Chapter Twenty-Seven The Poet regains Royal Favor
“You know me?”
“Hi just does, your ’Ighness,” replied the boy, dragging up the ladder as he spoke.
This he deposited in its usual hiding-place before turning to his royal guest, who was still panting from the exertion of his flight.
“Put out the light,” directed the Prince, pointing to the candles on the mantel.
“Ho, no, your ’Ighness. That ’d make them suspicious,” dissented Buster.
“Perhaps you are right,” said Wales, reflectively.
“Per’aps Hi his,” admitted the boy. “Hi ain’t hallus wrong, you know, your ’Ighness.”
“What place is this, my lad?”
“This,” replied Buster, grandiloquently, “his the palatial residence of the famous poet, Mr. Thomas Moore.”
“Moore!” repeated the Prince in astonishment. “Fatality pursues me.”
“Hif that’s wot wuz harter you Hi don’t wonder you cut stick,” said the boy, cautiously peering out of the window.
“To while away a tedious evening I sometimes assume a disguise such as my present adornment and go out in search of adventures,” said Wales, condescending to explain his present predicament.
“Yessir,” said Buster, “Hi knows Jine Sweeny myself. You h’are the pusson Hi saw with ’er the hother night.”
“Did you recognize me?”
“Not then, sir, your ’at wuz pulled too low.”
“Perhaps you knew that a demonstration was being prepared in my honor this evening?”
“Not I, your ’Ighness. Ho law! but hit’s lucky Hi saw you. They ’d likely have beat your ’ead horf you, your Majesty.”
“That seemed to be their intention,” assented Wales, “nor have they yet abandoned the idea, if I interpret their present activity correctly.”
“Hif they manages to trice you ’ere, wot ’ll we do?” demanded Buster, as the sounds on the roofs outside drew nearer.
“What would you suggest?” asked the Prince, quite calmly.
“You ’d ’ave to tell ’em who you are.”
“Ah!” said Wales, doubtfully, “but would they believe me? Hardly, my good lad.”
“Hush, your ’Ighness, they are near hat ’and.”
The inmates of the garret could now plainly hear the scuffling steps of the men on the nearest roof as they slid and slipped on the inclines.
“Where the h—l can he have gone ter?” queried a piping voice.
“That’s the wine merchant’s clark,” announced Buster to the Prince.
“Yes? What did you say his name was?”
“Hi did n’t s’y,” replied the boy guardedly.
Wales laughed pleasantly.
“You are a wise lad,” said he. “What are they doing now?”
“You ’ve got ’em puzzled, your Tghness. They his puttin’ their bloomink ’eads together. Now they ’re a ’untin’ agin.”
“No trace of him here.”
“He came this way, I ’ll swear.”
“Three he has put his mark on this night. Sweeny, Isaac, and Welch’s Will.”
“Will?”
“Aye, the lad with the bottle. He ’s lying out on the eaves yet.”
Buster gave his guest an admiring look. Such prowess was deserving of all commendation. Wales caught the glance, and chuckled softly. Whatever shortcomings might be laid at the door of the gentleman destined to be the fourth George, cowardice was not one of them.
“Never mind, lads,” said another voice. “He cawn’t git away. The street is watched and all we have to do is to hunt him up.”
“We hain’t a doin’ hit. Hat least not has I sees.”
“Stop your croaking, Blount. D’ ye think he could climb to that window?”
“Now for it,” murmured Wales.
“Naw, ’ee hain’t no bloomin’ bird to fly hup ten foot o’ wall, his ’ee?”
“Scatter, then. That way there, over to the right.”
In obedience to this instruction the party were heard moving off with uncertain steps and Buster turned away from the window with a sigh of relief.
“Hi fawncies you ’re sife, your Majesty,” said he.
“Agreeable intelligence, I must admit,” sighed the Prince, assuming an easier position. “My subjects possess the virtue of persistence.”
“Yessir, they dearly loves to club a swell cove hif they think ’ee his arfter their lydies.”
Steps sounded in the hallway and the Prince rose quietly to his feet, prepared to renew the struggle.
“Don’t be halarmed, your Tghness,” said Buster, reassuringly. “Hit’s only Mr. Moore returning.”
“Do not acquaint him with my presence,” said Wales. “I will make myself known when I think best.”
“Yes, your ’Ighness.”
The Prince stepped behind the curtain separating the poet’s bedchamber from the sitting-room and there awaited developments in silence. Moore opened the door and ushered in Mr. Dyke.
“I thought Bessie was here,” he said in surprise as he noted her absence.
“Mistress Dyke went down to hinterview Mrs. Malone, sir,” explained Buster, in a quandary as to how he should act. A prince, of course, could not be lightly disobeyed, but at the same time he felt qualms at the thought of what his master, not suspecting the presence of royalty, might chance to say.
Moore solved the problem for him unknowingly.
“Then go down,” said he to Buster, “and tell my future wife that her former father is here.”
Buster, relieved at the removal of responsibility, quickly left the room. Mr. Dyke looked around at the bare, unsightly walls and sadly shook his head.
“To think I should bring you to this, Thomas,” he said, remorsefully.
“Sit down, Mr. Dyke, and have done with lamentations. So long as I do not complain, you surely have no reason to find fault,” said Moore, cheerily.
“No, Thomas, I feel I must confess the truth to the Prince.”
“What nonsense,” said Moore, firmly. “No, no, Mr. Dyke, for you to confess that you wrote the poem satirizing his Highness would be the height of folly. I doubt if it would do me any good, and it certainly would completely ruin you.”
“I know,” began the old man, but Moore interrupted him.
“I much prefer things as they are,” he said. “Allow me to choose, Mr. Dyke.”
“You do not know the pangs of conscience I have suffered.”
“More likely it was indigestion, sir.”
“You took the blame for my folly. I went free, but your brilliant career was cut short.”
“Very short,” admitted the poet, who was seated on the table, comfortably swinging his legs. “But the shortening is frequently the most important part of the dish.”
“Your rising star was plucked cruelly from the sky before reaching its zenith.”
“Between friends, you can omit the poetry,” suggested Moore. “It seems like talking shop if I may say so without offence.”
“I see you are resolved,” said the old man weakly.
“Ah, yes,” replied the poet, jumping off the table, and approaching his future father-in-law, he laid his hand kindly on the old man’s shoulder.
“It is all for the best, sir,” he went on with a sincerity that was convincing. “I did not know, I was not sure, that your daughter loved me. She, bless her pretty head, was too full of life and laughter to read her own heart. My adversity has brought her to me with outstretched arms and a love more tender, more true, than even I dreamed it could be. No, no, sir. Keep your mouth shut to please me.”
“It is really your wish that I do this?”
“Sure it is,” replied Moore, satisfied that he had carried his point.
“But the Prince, Tom?”
Moore’s face saddened, but he rid himself of his regret with a shrug of the shoulders.
“Poor man,” he said. “He thinks harshly of me, no doubt. Ah, well, perhaps it is better so, Mr. Dyke. And yet I ’d be easier in my mind if he knew how I regard him. I have no feelings save those of friendship and gratitude in my heart for him but he ’ll never know.”
“Yours is a generous soul, Thomas.”
“To-night I can say as truly and fondly as on that evening his favor plucked me from poverty and failure, ‘God bless the Prince Regent.’”
“It is needless to say I echo that sentiment, Mr. Moore.”
Moore turned with a low cry. The Prince had stepped noiselessly from behind the curtain to the centre of the room, and stood with a smile on his face, enjoying his involuntary host’s surprise.
“Your Highness,” stammered Moore, for once thoroughly abashed. “Your Highness!”
“Aye, Wales himself. Good evening, Mr. Dyke. It seems that I have wronged you, Moore.”
“Your Highness heard?”
“Every word, gentlemen.”
“I am not sorry,” said Mr. Dyke, softly.
“But,” said Moore, rallying from his astonishment, “how came your Highness here?”
The Prince’s eyes twinkled, but his face was grave, almost solemn.
“For that information, sir, I must refer you to your neighbor, one Mr. Sweeny.”
“Then you, sir, are the gay spark?”
“No doubt a spark, since I shall make light of my adventure, but in reality not so very gay.”
Bessie came hurrying along the hall and flinging open the door entered breathlessly.
“Oh, Tom, Tom,” she cried. “The hall below is full of men. They are searching for the strange gallant who won Jane Sweeny from the grocer’s son.”
The Prince took a pinch of snuff.
“Egad!” said he. “A remarkable achievement, it seems. I ’m beginning to be proud of it.”
“The Prince!” exclaimed the girl in amazement.
“An uninvited guest, Mistress Dyke,” said his Highness, jovially.
“And therefore doubly welcome, sir,” returned Moore, at the door listening to the murmur that came from below. “Your Highness, they are coming up I am afraid. They have traced you here.”
“Devilish awkward,” muttered the Prince, looking around for a weapon; “I shall have to fight, I fancy.”
“No, no,” said Moore. “That is no way to get out of this mess. We would be beaten down in a moment.”
“We?”
“Aye, Sire, Mr. Dyke, you and I. I have a better scheme, if you will trust yourself to me.”
“I prefer you to our friends.”
“Then hide in the next room,” said the poet, drawing back the curtain. “I ’ll get them off your track or my name is not Tom Moore. Whatever you hear, don’t stir out, your Highness.”
Buster entered in a rush.
“Ho, sir,” he panted, “the ’ole parcel hof ’em his a-coming hup!”
“Hush!” said Moore. “This way, Sire.”
Wales obeyed his host’s instructions and vanished in the adjoining room, his manner still cool and unruffled.
“Buster, can you lose those rascals in a chase over the roofs?”
“Hi can, sir,” replied the boy valiantly. “Hi ’ll give ’em such a run has they reads habout hin their primers.”
Moore tossed him an old hat and coat from the cupboard.
“The way is clear, lad,” he said, peering out the window. “Out with you and when I whistle show yourself somewhere and then run like the devil. When you are tired, drop your hat and coat and you ’ll be safe.”
“Drop nothing,” said Buster. “Hi knows too much to be guilty hof hany such shocking waste as that.”
He hurried out of the window, landing on the roof below as lightly as any cat, as the sound of the approaching mob grew louder. There was but little time to spare, and Moore wasted none of it.
“Bessie,” he commanded, “lock the door behind us when we go out in the hall. When I sing, you scream for help at the top of your voice. Then, whatever I say swear to like a darlin’. Come, Mr. Dyke.”
Moore grabbed the old gentleman by the arm and hurried him out in the hall as the first of Wales’ pursuers set foot on the flight of stairs leading to the attic.
“The Harp that once thro’ Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls,
As if that soul—”
A woman’s scream rang through the house.
“Help! Help! Tom! Help!”
“Bang!” went the locked door, kicked in by Moore, who rushed into the room with a yell, followed by Mr. Dyke.
“Out of the way, darlin’,” he whispered to Bessie. “I ’ve got to give myself an awful flaking.”
Immediately the poet began a struggle all over the room with an imaginary adversary.
“You would, would you?” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “Then take that, you raparee! And that, and that. Help! Mr. Dyke! My, but he is strong.”
He seized the table and upset it, then danced around the room like one possessed, dealing terrific blows to the air. He clutched the contents of the cupboard and sent the china crashing in fragments on the floor. The chairs he beat up and down and back and forth against the walls. For all the world it sounded as though a mad bull were rushing around the room dealing destruction on every side. Then he put his fist through two panes of glass and paused in his performance, standing by the window with heaving chest as the mob led by Sweeny rushed into the attic.
“Oh, friends,” he cried between gasps, “you come too late.”
“Too late for what, Mr. Moore?”
“To help me, you spalpeens. A big devil, six feet and a half high and a mile broad—I mean a mile high and six feet broad—Oh, a curst big lump of a lad—climbed into the window and laid violent hands on this lady, my future wife, who was here alone—”
“The strange laddybuck,” cried Sweeny. “The omadhaun we ’re afther now.”
“He locked the door so I could n’t get in and laid hold of her. Didn’t he, Bessie?”
The girl lied shamelessly.
“And I screamed,” she finished, glad to add a little truth to her falsehood.
“I kicked in the door and grabbed the villain. Mr. Dyke and I both grappled with him, but he was too much for us and beat us down and leaped out on the roof.”
The crowd surged up to the window with a howl of rage, and Buster bobbed into view on a distant gable.
“There he is now,” cried Dabble, who was one of the mob.
“Aye, aye, after him.”
Sweeny took command.
“You four, Dabble, Blount, Williams and Lake, out of the window and over the roofs again. The rest of us will guard every door in the neighborhood.”
The chosen four dropped from the window, and the crowd, Sweeny still in the lead, rushed out and downstairs as frantically as they had come up, leaving the attic to Moore and his guests. The poet sat down on an upset chair and breathed a sigh of relief.
“It’s a comedian I am,” said he. “Bessie, how does Drury Lane do without me?”
“I don’t know,” said the girl. “I am sure I could n’t.”
“My, oh, my!” panted Moore, “but you are learning the right things to say at the right time very quickly, Bessie.”
The Prince emerged from his hiding-place.
“Bravely done, Mr. Moore,” said he, laughing a little. “Egad, I ’d not trade this evening for any other in my experience.”
“No?” asked Moore.
“Not I, sir. You rid us of them very neatly.”
“For a while, your Highness. They may return.”
“True,” said Wales, “so we had best lose no time in getting help.”
“Your Highness is right,” said the poet, beginning to restore the room to something like its old appearance. “Father-in-law, run out and—”
“Let me arrange this,” interrupted the Prince. “Mr. Dyke, if you will carry this ring to the house of Sir Percival Lovelace, you will find him at supper. Tell him of my predicament and say I bid him take such steps as he may deem best to extricate me from this misadventure without betraying my identity.”
Mr. Dyke took the ring held out to him by the Prince.
“I ’ll make haste,” he said, and toddled out and down the stairs as fast as his legs could carry him.
Wales accepted the chair which Moore placed for him.
“Sir,” said he, “you have a talent for intrigue.”
“Ah, Sire,” said Moore, ingenuously, “if it were not disrespectful, I would return the compliment. Your Highness must have passed an exciting evening.”
“Quite true, Mr. Moore, but I fancy I can do without such excitement in the future.”
“I rejoice to hear you say that, your Highness,” said Moore, sincerely.
“Indeed, Mr. Moore? And why so, if I may ask.”
“Because,” said the poet so winningly that it was quite impossible for even a prince of the blood to take offence, “‘The First Gentleman of Europe’ is too proud a title to be lightly risked.”
Wales grew red and bit his lip.
“I accept your reproof,” he said. “It is not undeserved.”
“Not reproof, your Highness. Friendly advice, nothing more.”
“As you would have it, Mr. Moore,” responded the Prince, wearily.
Meanwhile Bessie had found the teapot to be one exception to the general ruin wrought of Moore’s household utensils.
“Would it please your Highness to have a cup of tea?” she asked, timidly.
“It will delight me much, Mistress Dyke. May I inquire when you intend to honor Mr. Moore by becoming his wife?”
Bessie flushed up prettily and looked at her lover.
“The wedding would take place to-morrow if I could afford it,” said Moore, righting the table and brushing it off with his coat-tail.
“Then I take it you cannot afford it?” said his Highness.
“Not just at present,” said Moore, cheerily. “I trust your health continues to be of the best, your Highness?”
“I thank you, yes, but I have heard no such singing in my favorite drawing-rooms as when you were wont to frequent the haunts of the beau monde.”
“I have been out of town,” said Moore, calmly, as Bessie brought the tea to the Prince in a cup which had escaped the general smash-up. The Prince sipped its contents in high good humor.
“Delicious, Mistress Dyke,” he declared, “your husband will be a fortunate individual.”
“There is but one grief which intrudes itself upon his happiness,” said the girl, tremulously, “the disfavor of the Prince, who in his darkest hour won from him both love and gratitude by his generosity.”
“Hush, Bessie,” said Moore. “His Highness has enough to think of, dearest.”
“By the way, Moore,” said Wales, languidly, “did I not hear some mention made of your name in connection with a political position in Bermuda?”
“You are right, your Highness,” replied Moore, reluctantly, “there was some such mention made.”
The Prince looked thoughtful and drained his cup.
“Bermuda,” said he, “is a long way from England, Mr. Moore.”
A step sounded on the stairs at this moment, and Moore gladly rid himself of the embarrassment he felt by approaching the door to make certain it was no undesirable personage who was now approaching.
“Lord Brooking!” he cried. “What good luck brings you back?”
“I soon wearied of the theatricals and was out for a stroll when by chance I encountered Mr. Dyke on his way to Sir Percival’s,” explained the young nobleman entering. “It is needless to say, your Highness, I made haste to join you here.”
“But,” said Wales, “did the good citizens not stop you on your way?”
“For a moment or two, your Highness, but I convinced them of my entire harmlessness and was allowed to pass.”
“Is Mr. Moore at home?” demanded a hoarse voice, strongly flavored with Scotch dialect, from the hall below.
“McDermot,” exclaimed Moore. “What can the old vagabond want with me to-night?”
“If I am not mistaken, Tom, this is the old bloodsucker who is to be your future publisher?” said Lord Brooking.
“For life,” responded Moore. “You remember I told you of our bargain not two hours ago. Yes, I am in, Mr. McDermot.”
“Well then I ’ll coom up,” announced the publisher.
Moore was about to advise him not to when a gesture from Lord Brooking led him to desist.
“Pardon me, your Highness,” said Lord Brooking, “but for certain reasons I deem it better that this gentleman should not recognize you when he first comes in.”
“I’ll look at the view, then,” said the Regent, pleasantly.
By the time Wales had reached the window, wisely choosing the one which opened upon the street, for there still came sounds of distant chase from the roofs, McDermot was knocking on the door.
“Come in,” called Moore.
The old Scotchman entered in a great rage.
“So I ha’ caught ye at last?” he shouted at sight of the poet.
“Have it your own way, sir.”
“Six times ha’ I called here, sair, ye trickster, ye cheat.”
“Hold on now,” said Moore, in sudden anger, “you are an old man, but more than enough of such talk is a great deal too much.”
Bessie laid a restraining hand on Moore’s arm.
“Perhaps, Mr. McDermot, you will be kind enough to state your grievance,” she said, quietly.
“It’s aboot the contract,” sputtered the irate publisher.
“Is n’t that all right?” asked Moore, wonderingly. “I signed it.”
“Of coorse ye did, ye trickster, but ye did not tell me when ye called to do so that the evening before ye had been shamefully ejected from Sir Percival’s house by order o’ the Prince of Wales.”
“Surely that was Sir Percival’s business,” replied Moore. “He may have been proud of the affair; I was n’t.”
“Ye should ha’ told me,” repeated McDermot, doggedly.
“But I did n’t know you were so interested in my goings and comings.”
“You took my thousand poonds.”
“Was that wrong?” asked Moore.
“Wrong?” echoed the publisher. “D’ye think I ’d give ye ten shillings for ye skin?”
“See here,” cried Moore, his anger again getting the better of him, “my skin is not for sale, but, if you value yours, you had better keep a civil tongue in your head, you old Rob Roy.”
Lord Brooking stepped forward between the two angry men.
“Am I right in believing that you are dissatisfied with your bargain, Mr. McDermot?” said he in a soothing tone.
“Dissatisfied? Dissatisfied! Why, at the present time Mr. Moore is the very worst investment in the literary market.”
Brooking waved Moore back with an admonishing gesture.
“Then I take it you would be glad to cancel the agreement?” he continued.
“But my thousand poonds?”
“I will advance Moore the money to repay you. Of course it is a risk, but for the sake of old times I will assume the obligation. Do you need other security than my word?”
“Not I,” said McDermot, gladly. “There is your contract, Mr. Moore.”
As he spoke he took the paper from his pocket and tore it into fragments. These he carefully deposited on the table and turned to go.
“One moment, Mr. McDermot,” said an imperious voice.
The Prince came forward with an air of chilling dignity.
“You have made the greatest mistake of your life, sir,” he continued, addressing the astounded publisher. “This I will show you if you listen. Mr. Moore, you and your fiancée have been little seen of late in the world of fashion. Pray alter this, my dear fellow. Furthermore you may as well abandon all idea of holding office in Bermuda save by deputy. It is impossible for the Poet Laureate of England to reside at such a distance from Carlton House.”
“Sir!” cried Moore, unable to believe his ears. “Poet Laureate?”
“One Thomas Moore, not unknown to the literary world, an Irishman of some wit and fancy. Mr. McDermot, we need detain you no longer.”
Crestfallen, the old Scotchman crept from the room as Moore turned to Bessie almost too happy to speak.
“You heard?”
She nodded her head, her eyes filling with happy tears.
There was a clatter in the street and a closed carriage drew up in front of Mrs. Malone’s. Following it came a dozen hussars, riding gaily, as though in hope of a skirmish. Sir Percival Lovelace and Mr. Dyke alighted and hurried upstairs, while Sweeny and his adherents contemplated the soldiers from the safety of distance in melancholy grandeur.
“I have been waiting for you, Sir Percival,” said the Prince.
“Yet I made all possible haste,” said Sir Percival, bowing low to Bessie. “By good luck, Farquar of the Tenth Hussars was dining with me. A word to him brought me a dozen stout lads, and with them for escort I hurried here.”
“Will Farquar keep a still tongue?” inquired Wales, more anxious than he appeared.
“Trust him for that, your Highness,” replied Sir Percival, confidently.
“I think I will have to, Lovelace,” observed the Prince, dryly. “Mr. Moore, I have only to thank you for your kindly hospitality. I shall expect you at Carlton House in the morning. Mistress Dyke, Tom is indeed a lucky man. As for you, Mr. Dyke, I only await your promise not to repeat the offence to overlook the error into which you fell some weeks ago. Good night, my friends—Stay! I would not leave your clever lad unrewarded. Give him this and tell him if he ever sees fit to quit your service he will not find Wales ungrateful.”
As he spoke, the Prince took the ring which Sir Percival held out to him. Handing it to Moore, he turned and bowed himself out, followed by the baronet.
“Capital,” said Lord Brooking, joyfully. “I knew you ’d not languish in disfavor long, Tom. Ask Mistress Bessie to name the day.”
Moore stepped to his sweetheart’s side.
“When will you become my wife, dearest?” he asked, love sounding in his voice and gleaming in his eyes.
“I will marry you to-morrow,” she whispered softly, her arms around his neck.