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.