Chapter TwentyTOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAINMr. McDermot raised his bald head as Moore approached him in the smoking-room. His keen, hatchet-shaped face was framed on either side by a huge mutton-chop whisker which was like nothing else half so much as a furze bush recently sifted over by a snow-storm. This worthy gentleman regarded Moore with a keenness that seemed to the poet to penetrate and to coldly scrutinize his troubled mind, for Moore was ever a poor hand at dissimulation and bore on his unusually cheery countenance only too plainly the mark of the mental anxiety he was now enduring."Weel, Mr. Moore, what can I do for ye, sair?""Sir," said Moore, trying to hide his eagerness, "I have been thinking over the proposition you made a week ago at the instigation of Lord Lansdowne.""Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing at a single glance that the person addressing him was much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the result of this interview, and wisely concluding that this something was money."You wished me to write a long poem, for which you asserted you were willing to pay in advance, if by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all my work for the next two years.""So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago, sair. However, continue your remarks.""At that time I did not regard the matter favorably," continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my mind. I accept your offer, sir.""Ah, do ye? And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?""You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable bargain I might propose.""True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by anither. Ha' the kindness to name in figures, Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference ringing its baleful note in each word. Moore's heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing should be forced upon him beyond all denying."I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold, but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman made him hesitate and falter with the words upon his lips unspoken."One thousand poonds!" ejaculated McDermot, terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings. "One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore? What jest is this, sair?""Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood rushing to his face."Worth it?Worth it? You must be mad, sair. No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye half that in advance.""Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a result."I too ha' been considering the matter o' which ye speak, Mr. Moore.""You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?" cried Moore, in great alarm."That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean," declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath his bristling brows. "I ha' decided, sair, that I much exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents. This determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha' just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole matter. Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore. Try Longmans or Mooray.""Mr. McDermot," said Moore, forcing himself to speak calmly, thankful that the publisher and he had the smoking-room to themselves, "if the proposition I have made is unsatisfactory, pray suggest one in your turn. I will consider any you may see fit to offer."McDermot coughed a little and shook his shining old head. That Moore was in desperate need of money was quite evident. The wily old publisher had no intention of allowing the most promising young poet of the day to slip through his fingers, yet he was quite resolved to take advantage of his extremity to drive him to as desperate a bargain as could be obtained by the craft which forty years of business life had endowed him with in addition to his natural astuteness."No," said he, "I 'll not haggle wi' ye. No doubt there are ithers who will gi' ye what ye ask."This last was said in a way that plainly stated his sincere conviction that no one else would even consider the matter."Oh, sir!" cried Moore, despairingly, "I have relied upon this bargain.""No fault o' mine, Mr. Moore, no fault o' mine, sair.""Do you think I would ask you to reconsider your words if I had any hope of obtaining the money in any other quarter?""Where is Lord Brooking? He should help ye if ye ask him.""Lord Brooking is on the Continent.""Really, Mr. Moore, ye accomplish nothing by this perseestance.""Have you no heart, Mr. McDermot?""Weel, it has no voice in my business affairs, sair.""If you will give me one thousand pounds to-night and three hundred more during the year you shall own and publish all that I write these two years.""No, no, Mr. Moore.""One hundred during the year and the thousand pounds to-night, sir.""Let us end this useless discussion," snarled McDermot, rising from the easy chair he had occupied until now."No," cried Moore, "you shall not deny me. I 'll give you a bargain you cannot refuse, sir. Give me one thousand pounds which shall be payment in full for the long poem, and I will write when and how you will for the next year at your own price. Yes, I will do this and bless you for it. Oh, sir, it means more than life to me. It is my whole future. It's love, it's honor. I beg that you will not use my extremity to drive me to despair. Surely my work is worth as much as it was a week ago when you would have gladly accepted such terms as I offer you now?""That is not the question," replied McDermot, coldly. "Ha' the goodness to get out o' my way, Mr. Moore."Moore seized the publisher by the arm."An old man's liberty, perhaps his life; the happiness and good name of a mere girl depend upon me, sir. I have no other way of raising the money. Have pity.""I am sorry," began McDermot in cold, merciless tones, but he got no farther."Then dictate your own terms, sir. I must have one thousand pounds. For that sum I will bind myself to anything you may propose.""Ye mean that, Mr. Moore?""I do, sir.""For one thousand poonds ye will gi' me,without further compensation, the entire literary labor o' your life, sair? All that ye may write so long as ye live, Mr. Moore?""Is that the best you will offer me?""That's all, sair.""I accept your terms," said Moore in a choking voice.McDermot sat down at a desk near by and wrote out the check for the desired amount.Moore, accompanied by Mr. Sheridan, went in search of Sir Percival armed with the check made payable to the order of the baronet by Mr. McDermot, who immediately after drawing it went home to bed, entirely satisfied with his evening's work.The two Irishmen found Sir Percival idly chatting with Mr. Walter Scott and that gentleman's most intimate friend, Mr. Samuel Rogers, these two giants being as usual surrounded by a circle of the lesser lights in the world of literature. Their host, seeing that his company was evidently desired, excused himself to his other guests, and the trio withdrew to a secluded corner of the room."Sir Percival," said Moore, in reply to the baronet's inquiring glance, "I have been informed by my friend, Mr. Dyke, that he is indebted to you for the amount of one thousand pounds."Sir Percival allowed an expression of gentle surprise to play over his clever face."It is quite true, Mr. Moore, but really I fail to see how the transaction concerns you in the least.""Perhaps your comprehension of the affair in its entirety is quite as unnecessary as you seem to regard the interest I feel in the matter," replied Moore, taking the same key as his host."Will you pardon me if I ask the business in regard to which you wish to see me?""Certainly, Sir Percival, I desire you to give Mr. Dyke a receipt for one thousand pounds.""Tut, tut!" said the baronet, as though slightly irritated by the apparent silliness of Moore's request. "I shall do nothing of the sort unless I am paid in full.""Allow me to pay you, sir. Here are a thousand pounds."Sir Percival took the check from Moore, for once astonished out of his usually indifferent demeanor."The devil!" said he."Yes, a publisher," replied Moore, with a wink at Sheridan. "Kindly write me out a receipt, Sir Percival. Sherry, you will witness this transaction?""Faith, that I will gladly," said the dramatist, regarding Sir Percival's discomfiture with a humorous twinkle in his keen old eyes. "Damme, this is really a joyous occasion for all concerned."To say that Sir Percival was surprised would be but to feebly express the feelings of that gentleman when he received payment of the debt which he had fondly hoped would be sufficient to gain his ends with Mistress Bessie. However, quickly rallying from his momentary discomposure, he put the check in his pocket."Believe me, gentlemen, I receive this with pleasure," said he, scribbling off a receipt with pen and ink brought by a servant."Yes, I know how pleased you are," replied Moore, politely. Then taking the acknowledgment of liquidation from the baronet, he carefully folded it before depositing it in his wallet."Some day, Sir Percival, when the time comes for us to make a settlement, I shall ask you for my receipt," he said in a tone that there was no mistaking."When that time comes, Mr. Moore, you will find me as eager and prompt as yourself," replied Sir Percival.Moore looked his enemy calmly in the face and read there a courage fully the equal of his own."Egad, Sir Percival," said he, "for once I believe you. No doubt you will find it in your heart to release the bailiffs from further attendance this evening?""Your suggestion is a good one, Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, smothering his rage. "Carry to Mr. Dyke my thanks and add one more to the list of the many kindnesses for which I am already indebted to you, sir."Moore and Sheridan lost but little time in the exchange of social amenities with their discomfited host. The younger man sought the card-room, bent on forgetting, for a while at least, the slavery into which he had sold his pen; the elder picked up the temporarily abandoned thread of his intoxication without further delay.Chapter Twenty-OneTHE POET FALLS FROM FAVORAbout fifteen minutes elapsed before some zealous courtier brought the poem in theExaminerto the attention of the Regent, who thereupon, forgetting the presence of Mrs. FitzHerbert, who had allowed him to overtake her a few minutes previous, swore with an ease and variety that would have been a credit to the proverbial Billingsgate seller of fish. As the rage of Wales was not of the repressed order, the voice of royalty raised high in anger drew about him a crowd of courtiers who had been eagerly expecting such an outbreak all the evening."Sir Percival!" cried the Regent, catching sight of the baronet in a distant corner where Farrell and he were enjoying the tumult consequent on the culmination of their plot. "Have you seen this devilish set of verses?""I regret to say I have, your Highness," responded the baronet both shocked and grieved."It is infamous!" stormed Wales. "Gad's life! it is intolerable. I devote my best efforts to my country's service only to be foully lampooned in the public Press. Why, curse me--!""Your Highness, calm yourself, I beg of you," said Mrs. FitzHerbert, soothingly, but the Prince was not to be so easily restrained."Calm, indeed?" he shouted. "Calm, when such damnable insults are written and printed? Not I, madame.""Rise superior to this malicious attack," persisted the beauty, little pleased that her influence should fail so publicly. "Remember your greatness, sir.""A lion may be stung into anger by a gadfly, madame," retorted Wales, growing even more furious. "Brummell, have you read this infernal poem?""Not I, your Highness," replied the Beau, who, accompanied by Moore, had forsaken the card-table at the first outburst of royal wrath."Then do so now," commanded the enraged Regent, thrusting the paper into his hands.Brummell ran his eyes hurriedly over the verses, while Wales continued pacing up and down the now crowded room in unabating fury."I saw them earlier in the evening, your Highness," said Sheridan, unable to keep his oar out of the troubled waters."Oh, did you, indeed?" demanded Wales. "And no doubt chuckled like the devil over them?""Your Highness!" said the aged wit, trying to speak reproachfully, in spite of an internal laugh that threatened to break out and ruin him."I believe you are quizzing me now if the truth were known," asserted the Prince, wrathfully suspicious. "If I am not mistaken, these lines sound marvellously like the work of your pen, sirrah.""On my honor you wrong me, Sire," declared Sheridan, in a tone so unmistakably truthful that Wales could not doubt his entire innocence."May I not see the poem, Mr. Brummell?" asked Dyke, who had just entered the room.The Beau obligingly handed over the paper to the old gentleman. As the old rhymer turned away, Moore looked over his shoulder and, scanning with eager eyes the page in quest of the satire which had so enraged the Regent, found it before the elder man's less keen sight had performed a like service for him. Moore turned sick with horror and clutched the nearest chair for support. How had the verses found their way into print? Dyke was ruined if it were proved that he wrote them. Bessie, too, would feel the weight of the Regent's displeasure, and without doubt would be deprived of her position at Drury Lane for her father's additional punishment. He had saved them from one disaster only to see them plunged hopelessly into another almost as dire.A groan from the unhappy author announced that he, too, had recognized his poem. The next moment he turned on Moore with a look of despair on his usually placid face."Tom," he whispered, "you have ruined me. My poem is printed. Oh, Tom, how could you? How could you?""Surely you do not believe that I gave it to the Press?" said Moore, hoarsely, stung to the heart by the accusing look he read in his old friend's eyes."Who else could have done it? I gave you the only copy three months ago.""I remember, sir. Ah, I can explain it. I left my garret in the afternoon and went for a stroll. When I returned home I found Sir Percival and Farrell there. Since that day I have never thought of it. They have done this, Mr. Dyke.""I do not believe you," answered Dyke in a voice so scornful and suspicious that Moore felt as though he had received a blow in the face.Meanwhile Wales's anger had not cooled in the least."Egad!" he was saying, "if I but knew the author's name!""There is still a chance, Mr. Dyke," whispered Moore. "Deny all knowledge of the matter. Swear you did not write it if necessary.""Is it impossible to learn the identity of the writer?" asked Brummell seriously."Impossible?" repeated Wales. "Of course it is impossible, Beau! You do not think he will acknowledge this slander as his own, do you?""It does seem unlikely," admitted the exquisite."So unlikely," snorted the Prince, "that I 'd give a thousand pounds to find the rascal out."Farrell, spurred on by a nudge from the elbow of his patron, stepped forward."Your Highness," said he, calmly, "I accept your offer."Wales gazed at the dapper young law student in surprise."You know the author of this attack upon me, sir?" he asked."I do," answered Farrell, firmly.Moore, resolved to anticipate and if possible prevent the accusation of Dyke which he felt sure was about to follow, stepped hurriedly forward."One moment, your Highness," said he. "Do you know this gentleman? He is a liar, a blackleg, and a coward, unworthy of your Highness' belief or consideration.""Curse you," began Farrell, white to his lips with shame and passion, but Moore did not allow him to finish."I struck him in Ireland, yet he never resented my insult. Think, your Highness, is such a poltroon worthy of belief?""Sire!" stammered Farrell."Damn your private quarrels!" roared Wales, turning on Moore. "Have I not my own wrongs to resent, that you must annoy me with yours now?""He will lie to you as he has to others, Sire," replied Moore, refusing to be silenced."That remains to be seen, sirrah."Sir Percival stepped out of the throng surrounding the angry Prince, smiling and debonair as usual."I will answer for the truth of any statement Mr. Farrell may make, Sire," said he."Continue," growled the Prince, waving Moore back with an impatient gesture."Your Highness," said Farrell, quick to take advantage of his opportunity, "the author of this vile attack upon you is one of your friends, a favorite protégé, who, owing all to your favor, thus rewards your kindness by base ingratitude. To your Highness he owes everything; thus he repays you.""His name?" demanded Wales.There was a moment's pause, during which silence reigned, as Farrell artfully hesitated in his reply that, thus delayed, it might fall with even more crushing effect upon the object of his hatred. Short as was the time, it sufficed for Moore. Convinced that this was the only opportunity which would be afforded him to avert the disaster he believed to be about to overtake the father of the girl he had loved so truly and patiently, he resolved not to let it pass unutilized."I wrote that poem," he cried. "I am the author whose name your Highness would know.""You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by what he had heard.Dyke made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm."For Bessie's sake," he whispered. "Now do you believe me?""But, Tom--""Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's receipt into Dyke's hand. "Read that, and be silent if you love your daughter."Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in utter silence. Then, as he recovered speech, his voice sounded hoarsely, but under perfect control."Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for Mr. Moore."Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from the room. Sir Percival started toward the door, a triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to face. Suddenly the desperate expression left the countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem instead of a disgraceful dismissal."You heard his Highness' order, my man?"He seemed to be addressing a servant, if one could judge from the tone in which he spoke."Then call my carriage, lackey!""Lackey!" cried Sir Percival, red with rage at the insult, thus forced upon him."Aye, lackey," repeated Moore, defiant and sneering in his turn. "And here is your pay!"As he spoke, he struck the baronet a stinging slap in the face; then turned and strolled elegantly from the room.Thus it was that Mr. Thomas Moore quitted the world of Fashion, which but a scant three months before he had entered in triumph by grace of the favor of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.Book Four"If every rose with gold were tied,Did gems for dewdrops fall,One faded leaf where love had sighedWere sweetly worth them all."Chapter Twenty-TwoTOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGEThe morning after his enforced but by no means inglorious departure from Sir Percival's house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his hair. Sir Percival's honor was declared vindicated, as his having made a target of himself for Moore's shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he had received from the poet.Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks of hair,--a loss which was not without significance as an indication of Sir Percival's good intentions. The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at this particular game he was no match for his sneering enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an expert marksman, and had never doubted that he would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning. However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival had come and gone, for he was far too wise to endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature of their encounter. Sir Percival's skill was widely known, and a no less deservedly popular individual than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth concerning Moore's shortcomings as a pistol shot. Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet that it was "a demned one-sided affair," and that Sir Percival's reputation, had he killed Moore, might have become "even a little more unsavory," comments which led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet's disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was considered a ruined man.On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince's kindness had a few months before rescued him."No," said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady. "I 'm out of favor now and I 'll be saving of my pennies till I 'm righted again, if that shall ever be, which God knows and I 'm ignorant of, worse luck."Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several flights between the poet's latest and earliest abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad to be back in their old quarters. Their cheerfulness could be easily accounted for. Rat-holes were an unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought incumbent on him to assume in honor of rising fortune had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the removal, Moore, after signing his contract with McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country, as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself to a little fishing village not far distant.* * * * *One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of theGazetteprinted upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a manuscript under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the street below."That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss 'em, they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they? Well, we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets through."The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor. This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit."You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, "Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin' with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we 'as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer."Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley" on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its success.Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his melody."Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "you must n't do sich rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years' growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount.""Niver mind thot," replied the landlady. "It's many the fright you 've given me, you little tinker. Is Mr. Moore back from the country?""See 'ere, his n't the rent pide?" demanded Buster."Av course it's paid," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. "D' ye t'ink I have no t'oughts at all but about me rint?""Well," confessed Buster, "once hupon a time, hit sorter looked has 'ow you wuz bestowing considerable medication hupon that topic. Hif hit did n't, bli' me, that's hall, just bli' me.""Is Mr. Moore back from the country?" repeated Mrs. Malone."Yes, your Majesty," replied the boy, with a low obeisance. "'Ee his. 'Ee returned this werry noon from the 'onts hof nachoor.""It is just a week since he wint away," observed Mrs. Malone, reflectively."'Ow does yer keep count?" asked Buster, surprised at the accuracy of her remark."Faith, thot 's an easy mather," she answered, sagely. "Has n't Misthress Dyke called to see him sivin times?""She 'as, your 'Ighness, she 'as.""That's once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n't it?""Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi 'as faith in the correctness of your calculation," responded Buster."Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n't returned. Did yez give her his adthress?""Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome hevery day. Hit 'll do 'er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes 'em contented like. Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy female. She'll 'ave a master, she will."Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the floor."Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently viewing the disaster she had wrought."My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone, "wot his this hany 'ow? His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag habout till death do hus part?""Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking about the holy state of matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which he had taken his seat. "Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady called?""No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party.""Why not, me bucko?""Coz Hi wishes to surprise 'im, that's w'y," said the boy defiantly. "Hand hif you lays 'and hon me agin, Hi 'll 'ave Lord Castlereagh bite you good hand 'arty where it 'll do you the most good hand be the least missed.""Niver mind thot.""Hi won't hif you won't, Hi 'm sure, Mrs. Malone, and as for the young lidy, she has n't been 'ere to-day," said Buster."Oh, never fear," returned Mrs. Malone. "Shell come, and it's glad I am that he 's back agin.""W'y? Did you miss 'im?""Niver mind. It's the young leddy I 'm tinking of. Faith, suppose she got discouraged and stopped a-coming?""That 'ud show she was n't worth 'aving," replied Buster wisely. "Now see 'ere, Mrs. Malone, w'en she comes Hi wants you to let 'er hup widout hany announcement. Does you 'ear?""Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?""You just leave it to me, your 'Ighness. Hi knows how these haffairs should be conducted.""Oh, yez do, do yez?" said Mrs. Malone in a derisive tone, as she ambled toward the door. "It's in an orphan asylum yez ought to be.""Not hat all," retorted Buster. "Hi 'as no time to waste hon 'aving horphings."The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she quitted his apartments, and overwhelmed him with the heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of Buster's instructions, said never a word concerning the visits of Mistress Dyke. Moore, having made as speedy an escape as was possible without wounding the old woman's feelings, entered the attic, being received with much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who seemed to ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a puppy several years before."Good hevening, Mr. Moore," said Buster politely, about to deliver the post to his master."Good evening,Montgomery," replied Moore, severely, drawing off his gloves."Montgomery?" echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted. "Ho, don't call me that, sir, please don't.""Well, that's your name, isn't it?""Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!" said Buster, in an injured tone. "Hi knows hit only too well. Wen Hi wuz too little to defend myself w'en put hupon, my hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien Hethelbert, hand 'itches hit hon to the family nime hof Spinks.""Montgomery Julien Ethelbert--""Spinks. Yes sir, that's hit. Wuz n't that a crime? That's wot stunted my growth, most likely.""It seems plausible," observed Moore, in secret vastly amused."Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly. "Say, sir, won't you allus call me Buster?""No, sir," responded Moore, sternly. "You were fighting again this afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster again to-day.""Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment is horful. We wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir, just playin' like.""Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won't have you half killing the neighbors' children that way.""You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant gesture w'en I soaked 'im hon the nob? Did n't Hi do 'im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!""Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.The lad wilted."Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes methatfretful," he said pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will.""Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery.""Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the post, sir."Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to examine them."From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster interestedly.Moore nodded."That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first as he spoke. "Ah, here is an inclosure.""Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly."Where else?" demanded the poet. "Did you think it would be wrapped around the outside? From theGazette. One pound. Good. A pound is better than ten shillings any day.""Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said Buster, shaking his round head."But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding to himself, "aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."He found a note inside and read it aloud."MR. THOMAS MOORE--"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."
Chapter Twenty
TOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAIN
Mr. McDermot raised his bald head as Moore approached him in the smoking-room. His keen, hatchet-shaped face was framed on either side by a huge mutton-chop whisker which was like nothing else half so much as a furze bush recently sifted over by a snow-storm. This worthy gentleman regarded Moore with a keenness that seemed to the poet to penetrate and to coldly scrutinize his troubled mind, for Moore was ever a poor hand at dissimulation and bore on his unusually cheery countenance only too plainly the mark of the mental anxiety he was now enduring.
"Weel, Mr. Moore, what can I do for ye, sair?"
"Sir," said Moore, trying to hide his eagerness, "I have been thinking over the proposition you made a week ago at the instigation of Lord Lansdowne."
"Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing at a single glance that the person addressing him was much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the result of this interview, and wisely concluding that this something was money.
"You wished me to write a long poem, for which you asserted you were willing to pay in advance, if by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all my work for the next two years."
"So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago, sair. However, continue your remarks."
"At that time I did not regard the matter favorably," continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my mind. I accept your offer, sir."
"Ah, do ye? And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?"
"You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable bargain I might propose."
"True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by anither. Ha' the kindness to name in figures, Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."
McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference ringing its baleful note in each word. Moore's heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing should be forced upon him beyond all denying.
"I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold, but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman made him hesitate and falter with the words upon his lips unspoken.
"One thousand poonds!" ejaculated McDermot, terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings. "One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore? What jest is this, sair?"
"Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood rushing to his face.
"Worth it?Worth it? You must be mad, sair. No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye half that in advance."
"Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a result.
"I too ha' been considering the matter o' which ye speak, Mr. Moore."
"You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?" cried Moore, in great alarm.
"That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean," declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath his bristling brows. "I ha' decided, sair, that I much exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents. This determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha' just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole matter. Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore. Try Longmans or Mooray."
"Mr. McDermot," said Moore, forcing himself to speak calmly, thankful that the publisher and he had the smoking-room to themselves, "if the proposition I have made is unsatisfactory, pray suggest one in your turn. I will consider any you may see fit to offer."
McDermot coughed a little and shook his shining old head. That Moore was in desperate need of money was quite evident. The wily old publisher had no intention of allowing the most promising young poet of the day to slip through his fingers, yet he was quite resolved to take advantage of his extremity to drive him to as desperate a bargain as could be obtained by the craft which forty years of business life had endowed him with in addition to his natural astuteness.
"No," said he, "I 'll not haggle wi' ye. No doubt there are ithers who will gi' ye what ye ask."
This last was said in a way that plainly stated his sincere conviction that no one else would even consider the matter.
"Oh, sir!" cried Moore, despairingly, "I have relied upon this bargain."
"No fault o' mine, Mr. Moore, no fault o' mine, sair."
"Do you think I would ask you to reconsider your words if I had any hope of obtaining the money in any other quarter?"
"Where is Lord Brooking? He should help ye if ye ask him."
"Lord Brooking is on the Continent."
"Really, Mr. Moore, ye accomplish nothing by this perseestance."
"Have you no heart, Mr. McDermot?"
"Weel, it has no voice in my business affairs, sair."
"If you will give me one thousand pounds to-night and three hundred more during the year you shall own and publish all that I write these two years."
"No, no, Mr. Moore."
"One hundred during the year and the thousand pounds to-night, sir."
"Let us end this useless discussion," snarled McDermot, rising from the easy chair he had occupied until now.
"No," cried Moore, "you shall not deny me. I 'll give you a bargain you cannot refuse, sir. Give me one thousand pounds which shall be payment in full for the long poem, and I will write when and how you will for the next year at your own price. Yes, I will do this and bless you for it. Oh, sir, it means more than life to me. It is my whole future. It's love, it's honor. I beg that you will not use my extremity to drive me to despair. Surely my work is worth as much as it was a week ago when you would have gladly accepted such terms as I offer you now?"
"That is not the question," replied McDermot, coldly. "Ha' the goodness to get out o' my way, Mr. Moore."
Moore seized the publisher by the arm.
"An old man's liberty, perhaps his life; the happiness and good name of a mere girl depend upon me, sir. I have no other way of raising the money. Have pity."
"I am sorry," began McDermot in cold, merciless tones, but he got no farther.
"Then dictate your own terms, sir. I must have one thousand pounds. For that sum I will bind myself to anything you may propose."
"Ye mean that, Mr. Moore?"
"I do, sir."
"For one thousand poonds ye will gi' me,without further compensation, the entire literary labor o' your life, sair? All that ye may write so long as ye live, Mr. Moore?"
"Is that the best you will offer me?"
"That's all, sair."
"I accept your terms," said Moore in a choking voice.
McDermot sat down at a desk near by and wrote out the check for the desired amount.
Moore, accompanied by Mr. Sheridan, went in search of Sir Percival armed with the check made payable to the order of the baronet by Mr. McDermot, who immediately after drawing it went home to bed, entirely satisfied with his evening's work.
The two Irishmen found Sir Percival idly chatting with Mr. Walter Scott and that gentleman's most intimate friend, Mr. Samuel Rogers, these two giants being as usual surrounded by a circle of the lesser lights in the world of literature. Their host, seeing that his company was evidently desired, excused himself to his other guests, and the trio withdrew to a secluded corner of the room.
"Sir Percival," said Moore, in reply to the baronet's inquiring glance, "I have been informed by my friend, Mr. Dyke, that he is indebted to you for the amount of one thousand pounds."
Sir Percival allowed an expression of gentle surprise to play over his clever face.
"It is quite true, Mr. Moore, but really I fail to see how the transaction concerns you in the least."
"Perhaps your comprehension of the affair in its entirety is quite as unnecessary as you seem to regard the interest I feel in the matter," replied Moore, taking the same key as his host.
"Will you pardon me if I ask the business in regard to which you wish to see me?"
"Certainly, Sir Percival, I desire you to give Mr. Dyke a receipt for one thousand pounds."
"Tut, tut!" said the baronet, as though slightly irritated by the apparent silliness of Moore's request. "I shall do nothing of the sort unless I am paid in full."
"Allow me to pay you, sir. Here are a thousand pounds."
Sir Percival took the check from Moore, for once astonished out of his usually indifferent demeanor.
"The devil!" said he.
"Yes, a publisher," replied Moore, with a wink at Sheridan. "Kindly write me out a receipt, Sir Percival. Sherry, you will witness this transaction?"
"Faith, that I will gladly," said the dramatist, regarding Sir Percival's discomfiture with a humorous twinkle in his keen old eyes. "Damme, this is really a joyous occasion for all concerned."
To say that Sir Percival was surprised would be but to feebly express the feelings of that gentleman when he received payment of the debt which he had fondly hoped would be sufficient to gain his ends with Mistress Bessie. However, quickly rallying from his momentary discomposure, he put the check in his pocket.
"Believe me, gentlemen, I receive this with pleasure," said he, scribbling off a receipt with pen and ink brought by a servant.
"Yes, I know how pleased you are," replied Moore, politely. Then taking the acknowledgment of liquidation from the baronet, he carefully folded it before depositing it in his wallet.
"Some day, Sir Percival, when the time comes for us to make a settlement, I shall ask you for my receipt," he said in a tone that there was no mistaking.
"When that time comes, Mr. Moore, you will find me as eager and prompt as yourself," replied Sir Percival.
Moore looked his enemy calmly in the face and read there a courage fully the equal of his own.
"Egad, Sir Percival," said he, "for once I believe you. No doubt you will find it in your heart to release the bailiffs from further attendance this evening?"
"Your suggestion is a good one, Mr. Moore," answered the baronet, smothering his rage. "Carry to Mr. Dyke my thanks and add one more to the list of the many kindnesses for which I am already indebted to you, sir."
Moore and Sheridan lost but little time in the exchange of social amenities with their discomfited host. The younger man sought the card-room, bent on forgetting, for a while at least, the slavery into which he had sold his pen; the elder picked up the temporarily abandoned thread of his intoxication without further delay.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE POET FALLS FROM FAVOR
About fifteen minutes elapsed before some zealous courtier brought the poem in theExaminerto the attention of the Regent, who thereupon, forgetting the presence of Mrs. FitzHerbert, who had allowed him to overtake her a few minutes previous, swore with an ease and variety that would have been a credit to the proverbial Billingsgate seller of fish. As the rage of Wales was not of the repressed order, the voice of royalty raised high in anger drew about him a crowd of courtiers who had been eagerly expecting such an outbreak all the evening.
"Sir Percival!" cried the Regent, catching sight of the baronet in a distant corner where Farrell and he were enjoying the tumult consequent on the culmination of their plot. "Have you seen this devilish set of verses?"
"I regret to say I have, your Highness," responded the baronet both shocked and grieved.
"It is infamous!" stormed Wales. "Gad's life! it is intolerable. I devote my best efforts to my country's service only to be foully lampooned in the public Press. Why, curse me--!"
"Your Highness, calm yourself, I beg of you," said Mrs. FitzHerbert, soothingly, but the Prince was not to be so easily restrained.
"Calm, indeed?" he shouted. "Calm, when such damnable insults are written and printed? Not I, madame."
"Rise superior to this malicious attack," persisted the beauty, little pleased that her influence should fail so publicly. "Remember your greatness, sir."
"A lion may be stung into anger by a gadfly, madame," retorted Wales, growing even more furious. "Brummell, have you read this infernal poem?"
"Not I, your Highness," replied the Beau, who, accompanied by Moore, had forsaken the card-table at the first outburst of royal wrath.
"Then do so now," commanded the enraged Regent, thrusting the paper into his hands.
Brummell ran his eyes hurriedly over the verses, while Wales continued pacing up and down the now crowded room in unabating fury.
"I saw them earlier in the evening, your Highness," said Sheridan, unable to keep his oar out of the troubled waters.
"Oh, did you, indeed?" demanded Wales. "And no doubt chuckled like the devil over them?"
"Your Highness!" said the aged wit, trying to speak reproachfully, in spite of an internal laugh that threatened to break out and ruin him.
"I believe you are quizzing me now if the truth were known," asserted the Prince, wrathfully suspicious. "If I am not mistaken, these lines sound marvellously like the work of your pen, sirrah."
"On my honor you wrong me, Sire," declared Sheridan, in a tone so unmistakably truthful that Wales could not doubt his entire innocence.
"May I not see the poem, Mr. Brummell?" asked Dyke, who had just entered the room.
The Beau obligingly handed over the paper to the old gentleman. As the old rhymer turned away, Moore looked over his shoulder and, scanning with eager eyes the page in quest of the satire which had so enraged the Regent, found it before the elder man's less keen sight had performed a like service for him. Moore turned sick with horror and clutched the nearest chair for support. How had the verses found their way into print? Dyke was ruined if it were proved that he wrote them. Bessie, too, would feel the weight of the Regent's displeasure, and without doubt would be deprived of her position at Drury Lane for her father's additional punishment. He had saved them from one disaster only to see them plunged hopelessly into another almost as dire.
A groan from the unhappy author announced that he, too, had recognized his poem. The next moment he turned on Moore with a look of despair on his usually placid face.
"Tom," he whispered, "you have ruined me. My poem is printed. Oh, Tom, how could you? How could you?"
"Surely you do not believe that I gave it to the Press?" said Moore, hoarsely, stung to the heart by the accusing look he read in his old friend's eyes.
"Who else could have done it? I gave you the only copy three months ago."
"I remember, sir. Ah, I can explain it. I left my garret in the afternoon and went for a stroll. When I returned home I found Sir Percival and Farrell there. Since that day I have never thought of it. They have done this, Mr. Dyke."
"I do not believe you," answered Dyke in a voice so scornful and suspicious that Moore felt as though he had received a blow in the face.
Meanwhile Wales's anger had not cooled in the least.
"Egad!" he was saying, "if I but knew the author's name!"
"There is still a chance, Mr. Dyke," whispered Moore. "Deny all knowledge of the matter. Swear you did not write it if necessary."
"Is it impossible to learn the identity of the writer?" asked Brummell seriously.
"Impossible?" repeated Wales. "Of course it is impossible, Beau! You do not think he will acknowledge this slander as his own, do you?"
"It does seem unlikely," admitted the exquisite.
"So unlikely," snorted the Prince, "that I 'd give a thousand pounds to find the rascal out."
Farrell, spurred on by a nudge from the elbow of his patron, stepped forward.
"Your Highness," said he, calmly, "I accept your offer."
Wales gazed at the dapper young law student in surprise.
"You know the author of this attack upon me, sir?" he asked.
"I do," answered Farrell, firmly.
Moore, resolved to anticipate and if possible prevent the accusation of Dyke which he felt sure was about to follow, stepped hurriedly forward.
"One moment, your Highness," said he. "Do you know this gentleman? He is a liar, a blackleg, and a coward, unworthy of your Highness' belief or consideration."
"Curse you," began Farrell, white to his lips with shame and passion, but Moore did not allow him to finish.
"I struck him in Ireland, yet he never resented my insult. Think, your Highness, is such a poltroon worthy of belief?"
"Sire!" stammered Farrell.
"Damn your private quarrels!" roared Wales, turning on Moore. "Have I not my own wrongs to resent, that you must annoy me with yours now?"
"He will lie to you as he has to others, Sire," replied Moore, refusing to be silenced.
"That remains to be seen, sirrah."
Sir Percival stepped out of the throng surrounding the angry Prince, smiling and debonair as usual.
"I will answer for the truth of any statement Mr. Farrell may make, Sire," said he.
"Continue," growled the Prince, waving Moore back with an impatient gesture.
"Your Highness," said Farrell, quick to take advantage of his opportunity, "the author of this vile attack upon you is one of your friends, a favorite protégé, who, owing all to your favor, thus rewards your kindness by base ingratitude. To your Highness he owes everything; thus he repays you."
"His name?" demanded Wales.
There was a moment's pause, during which silence reigned, as Farrell artfully hesitated in his reply that, thus delayed, it might fall with even more crushing effect upon the object of his hatred. Short as was the time, it sufficed for Moore. Convinced that this was the only opportunity which would be afforded him to avert the disaster he believed to be about to overtake the father of the girl he had loved so truly and patiently, he resolved not to let it pass unutilized.
"I wrote that poem," he cried. "I am the author whose name your Highness would know."
"You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by what he had heard.
Dyke made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm.
"For Bessie's sake," he whispered. "Now do you believe me?"
"But, Tom--"
"Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's receipt into Dyke's hand. "Read that, and be silent if you love your daughter."
Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in utter silence. Then, as he recovered speech, his voice sounded hoarsely, but under perfect control.
"Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for Mr. Moore."
Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from the room. Sir Percival started toward the door, a triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to face. Suddenly the desperate expression left the countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem instead of a disgraceful dismissal.
"You heard his Highness' order, my man?"
He seemed to be addressing a servant, if one could judge from the tone in which he spoke.
"Then call my carriage, lackey!"
"Lackey!" cried Sir Percival, red with rage at the insult, thus forced upon him.
"Aye, lackey," repeated Moore, defiant and sneering in his turn. "And here is your pay!"
As he spoke, he struck the baronet a stinging slap in the face; then turned and strolled elegantly from the room.
Thus it was that Mr. Thomas Moore quitted the world of Fashion, which but a scant three months before he had entered in triumph by grace of the favor of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.
Book Four
"If every rose with gold were tied,Did gems for dewdrops fall,One faded leaf where love had sighedWere sweetly worth them all."
"If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where love had sighed
Were sweetly worth them all."
Were sweetly worth them all."
Chapter Twenty-Two
TOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE
The morning after his enforced but by no means inglorious departure from Sir Percival's house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his hair. Sir Percival's honor was declared vindicated, as his having made a target of himself for Moore's shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he had received from the poet.
Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks of hair,--a loss which was not without significance as an indication of Sir Percival's good intentions. The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at this particular game he was no match for his sneering enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an expert marksman, and had never doubted that he would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning. However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival had come and gone, for he was far too wise to endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature of their encounter. Sir Percival's skill was widely known, and a no less deservedly popular individual than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth concerning Moore's shortcomings as a pistol shot. Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet that it was "a demned one-sided affair," and that Sir Percival's reputation, had he killed Moore, might have become "even a little more unsavory," comments which led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet's disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was considered a ruined man.
On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince's kindness had a few months before rescued him.
"No," said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady. "I 'm out of favor now and I 'll be saving of my pennies till I 'm righted again, if that shall ever be, which God knows and I 'm ignorant of, worse luck."
Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several flights between the poet's latest and earliest abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad to be back in their old quarters. Their cheerfulness could be easily accounted for. Rat-holes were an unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought incumbent on him to assume in honor of rising fortune had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.
Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the removal, Moore, after signing his contract with McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country, as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself to a little fishing village not far distant.
* * * * *
One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.
There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.
One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of theGazetteprinted upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a manuscript under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.
Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the street below.
"That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss 'em, they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they? Well, we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets through."
The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor. This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit.
"You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, "Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin' with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we 'as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer."
Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley" on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its success.
Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his melody.
"Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "you must n't do sich rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years' growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount."
"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady. "It's many the fright you 've given me, you little tinker. Is Mr. Moore back from the country?"
"See 'ere, his n't the rent pide?" demanded Buster.
"Av course it's paid," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. "D' ye t'ink I have no t'oughts at all but about me rint?"
"Well," confessed Buster, "once hupon a time, hit sorter looked has 'ow you wuz bestowing considerable medication hupon that topic. Hif hit did n't, bli' me, that's hall, just bli' me."
"Is Mr. Moore back from the country?" repeated Mrs. Malone.
"Yes, your Majesty," replied the boy, with a low obeisance. "'Ee his. 'Ee returned this werry noon from the 'onts hof nachoor."
"It is just a week since he wint away," observed Mrs. Malone, reflectively.
"'Ow does yer keep count?" asked Buster, surprised at the accuracy of her remark.
"Faith, thot 's an easy mather," she answered, sagely. "Has n't Misthress Dyke called to see him sivin times?"
"She 'as, your 'Ighness, she 'as."
"That's once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n't it?"
"Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi 'as faith in the correctness of your calculation," responded Buster.
"Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n't returned. Did yez give her his adthress?"
"Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome hevery day. Hit 'll do 'er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes 'em contented like. Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy female. She'll 'ave a master, she will."
Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the floor.
"Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently viewing the disaster she had wrought.
"My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone, "wot his this hany 'ow? His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag habout till death do hus part?"
"Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking about the holy state of matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which he had taken his seat. "Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady called?"
"No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party."
"Why not, me bucko?"
"Coz Hi wishes to surprise 'im, that's w'y," said the boy defiantly. "Hand hif you lays 'and hon me agin, Hi 'll 'ave Lord Castlereagh bite you good hand 'arty where it 'll do you the most good hand be the least missed."
"Niver mind thot."
"Hi won't hif you won't, Hi 'm sure, Mrs. Malone, and as for the young lidy, she has n't been 'ere to-day," said Buster.
"Oh, never fear," returned Mrs. Malone. "Shell come, and it's glad I am that he 's back agin."
"W'y? Did you miss 'im?"
"Niver mind. It's the young leddy I 'm tinking of. Faith, suppose she got discouraged and stopped a-coming?"
"That 'ud show she was n't worth 'aving," replied Buster wisely. "Now see 'ere, Mrs. Malone, w'en she comes Hi wants you to let 'er hup widout hany announcement. Does you 'ear?"
"Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?"
"You just leave it to me, your 'Ighness. Hi knows how these haffairs should be conducted."
"Oh, yez do, do yez?" said Mrs. Malone in a derisive tone, as she ambled toward the door. "It's in an orphan asylum yez ought to be."
"Not hat all," retorted Buster. "Hi 'as no time to waste hon 'aving horphings."
The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she quitted his apartments, and overwhelmed him with the heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of Buster's instructions, said never a word concerning the visits of Mistress Dyke. Moore, having made as speedy an escape as was possible without wounding the old woman's feelings, entered the attic, being received with much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who seemed to ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a puppy several years before.
"Good hevening, Mr. Moore," said Buster politely, about to deliver the post to his master.
"Good evening,Montgomery," replied Moore, severely, drawing off his gloves.
"Montgomery?" echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted. "Ho, don't call me that, sir, please don't."
"Well, that's your name, isn't it?"
"Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!" said Buster, in an injured tone. "Hi knows hit only too well. Wen Hi wuz too little to defend myself w'en put hupon, my hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien Hethelbert, hand 'itches hit hon to the family nime hof Spinks."
"Montgomery Julien Ethelbert--"
"Spinks. Yes sir, that's hit. Wuz n't that a crime? That's wot stunted my growth, most likely."
"It seems plausible," observed Moore, in secret vastly amused.
"Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly. "Say, sir, won't you allus call me Buster?"
"No, sir," responded Moore, sternly. "You were fighting again this afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster again to-day."
"Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment is horful. We wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir, just playin' like."
"Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won't have you half killing the neighbors' children that way."
"You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant gesture w'en I soaked 'im hon the nob? Did n't Hi do 'im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!"
"Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.
The lad wilted.
"Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes methatfretful," he said pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."
"Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery."
"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the post, sir."
Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to examine them.
"From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster interestedly.
Moore nodded.
"That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first as he spoke. "Ah, here is an inclosure."
"Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly.
"Where else?" demanded the poet. "Did you think it would be wrapped around the outside? From theGazette. One pound. Good. A pound is better than ten shillings any day."
"Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said Buster, shaking his round head.
"But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding to himself, "aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."
He found a note inside and read it aloud.
"MR. THOMAS MOORE--
"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, 'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."