"The first subject is, of course, Bessie."

"Curst nice lil' girl," observed Sheridan, conscious that the young lady spoken of was in some way connected with the idea that had so suddenly vanished.

"The other is myself."

"Natura--er--rally so."

"Now of which of these did he speak?"

"Tha.s.s the question, Tommy," replied Sheridan stupidly.

"Oh!" exclaimed Moore in disgust.

A flash of recollection stirred into new life by the e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n illumined the face of the wit.

"Yesh, tha.s.s it. Owe. Tha.s.s it, Tommy."

Moore became imbued with new hope, but did not hasten his inquiries as before, lest he should again daze Sheridan's semi-somnolent memory.

"Owe?" he repeated. "Some one is indebted to Sir Percival, Sherry?"

"Tha.s.s it, Tommy."

"I wonder who it can be? Of course you do not remember, Sherry?"

"Yesh I do," a.s.serted his companion. "Itsh Mr. d.y.k.e. He owes Sir Percival thoushand pounds."

"Good G.o.d!" exclaimed Moore, beneath his breath, horrified at what he heard.

"The bailiffs I s'posed present in m' honor are here to seize him if he don't return the moneysh to-night."

"What is the alternative the scoundrel offers?" asked Moore, confident that the debt was merely a weapon of intimidation.

"If Bessie marries him to-night he will let her father off on his debt.

Otherwise he goes in limbo. She 'll have to do it, m' boy. He 'd die in Fleet Street. Oh, Tommy, what a dirty scoundrel he ish!"

"Sherry," said Moore, gratefully, pressing the old gentleman's hand as he spoke, "if I live to be a thousand years old I 'll never cease to thank you with all my heart for what you have done to-night."

"Tha.s.s all right, Tommy, tha.s.s all right. We 're both Irishmen,"

responded the dramatist.

As Sheridan spoke he opened the window and standing beside it drew long draughts of the cool fresh evening air into his lungs. Moore sat quietly waiting for his friend to regain the sobriety he knew would not be long in returning, now that he had pa.s.sed through the muddled stage and emerged upon the borders of ordinary intelligence. Meanwhile he was trying to evolve some plan to avert the danger threatening his friends with such dire misfortune. For the aged poet to languish in the foulness of a debtor's prison for more than a week would be to sign his death-warrant. The horrible condition of the places of confinement consecrated to the incarceration of gentlemen who involved themselves to an extent beyond their ability to pay was one of the strongest inducements that could be brought to bear by a creditor to force to the settlement of long-standing obligations a certain type of debtor--he who could pay if he willed to make the sacrifice of personal convenience, and to curtail the indulgences common usage made the essential pleasures of the gay life of the sporty young buck of the period. For this reason more than any other was the condition of these vile dens allowed to go unimproved in spite of an occasional vigorous protest from some n.o.ble but impoverished family whose ne'er-do-well offspring was compelled to lie indefinitely in squalor as new as it was repugnant to his elegant sensibilities. That Bessie would make any sacrifice to keep her father from such a fate Moore felt a.s.sured. There was only one way to block Sir Percival's game. The money must be paid. But how? The returns from Moore's book had enabled him to settle his debts in both Ireland and England, but, up to this time, very little more than enough to accomplish this result and support him as his new position demanded had come from his publisher, McDermot. It was true that the sudden glow of enthusiasm usually experienced by a bookseller after the publication of a successful book had led the close-fisted and stony-hearted old Scotchman to declare his willingness to pay a generous sum in advance for a new poem, upon an oriental theme, which Lord Lansdowne had suggested to Moore, providing this bonus should give him the exclusive right of publication for the term of two years to all literary output from the pen of the young Irishman. However, Moore felt confident that the sum McDermot would be willing to pay to bind the bargain would be far less than the thousand he required. How, then, could he raise such an enormous amount?

Sheridan, who was fast sobering, thanks to the bracing air, closed the window with a shiver and turned to his young friend.

"What will you do, Tommy?" he asked, only a slight trace of his former thickness of tongue perceptible.

"Do, Sherry? I 'll have to raise the money."

"Have you it?" demanded the wit, regarding Moore in amazement.

"Not I, Sherry. It's taken all I 've earned so far to pay my debts."

"Debts?" snorted Sheridan, contemptuously. "Let this be a lesson to you, Tom. Never pay anything. I never do."

"You, Sherry? Have you any money?"

"None, except what I have in my pockets," replied Sheridan, hopelessly.

At this moment Mr. Brummell, deserted by Mrs. FitzHerbert, and weary of the senseless gabble so liberally dispensed by nine of every ten females gracing social functions of magnitude, wandered back into the conservatory in search of quiet. Spying two of his closest cronies, he made haste to join them.

"Here is the Beau," said Moore. "Ah, George, you have come just in time for the collection."

"Indeed?" said Brummell, curiously. "Have I missed the sermon?"

"Yes, but you are in time for the blessing, if you have any money to lend a poor devil of an Irishman."

"Money," sighed the Beau, "is too vulgar for me to long endure its possession, Tom."

"I am not joking, Brummell," declared Moore, seriously. "I need money, sir. Every penny you can let me have. How much do you think you can raise for me within the hour?"

Brummell, a.s.sured by Moore's manner that he was not jesting, began to sum up his resources.

"I think," said he, hopefully, "that I can borrow fifty pounds from my landlady, and I have a guinea or two in my clothes."

"Fifty pounds," said Moore. "And you, Sherry?"

The gentleman addressed had ransacked his pockets and was rapidly counting out a handful of small coins.

"I have five shillings and sixpence," he announced.

Moore groaned.

"And I think," continued the old gentleman, "that I can borrow five pounds from my valet if the rascal is not in a state of beastly sobriety."

"And I 've not twenty pounds to my name," said Moore, losing hope for the moment.

"Your name should carry more weight than twenty pounds," returned Sheridan. "Perhaps I can borrow some from a stranger."

"But a stranger would not know you, Sherry," objected Brummell.

"But if he knew him he wouldn't lend him a penny," said Moore. "Think of it, gentlemen. What would posterity say if it knew? Beau Brummell, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, and Tom Moore together cannot raise one hundred pounds in a time of desperate need."

"What would posterity say?" sighed Brummell in disgust.

"Oh, d--n posterity!" cried Sheridan. "What has posterity ever done for us?"

"Give it time, Sherry, give it time."