Chapter Eighteen Tom Moore moves in Distinguished Company
Sir Percival Lovelace gave a reception in honor of the first appearance of Mistress Bessie Dyke as Lydia Languish in a revival of Mr. Sheridan’s successful comedy “The Rivals.” So sure was the baronet of his protégée’s success that some days previous to the date of the first performance he publicly announced the function to be for the purpose of extending to the winsome actress congratulations upon the triumph he expected her to win. Invitations to the reception were eagerly sought, and correspondingly difficult to obtain, for Sir Percival enjoyed an enviable reputation as a lavish entertainer. The Prince himself promised to attend, for he found amusement in the girlish piquancy of the little player’s conversation conspicuously lacking in the more reverential prattle of the great ladies who owed their presence in the upper circle of society to birth instead of brains. Even Mrs. FitzHerbert, once more on friendly terms with the baronet, consented to honor the assemblage with her presence, and all the other leaders and lions of the world of wealth and breeding were favored with invitations—that is, all except one. Thomas Moore, now at the height of his popularity, was overlooked. This was no surprise to the poet, for he had not been deceived by Sir Percival’s apparent desire to overlook their past differences. He felt confident that the baronet would not rest content until he had made every effort to undermine the popularity which he had won as much by his personal charm as by the merit of his poetry, yet, seeing no way in which he could be successfully attacked by his old enemy, he grew more confident as weeks passed with no visible effort to injure his prosperity.
Sir Percival, however, was not losing sight of the main object he had in view when he brought about Bessie’s journeying to London. While he fully intended to put an end to Moore’s success eventually, he had busied himself in the last few weeks more particularly with his plans for bringing about the forcing of the girl to do his will. By skilful manipulation of the various influences he was able to bring to bear upon persons important in the administration of matters in regard to the smaller dealings in the way of finance, together with the fatuous confidence reposed in him by Mr. Dyke, this ingenious gentleman succeeded in obtaining the issuance of a warrant for the body of the old rhymer in default of complete settlement of his outstanding indebtedness. This accomplished without his intended victim being at all the wiser, he held the document in readiness for his purposed attempt at intimidation. Now it was of course imperative, when he should have kicked from beneath Robin Dyke the props which at present held him above ruin as exemplified in limitless incarceration in a Fleet Street debtors’ prison, that Thomas Moore should be in no position to hold forth means of relief. Such being the case Sir Percival devoted himself to making all ready for the disaster which he hoped and believed would be the culmination of the young Irishman’s social career, availing himself in this matter of the advice and services of his agent and mentor, Terence Farrell. Success in all the preparations crowned his efforts to a degree that would have seemed unusual even in a better cause,—a state of affairs that led to much cynical reflection as to the relative easiness of the practices of philanthropy and its antithesis upon the part of the gentleman from whom the impetus for the plotted evil business was obtained.
This was the state of affairs on the evening of Sir Percival’s reception.
Mrs. FitzHerbert regarded Mr. Sheridan with a doubtful expression in eyes famed for their beauty and innocence.
“Mr. Sheridan,” she remarked, severely, “I am not sure that Parliament is sufficient excuse for your absence from Drury Lane to-night. Everybody who is anybody was present except the author. Fie, sir! Surely you should take enough interest in your own play to witness its revival.”
“Hum,” said Mr. Sheridan, “I will promise not to let even Parliament prevent my attendance at the theatre when a play by you shall be presented, madame.”
“Do you fancy, sir, that I am not capable of writing a play?”
“Heaven forbid that I should declare any woman incapable of anything in the world, possible or impossible,” replied the gentleman thus addressed.
“I am not sure that you intend that remark as a compliment, sir.”
“A woman should accept as complimentary all that she is not absolutely certain is intended to be the opposite.”
“You would have women very conceited, Mr. Sheridan.”
“If you mean, dear lady, that I would not change the sweet creatures, you comprehend me perfectly,” replied the old gentleman. “Did you know, Mrs. FitzHerbert, that our friend, Tommy Moore, has been slighted to-night?”
“Indeed,” asked the lady in a disappointed tone. “I thought he would surely be here.”
“Zooks,” drawled a handsome gentleman who, gorgeously attired and carrying himself with mannered dignity, had joined the first-mentioned couple in their corner. “Moore not here? What a bore! I counted on hearing him sing some of his ballads to-night. I am told he has a new one. Some deliciously impossible lyrical statement concerning the steadfastness of the proper kind of love in the face of misfortune and wrinkles. Quite improbable, but delightfully sentimental and imaginative.”
“Put not your faith in princes, Brummell,” quoted Mr. Sheridan, knowingly, “that your days may be longer in the land.”
“A combination of scriptural sayings worthy of their most unrespected quoter,” laughed Mrs. FitzHerbert. “Do you think a prince’s passion could face wrinkles?”
“In whose face? His own or some one else’s?”
“Some one else’s face, of course, Mr. Sheridan.”
“I spoke of the proper kind of love, dear madame, not the improper,” observed Brummell, languidly.
“And a prince’s love?”
“For his princess impossible, for any other woman improper,” said Sheridan, looking away lest his shot strike home.
“And why has Sir Percival cut Mr. Moore?” demanded Mrs. FitzHerbert, giving Sheridan a reproving tap with her fan.
“They are old rivals,” replied the Beau.
“Would Sir Percival marry her, do you think?”
“No one can answer that question, Mrs. Fitz, but Lovelace himself. Shall I tell him you would like to know?”
“Not for the world, Mr. Sheridan,” she exclaimed. “It is not my affair.”
“If Percy is contemplating matrimony it will surprise many who know him well,” returned Brummell, seating himself near by. “But then he always was an eccentric dog.”
“They would never agree.”
“Well,” said Mr. Sheridan, “it is well known that if the bride and the groom did not have their little differences they would not care to marry.”
“Ahem! Have you read Mr. Rogers’s new poem?” asked the lady, skilfully changing the subject.
“‘The Pleasures of Memory’? Egad, I obtain much more pleasure by forgetting,” said Sheridan, taking snuff.
“So the tradesmen say, Sherry.”
“Well, George, I ’ve not heard of your discounting your bills lately,” retorted the elder man.
Just then Sir Percival approached them.
“As usual, the rallying place for wit and fashion is at Mrs. FitzHerbert’s side,” said the baronet, graciously.
“So you thought you would add beauty to the list by coming yourself?”
“Nay, Sherry, I have heard it said there was never a prettier gentleman than Richard Brinsley,” said the baronet.
“Who said that? Your grandmother?” retorted Sheridan. “How is the old lady?”
“So you have neglected Mr. Moore?” whispered Mrs. FitzHerbert, drawing her host to her side. “Oh, Percy, Percy, what a jealous creature you are!”
“Egad, you wrong me, Mrs. FitzHerbert; the one being I have ever really envied as a lover is his Highness.”
“Mr. Dyke and Mistress Dyke,” announced the footman.
Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed by Sheridan and the others. Bessie never looked prettier. The proud consciousness of her success gave her a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with the witty throng assembled to celebrate her triumph as brightly and merrily as though she had never moved in any but the upper circle of society. Mrs. FitzHerbert mischievously told her of Sir Percival’s intentional neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman, and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarrassing position in which she had placed him, sought safety in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by the beauty’s condescension, was already vaguely meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent.
“Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?” asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince’s favorite for the trick she had played him.
“Angry?” she repeated. “What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?”
“You must know why I have done this,” he said boldly.
“Why, Sir Percival?”
“Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore’s power to interfere in his usual impudent manner.”
“You need not explain,” Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached.
“The Prince’s carriage blocks the way,” he announced to his master.
“Good!” exclaimed Sir Percival. “His Highness’ tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming.”
“His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales,” announced the footman a moment later, “and Mr. Thomas Moore!”
The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival’s surprise and disappointment.
“Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore with me.”
“Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad to welcome any friend of yours,” glibly replied Sir Percival.
Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer disfiguring his handsome face:
“Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored.”
“I believe you, Sir Percival,” responded the poet, promptly, “so that need not worry you.”
“Nothing ever worries me, sir.”
“Not even conscience, Sir Percival?”
“No, Mr. Moore,” replied the baronet, as Wales and Sheridan drew nearer.
“Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no longer in style.”
“Tut, tut, Tom,” said Sheridan reprovingly. “I still cling to the old fashion.”
Moore eyed the speaker’s wig with tolerant eye.
“Faith, Sherry,” said he, “brains such as yours are an excuse for anything.”
“Perhaps,” said Sheridan. “But it is a poor rule that does n’t work both ways, and surely you will not have the temerity to assert that ‘Anything is an excuse for brains.’”
“In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?”
“It takes a sinner to be cynical,” said Sheridan, having recourse to his snuff-box.
“Then,” said Moore, “what a doubter our greatest dramatist must be.”
“I have been described as a doubtful character more than once,” returned the old gentleman. “Your Highness, when you arrived we were discussing matrimony.”
“An amatory eccentricity,” drawled Brummell, who had joined the little group now surrounding the Prince.
“The connecting link between bankruptcy and the Bank of England,” declared Sir Percival.
“The straight-jacket in which are confined couples suffering from sentimental insanity pronounced incurable by the church,” said Moore.
“Ah,” said Wales, “recovery is sometimes rapid, nevertheless.”
“Marriage is deceptive,” said Mr. Sheridan, with a sigh. “Lovers go to church for a bridal and return home to find they have been given a yoke.”
“What would you suggest, Sherry?” asked the Prince. “Would you abolish matrimony?”
“I ‘d make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three years’ sight.”
“I fear most couples would seek to discount the bill,” said Moore.
“You take it too seriously,” said Brummell, smothering a yawn.
“Is it supposed to be a joke?” asked Wales, whimsically.
“Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the benefit of posterity,” said Moore.
“Tut, tut, Tommy,” said Sheridan reprovingly. “You are too young to be such a scoffer.”
“Indeed?”
“You young fellows are led astray by your own importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations.”
A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but the younger was not to be so quickly defeated.
“And you old boys,” said he, “make another mistake. You regard yourselves as attractions long after you have become ornaments.”
“Personalities are to be avoided,” returned Sheridan good-humoredly. “We were talking of marriage.”
“Don’t mention it,” retorted Moore politely. “It is a queer thing at best. Before a wedding a woman has a husband to look forward to.”
“And when married?”
“Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after.”
“Imagine it, Brummell.”
“Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits to my imagination,” replied the Beau.
“Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking,” observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite’s lace cravat through his eye-glass. “’T is well to remember that imagination is the thief of truth.”
“You have dismembered marriage,” said Wales, smiling, “what of love?”
“Surely the subjects have nothing in common?” cried Moore.
“The two together would be most uncommon,” remarked Sheridan. “Love is the incidental music in the melodrama of life.”
“The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by the sentimental apothecary,” retorted Moore. “Love is the devil, matrimony is hel—hem!—heaven.”
“How do you know, Moore?” demanded the Prince. “You have never been married.”
“I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but I know it is hot just the same.”
The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell, strolled away in search of Mrs. FitzHerbert, while Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room, leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.
That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his quest than at the beginning of the evening. Just then there came a request from the Regent that he should favor the assemblage with one of his own songs, so, inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his good-nature was at par with his fellow guests’ appreciation.
Having sung “Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms,” he followed it with the mournful ditty, “She is Far from the Land,” and finished with “The Last Rose of Summer” by royal command, the close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering; but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords, publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given the assemblage.
Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle. Finding a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited the young Irishman’s coming, absorbed in pleasant rumination on the probable happenings of the by no means distant future.
“Oh, Terence,” said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, “is the poem printed?”
Farrell drew a copy of 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 portières screening the window recess, and, balancing himself uncertainly as he stood, groaned aloud at the impotence of his intoxicated brain.
The little gentleman was Mr. Richard Brinsley Sheridan; the reason for his sudden impatience with drunkenness being that he had heard every word of the conversation between Sir Percival and his creature, and now found his wine-drenched intellect unequal to planning the proper course for him to follow to checkmate the benevolent intentions of his host.