Tom Moore Part 64

"Zooks!" drawled Brummell, "that reminds me of an execrable jest of which the Regent was guilty a fortnight ago. 'Why am I like a farmer?'

he inquired of Percy Lovelace, who politely confessed that he could detect no resemblance. 'Because,' said his Highness, 'I keep a rake within reach,' and pointed with his monocle at Richard Brinsley."

"That is a mighty bad pun, I 'm thinking," said Moore to Bessie.

"Tom," she said warningly, "are you not already sufficiently out of favor?"

"Pooh, Bessie, these lads are my friends. Tell me the news, you old gossip. Am I still in disgrace?"

Sheridan shook his gray wig dolefully.

"You are, Tommy, I regret to say," he answered. "The Regent honors you with his personal profanity almost daily."

Brummell took a dainty pinch of snuff and proceeded to change the subject.

"Have you heard of the Prince's quarrel with Mrs. FitzHerbert?" he asked.

"No," said Moore, "have those turtle-doves had a falling out?"

"Oh, it won't last long," said Sheridan, "but while it does endure it is a mighty warm little spat."

"What caused the trouble if I may ask, Sherry?"

"The drollest reason," said the Beau with a dignified smile. "You 'll never guess it, Tommy."

"Then I 'll not try."

"Tell him, Sherry," said the Beau, adjusting his ruffles.

"She became angry because the Regent visited his wife late in the evening without a chaperon," laughed the old Irishman.

"My, oh, my!" exclaimed Moore, horrified. "Has the Prince no sense of decorum?"

"How goes the world with you, children?" demanded Sheridan, kindly. "Do you manage to exist without the approval of royalty?"

"We are getting on somehow. I have enough to eat, almost enough to drink--"

"You are indeed fortunate," interjected Sheridan. "I cannot recall any period in my career when I had anywhere near enough to drink."

"You must remember, Sherry," said the Beau, languidly, "every Irishman does not have a bottomless pit where nature usually places a stomach.

Your pardon, Mistress d.y.k.e, for using so corporeal a term."

"Well, to continue," said Moore, "besides the possessions already enumerated I have a roof over my head, and these same luxuries I can offer to my wife when I get her."

Bessie looked up at him lovingly as he sat down on the arm of the chair she occupied.

"We will be so happy," she said shyly to Mr. Sheridan.

"And we will need no chaperon, I 'm thinking," said Moore.

"I 'll wager you won't," said Sheridan, wisely. "Well, George, let's get on our way."

"What's that?" said Moore, quickly. "Get on your way? Not much. You are going to stay to supper with us."

"Well," said Sheridan, who had risen in a hesitating way, "I--"

"Oh," said Moore, divining the cause of his countryman's embarra.s.sment, "it is true that you won't get much to eat, but you are more than welcome to whatever there is; and besides, think of the company you will be in."

"That last decides me, if Mistress d.y.k.e extends the invitation," said Sheridan, yielding in response to a nod from the Beau, who had decided to remain.

"Tom speaks for both of us," said Bessie. "Don't you, Tom?"

"Yes, and some day I 'll listen for both of us, no doubt. That will be when she points out my faults, lads. You must stay. Bessie will make the tea--that is, if there is any tea. If there is n't any, she 'll mix the whisky."

"Good," said Sheridan, smacking his lips.

"But there is tea," said the girl, opening the caddy which she found in the cupboard.

"Just our luck, eh, Sherry?" said the poet, disconsolately.

Buster entered at this opportune moment and busied himself, with the a.s.sistance of Bessie, in preparing the simple meal.

Moore drew the chairs into position by the table as Bessie laid the plates.

"You are to sit there, you disreputable old Hibernian," said he, a.s.sisting Sheridan to a seat on the right.

"Your place is there at the end, Fas.h.i.+on Plate. I 'll preside just opposite you across the festive board, and Bessie shall sit on your left hand."

"Is she heavy?" inquired Sheridan, interestedly, as he sat down.

"I 'm speaking metaphorically," the poet rattled on. "How goes the play, Sherry?"

"'Pizarro' is certainly doing a fine business," replied the aged dramatist. "The public likes blood and thunder."

"I suppose you sent a box to the Dutchman that wrote it?" said Moore.

"On the contrary, Tommy, I think he should buy one to see how his play should have been written in the first place," replied Sheridan, not at all disconcerted, for he made no bones about admitting his indebtedness to Kotzebue for his last great success. "For my part, I 'm afraid Anacreon might not appreciate some of the Odes as now rendered according to the gospel of Thomas."

"Well, he was dead when I tackled him," retorted Moore.

"Which no doubt saved you from answering at the bar to the charge of manslaughter, for I 'm sure he 'd never have survived the heroic treatment you gave him."

"Tea is ready," announced Bessie, opportunely.

"Good," said Moore. "Buster, bring the wine."

"But there hain't none," responded the lad.

"Bring it, anyway. Any one can bring wine when there is wine, but it takes a smart boy to fetch it when there is n't any."