Chapter Twenty-Four Tom Moore hears of a Political Appointment
“Lord Brooking,” cried Bessie in surprise, rising from the table. “I thought you were still on the Continent.”
“Not I, Mistress Dyke. I returned yesterday. So, Mr. Moore, you have been getting into trouble, have you?”
“Did you ever hear of an Irishman who was able to keep out of it long?” asked Sheridan, waving his hand in greeting to the young nobleman.
“Your lordship has come just in time. Buster, call that bulldog away before Lord Brooking bites him. Get another plate, lad. Sherry, move up and make room for his lordship.”
“There hain’t any more plites,” said Buster in a hoarse whisper.
“Then get a saucer,” commanded Moore, gaily.
“No, no, Tom,” said his lordship. “I ’ve just dined.”
“Oh, you know you are welcome,” said Moore. “Don’t be too polite if you are hungry.”
“I could n’t eat a mouthful,” said Lord Brooking.
“That’s d—n lucky!” whispered Moore to Sheridan.
“Tut, tut, Tom,” quoth that staid old party. “Profanity is a luxury and should be used not abused.”
“That’s like an obedient wife,” said Moore. “Your lordship, this is an impromptu banquet to celebrate my engagement to Mistress Dyke.”
“Is the engagement an impromptu?” asked Sheridan.
“No, we got it by heart,” said Moore.
Brummell clapped his pretty hands in delight.
“Egad,” said he, “I ’ve not heard such verbal fireworks this six months.”
“So you are betrothed, Tom?” said Lord Brooking.
“The darlin’ has made me say ‘Yes’ at last,” said Moore in an apparently bashful tone.
“Mistress Dyke,” said his lordship, taking her hand and kissing it, “Tom is indeed a lucky man. I wish you both all the happiness you deserve. Hang me, if I ’m not envious, Tom. I ’ve half a mind to marry myself.”
“It takes a smart man to marry himself,” commented Moore, “but it is economical.”
Brooking sat down and crossed his legs in an easy attitude.
“I have news for you, Tom,” said he. “News that I fancy will please you.”
“Have you found me a long-lost uncle, childless, wifeless, and worth a million?”
“Not exactly.”
“What, then, your lordship? Surely not a long-lost son?”
“I have endeavored to secure you the appointment of Registrar of the Admiralty Court at Bermuda. The salary of the office is five hundred pounds yearly.”
“Bermuda?” echoed the poet, hardly able to believe his ears.
“Where the devil is Bermuda?” asked Sheridan, taking snuff.
“That is where the onions come from, you ancient ignoramus, but its geographical location does not matter tuppence,” said Moore. “If you get the place for me, sir, I will accept it gladly, and I thank you more than I can tell for the attempt, whether you succeed or not.”
“Pshaw,” said Lord Brooking, “wait until I put the appointment in your hands, Tom.”
“Ah,” said Bessie, softly, “your lordship knows how grateful we both are for your many kindnesses.”
“Say no more about it,” replied the young nobleman, blushing like a girl. “If I may truthfully congratulate myself on having made the world brighter and life’s path easier for two such deserving friends, I have gained a satisfaction no money could ever purchase.”
Moore shook his patron’s hand with a grip that conveyed more than any words of thanks could have done.
“Tommy, my boy, don’t you need a private secretary?” inquired Sheridan.
“Thank you, I ’ll have no such lady-killer in my official family,” replied Moore.
“I congratulate you both,” said Brummell, “but we will miss you when Bermuda claims your society.”
“You shall still be in touch with the world,” said Sheridan. “I ’ll write you all the scandal once a week.”
“It will take a pound for postage if you write it all, Sherry,” said Moore, dubiously.
“And I,” said Brummell, rising, pompously, “will keep you informed of the changes I deem advisable to make in the fashions.”
“That’s mighty good of you, Beau.”
“Oh, that will be splendid,” said Bessie. “I will set all the styles on the island.”
“Not much,” said Moore, horrified. “To do that, Bessie, you would have to wear fig-leaves.”
“Promise me, Tom, that you will let me know if the black ladies are as pretty as they say?” said Sheridan.
“I will investigate that matter myself,” responded the poet, winking slyly at the dramatist.
“Indeed you will do nothing of the kind, Tom Moore,” said Bessie in an indignant tone.
“Certainly not,” said he. “Sherry, you are a wicked old man to even suggest such a thing.”
“I was always fond of brunettes,” said Sheridan, calmly, “like you, Tom.”
“What horrid things men are!”
“Old men are,” assented Moore. “Sherry, you are a shocking old rascal.”
“He is no worse than you, Tom,” said the girl.
“Not half so bad, on my honor,” observed the elder gentleman.
“You are so, Mr. Sheridan,” said the girl, changing front immediately.
“See, Sherry, you can’t abuse me with impunity,” declared Moore with a chuckle.
“I ’ll abuse you with profanity if you do not stop flaunting your amatory success in my venerable countenance,” tartly retorted the gay old Irishman.
Lord Brooking looked at his watch.
“Jove!” he exclaimed, “I had no idea it was so late. I must be off.”
“So soon?” asked Moore, regretfully, as his lordship rose to his feet.
“I ’m due at Lady Fancourt’s amateur theatricals in ten minutes.”
“So am I,” said Brummell, smoothing his ruffles.
“And I also,” said Sheridan. “Is your cab waiting, Brookie, me boy?”
“I think so,” responded his lordship. “I ’ll be glad of your company. Will you risk close quarters with us, Brummell?”
“Not I, Brooking,” said the Beau. “I prefer not to disarrange my costume by crowding Sheridan.”
“Aye,” said Moore. “An Irishman ’s a bad thing for an Englishman to crowd too far. Since you are going to walk, George, I ’ll honor myself by seeing you out of the neighborhood. Such swells as you are tempting game, and there is many a dark alley only too handy.”
“Good night, Mistress Dyke,” said Lord Brooking, bowing low over her hand.
“Good night,” she said sweetly, “and thank you again.”
“Promise that once in a while you will write me how fortune treats you if you go to Bermuda.”
“Every month,” answered the girl, her eyes bright with the gratitude which filled her heart. “God bless you, sir.”
“Good night,” said his lordship again, and stepped out in the hall.
Sheridan kissed Bessie’s hand, and purposely lingered over it so long that Moore shook his fist at him.
“Easy there, Sherry, easy there.”
“Selfish man!” murmured Sheridan, as he followed Brooking. “Good night, Mistress Dyke.”
Brummell bade good night to his hostess and joined the others in their descent as Moore, after making a feint of putting a kiss upon Bessie’s hand, at the last moment transferred it to her smiling lips.
“You won’t be longer than is necessary, will you, Tom?”
“I ’ll not be half that long,” said he, running after his guests, who were now well on their way down the first flight of stairs.
Bessie turned from the door with a rapturous sigh, only to receive a reproachful glance from Buster, who was sternly regarding her.
“Wot ’ll become hof my morals hif these hindearments continyers?” thought the lad, vaguely jealous. “Hit’s henuff to turn one hagin mater-ri-mony, that’s wot hit his. Hi thinks Hi ’ll jine a monkery.”
“To Bessie,” murmured the girl, kissing the poem as she drew it from her breast, little suspecting Buster’s doubtful frame of mind. “Buster, you may clear away the tea-things after you have had your supper. I must go down and tell Mrs. Malone the good news.”
“Well, hif she harsks arfter me, say Montgomery Julien Hethelbert sends ’is luv,” said the boy, more cheerfully.
“Montgomery Julien Ethelbert,” said the girl, opening the door.
When she had closed it behind her, Buster addressed himself disgustedly to his pal, Lord Castlereagh.
“Montgomery Julien Hethelbert,” he repeated in high disdain. “Hain’t that an ’ell of a nime for a sporting cove like me?”
“Wuff!” barked the dog, in sympathy.