Chapter 6

Chapter TwelveIN WHICH THE POET WARBLES TO MRS. MALONERat-tat-tat!"Are you dressed, Mister Moore?" asked Mrs. Malone, her ear against the crack of the door.Moore winked at Buster and motioned him to admit the landlady, who entered with her accustomed independence of carriage, apparently expecting and prepared for contention."Ah, ha," said she, triumphantly. "You didn't thrick me this time, Tom Moore.""On the contrary, I have been patiently waiting for your coming, Mrs. Malone," replied the poet, politely.The landlady looked incredulous."Where is the rint?" she inquired, belligerently."Here in my dressing gown," answered Moore, exhibiting a long tear in the garment mentioned. "A big rip it is, too. Have you your needle handy?""I wants no fooling, Misther Thomas Moore," declared Mrs. Malone, drawing her bushy brows low in a ferocious frown."Were you ever in love, Mrs. Malone?""Thot is none of your business.""You forget your husband was my first instructor," said Moore, reproachfully."Well, I 'll be your last teacher, and I 'll give you instructions in how to get up and get out wid your pile o' kit, bag and baggage, unless I gets me rint.""You are Irish, Mrs. Malone.""Niver mind thot, sorr.""Sure, I don't mind, if you don't," replied Moore, "and if Ireland don't object there will be no discussion on that point at all.""Whot are yez going to do? Thot's whot I wants to know, Mr. Moore? Is it rint or run, me fine bucko?""Won't you sit down, Mrs. Malone?""I 'll not sit down, I 'll stand up.""Well, will you stand up till you get the rent, Mrs. Malone?""I 'll sit down," replied the landlady, suiting the action to the words so vigorously that the attic rattled."Do you know, Mrs. Malone, I 've written you a song?""I wants no song. I have no notes in me voice.""Faith," said Moore, with a chuckle, "we are alike then, for I 've none in my pocket.""I wants me rint.""Be easy, Mrs. Malone," said Moore, in a conciliatory tone and forthwith broke into song:"Oh, the days are gone when beauty brightMy heart's chain wove--""Where is the rint?" interrupted the irate landlady, but Moore continued his singing, at the same time helping himself to a seat on the table beside her."When all my dreams by day or nightWere love, still love--""The rint is no dream," exclaimed Mrs. Malone, "and by gorry, I 'll have it, me canary-bird.""New hopes may bloom,And days may comeOf milder, calmer beam--""Not till I have ivery penny due me," asserted Mrs. Malone, turning a deaf ear to the pathos and sentiment with which the poet's beautiful voice was investing the simple words of the song."But there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream--""I 'll prefer the rint a t'ousand times," observed Mrs. Malone, quite unaffected."No, there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream."[image]"There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."As the words of the song died away in a sigh of sentimental melody, Moore leaned forward and touched the old woman on the shoulder, hoping that he had struck some responsive chord of memory in her recollections of long-departed youth, but he was doomed to disappointment, for she smote the table with one calloused fist and called upon the saints to witness and sustain her resolve to accept nothing but the whole amount of the money due her.Nothing daunted, Moore slipped off the table and standing behind his determined creditor began another verse, throwing even more feeling into his voice as he proceeded:"No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgotWhich first love traced--""I 'll have that rint, Tom Moore, song or no song," interrupted Mrs. Malone, but her tone was not quite so quarrelsome as before, and Moore from this drew encouragement that lent double sympathy to his music as he continued:"Still it lingering haunts the greenest spotOn memory's waste--""I wants me rint," remarked Mrs. Malone, but her voice had lost its assertive defiance."'T was odor fledAs soon as shed--""I 'll have me rint, Tom Moore," said the landlady plaintively."'Twas morning's wingéd dream;'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,On life's dull stream--"An audible sniff came from beneath the frill of Mrs. Malone's cap and she cleared her throat noisily. Moore leaned over her and tenderly and slowly breathed forth the last words of his song, the mournful cadences stealing from his lips sweet and low and laden with tears, supremely touching in their plaintive harmony, for he sang as though it was to the hopeless love that filled his heart's innermost recess that he now gave utterance."No, there 'snothinghalf so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream."The last words died away, and for a moment the old attic was silent. Then Mrs. Malone rose from her seat with a stifled sob, and, wiping her eyes, started toward the door."And the rent, Mrs. Malone?" asked Moore, timidly."You--you rapscallion," she said, brokenly, "to make an old woman like me cry. Ah, bless you, Tom Moore, for it's the old days you 've brought back to me.""But the rent?""May your voice never grow less, Tom Moore. You--You--!""Well, Mrs. Malone?""You have me rint Satherday or there 'll be throuble."And, blowing her nose vigorously, the relenting landlady left the attic to its inhabitants."'O-o-ray! 'O-o-ray!" shouted Buster in a hoarse whisper, seizing Lord Castlereagh by the front paws and dancing around in a circle in his delight. "Till Saturday, till Saturday! 'O-oray! 'O-oray!""Buster, from now on, we can never complain of these apartments as expensive," said Moore, fanning himself by the window."No, sir? Why not?" asked Buster."Because I got them for a song," replied the poet. "A cursed bad joke, Buster, even if I did make it myself."Chapter ThirteenTOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITORMrs. Malone opened the door suddenly, accompanying this action with a vigorous gesture intended to represent an apology for the liberty she took in omitting the knock. By this it can be easily seen that under Buster's tuition the manners of the landlady were improving."A gentleman to see you, Misther Moore.""Show the gentleman in, Mrs. Malone," said the poet, adding in an undertone to Buster, "This must be a reception we are giving. We have joined society without knowing it, lad.""This way, sorr," announced Mrs. Malone, with an elephantine duck, this being the best imitation nature permitted her to give of a courtesy.Immediately a little, square-shaped man with an expressionless face from which protruded two beady eyes in much the same manner that raisins brighten and decorate the exterior surface of a plum-pudding, entered, striding as pompously as though his height were considerably over six feet instead of but a trifle under five. His face was clean shaven and consistently grave and solemn down to the lower lip, where his chin made a sudden and undignified attempt to obtain complete concealment in the folds of his neckcloth. However, all in all, he was a neat little man, though far from a beauty."Er--er--ahem," he began with a little cough, meanwhile looking back and forth from Moore to Buster as Mrs. Malone waddled out of the attic, "whichis Mr. Thomas Moore?""I am, sir," replied the poet, taking no notice of the new-comer's intentional rudeness. "What do you wish with me?""I--er--er--ahem--come from Mr. McDermot, the publisher. My name is Gannon.""Indeed?" cried Moore. "Won't you have a chair, Mr. Gannon?""I will, thank you," replied the clerk, for such he was, seating himself with much dignity, a performance given a humorous tinge by the unsuccessful attempt he made to cross his fat little legs. "I have called at Mr. McDermot's request to see you about your poems.""You are more than welcome, I am sure," replied Moore."Mr. McDermot has read the manuscript volume you submitted, and takes great pleasure in saying he has never read anything better;greatpleasure."Moore gave a sigh of relief and grew quite light-headed with delight. Here was real appreciation. Genius was about to be recognized at last. Ugly, ill-tempered, little Gannon became in the poet's eyes suddenly invested with the beautiful characteristics and perfect exterior of a cherub, a little over-grown and shapeless, perhaps, but nevertheless cherubic. He wondered how he could for the moment have so greatly disliked this herald of prosperity."Mr. Gannon, you are thirsty, I know," stammered Moore. "You must be after such a walk. I insist that you drink with me, sir. What shall it be?""Since you insist I 'll try a little port," said the clerk, obligingly."Unfortunately," replied the poet, "that is one thing I have n't in my possession. I'm like a loaded ship, sir, just out of port. But I 'll give you something better.""Will you?""I 've the finest drink in the world in that cupboard, sir. One that will make life seem like a dream of blue sky and roses to you.""Er--er--ahem,--I am amarriedman," observed Mr. Gannon, doubtfully."This will enable you to forget that," said Moore in a reassuring tone."I hope not," replied Gannon, suddenly waxing confidential. "The only cloud in my domestic horizon was caused by just such a slip of memory. What a recollection women have for such lapses.""For theirs or for yours, Mr. Gannon?""For mine, Mr. Moore, for mine," hastily replied the clerk. "Ah, women--er--er--ahem--are angels, sir, angels.""No doubt," said Moore, pleasantly, as he poured out the whisky, "of one kind oranother. This, sir, is the dew of heaven. You 'll never beat this for tipple, Mr. Gannon. When I place this before you I show you the greatest compliment in my power. Believe me, it is most precious, dear sir, for it is the essence of Ireland. Each drop a tinted diamond. Your health, Mr. Gannon.""Thank you, Mr. Moore, thank you," replied the clerk in a flattered tone, raising his glass to his mouth. But the first swallow of the fiery liquid sent him into such a paroxysm of coughing that Moore felt compelled to slap him on the back hastily."That's the way to drink such whisky," said the poet, approvingly. "It makes it last longer.""Er--er--ahem," replied the clerk, taking advantage of Moore's own imbibing to empty the contents of his glass over his shoulder unperceived by his host. Buster, being at this particular moment just behind the little clerk, received the whisky full in the face, and feeling compelled on his master's account to resist the belligerent impulse which demanded he should obtain immediate satisfaction from the cause of his discomfiture, he sought with a smothered oath the seclusion of the stairs, an exile into which he was immediately followed by the bulldog."What ails the lad?" asked Moore in astonishment. "I wonder if he is n't well?""Ahem--er--Mr. Moore," began the clerk in a businesslike tone, "permit me to deliver to you the message of my employer. I really am pressed for time, sir.""Go ahead," said Moore, seating himself on the opposite side of the table near which his guest was sitting. "You may command me, Mr. Gannon.""Mr.--er--er--McDermot--ahem--wishes me to inform you that your poetry is delightful. The language is beautiful.""Yes?" said Moore, interrogatively, now in the seventh heaven of delight. "Really, Mr. Gannon?""Each metaphor he declares is as delicate as it is charming.""Yes?""Your rhymes are perfect, Mr. Moore.""Yes?""In fact Mr. McDermot wishes me to assure you that the highest praise can be lavished on your work, Mr. Moore, the highest praise.""He is too kind, Mr. Gannon, he is too kind," cried the poet, rising in his excitement."He was delighted with your book, but--"Mr. Gannon paused, and looked solemn."But what?" asked Moore, eagerly."He cannot publish it."Moore stood looking stupidly at the little clerk for a moment quite dazed."Can't publish it?" he repeated slowly. "Can't publish it! Why not, sir?""Your work is most worthy," answered Mr. Gannon, "but who are you?""I don't--quite--know," faltered Moore, stunned by the sudden casting down of his so recently raised hopes."Ahem--er--er--nor does any one else," continued the clerk, pitilessly. "Mr. McDermot bade me say that to obtain success at the present time a book must be dedicated to some great figure of fashion.""But I know none, sir," replied the disconsolate poet, sinking limply back on his stool. "I know none, sir.""Just so,--er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore," said Mr. Gannon, gravely. "You know none; none knows you, so here is your poetry."As he spoke, he drew a bundle of manuscript from his coat-tail pocket and tossed it contemptuously upon the table."Good day, sir, good day, er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore."And swelling out his chest with the importance properly attached to the person of the bearer of bad news, little Mr. Gannon sauntered leisurely out of the attic.For a moment Moore sat motionless and dumb, striving to comprehend that the sudden downfall of his hopes was real. So quickly had he found himself robbed of the triumph which seemed almost in his grasp that the events of the last few moments were temporarily blurred and blotted in his mind as the fanciful weavings of a slumbering brain often are when consciousness is rudely restored to the sleeper and memory seeks to recall the dream."Done again," he murmured, softly. "Done again."Suddenly a great sob shook his frame, but he manfully choked back the others which would have followed it."My courage is gone at last," he whispered, as though he were not alone. "I 'm beaten--I 'm beaten. Oh, it is bitter. All my bright hopes were conjured up but to fade. A glimpse of Paradise shown to me, and then this attic again. Ah, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken this day."For a second he seemed as though about to break down completely, but, controlling himself with a great effort, he dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then as he turned, his eye fell upon the manuscript lying on the table where it had been thrown by the careless hand of Mr. Gannon."You are there, are you?" he cried, seizing it roughly. "You tempted me from beautiful Ireland--you lured me here to this heartless, cruel London, with a thousand sweet promises of hope and love and fame. You 've tricked me. You brought me here to starve--to die--to fail. Then, damn you, I 'm through with you forever."He hurled the written book to the floor and groped his way to the window, blinded with the tears he would not shed. The golden and salmon hued glory of the sunset, painting the spires and house tops with a thousand shades of flame, fell full upon his hopeless head, and conscious of the horrible mockery of such a halo at a time when only darkness and despair seemed to surround his existence, the poor fellow buried his face in his arms on the window-sill and sobbed like a beaten child.After a while, when the final bitterness of his grief and disappointment had passed he left the window. As he crossed the room his eye fell upon the rejected poems, which lay on the floor bathed in the crimson and yellow riot of a sunbeam. He stood for a moment as though transfixed, then as his heart filled with a sudden revulsion of feeling he knelt and clasped the manuscript to his breast with a little cry."No, no," he murmured brokenly, "I did n't mean it, I did n't mean it, forsuchas you are you 'reallI have."When Buster opened the door a few moments later he found his master sitting in his favorite arm-chair in front of the fireplace in which flickered a tiny fire, lighted for the sake of its cheering influence as the chill of fall was still at least a month away."Well, sir?" asked the lad, hopefully. "Did he take 'em?""No, Buster, he came to bring them back," replied Moore, quite calmly. Buster made a remark as expressive as it was profane, which is saying much."Well, blow 'is hugly face!" he cried, in righteous indignation. "Hall that fuss hand then 'ands 'em back?""He did, Buster.""Oh, Hi wishes Hi 'ad a knowed it. Babble's tumble wouldn't 'ave been a circumstance to the 'eader that little pot-bellied cove would 'ave tooken. Hi say, Mr. Moore, will you call me 'Pride' after this?""Why?" asked Moore, more cheerfully."Because 'as 'ow Hi goes before a fall hand returns hafter it. Dabble will swear to that, sir. Aw, don't let a measly publishing cove cast you down, sir. W'y hall we 'as got to do is to cut McDermot dead when we meets 'im on Pall Mall. That 'll ruin 'im socially.""You are a plucky little devil, Buster.""Yessir," replied the boy, sagely. "You see, Hi hain't got no gal to worry me, sir.""Ah, my lad," said Moore, nodding his head with a sigh, "that makes a world of difference after all.""There is some one hat the door, sir," said Buster. "Shall Hi tell 'im you're hout?""No, lad, I 'll be glad of company. Bid him enter."Buster obediently opened the door and a tall gentleman, magnificently dressed, stepped over the threshold."Is this the residence of Mr. Thomas Moore?" he asked, removing his hat politely.At the sound of the new-comer's voice Moore started to his feet."It is, sir," he answered, advancing a step or two."Oh, how are you, Mr. Moore? You remember me?""Lord Brooking; Sir Percival's friend," said Moore coldly. "I 've not forgotten you."And he paid no attention to his lordship's outstretched hand.Brooking seemed a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of his reception, but, recovering himself, he continued winningly:"You wrong me, sir. My intimacy with the gentleman you named has declined to a mere acquaintance.""You are to be congratulated, Lord Brooking," replied Moore more cordially. "Won't you sit down?"Then, as the young nobleman was relieved of his cloak and hat by Buster, the poet went on:"I believed your lordship to be abroad.""It is my custom to pass six months yearly upon the Continent," answered Brooking, settling back at his ease in the old arm-chair to which his host had waved him. "To this, doubtless, your impression is due. As it is, I only returned from there two days ago, so you see, Mr. Moore, you are one of the first of my friends to receive a call from me.""I am honored," replied Moore, politely, sitting down on the other side of the fireplace."No doubt you are wondering what has brought me to see you?""I can't deny a slight curiosity, my lord," admitted Moore, smiling back at the young nobleman, whose charming manner was winning his confidence in spite of his previous suspicions."Then I 'll proceed to enlighten you without further delay, Mr. Moore.""If your lordship will be so good.""In Ireland a year ago Sir Percival offered little Mistress Dyke a position at Drury Lane Theatre.""He did, curse him!""Knowing the gentleman as I do, I promised my better self that, if the young lady did come to London as the protégée of Lovelace, I would fetch you here as mine, so, if the time came when she would require a strong arm and a loving heart to defend her happiness, she need not go far to find it. That very day I left Ireland and have since been abroad. Two days ago I returned from Paris and found to my surprise that Mistress Dykeisacting at Drury Lane. Surely, you did not allow this willingly?""Not I, sir. I had nothing to say about it.""You mean she preferred Lovelace's advice to yours, Mr. Moore?""We quarrelled, sir, and from that day--it was the one on which you left the old country, my lord--she has had no good word for me. Circumstances placed me in an unfavorable light, and, believing me faithless, she turned a deaf ear to my warnings. Her father was daft to come to London, and in her anger she consented to make the venture.""And you followed her here, Mr. Moore?""Yes, sir, I made a pretence of studying law in the Middle Temple, but it was wretched work which I soon abandoned. Since then I 've been scribbling for a living and not achieving much success at it, though I have done my best.""I see," said Brooking, reflectively."Did Bessie give you my address?""Not she," replied his lordship. "I 've not had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with Mistress Dyke.""She and her father go everywhere," said Moore, proudly. "Thanks to Sir Percival's influence, they have been received by society with open arms. The old gentleman's poems sell, and Bessie is more than ordinarily successful at Drury Lane.""I am not surprised at the young lady's success," observed the young nobleman. "That of her father in the world of letters would have seemed to me problematical had I not your assurance of his prosperity.""Then if Bessie did not tell you where I lived, how did you find me out?""I lunched to-day at Mrs. FitzHerbert's. There I saw a poem with your name and address attached."Moore gave Buster a grateful glance which more than repaid that young gentleman for his enterprise."By the way, Mr. Moore, the verses I spoke of were charming. Mrs. FitzHerbert read them aloud to the assembled company, who received them with every mark of pleasure and appreciation. Mr. Sheridan was particularly complimentary in his comments, while no less harsh a critic than Mr. Brummell condescended to express himself as delighted. Have you other poems, Mr. Moore?""What is that, Lord Brooking?""Have you other poems?"Moore's laugh was not untinged with bitterness as he opened the drawer in the table, lifting from it with both hands a confused pile of manuscripts which he dropped carelessly in front of his guest."A few, sir," he remarked grimly."But why are they not published?" demanded Lord Brooking, scanning various poems through his eyeglasses. "They seem of uniform excellence.""They are refused because I have no patron in the world of fashion to accept the dedication. McDermot, the great publisher, told me so himself.""Indeed?" remarked his lordship, meditatively. "Hum!""Ah, if your lordship would permit me?" began Moore, eagerly."I 'll do better than that," interrupted Brooking. "I 'll bring your work to the attention of the Prince himself.""The Prince?" cried Moore, dazzled at the mere idea."Yes, Mr. Moore, the Prince. Wales, in spite of his many faults, is a curst good fellow, and quite a judge of poetry. He shall read specimens of your skill. Fortunately Mrs. FitzHerbert, who still enjoys his Highness's favor, is mightily at odds with Sir Percival. Moreover, she was greatly pleased with the Rose poem you favored her with. I 'll get her to exert her influence with Wales. Egad, Mr. Moore, we 'll do our best for you.""How can I thank you?" faltered Moore, hope welling up in his heart once more.Brooking rose from his chair."You can repay me easily," he answered, placing his hand upon his protégé's shoulder. "Marry sweet Mistress Bessie and then keep her from Sir Percival. The happiness your wedded life should bring you both will amply reward me for any effort I may make in your behalf. If the Prince permits me to dedicate your book to him the publishers will fight for the privilege of printing it and your fortune is made, Tom Moore.""But we have quarrelled," said Moore, hopelessly."Capital!" cried his lordship. "No woman tiffs with a man to whom she is indifferent. It is the sex's sweet perversity. Then, again, Tom Moore famous, for you 'll never be more than 'Tom' if success is yours--the public loves a familiar diminutive, sir--will be a different Moore from Thomas Moore unknown.""Ah, sir, you put new courage in my heart," said Moore, catching the young nobleman's infectious enthusiasm."I 'll put money in your purse, which is even better, lad," replied Brooking, plunging his hand in his pocket, from which he drew it forth filled with coins of various denominations. "Write me a sonnet to send to my lady love.""I 'll do it gladly," said Moore, seating himself at the table and with feverish haste drawing towards him pen and paper. "Is the lady blonde or brunette?"Lord Brooking hesitated for a moment."Curst if I know," thought he, "since I have never laid eyes on her."Then he continued, addressing Moore:"Brunette, dark hair and blue eyes, and a devilishly sweet and mischievous mouth.""Very well, sir," replied Moore, dipping his pen in the ink."One second, Mr. Moore. Here are five sovereigns in advance."His lordship dropped the coins upon the table as Moore looked up at him, gratitude dumbing his tongue for the moment."Finish the verses at your leisure," continued Brooking. "I am in no hurry for them.""God bless you, sir," stammered Moore, finding speech at last. "You have brought new life and hope to me this day. I 'll never forget your generosity.""Tut, tut," said his lordship, hastily. "Never mind thanking me. If all goes well you are to get married and be happy if you wish to please me.""I promise I 'll do my best," replied the poet, smiling more cheerfully than in days."My hat and cloak, boy," said Brooking. "I 'll off to Carlton House, where I am expected by Wales even now.""I can hardly believe I am the same man, my lord," said Moore. "You have changed me completely, sir.""You 'll hear from me soon, Tom," said Brooking, hat in hand, as he crossed to the door. "Be of good cheer, my lad, for if Wales will have none of it, I 'll accept the dedication, and I flatter myself that will be enough to insure publication for you. Good-bye for the present.""Good-bye, my lord," answered Moore, closing the door behind his benefactor with almost reverential care."Mr. Moore," said Buster."Yes, my lad.""Was that Lord Brooking?""Yes, Buster. Why do you ask?""Coz Hi thought as 'ow he was a bloomin' hangel," said Buster."Ah, lad, I 'm not sure that you are not right," answered Moore, and there was no laughter in his voice.Chapter FourteenSIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE IS FAVORED BY FORTUNEMoore lost no time before setting out to make a little payment on account to all of his creditors residing in the neighborhood, so Buster, left to his own devices, extended a broomstick towards Lord Castlereagh in a manner tempting in the extreme. Being of a congenial and obliging disposition, the bulldog secured a firm grip and then endeavored to wrest it from his master's grasp. A rough and tumble tug-of-war ensued, the finish being an aerial performance by Lord Castlereagh, who made a flying trip around Buster as that worthy youth, exerting his muscle to the utmost, swung stick, dog and all in a circle clear of the floor. Having exhausted himself without accomplishing the release of the stick from the bulldog's jaws, Buster had a brilliant inspiration and outraged precedent by washing his face and hands, it being his custom to perform ablutions only on arising in the morning unless detected and otherwise admonished by his master. Before he had finished drying himself a warning growl from his four-legged playfellow gave notice that some one was approaching.Buster opened the door in answer to a loud knock and found himself confronted by two elegantly attired gentlemen, who willingly entered the room in response to his hospitable greeting."Hullo," said Sir Percival, coolly eying Buster through his glass with an amused smile. "Who are you?"Buster was distinctly pleased with the baronet. Sir Percival's stalwart form was clad in the latest fashion, which set off his handsome person to great advantage, but in spite of his distinguished appearance, his manner in addressing the boy was so genuinely affable and good-natured that it placed them in sympathy at once. Where Buster liked he was prone to admire eventually; when he both liked and admired at first sight he became like clay in the potter's hands."Who am Hi, sir?" repeated he, "Why Hi 'me the Reverend Doctor Buster of Hall Souls's Chapel.""Indeed?" observed Sir Percival. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Doctor.""We want none of your slack," growled the baronet's companion."Tut!" said Sir Percival, "let the boy have his joke. Is Mr. Moore at home?""No, sir," replied Buster, giving a hard look at Farrell, for Sir Percival's companion was none other. "'Ee 's never 'ome at such times, sir.""What times?" demanded Farrell, gruffly."Times wen 'ee is hout," replied the boy, delighted at having entrapped the object of his dislike, for he was as much displeased with the young man as he was favorably impressed with his more amiable companion. Sir Percival laughed gently at his companion's discomfiture."I am an old friend of Mr. Moore," he said to Buster. "May I wait till he returns?""Yessir," replied Buster. "You can make yourself comfortibble in my habsence. I ham about to give his lordship a breather.""His lordship?" echoed Sir Percival. "May I ask whom you so designate?""Certingly. Come 'ere, Pupsy."The bulldog gambolled across the room to the boy, and standing up on his hind legs playfully attempted to bite off one of his trouser buttons."Sich manners, hand hin front o' comp'ny too," said Buster, chidingly. "Down, sir. Hallow me to hintroduce Lord Castlereagh, the champeen fighter of the neighborhood. Say 'ow-dy-do, Pupsy."Lord Castlereagh obediently threw up his great head and barked cheerfully in welcome. This done, he sat down on his haunches and extended his paw, which the baronet shook heartily."Who named the dog?" demanded Sir Percival, helping himself to a seat on the stool nearest him."I hasked Mr. Moore to suggest a suitable cognomy, hand that's wot 'ee chose. 'Ee hallows has 'ow hit was wonderously happropriate, sir.""I quite agree with your master," replied the baronet. "You said you were going out. Pray do not let me detain you.""Hall right, sir," said Buster, taking his cap from its nail behind the door. "Mr. Moore will return from 'is drive in 'Yde Park in 'arf an hour. Hi won't be very long. Come hon, Pupsy."Opening the door he hurried along the hall and down the stairs with Lord Castlereagh yelping delightedly in headlong pursuit as Sir Percival rose from his seat and strolled carelessly around the attic, humming softly to himself as he prosecuted his investigation. Meanwhile Farrell, seated in Moore's arm-chair, preserved a gloomy silence."So," said the baronet, disdainfully, "this is the abode of genius? Upon my word, as bare and unattractive a kennel as I have ever explored.""You dragged me here against my will, Sir Percival," responded Farrell, uneasily. "When you have satisfied your curiosity let us go. I have no wish to encounter Moore.""Tut," said Sir Percival, reprovingly, "there is no necessity for our haste, we saw the worthy gentleman leave here, Terence. Walking at the rate at which he started he must be half way to Pall Mall by this time.""If he does not turn back," objected Farrell. "You can't be sure how long he intended to continue in that direction, Sir Percival.""That can hardly be considered as a disadvantage," responded the baronet, airily, "since it adds a pleasant tinge of risk to our adventure which otherwise could not be termed hazardous, though what difference discovery would make I really fail to see.""That is all very well for you," said Farrell, crossly, "but I want no more such beatings as he gave me in Ireland. I was in bed a week.""You were suitably recompensed for your discomfort, Terence. Thanks to you, Bessie and her father accepted my proposition to come to London, turning a deaf ear to the impassioned explanations of the worthy but misguided Thomas.""Oh, I 'm smart enough to accomplish the wishes of other people," replied Farrell, bitterly, "but I cannot seem to materially advance my own fortunes.""Yet, I see little reason for your dissatisfaction. Finding myself in need of such a clever brain in London I brought you here ostensibly to read law. You have the benefit of my popularity in the social world. Surely for a young and unknown Irishman to be comparatively intimate with the Prince's own set is an honor? You don't know when you are well off, my young misanthrope.""That is as it may be," said Farrell, not at all impressed by his patron's eulogy of the advantage afforded him by his present situation."But," said Sir Percival knowingly, "think what an education for a young and ambitious beau a close and personal study of George Brummell must of necessity be. By the way he spoke very highly of you at Sam Rogers's house only yesternight.""Did he?" asked Farrell, eagerly. "May I ask you to repeat his words, Sir Percival?""To be sure, my boy," said the elder man, genially. "Let me see. If I recollect correctly, his exact words were, 'Young Farrell possesses great sartorial possibilities now in a state of gradual but progressive development, his innate refinement of taste being at the present time slightly obscured and handicapped by a provincial anarchism of selection due to youth's inevitable cheerfulness in the choice of color, and rather crude harmonizing of shade.' There is a tribute for you, Terence."Farrell flushed with pleasure. Secretly ambitious to outshine even the great leader of fashion himself, he found his aspirations seriously interfered with by the limited income allowed him by his patron. It must not be thought, however, that Sir Percival was niggardly in his treatment of Farrell. In truth he was far more generous than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have been under the same circumstances, but it could hardly be expected that the allowance given even by a free-handed patron to a clever protégé would suffice to dethrone such an all-powerful monarch of society as at this time was George Brummell, familiarly known in the circle he graced as the Beau. Nevertheless the handsome face and tasteful costumes of the young Irishman had begun to attract some little attention in London society, a circumstance that filled his heart with more than ordinary satisfaction, for Farrell was clear-headed enough to see that the vogue of Brummell, who was almost as renowned for wit and impertinent frankness as for dress, even in his association with Royalty itself, must sooner or later come to an end when by some characteristically insolent jest he should lose the favor of the Prince of Wales, now his close friend and patron. Some years later this very disaster apprehended by Farrell occurred, and when the impoverished and heartbroken Brummell was starving in a mean garret in Calais, it was the brilliant young Irishman, his pretensions now supported by the vast wealth of the ugly old widow whom he had meanwhile married, who reigned as first fop and dandy of the United Kingdom, until the summer Sunday morning came on which he went bravely to his death for slapping the face of Sir Dudley Brilbanke, who had made a slighting remark on beaus in general and Brummell in particular, which the successor to the unfortunate man then in exile felt bound to resent.In the meantime Sir Percival had been poking about on the table which was still littered with the manuscripts thrown upon it during Moore's interview with Lord Brooking."To Bessie!" murmured the baronet in an amused tone. "Our rhymer wastes a vast number of sheets in that young lady's name,--'The Meeting of the Waters,' 'She is Far from the Land,' 'Oft in the Stilly Night,' 'Love's Young Dream.' Will these ever see print, I wonder?""On that I 'll stake my life, Sir Percival," responded Farrell. "Though I dislike Tom Moore with all my heart, I know he is a genius in his line. If he will only keep his courage in the face of disappointment there is no man who will achieve more success in the writing of verses, I feel certain.""Dear me," said Sir Percival, taking snuff, "if such is really the truth, I 'll have to interest myself in his affairs again. Hullo, what is this?"As he spoke, the baronet drew from the heap of manuscripts the verses satirizing the Prince of Wales written and left in Moore's keeping by Mr. Dyke, which the poet had accidentally taken from the drawer when he flung his armful of rejected poems on the table before Lord Brooking.Sir Percival scanned the verses, his dubious expression changing to one of great delight as he read on, until as he finished he laughed aloud."What is it pleases you, Sir Percival?""Egad, Terence, I 've happened on a treasure. A satire on the Prince. Gad, he cooks Wales to a cinder. Listen, Terence."'THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY."It is of scraps and fragments built,Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,--His mind is like a patchwork quiltMade up of motley, cast-off bits.Poor Prince! And how else could it be,His notions all at random caught,His mind a mental fricasseeMade up of odds and ends of thought.'"And so on for several more verses. The Regent has n't had such a toasting in many a day. I swear I 'll have this published immediately.""Ah," said Farrell, "and why, sir?""'T will ruin Moore," replied the baronet, regarding the other in surprise.Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering."Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either success or affluence," said he slowly. "One does not dig into the earth to crush a worm under foot.""You speak in riddles, Terence," observed Sir Percival, pleasantly puzzled."I 'll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now. Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem. The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and is about to climb higher. He is starving here.""Stab me, if you are not right, Terence," exclaimed the baronet, approvingly. "I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall be witness that I found it fresh from Moore's pen upon his table.""Willingly," said Farrell. "Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of Mistress Dyke. Are you making progress there?""As yet I 've gained no ground at all so far as I can see," replied Sir Percival in a discontented tone. "True, I have apparently won her trust and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above criticism. No young curate could be more circumspect and exemplary than I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being respectable.""I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir Percival," said Farrell, carelessly, "but you must play your own hand. I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the school-house ruined Moore in the girl's estimation, thus clearing the way for your approach.""Quite so," observed Sir Percival, cordially, "and since he is powerless to thwart me I can take my own time about the chase.""Speaking of time, Sir Percival," said Farrell, rising to his feet, "we can't linger here much longer. Come, let us go.""Tut, Terence," said the baronet, disapprovingly, "how nervous you are."At this moment Moore opened the door and, striding into the room, gave an exclamation of surprise as he recognized his visitors."Mr. Moore, as I live," said Sir Percival, gently. "Sir, we have been waiting for you.""What do you want here, Sir Percival?" demanded Moore, gruffly, glaring at Farrell, who was manifestly ill at ease."I thought I 'd look you up for old times' sake," replied the baronet, a sneer breaking through his smile for once. "Mr. Farrell came at my request."Moore stepped to the door and opened it."Then he will leave at mine," he said, sharply. "Get along, Terence, before I do you an injury."Farrell did not hesitate. Waving his hat in farewell to Sir Percival, he walked quickly out of the attic and started downstairs as Moore slammed the door loudly after him.Sir Percival laughed good naturedly, and rose to his feet as Moore returned from the doorway."I called, Mr. Moore, to say that it has reached my ears that you are in want. Is this true?""I would want a long time before I would ask you for anything but your absence," replied Moore, hotly."If you desire to return to Ireland, I will be pleased to pay your way," continued the baronet, suavely."If you will go to the devil I will be pleased to assist in your departure, Sir Percival. Hurry, or I may do it now.""You are not polite, sir.""My politeness would be wasted upon such as you," answered Moore."That is a point that might be argued," observed Sir Percival in his most genial manner. "Am I to regard your answer as final, Mr. Moore?""Quite final. Now be so kind as to go.""If you desire it, with pleasure."Moore opened the door that Sir Percival might pass out and found himself face to face with Bessie Dyke, who had paused on the threshold preparatory to knocking."You, Bessie?" he stammered, for the moment completely confused.Bessie was not at all embarrassed until, on entering, her eye fell on Sir Percival. Then she blushed slightly, but after a momentary hesitation turned to Moore and said:"I thought my father was here, or I should not have ventured up.""He was here a while ago and I expect him to return any moment," answered Moore, eagerly taking his cue from Bessie."A note came to the house for him marked 'Immediate,'" continued the girl, ribbing adroitly, "so I thought best to follow him here.""Won't you wait for him?" asked Moore, pushing forward the arm-chair."I fancy," said Sir Percival, "I fancy Mistress Dyke will not care to remain here since her father is absent.""Why not?" demanded Moore, angrily."This is scarcely the place nor the company for a lady to remain in," replied the baronet."When you go, Sir Percival," said Moore, more calmly, "the only objectionable feature will be removed."Sir Percival did not deign to reply to this rudeness, but, stepping towards the girl, extended his arm in mute invitation. Mistress Dyke, however, had plans of her own, and was not to be thus led away."I thank you, Sir Percival," said she, "but I shall wait for my father."Sir Percival raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, but was too wise to insist further, so took his departure with a courtly bow to the girl, and a sneering smile for Moore, who, quite unruffled, lighted an extra pair of candles in honor of his visitor.As the sound of the baronet's steps died away in the hall Bessie gave a sigh of relief and sank down in the chair. Moore hesitated, then taking courage came to her side."Ah, Bessie," he said, softly. "I 've been starving for a sight of you. It is like the old times to see you again.""But," said the girl in a chilly tone, "the old times are passed and done with. Nothing is as it was.""You are wrong, Bessie," said Moore, gently. "My heart is the same."Bessie rose from the chair and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders."Then it belongs to Winnie Farrell," she said in a determined tone.Moore winced as though he had received a blow. Nevertheless his voice was clear and unfaltering as he answered:"Winnie Farrell is married to the man of her choice. Surely there is no need to throw her name in my face when I tell you that I love you?""You told Winnie the same thing," said Bessie, coldly.Moore gave an exclamation of pain."I 've explained that misunderstanding a score of times," he said, bitterly. "They tricked me that you might think me unworthy of your trust and so be persuaded to come to London. Like a fool I walked into the trap and you believed me faithless. On my honor, you wronged me, dearest. I 've loved but you Bessie; you are all in all to me, mavourneen. Won't you--can't you--believe me?"

Chapter Twelve

IN WHICH THE POET WARBLES TO MRS. MALONE

Rat-tat-tat!

"Are you dressed, Mister Moore?" asked Mrs. Malone, her ear against the crack of the door.

Moore winked at Buster and motioned him to admit the landlady, who entered with her accustomed independence of carriage, apparently expecting and prepared for contention.

"Ah, ha," said she, triumphantly. "You didn't thrick me this time, Tom Moore."

"On the contrary, I have been patiently waiting for your coming, Mrs. Malone," replied the poet, politely.

The landlady looked incredulous.

"Where is the rint?" she inquired, belligerently.

"Here in my dressing gown," answered Moore, exhibiting a long tear in the garment mentioned. "A big rip it is, too. Have you your needle handy?"

"I wants no fooling, Misther Thomas Moore," declared Mrs. Malone, drawing her bushy brows low in a ferocious frown.

"Were you ever in love, Mrs. Malone?"

"Thot is none of your business."

"You forget your husband was my first instructor," said Moore, reproachfully.

"Well, I 'll be your last teacher, and I 'll give you instructions in how to get up and get out wid your pile o' kit, bag and baggage, unless I gets me rint."

"You are Irish, Mrs. Malone."

"Niver mind thot, sorr."

"Sure, I don't mind, if you don't," replied Moore, "and if Ireland don't object there will be no discussion on that point at all."

"Whot are yez going to do? Thot's whot I wants to know, Mr. Moore? Is it rint or run, me fine bucko?"

"Won't you sit down, Mrs. Malone?"

"I 'll not sit down, I 'll stand up."

"Well, will you stand up till you get the rent, Mrs. Malone?"

"I 'll sit down," replied the landlady, suiting the action to the words so vigorously that the attic rattled.

"Do you know, Mrs. Malone, I 've written you a song?"

"I wants no song. I have no notes in me voice."

"Faith," said Moore, with a chuckle, "we are alike then, for I 've none in my pocket."

"I wants me rint."

"Be easy, Mrs. Malone," said Moore, in a conciliatory tone and forthwith broke into song:

"Oh, the days are gone when beauty brightMy heart's chain wove--"

"Oh, the days are gone when beauty bright

My heart's chain wove--"

"Where is the rint?" interrupted the irate landlady, but Moore continued his singing, at the same time helping himself to a seat on the table beside her.

"When all my dreams by day or nightWere love, still love--"

"When all my dreams by day or night

Were love, still love--"

"The rint is no dream," exclaimed Mrs. Malone, "and by gorry, I 'll have it, me canary-bird."

"New hopes may bloom,And days may comeOf milder, calmer beam--"

"New hopes may bloom,

And days may come

Of milder, calmer beam--"

"Not till I have ivery penny due me," asserted Mrs. Malone, turning a deaf ear to the pathos and sentiment with which the poet's beautiful voice was investing the simple words of the song.

"But there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream--"

"But there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream--"

"I 'll prefer the rint a t'ousand times," observed Mrs. Malone, quite unaffected.

"No, there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream."

"No, there's nothing half so sweet in life

As Love's young dream."

[image]"There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."

[image]

"There's nothing half so sweet in life as Love's young dream."

As the words of the song died away in a sigh of sentimental melody, Moore leaned forward and touched the old woman on the shoulder, hoping that he had struck some responsive chord of memory in her recollections of long-departed youth, but he was doomed to disappointment, for she smote the table with one calloused fist and called upon the saints to witness and sustain her resolve to accept nothing but the whole amount of the money due her.

Nothing daunted, Moore slipped off the table and standing behind his determined creditor began another verse, throwing even more feeling into his voice as he proceeded:

"No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgotWhich first love traced--"

"No,--that hallowed form is ne'er forgot

Which first love traced--"

"I 'll have that rint, Tom Moore, song or no song," interrupted Mrs. Malone, but her tone was not quite so quarrelsome as before, and Moore from this drew encouragement that lent double sympathy to his music as he continued:

"Still it lingering haunts the greenest spotOn memory's waste--"

"Still it lingering haunts the greenest spot

On memory's waste--"

"I wants me rint," remarked Mrs. Malone, but her voice had lost its assertive defiance.

"'T was odor fledAs soon as shed--"

"'T was odor fled

As soon as shed--"

"I 'll have me rint, Tom Moore," said the landlady plaintively.

"'Twas morning's wingéd dream;'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,On life's dull stream--"

"'Twas morning's wingéd dream;

'Twas a light that ne'er can shine again,

On life's dull stream--"

An audible sniff came from beneath the frill of Mrs. Malone's cap and she cleared her throat noisily. Moore leaned over her and tenderly and slowly breathed forth the last words of his song, the mournful cadences stealing from his lips sweet and low and laden with tears, supremely touching in their plaintive harmony, for he sang as though it was to the hopeless love that filled his heart's innermost recess that he now gave utterance.

"No, there 'snothinghalf so sweet in lifeAs Love's young dream."

"No, there 'snothinghalf so sweet in life

As Love's young dream."

The last words died away, and for a moment the old attic was silent. Then Mrs. Malone rose from her seat with a stifled sob, and, wiping her eyes, started toward the door.

"And the rent, Mrs. Malone?" asked Moore, timidly.

"You--you rapscallion," she said, brokenly, "to make an old woman like me cry. Ah, bless you, Tom Moore, for it's the old days you 've brought back to me."

"But the rent?"

"May your voice never grow less, Tom Moore. You--You--!"

"Well, Mrs. Malone?"

"You have me rint Satherday or there 'll be throuble."

And, blowing her nose vigorously, the relenting landlady left the attic to its inhabitants.

"'O-o-ray! 'O-o-ray!" shouted Buster in a hoarse whisper, seizing Lord Castlereagh by the front paws and dancing around in a circle in his delight. "Till Saturday, till Saturday! 'O-oray! 'O-oray!"

"Buster, from now on, we can never complain of these apartments as expensive," said Moore, fanning himself by the window.

"No, sir? Why not?" asked Buster.

"Because I got them for a song," replied the poet. "A cursed bad joke, Buster, even if I did make it myself."

Chapter Thirteen

TOM MOORE HAS A BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT AND AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR

Mrs. Malone opened the door suddenly, accompanying this action with a vigorous gesture intended to represent an apology for the liberty she took in omitting the knock. By this it can be easily seen that under Buster's tuition the manners of the landlady were improving.

"A gentleman to see you, Misther Moore."

"Show the gentleman in, Mrs. Malone," said the poet, adding in an undertone to Buster, "This must be a reception we are giving. We have joined society without knowing it, lad."

"This way, sorr," announced Mrs. Malone, with an elephantine duck, this being the best imitation nature permitted her to give of a courtesy.

Immediately a little, square-shaped man with an expressionless face from which protruded two beady eyes in much the same manner that raisins brighten and decorate the exterior surface of a plum-pudding, entered, striding as pompously as though his height were considerably over six feet instead of but a trifle under five. His face was clean shaven and consistently grave and solemn down to the lower lip, where his chin made a sudden and undignified attempt to obtain complete concealment in the folds of his neckcloth. However, all in all, he was a neat little man, though far from a beauty.

"Er--er--ahem," he began with a little cough, meanwhile looking back and forth from Moore to Buster as Mrs. Malone waddled out of the attic, "whichis Mr. Thomas Moore?"

"I am, sir," replied the poet, taking no notice of the new-comer's intentional rudeness. "What do you wish with me?"

"I--er--er--ahem--come from Mr. McDermot, the publisher. My name is Gannon."

"Indeed?" cried Moore. "Won't you have a chair, Mr. Gannon?"

"I will, thank you," replied the clerk, for such he was, seating himself with much dignity, a performance given a humorous tinge by the unsuccessful attempt he made to cross his fat little legs. "I have called at Mr. McDermot's request to see you about your poems."

"You are more than welcome, I am sure," replied Moore.

"Mr. McDermot has read the manuscript volume you submitted, and takes great pleasure in saying he has never read anything better;greatpleasure."

Moore gave a sigh of relief and grew quite light-headed with delight. Here was real appreciation. Genius was about to be recognized at last. Ugly, ill-tempered, little Gannon became in the poet's eyes suddenly invested with the beautiful characteristics and perfect exterior of a cherub, a little over-grown and shapeless, perhaps, but nevertheless cherubic. He wondered how he could for the moment have so greatly disliked this herald of prosperity.

"Mr. Gannon, you are thirsty, I know," stammered Moore. "You must be after such a walk. I insist that you drink with me, sir. What shall it be?"

"Since you insist I 'll try a little port," said the clerk, obligingly.

"Unfortunately," replied the poet, "that is one thing I have n't in my possession. I'm like a loaded ship, sir, just out of port. But I 'll give you something better."

"Will you?"

"I 've the finest drink in the world in that cupboard, sir. One that will make life seem like a dream of blue sky and roses to you."

"Er--er--ahem,--I am amarriedman," observed Mr. Gannon, doubtfully.

"This will enable you to forget that," said Moore in a reassuring tone.

"I hope not," replied Gannon, suddenly waxing confidential. "The only cloud in my domestic horizon was caused by just such a slip of memory. What a recollection women have for such lapses."

"For theirs or for yours, Mr. Gannon?"

"For mine, Mr. Moore, for mine," hastily replied the clerk. "Ah, women--er--er--ahem--are angels, sir, angels."

"No doubt," said Moore, pleasantly, as he poured out the whisky, "of one kind oranother. This, sir, is the dew of heaven. You 'll never beat this for tipple, Mr. Gannon. When I place this before you I show you the greatest compliment in my power. Believe me, it is most precious, dear sir, for it is the essence of Ireland. Each drop a tinted diamond. Your health, Mr. Gannon."

"Thank you, Mr. Moore, thank you," replied the clerk in a flattered tone, raising his glass to his mouth. But the first swallow of the fiery liquid sent him into such a paroxysm of coughing that Moore felt compelled to slap him on the back hastily.

"That's the way to drink such whisky," said the poet, approvingly. "It makes it last longer."

"Er--er--ahem," replied the clerk, taking advantage of Moore's own imbibing to empty the contents of his glass over his shoulder unperceived by his host. Buster, being at this particular moment just behind the little clerk, received the whisky full in the face, and feeling compelled on his master's account to resist the belligerent impulse which demanded he should obtain immediate satisfaction from the cause of his discomfiture, he sought with a smothered oath the seclusion of the stairs, an exile into which he was immediately followed by the bulldog.

"What ails the lad?" asked Moore in astonishment. "I wonder if he is n't well?"

"Ahem--er--Mr. Moore," began the clerk in a businesslike tone, "permit me to deliver to you the message of my employer. I really am pressed for time, sir."

"Go ahead," said Moore, seating himself on the opposite side of the table near which his guest was sitting. "You may command me, Mr. Gannon."

"Mr.--er--er--McDermot--ahem--wishes me to inform you that your poetry is delightful. The language is beautiful."

"Yes?" said Moore, interrogatively, now in the seventh heaven of delight. "Really, Mr. Gannon?"

"Each metaphor he declares is as delicate as it is charming."

"Yes?"

"Your rhymes are perfect, Mr. Moore."

"Yes?"

"In fact Mr. McDermot wishes me to assure you that the highest praise can be lavished on your work, Mr. Moore, the highest praise."

"He is too kind, Mr. Gannon, he is too kind," cried the poet, rising in his excitement.

"He was delighted with your book, but--"

Mr. Gannon paused, and looked solemn.

"But what?" asked Moore, eagerly.

"He cannot publish it."

Moore stood looking stupidly at the little clerk for a moment quite dazed.

"Can't publish it?" he repeated slowly. "Can't publish it! Why not, sir?"

"Your work is most worthy," answered Mr. Gannon, "but who are you?"

"I don't--quite--know," faltered Moore, stunned by the sudden casting down of his so recently raised hopes.

"Ahem--er--er--nor does any one else," continued the clerk, pitilessly. "Mr. McDermot bade me say that to obtain success at the present time a book must be dedicated to some great figure of fashion."

"But I know none, sir," replied the disconsolate poet, sinking limply back on his stool. "I know none, sir."

"Just so,--er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore," said Mr. Gannon, gravely. "You know none; none knows you, so here is your poetry."

As he spoke, he drew a bundle of manuscript from his coat-tail pocket and tossed it contemptuously upon the table.

"Good day, sir, good day, er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore."

And swelling out his chest with the importance properly attached to the person of the bearer of bad news, little Mr. Gannon sauntered leisurely out of the attic.

For a moment Moore sat motionless and dumb, striving to comprehend that the sudden downfall of his hopes was real. So quickly had he found himself robbed of the triumph which seemed almost in his grasp that the events of the last few moments were temporarily blurred and blotted in his mind as the fanciful weavings of a slumbering brain often are when consciousness is rudely restored to the sleeper and memory seeks to recall the dream.

"Done again," he murmured, softly. "Done again."

Suddenly a great sob shook his frame, but he manfully choked back the others which would have followed it.

"My courage is gone at last," he whispered, as though he were not alone. "I 'm beaten--I 'm beaten. Oh, it is bitter. All my bright hopes were conjured up but to fade. A glimpse of Paradise shown to me, and then this attic again. Ah, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken this day."

For a second he seemed as though about to break down completely, but, controlling himself with a great effort, he dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then as he turned, his eye fell upon the manuscript lying on the table where it had been thrown by the careless hand of Mr. Gannon.

"You are there, are you?" he cried, seizing it roughly. "You tempted me from beautiful Ireland--you lured me here to this heartless, cruel London, with a thousand sweet promises of hope and love and fame. You 've tricked me. You brought me here to starve--to die--to fail. Then, damn you, I 'm through with you forever."

He hurled the written book to the floor and groped his way to the window, blinded with the tears he would not shed. The golden and salmon hued glory of the sunset, painting the spires and house tops with a thousand shades of flame, fell full upon his hopeless head, and conscious of the horrible mockery of such a halo at a time when only darkness and despair seemed to surround his existence, the poor fellow buried his face in his arms on the window-sill and sobbed like a beaten child.

After a while, when the final bitterness of his grief and disappointment had passed he left the window. As he crossed the room his eye fell upon the rejected poems, which lay on the floor bathed in the crimson and yellow riot of a sunbeam. He stood for a moment as though transfixed, then as his heart filled with a sudden revulsion of feeling he knelt and clasped the manuscript to his breast with a little cry.

"No, no," he murmured brokenly, "I did n't mean it, I did n't mean it, forsuchas you are you 'reallI have."

When Buster opened the door a few moments later he found his master sitting in his favorite arm-chair in front of the fireplace in which flickered a tiny fire, lighted for the sake of its cheering influence as the chill of fall was still at least a month away.

"Well, sir?" asked the lad, hopefully. "Did he take 'em?"

"No, Buster, he came to bring them back," replied Moore, quite calmly. Buster made a remark as expressive as it was profane, which is saying much.

"Well, blow 'is hugly face!" he cried, in righteous indignation. "Hall that fuss hand then 'ands 'em back?"

"He did, Buster."

"Oh, Hi wishes Hi 'ad a knowed it. Babble's tumble wouldn't 'ave been a circumstance to the 'eader that little pot-bellied cove would 'ave tooken. Hi say, Mr. Moore, will you call me 'Pride' after this?"

"Why?" asked Moore, more cheerfully.

"Because 'as 'ow Hi goes before a fall hand returns hafter it. Dabble will swear to that, sir. Aw, don't let a measly publishing cove cast you down, sir. W'y hall we 'as got to do is to cut McDermot dead when we meets 'im on Pall Mall. That 'll ruin 'im socially."

"You are a plucky little devil, Buster."

"Yessir," replied the boy, sagely. "You see, Hi hain't got no gal to worry me, sir."

"Ah, my lad," said Moore, nodding his head with a sigh, "that makes a world of difference after all."

"There is some one hat the door, sir," said Buster. "Shall Hi tell 'im you're hout?"

"No, lad, I 'll be glad of company. Bid him enter."

Buster obediently opened the door and a tall gentleman, magnificently dressed, stepped over the threshold.

"Is this the residence of Mr. Thomas Moore?" he asked, removing his hat politely.

At the sound of the new-comer's voice Moore started to his feet.

"It is, sir," he answered, advancing a step or two.

"Oh, how are you, Mr. Moore? You remember me?"

"Lord Brooking; Sir Percival's friend," said Moore coldly. "I 've not forgotten you."

And he paid no attention to his lordship's outstretched hand.

Brooking seemed a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of his reception, but, recovering himself, he continued winningly:

"You wrong me, sir. My intimacy with the gentleman you named has declined to a mere acquaintance."

"You are to be congratulated, Lord Brooking," replied Moore more cordially. "Won't you sit down?"

Then, as the young nobleman was relieved of his cloak and hat by Buster, the poet went on:

"I believed your lordship to be abroad."

"It is my custom to pass six months yearly upon the Continent," answered Brooking, settling back at his ease in the old arm-chair to which his host had waved him. "To this, doubtless, your impression is due. As it is, I only returned from there two days ago, so you see, Mr. Moore, you are one of the first of my friends to receive a call from me."

"I am honored," replied Moore, politely, sitting down on the other side of the fireplace.

"No doubt you are wondering what has brought me to see you?"

"I can't deny a slight curiosity, my lord," admitted Moore, smiling back at the young nobleman, whose charming manner was winning his confidence in spite of his previous suspicions.

"Then I 'll proceed to enlighten you without further delay, Mr. Moore."

"If your lordship will be so good."

"In Ireland a year ago Sir Percival offered little Mistress Dyke a position at Drury Lane Theatre."

"He did, curse him!"

"Knowing the gentleman as I do, I promised my better self that, if the young lady did come to London as the protégée of Lovelace, I would fetch you here as mine, so, if the time came when she would require a strong arm and a loving heart to defend her happiness, she need not go far to find it. That very day I left Ireland and have since been abroad. Two days ago I returned from Paris and found to my surprise that Mistress Dykeisacting at Drury Lane. Surely, you did not allow this willingly?"

"Not I, sir. I had nothing to say about it."

"You mean she preferred Lovelace's advice to yours, Mr. Moore?"

"We quarrelled, sir, and from that day--it was the one on which you left the old country, my lord--she has had no good word for me. Circumstances placed me in an unfavorable light, and, believing me faithless, she turned a deaf ear to my warnings. Her father was daft to come to London, and in her anger she consented to make the venture."

"And you followed her here, Mr. Moore?"

"Yes, sir, I made a pretence of studying law in the Middle Temple, but it was wretched work which I soon abandoned. Since then I 've been scribbling for a living and not achieving much success at it, though I have done my best."

"I see," said Brooking, reflectively.

"Did Bessie give you my address?"

"Not she," replied his lordship. "I 've not had the pleasure of renewing my acquaintance with Mistress Dyke."

"She and her father go everywhere," said Moore, proudly. "Thanks to Sir Percival's influence, they have been received by society with open arms. The old gentleman's poems sell, and Bessie is more than ordinarily successful at Drury Lane."

"I am not surprised at the young lady's success," observed the young nobleman. "That of her father in the world of letters would have seemed to me problematical had I not your assurance of his prosperity."

"Then if Bessie did not tell you where I lived, how did you find me out?"

"I lunched to-day at Mrs. FitzHerbert's. There I saw a poem with your name and address attached."

Moore gave Buster a grateful glance which more than repaid that young gentleman for his enterprise.

"By the way, Mr. Moore, the verses I spoke of were charming. Mrs. FitzHerbert read them aloud to the assembled company, who received them with every mark of pleasure and appreciation. Mr. Sheridan was particularly complimentary in his comments, while no less harsh a critic than Mr. Brummell condescended to express himself as delighted. Have you other poems, Mr. Moore?"

"What is that, Lord Brooking?"

"Have you other poems?"

Moore's laugh was not untinged with bitterness as he opened the drawer in the table, lifting from it with both hands a confused pile of manuscripts which he dropped carelessly in front of his guest.

"A few, sir," he remarked grimly.

"But why are they not published?" demanded Lord Brooking, scanning various poems through his eyeglasses. "They seem of uniform excellence."

"They are refused because I have no patron in the world of fashion to accept the dedication. McDermot, the great publisher, told me so himself."

"Indeed?" remarked his lordship, meditatively. "Hum!"

"Ah, if your lordship would permit me?" began Moore, eagerly.

"I 'll do better than that," interrupted Brooking. "I 'll bring your work to the attention of the Prince himself."

"The Prince?" cried Moore, dazzled at the mere idea.

"Yes, Mr. Moore, the Prince. Wales, in spite of his many faults, is a curst good fellow, and quite a judge of poetry. He shall read specimens of your skill. Fortunately Mrs. FitzHerbert, who still enjoys his Highness's favor, is mightily at odds with Sir Percival. Moreover, she was greatly pleased with the Rose poem you favored her with. I 'll get her to exert her influence with Wales. Egad, Mr. Moore, we 'll do our best for you."

"How can I thank you?" faltered Moore, hope welling up in his heart once more.

Brooking rose from his chair.

"You can repay me easily," he answered, placing his hand upon his protégé's shoulder. "Marry sweet Mistress Bessie and then keep her from Sir Percival. The happiness your wedded life should bring you both will amply reward me for any effort I may make in your behalf. If the Prince permits me to dedicate your book to him the publishers will fight for the privilege of printing it and your fortune is made, Tom Moore."

"But we have quarrelled," said Moore, hopelessly.

"Capital!" cried his lordship. "No woman tiffs with a man to whom she is indifferent. It is the sex's sweet perversity. Then, again, Tom Moore famous, for you 'll never be more than 'Tom' if success is yours--the public loves a familiar diminutive, sir--will be a different Moore from Thomas Moore unknown."

"Ah, sir, you put new courage in my heart," said Moore, catching the young nobleman's infectious enthusiasm.

"I 'll put money in your purse, which is even better, lad," replied Brooking, plunging his hand in his pocket, from which he drew it forth filled with coins of various denominations. "Write me a sonnet to send to my lady love."

"I 'll do it gladly," said Moore, seating himself at the table and with feverish haste drawing towards him pen and paper. "Is the lady blonde or brunette?"

Lord Brooking hesitated for a moment.

"Curst if I know," thought he, "since I have never laid eyes on her."

Then he continued, addressing Moore:

"Brunette, dark hair and blue eyes, and a devilishly sweet and mischievous mouth."

"Very well, sir," replied Moore, dipping his pen in the ink.

"One second, Mr. Moore. Here are five sovereigns in advance."

His lordship dropped the coins upon the table as Moore looked up at him, gratitude dumbing his tongue for the moment.

"Finish the verses at your leisure," continued Brooking. "I am in no hurry for them."

"God bless you, sir," stammered Moore, finding speech at last. "You have brought new life and hope to me this day. I 'll never forget your generosity."

"Tut, tut," said his lordship, hastily. "Never mind thanking me. If all goes well you are to get married and be happy if you wish to please me."

"I promise I 'll do my best," replied the poet, smiling more cheerfully than in days.

"My hat and cloak, boy," said Brooking. "I 'll off to Carlton House, where I am expected by Wales even now."

"I can hardly believe I am the same man, my lord," said Moore. "You have changed me completely, sir."

"You 'll hear from me soon, Tom," said Brooking, hat in hand, as he crossed to the door. "Be of good cheer, my lad, for if Wales will have none of it, I 'll accept the dedication, and I flatter myself that will be enough to insure publication for you. Good-bye for the present."

"Good-bye, my lord," answered Moore, closing the door behind his benefactor with almost reverential care.

"Mr. Moore," said Buster.

"Yes, my lad."

"Was that Lord Brooking?"

"Yes, Buster. Why do you ask?"

"Coz Hi thought as 'ow he was a bloomin' hangel," said Buster.

"Ah, lad, I 'm not sure that you are not right," answered Moore, and there was no laughter in his voice.

Chapter Fourteen

SIR PERCIVAL LOVELACE IS FAVORED BY FORTUNE

Moore lost no time before setting out to make a little payment on account to all of his creditors residing in the neighborhood, so Buster, left to his own devices, extended a broomstick towards Lord Castlereagh in a manner tempting in the extreme. Being of a congenial and obliging disposition, the bulldog secured a firm grip and then endeavored to wrest it from his master's grasp. A rough and tumble tug-of-war ensued, the finish being an aerial performance by Lord Castlereagh, who made a flying trip around Buster as that worthy youth, exerting his muscle to the utmost, swung stick, dog and all in a circle clear of the floor. Having exhausted himself without accomplishing the release of the stick from the bulldog's jaws, Buster had a brilliant inspiration and outraged precedent by washing his face and hands, it being his custom to perform ablutions only on arising in the morning unless detected and otherwise admonished by his master. Before he had finished drying himself a warning growl from his four-legged playfellow gave notice that some one was approaching.

Buster opened the door in answer to a loud knock and found himself confronted by two elegantly attired gentlemen, who willingly entered the room in response to his hospitable greeting.

"Hullo," said Sir Percival, coolly eying Buster through his glass with an amused smile. "Who are you?"

Buster was distinctly pleased with the baronet. Sir Percival's stalwart form was clad in the latest fashion, which set off his handsome person to great advantage, but in spite of his distinguished appearance, his manner in addressing the boy was so genuinely affable and good-natured that it placed them in sympathy at once. Where Buster liked he was prone to admire eventually; when he both liked and admired at first sight he became like clay in the potter's hands.

"Who am Hi, sir?" repeated he, "Why Hi 'me the Reverend Doctor Buster of Hall Souls's Chapel."

"Indeed?" observed Sir Percival. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Doctor."

"We want none of your slack," growled the baronet's companion.

"Tut!" said Sir Percival, "let the boy have his joke. Is Mr. Moore at home?"

"No, sir," replied Buster, giving a hard look at Farrell, for Sir Percival's companion was none other. "'Ee 's never 'ome at such times, sir."

"What times?" demanded Farrell, gruffly.

"Times wen 'ee is hout," replied the boy, delighted at having entrapped the object of his dislike, for he was as much displeased with the young man as he was favorably impressed with his more amiable companion. Sir Percival laughed gently at his companion's discomfiture.

"I am an old friend of Mr. Moore," he said to Buster. "May I wait till he returns?"

"Yessir," replied Buster. "You can make yourself comfortibble in my habsence. I ham about to give his lordship a breather."

"His lordship?" echoed Sir Percival. "May I ask whom you so designate?"

"Certingly. Come 'ere, Pupsy."

The bulldog gambolled across the room to the boy, and standing up on his hind legs playfully attempted to bite off one of his trouser buttons.

"Sich manners, hand hin front o' comp'ny too," said Buster, chidingly. "Down, sir. Hallow me to hintroduce Lord Castlereagh, the champeen fighter of the neighborhood. Say 'ow-dy-do, Pupsy."

Lord Castlereagh obediently threw up his great head and barked cheerfully in welcome. This done, he sat down on his haunches and extended his paw, which the baronet shook heartily.

"Who named the dog?" demanded Sir Percival, helping himself to a seat on the stool nearest him.

"I hasked Mr. Moore to suggest a suitable cognomy, hand that's wot 'ee chose. 'Ee hallows has 'ow hit was wonderously happropriate, sir."

"I quite agree with your master," replied the baronet. "You said you were going out. Pray do not let me detain you."

"Hall right, sir," said Buster, taking his cap from its nail behind the door. "Mr. Moore will return from 'is drive in 'Yde Park in 'arf an hour. Hi won't be very long. Come hon, Pupsy."

Opening the door he hurried along the hall and down the stairs with Lord Castlereagh yelping delightedly in headlong pursuit as Sir Percival rose from his seat and strolled carelessly around the attic, humming softly to himself as he prosecuted his investigation. Meanwhile Farrell, seated in Moore's arm-chair, preserved a gloomy silence.

"So," said the baronet, disdainfully, "this is the abode of genius? Upon my word, as bare and unattractive a kennel as I have ever explored."

"You dragged me here against my will, Sir Percival," responded Farrell, uneasily. "When you have satisfied your curiosity let us go. I have no wish to encounter Moore."

"Tut," said Sir Percival, reprovingly, "there is no necessity for our haste, we saw the worthy gentleman leave here, Terence. Walking at the rate at which he started he must be half way to Pall Mall by this time."

"If he does not turn back," objected Farrell. "You can't be sure how long he intended to continue in that direction, Sir Percival."

"That can hardly be considered as a disadvantage," responded the baronet, airily, "since it adds a pleasant tinge of risk to our adventure which otherwise could not be termed hazardous, though what difference discovery would make I really fail to see."

"That is all very well for you," said Farrell, crossly, "but I want no more such beatings as he gave me in Ireland. I was in bed a week."

"You were suitably recompensed for your discomfort, Terence. Thanks to you, Bessie and her father accepted my proposition to come to London, turning a deaf ear to the impassioned explanations of the worthy but misguided Thomas."

"Oh, I 'm smart enough to accomplish the wishes of other people," replied Farrell, bitterly, "but I cannot seem to materially advance my own fortunes."

"Yet, I see little reason for your dissatisfaction. Finding myself in need of such a clever brain in London I brought you here ostensibly to read law. You have the benefit of my popularity in the social world. Surely for a young and unknown Irishman to be comparatively intimate with the Prince's own set is an honor? You don't know when you are well off, my young misanthrope."

"That is as it may be," said Farrell, not at all impressed by his patron's eulogy of the advantage afforded him by his present situation.

"But," said Sir Percival knowingly, "think what an education for a young and ambitious beau a close and personal study of George Brummell must of necessity be. By the way he spoke very highly of you at Sam Rogers's house only yesternight."

"Did he?" asked Farrell, eagerly. "May I ask you to repeat his words, Sir Percival?"

"To be sure, my boy," said the elder man, genially. "Let me see. If I recollect correctly, his exact words were, 'Young Farrell possesses great sartorial possibilities now in a state of gradual but progressive development, his innate refinement of taste being at the present time slightly obscured and handicapped by a provincial anarchism of selection due to youth's inevitable cheerfulness in the choice of color, and rather crude harmonizing of shade.' There is a tribute for you, Terence."

Farrell flushed with pleasure. Secretly ambitious to outshine even the great leader of fashion himself, he found his aspirations seriously interfered with by the limited income allowed him by his patron. It must not be thought, however, that Sir Percival was niggardly in his treatment of Farrell. In truth he was far more generous than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have been under the same circumstances, but it could hardly be expected that the allowance given even by a free-handed patron to a clever protégé would suffice to dethrone such an all-powerful monarch of society as at this time was George Brummell, familiarly known in the circle he graced as the Beau. Nevertheless the handsome face and tasteful costumes of the young Irishman had begun to attract some little attention in London society, a circumstance that filled his heart with more than ordinary satisfaction, for Farrell was clear-headed enough to see that the vogue of Brummell, who was almost as renowned for wit and impertinent frankness as for dress, even in his association with Royalty itself, must sooner or later come to an end when by some characteristically insolent jest he should lose the favor of the Prince of Wales, now his close friend and patron. Some years later this very disaster apprehended by Farrell occurred, and when the impoverished and heartbroken Brummell was starving in a mean garret in Calais, it was the brilliant young Irishman, his pretensions now supported by the vast wealth of the ugly old widow whom he had meanwhile married, who reigned as first fop and dandy of the United Kingdom, until the summer Sunday morning came on which he went bravely to his death for slapping the face of Sir Dudley Brilbanke, who had made a slighting remark on beaus in general and Brummell in particular, which the successor to the unfortunate man then in exile felt bound to resent.

In the meantime Sir Percival had been poking about on the table which was still littered with the manuscripts thrown upon it during Moore's interview with Lord Brooking.

"To Bessie!" murmured the baronet in an amused tone. "Our rhymer wastes a vast number of sheets in that young lady's name,--'The Meeting of the Waters,' 'She is Far from the Land,' 'Oft in the Stilly Night,' 'Love's Young Dream.' Will these ever see print, I wonder?"

"On that I 'll stake my life, Sir Percival," responded Farrell. "Though I dislike Tom Moore with all my heart, I know he is a genius in his line. If he will only keep his courage in the face of disappointment there is no man who will achieve more success in the writing of verses, I feel certain."

"Dear me," said Sir Percival, taking snuff, "if such is really the truth, I 'll have to interest myself in his affairs again. Hullo, what is this?"

As he spoke, the baronet drew from the heap of manuscripts the verses satirizing the Prince of Wales written and left in Moore's keeping by Mr. Dyke, which the poet had accidentally taken from the drawer when he flung his armful of rejected poems on the table before Lord Brooking.

Sir Percival scanned the verses, his dubious expression changing to one of great delight as he read on, until as he finished he laughed aloud.

"What is it pleases you, Sir Percival?"

"Egad, Terence, I 've happened on a treasure. A satire on the Prince. Gad, he cooks Wales to a cinder. Listen, Terence.

"'THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY."It is of scraps and fragments built,Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,--His mind is like a patchwork quiltMade up of motley, cast-off bits.Poor Prince! And how else could it be,His notions all at random caught,His mind a mental fricasseeMade up of odds and ends of thought.'

"'THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY.

"It is of scraps and fragments built,

Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,--

His mind is like a patchwork quilt

Made up of motley, cast-off bits.

Poor Prince! And how else could it be,

His notions all at random caught,

His mind a mental fricassee

Made up of odds and ends of thought.'

"And so on for several more verses. The Regent has n't had such a toasting in many a day. I swear I 'll have this published immediately."

"Ah," said Farrell, "and why, sir?"

"'T will ruin Moore," replied the baronet, regarding the other in surprise.

Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering.

"Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either success or affluence," said he slowly. "One does not dig into the earth to crush a worm under foot."

"You speak in riddles, Terence," observed Sir Percival, pleasantly puzzled.

"I 'll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now. Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem. The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and is about to climb higher. He is starving here."

"Stab me, if you are not right, Terence," exclaimed the baronet, approvingly. "I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall be witness that I found it fresh from Moore's pen upon his table."

"Willingly," said Farrell. "Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of Mistress Dyke. Are you making progress there?"

"As yet I 've gained no ground at all so far as I can see," replied Sir Percival in a discontented tone. "True, I have apparently won her trust and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above criticism. No young curate could be more circumspect and exemplary than I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being respectable."

"I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir Percival," said Farrell, carelessly, "but you must play your own hand. I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the school-house ruined Moore in the girl's estimation, thus clearing the way for your approach."

"Quite so," observed Sir Percival, cordially, "and since he is powerless to thwart me I can take my own time about the chase."

"Speaking of time, Sir Percival," said Farrell, rising to his feet, "we can't linger here much longer. Come, let us go."

"Tut, Terence," said the baronet, disapprovingly, "how nervous you are."

At this moment Moore opened the door and, striding into the room, gave an exclamation of surprise as he recognized his visitors.

"Mr. Moore, as I live," said Sir Percival, gently. "Sir, we have been waiting for you."

"What do you want here, Sir Percival?" demanded Moore, gruffly, glaring at Farrell, who was manifestly ill at ease.

"I thought I 'd look you up for old times' sake," replied the baronet, a sneer breaking through his smile for once. "Mr. Farrell came at my request."

Moore stepped to the door and opened it.

"Then he will leave at mine," he said, sharply. "Get along, Terence, before I do you an injury."

Farrell did not hesitate. Waving his hat in farewell to Sir Percival, he walked quickly out of the attic and started downstairs as Moore slammed the door loudly after him.

Sir Percival laughed good naturedly, and rose to his feet as Moore returned from the doorway.

"I called, Mr. Moore, to say that it has reached my ears that you are in want. Is this true?"

"I would want a long time before I would ask you for anything but your absence," replied Moore, hotly.

"If you desire to return to Ireland, I will be pleased to pay your way," continued the baronet, suavely.

"If you will go to the devil I will be pleased to assist in your departure, Sir Percival. Hurry, or I may do it now."

"You are not polite, sir."

"My politeness would be wasted upon such as you," answered Moore.

"That is a point that might be argued," observed Sir Percival in his most genial manner. "Am I to regard your answer as final, Mr. Moore?"

"Quite final. Now be so kind as to go."

"If you desire it, with pleasure."

Moore opened the door that Sir Percival might pass out and found himself face to face with Bessie Dyke, who had paused on the threshold preparatory to knocking.

"You, Bessie?" he stammered, for the moment completely confused.

Bessie was not at all embarrassed until, on entering, her eye fell on Sir Percival. Then she blushed slightly, but after a momentary hesitation turned to Moore and said:

"I thought my father was here, or I should not have ventured up."

"He was here a while ago and I expect him to return any moment," answered Moore, eagerly taking his cue from Bessie.

"A note came to the house for him marked 'Immediate,'" continued the girl, ribbing adroitly, "so I thought best to follow him here."

"Won't you wait for him?" asked Moore, pushing forward the arm-chair.

"I fancy," said Sir Percival, "I fancy Mistress Dyke will not care to remain here since her father is absent."

"Why not?" demanded Moore, angrily.

"This is scarcely the place nor the company for a lady to remain in," replied the baronet.

"When you go, Sir Percival," said Moore, more calmly, "the only objectionable feature will be removed."

Sir Percival did not deign to reply to this rudeness, but, stepping towards the girl, extended his arm in mute invitation. Mistress Dyke, however, had plans of her own, and was not to be thus led away.

"I thank you, Sir Percival," said she, "but I shall wait for my father."

Sir Percival raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, but was too wise to insist further, so took his departure with a courtly bow to the girl, and a sneering smile for Moore, who, quite unruffled, lighted an extra pair of candles in honor of his visitor.

As the sound of the baronet's steps died away in the hall Bessie gave a sigh of relief and sank down in the chair. Moore hesitated, then taking courage came to her side.

"Ah, Bessie," he said, softly. "I 've been starving for a sight of you. It is like the old times to see you again."

"But," said the girl in a chilly tone, "the old times are passed and done with. Nothing is as it was."

"You are wrong, Bessie," said Moore, gently. "My heart is the same."

Bessie rose from the chair and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.

"Then it belongs to Winnie Farrell," she said in a determined tone.

Moore winced as though he had received a blow. Nevertheless his voice was clear and unfaltering as he answered:

"Winnie Farrell is married to the man of her choice. Surely there is no need to throw her name in my face when I tell you that I love you?"

"You told Winnie the same thing," said Bessie, coldly.

Moore gave an exclamation of pain.

"I 've explained that misunderstanding a score of times," he said, bitterly. "They tricked me that you might think me unworthy of your trust and so be persuaded to come to London. Like a fool I walked into the trap and you believed me faithless. On my honor, you wronged me, dearest. I 've loved but you Bessie; you are all in all to me, mavourneen. Won't you--can't you--believe me?"

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