"I beg of you to listen to me, Bessie. You know--you must know--I could not think what you fear?"

"Let me go, sir. Lord Brooking, I appeal to you."

His lordship touched Moore on the shoulder as the poet sought to prevent the departure of the enraged girl.

"Some other time, Tom. Words can do no good now," he said, softly.

Moore withdrew his hand from Bessie's arm and she opened the door as he stepped back.

"Have you nothing to say to me?" he murmured, hoa.r.s.ely, as she turned on the threshold.

"Yes," she answered. "I hate you, I hate you," and closed the door.

For a moment Moore stood staring at the spot where she had paused; then he turned with an oath.

"You heard that, Lord Brooking?" he cried bitterly. "You saw that? That ends it all. I 'm through with the old dream forever. I 'll go back to Ireland. Back to the green fields and rippling brooks. I 'm through with London. I 've starved here. It has broken my heart and I hate it.

In Ireland I will be with my friends--my own people. There I will forget her. I will learn to hate her. Aye, to hate her."

And he threw himself heavily into his arm-chair.

Lord Brooking stepped quickly forward.

"You are right, Moore," said he. "Tear her from your heart."

"Yes," cried the poet, desperately.

"There are other women much more fair than she. Go back to Ireland and forget her."

"I will, sir."

"_Leave her to Sir Percival Lovelace!_"

Moore started to his feet with a cry of protest.

"No, I 'm d.a.m.ned if I do, Lord Brooking."

"Ah," said his lordship, greatly relieved. "I thought you would change your mind."

Book Three

"_Oh! what was love made for, if it's not the same_ _Thro' joy and thro' torment, thro' glory and shame?_ _I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart,_ _I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art._"

_Chapter Fifteen_

_SETS FORTH CERTAIN EXPLANATIONS_

Lord Brooking spoke truly when he declared that the dedication of Moore's volume of poems accepted by the Prince would bring fame and prosperity to the young Irishman, who had toiled with such enthusiasm and unwavering diligence in paraphrasing and adapting the Odes of Anacreon. Arrayed and ornamented by his brilliant fancy, owing as much to their translator as to Anacreon himself, they were given to the world and received with such choruses of commendation from both the public and the critics that the reputation of Thomas Moore was firmly established by his first book. Society delighted itself by showing favor to the author it had hitherto neglected. Moore became a stranger to privation and occupied the best suite in the dwelling presided over by Mrs.

Malone, who now was numbered in the ranks of his greatest admirers. In fact the old woman seemed to take a personal pride in the social success of her lodger, and followed with an enthusiasm worthy of a better cause his course in the upper world as traced by the papers in their reports of the diversions of the aristocracy. Moore remained quite unchanged by his sudden good fortune. Never even in his darkest hour had he doubted that he deserved success, and, now that it had come, he accepted it as his just earnings and valued it as nothing more, though jubilant that his merits had at last been recognized. His reception by the world of society was more than flattering. Where he was invited first because he was the poetic lion of the season he was asked again on account of his own charming personality. Moore the poet opened the door of the drawing-room for Moore the society man, who was forthwith made an honored and much-sought guest. He sang his own songs in a melting baritone that struck a responsive chord in the hearts of young and old alike. His ballads were the most popular of the day. Romantic swains and sentimental maidens warbled them on every possible occasion; but none equalled in feeling and grace the manner in which they were rendered by the hitherto unknown youth who had penned them. The grand dames were often rivals in their attempts to secure the poet's presence at their _musicales_ and receptions. The young bucks sought him as guest at their late suppers, while the publishers bid against one another for the privilege of printing his next book, as, in spite of his gadding about from function to function, Moore contrived to find time to continue his literary labors. Lord Moira, thanks to the glowing representations of his nephew, made much of the poet, and through his influence Moore became acquainted with certain of the great gentlemen of the time who had but few moments to waste on social amenities, and were therefore far more exclusive than the better-known figures in the gay world drawing its guiding inspiration from Carlton House. Though Moore did not lose his head as a result of the flattery and admiration now showered upon him, it would have been strange indeed if he had not secretly exulted over the triumph he had won. His almost juvenile delight was frankly acknowledged by him in the long and loving letters he wrote to the members of his own family, who in distant Dublin gloried in the London victory of the firstborn. It was no odd or unusual thing for the poet to be seen at three or four fashionable gatherings in one evening. His presentation to the Prince of Wales, whose condescension had made certain the success of the Odes, followed soon after the publication of the book, and prince and poet were equally charmed, each with the other. Moore seized upon this meeting as an opportunity to tender to his Highness the thanks previously conveyed for him by Lord Brooking. To his great delight, Wales graciously declared that he considered himself honored by the dedication of the volume, and expressed a hope that they might have the opportunity of enjoying each other's society on many occasions in the near future. Moore came away that evening belonging wholly to the Regent, for, when that n.o.ble gentleman willed it so, no one could be more charming, and as his Highness was distinctly taken with the clever and modest young poet, he saw fit to be more than usually condescending and agreeable. He had chatted genially with Moore on literary topics of present interest, complimented him on the grace and rippling beauty of his translation of the Odes, and warmly applauded the young Irishman's singing of several of his own ballads. Taking all things into consideration, Moore had every reason except one to be content with his present lot. That the single disturbing element in his existence was the misunderstanding with Bessie d.y.k.e need scarcely be a.s.serted. They met frequently in society, for, thanks to the influence of Sir Percival, the doors which Moore had pried apart by mighty effort with his pen, had opened in easy welcome to the beautiful young actress, who, though coldly pleasant in her demeanor, made no attempt to conceal her desire to avoid Moore when the opportunity offered. As he, hurt and hopeless, made but little effort to force his company upon her, they might have been comparative strangers for all the evidence of mutual interest they gave at the various social gatherings when they chanced to meet, so, though several months had elapsed since Moore emerged from obscurity, no progress had been made in his love affair.

Sir Percival Lovelace had contemplated his rival's sudden rise to fame with interest, not unmixed with cynical amus.e.m.e.nt, his humorous sensibilities being rarely tickled at his own discomfiture, for this pleasant gentleman was philosopher enough to extract cause for merriment from his own disappointments and miscalculations. But the real reason for the toleration exhibited by the baronet was the confidence he felt that he had in his possession a weapon which, when he chose to wield it, would not fail to utterly destroy Moore in the estimation and good graces of the Regent, for Sir Percival felt certain that the loss of royal favor would result in the social ruin of his rival. As he thought he had ascertained by various means that there was comparatively little likelihood of the differences between Bessie and her lover being patched up, Sir Percival had held back the blow which he intended should completely demolish the prosperity of the poet, deciding to allow Moore to climb even higher on the ladder of fortune before knocking it from beneath his feet, that a greater fall might follow. But meanwhile the baronet had not been idle in other directions. Like many other gentlemen of the quill, Robin d.y.k.e imagined that he was possessed of much ability in affairs of finance, and as numerous opportunities were ever at hand for indulgence in such hazards as are afforded by stock speculation to the unwary, he succeeded in quickly and secretly losing all the money he made over and above the funds necessary to maintain the modest little home tenanted by himself and daughter. After much mental debating he mentioned his indiscretion to his patron, who, scenting immediately a chance to secure a much-desired hold upon the foolish old gentleman, at his own suggestion loaned d.y.k.e three hundred pounds, taking notes at ninety days' sight in exchange for the sum, stipulating that the matter should be kept from Bessie. d.y.k.e, naturally reluctant to admit the previous ill-success of his investments to his daughter, readily consented to accept this condition, and without more ado proceeded to send good money after bad by repeating his financial mistakes. This time he hesitated very little before acquainting Sir Percival with his lack of success, and found no difficulty in securing a further loan of another three hundred pounds, the investment of which resulted in even more brilliant disaster than before. Sanguine ever of ultimate success which should retrieve the losses already incurred, the worthy but foolish old rhymer increased his indebtedness to Sir Percival until he owed him in all one thousand pounds without Bessie having even a suspicion of the true state of affairs. Time pa.s.sed and the notes matured, but d.y.k.e, having no means of settling, frankly announced the fact to his patron and received rea.s.suring smiles in return, a reply which fully contented him. The baronet affected to be quite indifferent as to the length of the period he might have to wait for his money, and told d.y.k.e to take his own time in repaying him. This the old gentleman proceeded to do and thus made possible the events to be described in succeeding chapters.

_Chapter Sixteen_

_TOM MOORE SEPARATES A YOUNG LADY FROM HER SKIRT_

It was at the splendid mansion of Lady Donegal that Moore first met Mr.

Sheridan. Introduced to the famous wit by no less a person than George Brummell himself, Moore found not unworthily bestowed the reverence he had felt from his boyhood for the brilliant but erratic Irishman whose previous success in the fashionable world of London had served to render less difficult the progress of his younger countryman when once begun, and on this evening was laid the foundation of the friendship destined to endure until the melancholy end of the elder genius. Mr. Walter Scott, as yet famed only for his verse romances, for this was some years before the fiery genius of Lord Byron, now a fat youth at Eton, drove the genial Scotchman from the lyric field into the world of prose where he has reigned supreme even to this day, was another notable with whom Moore became immediately and delightfully intimate. The st.u.r.dy intellect of Scott, who infused his vigorous personality into all that flowed so readily from his pen, was delighted and amazed at the grace and beauty of the Irishman's more delicate imagery, while the refined and subtler fancy of the younger poet was filled with wonder by the other's stirring, rakeh.e.l.ly border ballads. Scott was the st.u.r.dy, gnarled, and defiant oak in the literary forest; Moore the tender, clinging ivy, enfolding and beautifying all that he touched and lingered on. No wonder, then, that their admiration should be reciprocal. The intimate crony of these brilliant men, the hostess herself was a woman of refined taste and much personal charm. In her Moore found a true and admiring friend, and whenever he, for business or pleasure, was compelled to absent himself from London, a delightful correspondence was kept up, as pleasing to the great lady of fashion as to the poet, for Moore, ever a favorite among men, was not less popular with the opposite s.e.x, no matter what their rank in the world might be.

While he had good reason to treasure the friendship of Lady Donegal for the sake of the brilliant acquaintances whom he met at her mansion for the first time, even a more tender and pleasing opportunity for grat.i.tude was to be afforded him, for here it was that transpired the series of incidents which resulted finally in his reconciliation with Bessie d.y.k.e.

On the night in question Moore arrived in company with Sheridan and Brummell, the two Irishmen having spied the Beau in a cab driving to the reception at Lady Donegal's as they were making their way toward the same destination on foot. They hailed the vehicle, and when the driver had pulled up in obedience to a signal somewhat unwillingly given by Brummell, climbed in with hardly as much as a beg your leave, making themselves quite comfortable in spite of the remonstrances of the crowded and berumpled dandy, the three thus reaching her ladyship's great mansion together.

Moore paid his respects to his hostess, then, after a brief session in the card-room with Mr. Sheridan, which resulted in the enrichment of the elder Celt to the extent of two guineas, made his way to a room usually little frequented by the less intimate company, intending to give definite shape in black and white to a new song as yet unwritten, the garbled and uncompleted verses of which had been running and jumping in his head all day.

Much to his surprise, Moore found the writing desk in use, the young lady who was busy scribbling being no other than Bessie d.y.k.e. His first impulse was to make a quiet exit, trusting to his noiselessness to effect escape undiscovered, but reflecting that, as. .h.i.therto he had not had so excellent an opportunity for an uninterrupted conversation, he would be foolish to allow such a chance for attempting to right himself in her estimation to go unutilized, he thought better of it, and so remained, announcing his presence by a polite little cough, highly suggestive of a timidity but slightly feigned.

Bessie looked up from her writing, then continued her occupation until she had completed her task.

"Am I interrupting you, Mistress d.y.k.e?"

"Does it look as though you were, Mr. Moore?" she asked, tartly.

"Not exactly," he admitted, not at all encouraged by her manner; "but appearances are deceiving, you know."

"I usually accept them as conclusive," said she, folding the sheet of paper which she had just finished.

"I know you do," said Moore, plaintively. "It is a bad habit to get into."

"No doubt you speak as an authority on the subject, Mr. Moore?"

"On bad habits? It is a bad habit I have of speaking, you mean, Mistress d.y.k.e?"

Bessie nodded and turned toward him, resting one chubby elbow upon the desk.

"How London has changed you," sighed Moore, regretfully, shaking his head as he spoke.

"And you?" said the girl in a critical tone. "Surely Mr. Thomas Moore, the friend of the Prince, is very different from an unknown Irish rhymer?"