"_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 God 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 incumbent on him to assume 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 attitude,
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 manuscript 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 passing 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 butt 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 butterfly
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 hit his fime and fortune, hand pursoos hit
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 masses, finding it particularly adapted to the
high notes of "The Last Rose of Summer," then in the heyday of its
success.
Suddenly he felt his chair tip backward in a manner quite unwarranted by
the care with which he was maintaining a delicate balance, and jumped to
his feet with a loud yell, finding himself, when he turned, face to face
with Mrs. Malone, who had entered unnoticed, the sound of her heavy
tread being drowned by his melody.
"Fur goodness' sike!" he exclaimed wrathfully, "you must n't do sich
rambunctious things, hole woman. You just scared me houter seven years'
growth hand I can't hafford to lose no sich hamount."
"Niver mind thot," replied the landlady. "It's many the fright you 've
given me, you little tinker. Is Mr. Moore back from the country?"
"See 'ere, his n't the rent pide?" demanded Buster.
"Av course it's paid," replied Mrs. Malone, scornfully. "D' ye t'ink I
have no t'oughts at all but about me rint?"
"Well," confessed Buster, "once hupon a time, hit sorter looked has 'ow
you wuz bestowing considerable medication hupon that topic. Hif hit did
n't, bli' me, that's hall, just bli' me."
"Is Mr. Moore back from the country?" repeated Mrs. Malone.
"Yes, your Majesty," replied the boy, with a low obeisance. "'Ee his.
'Ee returned this werry noon from the 'onts hof nachoor."
"It is just a week since he wint away," observed Mrs. Malone,
reflectively.
"'Ow does yer keep count?" asked Buster, surprised at the accuracy of
her remark.
"Faith, thot 's an easy mather," she answered, sagely. "Has n't
Misthress Dyke called to see him sivin times?"
"She 'as, your 'Ighness, she 'as."
"That's once for each day, and siven days makes a week, does n't it?"
"Hi never wuz a good 'and hat arithmetic, but Hi 'as faith in the
correctness of your calculation," responded Buster.
"Siven times has she called and so disapinted each time that he has n't
returned. Did yez give her his adthress?"
"Hi did not, coz has 'ow Hi expected 'im 'ome hevery day. Hit 'll do
'er good, Mrs. Malone. Disappointments is disciplinationary, hand
disciplination his wot womens need. Hit mikes 'em contented like. Oh,
Hi tells yer, Mrs. Malone, my wife 'll be han 'appy female. She'll 'ave
a master, she will."
Mrs. Malone gave the boy a vigorous push that sent him staggering, and
as Lord Castlereagh neglected to get out of the way, boy and dog
suddenly assumed recumbent and by no means graceful attitudes upon the
floor.
"Arrah, get out o' thot," she remarked, complacently viewing the
disaster she had wrought.
"My heye!" said Buster, in an astonished tone, "wot his this hany 'ow?
His hit according to London prize ring rules, hor just knock down hand
drag habout till death do hus part?"
"Give me no more airs, you little puckorn. The size of yez, talking
about the holy state of matrimony!" said Mrs. Malone, rebukingly, as
Buster climbed up to his feet, slightly jarred by the force with which
he had taken his seat. "Did yez tell Mr. Moore that the young lady
called?"
"No, Hi did not, Mrs. Malone, you hinquisitive ole party."
"Why not, me bucko?"
"Coz Hi wishes to surprise 'im, that's w'y," said the boy defiantly.
"Hand hif you lays 'and hon me agin, Hi 'll 'ave Lord Castlereagh bite
you good hand 'arty where it 'll do you the most good hand be the least
missed."
"Niver mind thot."
"Hi won't hif you won't, Hi 'm sure, Mrs. Malone, and as for the young
lidy, she has n't been 'ere to-day," said Buster.
"Oh, never fear," returned Mrs. Malone. "Shell come, and it's glad I am
that he 's back agin."
"W'y? Did you miss 'im?"
"Niver mind. It's the young leddy I 'm tinking of. Faith, suppose she
got discouraged and stopped a-coming?"
"That 'ud show she was n't worth 'aving," replied Buster wisely. "Now
see 'ere, Mrs. Malone, w'en she comes Hi wants you to let 'er hup widout
hany announcement. Does you 'ear?"
"Oh, I hears, but for phwat should I do that, Mr. Buster?"
"You just leave it to me, your 'Ighness. Hi knows how these haffairs
should be conducted."
"Oh, yez do, do yez?" said Mrs. Malone in a derisive tone, as she ambled
toward the door. "It's in an orphan asylum yez ought to be."
"Not hat all," retorted Buster. "Hi 'as no time to waste hon 'aving
horphings."
The worthy landlady met Moore in the hall as she quitted his apartments,
and overwhelmed him with the heartiness of her welcome, but, mindful of
Buster's instructions, said never a word concerning the visits of
Mistress Dyke. Moore, having made as speedy an escape as was possible
without wounding the old woman's feelings, entered the attic, being
received with much doggish delight by Lord Castlereagh, who seemed to
ignore the fact that he had ceased to be a puppy several years before.
"Good hevening, Mr. Moore," said Buster politely, about to deliver the
post to his master.
"Good evening, _Montgomery_," replied Moore, severely, drawing off his
gloves.
"Montgomery?" echoed the boy, thoroughly disgusted. "Ho, don't call me
that, sir, please don't."
"Well, that's your name, isn't it?"
"Ho, Hi knows hit, alas!" said Buster, in an injured tone. "Hi knows
hit only too well. Wen Hi wuz too little to defend myself w'en put
hupon, my hole woman hup and christens me Montgomery Julien Hethelbert,
hand 'itches hit hon to the family nime hof Spinks."
"Montgomery Julien Ethelbert--"
"_Spinks_. Yes sir, that's hit. Wuz n't that a crime? That's wot
stunted my growth, most likely."
"It seems plausible," observed Moore, in secret vastly amused.
"Yes, hit do," continued the boy, sadly. "Say, sir, won't you allus
call me Buster?"
"No, sir," responded Moore, sternly. "You were fighting again this
afternoon. As punishment for your pugilistic propensities I refuse to
call you Buster again to-day."
"Ho, law!" exclaimed Buster, "but this 'ere punishment is horful. We
wuz honly 'aving a gime, sir, just playin' like."
"Indeed? I happened to see you myself this time. I won't have you half
killing the neighbors' children that way."
"You saw me? Oh, Hi say, was n't that a helegant gesture w'en I soaked
'im hon the nob? Did n't Hi do 'im hup brown, eh? Hand that jolt hin
the bread-basket wid my left fisty. Ho, that cert'nly wuz a pet!"
"Montgomery Julien," began the poet, severely.
The lad wilted.
"Ho, don't, sir, don't. Hit makes me _that_ fretful," he said
pleadingly. "Hi 'll reform, really Hi will."
"Do so, then," said Moore. "And remember, if I ever hear of your
fighting again, I 'll never call you anything but Montgomery."
"Yessir," replied Buster, with a low bow. "Hi 'ears, hand to 'ear his
to hobey. Hi retires from the prize ring to-day, hand my champeenship
Hi resigns to the red-'eaded butcher boy hacross the w'y. 'Ere 's the
post, sir."
Moore took the two letters from the lad and sat down beside the table to
examine them.
"From publishers, h'aren't they?" said Buster interestedly.
Moore nodded.
"That they are, lad," he answered, opening the first as he spoke. "Ah,
here is an inclosure."
"Hinside?" asked Buster, eagerly.
"Where else?" demanded the poet. "Did you think it would be wrapped
around the outside? From the _Gazette_. One pound. Good. A pound is
better than ten shillings any day."
"Ha munth hagow hit 'ud 'ave been ten pun," said Buster, shaking his
round head.
"But it's nine well lost," answered Moore, adding to himself, "aye, well
lost, since it is for Bessie's sake."
He found a note inside and read it aloud.
"MR. THOMAS MOORE--
"DEAR SIR,--Inclosed find one pound in payment for your poem,
'Inconstancy,' which, owing to your present unpopularity, we feel
compelled to print under the name Thomas Little."
"Hi likes their imperence," cried Buster in disgust. "'Little,' indeed!"
"That accounts for the size of the check, no doubt," observed the poet.
"Two days ago it was 'Tom Brown;' next week it will be 'Tom Green' or
'Tom Fool.' However, it does n't matter if Tom Moore gets the money."
"Hi 'll let 'em use my nime," suggested the lad in noble self-sacrifice.
"My folks his all dead, so the publis'ty won't kill 'em. Montgomery
Julien Hethelbert would look grite hin print."
"I quite agree with you," said Moore, laughing. "Ah, Buster, me boy,
it's sweet to be back in the old place. I 'd not give it, bare and ugly
as it is, for one of the fine places I 've wined and dined in since
leaving it, if Bessie were only here to brighten it for me."
Buster looked around him comprehensively.
"Hit does need cleaning hup a bit," he said apologetically. "Hi 'll see
wot Hi can do to-morrer."
"And you say there has been no letter for me from her?" continued Moore.
"Not one letter, sir," replied Buster.
"And you have n't seen her, Buster?"
The boy gave a yell of pain, and slapped his hand to his face, at the
same time executing a double shuffle with his feet.
"What ails you, lad?"' asked the poet in astonishment.
"My toot' haches me," explained Buster, who had invented this complaint
by way of diverting his master's inquiries.
"Fall in love, Buster," advised Moore, "and the pain in your heart will
make you forget the pain in your tooth."
"Hit's better now, sir," announced the boy, jubilant that he had kept
his master from all knowledge of Mistress Dyke without real denial of
her visits.
"Now for the other letter," said Moore.
This was the bulky package. Buster's suspicions that it inclosed a
disappointment proved not unfounded, for there was a manuscript poem
folded within.
"Humph," grunted Moore, scornfully. "What bad taste they display.
"'MR. THOMAS MOORE--
"'DEAR SIR,--In view of your present unpopularity--'