Chapter Twenty-FourTOM 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."Montgomery Julien Hethelbert," he repeated in high disdain. "Hain't that an 'ell of a nime for a sporting cove like me?""Wuff!" barked the dog, in sympathy.Chapter Twenty-FiveSIR INCOGNITO RECEIVES A WARM WELCOMEThe gentleman whose attentions to Jane Sweeny were causing so much excitement in the neighborhood favored by her residence, little suspecting that a warm welcome was there in preparation for him, let himself quietly out of a little private door in the rear of his great mansion and turned his steps cheerfully towards their rendezvous. He seemed to be in fine spirits, for once or twice he checked a whistle as it was about to escape from the lips he had unconsciously pursed as he strode quickly along.It seemed to be his wish to avoid recognition, for he kept his face hidden as much as was rendered possible by his up-turned cloak collar and wide, drawn-down hat brim, though this desire upon his part seemed to grow less imperative as he left the fashionable locality in which he lived, and turning down a side street, followed a course that twisted and turned from poor neighborhood to even poorer, then on till the respectability of the locality was once more on the increase until he found himself on a shabby street not far from the one on which the establishment of Mrs. Malone was situated. The spot at which he had arranged to meet Sweeny's daughter was now near at hand. The gentleman, who was tall and well shaped, though slightly inclined to corpulence, strolled leisurely along the street, evidently confident that his charmer would not fail to be on hand promptly at their trysting place, but much to his surprise, when he arrived there was no one waiting for him. He paused, gave an exclamation of disappointment, and, drawing out his watch, stepped nearer the street lamp that he might see if he had anticipated the time appointed for his arrival. The timepiece assured him that he was several minutes behind the chosen hour, and after swearing softly to himself, he pocketed it and turned, intending to stroll leisurely up and down the street until the tardy damsel should put in an appearance.At this moment a stalwart youth, with eyes set widely apart and the jaw of a pugilist, walked softly across from the opposite side. So noiseless was his tread that the first comer did not discover his proximity until he had approached within a yard or two."H'are yer witing for some 'un?" demanded the unprepossessing youth, whose name it is almost a needless formality to announce was Isaac."What is that to you, sir?" replied the gentleman, haughtily, contemptuously regarding his questioner."W'y, sir, Jine harsked me--""Oh, Jane sent you then?""Ha!" cried the younger man, triumphantly. "Hi wuz sure yer wuz the cove. There hain't no doubt habout it now.""Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform me as to the reason for this sudden ebullition of delight?" said the gentleman, puzzled by the youth's behavior, and, if not alarmed, not exactly at ease as to the probable developments of the immediate future.If his eyes had been a trifle more used to the semi-darkness of the street, particularly at the places midway between the flickering lanterns, on whose incompetent illumination depended the lighting of the great city after nightfall, the elegant stranger would have perceived that his interrogator was not alone. Several little groups had emerged from convenient doorways and cellars, and, clustered in the denser shadows for temporary concealment, awaited a prearranged signal to advance. These sinister-looking individuals were armed with weapons still more sinister,--knotty cudgels, heavy canes, in one instance an axe handle and in another a spade, new and unsullied as yet by labor."Ho, Hi 'll be kind henuff, don't 'ee fear," sneered Isaac, and with a quick movement he snatched his felt hat from his bullet head and slapped it viciously across the face of his companion.Immediately he received a blow on the chin straight from the shoulder of the insulted gallant, which dropped him, an inert bundle of clothing, in the filth of the gutter."Down with the swell!" yelled an enthusiastic lad, armed with an empty quart bottle, as the crowd surged forward from both sides, scattering across the street to cut off all chance of their game's escape.The object of their hostile intentions threw a hurried glance around him and, realizing the futility of attempting to break through the ranks of his enemies, gave an exclamation of despair. Escape seemed impossible, yet surrender was not to be thought of, for the fate in store for him at their hands was only too plainly evidenced by their demeanor. Turning, he ran up the steps of the house immediately behind him and tried the door. It was locked and made of material far too tough and seasoned to yield to the impact of his weight, as he found when he had hurled himself with crushing force against it.Meanwhile the mob had almost reached the steps which at their highest point attained an altitude of about eight feet. If he ran down to the street it would be only to rush into their clutches; unarmed as he was he could not long successfully defend the stairs; then what could he do?"Watch!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Watch! Watch to the rescue! Murder! Watch! Help!"The united force of his pursuers halted in front of the house where he had vainly endeavored to secure an entrance. The game was trapped and their plan had met with success quite unqualified, unless the insensibility resulting from the tremendous punch which Isaac's jaw had received from the gentleman now at bay at the top of the steps could be regarded in the light of a serious reverse. The disposition of the still unconscious youth's companions seemed to be to regard his misfortune in the light of a joke, though their obvious intention was to add this example of the strange gallant's prowess to the total of the score for which they expected to secure settlement in full without further delay."'Ee 's an 'ansome pusson, hain't 'ee?" remarked one facetious individual in the front rank of the crowd assembled at the bottom step."A blooming Prince Charmin'," assented a heavy-browed ruffian, resting his great cudgel on the railing. "Oh, but he are n't a circumstance to what he will look when we have altered his countenance a bit.""It stroikes me the spalpeen has been powdering his mug," growled Sweeny, his little eyes blazing with a ferocious light. His lips, damp and red, were wolf-like as his tusk-shaped and scattered teeth bit deep into them in his rage. "He 's pale loike.""Watch! Watch!""Call, sorr, call. It's no good the watch will do yez this noight. Ye 'll git a bating now that ye will carry the marks of to your dying day.""I 'd rather be excused, sir," replied the gentleman, coolly. "Unless I mistake, I have not the honor of your acquaintance.""I 'm Sweeny, Jane's father.""Indeed? How do you do, Mr. Sweeny?" politely inquired the girl's admirer."I 'll be better when I 've pounded you to a pulp," growled the old Irishman, taking a new and firmer grip on the club he held."Then why delay, friends? Let us have it over with at once," suggested the hunted gentleman, smiling as pleasantly as though he were inviting divers acquaintances to partake of biscuits and tea."Bli' me, hif 'ee ain't a well-plucked cove," said the lad with the bottle.A murmur of admiring assent ran through the crowd. It would be much greater sport to beat so valiant a gentleman to death than to thrash a low-spirited coward such as they had anticipated encountering. These worthy and unworthy denizens of poverty-stricken dwellings, for in the assemblage there were both honest and dishonest, like most of their rank in society, were firm believers in the theory that fine clothes and a high-bred manner were reliable indications of a cowardly spirit and physical weakness. To so suddenly have their ideas on this subject proved incorrect was a surprise more startling than would be at first imagined.Sweeny felt that his followers were wavering in their allegiance, and fearing lest further delay might result in a behavior on their part unsatisfactory to him personally, he gave a growl of wrath and rushed fiercely up the steps waving his cudgel. The gentleman calmly and skilfully kicked him in the mouth and sent him hurling backward down on the heads of his friends, bloodstained and well nigh insensible. This bit of battle decided the action of the mob, and, excited by the sight of their leader's blood, they pressed resolutely up the steps. It was quite impossible for the hunted gallant to beat back such a force as was now attacking him, and, fully realizing this, he made no such attempt. Instead, he tore his cloak from about his shoulders and threw it over the heads of the foremost of his opponents, leaped quickly on the railing of the steps and sprang wildly and hopelessly towards the parallel flight which led to the front door of the adjacent house. He reached the rail with his hands, but his weight was too much for him when coupled with the terrible force with which his body struck the side of the steps, so, with a groan of despair, he fell in the areaway. He tumbled feet first on a grating leading to the cellar of the house, which gave way and precipitated him into the depths below, as his pursuers, mad with the excitement of the chase, rushed down the stairs from which he had made his daring leap. It looked as though it might go hard with the unknown gentleman, valiant and resourceful though he had proven himself.Chapter Twenty-SixTOM MOORE'S SERVANT PROVES A FRIEND IN NEEDBuster ate a hearty supper and fed Lord Castlereagh with the scraps. This done, he was about to proceed with the dish-washing, a kind of toil for which he had a more than ordinary contempt and dislike, when the sound of shouting in the street attracted his attention.For once in his life the boy had failed to ascertain the news of the neighborhood of that day, and as he had been absent when Mrs. Malone conveyed to his master the intelligence of Sweeny's purposed ambush of Jane's unknown swain, he had had no tidings concerning that important happening, so was not the active participant in the adventure that he would otherwise have been. This being the case, he was quite at a loss to account for the sounds of tumult below."My heye!" he remarked to the bulldog, whose curiosity was similarly aroused, "wot a rumpussin'. Who 's getting beat hor married, Hi wonders?"Sticking his head out of the window, the boy could discern nothing down in the dark street. It was quite evident that the voices which had attracted his attention proceeded from one of the narrow lanes running at right angles to the larger thoroughfare on which the lodgings of Moore fronted."Somebody 's risin' a bloody hole row, your lordship. Well, we keeps hout of it this once, don't we?"The bulldog gave a whine of dissent. He saw no reason for remaining quiet when such unexcelled opportunities for vigorous contention were being offered gratuitously below.Buster shook his head sadly."Halas!" he observed in a melancholy tone. "That hole gladheateral spirit hof yourn his never horf tap. You h'are a blooming hole pugilist, that's wot you h'are. You horter be hashamed of yourself for wantin' to happropriate somebody else's private row."Lord Castlereagh felt unjustly rebuked and retired to his favorite corner, apparently losing all interest in the hubbub, which continued below, growing gradually less noisy as though the cause were slowly departing from the immediate neighborhood. Suddenly the dog's quick ear detected an unwonted sound coming from the rooftops, and with a growl, spurred on by his still unsatisfied curiosity, he ran across the room to the window by which his master in the old days had been wont to evade the vigilance of Mrs. Malone. Buster followed him, and, looking across the undulating surface made by the irregular roofs,--a sort of architectural sea rendered choppy by uplifting ridge-poles and gables of various styles, cut into high waves and low troughs by the dissimilar heights of sundry buildings, with chimneys rising buoy-like from the billowy depths, which in the darkness were blended softly together by the mellowing and connecting shadows,--he saw the figure of a man emerge from the scuttle of a roof perhaps two hundred feet distant. At the same moment there came a howl of fury from the street below, which grew louder, as though the crowd from which it emanated were streaming back in the direction of Mrs. Malone's residence. The fugitive, for that he was such could not be doubted, beat a hurried retreat across the roofs, tripping, falling, crawling, but ever making progress and nearly always hidden from the point at which he had effected his entrance to the house-tops by the friendly shelter of intervening chimneys and gables. All at once a burly form leaped out of the scuttle from which the first comer had emerged. This newly arrived individual carried a club and was followed out on the roof by half-a-dozen companions of the same ilk. Straightening up to his full height, while gingerly balancing on the nearest ridgepole, the fellow caught a glimpse of their prey crawling up a steep roof quite a little distance further on towards the window from which Buster was now intently watching the chase."There he goes, lads. He is right in line with that tallest chimbley," bellowed the leader."Aye, aye! After him! After him!"An answering howl came from the street, and, sliding, running and stumbling, the pursuers began to follow the fugitive across the housetops. Then they lost sight of him, and for a while completely baffled, searched in a scattered line, slowly advancing, investigating each possible hiding-place as they came to it, urged on by the growling of the mob patrolling the street below. Suddenly one of their number, the lad armed with the huge bottle, tripped over a broken clothesline and fell headlong into the V-shaped trough formed by the eaves of the two adjacent houses. He found himself rudely precipitated on the body of the hunted man, who had lain snugly concealed at the very bottom of the roof-made angle, but before he could do more than utter one choking scream, the fugitive, despairing of further concealment, silenced his discoverer with his fist, and with the rest of the pack in full cry at his heels, began again his wild flight over the roofs. Fortune favored him once more, and the band hunting him was forced for a second time to pause and scatter in close scrutiny of the ground over which the fleeing gallant had made his way. Then Buster saw a tall figure creep out of the gloom cast by a huge chimney, which, shadowing a roof near by, had enabled him to crawl undetected from the hiding-place that he had found beneath the eaves of an unusually tall building, near the house from the attic of which the boy was now excitedly tracing his line of flight. Buster's sympathy was all with the fleeing man. To sympathize was to act, and having found the rope-ladder which used to serve his master as a means of exit by the window when prudence dictated such an evasion, he tumbled it out, at the same time attracting the hunted gentleman's attention with a friendly hiss."This w'y, sir, this w'y," whispered Buster, silencing the threatened outcry of Lord Castlereagh with a commanding gesture. "Keep low has you can till you gets 'ere. The big chimbley 'll keep 'em from seeing you till you 're safe hup, sir."Crawling rapidly along on his hands and knees, the much-sought gentleman managed to gain the necessary distance without being discovered, and sheltered by the grim outlines of the huge chimney Buster had indicated, he climbed laboriously up the ladder to the window of Moore's attic. The boy held out a welcoming hand and assisted him to enter. Once in, the stranger gave a sobbing sigh of relief, and groped his way to a chair. The moon, till now providentially bedimmed, came out from behind the froth of clouds and the light entering the window fell full on the new-comer's flushed face."Blow me!" cried the boy in astonishment. "Hif it hain't the Prince hof Wyles!"Chapter Twenty-SevenTHE POET REGAINS ROYAL FAVOR"You know me?""Hi just does, your 'Ighness," replied the boy, dragging up the ladder as he spoke.This he deposited in its usual hiding-place before turning to his royal guest, who was still panting from the exertion of his flight."Put out the light," directed the Prince, pointing to the candles on the mantel."Ho, no, your 'Ighness. That 'd make them suspicious," dissented Buster."Perhaps you are right," said Wales, reflectively."Per'aps Hi his," admitted the boy. "Hi ain't hallus wrong, you know, your 'Ighness.""What place is this, my lad?""This," replied Buster, grandiloquently, "his the palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore.""Moore!" repeated the Prince in astonishment. "Fatality pursues me.""Hif that's wot wuz harter you Hi don't wonder you cut stick," said the boy, cautiously peering out of the window."To while away a tedious evening I sometimes assume a disguise such as my present adornment and go out in search of adventures," said Wales, condescending to explain his present predicament."Yessir," said Buster, "Hi knows Jine Sweeny myself. You h'are the pusson Hi saw with 'er the hother night.""Did you recognize me?""Not then, sir, your 'at wuz pulled too low.""Perhaps you knew that a demonstration was being prepared in my honor this evening?""Not I, your 'Ighness. Ho law! but hit's lucky Hi saw you. They 'd likely have beat your 'ead horf you, your Majesty.""That seemed to be their intention," assented Wales, "nor have they yet abandoned the idea, if I interpret their present activity correctly.""Hif they manages to trice you 'ere, wot 'll we do?" demanded Buster, as the sounds on the roofs outside drew nearer."What would you suggest?" asked the Prince, quite calmly."You 'd 'ave to tell 'em who you are.""Ah!" said Wales, doubtfully, "but would they believe me? Hardly, my good lad.""Hush, your 'Ighness, they are near hat 'and."The inmates of the garret could now plainly hear the scuffling steps of the men on the nearest roof as they slid and slipped on the inclines."Where the h--l can he have gone ter?" queried a piping voice."That's the wine merchant's clark," announced Buster to the Prince."Yes? What did you say his name was?""Hi did n't s'y," replied the boy guardedly.Wales laughed pleasantly."You are a wise lad," said he. "What are they doing now?""You 've got 'em puzzled, your Tghness. They his puttin' their bloomink 'eads together. Now they 're a 'untin' agin.""No trace of him here.""He came this way, I 'll swear.""Three he has put his mark on this night. Sweeny, Isaac, and Welch's Will.""Will?""Aye, the lad with the bottle. He 's lying out on the eaves yet."Buster gave his guest an admiring look. Such prowess was deserving of all commendation. Wales caught the glance, and chuckled softly. Whatever shortcomings might be laid at the door of the gentleman destined to be the fourth George, cowardice was not one of them."Never mind, lads," said another voice. "He cawn't git away. The street is watched and all we have to do is to hunt him up.""We hain't a doin' hit. Hat least not has I sees.""Stop your croaking, Blount. D' ye think he could climb to that window?""Now for it," murmured Wales."Naw, 'ee hain't no bloomin' bird to fly hup ten foot o' wall, his 'ee?""Scatter, then. That way there, over to the right."In obedience to this instruction the party were heard moving off with uncertain steps and Buster turned away from the window with a sigh of relief."Hi fawncies you 're sife, your Majesty," said he."Agreeable intelligence, I must admit," sighed the Prince, assuming an easier position. "My subjects possess the virtue of persistence.""Yessir, they dearly loves to club a swell cove hif they think 'ee his arfter their lydies."Steps sounded in the hallway and the Prince rose quietly to his feet, prepared to renew the struggle."Don't be halarmed, your Tghness," said Buster, reassuringly. "Hit's only Mr. Moore returning.""Do not acquaint him with my presence," said Wales. "I will make myself known when I think best.""Yes, your 'Ighness."The Prince stepped behind the curtain separating the poet's bedchamber from the sitting-room and there awaited developments in silence. Moore opened the door and ushered in Mr. Dyke."I thought Bessie was here," he said in surprise as he noted her absence."Mistress Dyke went down to hinterview Mrs. Malone, sir," explained Buster, in a quandary as to how he should act. A prince, of course, could not be lightly disobeyed, but at the same time he felt qualms at the thought of what his master, not suspecting the presence of royalty, might chance to say.Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly."Then go down," said he to Buster, "and tell my future wife that her former father is here."Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility, quickly left the room. Mr. Dyke looked around at the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head."To think I should bring you to this, Thomas," he said, remorsefully."Sit down, Mr. Dyke, and have done with lamentations. So long as I do not complain, you surely have no reason to find fault," said Moore, cheerily."No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to the Prince.""What nonsense," said Moore, firmly. "No, no, Mr. Dyke, for you to confess that you wrote the poem satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly. I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly would completely ruin you.""I know," began the old man, but Moore interrupted him."I much prefer things as they are," he said. "Allow me to choose, Mr. Dyke.""You do not know the pangs of conscience I have suffered.""More likely it was indigestion, sir.""You took the blame for my folly. I went free, but your brilliant career was cut short.""Very short," admitted the poet, who was seated on the table, comfortably swinging his legs. "But the shortening is frequently the most important part of the dish.""Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky before reaching its zenith.""Between friends, you can omit the poetry," suggested Moore. "It seems like talking shop if I may say so without offence.""I see you are resolved," said the old man weakly."Ah, yes," replied the poet, jumping off the table, and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder."It is all for the best, sir," he went on with a sincerity that was convincing. "I did not know, I was not sure, that your daughter loved me. She, bless her pretty head, was too full of life and laughter to read her own heart. My adversity has brought her to me with outstretched arms and a love more tender, more true, than even I dreamed it could be. No, no, sir. Keep your mouth shut to please me.""It is really your wish that I do this?""Sure it is," replied Moore, satisfied that he had carried his point."But the Prince, Tom?"Moore's face saddened, but he rid himself of his regret with a shrug of the shoulders."Poor man," he said. "He thinks harshly of me, no doubt. Ah, well, perhaps it is better so, Mr. Dyke. And yet I 'd be easier in my mind if he knew how I regard him. I have no feelings save those of friendship and gratitude in my heart for him but he 'll never know.""Yours is a generous soul, Thomas.""To-night I can say as truly and fondly as on that evening his favor plucked me from poverty and failure, 'God bless the Prince Regent.'""It is needless to say I echo that sentiment, Mr. Moore."Moore turned with a low cry. The Prince had stepped noiselessly from behind the curtain to the centre of the room, and stood with a smile on his face, enjoying his involuntary host's surprise."Your Highness," stammered Moore, for once thoroughly abashed. "Your Highness!""Aye, Wales himself. Good evening, Mr. Dyke. It seems that I have wronged you, Moore.""Your Highness heard?""Every word, gentlemen.""I am not sorry," said Mr. Dyke, softly."But," said Moore, rallying from his astonishment, "how came your Highness here?"The Prince's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave, almost solemn."For that information, sir, I must refer you to your neighbor, one Mr. Sweeny.""Then you, sir, are the gay spark?""No doubt a spark, since I shall make light of my adventure, but in reality not so very gay."Bessie came hurrying along the hall and flinging open the door entered breathlessly."Oh, Tom, Tom," she cried. "The hall below is full of men. They are searching for the strange gallant who won Jane Sweeny from the grocer's son."The Prince took a pinch of snuff."Egad!" said he. "A remarkable achievement, it seems. I 'm beginning to be proud of it.""The Prince!" exclaimed the girl in amazement."An uninvited guest, Mistress Dyke," said his Highness, jovially."And therefore doubly welcome, sir," returned Moore, at the door listening to the murmur that came from below. "Your Highness, they are coming up I am afraid. They have traced you here.""Devilish awkward," muttered the Prince, looking around for a weapon; "I shall have to fight, I fancy.""No, no," said Moore. "That is no way to get out of this mess. We would be beaten down in a moment.""We?""Aye, Sire, Mr. Dyke, you and I. I have a better scheme, if you will trust yourself to me.""I prefer you to our friends.""Then hide in the next room," said the poet, drawing back the curtain. "I 'll get them off your track or my name is not Tom Moore. Whatever you hear, don't stir out, your Highness."Buster entered in a rush."Ho, sir," he panted, "the 'ole parcel hof 'em his a-coming hup!""Hush!" said Moore. "This way, Sire."Wales obeyed his host's instructions and vanished in the adjoining room, his manner still cool and unruffled."Buster, can you lose those rascals in a chase over the roofs?""Hi can, sir," replied the boy valiantly. "Hi 'll give 'em such a run has they reads habout hin their primers."Moore tossed him an old hat and coat from the cupboard."The way is clear, lad," he said, peering out the window. "Out with you and when I whistle show yourself somewhere and then run like the devil. When you are tired, drop your hat and coat and you 'll be safe.""Drop nothing," said Buster. "Hi knows too much to be guilty hof hany such shocking waste as that."He hurried out of the window, landing on the roof below as lightly as any cat, as the sound of the approaching mob grew louder. There was but little time to spare, and Moore wasted none of it."Bessie," he commanded, "lock the door behind us when we go out in the hall. When I sing, you scream for help at the top of your voice. Then, whatever I say swear to like a darlin'. Come, Mr. Dyke."Moore grabbed the old gentleman by the arm and hurried him out in the hall as the first of Wales' pursuers set foot on the flight of stairs leading to the attic."The Harp that once thro' Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,As if that soul--"A woman's scream rang through the house."Help! Help! Tom! Help!""Bang!" went the locked door, kicked in by Moore, who rushed into the room with a yell, followed by Mr. Dyke."Out of the way, darlin'," he whispered to Bessie. "I 've got to give myself an awful flaking."Immediately the poet began a struggle all over the room with an imaginary adversary."You would, would you?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Then take that, you raparee! And that, andthat. Help! Mr. Dyke! My, but he is strong."He seized the table and upset it, then danced around the room like one possessed, dealing terrific blows to the air. He clutched the contents of the cupboard and sent the china crashing in fragments on the floor. The chairs he beat up and down and back and forth against the walls. For all the world it sounded as though a mad bull were rushing around the room dealing destruction on every side. Then he put his fist through two panes of glass and paused in his performance, standing by the window with heaving chest as the mob led by Sweeny rushed into the attic."Oh, friends," he cried between gasps, "you come too late.""Too late for what, Mr. Moore?""To help me, you spalpeens. A big devil, six feet and a half high and a mile broad--I mean a mile high and six feet broad--Oh, a curst big lump of a lad--climbed into the window and laid violent hands on this lady, my future wife, who was here alone--""The strange laddybuck," cried Sweeny. "The omadhaun we 're afther now.""He locked the door so I could n't get in and laid hold of her. Didn't he, Bessie?"The girl lied shamelessly."And I screamed," she finished, glad to add a little truth to her falsehood."I kicked in the door and grabbed the villain. Mr. Dyke and I both grappled with him, but he was too much for us and beat us down and leaped out on the roof."The crowd surged up to the window with a howl of rage, and Buster bobbed into view on a distant gable."There he is now," cried Dabble, who was one of the mob."Aye, aye, after him."Sweeny took command."You four, Dabble, Blount, Williams and Lake, out of the window and over the roofs again. The rest of us will guard every door in the neighborhood."The chosen four dropped from the window, and the crowd, Sweeny still in the lead, rushed out and downstairs as frantically as they had come up, leaving the attic to Moore and his guests. The poet sat down on an upset chair and breathed a sigh of relief."It's a comedian I am," said he. "Bessie, how does Drury Lane do without me?""I don't know," said the girl. "I am sure I could n't.""My, oh, my!" panted Moore, "but you are learning the right things to say at the right time very quickly, Bessie."The Prince emerged from his hiding-place."Bravely done, Mr. Moore," said he, laughing a little. "Egad, I 'd not trade this evening for any other in my experience.""No?" asked Moore."Not I, sir. You rid us of them very neatly.""For a while, your Highness. They may return.""True," said Wales, "so we had best lose no time in getting help.""Your Highness is right," said the poet, beginning to restore the room to something like its old appearance. "Father-in-law, run out and--""Let me arrange this," interrupted the Prince. "Mr. Dyke, if you will carry this ring to the house of Sir Percival Lovelace, you will find him at supper. Tell him of my predicament and say I bid him take such steps as he may deem best to extricate me from this misadventure without betraying my identity."Mr. Dyke took the ring held out to him by the Prince."I 'll make haste," he said, and toddled out and down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.Wales accepted the chair which Moore placed for him."Sir," said he, "you have a talent for intrigue.""Ah, Sire," said Moore, ingenuously, "if it were not disrespectful, I would return the compliment. Your Highness must have passed an exciting evening.""Quite true, Mr. Moore, but I fancy I can do without such excitement in the future.""I rejoice to hear you say that, your Highness," said Moore, sincerely."Indeed, Mr. Moore? And why so, if I may ask.""Because," said the poet so winningly that it was quite impossible for even a prince of the blood to take offence, "'The First Gentleman of Europe' is too proud a title to be lightly risked."Wales grew red and bit his lip."I accept your reproof," he said. "It is not undeserved.""Not reproof, your Highness. Friendly advice, nothing more.""As you would have it, Mr. Moore," responded the Prince, wearily.Meanwhile Bessie had found the teapot to be one exception to the general ruin wrought of Moore's household utensils."Would it please your Highness to have a cup of tea?" she asked, timidly."It will delight me much, Mistress Dyke. May I inquire when you intend to honor Mr. Moore by becoming his wife?"Bessie flushed up prettily and looked at her lover."The wedding would take place to-morrow if I could afford it," said Moore, righting the table and brushing it off with his coat-tail."Then I take it you cannot afford it?" said his Highness."Not just at present," said Moore, cheerily. "I trust your health continues to be of the best, your Highness?""I thank you, yes, but I have heard no such singing in my favorite drawing-rooms as when you were wont to frequent the haunts of thebeau monde.""I have been out of town," said Moore, calmly, as Bessie brought the tea to the Prince in a cup which had escaped the general smash-up. The Prince sipped its contents in high good humor."Delicious, Mistress Dyke," he declared, "your husband will be a fortunate individual.""There is but one grief which intrudes itself upon his happiness," said the girl, tremulously, "the disfavor of the Prince, who in his darkest hour won from him both love and gratitude by his generosity.""Hush, Bessie," said Moore. "His Highness has enough to think of, dearest.""By the way, Moore," said Wales, languidly, "did I not hear some mention made of your name in connection with a political position in Bermuda?""You are right, your Highness," replied Moore, reluctantly, "there was some such mention made."The Prince looked thoughtful and drained his cup."Bermuda," said he, "is a long way from England, Mr. Moore."A step sounded on the stairs at this moment, and Moore gladly rid himself of the embarrassment he felt by approaching the door to make certain it was no undesirable personage who was now approaching."Lord Brooking!" he cried. "What good luck brings you back?""I soon wearied of the theatricals and was out for a stroll when by chance I encountered Mr. Dyke on his way to Sir Percival's," explained the young nobleman entering. "It is needless to say, your Highness, I made haste to join you here.""But," said Wales, "did the good citizens not stop you on your way?""For a moment or two, your Highness, but I convinced them of my entire harmlessness and was allowed to pass.""Is Mr. Moore at home?" demanded a hoarse voice, strongly flavored with Scotch dialect, from the hall below."McDermot," exclaimed Moore. "What can the old vagabond want with me to-night?""If I am not mistaken, Tom, this is the old bloodsucker who is to be your future publisher?" said Lord Brooking."For life," responded Moore. "You remember I told you of our bargain not two hours ago. Yes, I am in, Mr. McDermot.""Well then I 'll coom up," announced the publisher.Moore was about to advise him not to when a gesture from Lord Brooking led him to desist."Pardon me, your Highness," said Lord Brooking, "but for certain reasons I deem it better that this gentleman should not recognize you when he first comes in.""I'll look at the view, then," said the Regent, pleasantly.By the time Wales had reached the window, wisely choosing the one which opened upon the street, for there still came sounds of distant chase from the roofs, McDermot was knocking on the door."Come in," called Moore.The old Scotchman entered in a great rage."So I ha' caught ye at last?" he shouted at sight of the poet."Have it your own way, sir.""Six times ha' I called here, sair, ye trickster, ye cheat.""Hold on now," said Moore, in sudden anger, "you are an old man, but more than enough of such talk is a great deal too much."Bessie laid a restraining hand on Moore's arm."Perhaps, Mr. McDermot, you will be kind enough to state your grievance," she said, quietly."It's aboot the contract," sputtered the irate publisher."Is n't that all right?" asked Moore, wonderingly. "I signed it.""Of coorse ye did, ye trickster, but ye did not tell me when ye called to do so that the evening before ye had been shamefully ejected from Sir Percival's house by order o' the Prince of Wales.""Surely that was Sir Percival's business," replied Moore. "He may have been proud of the affair; I was n't.""Ye should ha' told me," repeated McDermot, doggedly."But I did n't know you were so interested in my goings and comings.""You took my thousand poonds.""Was that wrong?" asked Moore."Wrong?" echoed the publisher. "D'ye think I 'd give ye ten shillings for ye skin?""See here," cried Moore, his anger again getting the better of him, "my skin is not for sale, but, if you value yours, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head, you old Rob Roy."Lord Brooking stepped forward between the two angry men."Am I right in believing that you are dissatisfied with your bargain, Mr. McDermot?" said he in a soothing tone."Dissatisfied?Dissatisfied! Why, at the present time Mr. Moore is the very worst investment in the literary market."Brooking waved Moore back with an admonishing gesture."Then I take it you would be glad to cancel the agreement?" he continued."But my thousand poonds?""I will advance Moore the money to repay you. Of course it is a risk, but for the sake of old times I will assume the obligation. Do you need other security than my word?""Not I," said McDermot, gladly. "There is your contract, Mr. Moore."As he spoke he took the paper from his pocket and tore it into fragments. These he carefully deposited on the table and turned to go."One moment, Mr. McDermot," said an imperious voice.The Prince came forward with an air of chilling dignity."You have made the greatest mistake of your life, sir," he continued, addressing the astounded publisher. "This I will show you if you listen. Mr. Moore, you and your fiancée have been little seen of late in the world of fashion. Pray alter this, my dear fellow. Furthermore you may as well abandon all idea of holding office in Bermuda save by deputy. It is impossible for the Poet Laureate of England to reside at such a distance from Carlton House.""Sir!" cried Moore, unable to believe his ears. "Poet Laureate?""One Thomas Moore, not unknown to the literary world, an Irishman of some wit and fancy. Mr. McDermot, we need detain you no longer."Crestfallen, the old Scotchman crept from the room as Moore turned to Bessie almost too happy to speak."You heard?"She nodded her head, her eyes filling with happy tears.There was a clatter in the street and a closed carriage drew up in front of Mrs. Malone's. Following it came a dozen hussars, riding gaily, as though in hope of a skirmish. Sir Percival Lovelace and Mr. Dyke alighted and hurried upstairs, while Sweeny and his adherents contemplated the soldiers from the safety of distance in melancholy grandeur."I have been waiting for you, Sir Percival," said the Prince."Yet I made all possible haste," said Sir Percival, bowing low to Bessie. "By good luck, Farquar of the Tenth Hussars was dining with me. A word to him brought me a dozen stout lads, and with them for escort I hurried here.""Will Farquar keep a still tongue?" inquired Wales, more anxious than he appeared."Trust him for that, your Highness," replied Sir Percival, confidently."I think I will have to, Lovelace," observed the Prince, dryly. "Mr. Moore, I have only to thank you for your kindly hospitality. I shall expect you at Carlton House in the morning. Mistress Dyke, Tom is indeed a lucky man. As for you, Mr. Dyke, I only await your promise not to repeat the offence to overlook the error into which you fell some weeks ago. Good night, my friends--Stay! I would not leave your clever lad unrewarded. Give him this and tell him if he ever sees fit to quit your service he will not find Wales ungrateful."As he spoke, the Prince took the ring which Sir Percival held out to him. Handing it to Moore, he turned and bowed himself out, followed by the baronet."Capital," said Lord Brooking, joyfully. "I knew you 'd not languish in disfavor long, Tom. Ask Mistress Bessie to name the day."Moore stepped to his sweetheart's side."When will you become my wife, dearest?" he asked, love sounding in his voice and gleaming in his eyes."I will marry you to-morrow," she whispered softly, her arms around his neck.
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.
"Montgomery Julien Hethelbert," he repeated in high disdain. "Hain't that an 'ell of a nime for a sporting cove like me?"
"Wuff!" barked the dog, in sympathy.
Chapter Twenty-Five
SIR INCOGNITO RECEIVES A WARM WELCOME
The gentleman whose attentions to Jane Sweeny were causing so much excitement in the neighborhood favored by her residence, little suspecting that a warm welcome was there in preparation for him, let himself quietly out of a little private door in the rear of his great mansion and turned his steps cheerfully towards their rendezvous. He seemed to be in fine spirits, for once or twice he checked a whistle as it was about to escape from the lips he had unconsciously pursed as he strode quickly along.
It seemed to be his wish to avoid recognition, for he kept his face hidden as much as was rendered possible by his up-turned cloak collar and wide, drawn-down hat brim, though this desire upon his part seemed to grow less imperative as he left the fashionable locality in which he lived, and turning down a side street, followed a course that twisted and turned from poor neighborhood to even poorer, then on till the respectability of the locality was once more on the increase until he found himself on a shabby street not far from the one on which the establishment of Mrs. Malone was situated. The spot at which he had arranged to meet Sweeny's daughter was now near at hand. The gentleman, who was tall and well shaped, though slightly inclined to corpulence, strolled leisurely along the street, evidently confident that his charmer would not fail to be on hand promptly at their trysting place, but much to his surprise, when he arrived there was no one waiting for him. He paused, gave an exclamation of disappointment, and, drawing out his watch, stepped nearer the street lamp that he might see if he had anticipated the time appointed for his arrival. The timepiece assured him that he was several minutes behind the chosen hour, and after swearing softly to himself, he pocketed it and turned, intending to stroll leisurely up and down the street until the tardy damsel should put in an appearance.
At this moment a stalwart youth, with eyes set widely apart and the jaw of a pugilist, walked softly across from the opposite side. So noiseless was his tread that the first comer did not discover his proximity until he had approached within a yard or two.
"H'are yer witing for some 'un?" demanded the unprepossessing youth, whose name it is almost a needless formality to announce was Isaac.
"What is that to you, sir?" replied the gentleman, haughtily, contemptuously regarding his questioner.
"W'y, sir, Jine harsked me--"
"Oh, Jane sent you then?"
"Ha!" cried the younger man, triumphantly. "Hi wuz sure yer wuz the cove. There hain't no doubt habout it now."
"Perhaps you will be kind enough to inform me as to the reason for this sudden ebullition of delight?" said the gentleman, puzzled by the youth's behavior, and, if not alarmed, not exactly at ease as to the probable developments of the immediate future.
If his eyes had been a trifle more used to the semi-darkness of the street, particularly at the places midway between the flickering lanterns, on whose incompetent illumination depended the lighting of the great city after nightfall, the elegant stranger would have perceived that his interrogator was not alone. Several little groups had emerged from convenient doorways and cellars, and, clustered in the denser shadows for temporary concealment, awaited a prearranged signal to advance. These sinister-looking individuals were armed with weapons still more sinister,--knotty cudgels, heavy canes, in one instance an axe handle and in another a spade, new and unsullied as yet by labor.
"Ho, Hi 'll be kind henuff, don't 'ee fear," sneered Isaac, and with a quick movement he snatched his felt hat from his bullet head and slapped it viciously across the face of his companion.
Immediately he received a blow on the chin straight from the shoulder of the insulted gallant, which dropped him, an inert bundle of clothing, in the filth of the gutter.
"Down with the swell!" yelled an enthusiastic lad, armed with an empty quart bottle, as the crowd surged forward from both sides, scattering across the street to cut off all chance of their game's escape.
The object of their hostile intentions threw a hurried glance around him and, realizing the futility of attempting to break through the ranks of his enemies, gave an exclamation of despair. Escape seemed impossible, yet surrender was not to be thought of, for the fate in store for him at their hands was only too plainly evidenced by their demeanor. Turning, he ran up the steps of the house immediately behind him and tried the door. It was locked and made of material far too tough and seasoned to yield to the impact of his weight, as he found when he had hurled himself with crushing force against it.
Meanwhile the mob had almost reached the steps which at their highest point attained an altitude of about eight feet. If he ran down to the street it would be only to rush into their clutches; unarmed as he was he could not long successfully defend the stairs; then what could he do?
"Watch!" he yelled at the top of his lungs. "Watch! Watch to the rescue! Murder! Watch! Help!"
The united force of his pursuers halted in front of the house where he had vainly endeavored to secure an entrance. The game was trapped and their plan had met with success quite unqualified, unless the insensibility resulting from the tremendous punch which Isaac's jaw had received from the gentleman now at bay at the top of the steps could be regarded in the light of a serious reverse. The disposition of the still unconscious youth's companions seemed to be to regard his misfortune in the light of a joke, though their obvious intention was to add this example of the strange gallant's prowess to the total of the score for which they expected to secure settlement in full without further delay.
"'Ee 's an 'ansome pusson, hain't 'ee?" remarked one facetious individual in the front rank of the crowd assembled at the bottom step.
"A blooming Prince Charmin'," assented a heavy-browed ruffian, resting his great cudgel on the railing. "Oh, but he are n't a circumstance to what he will look when we have altered his countenance a bit."
"It stroikes me the spalpeen has been powdering his mug," growled Sweeny, his little eyes blazing with a ferocious light. His lips, damp and red, were wolf-like as his tusk-shaped and scattered teeth bit deep into them in his rage. "He 's pale loike."
"Watch! Watch!"
"Call, sorr, call. It's no good the watch will do yez this noight. Ye 'll git a bating now that ye will carry the marks of to your dying day."
"I 'd rather be excused, sir," replied the gentleman, coolly. "Unless I mistake, I have not the honor of your acquaintance."
"I 'm Sweeny, Jane's father."
"Indeed? How do you do, Mr. Sweeny?" politely inquired the girl's admirer.
"I 'll be better when I 've pounded you to a pulp," growled the old Irishman, taking a new and firmer grip on the club he held.
"Then why delay, friends? Let us have it over with at once," suggested the hunted gentleman, smiling as pleasantly as though he were inviting divers acquaintances to partake of biscuits and tea.
"Bli' me, hif 'ee ain't a well-plucked cove," said the lad with the bottle.
A murmur of admiring assent ran through the crowd. It would be much greater sport to beat so valiant a gentleman to death than to thrash a low-spirited coward such as they had anticipated encountering. These worthy and unworthy denizens of poverty-stricken dwellings, for in the assemblage there were both honest and dishonest, like most of their rank in society, were firm believers in the theory that fine clothes and a high-bred manner were reliable indications of a cowardly spirit and physical weakness. To so suddenly have their ideas on this subject proved incorrect was a surprise more startling than would be at first imagined.
Sweeny felt that his followers were wavering in their allegiance, and fearing lest further delay might result in a behavior on their part unsatisfactory to him personally, he gave a growl of wrath and rushed fiercely up the steps waving his cudgel. The gentleman calmly and skilfully kicked him in the mouth and sent him hurling backward down on the heads of his friends, bloodstained and well nigh insensible. This bit of battle decided the action of the mob, and, excited by the sight of their leader's blood, they pressed resolutely up the steps. It was quite impossible for the hunted gallant to beat back such a force as was now attacking him, and, fully realizing this, he made no such attempt. Instead, he tore his cloak from about his shoulders and threw it over the heads of the foremost of his opponents, leaped quickly on the railing of the steps and sprang wildly and hopelessly towards the parallel flight which led to the front door of the adjacent house. He reached the rail with his hands, but his weight was too much for him when coupled with the terrible force with which his body struck the side of the steps, so, with a groan of despair, he fell in the areaway. He tumbled feet first on a grating leading to the cellar of the house, which gave way and precipitated him into the depths below, as his pursuers, mad with the excitement of the chase, rushed down the stairs from which he had made his daring leap. It looked as though it might go hard with the unknown gentleman, valiant and resourceful though he had proven himself.
Chapter Twenty-Six
TOM MOORE'S SERVANT PROVES A FRIEND IN NEED
Buster ate a hearty supper and fed Lord Castlereagh with the scraps. This done, he was about to proceed with the dish-washing, a kind of toil for which he had a more than ordinary contempt and dislike, when the sound of shouting in the street attracted his attention.
For once in his life the boy had failed to ascertain the news of the neighborhood of that day, and as he had been absent when Mrs. Malone conveyed to his master the intelligence of Sweeny's purposed ambush of Jane's unknown swain, he had had no tidings concerning that important happening, so was not the active participant in the adventure that he would otherwise have been. This being the case, he was quite at a loss to account for the sounds of tumult below.
"My heye!" he remarked to the bulldog, whose curiosity was similarly aroused, "wot a rumpussin'. Who 's getting beat hor married, Hi wonders?"
Sticking his head out of the window, the boy could discern nothing down in the dark street. It was quite evident that the voices which had attracted his attention proceeded from one of the narrow lanes running at right angles to the larger thoroughfare on which the lodgings of Moore fronted.
"Somebody 's risin' a bloody hole row, your lordship. Well, we keeps hout of it this once, don't we?"
The bulldog gave a whine of dissent. He saw no reason for remaining quiet when such unexcelled opportunities for vigorous contention were being offered gratuitously below.
Buster shook his head sadly.
"Halas!" he observed in a melancholy tone. "That hole gladheateral spirit hof yourn his never horf tap. You h'are a blooming hole pugilist, that's wot you h'are. You horter be hashamed of yourself for wantin' to happropriate somebody else's private row."
Lord Castlereagh felt unjustly rebuked and retired to his favorite corner, apparently losing all interest in the hubbub, which continued below, growing gradually less noisy as though the cause were slowly departing from the immediate neighborhood. Suddenly the dog's quick ear detected an unwonted sound coming from the rooftops, and with a growl, spurred on by his still unsatisfied curiosity, he ran across the room to the window by which his master in the old days had been wont to evade the vigilance of Mrs. Malone. Buster followed him, and, looking across the undulating surface made by the irregular roofs,--a sort of architectural sea rendered choppy by uplifting ridge-poles and gables of various styles, cut into high waves and low troughs by the dissimilar heights of sundry buildings, with chimneys rising buoy-like from the billowy depths, which in the darkness were blended softly together by the mellowing and connecting shadows,--he saw the figure of a man emerge from the scuttle of a roof perhaps two hundred feet distant. At the same moment there came a howl of fury from the street below, which grew louder, as though the crowd from which it emanated were streaming back in the direction of Mrs. Malone's residence. The fugitive, for that he was such could not be doubted, beat a hurried retreat across the roofs, tripping, falling, crawling, but ever making progress and nearly always hidden from the point at which he had effected his entrance to the house-tops by the friendly shelter of intervening chimneys and gables. All at once a burly form leaped out of the scuttle from which the first comer had emerged. This newly arrived individual carried a club and was followed out on the roof by half-a-dozen companions of the same ilk. Straightening up to his full height, while gingerly balancing on the nearest ridgepole, the fellow caught a glimpse of their prey crawling up a steep roof quite a little distance further on towards the window from which Buster was now intently watching the chase.
"There he goes, lads. He is right in line with that tallest chimbley," bellowed the leader.
"Aye, aye! After him! After him!"
An answering howl came from the street, and, sliding, running and stumbling, the pursuers began to follow the fugitive across the housetops. Then they lost sight of him, and for a while completely baffled, searched in a scattered line, slowly advancing, investigating each possible hiding-place as they came to it, urged on by the growling of the mob patrolling the street below. Suddenly one of their number, the lad armed with the huge bottle, tripped over a broken clothesline and fell headlong into the V-shaped trough formed by the eaves of the two adjacent houses. He found himself rudely precipitated on the body of the hunted man, who had lain snugly concealed at the very bottom of the roof-made angle, but before he could do more than utter one choking scream, the fugitive, despairing of further concealment, silenced his discoverer with his fist, and with the rest of the pack in full cry at his heels, began again his wild flight over the roofs. Fortune favored him once more, and the band hunting him was forced for a second time to pause and scatter in close scrutiny of the ground over which the fleeing gallant had made his way. Then Buster saw a tall figure creep out of the gloom cast by a huge chimney, which, shadowing a roof near by, had enabled him to crawl undetected from the hiding-place that he had found beneath the eaves of an unusually tall building, near the house from the attic of which the boy was now excitedly tracing his line of flight. Buster's sympathy was all with the fleeing man. To sympathize was to act, and having found the rope-ladder which used to serve his master as a means of exit by the window when prudence dictated such an evasion, he tumbled it out, at the same time attracting the hunted gentleman's attention with a friendly hiss.
"This w'y, sir, this w'y," whispered Buster, silencing the threatened outcry of Lord Castlereagh with a commanding gesture. "Keep low has you can till you gets 'ere. The big chimbley 'll keep 'em from seeing you till you 're safe hup, sir."
Crawling rapidly along on his hands and knees, the much-sought gentleman managed to gain the necessary distance without being discovered, and sheltered by the grim outlines of the huge chimney Buster had indicated, he climbed laboriously up the ladder to the window of Moore's attic. The boy held out a welcoming hand and assisted him to enter. Once in, the stranger gave a sobbing sigh of relief, and groped his way to a chair. The moon, till now providentially bedimmed, came out from behind the froth of clouds and the light entering the window fell full on the new-comer's flushed face.
"Blow me!" cried the boy in astonishment. "Hif it hain't the Prince hof Wyles!"
Chapter Twenty-Seven
THE POET REGAINS ROYAL FAVOR
"You know me?"
"Hi just does, your 'Ighness," replied the boy, dragging up the ladder as he spoke.
This he deposited in its usual hiding-place before turning to his royal guest, who was still panting from the exertion of his flight.
"Put out the light," directed the Prince, pointing to the candles on the mantel.
"Ho, no, your 'Ighness. That 'd make them suspicious," dissented Buster.
"Perhaps you are right," said Wales, reflectively.
"Per'aps Hi his," admitted the boy. "Hi ain't hallus wrong, you know, your 'Ighness."
"What place is this, my lad?"
"This," replied Buster, grandiloquently, "his the palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore."
"Moore!" repeated the Prince in astonishment. "Fatality pursues me."
"Hif that's wot wuz harter you Hi don't wonder you cut stick," said the boy, cautiously peering out of the window.
"To while away a tedious evening I sometimes assume a disguise such as my present adornment and go out in search of adventures," said Wales, condescending to explain his present predicament.
"Yessir," said Buster, "Hi knows Jine Sweeny myself. You h'are the pusson Hi saw with 'er the hother night."
"Did you recognize me?"
"Not then, sir, your 'at wuz pulled too low."
"Perhaps you knew that a demonstration was being prepared in my honor this evening?"
"Not I, your 'Ighness. Ho law! but hit's lucky Hi saw you. They 'd likely have beat your 'ead horf you, your Majesty."
"That seemed to be their intention," assented Wales, "nor have they yet abandoned the idea, if I interpret their present activity correctly."
"Hif they manages to trice you 'ere, wot 'll we do?" demanded Buster, as the sounds on the roofs outside drew nearer.
"What would you suggest?" asked the Prince, quite calmly.
"You 'd 'ave to tell 'em who you are."
"Ah!" said Wales, doubtfully, "but would they believe me? Hardly, my good lad."
"Hush, your 'Ighness, they are near hat 'and."
The inmates of the garret could now plainly hear the scuffling steps of the men on the nearest roof as they slid and slipped on the inclines.
"Where the h--l can he have gone ter?" queried a piping voice.
"That's the wine merchant's clark," announced Buster to the Prince.
"Yes? What did you say his name was?"
"Hi did n't s'y," replied the boy guardedly.
Wales laughed pleasantly.
"You are a wise lad," said he. "What are they doing now?"
"You 've got 'em puzzled, your Tghness. They his puttin' their bloomink 'eads together. Now they 're a 'untin' agin."
"No trace of him here."
"He came this way, I 'll swear."
"Three he has put his mark on this night. Sweeny, Isaac, and Welch's Will."
"Will?"
"Aye, the lad with the bottle. He 's lying out on the eaves yet."
Buster gave his guest an admiring look. Such prowess was deserving of all commendation. Wales caught the glance, and chuckled softly. Whatever shortcomings might be laid at the door of the gentleman destined to be the fourth George, cowardice was not one of them.
"Never mind, lads," said another voice. "He cawn't git away. The street is watched and all we have to do is to hunt him up."
"We hain't a doin' hit. Hat least not has I sees."
"Stop your croaking, Blount. D' ye think he could climb to that window?"
"Now for it," murmured Wales.
"Naw, 'ee hain't no bloomin' bird to fly hup ten foot o' wall, his 'ee?"
"Scatter, then. That way there, over to the right."
In obedience to this instruction the party were heard moving off with uncertain steps and Buster turned away from the window with a sigh of relief.
"Hi fawncies you 're sife, your Majesty," said he.
"Agreeable intelligence, I must admit," sighed the Prince, assuming an easier position. "My subjects possess the virtue of persistence."
"Yessir, they dearly loves to club a swell cove hif they think 'ee his arfter their lydies."
Steps sounded in the hallway and the Prince rose quietly to his feet, prepared to renew the struggle.
"Don't be halarmed, your Tghness," said Buster, reassuringly. "Hit's only Mr. Moore returning."
"Do not acquaint him with my presence," said Wales. "I will make myself known when I think best."
"Yes, your 'Ighness."
The Prince stepped behind the curtain separating the poet's bedchamber from the sitting-room and there awaited developments in silence. Moore opened the door and ushered in Mr. Dyke.
"I thought Bessie was here," he said in surprise as he noted her absence.
"Mistress Dyke went down to hinterview Mrs. Malone, sir," explained Buster, in a quandary as to how he should act. A prince, of course, could not be lightly disobeyed, but at the same time he felt qualms at the thought of what his master, not suspecting the presence of royalty, might chance to say.
Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly.
"Then go down," said he to Buster, "and tell my future wife that her former father is here."
Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility, quickly left the room. Mr. Dyke looked around at the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head.
"To think I should bring you to this, Thomas," he said, remorsefully.
"Sit down, Mr. Dyke, and have done with lamentations. So long as I do not complain, you surely have no reason to find fault," said Moore, cheerily.
"No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to the Prince."
"What nonsense," said Moore, firmly. "No, no, Mr. Dyke, for you to confess that you wrote the poem satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly. I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly would completely ruin you."
"I know," began the old man, but Moore interrupted him.
"I much prefer things as they are," he said. "Allow me to choose, Mr. Dyke."
"You do not know the pangs of conscience I have suffered."
"More likely it was indigestion, sir."
"You took the blame for my folly. I went free, but your brilliant career was cut short."
"Very short," admitted the poet, who was seated on the table, comfortably swinging his legs. "But the shortening is frequently the most important part of the dish."
"Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky before reaching its zenith."
"Between friends, you can omit the poetry," suggested Moore. "It seems like talking shop if I may say so without offence."
"I see you are resolved," said the old man weakly.
"Ah, yes," replied the poet, jumping off the table, and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his hand kindly on the old man's shoulder.
"It is all for the best, sir," he went on with a sincerity that was convincing. "I did not know, I was not sure, that your daughter loved me. She, bless her pretty head, was too full of life and laughter to read her own heart. My adversity has brought her to me with outstretched arms and a love more tender, more true, than even I dreamed it could be. No, no, sir. Keep your mouth shut to please me."
"It is really your wish that I do this?"
"Sure it is," replied Moore, satisfied that he had carried his point.
"But the Prince, Tom?"
Moore's face saddened, but he rid himself of his regret with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Poor man," he said. "He thinks harshly of me, no doubt. Ah, well, perhaps it is better so, Mr. Dyke. And yet I 'd be easier in my mind if he knew how I regard him. I have no feelings save those of friendship and gratitude in my heart for him but he 'll never know."
"Yours is a generous soul, Thomas."
"To-night I can say as truly and fondly as on that evening his favor plucked me from poverty and failure, 'God bless the Prince Regent.'"
"It is needless to say I echo that sentiment, Mr. Moore."
Moore turned with a low cry. The Prince had stepped noiselessly from behind the curtain to the centre of the room, and stood with a smile on his face, enjoying his involuntary host's surprise.
"Your Highness," stammered Moore, for once thoroughly abashed. "Your Highness!"
"Aye, Wales himself. Good evening, Mr. Dyke. It seems that I have wronged you, Moore."
"Your Highness heard?"
"Every word, gentlemen."
"I am not sorry," said Mr. Dyke, softly.
"But," said Moore, rallying from his astonishment, "how came your Highness here?"
The Prince's eyes twinkled, but his face was grave, almost solemn.
"For that information, sir, I must refer you to your neighbor, one Mr. Sweeny."
"Then you, sir, are the gay spark?"
"No doubt a spark, since I shall make light of my adventure, but in reality not so very gay."
Bessie came hurrying along the hall and flinging open the door entered breathlessly.
"Oh, Tom, Tom," she cried. "The hall below is full of men. They are searching for the strange gallant who won Jane Sweeny from the grocer's son."
The Prince took a pinch of snuff.
"Egad!" said he. "A remarkable achievement, it seems. I 'm beginning to be proud of it."
"The Prince!" exclaimed the girl in amazement.
"An uninvited guest, Mistress Dyke," said his Highness, jovially.
"And therefore doubly welcome, sir," returned Moore, at the door listening to the murmur that came from below. "Your Highness, they are coming up I am afraid. They have traced you here."
"Devilish awkward," muttered the Prince, looking around for a weapon; "I shall have to fight, I fancy."
"No, no," said Moore. "That is no way to get out of this mess. We would be beaten down in a moment."
"We?"
"Aye, Sire, Mr. Dyke, you and I. I have a better scheme, if you will trust yourself to me."
"I prefer you to our friends."
"Then hide in the next room," said the poet, drawing back the curtain. "I 'll get them off your track or my name is not Tom Moore. Whatever you hear, don't stir out, your Highness."
Buster entered in a rush.
"Ho, sir," he panted, "the 'ole parcel hof 'em his a-coming hup!"
"Hush!" said Moore. "This way, Sire."
Wales obeyed his host's instructions and vanished in the adjoining room, his manner still cool and unruffled.
"Buster, can you lose those rascals in a chase over the roofs?"
"Hi can, sir," replied the boy valiantly. "Hi 'll give 'em such a run has they reads habout hin their primers."
Moore tossed him an old hat and coat from the cupboard.
"The way is clear, lad," he said, peering out the window. "Out with you and when I whistle show yourself somewhere and then run like the devil. When you are tired, drop your hat and coat and you 'll be safe."
"Drop nothing," said Buster. "Hi knows too much to be guilty hof hany such shocking waste as that."
He hurried out of the window, landing on the roof below as lightly as any cat, as the sound of the approaching mob grew louder. There was but little time to spare, and Moore wasted none of it.
"Bessie," he commanded, "lock the door behind us when we go out in the hall. When I sing, you scream for help at the top of your voice. Then, whatever I say swear to like a darlin'. Come, Mr. Dyke."
Moore grabbed the old gentleman by the arm and hurried him out in the hall as the first of Wales' pursuers set foot on the flight of stairs leading to the attic.
"The Harp that once thro' Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,As if that soul--"
"The Harp that once thro' Tara's hallsThe soul of music shed,Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,As if that soul--"
"The Harp that once thro' Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul--"
As if that soul--"
A woman's scream rang through the house.
"Help! Help! Tom! Help!"
"Bang!" went the locked door, kicked in by Moore, who rushed into the room with a yell, followed by Mr. Dyke.
"Out of the way, darlin'," he whispered to Bessie. "I 've got to give myself an awful flaking."
Immediately the poet began a struggle all over the room with an imaginary adversary.
"You would, would you?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Then take that, you raparee! And that, andthat. Help! Mr. Dyke! My, but he is strong."
He seized the table and upset it, then danced around the room like one possessed, dealing terrific blows to the air. He clutched the contents of the cupboard and sent the china crashing in fragments on the floor. The chairs he beat up and down and back and forth against the walls. For all the world it sounded as though a mad bull were rushing around the room dealing destruction on every side. Then he put his fist through two panes of glass and paused in his performance, standing by the window with heaving chest as the mob led by Sweeny rushed into the attic.
"Oh, friends," he cried between gasps, "you come too late."
"Too late for what, Mr. Moore?"
"To help me, you spalpeens. A big devil, six feet and a half high and a mile broad--I mean a mile high and six feet broad--Oh, a curst big lump of a lad--climbed into the window and laid violent hands on this lady, my future wife, who was here alone--"
"The strange laddybuck," cried Sweeny. "The omadhaun we 're afther now."
"He locked the door so I could n't get in and laid hold of her. Didn't he, Bessie?"
The girl lied shamelessly.
"And I screamed," she finished, glad to add a little truth to her falsehood.
"I kicked in the door and grabbed the villain. Mr. Dyke and I both grappled with him, but he was too much for us and beat us down and leaped out on the roof."
The crowd surged up to the window with a howl of rage, and Buster bobbed into view on a distant gable.
"There he is now," cried Dabble, who was one of the mob.
"Aye, aye, after him."
Sweeny took command.
"You four, Dabble, Blount, Williams and Lake, out of the window and over the roofs again. The rest of us will guard every door in the neighborhood."
The chosen four dropped from the window, and the crowd, Sweeny still in the lead, rushed out and downstairs as frantically as they had come up, leaving the attic to Moore and his guests. The poet sat down on an upset chair and breathed a sigh of relief.
"It's a comedian I am," said he. "Bessie, how does Drury Lane do without me?"
"I don't know," said the girl. "I am sure I could n't."
"My, oh, my!" panted Moore, "but you are learning the right things to say at the right time very quickly, Bessie."
The Prince emerged from his hiding-place.
"Bravely done, Mr. Moore," said he, laughing a little. "Egad, I 'd not trade this evening for any other in my experience."
"No?" asked Moore.
"Not I, sir. You rid us of them very neatly."
"For a while, your Highness. They may return."
"True," said Wales, "so we had best lose no time in getting help."
"Your Highness is right," said the poet, beginning to restore the room to something like its old appearance. "Father-in-law, run out and--"
"Let me arrange this," interrupted the Prince. "Mr. Dyke, if you will carry this ring to the house of Sir Percival Lovelace, you will find him at supper. Tell him of my predicament and say I bid him take such steps as he may deem best to extricate me from this misadventure without betraying my identity."
Mr. Dyke took the ring held out to him by the Prince.
"I 'll make haste," he said, and toddled out and down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
Wales accepted the chair which Moore placed for him.
"Sir," said he, "you have a talent for intrigue."
"Ah, Sire," said Moore, ingenuously, "if it were not disrespectful, I would return the compliment. Your Highness must have passed an exciting evening."
"Quite true, Mr. Moore, but I fancy I can do without such excitement in the future."
"I rejoice to hear you say that, your Highness," said Moore, sincerely.
"Indeed, Mr. Moore? And why so, if I may ask."
"Because," said the poet so winningly that it was quite impossible for even a prince of the blood to take offence, "'The First Gentleman of Europe' is too proud a title to be lightly risked."
Wales grew red and bit his lip.
"I accept your reproof," he said. "It is not undeserved."
"Not reproof, your Highness. Friendly advice, nothing more."
"As you would have it, Mr. Moore," responded the Prince, wearily.
Meanwhile Bessie had found the teapot to be one exception to the general ruin wrought of Moore's household utensils.
"Would it please your Highness to have a cup of tea?" she asked, timidly.
"It will delight me much, Mistress Dyke. May I inquire when you intend to honor Mr. Moore by becoming his wife?"
Bessie flushed up prettily and looked at her lover.
"The wedding would take place to-morrow if I could afford it," said Moore, righting the table and brushing it off with his coat-tail.
"Then I take it you cannot afford it?" said his Highness.
"Not just at present," said Moore, cheerily. "I trust your health continues to be of the best, your Highness?"
"I thank you, yes, but I have heard no such singing in my favorite drawing-rooms as when you were wont to frequent the haunts of thebeau monde."
"I have been out of town," said Moore, calmly, as Bessie brought the tea to the Prince in a cup which had escaped the general smash-up. The Prince sipped its contents in high good humor.
"Delicious, Mistress Dyke," he declared, "your husband will be a fortunate individual."
"There is but one grief which intrudes itself upon his happiness," said the girl, tremulously, "the disfavor of the Prince, who in his darkest hour won from him both love and gratitude by his generosity."
"Hush, Bessie," said Moore. "His Highness has enough to think of, dearest."
"By the way, Moore," said Wales, languidly, "did I not hear some mention made of your name in connection with a political position in Bermuda?"
"You are right, your Highness," replied Moore, reluctantly, "there was some such mention made."
The Prince looked thoughtful and drained his cup.
"Bermuda," said he, "is a long way from England, Mr. Moore."
A step sounded on the stairs at this moment, and Moore gladly rid himself of the embarrassment he felt by approaching the door to make certain it was no undesirable personage who was now approaching.
"Lord Brooking!" he cried. "What good luck brings you back?"
"I soon wearied of the theatricals and was out for a stroll when by chance I encountered Mr. Dyke on his way to Sir Percival's," explained the young nobleman entering. "It is needless to say, your Highness, I made haste to join you here."
"But," said Wales, "did the good citizens not stop you on your way?"
"For a moment or two, your Highness, but I convinced them of my entire harmlessness and was allowed to pass."
"Is Mr. Moore at home?" demanded a hoarse voice, strongly flavored with Scotch dialect, from the hall below.
"McDermot," exclaimed Moore. "What can the old vagabond want with me to-night?"
"If I am not mistaken, Tom, this is the old bloodsucker who is to be your future publisher?" said Lord Brooking.
"For life," responded Moore. "You remember I told you of our bargain not two hours ago. Yes, I am in, Mr. McDermot."
"Well then I 'll coom up," announced the publisher.
Moore was about to advise him not to when a gesture from Lord Brooking led him to desist.
"Pardon me, your Highness," said Lord Brooking, "but for certain reasons I deem it better that this gentleman should not recognize you when he first comes in."
"I'll look at the view, then," said the Regent, pleasantly.
By the time Wales had reached the window, wisely choosing the one which opened upon the street, for there still came sounds of distant chase from the roofs, McDermot was knocking on the door.
"Come in," called Moore.
The old Scotchman entered in a great rage.
"So I ha' caught ye at last?" he shouted at sight of the poet.
"Have it your own way, sir."
"Six times ha' I called here, sair, ye trickster, ye cheat."
"Hold on now," said Moore, in sudden anger, "you are an old man, but more than enough of such talk is a great deal too much."
Bessie laid a restraining hand on Moore's arm.
"Perhaps, Mr. McDermot, you will be kind enough to state your grievance," she said, quietly.
"It's aboot the contract," sputtered the irate publisher.
"Is n't that all right?" asked Moore, wonderingly. "I signed it."
"Of coorse ye did, ye trickster, but ye did not tell me when ye called to do so that the evening before ye had been shamefully ejected from Sir Percival's house by order o' the Prince of Wales."
"Surely that was Sir Percival's business," replied Moore. "He may have been proud of the affair; I was n't."
"Ye should ha' told me," repeated McDermot, doggedly.
"But I did n't know you were so interested in my goings and comings."
"You took my thousand poonds."
"Was that wrong?" asked Moore.
"Wrong?" echoed the publisher. "D'ye think I 'd give ye ten shillings for ye skin?"
"See here," cried Moore, his anger again getting the better of him, "my skin is not for sale, but, if you value yours, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head, you old Rob Roy."
Lord Brooking stepped forward between the two angry men.
"Am I right in believing that you are dissatisfied with your bargain, Mr. McDermot?" said he in a soothing tone.
"Dissatisfied?Dissatisfied! Why, at the present time Mr. Moore is the very worst investment in the literary market."
Brooking waved Moore back with an admonishing gesture.
"Then I take it you would be glad to cancel the agreement?" he continued.
"But my thousand poonds?"
"I will advance Moore the money to repay you. Of course it is a risk, but for the sake of old times I will assume the obligation. Do you need other security than my word?"
"Not I," said McDermot, gladly. "There is your contract, Mr. Moore."
As he spoke he took the paper from his pocket and tore it into fragments. These he carefully deposited on the table and turned to go.
"One moment, Mr. McDermot," said an imperious voice.
The Prince came forward with an air of chilling dignity.
"You have made the greatest mistake of your life, sir," he continued, addressing the astounded publisher. "This I will show you if you listen. Mr. Moore, you and your fiancée have been little seen of late in the world of fashion. Pray alter this, my dear fellow. Furthermore you may as well abandon all idea of holding office in Bermuda save by deputy. It is impossible for the Poet Laureate of England to reside at such a distance from Carlton House."
"Sir!" cried Moore, unable to believe his ears. "Poet Laureate?"
"One Thomas Moore, not unknown to the literary world, an Irishman of some wit and fancy. Mr. McDermot, we need detain you no longer."
Crestfallen, the old Scotchman crept from the room as Moore turned to Bessie almost too happy to speak.
"You heard?"
She nodded her head, her eyes filling with happy tears.
There was a clatter in the street and a closed carriage drew up in front of Mrs. Malone's. Following it came a dozen hussars, riding gaily, as though in hope of a skirmish. Sir Percival Lovelace and Mr. Dyke alighted and hurried upstairs, while Sweeny and his adherents contemplated the soldiers from the safety of distance in melancholy grandeur.
"I have been waiting for you, Sir Percival," said the Prince.
"Yet I made all possible haste," said Sir Percival, bowing low to Bessie. "By good luck, Farquar of the Tenth Hussars was dining with me. A word to him brought me a dozen stout lads, and with them for escort I hurried here."
"Will Farquar keep a still tongue?" inquired Wales, more anxious than he appeared.
"Trust him for that, your Highness," replied Sir Percival, confidently.
"I think I will have to, Lovelace," observed the Prince, dryly. "Mr. Moore, I have only to thank you for your kindly hospitality. I shall expect you at Carlton House in the morning. Mistress Dyke, Tom is indeed a lucky man. As for you, Mr. Dyke, I only await your promise not to repeat the offence to overlook the error into which you fell some weeks ago. Good night, my friends--Stay! I would not leave your clever lad unrewarded. Give him this and tell him if he ever sees fit to quit your service he will not find Wales ungrateful."
As he spoke, the Prince took the ring which Sir Percival held out to him. Handing it to Moore, he turned and bowed himself out, followed by the baronet.
"Capital," said Lord Brooking, joyfully. "I knew you 'd not languish in disfavor long, Tom. Ask Mistress Bessie to name the day."
Moore stepped to his sweetheart's side.
"When will you become my wife, dearest?" he asked, love sounding in his voice and gleaming in his eyes.
"I will marry you to-morrow," she whispered softly, her arms around his neck.