Tom Moore Part 50

"Ah, I see, conscience, like a powdered wig, is no longer in style."

"Tut, tut, Tom," said Sheridan reprovingly. "I still cling to the old fas.h.i.+on."

Moore eyed the speaker's wig with tolerant eye.

"Faith, Sherry," said he, "brains such as yours are an excuse for anything."

"Perhaps," said Sheridan. "But it is a poor rule that does n't work both ways, and surely you will not have the temerity to a.s.sert that 'Anything is an excuse for brains.'"

"In society who can doubt the truth of the statement?"

"It takes a sinner to be cynical," said Sheridan, having recourse to his snuff-box.

"Then," said Moore, "what a doubter our greatest dramatist must be."

"I have been described as a doubtful character more than once," returned the old gentleman. "Your Highness, when you arrived we were discussing matrimony."

"An amatory eccentricity," drawled Brummell, who had joined the little group now surrounding the Prince.

"The connecting link between bankruptcy and the Bank of England,"

declared Sir Percival.

"The straight-jacket in which are confined couples suffering from sentimental insanity p.r.o.nounced incurable by the church," said Moore.

"Ah," said Wales, "recovery is sometimes rapid, nevertheless."

"Marriage is deceptive," said Mr. Sheridan, with a sigh. "Lovers go to church for a bridal and return home to find they have been given a yoke."

"What would you suggest, Sherry?" asked the Prince. "Would you abolish matrimony?"

"I 'd make it a bill drawn on Divorce at say three years' sight."

"I fear most couples would seek to discount the bill," said Moore.

"You take it too seriously," said Brummell, smothering a yawn.

"Is it supposed to be a joke?" asked Wales, whimsically.

"Yes, your Highness, played on mankind for the benefit of posterity,"

said Moore.

"Tut, tut, Tommy," said Sheridan reprovingly. "You are too young to be such a scoffer."

"Indeed?"

"You young fellows are led astray by your own importance, and soon begin to regard yourselves as paternal achievements rather than maternal miscalculations."

A roar followed this sally of the elder Irishman, but the younger was not to be so quickly defeated.

"And you old boys," said he, "make another mistake. You regard yourselves as attractions long after you have become ornaments."

"Personalities are to be avoided," returned Sheridan good-humoredly.

"We were talking of marriage."

"Don't mention it," retorted Moore politely. "It is a queer thing at best. Before a wedding a woman has a husband to look forward to."

"And when married?"

"Faith, Sherry, a husband to look after."

"Imagine it, Brummell."

"Fortunately, your Highness, there are some limits to my imagination,"

replied the Beau.

"Sentimentally but not sartorially speaking," observed Sheridan, scrutinizing the exquisite's lace cravat through his eye-gla.s.s. "'T is well to remember that imagination is the thief of truth."

"You have dismembered marriage," said Wales, smiling, "what of love?"

"Surely the subjects have nothing in common?" cried Moore.

"The two together would be most uncommon," remarked Sheridan. "Love is the incidental music in the melodrama of life."

"The sugar coating put upon the pill of sensuality by the sentimental apothecary," retorted Moore. "Love is the devil, matrimony is hel--hem!--heaven."

"How do you know, Moore?" demanded the Prince. "You have never been married."

"I have never been to Hades, your Highness, but I know it is hot just the same."

The verbal duel of the quartette ended in a shout of laughter and the Prince, on the arm of Brummell, strolled away in search of Mrs.

FitzHerbert, while Sir Percival and Sheridan sought the card-room, leaving Moore to his own devices, a proceeding that suited him exactly, as he had already caught a distant view of Bessie, and was eager to be off in pursuit.

That young lady, guessing as much, took refuge in a flight as skilful as it was apparently unstudied, and Moore, hampered by the politeness he was compelled to bestow upon his friends and admirers as he encountered them on his pursuing stroll, found himself at the end of half an hour no nearer the object of his quest than at the beginning of the evening.

Just then there came a request from the Regent that he should favor the a.s.semblage with one of his own songs, so, inwardly chafing at the delay, he was compelled to warble rapturously, not once but thrice, for his good-nature was at par with his fellow guests' appreciation.

Having sung "Believe Me, if All Those Endearing Young Charms," he followed it with the mournful ditty, "She is Far from the Land," and finished with "The Last Rose of Summer" by royal command, the close of his efforts being received with a perfect storm of applause that was as sincere as it was flattering; but here the Prince interfered, and, vowing he would not allow his gifted friend to strain his vocal cords, publicly thanked Moore for the pleasure he had given the a.s.semblage.

Meanwhile, Sir Percival had not been idle. Finding a deserted nook the baronet, about an hour later, sent a servant in quest of Farrell, and contentedly awaited the young Irishman's coming, absorbed in pleasant rumination on the probable happenings of the by no means distant future.

"Oh, Terence," said he, rousing from his reverie as the former entered, "is the poem printed?"

Farrell drew a copy of the _Examiner_ from his pocket.

"Here it is in the evening's issue," said he. "Evidently his Highness has not yet stumbled on it, though every one else seems to have done so."

[Ill.u.s.tration: Tom Moore meets Bessie d.y.k.e at Sir Percival's.]

"Droll that the Prince should come here in the author's company," said Sir Percival, scanning the sheet, in the corner of which was the poem he had purloined from Moore's garret.