.

"Just our luck, eh, Sherry?" said the poet, disconsolately.

Buster entered at this opportune moment and busied himself, with the assistance of Bessie, in preparing the simple meal.

Moore drew the chairs into position by the table as Bessie laid the plates.

"You are to sit there, you disreputable old Hibernian," said he, assisting Sheridan to a seat on the right.

"Your place is there at the end, Fashion Plate. I 'll preside just opposite you across the festive board, and Bessie shall sit on your left hand."

"Is she heavy?" inquired Sheridan, interestedly, as he sat down.

"I 'm speaking metaphorically," the poet rattled on. "How goes the play, Sherry?"

"'Pizarro' is certainly doing a fine business," replied the aged dramatist. "The public likes blood and thunder."

"I suppose you sent a box to the Dutchman that wrote it?" said Moore.

"On the contrary, Tommy, I think he should buy one to see how his play should have been written in the first place," replied Sheridan, not at all disconcerted, for he made no bones about admitting his indebtedness to Kotzebue for his last great success. "For my part, I 'm afraid Anacreon might not appreciate some of the Odes as now rendered according to the gospel of Thomas."

"Well, he was dead when I tackled him," retorted Moore.

"Which no doubt saved you from answering at the bar to the charge of manslaughter, for I 'm sure he 'd never have survived the heroic treatment you gave him."

"Tea is ready," announced Bessie, opportunely.

"Good," said Moore. "Buster, bring the wine."

"But there hain't none," responded the lad.

"Bring it, anyway. Any one can bring wine when there is wine, but it takes a smart boy to fetch it when there is n't any."

"Hi hain't smart henuff," said Buster.

"It is of no importance, Tom," said Brummell, graciously.

"Since when?" demanded Moore in surprise. "How is that, Sherry?"

"I never drink," said the elder man, waving aside the idea of alcoholic indulgence with a gesture of fine contempt.

"No?" asked the poet, wonderingly. "Oh, I suppose you have it rubbed into your skin by your valet."

At this moment Bessie, having finished setting the table, sat down in the chair pulled out for her by Sheridan and the Beau in gallant competition, and the supper began.

"Will you say grace, Brummell?" asked Moore.

"Say it yourself," drawled the Arbiter of Fashion, smiling lazily at his hostess.

"But, his Highness thinks me a graceless rogue," objected the poet, "so it would be an act of treason for me to prove him a liar."

"Well, then, I 'll say it meself," volunteered Sheridan, with a wink at Moore.

"Good man. Hush, now, every one."

Sheridan rose from his chair and leaning over took possession of the bread plate.

"Ah," said Moore, knowingly, "then it is to be 'Give us this day our daily bread,' eh, Sherry?"

"You are away off the scent, Tommy," responded the dramatist in a superior tone. "Nothing so conventional would be appropriate for this festive occasion."

"Do go on, Sherry," advised Brummell, "I am growing disgracefully hungry."

"Anything to oblige, Beau. See, friends,

'There's bread here for four of us:
Thank God, there's no more of us!'"

Sheridan sat down amidst the laughing approval of the others.

"That," observed Moore, "is what I call a curst fine bit of prayer-making. Sherry and I like our prayers like our liquor--concentrated."

"Your remark is a trifle paradoxical," commented Brummell. "Yes, Mistress Bessie, sugar and milk both."

"Brummell has a sweet tooth," said Sheridan, taking the cup Bessie passed him.

"And Bessie has a sweet mouth," said Moore, buttering his bread generously.

"I suppose you know all about that, Tom?"

"Trust me for that, Sherry."

"That sort of credit is easy for an Irishman to obtain," said the old gentleman.

"With Bessie?" inquired Moore. "That shows you have never tried, Sherry."

"He does n't know whether I have or not, does he, Mistress Bessie?"

"Of course he does n't," chimed in the girl, coquettishly. "We don't have to tell him all our little frolics, do we?"

"I 'd hate to if I hoped to retain his friendship," chuckled the wit. "It is like confident youth to imagine itself ever the only favored."

"Look here," said Moore, aggressively, "there will be enough of this supper, such as it is, to go around handsomely without trying to spoil my appetite with your base innuendoes, you old scandal-school maker."

"He is jealous," observed Sheridan. "Just have the kindness to remember my age, Thomas."

"How can I when you yourself do not?" asked the poet, slyly. "Brummell, pass the butter. If it's stronger than you are, shout for help."

"You wrong the article," said the Beau, handing over the desired plate. "It's quiescence is most amiable."

"That reminds me," Moore remarked thoughtfully, "of a scheme I have for increasing the volume of the milk given by the cow."

"Volume?" repeated Sheridan. "D' ye mean the way the tale is presented to the public?"

"Well, if you let the bovine offspring remain too adjacent it's bound in calf the lacteal fluid would be," replied Moore.

"Faith, the animal should be brought to book for that," returned Sheridan.

"She 'd probably turn pale at the thought and kick over the cream," retorted Moore.

"Dear me!" cried Bessie, "what brilliant gentlemen, are they not, Mr. Brummell?"

"Yes, Mistress Dyke," answered the Beau, "_they are not_."

Bessie laughed at the unexpected termination of the Beau's remark.

"A couple of silly punsters, 'pon my honor," sighed the exquisite, nibbling his bread daintily.

"I think, Sherry," said Moore, "after that rebuke we had better be less witty. I 'll tell my story later on. The bill of fare includes chicken, gentlemen."

"Oh, Tom," said Bessie, shocked, "how can you fib so?"

"In the shell, Bessie, in the shell," explained the host, holding up an egg. "Cold and hard, but so young it would melt in your mouth. Then comes bread-and-butter and tea."

"My favorite dish, believe me," declared Brummell.

"Then comes tea and bread-and-butter. Next, some cups and saucers and knives and forks."

"D'ye think we are ostriches?" demanded Sheridan.

"Then comes the best of all, gentlemen, the dessert."

"And what may that be, Tommy?"

"Well, it _may_ be custard pudding--"

"Ah!" said Brummell in an approving tone.

"But it _is n't_," continued Moore. "It is something even sweeter and softer."

"Don't arouse my curiosity further," pleaded Sheridan.

"Well, then, we are to have kisses for dessert."

Sheridan and the Beau applauded noisily while Bessie blushed in a most becoming manner.

"How is the dessert to be served, Tommy?"

"I kiss Bessie," said Moore, exultantly. "Then comes your turn, Sherry."

"Ah!" said that gentleman, smacking his lips in anticipation.

"Then comes your turn, Sherry. You kiss Brummell."

The wit gave an exclamation of disappointment, while the rest of the party laughed heartily.

"Really, Tom," said the Beau, "this egg is delicious."

"Sure it is," replied his host. "We raised that one on the bottle, didn't we, Bessie?"

Meanwhile he had helped himself to another, and cracking the shell, turned away with an exclamation of disgust.

"Oh, Lord!" he exclaimed, holding his nose. "Bessie, I knew I ought to have hurried home with that egg if I wanted to eat it. Faith, it is too much a chicken to be an egg, and too much egg to be a chicken. Buster, accept this with my compliments."

Buster obediently carried away the cause of the trouble and stowed it outside on a corner of the window-sill, reserving it for use as ammunition at some future time.

"I never drank such tea, Mistress Bessie," said Sheridan, passing his cup to be refilled. "Really you are an enchantress."

"She enchanted me years ago," said Moore.

"I suited him to a tee the first time I saw him," said Bessie, laughing.

"A pun is the lowest form of humor," said Moore, severely.

"And therefore at the bottom of all true wit," said Sheridan, coming to his hostess's defence like the gallant old Irishman he was.

"It seems to me you two are very thick," said Moore, critically. "I 'll have you to understand, Richard Brinsley, that I am not to be treated with contempt."

"I think Irish whisky would be what I should treat you with, Tommy."

"A happy thought," cried the poet. "Buster, the Dew of Heaven."

"Some 'un just knocked, Mr. Moore," said the boy.

"Then open the door, you gossoon."

Buster did so, and Lord Brooking stepped quickly into the room.

_Chapter Twenty-Four_

_TOM MOORE HEARS OF A POLITICAL APPOINTMENT_

"Lord Brooking," cried Bessie in surprise, rising from the table. "I thought you were still on the Continent."

"Not I, Mistress Dyke. I returned yesterday. So, Mr. Moore, you have been getting into trouble, have you?"

"Did you ever hear of an Irishman who was able to keep out of it long?" asked Sheridan, waving his hand in greeting to the young nobleman.

"Your lordship has come just in time. Buster, call that bulldog away before Lord Brooking bites him. Get another plate, lad. Sherry, move up and make room for his lordship."

"There hain't any more plites," said Buster in a hoarse whisper.

"Then get a saucer," commanded Moore, gaily.

"No, no, Tom," said his lordship. "I 've just dined."

"Oh, you know you are welcome," said Moore. "Don't be too polite if you are hungry."

"I could n't eat a mouthful," said Lord Brooking.

"That's d--n lucky!" whispered Moore to Sheridan.

"Tut, tut, Tom," quoth that staid old party. "Profanity is a luxury and should be used not abused."

"That's like an obedient wife," said Moore. "Your lordship, this is an impromptu banquet to celebrate my engagement to Mistress Dyke."

"Is the engagement an impromptu?" asked Sheridan.

"No, we got it by heart," said Moore.

Brummell clapped his pretty hands in delight.

"Egad," said he, "I 've not heard such verbal fireworks this six months."

"So you are betrothed, Tom?" said Lord Brooking.

"The darlin' has made me say 'Yes' at last," said Moore in an apparently bashful tone.

"Mistress Dyke," said his lordship, taking her hand and kissing it, "Tom is indeed a lucky man. I wish you both all the happiness you deserve. Hang me, if I 'm not envious, Tom. I 've half a mind to marry myself."

"It takes a smart man to marry himself," commented Moore, "but it is economical."

Brooking sat down and crossed his legs in an easy attitude.

"I have news for you, Tom," said he. "News that I fancy will please you."

"Have you found me a long-lost uncle, childless, wifeless, and worth a million?"

"Not exactly."

"What, then, your lordship? Surely not a long-lost son?"

"I have endeavored to secure you the appointment of Registrar of the Admiralty Court at Bermuda. The salary of the office is five hundred pounds yearly."

"Bermuda?" echoed the poet, hardly able to believe his ears.

"Where the devil is Bermuda?" asked Sheridan, taking snuff.

"That is where the onions come from, you ancient ignoramus, but its geographical location does not matter tuppence," said Moore. "If you get the place for me, sir, I will accept it gladly, and I thank you more than I can tell for the attempt, whether you succeed or not."

"Pshaw," said Lord Brooking, "wait until I put the appointment in your hands, Tom."

"Ah," said Bessie, softly, "your lordship knows how grateful we both are for your many kindnesses."

"Say no more about it," replied the young nobleman, blushing like a girl. "If I may truthfully congratulate myself on having made the world brighter and life's path easier for two such deserving friends, I have gained a satisfaction no money could ever purchase."

Moore shook his patron's hand with a grip that conveyed more than any words of thanks could have done.

"Tommy, my boy, don't you need a private secretary?" inquired Sheridan.

"Thank you, I 'll have no such lady-killer in my official family," replied Moore.

"I congratulate you both," said Brummell, "but we will miss you when Bermuda claims your society."

"You shall still be in touch with the world," said Sheridan. "I 'll write you all the scandal once a week."

"It will take a pound for postage if you write it all, Sherry," said Moore, dubiously.

"And I," said Brummell, rising, pompously, "will keep you informed of the changes I deem advisable to make in the fashions."

"That's mighty good of you, Beau."

"Oh, that will be splendid," said Bessie. "I will set all the styles on the island."

"Not much," said Moore, horrified. "To do that, Bessie, you would have to wear fig-leaves."

"Promise me, Tom, that you will let me know if the black ladies are as pretty as they say?" said Sheridan.

"I will investigate that matter myself," responded the poet, winking slyly at the dramatist.

"Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Tom Moore," said Bessie in an indignant tone.

"Certainly not," said he. "Sherry, you are a wicked old man to even suggest such a thing."

"I was always fond of brunettes," said Sheridan, calmly, "like you, Tom."

"What horrid things men are!"

"Old men are," assented Moore. "Sherry, you are a shocking old rascal."

"He is no worse than you, Tom," said the girl.

"Not half so bad, on my honor," observed the elder gentleman.

"You are so, Mr. Sheridan," said the girl, changing front immediately.

"See, Sherry, you can't abuse me with impunity," declared Moore with a chuckle.

"I 'll abuse you with profanity if you do not stop flaunting your amatory success in my venerable countenance," tartly retorted the gay old Irishman.

Lord Brooking looked at his watch.

"Jove!" he exclaimed, "I had no idea it was so late. I must be off."

"So soon?" asked Moore, regretfully, as his lordship rose to his feet.

"I 'm due at Lady Fancourt's amateur theatricals in ten minutes."

"So am I," said Brummell, smoothing his ruffles.

"And I also," said Sheridan. "Is your cab waiting, Brookie, me boy?"

"I think so," responded his lordship. "I 'll be glad of your company. Will you risk close quarters with us, Brummell?"

"Not I, Brooking," said the Beau. "I prefer not to disarrange my costume by crowding Sheridan."

"Aye," said Moore. "An Irishman 's a bad thing for an Englishman to crowd too far. Since you are going to walk, George, I 'll honor myself by seeing you out of the neighborhood. Such swells as you are tempting game, and there is many a dark alley only too handy."

"Good night, Mistress Dyke," said Lord Brooking, bowing low over her hand.

"Good night," she said sweetly, "and thank you again."

"Promise that once in a while you will write me how fortune treats you if you go to Bermuda."

"Every month," answered the girl, her eyes bright with the gratitude which filled her heart. "God bless you, sir."

"Good night," said his lordship again, and stepped out in the hall.

Sheridan kissed Bessie's hand, and purposely lingered over it so long that Moore shook his fist at him.

"Easy there, Sherry, easy there."

"Selfish man!" murmured Sheridan, as he followed Brooking. "Good night, Mistress Dyke."

Brummell bade good night to his hostess and joined the others in their descent as Moore, after making a feint of putting a kiss upon Bessie's hand, at the last moment transferred it to her smiling lips.

"You won't be longer than is necessary, will you, Tom?"

"I 'll not be half that long," said he, running after his guests, who were now well on their way down the first flight of stairs.

Bessie turned from the door with a rapturous sigh, only to receive a reproachful glance from Buster, who was sternly regarding her.

"Wot 'll become hof my morals hif these hindearments continyers?" thought the lad, vaguely jealous. "Hit's henuff to turn one hagin mater-ri-mony, that's wot hit his. Hi thinks Hi 'll jine a monkery."

"To Bessie," murmured the girl, kissing the poem as she drew it from her breast, little suspecting Buster's doubtful frame of mind. "Buster, you may clear away the tea-things after you have had your supper. I must go down and tell Mrs. Malone the good news."

"Well, hif she harsks arfter me, say Montgomery Julien Hethelbert sends 'is luv," said the boy, more cheerfully.

"_Montgomery Julien Ethelbert_," said the girl, opening the door.

When she had closed it behind her, Buster addressed himself disgustedly to his pal, Lord Castlereagh.