Book Three

"_Oh! what was love made for, if it's not the same_ _Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?_ _I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,_ _I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art._"

_Chapter Fifteen_

_SETS FORTH CERTAIN EXPLANATIONS_

Lord Brooking spoke truly when he declared that the dedication of Moore's volume of poems accepted by the Prince would bring fame and prosperity to the young Irishman, who had toiled with such enthusiasm and unwavering diligence in paraphrasing and adapting the Odes of Anacreon. Arrayed and ornamented by his brilliant fancy, owing as much to their translator as to Anacreon himself, they were given to the world and received with such choruses of commendation from both the public and the critics that the reputation of Thomas Moore was firmly established by his first book. Society delighted itself by showing favor to the author it had hitherto neglected. Moore became a stranger to privation and occupied the best suite in the dwelling presided over by Mrs. Malone, who now was numbered in the ranks of his greatest admirers. In fact the old woman seemed to take a personal pride in the social success of her lodger, and followed with an enthusiasm worthy of a better cause his course in the upper world as traced by the papers in their reports of the diversions of the aristocracy. Moore remained quite unchanged by his sudden good fortune. Never even in his darkest hour had he doubted that he deserved success, and, now that it had come, he accepted it as his just earnings and valued it as nothing more, though jubilant that his merits had at last been recognized. His reception by the world of society was more than flattering. Where he was invited first because he was the poetic lion of the season he was asked again on account of his own charming personality. Moore the poet opened the door of the drawing-room for Moore the society man, who was forthwith made an honored and much-sought guest. He sang his own songs in a melting baritone that struck a responsive chord in the hearts of young and old alike. His ballads were the most popular of the day. Romantic swains and sentimental maidens warbled them on every possible occasion; but none equalled in feeling and grace the manner in which they were rendered by the hitherto unknown youth who had penned them. The grand dames were often rivals in their attempts to secure the poet's presence at their _musicales_ and receptions. The young bucks sought him as guest at their late suppers, while the publishers bid against one another for the privilege of printing his next book, as, in spite of his gadding about from function to function, Moore contrived to find time to continue his literary labors. Lord Moira, thanks to the glowing representations of his nephew, made much of the poet, and through his influence Moore became acquainted with certain of the great gentlemen of the time who had but few moments to waste on social amenities, and were therefore far more exclusive than the better-known figures in the gay world drawing its guiding inspiration from Carlton House. Though Moore did not lose his head as a result of the flattery and admiration now showered upon him, it would have been strange indeed if he had not secretly exulted over the triumph he had won. His almost juvenile delight was frankly acknowledged by him in the long and loving letters he wrote to the members of his own family, who in distant Dublin gloried in the London victory of the firstborn. It was no odd or unusual thing for the poet to be seen at three or four fashionable gatherings in one evening. His presentation to the Prince of Wales, whose condescension had made certain the success of the Odes, followed soon after the publication of the book, and prince and poet were equally charmed, each with the other. Moore seized upon this meeting as an opportunity to tender to his Highness the thanks previously conveyed for him by Lord Brooking. To his great delight, Wales graciously declared that he considered himself honored by the dedication of the volume, and expressed a hope that they might have the opportunity of enjoying each other's society on many occasions in the near future. Moore came away that evening belonging wholly to the Regent, for, when that noble gentleman willed it so, no one could be more charming, and as his Highness was distinctly taken with the clever and modest young poet, he saw fit to be more than usually condescending and agreeable. He had chatted genially with Moore on literary topics of present interest, complimented him on the grace and rippling beauty of his translation of the Odes, and warmly applauded the young Irishman's singing of several of his own ballads. Taking all things into consideration, Moore had every reason except one to be content with his present lot. That the single disturbing element in his existence was the misunderstanding with Bessie Dyke need scarcely be asserted. They met frequently in society, for, thanks to the influence of Sir Percival, the doors which Moore had pried apart by mighty effort with his pen, had opened in easy welcome to the beautiful young actress, who, though coldly pleasant in her demeanor, made no attempt to conceal her desire to avoid Moore when the opportunity offered. As he, hurt and hopeless, made but little effort to force his company upon her, they might have been comparative strangers for all the evidence of mutual interest they gave at the various social gatherings when they chanced to meet, so, though several months had elapsed since Moore emerged from obscurity, no progress had been made in his love affair.

Sir Percival Lovelace had contemplated his rival's sudden rise to fame with interest, not unmixed with cynical amusement, his humorous sensibilities being rarely tickled at his own discomfiture, for this pleasant gentleman was philosopher enough to extract cause for merriment from his own disappointments and miscalculations. But the real reason for the toleration exhibited by the baronet was the confidence he felt that he had in his possession a weapon which, when he chose to wield it, would not fail to utterly destroy Moore in the estimation and good graces of the Regent, for Sir Percival felt certain that the loss of royal favor would result in the social ruin of his rival. As he thought he had ascertained by various means that there was comparatively little likelihood of the differences between Bessie and her lover being patched up, Sir Percival had held back the blow which he intended should completely demolish the prosperity of the poet, deciding to allow Moore to climb even higher on the ladder of fortune before knocking it from beneath his feet, that a greater fall might follow. But meanwhile the baronet had not been idle in other directions. Like many other gentlemen of the quill, Robin Dyke imagined that he was possessed of much ability in affairs of finance, and as numerous opportunities were ever at hand for indulgence in such hazards as are afforded by stock speculation to the unwary, he succeeded in quickly and secretly losing all the money he made over and above the funds necessary to maintain the modest little home tenanted by himself and daughter. After much mental debating he mentioned his indiscretion to his patron, who, scenting immediately a chance to secure a much-desired hold upon the foolish old gentleman, at his own suggestion loaned Dyke three hundred pounds, taking notes at ninety days' sight in exchange for the sum, stipulating that the matter should be kept from Bessie. Dyke, naturally reluctant to admit the previous ill-success of his investments to his daughter, readily consented to accept this condition, and without more ado proceeded to send good money after bad by repeating his financial mistakes. This time he hesitated very little before acquainting Sir Percival with his lack of success, and found no difficulty in securing a further loan of another three hundred pounds, the investment of which resulted in even more brilliant disaster than before. Sanguine ever of ultimate success which should retrieve the losses already incurred, the worthy but foolish old rhymer increased his indebtedness to Sir Percival until he owed him in all one thousand pounds without Bessie having even a suspicion of the true state of affairs. Time passed and the notes matured, but Dyke, having no means of settling, frankly announced the fact to his patron and received reassuring smiles in return, a reply which fully contented him. The baronet affected to be quite indifferent as to the length of the period he might have to wait for his money, and told Dyke to take his own time in repaying him. This the old gentleman proceeded to do and thus made possible the events to be described in succeeding chapters.

_Chapter Sixteen_

_TOM MOORE SEPARATES A YOUNG LADY FROM HER SKIRT_

It was at the splendid mansion of Lady Donegal that Moore first met Mr. Sheridan. Introduced to the famous wit by no less a person than George Brummell himself, Moore found not unworthily bestowed the reverence he had felt from his boyhood for the brilliant but erratic Irishman whose previous success in the fashionable world of London had served to render less difficult the progress of his younger countryman when once begun, and on this evening was laid the foundation of the friendship destined to endure until the melancholy end of the elder genius. Mr. Walter Scott, as yet famed only for his verse romances, for this was some years before the fiery genius of Lord Byron, now a fat youth at Eton, drove the genial Scotchman from the lyric field into the world of prose where he has reigned supreme even to this day, was another notable with whom Moore became immediately and delightfully intimate. The sturdy intellect of Scott, who infused his vigorous personality into all that flowed so readily from his pen, was delighted and amazed at the grace and beauty of the Irishman's more delicate imagery, while the refined and subtler fancy of the younger poet was filled with wonder by the other's stirring, rakehelly border ballads. Scott was the sturdy, gnarled, and defiant oak in the literary forest; Moore the tender, clinging ivy, enfolding and beautifying all that he touched and lingered on. No wonder, then, that their admiration should be reciprocal. The intimate crony of these brilliant men, the hostess herself was a woman of refined taste and much personal charm. In her Moore found a true and admiring friend, and whenever he, for business or pleasure, was compelled to absent himself from London, a delightful correspondence was kept up, as pleasing to the great lady of fashion as to the poet, for Moore, ever a favorite among men, was not less popular with the opposite sex, no matter what their rank in the world might be.

While he had good reason to treasure the friendship of Lady Donegal for the sake of the brilliant acquaintances whom he met at her mansion for the first time, even a more tender and pleasing opportunity for gratitude was to be afforded him, for here it was that transpired the series of incidents which resulted finally in his reconciliation with Bessie Dyke.

On the night in question Moore arrived in company with Sheridan and Brummell, the two Irishmen having spied the Beau in a cab driving to the reception at Lady Donegal's as they were making their way toward the same destination on foot. They hailed the vehicle, and when the driver had pulled up in obedience to a signal somewhat unwillingly given by Brummell, climbed in with hardly as much as a beg your leave, making themselves quite comfortable in spite of the remonstrances of the crowded and berumpled dandy, the three thus reaching her ladyship's great mansion together.

Moore paid his respects to his hostess, then, after a brief session in the card-room with Mr. Sheridan, which resulted in the enrichment of the elder Celt to the extent of two guineas, made his way to a room usually little frequented by the less intimate company, intending to give definite shape in black and white to a new song as yet unwritten, the garbled and uncompleted verses of which had been running and jumping in his head all day.

Much to his surprise, Moore found the writing desk in use, the young lady who was busy scribbling being no other than Bessie Dyke. His first impulse was to make a quiet exit, trusting to his noiselessness to effect escape undiscovered, but reflecting that, as hitherto he had not had so excellent an opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation, he would be foolish to allow such a chance for attempting to right himself in her estimation to go unutilized, he thought better of it, and so remained, announcing his presence by a polite little cough, highly suggestive of a timidity but slightly feigned.

Bessie looked up from her writing, then continued her occupation until she had completed her task.

"Am I interrupting you, Mistress Dyke?"

"Does it look as though you were, Mr. Moore?" she asked, tartly.

"Not exactly," he admitted, not at all encouraged by her manner; "but appearances are deceiving, you know."

"I usually accept them as conclusive," said she, folding the sheet of paper which she had just finished.

"I know you do," said Moore, plaintively. "It is a bad habit to get into."

"No doubt you speak as an authority on the subject, Mr. Moore?"

"On bad habits? It is a bad habit I have of speaking, you mean, Mistress Dyke?"

Bessie nodded and turned toward him, resting one chubby elbow upon the desk.

"How London has changed you," sighed Moore, regretfully, shaking his head as he spoke.

"And you?" said the girl in a critical tone. "Surely Mr. Thomas Moore, the friend of the Prince, is very different from an unknown Irish rhymer?"

"Rhymer?" repeated he. "I see you have been talking with Sir Percival."

"To be sure," said Bessie. "So pleasant and witty a gentleman is worthy of attention."

Moore sighed, and drawing a chair nearer to the desk sat down and crossed his legs comfortably.

"See here, Bessie," he said in his most persuasive tones, "why should we quarrel in this foolish fashion?"

The girl laughed in rather an embarrassed way and shifted a little on the chair.

"If there is some other fashion in which you would prefer to quarrel, perhaps it will be as acceptable as this," she replied, lightly.

"Will you never be serious?" demanded the poet.

"Why should I be serious, sir?"

"To please me, if for no other reason."

"Ah, but why should I wish to please you, Mr. Moore?"

"It is a woman's duty to make herself agreeable."

"Not to every impudent young versifier who thinks to do her honor with his attention," replied Bessie, smiling mischievously as she rebuked an unruly ringlet with one dimpled hand.

"But I have no such idea," protested Moore, quite baffled by her behavior.

"No? Surely a young man who proposes marriage to two different girls in one afternoon must think very well of himself?"

Moore groaned, and gave the girl an appealing glance that failed to accomplish anything.

"Ah, Bessie, you have no heart!"

"Have you, _Mr. Moore_?"

"You have had it these two years, Bessie," he replied, fervidly.

"You are quite mistaken, sir," quoth she, in tones of conviction. "I would have no use for such a thing, so would not accept it. You are thinking of some other girl, _Mr. Moore_."

"I am thinking of you, Bessie."

"Then you are wasting your time, _Mr. Moore_, and I 'll thank you to say 'Mistress Dyke' in the future when you address me."

"I 'd like to say 'Mrs. Moore,'" replied the poet.

"What did you say, sir?" she demanded shortly, an angry flash in her eyes.

"I said I 'd know more some day."

"That is certainly to be hoped," said Bessie. "One should be sanguine, no matter how futile such cheerfulness may appear at the present time."

So far Moore had succeeded but poorly in breaking down the girl's reserve, and though painfully conscious of his failure, was nevertheless quite resolved that the interview should not end with their present attitudes unaltered.

That she herself was not averse to listening to his arguments this evening was already fully proved, for she had made no effort to conclude their conversation, and in fact seemed waiting with no little interest for the next attempt he might make to restore himself to his old-time place in her regard.

"Mistress Dyke," began Moore, hopefully, favoring the girl with a look as languishing as love could make it, "do you know what your mouth reminds me of as you sit there?"

"Cherries?" suggested the girl promptly. "I believe that is the usual comparison made by lame-witted poets."

"No, indeed. Cherries conceal pits, and, as you no doubt remember, Joseph fell into one. Now I am no Joseph."

"No," said Bessie. "You are more like Charles Surface, I fancy."

"Never mind mixing the Drama with this conversation," replied Moore, chidingly. "Forget for a moment that you are an actress and remember you are a woman, though no doubt it amounts to the same thing."

"Well, what _does_ my mouth remind you of, Mr. Moore?" asked the girl, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Of better things, Mistress Dyke."

"Indeed? What may they be, sir?"

"Kisses," replied the poet lightly. "Ah, Bessie, it is glad that I am that your mouth is no smaller."

"And why so?" she asked, suspiciously.

"The smaller a woman's mouth, the greater the temptation."

"Is that what you call me?"

"Your mouth, my dear. Alluring is no name for it. Temptation? Aye, that it is. Twin ribbons of rosy temptation, or I 'm no Irishman."

"We won't dwell upon that subject," announced Bessie.

"If I were a honey-bee, I 'd live and die there," said Moore, sincerely.

"Where?" asked the girl.

"On the subject, _if I were a honey-bee_."

"The subject is closed," she answered, compressing her lips in anything but an amiable expression.

"I don't like it so well that way."

"How you like it does not interest me at all, sir."

"Now I wish to speak to you seriously," said Moore with becoming gravity. "Please give me your attention."

"I am listening, sir," she answered, a trifle uneasily.

"Very well, then. Don't you think women should try to make men better?"

"Yes."

"And to reduce their temptations?"

"Yes."

"Then, for instance, if you had a loaf of bread you did not need and knew a man was starving for it, would n't you rather give it to him than have him steal it and be responsible for the sin?"

"Yes," said Bessie, "I would, undoubtedly."

"Ah," exclaimed Moore, happily, "then if I tell you I am starving for a kiss and feel afraid I may steal it, you will give me one to put me out of temptation?"

"On the contrary, I shall request you to cease talking nonsense, and suggest that you had better sit down."

"I will, if it pleases you," replied Moore, smiling sweetly at the girl, as he resumed the chair from which he had risen in his eagerness a moment before.

"Oh," said Bessie, in a sarcastic tone, "you think you are very clever, don't you?"

"Why should I deny it? A good opinion is like charity, and should begin at home."

"Does any one else think you are clever, Mr. Moore?"

"I don't know," answered the poet cheerfully; "but if they do not, it only makes my opinion more valuable on account of its rarity."

Bessie was compelled to smile by this ingenious argument, and sought refuge behind her fan; but Moore, seeing he had scored, followed up his success resolutely.

"As you say," he continued, "I am clever."

"But," said Bessie indignantly, "I did not say that."

"You forget," replied Moore, loftily, "that a man's opinion of what a woman thinks is based largely on what she does not say."

"You surprise me, Mr. Moore. Pray explain your last assertion."

"Well, then, for example, I linger by your side and you do not say 'Go away,' so my opinion is that you wish me to remain."

"Oh," exclaimed Bessie, shocked at the mere idea of such a thing.

"You do not say 'I hate you,' so my opinion is that you l--"

"Mr. Moore," cried Bessie, sternly, and the poet diplomatically allowed her interruption to finish his remark.

"Men are so foolish," observed the girl, knitting her brows in sad contemplation of masculine idiocy. "Really it is quite saddening when one considers their stupidity."

"And yet," said Moore, "if we were not such fools you wise little ladies would find it much more difficult to work your wills."

"I am not so sure of that," said Bessie, with a sniff of superiority. "Men are great nuisances at best."

"Had you rather I went away?" asked Moore, in his most honeyed accents. "Shall I go?"

"You must suit your own inclination, sir," replied Bessie, too clever to be so entrapped.

"And you?" he returned. "Can't you say 'I wish you to stay'?"

"No, Mr. Moore."

"And why not, Mistress Dyke?"

"Girls do not say such things to men."

Moore sighed regretfully.

"I wish they did," said he. "Don't you like me at all any more?"

"Not very much," replied Bessie, with seeming frankness.

"Won't you smile at me?"

"No," said Bessie, determinedly, "I will not."

As she spoke she turned away from the poet, but he was not to be so easily defeated.

"Bessie," he whispered tenderly. "Smile at me, dearest, smile just once."

"No," she answered firmly, "I will not. I don't have to smile if I don't wish to, do I?"

But, alas for her determination, as she replied her eyes met those of Moore; the twinkling merriment which she read in her lover's gaze was too much for her gravity, and so, in spite of her effort to keep a sober face, she smiled back at him, and if it was not the love-light that shone beneath her long lashes, it was a something so entirely like it that a wiser man than the young Irishman would have been pardonable for making such a mistake.

"Oh," he said, lovingly triumphant, "what do you think about it now?"

"Well," said Bessie, in quick equivocation, "I wanted to smile then. You are very ridiculous, Mr. Moore."

"You make me so, Bessie."

"What did I tell you about that name?" she demanded, rising to her feet.

"I forgot, Bessie," he replied defiantly.

"If that is the case you shall have the opportunity to recall it to mind," said she, sternly, at the same time moving towards the door. But her foot caught in her skirt and as she recovered her balance with a little cry there was an ominous sound of ripping plainly heard.

"There," cried Bessie in a rage, "I 've stepped on a ruffle. It is all your fault, Tom Moore."

"Of course it is," replied the poet. "It always is, as we both know."

Bessie, meanwhile, had investigated the extent of the damage she had sustained. The lace ruffle on her underskirt had been torn off for at least two feet. The thing was utterly ruined, and, gritting her teeth as she realized this, Bessie tried to tear off the loose piece. This, however, proved to be beyond her strength, so, abandoning the attempt with an exclamation of rage, she stamped her foot in anger.

"Let me help you," said Moore politely. "No doubt, I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress Dyke."

"You are the cause of all the trouble," said Bessie, crossly.

"All the more reason, then, for letting me help you repair the damage. You can't dance with that trailing in front of you."

Moore took the end of the ruffle which Bessie held out to him, and, securing a firm grip upon it, marched across the room, thus ripping off the entire bottom of the skirt.

"Thank you," said Bessie, more graciously, extending her hand for the torn piece.

Moore shook his head and held the ruffle behind him.

"Give it to me, sir," exclaimed the girl indignantly.

"It is the foam on the wave of loveliness," declared the poet, waving his prize as though it were a pennant, but carefully keeping it out of Bessie's reach.

"You cannot have it, sir," she said, sternly.

"Women are enveloped in mystery," he continued, quite unrebuked, "yards of it. If there is anything I love, it is mystery, so I 'll keep this for myself."

"Why?"

"For a souvenir. Think of the memories associated with it, Bessie."

"What good will it be to you?" she asked, rather more pleasantly.

"It would be a great success as a necktie," Moore went on, draping it beneath his chin. "Thusly, for instance, or I might wear it on my arm, or next my heart."

"Give me that ruffle," cried Bessie, snatching at it as she spoke, and by good luck catching it.

"Let go," commanded Moore. "If you don't I 'll kiss your hands for you."

"Oh, no, you won't."

But he did.

"Please," pleaded the girl, not letting go.

"I don't intend to keep it, Bessie, on my word of honor."

Confident that she had secured her object, the girl released the ruffle and stepped back.

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," said she, waiting expectantly.

"Oh, not at all, Mistress Dyke. What are you waiting for?"

"For that."

"But you do not get this, Mistress Dyke."

"But you promised, sir."

"I did not say I would _give it to you_," explained Moore, genially. "I merely promised that I would _not keep_ it. Well, I won't. I happen to have your card in my pocket--it's a wonder it is n't the mitten you have presented me with so often--and this card I shall pin on the ruffle, which I shall then hang on this candelabra, where it will remain until found by some one, and what they will think of you then is beyond my power to imagine."

Moore suited the action to the word as he spoke, and the bundle of frills was securely perched on the candle-rack protruding from the wall a good seven feet from the floor before Bessie fully realized how completely she had been outwitted.

Then she lost her temper entirely.

"You cheat," she cried furiously. "Oh, I should have known better than to trust you."

"Certainly you should," replied the poet, politely agreeing with the irate damsel. "I was surprised myself at the simplicity of your behavior."

"However," she continued, "I shall never believe you again."

"Never?"

"_Never_, Mr. Moore, and I am very angry with you."

"Really?" asked he. "Why, whoever would have suspected it, Bessie?"

"Luckily I can get it without your assistance," she went on. "You are not half so smart as you imagine."

"Of course not," observed Moore, watching her as she stood on tiptoe and vainly endeavored to reach the cause of all the trouble. "Take care, Bessie, or you 'll tear something else."

The girl was baffled only for the moment, for directly beneath the candelabra stood the desk at which she had been writing a few moments before. As the top, which when open formed the writing table, was let down, it was an easy thing for her to step up on it from the seat of a chair, and then from there to the top of the desk. This was what Bessie did as quickly as was possible, for she was considerably handicapped in her climbing by her long train.

"There is nothing like independence," remarked the poet, observing her with a broad smile, as she performed this manoeuvre and stood in triumph on the desk. "Like marriage, it usually begins with a declaration and ends with a fight. It did in America."

"You imagine you are witty," said Bessie, in icy tones, picking the ruffle from its perch on the candelabra.

Moore stepped quickly forward and shut up the desk. This done he removed the chair by which she had mounted and had her completely at his mercy.

"And you," he said pleasantly, "imagine you are independent."

Bessie turned carefully and discovered her plight with a little exclamation of dismay.

"Put that chair back and open this desk immediately," she commanded sternly.

"The chair is doing very well where it is," replied Moore, calmly sitting down upon it.

Bessie bit her lip in anger.

"It is not customary for a gentleman to sit while a lady remains standing."

"Nor is it usual," answered Moore, "for a lady to climb up on a desk."

"You think you know a lot about women, don't you?"

"I am always willing to learn more," responded the victorious poet, blithely.

"Oh, dear," sighed the girl, "I don't dare jump with these high-heeled slippers on."

"I observe that your tastes are elevated, even in shoes. Give me the ruffle and I 'll help you down."

"No, sir, you shall not have it."

"Hurry, I think I hear some one coming," exclaimed Moore in an alarmed tone.

"Do help me down."

"The ruffle first."

"Oh, there you are," she cried, abandoning herself to utter defeat as she tossed him the bribe he demanded.

Once safely on the floor, Bessie ran lightly to the entrance leading to the adjoining room and peeped out to see who was approaching. Much to her astonishment she discovered no one near, then, turning, read in Moore's laughing eyes how cleverly she had been tricked.

"There is no one coming," she said severely.

"Is there not?" asked the poet, stowing away the prize he had won in his coat-tail pocket. "Shall I help you up on the table again?"

Bessie looked daggers at him, but he smiled blandly back at her in innocent good-nature.

"I am very angry with you," she announced, decisively. "Really, Mr. Moore, your behavior is perfectly intolerable."

"And why are you so provoked? Because I took your ruffle?" queried the poet. "Why angry, since I left the skirt?"

"Mr. Moore!" she cried warningly.

"Well, Mistress?"

"Be careful, sir!"

"I do not have to be," he answered, "but you are very different. Now you dare not be long cross."

"Oh, don't I, indeed? And if I dare not, what is the reason, sir," she demanded in a tone as sarcastic as she could make it, though this, it must be admitted, was not saying much.

"Because," he said, slowly and coolly, "if you do let your temper get the better of you the skirt is liable to follow the ruffle into my possession."

"Insolent," exclaimed the girl, sitting down and carefully turning her back towards her tormentor.

That she was very angry with Moore cannot be doubted. Probably it was because she was so exasperated at his behavior and so desirous of being plagued no further by him that she remained in this secluded nook instead of returning to the adjacent rooms, the greater number of which were thronged with guests. Certainly her staying where she was could not be regarded as anything but indicative of a sincere desire to be rid of his company. Unfortunately this very evident fact was not plain to the poet, for he proceeded quite as though he interpreted her tarrying as proof of his own success in providing her with pleasant diversion, a grievous error, as any one conversant with the real state of affairs would have admitted.

"Lady Donegal is a delightful hostess, is n't she, Mistress Dyke?"

"At last you have suggested a subject on which we can agree," replied Bessie, stiffly.

"Oh, I can suggest another," said Moore, trying to catch her eye, an undertaking Bessie rendered a failure by resolutely turning her head away.

"What is that, Mr. Moore?"

"You know I think you are very pretty, Bessie."

"As though I care what you think."

"And I know _you_ think you are very pretty, so we agree again."

"You think I am conceited."

"I know you have good reason to think well of yourself," answered Moore, sweetly.

"Indeed, sir?"

"Indeed, ma'am, for are you not favored with the undying devotion of one Thomas Moore?"

"Oh," said Bessie, disappointed.

Moore approached her chair and, circling round it, tried to make her look him in the face, but she foiled all his attempts by twisting from side to side like a sulky schoolgirl.

"You 'll choke yourself, Bessie," he said, apprehensively. "You 'll have a neck like a corkscrew before long."

"There would be no danger if you would cease intruding yourself upon my meditation," snapped the girl, crossly.

"'She who meditates is lost,'" quoted the poet. "Ah, Bessie darlin', look around at me. Won't you, Bessie? Do, there's a dear."

"I am not to be fooled by your blarneying tongue, Mr. Moore. I, too, am Irish."

"You don't behave like it," said he.

"You do not regulate my behavior, sir."

"I wish I did," remarked Moore. "I could improve it a good deal without much effort."

"You need not trouble."

"Oh, no trouble at all, I assure you."

"Your assurance is the best part of you, Mr. Moore."

"I could n't say what part of you is the best, dearest," he answered in a soothing tone, that only made the girl more angry. "Collectively you outclass any colleen in the Kingdom. Now will you look around at me?"

"No."

"You won't? If you do not behave I will have to punish you."

"_You_ punish _me_?" she repeated scornfully. "You forget yourself, Mr. Moore."

"That is because when I am near you I can think of no one else. If you don't look around and bestow on me one of your sweetest smiles I shall not permit you to leave the room."

"I 'll go the moment I am ready."

"Oh, no you won't, if I decide to make you my prisoner," he predicted. "Your last chance, my dear young lady; will you do as I ask?"

"Not I, Mr. Moore," she answered, keeping her face resolutely turned from him. This was what he desired, for without attracting her attention he lifted the hem of her dress, and putting perhaps a foot of the skirt in one of the drawers of the desk, shoved it shut and locked it, thus effectually tethering her. She heard the click of the key, but not suspecting the cause of the noise, continued her inspection of vacancy, while Moore, bubbling over with his merry triumph, retired to the opposite side of the room.

"You are locked up now, Bessie," he announced with a chuckle. "If you will cast your eye to the left you will see how securely I hold you."

Bessie, her curiosity aroused by the satisfaction perceptible in the poet's voice, rose, intending to investigate the state of affairs from the centre of the room. A sudden tug at her dress which nearly tilted her over backwards on her little high heels brought her to an astonished standstill, and turning, she perceived the result of Moore's scheming.

"How dare you?" she cried, this time really angry.

"I hardly know myself," he answered gayly. "I think it must be the courage of despair."

Meanwhile the girl had made several unsuccessful attempts to withdraw her dress from the closed drawer, and, abandoning the effort, turned in maidenly fury upon her captor.

"You wretch!"

"You are locked in, Bessie, dear."

"Give me the key instantly, Mr. Moore. Do you hear?"

"Yes," replied the poet. "I hear."

"I never saw such a fellow," she began, but he interrupted her blandly.

"There is none like me," he asserted.

"A very fortunate thing for the world, sir."

"But, Bessie, think how many poor young girls there are just pining for such a love as I 've offered you, and who will never have the luxury, since there is only one Moore."

"I did n't know you could be so horrid," she said, her voice trembling with anger.

"Oh, I can be even more so," he answered. "In fact, if I want to, I can be about the horridest person there ever was."

"I believe you," she said sincerely. "Once I did rather like you--"

"Indeed? You concealed it amazingly well."

"--but, now I--I--"

"Well, what now?"

"I fairly hate you," she stormed, tugging impatiently at her skirt.

"I am not surprised to hear you say that, Bessie. What is it the poet says?"

"I abominate all poets."

"Let me see. I have it.

"'What ever's done by one so fair Must ever be most fairly done--'

"Even hating, Bessie."

"I 'll call for help unless you release me instantly," she threatened.

"Do you wish everybody to say you were so saucy to me that I had to lock you up? To the ordinary observer, less appreciative of your beauty, you might appear rather ridiculous tethered here. Think how pleasant that would be for all the other young girls, who are already envious of your superior attractions."

This supposition was altogether too likely to prove true for Bessie to force matters as she had announced she intended doing, so she abandoned all idea of outside assistance. Having failed in intimidation she, woman-like, resorted to cajolery.

"Please give me the key, Tom," she said in her sweetest tone.

"I 'll trade with you, Bessie. I 'll give you the key of the desk for a lock of your hair."

"Very well," she answered, much relieved at the insignificance of the ransom demanded.

"I want that little curl to the left of your forehead just in front of your ear," he continued, cunningly selecting a ringlet that could not be shorn without utterly spoiling the girl's appearance indefinitely.

"I can't give you that one," she said, indignantly.

"Oh, very well, then. You shall enjoy solitary confinement for the next five minutes. When that time has expired, I will return and afford you the opportunity of assuring me how much you regret all the cross and inconsiderate things you have said to-night."

"I 'll _never_ do that," she cried.

"Usually," asserted Moore, "a girl's _never_ means _to-morrow_."

"This instance is an exception."

"True, Bessie, for this time it means five minutes. Behold the key to the problem."

With a teasing gesture Moore held up the bit of brass, the possession of which had made the girl's punishment possible.

"If you go," said the girl, firmly and slowly, "it means we shall never be friends again."

"Pooh!" observed the poet with an indifference most insulting, "you do not frighten me in the least, my dear. I do not wish to be your friend."

So saying, he deposited the key in his pocket and walked toward the door with a self-satisfied swagger.

Bessie, driven to desperation, was about to call to him not to go, hoping he would propose some other terms of settlement, when he took his handkerchief out of his pocket and waved it at her before stepping out of the room. She smothered a little cry of delight and waited impatiently for his steps to die away as he walked toward the farther door of the apartment adjacent. Moore had carelessly drawn the key out of his pocket with his handkerchief, and it had dropped noiselessly upon the floor, the sound of its fall deadened by the soft carpet.

"Now, how can I get that key?" thought Bessie. "If I only had a long stick! I 'll try to reach it with a chair."

But she could not come within a yard of it even with this help.

"I wish I knew how to swear," she murmured. "I really believe I would. Perhaps I can pick the lock with a hairpin. I have heard of prisoners escaping in that way. Prisoner. _Tom's prisoner_."

She smiled involuntarily, and then, realizing what she was doing, gave herself a shake of disapproval.

"You should be ashamed of yourself, Bessie Dyke," thought she. "After the way that man has treated you, you should hate him. I will hate him, the horrid thing."

Leaning over, she strove to unlock the drawer with the hairpin but scored a decisive failure, and in consequence again waxed wrathful. The next bright idea that suggested itself to her mind was that she might possibly drag the desk across the floor to where the key lay exasperatingly plain in view, but she found her young strength far too little to even budge the cumbersome old piece of furniture. Then another plan came to her and she gave a little gurgling laugh, half delight, half fear, and began to consider it in detail.

"If I dared, oh, if I dared," she whispered. "I wonder if I can risk it? It would n't take a minute. _I will do it, so there_."

As she spoke, she fumbled with the fastening of her dress. The next moment it fell from around her waist, and stepping out of the circular heap of millinery surrounding her which it made upon the floor, she was free to go where she pleased.

Flushed with success, and yet frightened beyond measure lest she should be caught by some stray guest in her present incomplete costume, the girl danced laughingly across the floor, keeping out of line with the door for fear some one might enter the next room, and, reaching the key, pounced on it in triumph.

"Now we will see," she laughed. "Oh, you think you are very clever, Mr. Thomas Moore, but I fancy there are one or two others just as sharp as you are."

Hastening back to the desk, she inserted her prize in the lock and endeavored to turn it, but did not succeed in doing so, for it did not fit at all well. She tried again and again, but no better success rewarded her efforts, and slowly it dawned upon her that this was not the required key. She had again fallen victim to the cunning of the young Irishman.

"It is n't the one," she cried. "It is much too big. Oh, he did it on purpose. What _shall_ I do?"

It was quite evident that she could not long remain in such abbreviated attire without being detected by some one.

A vigorous pull at the skirt now limply pendant from the prisoning drawer proved that it was just as impossible to release it when vacated by its owner as when it adorned her person. In fact, Bessie's brilliant idea had availed her not in the least, and, realizing this, she was about to step into the skirt with a view to assuming her shackling finery, when the sound of her tormentor's voice, singing softly to himself as he approached, gave her warning of his coming.

With a little gasp of alarm Bessie fled to the cover of the portieres which separated the window recess from the room and sheltered by their clinging folds waited for developments.

_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 portiere 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 protegee'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 the _Examiner_ from 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."

"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 portieres 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, _I_ might 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 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 the _Examiner_ to 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 protege, 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.