Book Four
“If every rose with gold were tied,
Did gems for dewdrops fall,
One faded leaf where love had sighed
Were sweetly worth them all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two Tom Moore receives a Proposal of Marriage
The morning after his enforced but by no means inglorious departure from Sir Percival’s house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his hair. Sir Percival’s honor was declared vindicated, as his having made a target of himself for Moore’s shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he had received from the poet.
Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks of hair,—a loss which was not without significance as an indication of Sir Percival’s good intentions. The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at this particular game he was no match for his sneering enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an expert marksman, and had never doubted that he would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning. However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival had come and gone, for he was far too wise to endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature of their encounter. Sir Percival’s skill was widely known, and a no less deservedly popular individual than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth concerning Moore’s shortcomings as a pistol shot. Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet that it was “a demned one-sided affair,” and that Sir Percival’s reputation, had he killed Moore, might have become “even a little more unsavory,” comments which led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet’s disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was considered a ruined man.
On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince’s kindness had a few months before rescued him.
“No,” said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady. “I ’m out of favor now and I ’ll be saving of my pennies till I ’m righted again, if that shall ever be, which God knows and I ’m ignorant of, worse luck.”
Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several flights between the poet’s latest and earliest abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad to be back in their old quarters. Their cheerfulness could be easily accounted for. Rat-holes were an unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought incumbent on him to assume in honor of rising fortune had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.
Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the removal, Moore, after signing his contract with McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country, as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself to a little fishing village not far distant.
One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite attitude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.
There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales’s favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet’s inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore’s correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.
One of the two letters in Buster’s possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of the Gazette printed upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a manuscript under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.
Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the passing throng on the street below.
“That’s a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss ’em, they thinks we is down to st’y, don’t they? Well, we ’ll show ’em a thing hor two before we gets through.”
The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his butt of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor. This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a butterfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit.
“You ’re a fool,” remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, “Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin’ with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit only to find hout we ’as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer.”
Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of “Sally in Our Alley” on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,—a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the masses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of “The Last Rose of Summer,” then in the heyday of its success.
Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy tread being drowned by his melody.
“Fur goodness’ sike!” he exclaimed wrathfully, “you must n’t do sich rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years’ growth hand I can’t hafford to lose no sich hamount.”
“Niver mind thot,” replied the landlady. “It’s many the fright you ’ve given me, you little tinker. Is Mr. Moore back from the country?”
“See ’ere, his n’t the rent pide?” demanded Buster.
“Av course it’s paid,” replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. “D’ ye t’ink I have no t’oughts at all but about me rint?”
“Well,” confessed Buster, “once hupon a time, hit sorter looked has ’ow you wuz bestowing considerable medication hupon that topic. Hif hit did n’t, bli’ me, that’s hall, just bli’ me.”
“Is Mr. Moore back from the country?” repeated Mrs. Malone.
“Yes, your Majesty,” replied the boy, with a low obeisance. “‘Ee his. ‘Ee returned this werry noon from the ’onts hof nachoor.”
“It is just a week since he wint away,” observed Mrs. Malone, reflectively.
“’Ow does yer keep count?” asked Buster, surprised at the accuracy of her remark.
“Faith, thot ’s an easy mather,” she answered, sagely. “Has n’t Misthress Dyke called to see him sivin times?”
“She ’as, your ’Ighness, she ’as.”
“That’s once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n’t it?”
“Hi never wuz a good ’and hat arithmetic, but Hi ’as faith in the correctness of your calculation,” responded Buster.
“Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n’t returned. Did yez give her his adthress?”
“Hi did not, coz has ’ow Hi expected ’im ’ome hevery day. Hit ’ll do ’er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes ’em contented like. Oh, Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife ’ll be han ’appy female. She’ll ’ave a master, she will.”
Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the floor.
“Arrah, get out o’ thot,” she remarked, complacently viewing the disaster she had wrought.
“My heye!” said Buster, in an astonished tone, “wot his this hany ’ow? His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand drag habout till death do hus part?”
“Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking about the holy state of matrimony!” said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which he had taken his seat. “Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady called?”
“No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party.”
“Why not, me bucko?”
“Coz Hi wishes to surprise ’im, that’s w’y,” said the boy defiantly. “Hand hif you lays ’and hon me agin, Hi ’ll ’ave Lord Castlereagh bite you good hand ’arty where it ’ll do you the most good hand be the least missed.”
“Niver mind thot.”
“Hi won’t hif you won’t, Hi ’m sure, Mrs. Malone, and as for the young lidy, she has n’t been ’ere to-day,” said Buster.
“Oh, never fear,” returned Mrs. Malone. “Shell come, and it’s glad I am that he ’s back agin.”
“W’y? Did you miss ’im?”
“Niver mind. It’s the young leddy I ’m tinking of. Faith, suppose she got discouraged and stopped a-coming?”
“That ’ud show she was n’t worth ’aving,” replied Buster wisely. “Now see ’ere, Mrs. Malone, w’en she comes Hi wants you to let ’er hup widout hany announcement. Does you ’ear?”
“Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?”
“You just leave it to me, your ’Ighness. Hi knows how these haffairs should be conducted.”
“Oh, yez do, do yez?” said Mrs. Malone in a derisive tone, as she ambled toward the door. “It’s in an orphan asylum yez ought to be.”
“Not hat all,” retorted Buster. “Hi ’as no time to waste hon ’aving horphings.”
The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she quitted his apartments, and overwhelmed him with the heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of Buster’s instructions, said never a word concerning the visits of Mistress Dyke. Moore, having made as speedy an escape as was possible without wounding the old woman’s feelings, entered the attic, being received with much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who seemed to ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a puppy several years before.
“Good hevening, Mr. Moore,” said Buster politely, about to deliver the post to his master.
“Good evening, Montgomery,” replied Moore, severely, drawing off his gloves.
“Montgomery?” echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted. “Ho, don’t call me that, sir, please don’t.”
“Well, that’s your name, isn’t it?”
“Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!” said Buster, in an injured tone. “Hi knows hit only too well. Wen Hi wuz too little to defend myself w’en put hupon, my hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien Hethelbert, hand ’itches hit hon to the family nime hof Spinks.”
“Montgomery Julien Ethelbert—”
“Spinks. Yes sir, that’s hit. Wuz n’t that a crime? That’s wot stunted my growth, most likely.”
“It seems plausible,” observed Moore, in secret vastly amused.
“Yes, hit do,” continued the boy, sadly. “Say, sir, won’t you allus call me Buster?”
“No, sir,” responded Moore, sternly. “You were fighting again this afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to call you Buster again to-day.”
“Ho, law!” exclaimed Buster, “but this ’ere punishment is horful. We wuz honly ’aving a gime, sir, just playin’ like.”
“Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won’t have you half killing the neighbors’ children that way.”
“You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n’t that a helegant gesture w’en I soaked ’im hon the nob? Did n’t Hi do ’im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert’nly wuz a pet!”
“Montgomery Julien,” began the poet, severely.
The lad wilted.
“Ho, don’t, sir, don’t. Hit makes me that fretful,” he said pleadingly. “Hi ’ll reform, really Hi will.”
“Do so, then,” said Moore. “And remember, if I ever hear of your fighting again, I ’ll never call you anything but Montgomery.”
“Yessir,” replied Buster, with a low bow. “Hi ’ears, hand to ’ear his to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship Hi resigns to the red-’eaded butcher boy hacross the w’y. ’Ere ’s the post, sir.”
Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to examine them.
“From publishers, h’aren’t they?” said Buster interestedly.
Moore nodded.
“That they are, lad,” he answered, opening the first as he spoke. “Ah, here is an inclosure.”
“Hinside?” asked Buster, eagerly.
“Where else?” demanded the poet. “Did you think it would be wrapped around the outside? From the Gazette. One pound. Good. A pound is better than ten shillings any day.”
“Ha munth hagow hit ’ud ’ave been ten pun,” said Buster, shaking his round head.
“But it’s nine well lost,” answered Moore, adding to himself, “aye, well lost, since it is for Bessie’s sake.”
He found a note inside and read it aloud.
“MR. THOMAS MOORE—
“DEAR SIR,—Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem, ‘Inconstancy,’ which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel compelled to print under the name Thomas Little.”
“Hi likes their imperence,” cried Buster in disgust. “‘Little,’ indeed!”
“That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt,” observed the poet. “Two days ago it was ‘Tom Brown;’ next week it will be ‘Tom Green’ or ‘Tom Fool.’ However, it does n’t matter if Tom Moore gets the money.”
“Hi ’ll let ’em use my nime,” suggested the lad in noble self-sacrifice. “My folks his all dead, so the publis’ty won’t kill ’em. Montgomery Julien Hethelbert would look grite hin print.”
“I quite agree with you,” said Moore, laughing. “Ah, Buster, me boy, it’s sweet to be back in the old place. I ’d not give it, bare and ugly as it is, for one of the fine places I ’ve wined and dined in since leaving it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me.”
Buster looked around him comprehensively.
“Hit does need cleaning hup a bit,” he said apologetically. “Hi ’ll see wot Hi can do to-morrer.”
“And you say there has been no letter for me from her?” continued Moore.
“Not one letter, sir,” replied Buster.
“And you have n’t seen her, Buster?”
The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand to his face, at the same time executing a double shuffle with his feet.
“What ails you, lad?”’ asked the poet in astonishment.
“My toot’ haches me,” explained Buster, who had invented this complaint by way of diverting his master’s inquiries.
“Fall in love, Buster,” advised Moore, “and the pain in your heart will make you forget the pain in your tooth.”
“Hit’s better now, sir,” announced the boy, jubilant that he had kept his master from all knowledge of Mistress Dyke without real denial of her visits.
“Now for the other letter,” said Moore.
This was the bulky package. Buster’s suspicions that it inclosed a disappointment proved not unfounded, for there was a manuscript poem folded within.
“Humph,” grunted Moore, scornfully. “What bad taste they display.
“‘MR. THOMAS MOORE—
“‘DEAR SIR,—In view of your present unpopularity—’
Oh, I hate that d—n word, Buster.”
“Hit is a bit narsty,” assented the boy.
“—we feel obliged to return your poem entitled ‘To Bessie.’”
“Confound them!”
Unfolding the poem, Moore ran his eye over its neatly written lines.
At this moment the door behind him opened softly, and Bessie crept in as quietly as any mouse. Buster saw her, and, leaning over the table, asked his master to read him the rejected verses.
“Certainly, Buster, since you wish it,” said Moore, good-naturedly. “It will help on your literary education.”
“That hit will, sir,” said Buster, stepping where he could motion Bessie to remain silent without being detected by his master.
“‘To Bessie,’” announced Moore, beginning to read, little thinking that the girl was so near.
“Tho’ brimmed with blessings, pure and rare,
Life’s cup before me lay,
Unless thy love were mingled there
I ’d spurn the draught away.
“Without thy smile the monarch’s lot
To me were dark and lone,
While, with it, even the humblest cot
Were brighter than his throne.
“Those worlds for which the conqueror sighs
For me would have no charms,
My only world thy gentle eyes,
My throne thy circling arms.”
Suddenly a pair of soft round arms were around his neck, and the poem he had just read with such love and tenderness was plucked from his grasp without warning.
Moore sprang to his feet with a low cry of surprise.
“Bessie,” he said, incredulously. “You?”
“Don’t you know me?” she asked with a little pout, as Buster, followed by the bulldog, stole discreetly from the room. “Have you forgotten how I look so soon?”
“Forgotten?” he echoed. “Is it likely, Bessie?”
“You seem surprised to see me.”
“I can’t deny that,” he answered in wonder. “Forgive me if I ask to what I am indebted for this visit?”
“Oh,” said Bessie, indifferently, “I came to see if you have written any more poems about the Prince. Tom, how could you do it? He was so fond of you.”
“That may be,” replied Moore, assuming a dignified air, “but I can’t let friendship interfere with my politics.”
“Then it was your duty, Tom?”
“It was my duty,” he answered, gloomily.
“I think you were unpardonable,” said the girl.
“I see,” replied Moore, “you came to reproach me, Bessie.”
“What a deceitful fellow you are,” she went on, shaking her pretty head in a sad way.
“I am,” admitted the poet. “I am. Go on, Bessie, don’t spare me.”
She advanced a step or two as he, at a loss to understand why she was thus baiting him, turned bitterly away.
“I can’t spare you,” she said sternly.
“So it seems,” he murmured, not looking at her, lest the sight of her girlish beauty make the pain in his heart too great to be endured.
“I can’t spare you,” she repeated, “I can’t spare you,” but this time her tone was one of loving tenderness and he turned to look at her in surprise.
She was standing with outstretched arms, her face eager and adoring, the old light shining soft and clear in her eyes.
“Without you, Tom, there is no happiness for me. Tom dear, Tom darling, can’t you see I ’ve come here because I love you?”
“What?” he exclaimed, and then, mindful of past disappointments, he raised his hand imploringly. “You are sure you are not joking this time?”
“Joking?” she repeated, advancing toward him. “Let this assure you.”
As she spoke she kissed him full on the mouth, not once but thrice.
“Now are you convinced I am in earnest?” she asked shyly.
“Partly,” he replied, still unable to fully realize that she had surrendered at last. “Convince me some more, Bessie.”
Then as she kissed him again, he folded her in his arms and held her to his heart so tightly that she released herself with a little gasp.
“Please remember, sir, that I have to breathe,” she remonstrated.
“I forgot everything, except that I had you in my arms,” he answered. “Ah, Bessie darlin’, my heart was breaking for you. I love you so much, dearest.”
He embraced her again, and pressed her soft cool cheek to his, and it must be admitted she appeared to enjoy this proceeding as much as he did.
“Sure,” he whispered, “if heaven is half as sweet as this let me die to-morrow.”
“You took the blame to save my father. Oh, Tom, I ’ll never forgive you.”
“Keep on not forgiving me,” he suggested, for she had given him another kiss.
“I made him tell me,” said she, complying with his request before sitting down by the table, “but the next day you had gone.”
“I know,” said Moore, “I went out into the country. It helped me, as it always does. It comforted me, but not as you have done.”
“And while you were gone I came here every day to see if you had returned.”
“What is that?” he demanded. “You came here, dearest?”
Bessie nodded gleefully.
“I did not miss a day, not even Sunday,” she said.
“That little devil of a Buster!” cried Moore, glaring around the attic in quest of him. “The imp! Wait till I lay my hands upon him!”
“He didn’t tell you, Tom?”
“Not a word. If I had known, it is no sight of me the trees and the fields would have had.”
Bessie rose from her chair, and stepping back a little distance, looked archly at her lover.
“Have you forgotten what you said?” she asked.
“Since I don’t remember, I think I must have,” said Moore puzzled.
“Then I ’ll tell you, sir.”
“That’s good of you, Bessie,” said he.
“You told me I would have to ask you to marry me,” she answered, a little timidly. “Tom dear, I love you; will you be my husband?”
“This is so sudden,” said Moore, and he sat down in the chair she had vacated.
“What is your answer, Tom?” she asked, almost anxiously.
“I ’ll have to be wooed further before I give it,” he declared, keenly relishing the situation.
“I ’ll do it,” she murmured. “I ’ll do it. Tom, I love you better than all the world. With all my heart and soul I love you.”
She knelt beside him and drew his head down on her shoulder.
“I love you,” she whispered again, and held him close.
“But,” he sighed in happy endurance of the unwonted attentions he was receiving, “Why do you love me so desperately? Is it because of my beauty or my goodness?”
“It’s both, Tom.”
“Oh, I have it,” he exclaimed, “it’s my wealth.”
“Tom,” she said reproachfully and rose to her feet, but before she could reprimand him for his last assertion his arm was around her waist.
“Bessie dear,” he said solemnly, “do you know, for a moment in the joy of your coming I forgot my poverty.”
“I did not, Tom,” she answered.
“You are an angel of love and beauty, dear girl; you have taken a load from my heart and brightened my life this day. I can’t tell you how I adore you, how grateful I am for what you have said to me, but I cannot marry you.”
“Tom,” she cried reproachfully. “Do you think I do not know of that wretched bargain to which you were driven by that terrible publisher?”
“Who told you?”
“Mr. Sheridan.”
“Will that old Irishman never learn to keep his mouth shut?”
“Never, while he can do good to a friend by opening it, Tom.”
“I ’ll sue him if he keeps on.”
“That does n’t seem to do much good, dear lad; I ’ve been suing ever since I came here this afternoon, and I do not seem to have accomplished anything. Tom, say we shall be married soon, there ’s a dear.”
“Bessie,” he said slowly, holding her at arm’s length, so that he could look deep into her eyes, “I ’ll have to get a clerkship somewhere before that can be. My whole literary work is mortgaged for the future.”
“You shall not keep that wicked agreement, Tom.”
“Oh, Bessie, a promise is a promise,” said Moore. “When I have found a position I ’ll consider your proposal of marriage. Can’t you see, dear, what poor proof of my love for you it would be to allow you to share my present lot? Think how we should struggle, perhaps almost starve.”
“I should not care if I were with you,” she said.
“But I, Bessie? It would break my heart to know you were bearing such desolation for love of me.”
“Where there is love there can be no desolation.”
Moore’s voice shook as he answered her, but he remained firm in his determination.
“You are the bravest girl in all the world, Bessie, but even your sweet words shan’t make me close my eyes to the truth. We will go on as we are now. I ’ll fight it out, and when I am satisfied that I can offer you one tithe of what you deserve, if God wills that I succeed, I ’ll come to you with open arms. I ’ve no head for business. It’s a new world I ’ll have to conquer, dear. We must wait and I ’ll not let you bind yourself to me. Perhaps there will be some one else some day—”
She stopped his mouth with a kiss.
“How can you be so cruel?” she half sobbed. “There can never be any one but you.”
“But,” he said mischievously, “you took so long to make up your mind, I thought—”
“Tom, you don’t love me or you would not tease me so.”
“Oh, if you are to be believed, teasing is no sign of indifference,” said Moore. “It’s a leaf from the book you wrote me this last year that you are reading now, Bessie!”
“You are so obstinate,” she sighed. “Ah, Tom, you will succeed in spite of all. I know you will.”
“Then, dearest, let us wait. Think, how can I expect you to obey me as my wife if you disobey me as a sweetheart?”
“But,” said the girl, pouting, “I am not used to being rejected.”
“I am,” said he. “It is good experience.”
“I suppose I ’ll have to let you have your way.”
“I suppose you will, Bessie.”
“Father is coming after me in half an hour,” she continued, taking off her hat as she spoke.
“So soon?” responded Moore, regretfully.
There was a knock on the door.
“Come in,” said Bessie, quite at home as lady of the house.
“What is that?” said Moore, looking at her.
“Come in,” she repeated, blushing as she realized her presumption.
“So you have established yourself already?” said the poet, his eyes twinkling, as he opened the door.
It was Mrs. Malone, resplendent in the best her wardrobe could afford.