Tom Moore Part 35

"Ahem--er--er--nor does any one else," continued the clerk, pitilessly.

"Mr. McDermot bade me say that to obtain success at the present time a book must be dedicated to some great figure of fashion."

"But I know none, sir," replied the disconsolate poet, sinking limply back on his stool. "I know none, sir."

"Just so,--er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore," said Mr. Gannon, gravely. "You know none; none knows you, so here is your poetry."

As he spoke, he drew a bundle of ma.n.u.script from his coat-tail pocket and tossed it contemptuously upon the table.

"Good day, sir, good day, er--er--ahem,--Mr. Moore."

And swelling out his chest with the importance properly attached to the person of the bearer of bad news, little Mr. Gannon sauntered leisurely out of the attic.

For a moment Moore sat motionless and dumb, striving to comprehend that the sudden downfall of his hopes was real. So quickly had he found himself robbed of the triumph which seemed almost in his grasp that the events of the last few moments were temporarily blurred and blotted in his mind as the fanciful weavings of a slumbering brain often are when consciousness is rudely restored to the sleeper and memory seeks to recall the dream.

"Done again," he murmured, softly. "_Done again_."

Suddenly a great sob shook his frame, but he manfully choked back the others which would have followed it.

"My courage is gone at last," he whispered, as though he were not alone.

"I 'm beaten--I 'm beaten. Oh, it is bitter. All my bright hopes were conjured up but to fade. A glimpse of Paradise shown to me, and then this attic again. Ah, Bessie, Bessie, my heart is broken this day."

For a second he seemed as though about to break down completely, but, controlling himself with a great effort, he dashed the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. Then as he turned, his eye fell upon the ma.n.u.script lying on the table where it had been thrown by the careless hand of Mr. Gannon.

"You are there, are you?" he cried, seizing it roughly. "You tempted me from beautiful Ireland--you lured me here to this heartless, cruel London, with a thousand sweet promises of hope and love and fame. You 've tricked me. You brought me here to starve--to die--to fail. Then, d.a.m.n you, I 'm through with you forever."

He hurled the written book to the floor and groped his way to the window, blinded with the tears he would not shed. The golden and salmon hued glory of the sunset, painting the spires and house tops with a thousand shades of flame, fell full upon his hopeless head, and conscious of the horrible mockery of such a halo at a time when only darkness and despair seemed to surround his existence, the poor fellow buried his face in his arms on the window-sill and sobbed like a beaten child.

After a while, when the final bitterness of his grief and disappointment had pa.s.sed he left the window. As he crossed the room his eye fell upon the rejected poems, which lay on the floor bathed in the crimson and yellow riot of a sunbeam. He stood for a moment as though transfixed, then as his heart filled with a sudden revulsion of feeling he knelt and clasped the ma.n.u.script to his breast with a little cry.

"No, no," he murmured brokenly, "I did n't mean it, I did n't mean it, for _such_ as you are you 're _all_ I have."

When Buster opened the door a few moments later he found his master sitting in his favorite arm-chair in front of the fireplace in which flickered a tiny fire, lighted for the sake of its cheering influence as the chill of fall was still at least a month away.

"Well, sir?" asked the lad, hopefully. "Did he take 'em?"

"No, Buster, he came to bring them back," replied Moore, quite calmly.

Buster made a remark as expressive as it was profane, which is saying much.

"Well, blow 'is hugly face!" he cried, in righteous indignation. "Hall that fuss hand then 'ands 'em back?"

"He did, Buster."

"Oh, Hi wishes Hi 'ad a knowed it. Babble's tumble wouldn't 'ave been a circ.u.mstance to the 'eader that little pot-bellied cove would 'ave tooken. Hi say, Mr. Moore, will you call me 'Pride' after this?"

"Why?" asked Moore, more cheerfully.

"Because 'as 'ow Hi goes before a fall hand returns hafter it. Dabble will swear to that, sir. Aw, don't let a measly publishing cove cast you down, sir. W'y hall we 'as got to do is to cut McDermot dead when we meets 'im on Pall Mall. That 'll ruin 'im socially."

"You are a plucky little devil, Buster."

"Yessir," replied the boy, sagely. "You see, Hi hain't got no gal to worry me, sir."

"Ah, my lad," said Moore, nodding his head with a sigh, "that makes a world of difference after all."

"There is some one hat the door, sir," said Buster. "Shall Hi tell 'im you're hout?"

"No, lad, I 'll be glad of company. Bid him enter."

Buster obediently opened the door and a tall gentleman, magnificently dressed, stepped over the threshold.

"Is this the residence of Mr. Thomas Moore?" he asked, removing his hat politely.

At the sound of the new-comer's voice Moore started to his feet.

"It is, sir," he answered, advancing a step or two.

"Oh, how are you, Mr. Moore? You remember me?"

"Lord Brooking; Sir Percival's friend," said Moore coldly. "I 've not forgotten you."

And he paid no attention to his lordship's outstretched hand.

Brooking seemed a trifle disconcerted at the coolness of his reception, but, recovering himself, he continued winningly:

"You wrong me, sir. My intimacy with the gentleman you named has declined to a mere acquaintance."

"You are to be congratulated, Lord Brooking," replied Moore more cordially. "Won't you sit down?"

Then, as the young n.o.bleman was relieved of his cloak and hat by Buster, the poet went on:

"I believed your lordship to be abroad."

"It is my custom to pa.s.s six months yearly upon the Continent," answered Brooking, settling back at his ease in the old arm-chair to which his host had waved him. "To this, doubtless, your impression is due. As it is, I only returned from there two days ago, so you see, Mr. Moore, you are one of the first of my friends to receive a call from me."

"I am honored," replied Moore, politely, sitting down on the other side of the fireplace.

"No doubt you are wondering what has brought me to see you?"

"I can't deny a slight curiosity, my lord," admitted Moore, smiling back at the young n.o.bleman, whose charming manner was winning his confidence in spite of his previous suspicions.

"Then I 'll proceed to enlighten you without further delay, Mr. Moore."

"If your lordship will be so good."

"In Ireland a year ago Sir Percival offered little Mistress d.y.k.e a position at Drury Lane Theatre."

"He did, curse him!"