Tom Moore Part 49

"Indeed," asked the lady in a disappointed tone. "I thought he would surely be here."

"Zooks," drawled a handsome gentleman who, gorgeously attired and carrying himself with mannered dignity, had joined the first-mentioned couple in their corner. "Moore not here? What a bore! I counted on hearing him sing some of his ballads to-night. I am told he has a new one. Some deliciously impossible lyrical statement concerning the steadfastness of the proper kind of love in the face of misfortune and wrinkles. Quite improbable, but delightfully sentimental and imaginative."

"Put not your faith in princes, Brummell," quoted Mr. Sheridan, knowingly, "that your days may be longer in the land."

"A combination of scriptural sayings worthy of their most unrespected quoter," laughed Mrs. FitzHerbert. "Do you think a prince's pa.s.sion could face wrinkles?"

"In whose face? His own or some one else's?"

"Some one else's face, of course, Mr. Sheridan."

"I spoke of the proper kind of love, dear madame, not the improper,"

observed Brummell, languidly.

"And a prince's love?"

"For his princess impossible, for any other woman improper," said Sheridan, looking away lest his shot strike home.

"And why has Sir Percival cut Mr. Moore?" demanded Mrs. FitzHerbert, giving Sheridan a reproving tap with her fan.

"They are old rivals," replied the Beau.

"Would Sir Percival marry her, do you think?"

"No one can answer that question, Mrs. Fitz, but Lovelace himself.

Shall I tell him you would like to know?"

"Not for the world, Mr. Sheridan," she exclaimed. "It is not my affair."

"If Percy is contemplating matrimony it will surprise many who know him well," returned Brummell, seating himself near by. "But then he always was an eccentric dog."

"They would never agree."

"Well," said Mr. Sheridan, "it is well known that if the bride and the groom did not have their little differences they would not care to marry."

"Ahem! Have you read Mr. Rogers's new poem?" asked the lady, skilfully changing the subject.

"'The Pleasures of Memory'? Egad, I obtain much more pleasure by forgetting," said Sheridan, taking snuff.

"So the tradesmen say, Sherry."

"Well, George, I 've not heard of your discounting your bills lately,"

retorted the elder man.

Just then Sir Percival approached them.

"As usual, the rallying place for wit and fashion is at Mrs.

FitzHerbert's side," said the baronet, graciously.

"So you thought you would add beauty to the list by coming yourself?"

"Nay, Sherry, I have heard it said there was never a prettier gentleman than Richard Brinsley," said the baronet.

"Who said that? Your grandmother?" retorted Sheridan. "How is the old lady?"

"So you have neglected Mr. Moore?" whispered Mrs. FitzHerbert, drawing her host to her side. "Oh, Percy, Percy, what a jealous creature you are!"

"Egad, you wrong me, Mrs. FitzHerbert; the one being I have ever really envied as a lover is his Highness."

"Mr. d.y.k.e and Mistress d.y.k.e," announced the footman.

Sir Percival went to welcome his guests, followed by Sheridan and the others. Bessie never looked prettier. The proud consciousness of her success gave her a new confidence, and she laughed and quizzed it with the witty throng a.s.sembled to celebrate her triumph as brightly and merrily as though she had never moved in any but the upper circle of society. Mrs. FitzHerbert mischievously told her of Sir Percival's intentional neglect of Moore in the hearing of the gentleman, and then, bubbling over with glee at the embarra.s.sing position in which she had placed him, sought safety in flight on the arm of Farrell, who, quite dazzled by the beauty's condescension, was already vaguely meditating on his chances as a rival of the Regent.

"Are you angry, Mistress Bessie?" asked Sir Percival, inwardly registering a vow to be even with the Prince's favorite for the trick she had played him.

"Angry?" she repeated. "What a question, sir! Surely in your own house you have the privilege of editing your visiting list?"

"You must know why I have done this," he said boldly.

"Why, Sir Percival?"

"Because I am jealous of the amorous looks he bestows upon you, even if you do not return them. I wished to have you to myself to-night, so I have placed it beyond Moore's power to interfere in his usual impudent manner."

"You need not explain," Bessie said coldly, as a servant approached.

"The Prince's carriage blocks the way," he announced to his master.

"Good!" exclaimed Sir Percival. "His Highness' tardiness worried me. I was afraid he was not coming."

"His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales," announced the footman a moment later, "_and Mr. Thomas Moore!_"

The Regent entered the room with his arm linked in that of the poet, whose eyes, twinkling with merriment, showed plainly his enjoyment of Sir Percival's surprise and disappointment.

"Percy, I took the liberty of bringing Tom Moore with me."

"Your Highness does not doubt that I am glad to welcome any friend of yours," glibly replied Sir Percival.

Then as the Prince, seeing Sheridan, ever a favorite of his, turned away, the baronet said to Moore, a sneer disfiguring his handsome face:

"Believe me, Mr. Moore, my house is honored."

"I believe you, Sir Percival," responded the poet, promptly, "so that need not worry you."

"Nothing ever worries me, sir."

"Not even conscience, Sir Percival?"

"No, Mr. Moore," replied the baronet, as Wales and Sheridan drew nearer.