Chapter SeventeenHONORS ARE EASYThe poet strode gayly into the room, quite at peace with the world and decidedly pleased with one Thomas Moore, in both these particulars holding opinions widely differing from the views cherished by the young lady concealed behind the curtains."What?" remarked Moore. "Is she gone? Dear me, how unkind of her to go without saying good-bye."Then, apparently observing the skirt for the first time, he continued:"Ah, she has left this behind for me as a souvenir of the occasion. How considerate of her."Stooping, he unlocked the drawer and drew forth the imprisoned millinery. Then flinging it carelessly over his arm, he started toward the door, apparently intending to return to the crowded rooms which he had just quitted.From behind the curtains Bessie regarded his actions with an exasperation and helplessness which were about equally possessed of her mind. What should she do? If she betrayed her presence she would be more than ever at his mercy, yet it was clearly impossible to allow him to carry off her skirt, as he seemed to purpose doing. Abandoning all pride, she gave a squeak of alarm as Moore reached the door."Did I hear some one address me?" he demanded, turning on the threshold."Sir," said Bessie, desperately from the window, her brown head visible between the curtains."Oh, you are there, are you?" said Moore, apparently greatly astonished."Bring me that--That," she said, blushing a little as she spoke."That what?" he asked.She pointed angrily at the skirt adorning his arm."That," she repeated more loudly."This?" said he, obtusely, holding up his prize."Yes. Give it to me immediately.""But," objected Moore, "I don't know that you have any right to it. Can you prove it to be your property?""I can," replied Bessie with emphasis, "but I won't.""I am sorry, Mistress Dyke, but under the circumstances I really must refuse.""But it is mine, Mr. Moore.""But I have no proof that it is n't somebody else's. Perhaps it belongs to Mr. Sheridan.""What nonsense.""Oh, I don't know about that. Richard Brinsley is said to be fond of the petticoats. Perhaps this is one he carries around with him. I 'll go ask the old boy.""Don't you dare," she cried."Well, can you identify this as your property?" insisted the poet, not loth to prolong her discomfiture."Certainly, sir," she replied. "You will find a handkerchief in the pocket with my initials stitched in the corner with white silk.""All right, my dear," said Moore, looking for the pocket and not finding it immediately. "Where is the infernal--Oh, I have it!"And inserting his hand in the elusive object of his quest he drew forth a powder puff."Oh," said Bessie, and vanished behind the curtains, while Moore viewed his recent find with delighted curiosity."What's this, Bessie?"No answer rewarded his inquiry."Oh, I understand," he went on. "This is the frosting on the cake of beauty."Then, carefully powdering himself, he crossed to the mirror over the mantel on the opposite side of the room and inspected the result of his labor."Humph," said he. "I look seasick. I'll have none of this for me."And he industriously rubbed his face with his handkerchief."Oh, do hurry up," implored the girl, fearful lest some other of the guests should enter the room before she recovered her belongings."I was not made in a hurry," replied Moore. "The more haste the less speed, so I 'll take my time in my investigations."The next thing he took from the pocket was a little black and white sketch of himself which had been drawn at a supper party the week before by no less distinguished a gentleman than Samuel Rogers, the banker poet."My picture!" he exclaimed in surprise. "How did you get this, Bessie?""If you must know, Mr. Rogers threw it away and I picked it up," she replied, displaying as much regard for the truth as any of her sex would be likely to under the same circumstances."I 'm honored, Mistress Dyke," observed Moore, bowing to the portière with formal grace and politeness. "You show much taste in your selection of works of art."Proceeding with his search, Moore now brought to light the handkerchief, which he promptly confiscated."Mistress Dyke," he said, at the same time tucking away the handkerchief in his breast pocket, "I am now convinced that this is your property.""Then give it to me at once," she directed."Not yet," said Moore. "If I remember correctly, I made a statement to you concerning an apology which I thought should be forthcoming to me. Well, I have n't received it as yet.""Bully!" remarked Bessie as spitefully as she could, which was not a little."Did I hear aright?" asked Moore. "Did I hear some one call me a bully?""Please, oh, please, give me--that!" she pleaded, but Moore was not to be turned aside from his march to triumph."Did I hear some one say 'Tom, I am truly sorry for my crossness to-night'?" he asked."I won't say it," she declared, but her voice lacked determination."I really must be going," said Moore, taking a step towards the door.She gave a squeal of terror."I will, I will!" she cried."I hope so, Bessie," he replied, pausing."Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things you have said to me to-night."She mumbled it quickly, hoping he would not distinguish the adaptation she made in the sentence he had dictated; but Moore heard and defeated her."That won't do," he said sternly. "Try again.""Tyrant!" she exclaimed ferociously."That is not a pretty name, Bessie.""It is appropriate," she said, coldly."Go on with the apology."The girl made an effort and proceeded with her unwilling penance in the meekest of tones."Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things I have said to you to-night. Now give me it.""Don't be in such a hurry, Bessie. There is more to be said.""Oh, dear! will you never be satisfied?""Not till you are all mine," he answered in his tenderest tones."That will be a long time," she said determinedly."I can wait, but to continue--Say 'You are an old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have you around.'""You are an old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have you around," she repeated, parrot-like; then she added sweetly, "I have something else I wish to tell you."Deceived by her sentimental tone, Moore stepped near the curtains and like a flash she snapped the skirt off his arm and vanished behind her shelter."The deuce!" exclaimed Moore, in chagrin.The curtains undulated violently as though some vigorous performance were being enacted behind them. The next moment Bessie, fully attired, swept out between them and across the room, her independence and peace of mind restored with the resumption of the purloined garment."Bessie," said Moore, persuasively, and she halted on the threshold in haughty response. "Bessie, won't you let me speak to you before you go?""I fear it will only be a waste of time, Mr. Moore," she answered."Yet I waited when you asked me to from behind the curtains," he said, a glint of laughter in his eyes.Bessie winced, but the stare she favored him with was both cold and disdainful."But, Mr. Moore," she answered, "I had something to say to which you wished to listen.""You mean," he corrected, "you had to say something, Bessie, that I wished to hear. There never was maid more unwilling to do what she was bid than you.""Pray hasten your words, sir. I am listening.""Bessie," he whispered, all the music and poetry to which the love in his heart had given life vibrant in his caressing voice, "Bessie, mavourneen, let's have done with this bickering. The days of youth fly far too fast for us to waste them in contention. You are the breath of my life, darlin'. Say you 'll take me back to my old place in your heart this night and ne'er send me a-journeying again while we live."She walked slowly to the fireplace and resting her arm on the mantel above stood looking into the blaze. Moore, encouraged by her return, drew near her."You know I love you deeply and truly as any woman has ever been loved," he murmured, standing so close that his warm, eager breath gently stirred and set a-quivering the tiny ringlets clustered on her neck. "And I can't bear to go on like this. You must hear me to-night, Bessie darlin', once and for all. I love you; with all my heart and all my soul I love you, dearest of girls. You planted my heart full of roses of passion the first day that I met you, and each and every bud has come to blossom. Your dear eyes have looked into mine and written your name upon my heart. There is not a curl that steals kisses from your cheek I 'd not give my life to be, unless that curl and the proud head it graces can both be mine. Ah, Bessie, dearest, Bessie, darling, be my wife and make me the happiest man on earth. Aye, or in heaven."If he could have seen her eyes he would never have listened to the words of her reply, for in their depths shone an answer so sweet and tender and surrendering that even he, oft rejected and almost despairing wooer that he was, could not have mistaken or read as aught else but final. But, resolved not to yield yet, though a love as strong and passionate as his own was tugging at her heart-strings, she kept her face turned from him till her original determination, aided by mischief which prompted her to punish him for all the humiliation she had just suffered at his hands, sufficed to give her control of her emotions. Then she turned coldly and said:"Tom, you really should put that into rhyme. You have never written a prettier poem."He started at her words and drew back a pace or two."You make a jest of me," he said in an offended tone."And why so, sir? I refused to marry you when you were poor.""Do you think I've forgotten it?" he demanded."Now, if I married you, people would say I took back my 'No' because of your rise in the world. Why, even you once spoke as though you thought I might be influenced by such sordid considerations.""You do not believe--you never have believed--that I thought you capable of such a vile thing," he responded hotly. "You seized on that as a means to hold me off. You must needs play your game of hide-and-seek till you are weary, regardless of my pain and despair.""The world would say I married you for your money," she continued, paying no heed to his words. "You know how quick it is to misinterpret the best of motives.""If they said that they 'd lie, Bessie," said Moore. "Save that I have paid my debts and incurred no others, I 'm no richer, for as yet I 've made no fortune. On my honor, I 'm still as poor as you are pretty, and the glass will show you I must be little better than a beggar. Like your father, dearest, my future--all my hope of wealth and fame these next few years--depends upon the Regent's favor, so it couldn't be for aught but love. Ah, alanna, say you 'll have me?""No," she answered with great emphasis, and crossed the room. Once on the other side she repeated her reply, but this time in a tone soft and cooing, but if she expected by this last manoeuvre to elicit further wooing from her lover she made a mistake, for, justly wrathful at the treatment she accorded him, he threw caution to the winds."So?" he cried, hoarsely. "You still refuse? Then listen to me. I 've courted you from the first day I saw you. From the moment our eyes met I 've loved you faithfully and truly. I 've sung to you of love--I 've talked to you of love--I 've begged for it upon my knees--and you? You have laughed at me. Because my heart was full of you there was no room for resentment, and I, too, laughed and made a jest of what was breaking it. That is past; I've offered it to you for the last time. I 'll never again ask you to be my wife.""Oh," said the girl, momentarily shocked at his vehemence, but quickly recovering. "Tom, you 'll never again ask me to marry you?""No," he answered roughly, and sat down beside the fire."Then," she went on mournfully, "there is only one thing for me to do.""What is that?" he asked moodily."If you won't ask me to marry you, then some day I--I--"She hesitated, the words hindered by the smile that could not be denied."Well?""Then some day I'll have to ask you to marry me."Moore leaped to his feet."Will you, Bessie?" he cried."Who knows?" she answered, backing towards the door."What would you say?""I 'd say 'I love you, Tom; will you be my husband?'""You would?""That is, if I should happen to want you, which is n't at all likely."Then, with a rippling laugh, Bessie turned her back on him, and strolled off, satisfied that she had avenged her wrongs of the evening. And had she not?Chapter EighteenTOM MOORE MOVES IN DISTINGUISHED COMPANYSir Percival Lovelace gave a reception in honor of the first appearance of Mistress Bessie Dyke as Lydia Languish in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's successful comedy "The Rivals." So sure was the baronet of his protégée's success that some days previous to the date of the first performance he publicly announced the function to be for the purpose of extending to the winsome actress congratulations upon the triumph he expected her to win. Invitations to the reception were eagerly sought, and correspondingly difficult to obtain, for Sir Percival enjoyed an enviable reputation as a lavish entertainer. The Prince himself promised to attend, for he found amusement in the girlish piquancy of the little player's conversation conspicuously lacking in the more reverential prattle of the great ladies who owed their presence in the upper circle of society to birth instead of brains. Even Mrs. FitzHerbert, once more on friendly terms with the baronet, consented to honor the assemblage with her presence, and all the other leaders and lions of the world of wealth and breeding were favored with invitations--that is, all except one. Thomas Moore, now at the height of his popularity, was overlooked. This was no surprise to the poet, for he had not been deceived by Sir Percival's apparent desire to overlook their past differences. He felt confident that the baronet would not rest content until he had made every effort to undermine the popularity which he had won as much by his personal charm as by the merit of his poetry, yet, seeing no way in which he could be successfully attacked by his old enemy, he grew more confident as weeks passed with no visible effort to injure his prosperity.Sir Percival, however, was not losing sight of the main object he had in view when he brought about Bessie's journeying to London. While he fully intended to put an end to Moore's success eventually, he had busied himself in the last few weeks more particularly with his plans for bringing about the forcing of the girl to do his will. By skilful manipulation of the various influences he was able to bring to bear upon persons important in the administration of matters in regard to the smaller dealings in the way of finance, together with the fatuous confidence reposed in him by Mr. Dyke, this ingenious gentleman succeeded in obtaining the issuance of a warrant for the body of the old rhymer in default of complete settlement of his outstanding indebtedness. This accomplished without his intended victim being at all the wiser, he held the document in readiness for his purposed attempt at intimidation. Now it was of course imperative, when he should have kicked from beneath Robin Dyke the props which at present held him above ruin as exemplified in limitless incarceration in a Fleet Street debtors' prison, that Thomas Moore should be in no position to hold forth means of relief. Such being the case Sir Percival devoted himself to making all ready for the disaster which he hoped and believed would be the culmination of the young Irishman's social career, availing himself in this matter of the advice and services of his agent and mentor, Terence Farrell. Success in all the preparations crowned his efforts to a degree that would have seemed unusual even in a better cause,--a state of affairs that led to much cynical reflection as to the relative easiness of the practices of philanthropy and its antithesis upon the part of the gentleman from whom the impetus for the plotted evil business was obtained.This was the state of affairs on the evening of Sir Percival's reception.* * * * *Mrs. FitzHerbert regarded Mr. Sheridan with a doubtful expression in eyes famed for their beauty and innocence."Mr. Sheridan," she remarked, severely, "I am not sure that Parliament is sufficient excuse for your absence from Drury Lane to-night. Everybody who is anybody was present except the author. Fie, sir! Surely you should take enough interest in your own play to witness its revival.""Hum," said Mr. Sheridan, "I will promise not to let even Parliament prevent my attendance at the theatre when a play by you shall be presented, madame.""Do you fancy, sir, that I am not capable of writing a play?""Heaven forbid that I should declare any woman incapable of anything in the world, possible or impossible," replied the gentleman thus addressed."I am not sure that you intend that remark as a compliment, sir.""A woman should accept as complimentary all that she is not absolutely certain is intended to be the opposite.""You would have women very conceited, Mr. Sheridan.""If you mean, dear lady, that I would not change the sweet creatures, you comprehend me perfectly," replied the old gentleman. "Did you know, Mrs. FitzHerbert, that our friend, Tommy Moore, has been slighted to-night?""Indeed," asked the lady in a disappointed tone. "I thought he would surely be here.""Zooks," drawled a handsome gentleman who, gorgeously attired and carrying himself with mannered dignity, had joined the first-mentioned couple in their corner. "Moore not here? What a bore! I counted on hearing him sing some of his ballads to-night. I am told he has a new one. Some deliciously impossible lyrical statement concerning the steadfastness of the proper kind of love in the face of misfortune and wrinkles. Quite improbable, but delightfully sentimental and imaginative.""Put not your faith in princes, Brummell," quoted Mr. Sheridan, knowingly, "that your days may be longer in the land.""A combination of scriptural sayings worthy of their most unrespected quoter," laughed Mrs. FitzHerbert. "Do you think a prince's passion could face wrinkles?""In whose face? His own or some one else's?""Some one else's face, of course, Mr. Sheridan.""I spoke of the proper kind of love, dear madame, not the improper," observed Brummell, languidly."And a prince's love?""For his princess impossible, for any other woman improper," said Sheridan, looking away lest his shot strike home."And why has Sir Percival cut Mr. Moore?" demanded Mrs. FitzHerbert, giving Sheridan a reproving tap with her fan."They are old rivals," replied the Beau."Would Sir Percival marry her, do you think?""No one can answer that question, Mrs. Fitz, but Lovelace himself. Shall I tell him you would like to know?""Not for the world, Mr. Sheridan," she exclaimed. "It is not my affair.""If Percy is contemplating matrimony it will surprise many who know him well," returned Brummell, seating himself near by. "But then he always was an eccentric dog.""They would never agree.""Well," said Mr. Sheridan, "it is well known that if the bride and the groom did not have their little differences they would not care to marry.""Ahem! Have you read Mr. Rogers's new poem?" asked the lady, skilfully changing the subject."'The Pleasures of Memory'? Egad, I obtain much more pleasure by forgetting," said Sheridan, taking snuff."So the tradesmen say, Sherry.""Well, George, I 've not heard of your discounting your bills lately," retorted the elder man.Just then Sir Percival approached them."As usual, the rallying place for wit and fashion is at Mrs. FitzHerbert's side," said the baronet, graciously."So you thought you would add beauty to the list by coming yourself?""Nay, Sherry, I have heard it said there was never a prettier gentleman than Richard Brinsley," said the baronet."Who said that? Your grandmother?" retorted Sheridan. "How is the old lady?""So you have neglected Mr. Moore?" whispered Mrs. FitzHerbert, drawing her host to her side. "Oh, Percy, Percy, what a jealous creature you are!""Egad, you wrong me, Mrs. FitzHerbert; the one being I have ever really envied as a lover is his Highness.""Mr. Dyke and Mistress Dyke," announced the footman.Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed by Sheridan and the others. Bessie never looked prettier. The proud consciousness of her success gave her a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with the witty throng assembled to celebrate her triumph as brightly and merrily as though she had never moved in any but the upper circle of society. Mrs. FitzHerbert mischievously told her of Sir Percival's intentional neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman, and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarrassing position in which she had placed him, sought safety in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by the beauty's condescension, was already vaguely meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent."Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him."Angry?" she repeated. "What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?""You must know why I have done this," he said boldly."Why, Sir Percival?""Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual impudent manner.""You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached."The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he announced to his master."Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival. "His Highness' tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming.""His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales," announced the footman a moment later, "and Mr. Thomas Moore!"The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's surprise and disappointment."Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore with me.""Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad to welcome any friend of yours," glibly replied Sir Percival.Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer disfiguring his handsome face:"Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored.""I believe you, Sir Percival," responded the poet, promptly, "so that need not worry you.""Nothing ever worries me, sir.""Not even conscience, Sir Percival?""No, Mr. Moore," replied the baronet, as Wales and Sheridan drew nearer."Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no longer in style.""Tut, tut, Tom," said Sheridan reprovingly. "I still cling to the old fashion."Moore eyed the speaker's wig with tolerant eye."Faith, Sherry," said he, "brains such as yours are an excuse for anything.""Perhaps," said Sheridan. "But it is a poor rule that does n't work both ways, and surely you will not have the temerity to assert that 'Anything is an excuse for brains.'""In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?""It takes a sinner to be cynical," said Sheridan, having recourse to his snuff-box."Then," said Moore, "what a doubter our greatest dramatist must be.""I have been described as a doubtful character more than once," returned the old gentleman. "Your Highness, when you arrived we were discussing matrimony.""An amatory eccentricity," drawled Brummell, who had joined the little group now surrounding the Prince."The connecting link between bankruptcy and the Bank of England," declared Sir Percival."The straight-jacket in which are confined couples suffering from sentimental insanity pronounced incurable by the church," said Moore."Ah," said Wales, "recovery is sometimes rapid, nevertheless.""Marriage is deceptive," said Mr. Sheridan, with a sigh. "Lovers go to church for a bridal and return home to find they have been given a yoke.""What would you suggest, Sherry?" asked the Prince. "Would you abolish matrimony?""I 'd make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three years' sight.""I fear most couples would seek to discount the bill," said Moore."You take it too seriously," said Brummell, smothering a yawn."Is it supposed to be a joke?" asked Wales, whimsically."Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the benefit of posterity," said Moore."Tut, tut, Tommy," said Sheridan reprovingly. "You are too young to be such a scoffer.""Indeed?""You young fellows are led astray by your own importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations."A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but the younger was not to be so quickly defeated."And you old boys," said he, "make another mistake. You regard yourselves as attractions long after you have become ornaments.""Personalities are to be avoided," returned Sheridan good-humoredly. "We were talking of marriage.""Don't mention it," retorted Moore politely. "It is a queer thing at best. Before a wedding a woman has a husband to look forward to.""And when married?""Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after.""Imagine it, Brummell.""Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits to my imagination," replied the Beau."Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking," observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite's lace cravat through his eye-glass. "'T is well to remember that imagination is the thief of truth.""You have dismembered marriage," said Wales, smiling, "what of love?""Surely the subjects have nothing in common?" cried Moore."The two together would be most uncommon," remarked Sheridan. "Love is the incidental music in the melodrama of life.""The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by the sentimental apothecary," retorted Moore. "Love is the devil, matrimony is hel--hem!--heaven.""How do you know, Moore?" demanded the Prince. "You have never been married.""I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but I know it is hot just the same."The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell, strolled away in search of Mrs. FitzHerbert, while Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room, leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his quest than at the beginning of the evening. Just then there came a request from the Regent that he should favor the assemblage with one of his own songs, so, inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his good-nature was at par with his fellow guests' appreciation.Having sung "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms," he followed it with the mournful ditty, "She is Far from the Land," and finished with "The Last Rose of Summer" by royal command, the close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering; but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords, publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given the assemblage.Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle. Finding a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited the young Irishman's coming, absorbed in pleasant rumination on the probable happenings of the by no means distant future."Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"Farrell drew a copy of theExaminerfrom his pocket."Here it is in the evening's issue," said he. "Evidently his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though every one else seems to have done so."[image]Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's."Droll that the Prince should come here in the author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had purloined from Moore's garret."A propitious happening, sir," returned Farrell. "I have not begun the circulation of the author's name. Is it the proper time, think you?""Not yet, my dear Terence. Half an hour from now will be quite soon enough. Egad, these verses sting, or I 'm no judge of satire. When the Prince does finally set eyes upon them there will be an outburst. A flood of anger will result on which the writer of this masterpiece will be borne away to oblivion.""Moore is high in favor now.""The higher the elevation the greater the fall, Terence."Farrell nodded."Our visit to his garret was a fortunate one. But for what we found there I fear Tom's position in royal favor would be too firm for even you, Sir Percival, to successfully assail. May I ask the programme you have planned in regard to Bessie?""It differs very little from the scheme we discussed a fortnight ago. Already the bailiffs are on post both at the front and rear, waiting patiently to seize the person of Mr. Dyke unless otherwise directed by my humble self, which will only result from the girl's compliance or the payment of the thousand her father owes me. I anticipate with their aid finding little difficulty in persuading Mistress Bessie to go through the marriage ceremony to-night. Once this is accomplished I'll take her on the Continent for a glimpse of Europe.""You will marry her?" said Farrell in surprise."Not really, you fool," laughed his patron. "Foreseeing such a compromise as marriage, I have provided a clergyman of my own manufacture. Jack Hathaway has kindly consented to assume the role for a liberal consideration.""That devil's bird," muttered Farrell."Aye, no angel child is Jack, but a gentler rogue might not care to risk liberty to oblige a friend who had found a difficult damsel.""And where is this gallant rascal?""He, with the proper ecclesiastical caparisons ready at hand, is waiting for my coming round the corner a little way. You see how confident I am that to-night I will have my will.""You think she will suspect nothing?""I rely on Jack's appearance to silence any vague doubts that may haunt her gentle bosom. Jack can look most reverent. Aye, and act it, too, if he be not in his cups.""You are a remarkable man, Sir Percival.""At all events industrious," returned the baronet, rising and putting the paper in his pocket. "Come, Farrell, our absence may be remarked. Your arm."Then, as these two very worthy gentlemen strolled leisurely away, a little old man in a powdered wig all awry in its set upon his clever old head, staggered out from behind the portières screening the window recess, and, balancing himself uncertainly as he stood, groaned aloud at the impotence of his intoxicated brain.The little gentleman was Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan; the reason for his sudden impatience with drunkenness being that he had heard every word of the conversation between Sir Percival and his creature, and now found his wine-drenched intellect unequal to planning the proper course for him to follow to checkmate the benevolent intentions of his host.Chapter NineteenMR. SHERIDAN, MR. BRUMMELL, AND MR. MOORE HOLD COUNCIL OF WARHis Royal Highness did not at first succeed in locating the lady who enjoyed so much of his favor and admiration at this time. Mrs. FitzHerbert took possession of Moore when a servant informed Farrell of Sir Percival's wish to see him, and, laughing mischievously, kept on the move from one room to another, resolved that Wales should make at least a fairly determined effort before he obtained the pleasure of her company. Finding a secluded corner behind some palms in the conservatory, she proceeded to catechise Moore in regard to his affair with Bessie Dyke, at the same time keeping a sharp look-out for the approach of the Regent."I 'll vow you were at Old Drury to-night, Mr. Moore," said she."Do you think that shows marvellous perception on your part?" demanded the poet, lightly."What do you think of actresses?""I don't think of them, Mrs. FitzHerbert.""Not of Bessie?""Never as an actress.""Yet she is one, and clever too,""If I had my way she 'd never walk the boards after to-night.""But you have n't your way, Mr. Moore.""Worse luck!""Oh, perhaps it is fortunate for Mistress Bessie that you do not direct her destinies.""I think no man enjoys seeing a woman he cares for upon the stage.""Fie, Mr. Moore. A man should be proud of the admiration accorded her if she be successful.""There is no place half so fitting for a woman as her husband's home. No profession for her one hundredth part so appropriate, so complete in happiness and content as the care of her children.""You are very old fashioned, Mr. Moore.""True love is always old fashioned. It is one thing that has never changed an iota since the first man was given the first woman to worship.""Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. FitzHerbert, "you have the morals badly this evening. Mr. Brummell, I fear your friend Tom is contemplating priesthood.""Religion is an excellent thing to ponder on," said the Beau, drawing near. "It is so completely non-exciting that much thought may be expended, thus furnishing extensive intellectual exercise without causing the nervous mental activity so completely demoralizing to placid natures.""Perhaps he means something by that procession of words, Mrs. FitzHerbert," said Moore, doubtfully. "We must not judge entirely by appearances.""It is not impossible, I presume," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, apparently possessed of serious misgivings upon the subject."Because the prattle of certain people is entirely devoid of either sense or sentiment, it is not to be concluded that the conversation of every one else is at so completely a low ebb of mentality," remarked the Beau, sententiously. "Oh, Tommy, Tommy, why will you tie your cravat in that horrible, horrible fashion?""It's like this, Brummell. I 'm tired of following your styles, so at present seek to set one of my own.""Then I 'll quell your insubordination without further delay," returned the Beau, laying skilful hands on Moore's tie. "A touch to the left, a twist to the right, a pucker here, and a graceful fall of lace thus, Thomas, and you are a credit to Ireland.""Thanky," said Moore. "If I look half as fine as you do, George, I 'll need some one to see me home. The ladies will never allow me to escape unkissed.""A kiss in time saves nine," said Mr. Sheridan, thickly, having approached unnoticed. "I can't prove it, but it sounds curst clever, at least after the second bottle.""Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fitz," said Brummell, languidly, "his Highness is searching for you, or I misread his behavior.""If that is the case," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, smiling into existence the prettiest dimple in the world, "there is only one thing for me to do.""To hide, Mrs. FitzHerbert," suggested Moore, who understood all women save one; at least it was to this effect that he flattered himself."Really, Mr. Moore, you should have been born a woman.""Not so," said the poet, "for then, like other women, I should be blind to the good fortune of his Highness in enjoying your ladyship's favor.""But," said Brummell, pompously, "if you had been a woman, Tom,Imight have loved you.""Egad, George, for the first time in my life I regret my sex.""I 've regretted m' sex all m' life," observed Sheridan, swaying a trifle."And tried to drown all recollection in a crimson tide, eh, Sherry?""Don't you be so f'miliar, Tommy. I 'm not half drunk.""Which half is sober, sir?""I am still in doubt 's to that, sir. I think it's first one half and then the other.""You seem quite content, Mr. Sheridan.""That, Mrs. FitzHerbert, is because I have made myself familiar with Sir Percival's wine, and familiarity breeds content."Just then Mrs. FitzHerbert caught a distant view of the Regent, and, seeing Sheridan was bent on continuing to enjoy the society of his young fellow-countryman, she took the arm of the Beau and hied herself in the opposite direction, thus prolonging the quest of her royal lover.Once by themselves, Sheridan seized Moore's arm."Tommy," said he, "I 'm a drunken old reprobate.""They say confession is good for the soul, Sherry," replied Moore, politely."But I 'm not such a rascal as s'm' others I know of.""I hope you mean nothing personal?""Shut up, Tommy.""Yessir," replied the gentleman thus admonished."Goo' boy, Tommy. Now listen. Having had a drink or two or pos'bly three to be 'tirely frank, Tommy, I 'cided to get a little air.""I thought you had a little heir, Sherry.""Y'r a fool, Tommy.""I can't conscientiously deny it.""Oh, H--l!" remarked the elder Irishman, "it's too important to be so curst silly about.""I beg your pardon," said Moore, contritely. "Proceed.""Where was I?""You were looking for air.""So I was. Well, so in I go to a room ver' little frequented. And there I raise a window and have a shock, fo' outside I see quite plainly the ugly mug of a bailiff. A bailiff I 'm quite attached to f'r ole times' sake. 'Shoo' old acquaintance be f'rgot,' and so forth. Understan', Tommy?""Perfectly.""So of course I think he is after me. Understan'?""The presumption is quite natural.""And bob back my head f'r fear he mi' see me. Then down comes window on m' crown, tips my wig over m' ear, and lays me out cold on the floor behind the por'chers. Understan'?""Very clearly, Sherry.""Then when I become sens'ble, I hear voices outside window recess in the room, Sir Percival and Farrell having confidential chat. Thass what I want tell you.""Oh," said Moore, in sudden interest, "what were they talking about?""Curst 'f I know now," said the dramatist, blankly, all recollection of the important information he had to convey suddenly obliterated.Moore immediately waxed anxious."Think, Sherry, think!""I 'm too drunk to do anything but--""But what?""--but drink some more drinksh.""Sit down here now and take things easily," urged Moore, resolved to learn what had weighed so heavily upon the old gentleman's mind."I 'm ver' thirsty," observed Sheridan, thoughtfully. "Go' lump on m' head, Tommy. Ver' dis'oblegin' window, most inconsid'rate. Almost scalped ven'rable author of 'Schoo' f'r Scan'al.'""Now there are only two subjects on which Sir Percival could converse that would interest me in the least, Sherry.""Two. Thass ver' few f'r so clever a man as you, Tommy. I fear you lack ver'--ver'--vers'tility, m' boy.""The first subject is, of course, Bessie.""Curst nice lil' girl," observed Sheridan, conscious that the young lady spoken of was in some way connected with the idea that had so suddenly vanished."The other is myself.""Natura--er--rally so.""Now of which of these did he speak?""Thass the question, Tommy," replied Sheridan stupidly."Oh!" exclaimed Moore in disgust.A flash of recollection stirred into new life by the ejaculation illumined the face of the wit."Yesh, thass it. Owe. Thass it, Tommy."Moore became imbued with new hope, but did not hasten his inquiries as before, lest he should again daze Sheridan's semi-somnolent memory."Owe?" he repeated. "Some one is indebted to Sir Percival, Sherry?""Thass it, Tommy.""I wonder who it can be? Of course you do not remember, Sherry?""Yesh I do," asserted his companion. "Itsh Mr. Dyke. He owes Sir Percival thoushand pounds.""Good God!" exclaimed Moore, beneath his breath, horrified at what he heard."The bailiffs I s'posed present in m' honor are here to seize him if he don't return the moneysh to-night.""What is the alternative the scoundrel offers?" asked Moore, confident that the debt was merely a weapon of intimidation."If Bessie marries him to-night he will let her father off on his debt. Otherwise he goes in limbo. She 'll have to do it, m' boy. He 'd die in Fleet Street. Oh, Tommy, what a dirty scoundrel he ish!""Sherry," said Moore, gratefully, pressing the old gentleman's hand as he spoke, "if I live to be a thousand years old I 'll never cease to thank you with all my heart for what you have done to-night.""Thass all right, Tommy, thass all right. We 're both Irishmen," responded the dramatist.As Sheridan spoke he opened the window and standing beside it drew long draughts of the cool fresh evening air into his lungs. Moore sat quietly waiting for his friend to regain the sobriety he knew would not be long in returning, now that he had passed through the muddled stage and emerged upon the borders of ordinary intelligence. Meanwhile he was trying to evolve some plan to avert the danger threatening his friends with such dire misfortune. For the aged poet to languish in the foulness of a debtor's prison for more than a week would be to sign his death-warrant. The horrible condition of the places of confinement consecrated to the incarceration of gentlemen who involved themselves to an extent beyond their ability to pay was one of the strongest inducements that could be brought to bear by a creditor to force to the settlement of long-standing obligations a certain type of debtor--he who could pay if he willed to make the sacrifice of personal convenience, and to curtail the indulgences common usage made the essential pleasures of the gay life of the sporty young buck of the period. For this reason more than any other was the condition of these vile dens allowed to go unimproved in spite of an occasional vigorous protest from some noble but impoverished family whose ne'er-do-well offspring was compelled to lie indefinitely in squalor as new as it was repugnant to his elegant sensibilities. That Bessie would make any sacrifice to keep her father from such a fate Moore felt assured. There was only one way to block Sir Percival's game. The money must be paid. But how? The returns from Moore's book had enabled him to settle his debts in both Ireland and England, but, up to this time, very little more than enough to accomplish this result and support him as his new position demanded had come from his publisher, McDermot. It was true that the sudden glow of enthusiasm usually experienced by a bookseller after the publication of a successful book had led the close-fisted and stony-hearted old Scotchman to declare his willingness to pay a generous sum in advance for a new poem, upon an oriental theme, which Lord Lansdowne had suggested to Moore, providing this bonus should give him the exclusive right of publication for the term of two years to all literary output from the pen of the young Irishman. However, Moore felt confident that the sum McDermot would be willing to pay to bind the bargain would be far less than the thousand he required. How, then, could he raise such an enormous amount?Sheridan, who was fast sobering, thanks to the bracing air, closed the window with a shiver and turned to his young friend."What will you do, Tommy?" he asked, only a slight trace of his former thickness of tongue perceptible."Do, Sherry? I 'll have to raise the money.""Have you it?" demanded the wit, regarding Moore in amazement."Not I, Sherry. It's taken all I 've earned so far to pay my debts.""Debts?" snorted Sheridan, contemptuously. "Let this be a lesson to you, Tom. Never pay anything. I never do.""You, Sherry? Have you any money?""None, except what I have in my pockets," replied Sheridan, hopelessly. At this moment Mr. Brummell, deserted by Mrs. FitzHerbert, and weary of the senseless gabble so liberally dispensed by nine of every ten females gracing social functions of magnitude, wandered back into the conservatory in search of quiet. Spying two of his closest cronies, he made haste to join them."Here is the Beau," said Moore. "Ah, George, you have come just in time for the collection.""Indeed?" said Brummell, curiously. "Have I missed the sermon?""Yes, but you are in time for the blessing, if you have any money to lend a poor devil of an Irishman.""Money," sighed the Beau, "is too vulgar for me to long endure its possession, Tom.""I am not joking, Brummell," declared Moore, seriously. "I need money, sir. Every penny you can let me have. How much do you think you can raise for me within the hour?"Brummell, assured by Moore's manner that he was not jesting, began to sum up his resources."I think," said he, hopefully, "that I can borrow fifty pounds from my landlady, and I have a guinea or two in my clothes.""Fifty pounds," said Moore. "And you, Sherry?"The gentleman addressed had ransacked his pockets and was rapidly counting out a handful of small coins."I have five shillings and sixpence," he announced.Moore groaned."And I think," continued the old gentleman, "that I can borrow five pounds from my valet if the rascal is not in a state of beastly sobriety.""And I 've not twenty pounds to my name," said Moore, losing hope for the moment."Your name should carry more weight than twenty pounds," returned Sheridan. "Perhaps I can borrow some from a stranger.""But a stranger would not know you, Sherry," objected Brummell."But if he knew him he wouldn't lend him a penny," said Moore. "Think of it, gentlemen. What would posterity say if it knew? Beau Brummell, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Tom Moore together cannot raise one hundred pounds in a time of desperate need.""What would posterity say?" sighed Brummell in disgust."Oh, d--n posterity!" cried Sheridan. "What has posterity ever done for us?""Give it time, Sherry, give it time.""That is one thing I am never short of, Tommy.""May I, without impropriety, ask what is the trouble?" inquired the Beau."A friend of mine is in danger, Brummell. I must raise one thousand pounds before dawn.""A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Brummell, horrified. "Good Lord!"Then, as the Beau had recourse to his scent-bottle for the stimulation necessary to revive him from the shock inflicted by Moore's words, the poet gripped Sheridan by the arm in sudden hope."I 'll appeal to the Prince Regent himself, Sherry."Sheridan shook his head in dissent."Tommy, boy, remember he is Sir Percival's intimate friend.""But his Highness likes me. Surely he would interfere?""Tom," said Brummell solemnly, "if there is a woman in the case do not waste your time and exhaust the patience of Wales. His Highness is a greater rake than Percy Lovelace ever dreamed of being.""He would not see a woman so coerced," persisted Moore."Remember, lad," advised Sheridan, "you are a friend and courtier of only three months' standing. Sir Percival has been Wales's companion since their boyhood.""Then God help us," said Moore in despair. "There is nothing I can do. Stay! I forgot McDermot. He has asked me to write him an eastern romance in verse and offered to pay liberally in advance.""That old skinflint will faint at the thought of a thousand pounds.""It is my only chance, Sherry. Where is the old fellow?""I saw him in the smoking-room a few minutes ago," said Brummell. "No doubt you will find him still there.""I 'll not lose a moment," said Moore. "It is a forlorn hope, but he 'll find the hardest task of his life will be to give me 'No' for an answer.""But first, Tom," said Sheridan, wisely, "you must see Mr. Dyke. Perhaps it is not so bad a matter as we think.""You are right, Sherry," replied Moore, his spirits recovering a little at the thought that, after all, the danger might have been exaggerated.But this desperate hope was not destined to be of long life, for Moore found Mr. Dyke in a quiet nook, crushed and despairing. He had just left Sir Percival, who in a few cold words had explained to the hapless old man the terrible trap in which he had been caught."Take a half hour to think over my proposition," the baronet had said as he left the aged poet. "When that time has passed, acquaint your daughter with my wishes. She will do anything, even marry me, I feel sure, to extricate you from your present predicament."Moore listened in silence to his friend's story, and when he had finished said:"You have not told Bessie, sir?""Not yet, Thomas.""Then do not tell her. Let me settle with Sir Percival. I 'll find some way to beat him yet."Leaving Mr. Dyke where he had found him, Moore went in search of the publisher.
Chapter Seventeen
HONORS ARE EASY
The poet strode gayly into the room, quite at peace with the world and decidedly pleased with one Thomas Moore, in both these particulars holding opinions widely differing from the views cherished by the young lady concealed behind the curtains.
"What?" remarked Moore. "Is she gone? Dear me, how unkind of her to go without saying good-bye."
Then, apparently observing the skirt for the first time, he continued:
"Ah, she has left this behind for me as a souvenir of the occasion. How considerate of her."
Stooping, he unlocked the drawer and drew forth the imprisoned millinery. Then flinging it carelessly over his arm, he started toward the door, apparently intending to return to the crowded rooms which he had just quitted.
From behind the curtains Bessie regarded his actions with an exasperation and helplessness which were about equally possessed of her mind. What should she do? If she betrayed her presence she would be more than ever at his mercy, yet it was clearly impossible to allow him to carry off her skirt, as he seemed to purpose doing. Abandoning all pride, she gave a squeak of alarm as Moore reached the door.
"Did I hear some one address me?" he demanded, turning on the threshold.
"Sir," said Bessie, desperately from the window, her brown head visible between the curtains.
"Oh, you are there, are you?" said Moore, apparently greatly astonished.
"Bring me that--That," she said, blushing a little as she spoke.
"That what?" he asked.
She pointed angrily at the skirt adorning his arm.
"That," she repeated more loudly.
"This?" said he, obtusely, holding up his prize.
"Yes. Give it to me immediately."
"But," objected Moore, "I don't know that you have any right to it. Can you prove it to be your property?"
"I can," replied Bessie with emphasis, "but I won't."
"I am sorry, Mistress Dyke, but under the circumstances I really must refuse."
"But it is mine, Mr. Moore."
"But I have no proof that it is n't somebody else's. Perhaps it belongs to Mr. Sheridan."
"What nonsense."
"Oh, I don't know about that. Richard Brinsley is said to be fond of the petticoats. Perhaps this is one he carries around with him. I 'll go ask the old boy."
"Don't you dare," she cried.
"Well, can you identify this as your property?" insisted the poet, not loth to prolong her discomfiture.
"Certainly, sir," she replied. "You will find a handkerchief in the pocket with my initials stitched in the corner with white silk."
"All right, my dear," said Moore, looking for the pocket and not finding it immediately. "Where is the infernal--Oh, I have it!"
And inserting his hand in the elusive object of his quest he drew forth a powder puff.
"Oh," said Bessie, and vanished behind the curtains, while Moore viewed his recent find with delighted curiosity.
"What's this, Bessie?"
No answer rewarded his inquiry.
"Oh, I understand," he went on. "This is the frosting on the cake of beauty."
Then, carefully powdering himself, he crossed to the mirror over the mantel on the opposite side of the room and inspected the result of his labor.
"Humph," said he. "I look seasick. I'll have none of this for me."
And he industriously rubbed his face with his handkerchief.
"Oh, do hurry up," implored the girl, fearful lest some other of the guests should enter the room before she recovered her belongings.
"I was not made in a hurry," replied Moore. "The more haste the less speed, so I 'll take my time in my investigations."
The next thing he took from the pocket was a little black and white sketch of himself which had been drawn at a supper party the week before by no less distinguished a gentleman than Samuel Rogers, the banker poet.
"My picture!" he exclaimed in surprise. "How did you get this, Bessie?"
"If you must know, Mr. Rogers threw it away and I picked it up," she replied, displaying as much regard for the truth as any of her sex would be likely to under the same circumstances.
"I 'm honored, Mistress Dyke," observed Moore, bowing to the portière with formal grace and politeness. "You show much taste in your selection of works of art."
Proceeding with his search, Moore now brought to light the handkerchief, which he promptly confiscated.
"Mistress Dyke," he said, at the same time tucking away the handkerchief in his breast pocket, "I am now convinced that this is your property."
"Then give it to me at once," she directed.
"Not yet," said Moore. "If I remember correctly, I made a statement to you concerning an apology which I thought should be forthcoming to me. Well, I have n't received it as yet."
"Bully!" remarked Bessie as spitefully as she could, which was not a little.
"Did I hear aright?" asked Moore. "Did I hear some one call me a bully?"
"Please, oh, please, give me--that!" she pleaded, but Moore was not to be turned aside from his march to triumph.
"Did I hear some one say 'Tom, I am truly sorry for my crossness to-night'?" he asked.
"I won't say it," she declared, but her voice lacked determination.
"I really must be going," said Moore, taking a step towards the door.
She gave a squeal of terror.
"I will, I will!" she cried.
"I hope so, Bessie," he replied, pausing.
"Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things you have said to me to-night."
She mumbled it quickly, hoping he would not distinguish the adaptation she made in the sentence he had dictated; but Moore heard and defeated her.
"That won't do," he said sternly. "Try again."
"Tyrant!" she exclaimed ferociously.
"That is not a pretty name, Bessie."
"It is appropriate," she said, coldly.
"Go on with the apology."
The girl made an effort and proceeded with her unwilling penance in the meekest of tones.
"Tom, I am truly sorry for the cross things I have said to you to-night. Now give me it."
"Don't be in such a hurry, Bessie. There is more to be said."
"Oh, dear! will you never be satisfied?"
"Not till you are all mine," he answered in his tenderest tones.
"That will be a long time," she said determinedly.
"I can wait, but to continue--Say 'You are an old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have you around.'"
"You are an old nuisance, Tom, but I like to have you around," she repeated, parrot-like; then she added sweetly, "I have something else I wish to tell you."
Deceived by her sentimental tone, Moore stepped near the curtains and like a flash she snapped the skirt off his arm and vanished behind her shelter.
"The deuce!" exclaimed Moore, in chagrin.
The curtains undulated violently as though some vigorous performance were being enacted behind them. The next moment Bessie, fully attired, swept out between them and across the room, her independence and peace of mind restored with the resumption of the purloined garment.
"Bessie," said Moore, persuasively, and she halted on the threshold in haughty response. "Bessie, won't you let me speak to you before you go?"
"I fear it will only be a waste of time, Mr. Moore," she answered.
"Yet I waited when you asked me to from behind the curtains," he said, a glint of laughter in his eyes.
Bessie winced, but the stare she favored him with was both cold and disdainful.
"But, Mr. Moore," she answered, "I had something to say to which you wished to listen."
"You mean," he corrected, "you had to say something, Bessie, that I wished to hear. There never was maid more unwilling to do what she was bid than you."
"Pray hasten your words, sir. I am listening."
"Bessie," he whispered, all the music and poetry to which the love in his heart had given life vibrant in his caressing voice, "Bessie, mavourneen, let's have done with this bickering. The days of youth fly far too fast for us to waste them in contention. You are the breath of my life, darlin'. Say you 'll take me back to my old place in your heart this night and ne'er send me a-journeying again while we live."
She walked slowly to the fireplace and resting her arm on the mantel above stood looking into the blaze. Moore, encouraged by her return, drew near her.
"You know I love you deeply and truly as any woman has ever been loved," he murmured, standing so close that his warm, eager breath gently stirred and set a-quivering the tiny ringlets clustered on her neck. "And I can't bear to go on like this. You must hear me to-night, Bessie darlin', once and for all. I love you; with all my heart and all my soul I love you, dearest of girls. You planted my heart full of roses of passion the first day that I met you, and each and every bud has come to blossom. Your dear eyes have looked into mine and written your name upon my heart. There is not a curl that steals kisses from your cheek I 'd not give my life to be, unless that curl and the proud head it graces can both be mine. Ah, Bessie, dearest, Bessie, darling, be my wife and make me the happiest man on earth. Aye, or in heaven."
If he could have seen her eyes he would never have listened to the words of her reply, for in their depths shone an answer so sweet and tender and surrendering that even he, oft rejected and almost despairing wooer that he was, could not have mistaken or read as aught else but final. But, resolved not to yield yet, though a love as strong and passionate as his own was tugging at her heart-strings, she kept her face turned from him till her original determination, aided by mischief which prompted her to punish him for all the humiliation she had just suffered at his hands, sufficed to give her control of her emotions. Then she turned coldly and said:
"Tom, you really should put that into rhyme. You have never written a prettier poem."
He started at her words and drew back a pace or two.
"You make a jest of me," he said in an offended tone.
"And why so, sir? I refused to marry you when you were poor."
"Do you think I've forgotten it?" he demanded.
"Now, if I married you, people would say I took back my 'No' because of your rise in the world. Why, even you once spoke as though you thought I might be influenced by such sordid considerations."
"You do not believe--you never have believed--that I thought you capable of such a vile thing," he responded hotly. "You seized on that as a means to hold me off. You must needs play your game of hide-and-seek till you are weary, regardless of my pain and despair."
"The world would say I married you for your money," she continued, paying no heed to his words. "You know how quick it is to misinterpret the best of motives."
"If they said that they 'd lie, Bessie," said Moore. "Save that I have paid my debts and incurred no others, I 'm no richer, for as yet I 've made no fortune. On my honor, I 'm still as poor as you are pretty, and the glass will show you I must be little better than a beggar. Like your father, dearest, my future--all my hope of wealth and fame these next few years--depends upon the Regent's favor, so it couldn't be for aught but love. Ah, alanna, say you 'll have me?"
"No," she answered with great emphasis, and crossed the room. Once on the other side she repeated her reply, but this time in a tone soft and cooing, but if she expected by this last manoeuvre to elicit further wooing from her lover she made a mistake, for, justly wrathful at the treatment she accorded him, he threw caution to the winds.
"So?" he cried, hoarsely. "You still refuse? Then listen to me. I 've courted you from the first day I saw you. From the moment our eyes met I 've loved you faithfully and truly. I 've sung to you of love--I 've talked to you of love--I 've begged for it upon my knees--and you? You have laughed at me. Because my heart was full of you there was no room for resentment, and I, too, laughed and made a jest of what was breaking it. That is past; I've offered it to you for the last time. I 'll never again ask you to be my wife."
"Oh," said the girl, momentarily shocked at his vehemence, but quickly recovering. "Tom, you 'll never again ask me to marry you?"
"No," he answered roughly, and sat down beside the fire.
"Then," she went on mournfully, "there is only one thing for me to do."
"What is that?" he asked moodily.
"If you won't ask me to marry you, then some day I--I--"
She hesitated, the words hindered by the smile that could not be denied.
"Well?"
"Then some day I'll have to ask you to marry me."
Moore leaped to his feet.
"Will you, Bessie?" he cried.
"Who knows?" she answered, backing towards the door.
"What would you say?"
"I 'd say 'I love you, Tom; will you be my husband?'"
"You would?"
"That is, if I should happen to want you, which is n't at all likely."
Then, with a rippling laugh, Bessie turned her back on him, and strolled off, satisfied that she had avenged her wrongs of the evening. And had she not?
Chapter Eighteen
TOM MOORE MOVES IN DISTINGUISHED COMPANY
Sir Percival Lovelace gave a reception in honor of the first appearance of Mistress Bessie Dyke as Lydia Languish in a revival of Mr. Sheridan's successful comedy "The Rivals." So sure was the baronet of his protégée's success that some days previous to the date of the first performance he publicly announced the function to be for the purpose of extending to the winsome actress congratulations upon the triumph he expected her to win. Invitations to the reception were eagerly sought, and correspondingly difficult to obtain, for Sir Percival enjoyed an enviable reputation as a lavish entertainer. The Prince himself promised to attend, for he found amusement in the girlish piquancy of the little player's conversation conspicuously lacking in the more reverential prattle of the great ladies who owed their presence in the upper circle of society to birth instead of brains. Even Mrs. FitzHerbert, once more on friendly terms with the baronet, consented to honor the assemblage with her presence, and all the other leaders and lions of the world of wealth and breeding were favored with invitations--that is, all except one. Thomas Moore, now at the height of his popularity, was overlooked. This was no surprise to the poet, for he had not been deceived by Sir Percival's apparent desire to overlook their past differences. He felt confident that the baronet would not rest content until he had made every effort to undermine the popularity which he had won as much by his personal charm as by the merit of his poetry, yet, seeing no way in which he could be successfully attacked by his old enemy, he grew more confident as weeks passed with no visible effort to injure his prosperity.
Sir Percival, however, was not losing sight of the main object he had in view when he brought about Bessie's journeying to London. While he fully intended to put an end to Moore's success eventually, he had busied himself in the last few weeks more particularly with his plans for bringing about the forcing of the girl to do his will. By skilful manipulation of the various influences he was able to bring to bear upon persons important in the administration of matters in regard to the smaller dealings in the way of finance, together with the fatuous confidence reposed in him by Mr. Dyke, this ingenious gentleman succeeded in obtaining the issuance of a warrant for the body of the old rhymer in default of complete settlement of his outstanding indebtedness. This accomplished without his intended victim being at all the wiser, he held the document in readiness for his purposed attempt at intimidation. Now it was of course imperative, when he should have kicked from beneath Robin Dyke the props which at present held him above ruin as exemplified in limitless incarceration in a Fleet Street debtors' prison, that Thomas Moore should be in no position to hold forth means of relief. Such being the case Sir Percival devoted himself to making all ready for the disaster which he hoped and believed would be the culmination of the young Irishman's social career, availing himself in this matter of the advice and services of his agent and mentor, Terence Farrell. Success in all the preparations crowned his efforts to a degree that would have seemed unusual even in a better cause,--a state of affairs that led to much cynical reflection as to the relative easiness of the practices of philanthropy and its antithesis upon the part of the gentleman from whom the impetus for the plotted evil business was obtained.
This was the state of affairs on the evening of Sir Percival's reception.
* * * * *
Mrs. FitzHerbert regarded Mr. Sheridan with a doubtful expression in eyes famed for their beauty and innocence.
"Mr. Sheridan," she remarked, severely, "I am not sure that Parliament is sufficient excuse for your absence from Drury Lane to-night. Everybody who is anybody was present except the author. Fie, sir! Surely you should take enough interest in your own play to witness its revival."
"Hum," said Mr. Sheridan, "I will promise not to let even Parliament prevent my attendance at the theatre when a play by you shall be presented, madame."
"Do you fancy, sir, that I am not capable of writing a play?"
"Heaven forbid that I should declare any woman incapable of anything in the world, possible or impossible," replied the gentleman thus addressed.
"I am not sure that you intend that remark as a compliment, sir."
"A woman should accept as complimentary all that she is not absolutely certain is intended to be the opposite."
"You would have women very conceited, Mr. Sheridan."
"If you mean, dear lady, that I would not change the sweet creatures, you comprehend me perfectly," replied the old gentleman. "Did you know, Mrs. FitzHerbert, that our friend, Tommy Moore, has been slighted to-night?"
"Indeed," asked the lady in a disappointed tone. "I thought he would surely be here."
"Zooks," drawled a handsome gentleman who, gorgeously attired and carrying himself with mannered dignity, had joined the first-mentioned couple in their corner. "Moore not here? What a bore! I counted on hearing him sing some of his ballads to-night. I am told he has a new one. Some deliciously impossible lyrical statement concerning the steadfastness of the proper kind of love in the face of misfortune and wrinkles. Quite improbable, but delightfully sentimental and imaginative."
"Put not your faith in princes, Brummell," quoted Mr. Sheridan, knowingly, "that your days may be longer in the land."
"A combination of scriptural sayings worthy of their most unrespected quoter," laughed Mrs. FitzHerbert. "Do you think a prince's passion could face wrinkles?"
"In whose face? His own or some one else's?"
"Some one else's face, of course, Mr. Sheridan."
"I spoke of the proper kind of love, dear madame, not the improper," observed Brummell, languidly.
"And a prince's love?"
"For his princess impossible, for any other woman improper," said Sheridan, looking away lest his shot strike home.
"And why has Sir Percival cut Mr. Moore?" demanded Mrs. FitzHerbert, giving Sheridan a reproving tap with her fan.
"They are old rivals," replied the Beau.
"Would Sir Percival marry her, do you think?"
"No one can answer that question, Mrs. Fitz, but Lovelace himself. Shall I tell him you would like to know?"
"Not for the world, Mr. Sheridan," she exclaimed. "It is not my affair."
"If Percy is contemplating matrimony it will surprise many who know him well," returned Brummell, seating himself near by. "But then he always was an eccentric dog."
"They would never agree."
"Well," said Mr. Sheridan, "it is well known that if the bride and the groom did not have their little differences they would not care to marry."
"Ahem! Have you read Mr. Rogers's new poem?" asked the lady, skilfully changing the subject.
"'The Pleasures of Memory'? Egad, I obtain much more pleasure by forgetting," said Sheridan, taking snuff.
"So the tradesmen say, Sherry."
"Well, George, I 've not heard of your discounting your bills lately," retorted the elder man.
Just then Sir Percival approached them.
"As usual, the rallying place for wit and fashion is at Mrs. FitzHerbert's side," said the baronet, graciously.
"So you thought you would add beauty to the list by coming yourself?"
"Nay, Sherry, I have heard it said there was never a prettier gentleman than Richard Brinsley," said the baronet.
"Who said that? Your grandmother?" retorted Sheridan. "How is the old lady?"
"So you have neglected Mr. Moore?" whispered Mrs. FitzHerbert, drawing her host to her side. "Oh, Percy, Percy, what a jealous creature you are!"
"Egad, you wrong me, Mrs. FitzHerbert; the one being I have ever really envied as a lover is his Highness."
"Mr. Dyke and Mistress Dyke," announced the footman.
Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed by Sheridan and the others. Bessie never looked prettier. The proud consciousness of her success gave her a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with the witty throng assembled to celebrate her triumph as brightly and merrily as though she had never moved in any but the upper circle of society. Mrs. FitzHerbert mischievously told her of Sir Percival's intentional neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman, and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarrassing position in which she had placed him, sought safety in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by the beauty's condescension, was already vaguely meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent.
"Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him.
"Angry?" she repeated. "What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?"
"You must know why I have done this," he said boldly.
"Why, Sir Percival?"
"Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual impudent manner."
"You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached.
"The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he announced to his master.
"Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival. "His Highness' tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming."
"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales," announced the footman a moment later, "and Mr. Thomas Moore!"
The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's surprise and disappointment.
"Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore with me."
"Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad to welcome any friend of yours," glibly replied Sir Percival.
Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer disfiguring his handsome face:
"Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored."
"I believe you, Sir Percival," responded the poet, promptly, "so that need not worry you."
"Nothing ever worries me, sir."
"Not even conscience, Sir Percival?"
"No, Mr. Moore," replied the baronet, as Wales and Sheridan drew nearer.
"Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no longer in style."
"Tut, tut, Tom," said Sheridan reprovingly. "I still cling to the old fashion."
Moore eyed the speaker's wig with tolerant eye.
"Faith, Sherry," said he, "brains such as yours are an excuse for anything."
"Perhaps," said Sheridan. "But it is a poor rule that does n't work both ways, and surely you will not have the temerity to assert that 'Anything is an excuse for brains.'"
"In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?"
"It takes a sinner to be cynical," said Sheridan, having recourse to his snuff-box.
"Then," said Moore, "what a doubter our greatest dramatist must be."
"I have been described as a doubtful character more than once," returned the old gentleman. "Your Highness, when you arrived we were discussing matrimony."
"An amatory eccentricity," drawled Brummell, who had joined the little group now surrounding the Prince.
"The connecting link between bankruptcy and the Bank of England," declared Sir Percival.
"The straight-jacket in which are confined couples suffering from sentimental insanity pronounced incurable by the church," said Moore.
"Ah," said Wales, "recovery is sometimes rapid, nevertheless."
"Marriage is deceptive," said Mr. Sheridan, with a sigh. "Lovers go to church for a bridal and return home to find they have been given a yoke."
"What would you suggest, Sherry?" asked the Prince. "Would you abolish matrimony?"
"I 'd make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three years' sight."
"I fear most couples would seek to discount the bill," said Moore.
"You take it too seriously," said Brummell, smothering a yawn.
"Is it supposed to be a joke?" asked Wales, whimsically.
"Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the benefit of posterity," said Moore.
"Tut, tut, Tommy," said Sheridan reprovingly. "You are too young to be such a scoffer."
"Indeed?"
"You young fellows are led astray by your own importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations."
A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but the younger was not to be so quickly defeated.
"And you old boys," said he, "make another mistake. You regard yourselves as attractions long after you have become ornaments."
"Personalities are to be avoided," returned Sheridan good-humoredly. "We were talking of marriage."
"Don't mention it," retorted Moore politely. "It is a queer thing at best. Before a wedding a woman has a husband to look forward to."
"And when married?"
"Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after."
"Imagine it, Brummell."
"Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits to my imagination," replied the Beau.
"Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking," observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite's lace cravat through his eye-glass. "'T is well to remember that imagination is the thief of truth."
"You have dismembered marriage," said Wales, smiling, "what of love?"
"Surely the subjects have nothing in common?" cried Moore.
"The two together would be most uncommon," remarked Sheridan. "Love is the incidental music in the melodrama of life."
"The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by the sentimental apothecary," retorted Moore. "Love is the devil, matrimony is hel--hem!--heaven."
"How do you know, Moore?" demanded the Prince. "You have never been married."
"I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but I know it is hot just the same."
The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell, strolled away in search of Mrs. FitzHerbert, while Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room, leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.
That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his quest than at the beginning of the evening. Just then there came a request from the Regent that he should favor the assemblage with one of his own songs, so, inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his good-nature was at par with his fellow guests' appreciation.
Having sung "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms," he followed it with the mournful ditty, "She is Far from the Land," and finished with "The Last Rose of Summer" by royal command, the close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering; but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords, publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given the assemblage.
Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle. Finding a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited the young Irishman's coming, absorbed in pleasant rumination on the probable happenings of the by no means distant future.
"Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"
Farrell drew a copy of theExaminerfrom his pocket.
"Here it is in the evening's issue," said he. "Evidently his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though every one else seems to have done so."
[image]Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.
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Tom Moore meets Bessie Dyke at Sir Percival's.
"Droll that the Prince should come here in the author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had purloined from Moore's garret.
"A propitious happening, sir," returned Farrell. "I have not begun the circulation of the author's name. Is it the proper time, think you?"
"Not yet, my dear Terence. Half an hour from now will be quite soon enough. Egad, these verses sting, or I 'm no judge of satire. When the Prince does finally set eyes upon them there will be an outburst. A flood of anger will result on which the writer of this masterpiece will be borne away to oblivion."
"Moore is high in favor now."
"The higher the elevation the greater the fall, Terence."
Farrell nodded.
"Our visit to his garret was a fortunate one. But for what we found there I fear Tom's position in royal favor would be too firm for even you, Sir Percival, to successfully assail. May I ask the programme you have planned in regard to Bessie?"
"It differs very little from the scheme we discussed a fortnight ago. Already the bailiffs are on post both at the front and rear, waiting patiently to seize the person of Mr. Dyke unless otherwise directed by my humble self, which will only result from the girl's compliance or the payment of the thousand her father owes me. I anticipate with their aid finding little difficulty in persuading Mistress Bessie to go through the marriage ceremony to-night. Once this is accomplished I'll take her on the Continent for a glimpse of Europe."
"You will marry her?" said Farrell in surprise.
"Not really, you fool," laughed his patron. "Foreseeing such a compromise as marriage, I have provided a clergyman of my own manufacture. Jack Hathaway has kindly consented to assume the role for a liberal consideration."
"That devil's bird," muttered Farrell.
"Aye, no angel child is Jack, but a gentler rogue might not care to risk liberty to oblige a friend who had found a difficult damsel."
"And where is this gallant rascal?"
"He, with the proper ecclesiastical caparisons ready at hand, is waiting for my coming round the corner a little way. You see how confident I am that to-night I will have my will."
"You think she will suspect nothing?"
"I rely on Jack's appearance to silence any vague doubts that may haunt her gentle bosom. Jack can look most reverent. Aye, and act it, too, if he be not in his cups."
"You are a remarkable man, Sir Percival."
"At all events industrious," returned the baronet, rising and putting the paper in his pocket. "Come, Farrell, our absence may be remarked. Your arm."
Then, as these two very worthy gentlemen strolled leisurely away, a little old man in a powdered wig all awry in its set upon his clever old head, staggered out from behind the portières screening the window recess, and, balancing himself uncertainly as he stood, groaned aloud at the impotence of his intoxicated brain.
The little gentleman was Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan; the reason for his sudden impatience with drunkenness being that he had heard every word of the conversation between Sir Percival and his creature, and now found his wine-drenched intellect unequal to planning the proper course for him to follow to checkmate the benevolent intentions of his host.
Chapter Nineteen
MR. SHERIDAN, MR. BRUMMELL, AND MR. MOORE HOLD COUNCIL OF WAR
His Royal Highness did not at first succeed in locating the lady who enjoyed so much of his favor and admiration at this time. Mrs. FitzHerbert took possession of Moore when a servant informed Farrell of Sir Percival's wish to see him, and, laughing mischievously, kept on the move from one room to another, resolved that Wales should make at least a fairly determined effort before he obtained the pleasure of her company. Finding a secluded corner behind some palms in the conservatory, she proceeded to catechise Moore in regard to his affair with Bessie Dyke, at the same time keeping a sharp look-out for the approach of the Regent.
"I 'll vow you were at Old Drury to-night, Mr. Moore," said she.
"Do you think that shows marvellous perception on your part?" demanded the poet, lightly.
"What do you think of actresses?"
"I don't think of them, Mrs. FitzHerbert."
"Not of Bessie?"
"Never as an actress."
"Yet she is one, and clever too,"
"If I had my way she 'd never walk the boards after to-night."
"But you have n't your way, Mr. Moore."
"Worse luck!"
"Oh, perhaps it is fortunate for Mistress Bessie that you do not direct her destinies."
"I think no man enjoys seeing a woman he cares for upon the stage."
"Fie, Mr. Moore. A man should be proud of the admiration accorded her if she be successful."
"There is no place half so fitting for a woman as her husband's home. No profession for her one hundredth part so appropriate, so complete in happiness and content as the care of her children."
"You are very old fashioned, Mr. Moore."
"True love is always old fashioned. It is one thing that has never changed an iota since the first man was given the first woman to worship."
"Oh, dear," sighed Mrs. FitzHerbert, "you have the morals badly this evening. Mr. Brummell, I fear your friend Tom is contemplating priesthood."
"Religion is an excellent thing to ponder on," said the Beau, drawing near. "It is so completely non-exciting that much thought may be expended, thus furnishing extensive intellectual exercise without causing the nervous mental activity so completely demoralizing to placid natures."
"Perhaps he means something by that procession of words, Mrs. FitzHerbert," said Moore, doubtfully. "We must not judge entirely by appearances."
"It is not impossible, I presume," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, apparently possessed of serious misgivings upon the subject.
"Because the prattle of certain people is entirely devoid of either sense or sentiment, it is not to be concluded that the conversation of every one else is at so completely a low ebb of mentality," remarked the Beau, sententiously. "Oh, Tommy, Tommy, why will you tie your cravat in that horrible, horrible fashion?"
"It's like this, Brummell. I 'm tired of following your styles, so at present seek to set one of my own."
"Then I 'll quell your insubordination without further delay," returned the Beau, laying skilful hands on Moore's tie. "A touch to the left, a twist to the right, a pucker here, and a graceful fall of lace thus, Thomas, and you are a credit to Ireland."
"Thanky," said Moore. "If I look half as fine as you do, George, I 'll need some one to see me home. The ladies will never allow me to escape unkissed."
"A kiss in time saves nine," said Mr. Sheridan, thickly, having approached unnoticed. "I can't prove it, but it sounds curst clever, at least after the second bottle."
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Fitz," said Brummell, languidly, "his Highness is searching for you, or I misread his behavior."
"If that is the case," replied Mrs. FitzHerbert, smiling into existence the prettiest dimple in the world, "there is only one thing for me to do."
"To hide, Mrs. FitzHerbert," suggested Moore, who understood all women save one; at least it was to this effect that he flattered himself.
"Really, Mr. Moore, you should have been born a woman."
"Not so," said the poet, "for then, like other women, I should be blind to the good fortune of his Highness in enjoying your ladyship's favor."
"But," said Brummell, pompously, "if you had been a woman, Tom,Imight have loved you."
"Egad, George, for the first time in my life I regret my sex."
"I 've regretted m' sex all m' life," observed Sheridan, swaying a trifle.
"And tried to drown all recollection in a crimson tide, eh, Sherry?"
"Don't you be so f'miliar, Tommy. I 'm not half drunk."
"Which half is sober, sir?"
"I am still in doubt 's to that, sir. I think it's first one half and then the other."
"You seem quite content, Mr. Sheridan."
"That, Mrs. FitzHerbert, is because I have made myself familiar with Sir Percival's wine, and familiarity breeds content."
Just then Mrs. FitzHerbert caught a distant view of the Regent, and, seeing Sheridan was bent on continuing to enjoy the society of his young fellow-countryman, she took the arm of the Beau and hied herself in the opposite direction, thus prolonging the quest of her royal lover.
Once by themselves, Sheridan seized Moore's arm.
"Tommy," said he, "I 'm a drunken old reprobate."
"They say confession is good for the soul, Sherry," replied Moore, politely.
"But I 'm not such a rascal as s'm' others I know of."
"I hope you mean nothing personal?"
"Shut up, Tommy."
"Yessir," replied the gentleman thus admonished.
"Goo' boy, Tommy. Now listen. Having had a drink or two or pos'bly three to be 'tirely frank, Tommy, I 'cided to get a little air."
"I thought you had a little heir, Sherry."
"Y'r a fool, Tommy."
"I can't conscientiously deny it."
"Oh, H--l!" remarked the elder Irishman, "it's too important to be so curst silly about."
"I beg your pardon," said Moore, contritely. "Proceed."
"Where was I?"
"You were looking for air."
"So I was. Well, so in I go to a room ver' little frequented. And there I raise a window and have a shock, fo' outside I see quite plainly the ugly mug of a bailiff. A bailiff I 'm quite attached to f'r ole times' sake. 'Shoo' old acquaintance be f'rgot,' and so forth. Understan', Tommy?"
"Perfectly."
"So of course I think he is after me. Understan'?"
"The presumption is quite natural."
"And bob back my head f'r fear he mi' see me. Then down comes window on m' crown, tips my wig over m' ear, and lays me out cold on the floor behind the por'chers. Understan'?"
"Very clearly, Sherry."
"Then when I become sens'ble, I hear voices outside window recess in the room, Sir Percival and Farrell having confidential chat. Thass what I want tell you."
"Oh," said Moore, in sudden interest, "what were they talking about?"
"Curst 'f I know now," said the dramatist, blankly, all recollection of the important information he had to convey suddenly obliterated.
Moore immediately waxed anxious.
"Think, Sherry, think!"
"I 'm too drunk to do anything but--"
"But what?"
"--but drink some more drinksh."
"Sit down here now and take things easily," urged Moore, resolved to learn what had weighed so heavily upon the old gentleman's mind.
"I 'm ver' thirsty," observed Sheridan, thoughtfully. "Go' lump on m' head, Tommy. Ver' dis'oblegin' window, most inconsid'rate. Almost scalped ven'rable author of 'Schoo' f'r Scan'al.'"
"Now there are only two subjects on which Sir Percival could converse that would interest me in the least, Sherry."
"Two. Thass ver' few f'r so clever a man as you, Tommy. I fear you lack ver'--ver'--vers'tility, m' boy."
"The first subject is, of course, Bessie."
"Curst nice lil' girl," observed Sheridan, conscious that the young lady spoken of was in some way connected with the idea that had so suddenly vanished.
"The other is myself."
"Natura--er--rally so."
"Now of which of these did he speak?"
"Thass the question, Tommy," replied Sheridan stupidly.
"Oh!" exclaimed Moore in disgust.
A flash of recollection stirred into new life by the ejaculation illumined the face of the wit.
"Yesh, thass it. Owe. Thass it, Tommy."
Moore became imbued with new hope, but did not hasten his inquiries as before, lest he should again daze Sheridan's semi-somnolent memory.
"Owe?" he repeated. "Some one is indebted to Sir Percival, Sherry?"
"Thass it, Tommy."
"I wonder who it can be? Of course you do not remember, Sherry?"
"Yesh I do," asserted his companion. "Itsh Mr. Dyke. He owes Sir Percival thoushand pounds."
"Good God!" exclaimed Moore, beneath his breath, horrified at what he heard.
"The bailiffs I s'posed present in m' honor are here to seize him if he don't return the moneysh to-night."
"What is the alternative the scoundrel offers?" asked Moore, confident that the debt was merely a weapon of intimidation.
"If Bessie marries him to-night he will let her father off on his debt. Otherwise he goes in limbo. She 'll have to do it, m' boy. He 'd die in Fleet Street. Oh, Tommy, what a dirty scoundrel he ish!"
"Sherry," said Moore, gratefully, pressing the old gentleman's hand as he spoke, "if I live to be a thousand years old I 'll never cease to thank you with all my heart for what you have done to-night."
"Thass all right, Tommy, thass all right. We 're both Irishmen," responded the dramatist.
As Sheridan spoke he opened the window and standing beside it drew long draughts of the cool fresh evening air into his lungs. Moore sat quietly waiting for his friend to regain the sobriety he knew would not be long in returning, now that he had passed through the muddled stage and emerged upon the borders of ordinary intelligence. Meanwhile he was trying to evolve some plan to avert the danger threatening his friends with such dire misfortune. For the aged poet to languish in the foulness of a debtor's prison for more than a week would be to sign his death-warrant. The horrible condition of the places of confinement consecrated to the incarceration of gentlemen who involved themselves to an extent beyond their ability to pay was one of the strongest inducements that could be brought to bear by a creditor to force to the settlement of long-standing obligations a certain type of debtor--he who could pay if he willed to make the sacrifice of personal convenience, and to curtail the indulgences common usage made the essential pleasures of the gay life of the sporty young buck of the period. For this reason more than any other was the condition of these vile dens allowed to go unimproved in spite of an occasional vigorous protest from some noble but impoverished family whose ne'er-do-well offspring was compelled to lie indefinitely in squalor as new as it was repugnant to his elegant sensibilities. That Bessie would make any sacrifice to keep her father from such a fate Moore felt assured. There was only one way to block Sir Percival's game. The money must be paid. But how? The returns from Moore's book had enabled him to settle his debts in both Ireland and England, but, up to this time, very little more than enough to accomplish this result and support him as his new position demanded had come from his publisher, McDermot. It was true that the sudden glow of enthusiasm usually experienced by a bookseller after the publication of a successful book had led the close-fisted and stony-hearted old Scotchman to declare his willingness to pay a generous sum in advance for a new poem, upon an oriental theme, which Lord Lansdowne had suggested to Moore, providing this bonus should give him the exclusive right of publication for the term of two years to all literary output from the pen of the young Irishman. However, Moore felt confident that the sum McDermot would be willing to pay to bind the bargain would be far less than the thousand he required. How, then, could he raise such an enormous amount?
Sheridan, who was fast sobering, thanks to the bracing air, closed the window with a shiver and turned to his young friend.
"What will you do, Tommy?" he asked, only a slight trace of his former thickness of tongue perceptible.
"Do, Sherry? I 'll have to raise the money."
"Have you it?" demanded the wit, regarding Moore in amazement.
"Not I, Sherry. It's taken all I 've earned so far to pay my debts."
"Debts?" snorted Sheridan, contemptuously. "Let this be a lesson to you, Tom. Never pay anything. I never do."
"You, Sherry? Have you any money?"
"None, except what I have in my pockets," replied Sheridan, hopelessly. At this moment Mr. Brummell, deserted by Mrs. FitzHerbert, and weary of the senseless gabble so liberally dispensed by nine of every ten females gracing social functions of magnitude, wandered back into the conservatory in search of quiet. Spying two of his closest cronies, he made haste to join them.
"Here is the Beau," said Moore. "Ah, George, you have come just in time for the collection."
"Indeed?" said Brummell, curiously. "Have I missed the sermon?"
"Yes, but you are in time for the blessing, if you have any money to lend a poor devil of an Irishman."
"Money," sighed the Beau, "is too vulgar for me to long endure its possession, Tom."
"I am not joking, Brummell," declared Moore, seriously. "I need money, sir. Every penny you can let me have. How much do you think you can raise for me within the hour?"
Brummell, assured by Moore's manner that he was not jesting, began to sum up his resources.
"I think," said he, hopefully, "that I can borrow fifty pounds from my landlady, and I have a guinea or two in my clothes."
"Fifty pounds," said Moore. "And you, Sherry?"
The gentleman addressed had ransacked his pockets and was rapidly counting out a handful of small coins.
"I have five shillings and sixpence," he announced.
Moore groaned.
"And I think," continued the old gentleman, "that I can borrow five pounds from my valet if the rascal is not in a state of beastly sobriety."
"And I 've not twenty pounds to my name," said Moore, losing hope for the moment.
"Your name should carry more weight than twenty pounds," returned Sheridan. "Perhaps I can borrow some from a stranger."
"But a stranger would not know you, Sherry," objected Brummell.
"But if he knew him he wouldn't lend him a penny," said Moore. "Think of it, gentlemen. What would posterity say if it knew? Beau Brummell, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Tom Moore together cannot raise one hundred pounds in a time of desperate need."
"What would posterity say?" sighed Brummell in disgust.
"Oh, d--n posterity!" cried Sheridan. "What has posterity ever done for us?"
"Give it time, Sherry, give it time."
"That is one thing I am never short of, Tommy."
"May I, without impropriety, ask what is the trouble?" inquired the Beau.
"A friend of mine is in danger, Brummell. I must raise one thousand pounds before dawn."
"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Brummell, horrified. "Good Lord!"
Then, as the Beau had recourse to his scent-bottle for the stimulation necessary to revive him from the shock inflicted by Moore's words, the poet gripped Sheridan by the arm in sudden hope.
"I 'll appeal to the Prince Regent himself, Sherry."
Sheridan shook his head in dissent.
"Tommy, boy, remember he is Sir Percival's intimate friend."
"But his Highness likes me. Surely he would interfere?"
"Tom," said Brummell solemnly, "if there is a woman in the case do not waste your time and exhaust the patience of Wales. His Highness is a greater rake than Percy Lovelace ever dreamed of being."
"He would not see a woman so coerced," persisted Moore.
"Remember, lad," advised Sheridan, "you are a friend and courtier of only three months' standing. Sir Percival has been Wales's companion since their boyhood."
"Then God help us," said Moore in despair. "There is nothing I can do. Stay! I forgot McDermot. He has asked me to write him an eastern romance in verse and offered to pay liberally in advance."
"That old skinflint will faint at the thought of a thousand pounds."
"It is my only chance, Sherry. Where is the old fellow?"
"I saw him in the smoking-room a few minutes ago," said Brummell. "No doubt you will find him still there."
"I 'll not lose a moment," said Moore. "It is a forlorn hope, but he 'll find the hardest task of his life will be to give me 'No' for an answer."
"But first, Tom," said Sheridan, wisely, "you must see Mr. Dyke. Perhaps it is not so bad a matter as we think."
"You are right, Sherry," replied Moore, his spirits recovering a little at the thought that, after all, the danger might have been exaggerated.
But this desperate hope was not destined to be of long life, for Moore found Mr. Dyke in a quiet nook, crushed and despairing. He had just left Sir Percival, who in a few cold words had explained to the hapless old man the terrible trap in which he had been caught.
"Take a half hour to think over my proposition," the baronet had said as he left the aged poet. "When that time has passed, acquaint your daughter with my wishes. She will do anything, even marry me, I feel sure, to extricate you from your present predicament."
Moore listened in silence to his friend's story, and when he had finished said:
"You have not told Bessie, sir?"
"Not yet, Thomas."
"Then do not tell her. Let me settle with Sir Percival. I 'll find some way to beat him yet."
Leaving Mr. Dyke where he had found him, Moore went in search of the publisher.