"d.a.m.n your private quarrels!" roared Wales, turning on Moore. "Have I not my own wrongs to resent, that you must annoy me with yours now?"

"He will lie to you as he has to others, Sire," replied Moore, refusing to be silenced.

"That remains to be seen, sirrah."

Sir Percival stepped out of the throng surrounding the angry Prince, smiling and debonair as usual.

"I will answer for the truth of any statement Mr. Farrell may make, Sire," said he.

"Continue," growled the Prince, waving Moore back with an impatient gesture.

"Your Highness," said Farrell, quick to take advantage of his opportunity, "the author of this vile attack upon you is one of your friends, a favorite protege, who, owing all to your favor, thus rewards your kindness by base ingrat.i.tude. To your Highness he owes everything; thus he repays you."

"His name?" demanded Wales.

There was a moment's pause, during which silence reigned, as Farrell artfully hesitated in his reply that, thus delayed, it might fall with even more crushing effect upon the object of his hatred. Short as was the time, it sufficed for Moore. Convinced that this was the only opportunity which would be afforded him to avert the disaster he believed to be about to overtake the father of the girl he had loved so truly and patiently, he resolved not to let it pa.s.s unutilized.

"I wrote that poem," he cried. "I am the author whose name your Highness would know."

"You, Moore?" gasped the Prince, astonished by what he had heard.

d.y.k.e made a move forward, but Moore gripped his arm.

"For Bessie's sake," he whispered. "Now do you believe me?"

"But, Tom--"

"Hush, sir," said Moore, thrusting Sir Percival's receipt into d.y.k.e's hand. "Read that, and be silent if you love your daughter."

Wales, pale with fury, had stood for a moment in utter silence. Then, as he recovered speech, his voice sounded hoa.r.s.ely, but under perfect control.

"Sir Percival," he said slowly, "call a carriage for Mr. Moore."

Turning to Mrs. FitzHerbert, he offered her his arm, and with her at his side walked deliberately from the room. Sir Percival started toward the door, a triumphant smile upon his sneering mouth, but Moore stopped him, and for a moment the two stood face to face. Suddenly the desperate expression left the countenance of the poet, and he smiled as gayly as though he had just received from the Prince a mark of esteem instead of a disgraceful dismissal.

"You heard his Highness' order, my man?"

He seemed to be addressing a servant, if one could judge from the tone in which he spoke.

"Then call my carriage, lackey!"

"Lackey!" cried Sir Percival, red with rage at the insult, thus forced upon him.

"Aye, lackey," repeated Moore, defiant and sneering in his turn. "And here is your pay!"

As he spoke, he struck the baronet a stinging slap in the face; then turned and strolled elegantly from the room.

Thus it was that Mr. Thomas Moore quitted the world of Fashion, which but a scant three months before he had entered in triumph by grace of the favor of His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.

Book Four

"_If every rose with gold were tied,_ _Did gems for dewdrops fall,_ _One faded leaf where love had sighed_ _Were sweetly worth them all._"

_Chapter Twenty-Two_

_TOM MOORE RECEIVES A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE_

The morning after his enforced but by no means inglorious departure from Sir Percival's house, Mr. Thomas Moore met his disgruntled host near the Serpentine in Hyde Park, but the duel was productive of little satisfaction to either of the parties concerned, as Moore, never having held a pistol in his hands before, missed his antagonist by at least ten feet, receiving in return a bullet that sang a melody new to him as it clipped its way through his hair. Sir Percival's honor was declared vindicated, as his having made a target of himself for Moore's shooting was considered to totally erase all stain put upon his personal character by the vigorous slap he had received from the poet.

Moore escaped unhurt, though minus a few locks of hair,--a loss which was not without significance as an indication of Sir Percival's good intentions. The young Irishman was naturally convinced that at this particular game he was no match for his sneering enemy, and considered himself lucky to have escaped with his life, an opinion that was shared by both Sir Percival and Terence Farrell, for the baronet was an expert marksman, and had never doubted that he would end all rivalry between himself and Moore with the bullet he aimed at his opponent that morning.

However, his opportunity to so rid himself of his rival had come and gone, for he was far too wise to endeavor to force another quarrel upon Moore, even though the latter had fallen from favor, for more than one harsh criticism was made on the unequal nature of their encounter. Sir Percival's skill was widely known, and a no less deservedly popular individual than Mr. Sheridan took pains to circulate the truth concerning Moore's shortcomings as a pistol shot. Even his Highness saw fit to remark to the baronet that it was "a demned one-sided affair,"

and that Sir Percival's reputation, had he killed Moore, might have become "even a little more unsavory," comments which led the latter to doubt the permanency of the poet's disgrace and exile, but, as he kept these suspicions to himself, by the world in general Tom Moore was considered a ruined man.

On returning from their meeting in Hyde Park in the early morning, Moore discreetly abandoned his comfortable apartments, and, in spite of the protests and lamentations of Mrs. Malone, resumed the occupancy of the shabby attic from which the Prince's kindness had a few months before rescued him.

"No," said Moore, determinedly, to his landlady. "I 'm out of favor now and I 'll be saving of my pennies till I 'm righted again, if that shall ever be, which G.o.d knows and I 'm ignorant of, worse luck."

Buster and Lord Castlereagh moved up the several flights between the poet's latest and earliest abiding-places with their master, and seemed actually glad to be back in their old quarters. Their cheerfulness could be easily accounted for. Rat-holes were an unknown commodity on the first floor, though numerous in the attic, and the dignity of behavior Buster thought inc.u.mbent on him to a.s.sume in honor of rising fortune had proved irksome in the extreme to that worthy youth.

Leaving the lad to attend to the details of the removal, Moore, after signing his contract with McDermot, sought the soothing comforts of the country, as was his custom when in trouble, and hied himself to a little fishing village not far distant.

One afternoon a week later Buster was seated in his favorite att.i.tude, his chair tipped back on its rear legs and his feet, considerably higher than his head, supported by the table, idly contemplating the daily mail which had just been delivered.

There were only two letters. Up to the time of the withdrawal of Wales's favor, there were usually a score or so calling for the poet's inspection each day, but the reprimand of the week before had had immediate effect upon Moore's correspondence, and while numerous of his more intimate friends remained loyal throughout the whole period of his disgrace, there were many others only too prompt to show the utter shallowness of their pretence of regard by immediately abandoning him to what they believed would be permanent ruin.

One of the two letters in Buster's possession had a plump outline that seemed to indicate an inclosure of some bulk. This had the name of the _Gazette_ printed upon it. Buster shook his head disgustedly. The size of the missive seemed ominous. The other letter was neutral in impression-giving. It might hold a check, or it might announce the return of a ma.n.u.script under separate cover, but it certainly did possess possibilities.

Buster sighed and, as was his wont, addressed himself to the bulldog, who from the window was solemnly contemplating the pa.s.sing throng on the street below.

"That's a nice mile for a poet hof the maggietood hof Mr. Moore, haint it, your lordship? Cuss 'em, they thinks we is down to st'y, don't they? Well, we 'll show 'em a thing hor two before we gets through."

The bulldog regarded his master admiringly over his brawny shoulder, and switched his b.u.t.t of a tail vigorously back and forth upon the floor.

This manoeuvre sent fluttering a bit of paper that lay near him, and Lord Castlereagh, becoming immediately persuaded that he had a b.u.t.terfly within easy reach, leaped vigorously in pursuit.

"You 're a fool," remarked Buster, as the animal scuttled across the floor in delighted chase of the paper. Then, waxing philosophical, he continued, "Hit wuz hever thus. We wacks hup suthin' with hour tiles that flies, hand we thinks. .h.i.t his fime and fortune, hand pursoos. .h.i.t only to find hout we 'as bilked hourselves wid a kimming-reror hor fast fiding plant-has-me-goryer."

Absurdly satisfied with himself for having rid his mind of such important and many-jointed words successfully, Buster began to whistle, playing a merry tune more or less reminiscent of "Sally in Our Alley" on an instrument which his master had presented to him the first week of their acquaintance. This was none other than the whistle that Moore had made the very afternoon on which he quarrelled with Bessie at the schoolhouse,--a bit of manufacturing he had often since regretted, for Buster had treasured it carefully, and was much given to using it for shrill improvisation, as well as careful rendition of the various airs then popular with the ma.s.ses, finding it particularly adapted to the high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its success.