Tom Moore Part 54

"That is one thing I am never short of, Tommy."

"May I, without impropriety, ask what is the trouble?" inquired the Beau.

"A friend of mine is in danger, Brummell. I must raise one thousand pounds before dawn."

"A thousand pounds!" exclaimed Brummell, horrified. "Good Lord!"

Then, as the Beau had recourse to his scent-bottle for the stimulation necessary to revive him from the shock inflicted by Moore's words, the poet gripped Sheridan by the arm in sudden hope.

"I 'll appeal to the Prince Regent himself, Sherry."

Sheridan shook his head in dissent.

"Tommy, boy, remember he is Sir Percival's intimate friend."

"But his Highness likes me. Surely he would interfere?"

"Tom," said Brummell solemnly, "if there is a woman in the case do not waste your time and exhaust the patience of Wales. His Highness is a greater rake than Percy Lovelace ever dreamed of being."

"He would not see a woman so coerced," persisted Moore.

"Remember, lad," advised Sheridan, "you are a friend and courtier of only three months' standing. Sir Percival has been Wales's companion since their boyhood."

"Then G.o.d help us," said Moore in despair. "There is nothing I can do.

Stay! I forgot McDermot. He has asked me to write him an eastern romance in verse and offered to pay liberally in advance."

"That old skinflint will faint at the thought of a thousand pounds."

"It is my only chance, Sherry. Where is the old fellow?"

"I saw him in the smoking-room a few minutes ago," said Brummell. "No doubt you will find him still there."

"I 'll not lose a moment," said Moore. "It is a forlorn hope, but he 'll find the hardest task of his life will be to give me 'No' for an answer."

"But first, Tom," said Sheridan, wisely, "you must see Mr. d.y.k.e.

Perhaps it is not so bad a matter as we think."

"You are right, Sherry," replied Moore, his spirits recovering a little at the thought that, after all, the danger might have been exaggerated.

But this desperate hope was not destined to be of long life, for Moore found Mr. d.y.k.e in a quiet nook, crushed and despairing. He had just left Sir Percival, who in a few cold words had explained to the hapless old man the terrible trap in which he had been caught.

"Take a half hour to think over my proposition," the baronet had said as he left the aged poet. "When that time has pa.s.sed, acquaint your daughter with my wishes. She will do anything, even marry me, I feel sure, to extricate you from your present predicament."

Moore listened in silence to his friend's story, and when he had finished said:

"You have not told Bessie, sir?"

"Not yet, Thomas."

"Then do not tell her. Let me settle with Sir Percival. I 'll find some way to beat him yet."

Leaving Mr. d.y.k.e where he had found him, Moore went in search of the publisher.

_Chapter Twenty_

_TOM MOORE MAKES A BAD BARGAIN_

Mr. McDermot raised his bald head as Moore approached him in the smoking-room. His keen, hatchet-shaped face was framed on either side by a huge mutton-chop whisker which was like nothing else half so much as a furze bush recently sifted over by a snow-storm. This worthy gentleman regarded Moore with a keenness that seemed to the poet to penetrate and to coldly scrutinize his troubled mind, for Moore was ever a poor hand at dissimulation and bore on his unusually cheery countenance only too plainly the mark of the mental anxiety he was now enduring.

"Weel, Mr. Moore, what can I do for ye, sair?"

"Sir," said Moore, trying to hide his eagerness, "I have been thinking over the proposition you made a week ago at the instigation of Lord Lansdowne."

"Weel, Mr. Moore?" repeated McDermot, realizing at a single glance that the person addressing him was much in need of something he hoped to obtain as the result of this interview, and wisely concluding that this something was money.

"You wished me to write a long poem, for which you a.s.serted you were willing to pay in advance, if by so doing you secured the exclusive right to all my work for the next two years."

"So I said, Mr. Moore, but that was a week ago, sair. However, continue your remarks."

"At that time I did not regard the matter favorably," continued Moore, "but since then I have changed my mind. I accept your offer, sir."

"Ah, do ye? And what terms did I propose, Mr. Moore?"

"You named none, sir, but from the way you spoke I fancied you would be agreeable to any reasonable bargain I might propose."

"True, sair, true, but what is reasonable in one man's eyes may weel be considered exhorbitant by anither. Ha' the kindness to name in figures, Mr. Moore, what ye deem ye due."

McDermot spoke in his most chilling tones, indifference ringing its baleful note in each word. Moore's heart sank, but he struggled bravely on with his hopeless task, resolved not to even acknowledge the possibility of defeat until failure absolute and crushing should be forced upon him beyond all denying.

"I have decided to ask one thousand pounds in advance, sir," he began, intending to name the royalty he hoped to be paid upon each copy of the poem sold, but the look he received from the grim old Scotchman made him hesitate and falter with the words upon his lips unspoken.

"One thousand poonds!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed McDermot, terribly shocked, if the tone in which he spoke could be regarded as a truthful indication of his feelings. "One thousand poonds, Mr. Moore? What jest is this, sair?"

"Is it not worth it?" stammered Moore, the blood rushing to his face.

"Worth it? _Worth it_? You must be mad, sair. No publisher half sane would dream o' paying ye half that in advance."

"Oh, come now," said Moore, trying to speak unconcernedly, and scoring a wretched failure as a result.

"I too ha' been considering the matter o' which ye speak, Mr. Moore."

"You mean you wish to withdraw your offer, sir?" cried Moore, in great alarm.

"That, Mr. Moore, is preecisely what I mean," declared McDermot, regarding the poet from beneath his bristling brows. "I ha' decided, sair, that I much exaggerated ye popularity as well as ye talents. This determination, taken togither with the terms ye ha' just suggested, leads me to wash my hands o' the whole matter. Find some ither pooblisher, Mr. Moore. Try Longmans or Mooray."