Some years later this very disaster apprehended by Farrell occurred, and when the impoverished and heartbroken Brummell was starving in a mean garret in Calais, it was the brilliant young Irishman, his pretensions now supported by the vast wealth of the ugly old widow whom he had meanwhile married, who reigned as first fop and dandy of the United Kingdom, until the summer Sunday morning came on which he went bravely to his death for slapping the face of Sir Dudley Brilbanke, who had made a slighting remark on beaus in general and Brummell in particular, which the successor to the unfortunate man then in exile felt bound to resent.

In the meantime Sir Percival had been poking about on the table which was still littered with the ma.n.u.scripts thrown upon it during Moore's interview with Lord Brooking.

"To Bessie!" murmured the baronet in an amused tone. "Our rhymer wastes a vast number of sheets in that young lady's name,--'The Meeting of the Waters,' 'She is Far from the Land,' 'Oft in the Stilly Night,' 'Love's Young Dream.' Will these ever see print, I wonder?"

"On that I 'll stake my life, Sir Percival," responded Farrell. "Though I dislike Tom Moore with all my heart, I know he is a genius in his line. If he will only keep his courage in the face of disappointment there is no man who will achieve more success in the writing of verses, I feel certain."

"Dear me," said Sir Percival, taking snuff, "if such is really the truth, I 'll have to interest myself in his affairs again. Hullo, what is this?"

As he spoke, the baronet drew from the heap of ma.n.u.scripts the verses satirizing the Prince of Wales written and left in Moore's keeping by Mr. d.y.k.e, which the poet had accidentally taken from the drawer when he flung his armful of rejected poems on the table before Lord Brooking.

Sir Percival scanned the verses, his dubious expression changing to one of great delight as he read on, until as he finished he laughed aloud.

"What is it pleases you, Sir Percival?"

"Egad, Terence, I 've happened on a treasure. A satire on the Prince.

Gad, he cooks Wales to a cinder. Listen, Terence.

"'THE BRAIN OF ROYALTY.

"It is of sc.r.a.ps and fragments built, Borrowed alike from Fools and Wits,-- His mind is like a patchwork quilt Made up of motley, cast-off bits.

Poor Prince! And how else could it be, His notions all at random caught, His mind a mental frica.s.see Made up of odds and ends of thought.'

"And so on for several more verses. The Regent has n't had such a toasting in many a day. I swear I 'll have this published immediately."

"Ah," said Farrell, "and why, sir?"

"'T will ruin Moore," replied the baronet, regarding the other in surprise.

Farrell surveyed the attic with a contemptuous stare before answering.

"Surely, Sir Percival, this shabby hole is not indicative of either success or affluence," said he slowly. "One does not dig into the earth to crush a worm under foot."

"You speak in riddles, Terence," observed Sir Percival, pleasantly puzzled.

"I 'll make my meaning plain, sir. Tom Moore does not annoy you now.

Wait till he succeeds, if he ever does so, before you publish that poem.

The time to spoil his career is when he has accomplished something and is about to climb higher. He is starving here."

"Stab me, if you are not right, Terence," exclaimed the baronet, approvingly. "I will keep this bit of humor in reserve, and you shall be witness that I found it fresh from Moore's pen upon his table."

"Willingly," said Farrell. "Meanwhile, continue your pursuit of Mistress d.y.k.e. Are you making progress there?"

"As yet I 've gained no ground at all so far as I can see," replied Sir Percival in a discontented tone. "True, I have apparently won her trust and friendship, but that is because my behavior has been above criticism. No young curate could be more circ.u.mspect and exemplary than I have been. To tell the truth, Terence, I am cursed weary of being respectable."

"I can understand how irksome such restraint must be to you, Sir Percival," said Farrell, carelessly, "but you must play your own hand.

I have helped you all I can in the securing of cards. My trick in the school-house ruined Moore in the girl's estimation, thus clearing the way for your approach."

"Quite so," observed Sir Percival, cordially, "and since he is powerless to thwart me I can take my own time about the chase."

"Speaking of time, Sir Percival," said Farrell, rising to his feet, "we can't linger here much longer. Come, let us go."

"Tut, Terence," said the baronet, disapprovingly, "how nervous you are."

At this moment Moore opened the door and, striding into the room, gave an exclamation of surprise as he recognized his visitors.

"Mr. Moore, as I live," said Sir Percival, gently. "Sir, we have been waiting for you."

"What do you want here, Sir Percival?" demanded Moore, gruffly, glaring at Farrell, who was manifestly ill at ease.

"I thought I 'd look you up for old times' sake," replied the baronet, a sneer breaking through his smile for once. "Mr. Farrell came at my request."

Moore stepped to the door and opened it.

"Then he will leave at mine," he said, sharply. "Get along, Terence, before I do you an injury."

Farrell did not hesitate. Waving his hat in farewell to Sir Percival, he walked quickly out of the attic and started downstairs as Moore slammed the door loudly after him.

Sir Percival laughed good naturedly, and rose to his feet as Moore returned from the doorway.

"I called, Mr. Moore, to say that it has reached my ears that you are in want. Is this true?"

"I would want a long time before I would ask you for anything but your absence," replied Moore, hotly.

"If you desire to return to Ireland, I will be pleased to pay your way,"

continued the baronet, suavely.

"If you will go to the devil I will be pleased to a.s.sist in your departure, Sir Percival. Hurry, or I may do it now."

"You are not polite, sir."

"My politeness would be wasted upon such as you," answered Moore.

"That is a point that might be argued," observed Sir Percival in his most genial manner. "Am I to regard your answer as final, Mr. Moore?"

"Quite final. Now be so kind as to go."

"If you desire it, with pleasure."

Moore opened the door that Sir Percival might pa.s.s out and found himself face to face with Bessie d.y.k.e, who had paused on the threshold preparatory to knocking.

"You, Bessie?" he stammered, for the moment completely confused.

Bessie was not at all embarra.s.sed until, on entering, her eye fell on Sir Percival. Then she blushed slightly, but after a momentary hesitation turned to Moore and said:

"I thought my father was here, or I should not have ventured up."

"He was here a while ago and I expect him to return any moment,"