Chapter Fourteen Sir Percival Lovelace is favored by Fortune
Moore lost no time before setting out to make a little payment on account to all of his creditors residing in the neighborhood, so Buster, left to his own devices, extended a broomstick towards Lord Castlereagh in a manner tempting in the extreme. Being of a congenial and obliging disposition, the bulldog secured a firm grip and then endeavored to wrest it from his master’s grasp. A rough and tumble tug-of-war ensued, the finish being an aerial performance by Lord Castlereagh, who made a flying trip around Buster as that worthy youth, exerting his muscle to the utmost, swung stick, dog and all in a circle clear of the floor. Having exhausted himself without accomplishing the release of the stick from the bulldog’s jaws, Buster had a brilliant inspiration and outraged precedent by washing his face and hands, it being his custom to perform ablutions only on arising in the morning unless detected and otherwise admonished by his master. Before he had finished drying himself a warning growl from his four-legged playfellow gave notice that some one was approaching.
Buster opened the door in answer to a loud knock and found himself confronted by two elegantly attired gentlemen, who willingly entered the room in response to his hospitable greeting.
“Hullo,” said Sir Percival, coolly eying Buster through his glass with an amused smile. “Who are you?”
Buster was distinctly pleased with the baronet. Sir Percival’s stalwart form was clad in the latest fashion, which set off his handsome person to great advantage, but in spite of his distinguished appearance, his manner in addressing the boy was so genuinely affable and good-natured that it placed them in sympathy at once. Where Buster liked he was prone to admire eventually; when he both liked and admired at first sight he became like clay in the potter’s hands.
“Who am Hi, sir?” repeated he, “Why Hi ’me the Reverend Doctor Buster of Hall Souls’s Chapel.”
“Indeed?” observed Sir Percival. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Doctor.”
“We want none of your slack,” growled the baronet’s companion.
“Tut!” said Sir Percival, “let the boy have his joke. Is Mr. Moore at home?”
“No, sir,” replied Buster, giving a hard look at Farrell, for Sir Percival’s companion was none other. “‘Ee ’s never ’ome at such times, sir.”
“What times?” demanded Farrell, gruffly.
“Times wen ’ee is hout,” replied the boy, delighted at having entrapped the object of his dislike, for he was as much displeased with the young man as he was favorably impressed with his more amiable companion. Sir Percival laughed gently at his companion’s discomfiture.
“I am an old friend of Mr. Moore,” he said to Buster. “May I wait till he returns?”
“Yessir,” replied Buster. “You can make yourself comfortibble in my habsence. I ham about to give his lordship a breather.”
“His lordship?” echoed Sir Percival. “May I ask whom you so designate?”
“Certingly. Come ’ere, Pupsy.”
The bulldog gambolled across the room to the boy, and standing up on his hind legs playfully attempted to bite off one of his trouser buttons.
“Sich manners, hand hin front o’ comp’ny too,” said Buster, chidingly. “Down, sir. Hallow me to hintroduce Lord Castlereagh, the champeen fighter of the neighborhood. Say ’ow-dy-do, Pupsy.”
Lord Castlereagh obediently threw up his great head and barked cheerfully in welcome. This done, he sat down on his haunches and extended his paw, which the baronet shook heartily.
“Who named the dog?” demanded Sir Percival, helping himself to a seat on the stool nearest him.
“I hasked Mr. Moore to suggest a suitable cognomy, hand that’s wot ’ee chose. ‘Ee hallows has ’ow hit was wonderously happropriate, sir.”
“I quite agree with your master,” replied the baronet. “You said you were going out. Pray do not let me detain you.”
“Hall right, sir,” said Buster, taking his cap from its nail behind the door. “Mr. Moore will return from ’is drive in ‘Yde Park in ’arf an hour. Hi won’t be very long. Come hon, Pupsy.”
Opening the door he hurried along the hall and down the stairs with Lord Castlereagh yelping delightedly in headlong pursuit as Sir Percival rose from his seat and strolled carelessly around the attic, humming softly to himself as he prosecuted his investigation. Meanwhile Farrell, seated in Moore’s arm-chair, preserved a gloomy silence.
“So,” said the baronet, disdainfully, “this is the abode of genius? Upon my word, as bare and unattractive a kennel as I have ever explored.”
“You dragged me here against my will, Sir Percival,” responded Farrell, uneasily. “When you have satisfied your curiosity let us go. I have no wish to encounter Moore.”
“Tut,” said Sir Percival, reprovingly, “there is no necessity for our haste, we saw the worthy gentleman leave here, Terence. Walking at the rate at which he started he must be half way to Pall Mall by this time.”
“If he does not turn back,” objected Farrell. “You can’t be sure how long he intended to continue in that direction, Sir Percival.”
“That can hardly be considered as a disadvantage,” responded the baronet, airily, “since it adds a pleasant tinge of risk to our adventure which otherwise could not be termed hazardous, though what difference discovery would make I really fail to see.”
“That is all very well for you,” said Farrell, crossly, “but I want no more such beatings as he gave me in Ireland. I was in bed a week.”
“You were suitably recompensed for your discomfort, Terence. Thanks to you, Bessie and her father accepted my proposition to come to London, turning a deaf ear to the impassioned explanations of the worthy but misguided Thomas.”
“Oh, I ’m smart enough to accomplish the wishes of other people,” replied Farrell, bitterly, “but I cannot seem to materially advance my own fortunes.”
“Yet, I see little reason for your dissatisfaction. Finding myself in need of such a clever brain in London I brought you here ostensibly to read law. You have the benefit of my popularity in the social world. Surely for a young and unknown Irishman to be comparatively intimate with the Prince’s own set is an honor? You don’t know when you are well off, my young misanthrope.”
“That is as it may be,” said Farrell, not at all impressed by his patron’s eulogy of the advantage afforded him by his present situation.
“But,” said Sir Percival knowingly, “think what an education for a young and ambitious beau a close and personal study of George Brummell must of necessity be. By the way he spoke very highly of you at Sam Rogers’s house only yesternight.”
“Did he?” asked Farrell, eagerly. “May I ask you to repeat his words, Sir Percival?”
“To be sure, my boy,” said the elder man, genially. “Let me see. If I recollect correctly, his exact words were, ‘Young Farrell possesses great sartorial possibilities now in a state of gradual but progressive development, his innate refinement of taste being at the present time slightly obscured and handicapped by a provincial anarchism of selection due to youth’s inevitable cheerfulness in the choice of color, and rather crude harmonizing of shade.’ There is a tribute for you, Terence.”
Farrell flushed with pleasure. Secretly ambitious to outshine even the great leader of fashion himself, he found his aspirations seriously interfered with by the limited income allowed him by his patron. It must not be thought, however, that Sir Percival was niggardly in his treatment of Farrell. In truth he was far more generous than ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have been under the same circumstances, but it could hardly be expected that the allowance given even by a free-handed patron to a clever protégé would suffice to dethrone such an all-powerful monarch of society as at this time was George Brummell, familiarly known in the circle he graced as the Beau. Nevertheless the handsome face and tasteful costumes of the young Irishman had begun to attract some little attention in London society, a circumstance that filled his heart with more than ordinary satisfaction, for Farrell was clear-headed enough to see that the vogue of Brummell, who was almost as renowned for wit and impertinent frankness as for dress, even in his association with Royalty itself, must sooner or later come to an end when by some characteristically insolent jest he should lose the favor of the Prince of Wales, now his close friend and patron. Some years later this very disaster apprehended by Farrell occurred, and when the impoverished and heartbroken Brummell was starving in a mean garret in Calais, it was the brilliant young Irishman, his pretensions now supported by the vast wealth of the ugly old widow whom he had meanwhile married, who reigned as first fop and dandy of the United Kingdom, until the summer Sunday morning came on which he went bravely to his death for slapping the face of Sir Dudley Brilbanke, who had made a slighting remark on beaus in general and Brummell in particular, which the successor to the unfortunate man then in exile felt bound to resent.
In the meantime Sir Percival had been poking about on the table which was still littered with the manuscripts thrown upon it during Moore’s interview with Lord Brooking.
“To Bessie!” murmured the baronet in an amused tone. “Our rhymer wastes a vast number of sheets in that young lady’s name,—‘The Meeting of the Waters,’ ‘She is Far from the Land,’ ‘Oft in the Stilly Night,’ ‘Love’s Young Dream.’ Will these ever see print, I wonder?”
“On that I ’ll stake my life, Sir Percival,” responded Farrell. “Though I dislike Tom Moore with all my heart, I know he is a genius in his line. If he will only keep his courage in the face of disappointment there is no man who will achieve more success in the writing of verses, I feel certain.”
“Dear me,” said Sir Percival, taking snuff, “if such is really the truth, I ’ll have to interest myself in his affairs again. Hullo, what is this?”
As he spoke, the baronet drew from the heap of manuscripts the verses satirizing the Prince of Wales written and left in Moore’s keeping by Mr. Dyke, which the poet had accidentally taken from the drawer when he flung his armful of rejected poems on the table before Lord Brooking.
Sir Percival scanned the verses, his dubious expression changing to one of great delight as he read on, until as he finished he laughed aloud.
“What is it pleases you, Sir Percival?”
“Egad, Terence, I ’ve happened on a treasure. A satire on the Prince. Gad, he cooks Wales to a cinder. Listen, Terence.
“‘THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY.
“It is of scraps and fragments built,
Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,—
His mind is like a patchwork quilt
Made up of motley, cast-off bits.
Poor Prince! And how else could it be,
His notions all at random caught,
His mind a mental fricassee
Made up of odds and ends of thought.’
“And so on for several more verses. The Regent has n’t had such a toasting in many a day. I swear I ’ll have this published immediately.”
“Ah,” said Farrell, “and why, sir?”
“’T will ruin Moore,” replied the baronet, regarding the other in surprise.
Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering.
“Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either success or affluence,” said he slowly. “One does not dig into the earth to crush a worm under foot.”
“You speak in riddles, Terence,” observed Sir Percival, pleasantly puzzled.
“I ’ll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now. Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem. The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and is about to climb higher. He is starving here.”
“Stab me, if you are not right, Terence,” exclaimed the baronet, approvingly. “I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall be witness that I found it fresh from Moore’s pen upon his table.”
“Willingly,” said Farrell. “Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of Mistress Dyke. Are you making progress there?”
“As yet I ’ve gained no ground at all so far as I can see,” replied Sir Percival in a discontented tone. “True, I have apparently won her trust and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above criticism. No young curate could be more circumspect and exemplary than I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being respectable.”
“I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir Percival,” said Farrell, carelessly, “but you must play your own hand. I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the school-house ruined Moore in the girl’s estimation, thus clearing the way for your approach.”
“Quite so,” observed Sir Percival, cordially, “and since he is powerless to thwart me I can take my own time about the chase.”
“Speaking of time, Sir Percival,” said Farrell, rising to his feet, “we can’t linger here much longer. Come, let us go.”
“Tut, Terence,” said the baronet, disapprovingly, “how nervous you are.”
At this moment Moore opened the door and, striding into the room, gave an exclamation of surprise as he recognized his visitors.
“Mr. Moore, as I live,” said Sir Percival, gently. “Sir, we have been waiting for you.”
“What do you want here, Sir Percival?” demanded Moore, gruffly, glaring at Farrell, who was manifestly ill at ease.
“I thought I ‘d look you up for old times’ sake,” replied the baronet, a sneer breaking through his smile for once. “Mr. Farrell came at my request.”
Moore stepped to the door and opened it.
“Then he will leave at mine,” he said, sharply. “Get along, Terence, before I do you an injury.”
Farrell did not hesitate. Waving his hat in farewell to Sir Percival, he walked quickly out of the attic and started downstairs as Moore slammed the door loudly after him.
Sir Percival laughed good naturedly, and rose to his feet as Moore returned from the doorway.
“I called, Mr. Moore, to say that it has reached my ears that you are in want. Is this true?”
“I would want a long time before I would ask you for anything but your absence,” replied Moore, hotly.
“If you desire to return to Ireland, I will be pleased to pay your way,” continued the baronet, suavely.
“If you will go to the devil I will be pleased to assist in your departure, Sir Percival. Hurry, or I may do it now.”
“You are not polite, sir.”
“My politeness would be wasted upon such as you,” answered Moore.
“That is a point that might be argued,” observed Sir Percival in his most genial manner. “Am I to regard your answer as final, Mr. Moore?”
“Quite final. Now be so kind as to go.”
“If you desire it, with pleasure.”
Moore opened the door that Sir Percival might pass out and found himself face to face with Bessie Dyke, who had paused on the threshold preparatory to knocking.
“You, Bessie?” he stammered, for the moment completely confused.
Bessie was not at all embarrassed until, on entering, her eye fell on Sir Percival. Then she blushed slightly, but after a momentary hesitation turned to Moore and said:
“I thought my father was here, or I should not have ventured up.”
“He was here a while ago and I expect him to return any moment,” answered Moore, eagerly taking his cue from Bessie.
“A note came to the house for him marked ‘Immediate,’” continued the girl, ribbing adroitly, “so I thought best to follow him here.”
“Won’t you wait for him?” asked Moore, pushing forward the arm-chair.
“I fancy,” said Sir Percival, “I fancy Mistress Dyke will not care to remain here since her father is absent.”
“Why not?” demanded Moore, angrily.
“This is scarcely the place nor the company for a lady to remain in,” replied the baronet.
“When you go, Sir Percival,” said Moore, more calmly, “the only objectionable feature will be removed.”
Sir Percival did not deign to reply to this rudeness, but, stepping towards the girl, extended his arm in mute invitation. Mistress Dyke, however, had plans of her own, and was not to be thus led away.
“I thank you, Sir Percival,” said she, “but I shall wait for my father.”
Sir Percival raised his eyebrows disapprovingly, but was too wise to insist further, so took his departure with a courtly bow to the girl, and a sneering smile for Moore, who, quite unruffled, lighted an extra pair of candles in honor of his visitor.
As the sound of the baronet’s steps died away in the hall Bessie gave a sigh of relief and sank down in the chair. Moore hesitated, then taking courage came to her side.
“Ah, Bessie,” he said, softly. “I ’ve been starving for a sight of you. It is like the old times to see you again.”
“But,” said the girl in a chilly tone, “the old times are passed and done with. Nothing is as it was.”
“You are wrong, Bessie,” said Moore, gently. “My heart is the same.”
Bessie rose from the chair and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders.
“Then it belongs to Winnie Farrell,” she said in a determined tone.
Moore winced as though he had received a blow. Nevertheless his voice was clear and unfaltering as he answered:
“Winnie Farrell is married to the man of her choice. Surely there is no need to throw her name in my face when I tell you that I love you?”
“You told Winnie the same thing,” said Bessie, coldly.
Moore gave an exclamation of pain.
“I ’ve explained that misunderstanding a score of times,” he said, bitterly. “They tricked me that you might think me unworthy of your trust and so be persuaded to come to London. Like a fool I walked into the trap and you believed me faithless. On my honor, you wronged me, dearest. I ’ve loved but you Bessie; you are all in all to me, mavourneen. Won’t you—can’t you—believe me?”
Bessie’s lips trembled as she averted her face, but her voice showed no signs of relenting as she answered:
“Whether you love me or not matters very little to me, Mr. Moore.”
“The applause at Drury Lane has changed you, Bessie. You are like all the others; one glimpse of the footlights and the rest of the world may go hang.”
“Nonsense!” said the girl. “I don’t care a snap of my fingers for the theatre. I was never intended to be an actress.”
“I know,” assented the poet, “you were meant to be Mrs. Moore, darling.”
“I think you are quite mistaken, sir.”
“How cold you are to me,” cried Moore in despair. “Is it because—? No, I can’t believe that. Bessie, you don’t care for Sir Percival?”
“Really, Mr. Moore, I cannot discuss my private affairs with you,” said Bessie in a voice so cold and proud that Moore abandoned all hope of moving her.
“Then,” he asked defiantly, “why have you come here?”
Bessie turned to him with a little sobbing sigh of relief. She had played her part well and kept up the artifice to the last moment required by the object which she had intended to accomplish, but the task had been more difficult than she had expected.
“Why?” she cried, her voice thrilling with love and happiness. “To tell you that you need battle with poverty no longer, Tom Moore. You have won, Tom, you have won. Fame, fortune—all that you have dreamed of and fought for so long—so patiently and courageously—shall be yours. I bring you a message from the Prince of Wales.”
“From the Prince?” gasped Moore.
“Yes, Tom. He accepts the dedication of your book. Lord Brooking sent me to tell you the news.”
“You mean it, Bessie?” cried the half-frantic poet, as the door was sent slamming back by the entrance of Lord Brooking with Buster and the bulldog close at his heels.
“Lord Brooking, is it true?”
“The Prince declares himself honored by the dedication,” replied his lordship triumphantly. “McDermot publishes your book in a week.”
Moore gave a choking sob of joy as he groped his way toward his benefactor.
“At last!” he whispered, “at last!” and buried his face on his lordship’s sturdy shoulder, his eyes full of glad tears.
“There, there, Tom,” said the young nobleman. “It is quite true. Your luck has finally changed. There shall be no more striving and starving for you, my good lad. Your fortune is made.”
“Ah,” cried Moore, turning to where Bessie stood, her hands tightly clasped and her face radiant with gladness as she watched her lover’s realization of the truth. “You hear, Bessie? It’s success, girl, it’s fortune and renown. Aye, fortune, Bessie. Now you will marry me?”
The girl turned white with anger and shame. Moore had made a fatal choice of the words with which he re-declared his love, never thinking his meaning could be misunderstood.
“Tom,” said Lord Brooking, warningly, but Bessie interrupted him before he could put things right.
“How dare you?” she cried, her cheeks suddenly flaming as she faced the luckless poet.
“Bessie?” cried Moore appealingly, seeing his error too late.
“How dare you?” she repeated, her voice quivering as she stamped her foot in her anger. “Fortune! You hurl the word in my face as though I were to be bought by wealth. Do you think because prosperity has come I must of necessity change my answer? You believe you could bribe me to say ‘Yes’ with your success. Oh, how could you, Tom Moore?”
“No, no, Bessie,” cried the poet, “you know I did not think that.”
“Hush, sir,” she answered, moving towards the door with downcast eyes.
“I beg of you to listen to me, Bessie. You know—you must know—I could not think what you fear?”
“Let me go, sir. Lord Brooking, I appeal to you.”
His lordship touched Moore on the shoulder as the poet sought to prevent the departure of the enraged girl.
“Some other time, Tom. Words can do no good now,” he said, softly.
Moore withdrew his hand from Bessie’s arm and she opened the door as he stepped back.
“Have you nothing to say to me?” he murmured, hoarsely, as she turned on the threshold.
“Yes,” she answered. “I hate you, I hate you,” and closed the door.
For a moment Moore stood staring at the spot where she had paused; then he turned with an oath.
“You heard that, Lord Brooking?” he cried bitterly. “You saw that? That ends it all. I ’m through with the old dream forever. I ’ll go back to Ireland. Back to the green fields and rippling brooks. I ’m through with London. I ’ve starved here. It has broken my heart and I hate it. In Ireland I will be with my friends—my own people. There I will forget her. I will learn to hate her. Aye, to hate her.”
And he threw himself heavily into his arm-chair.
Lord Brooking stepped quickly forward.
“You are right, Moore,” said he. “Tear her from your heart.”
“Yes,” cried the poet, desperately.
“There are other women much more fair than she. Go back to Ireland and forget her.”
“I will, sir.”
“Leave her to Sir Percival Lovelace!”
Moore started to his feet with a cry of protest.
“No, I ’m damned if I do, Lord Brooking.”
“Ah,” said his lordship, greatly relieved. “I thought you would change your mind.”