Chapter XVIII: Act II

SCENE.--_The same room in COLONEL O’FIPP’S house, but very handsomely
furnished. Pictures, busts, etc. Writing materials on one table;
sherry and glasses on another._

_MATILDA O’FIPP discovered working, WHIPPLE on a stool at her feet._

_Whi._ My darling Matilda, who was it who said the course of true love never did run smooth? Are not our loves true? And could anything be smoother than their course during the last three months?

_Mat._ No, dear, savin’ that when ye proposed for me, papa kicked ye out of the house.

_Whi._ He did, in the effusion of the moment, and I honour him for it! On his unexpected accession to wealth he naturally looked for a wealthy and well-born son-in-law, and I honour him for it! But the doughty old soldier was open to reason, and when I proved to him that his wealth depended on my secrecy, he admitted his error at once, like a frank old warrior as he is, and I honour him for it!

_Mat._ Poor Tom! I wonder what’s come of him all this while? It’s three months since he----

_Whi._ Died.

_Mat._ Died, and I’ve never heard a word from him since.

_Whi._ Then he can’t complain if you’ve been inconstant.

_Mat._ ’Deed, and he can’t. It’s clear a young girl must marry somebody. It’s nature.

_Enter O’FIPP._

_Whi._ Of course it is, and if he truly loves you--really and truly loves you as I do, he ought to be delighted when he comes back to find that you’ve engaged yourself to a gentleman in every way his superior.

_O’Fi._ Deloighted when he comes back? Divil a bit! By razin that he won’t come back any more!

_Mat._ Won’t come back any more?

_O’Fi._ Not he. Isn’t he dead, and haven’t we buried him, and paid his debts, and proved his will, and stuck up a tombstone that he’d blush to read. Sure, it’ll be in the highest degree ondacent in him to give the lie to a tombstone!

_Whi._ But Tom never had any tact--and if he _should_ be guilty of the indiscretion of turning up----

_O’Fi._ Well, sorr, if he should, I shall be prepared to admit that I’ve acted under a misconception. But, sorr, before I yield possession of the estate which has so miraculously come into my hands, I shall satisfy meself beyond all doubt that I am not dealin’ with an imposthor. Any one who assumes to be the late Tom Cobb will have to establish his identity beyond all manner of doubt. And as I’ve paid Mr. Ben Isaacs and his other creditors conditionally on his being dead, he may find that difficult, sorr,--he may find that difficult. [_Exit O’FIPP._

_Mat._ Well, Tom Cobb may be dead, but when he finds out the use that’s been made of his will, he’ll not rest in his grave, I’m thinking, that’s all!

_Whi._ But if he _should_ return--if Tom Cobb’s shade _should_ take it into his ghostly head to revisit the scenes of his earthly happiness--promise me that you will treat him with the cold respect due to a disembodied spirit.

_Mat._ But when d’ye think he’ll come?

_Whi._ Well, between ourselves, I think we may look for his apparition at an early date. Unless the necessaries of life are considerably cheaper in the other world than in this, Tom Cobb’s five and twenty pounds must be as shadowy as himself by this time.

_Mat._ But if he comes to life, who’s to kill him again?

_Whi._ Oh, your papa will have to kill him; it’s his turn. Besides, it’s a colonel’s business to kill people.

_Mat._ And a doctor’s, too.

_Whi._ Yes, Matilda. But we don’t _pay_ people to die: they pay us to kill ’em. It’s the rule of the profession. [_Exeunt MATILDA and WHIPPLE._

_Enter TOM COBB, preceded by _Footman_. TOM is very seedy and dirty,
and his boots are in holes._

_Footman._ If you’ll take a seat, sir, I’ll tell the Colonel you want to see him. What name shall I say?

_Tom_ (_aside_). If I give him my real name he’ll faint. (_Aloud._) The Duke of Northumberland. (_Aside._) That’ll draw him. (_Aloud._) I haven’t a card. (_FOOTMAN is incredulous. He is about to go, but returns and removes tray with sherry; then exit._) Well, nicely the old scoundrel’s feathered his nest, upon my word! Real Axminster, satin furniture, ancestors, busts! And this has been going on for three months, and I only heard of it yesterday. Why, he’s made me accessory to a forgery, and I’m being advertised for in every paper in the kingdom! Why, it’s penal servitude! Who’d think an Irish colonel could be such a scoundrel! Well, you never know when you’re safe in this world; upon my soul, you don’t. I never met a man in my life whose manner and appearance inspired me with so much confidence.

_Enter O’FIPP._

Well, upon my word, Colonel O’Fipp, you’re a nice officer, you are! I make a will more by way of a joke than anything else, and you have the face to apply it to the property of a friendless old man who went by my name! Why, it’s robbery! it’s forgery! and Docket and Tape are offering £50 reward to any one who can give information about me! Now, look here--destroy that will and restore the property, or I’ll answer this advertisement this very minute. I will; upon my soul and honour, I will--there!

_O’Fi._ I believe I have the honour of addressin’ the Jook of Northumberland.

_Tom._ Oh, don’t talk nonsense, Colonel; you know me well enough.

_O’Fi._ Am I to onderstand, sorr, that ye’re not the distinguished nobleman you represented yerself to be?

_Tom._ Oh, haven’t I been deceived in you! Oh, Colonel, Colonel! you _have_ turned out treacherous; upon my soul, you have!

_O’Fi._ I’m at a loss to comprehend your meanin’, sorr. Will ye oblige me by informing me whom I have the honour of addressin’?

_Tom._ You’ve the honour of addressing a miserable, poor devil, who’ll be standing alongside of you at the Old Bailey bar in about three weeks, if he’s not very much mistaken.

_O’Fi._ Upon my wurrd, sorr, ye’ve got the advantage of me.

_Tom._ Have I? Then I’m the only man that ever did. I don’t think Tom Cobb is the sort of man to get any advantage out of Colonel O’Fipp. (_COLONEL O’FIPP falls sobbing into chair._) What’s the matter now?

_O’Fi._ Ye mentioned the name of Tom Cobb, sorr. I had a dear, dear friend of that name once. He was to have married me daughter, sorr; but he’s gone!

_Tom._ Well, if that’s what you’re crying for--cheer up, because he’s come back again.

_O’Fi._ (_seizing his hand_). Me dear friend, me very dear friend, if ye can only assure me that poor dear dead and gone Tom Cobb is aloive, me gratitude shall know no bounds! Maybe you’re his brother?

_Tom._ His brother!--get out!

_O’Fi._ No? I thought ye moight be; I seem to see a loikeness.

_Tom._ I should think you did!

_O’Fi._ A distant loikeness, sorr.

_Tom._ A mere suggestion, I suppose?

_O’Fi._ A faint shadowy indication of a remote family resemblance; that’s all, sorr, I give ye my honour. And now tell me where is he, that I may embrace him.

_Tom._ Well, he’s here; but don’t embrace him.

_O’Fi._ Sorr, d’ye mean to sit there and tell me to me very face that you’re me beloved ould friend Tom Cobb?

_Tom._ Well, if the marks on my linen are to be trusted----

_O’Fi._ Ah, sorr! beware of jumpin’ at conclusions on insufficient grounds. Depend upon it, ye’re mistaken, sorr.

_Tom._ Well, upon my honour, I begin to think I am!

_O’Fi._ Tom Cobb, sorr, is dead and buried. I had the melancholy satisfaction of following him to his grave--me dear friend, Tim Whipple, accompanied me, and he’s at the present moment engaged in comforting my bereaved and inconsolable daughter.

_Tom._ I’m sure I’m very much obliged to him! Perhaps I could do that better than he?

_O’Fi._ I think not, sorr. He’s doing it very well--very well indeed.

_Tom._ Now, once for all, Colonel, this won’t do. There are plenty of people who know me if you don’t. Here’s my card--“T. Cobb, 6,” in red cotton (_showing mark on pocket-handkerchief_), and I’ve several other marks of the same character about me, which I shall be happy to show you at a more convenient opportunity.

_O’Fi._ Sorr, documentary evidence in red cotton isn’t worth the cambric it’s stitched upon. Ye’ll have to find some better proof of yer identity than that.

_Enter MATILDA._

_Mat._ Papa dear, Tim’s goin’ to take me to the theayter. (_Sees TOM._) Oh!

_Tom._ My darlin’ Matilda! My beloved Matilda! I’m so, so, _so_ glad to see you again, dear! Why, it’s three months since we met. (_Kissing and hugging her._) What a fool I’ve been to cut myself out of this sort of thing for three months! (_Kisses her._) How very, very well you’re looking! (_Kisses her._)

_Mat._ Will ye koindly leave off kissin’ me till I’ve had the pleasure of bein’ inthrojuiced to ye?

_Tom._ Why, you don’t mean to tell me _you_ don’t know me?

_Mat._ ’Deed, and I don’t then. And yet I seem to have seen yer face before?

_Tom._ ’Deed, and you have, and you’ve kissed it before.

_Mat._ I don’t rimimber kissin’ it.

_O’Fi._ You observe, sorr. She don’t rimimber kissin’ it.

_Mat._ Oh, papa! (_Crying._)

_O’Fi._ What’s the matter, my dear?

_Mat._ There’s somethin’ about him that remoinds me of poor Tom!

_O’Fi._ There’s a faint resemblance; I remarked it meself. (_Wipes his eyes._)

_Tom._ Now, Matilda, don’t _you_ deny me? I’ve loved you so long in spite of your not having any money, and although you do go with the bills, and although you _are_ older than I am, don’t turn against me now. Oh, you _do_ look so pretty! (_Puts his arm round her and kisses her._)

_Enter WHIPPLE. He seizes TOM by the collar and whirls him away from
MATILDA._

_Tom_ (_seizing his hand_). My dear Tim--my very dear Tim--you’re the very man I wanted to see! I am most unaffectedly delighted to see you. (_Shaking his hand heartily._) How well--how remarkably well you’re looking, to be sure!

_Whi._ (_shaking his hand with a great show of welcome_). Yes, uncommonly well--never better. And how have _you_ been?

_Tom._ Very well, but rather dull. I say, I’ve got into a nice scrape! They’re after me--they’re advertising for me!

_Whi._ No!

_Tom._ Fact! £50 is offered for me! What do you say to that?

_Whi._ Well, I should close with it.

_Tom._ Why?

_Whi._ Because I should think it’s a good deal more than you’re worth.

_Tom._ Ha, ha!

_Whi._ Ha, ha!

_Tom._ What a fellow you are! Same old Whipple! I say, the Colonel’s a cool hand. What d’ye think he says now?

_Whi._ Nothing worth repeating, I should imagine.

_Tom._ What a caustic fellow you are! He says I’m dead!

_Whi._ Oh, he’s an Irishman.

_Tom._ Ha, ha! Oh, that’s very good: that’s so like you.

_Whi._ _He’s_ not dead, Colonel. (_Feeling TOM’S pulse._)

_Tom._ There, Matilda, you hear that! (_About to embrace her._)

_Whi._ What are you about? How dare you embrace that young lady? (_Stopping him._)

_Tom._ You said I was alive.

_Whi._ But, bless my heart, you don’t suppose every man alive is privileged to embrace Miss O’Fipp?

_Mat._ A nice time I’d have of it.

_O’Fi._ I tell ye, sorr, Tom Cobb is dead and buried.

_Whi._ Yes, poor Tom, he’s dead. (_Wipes his eyes._)

_Tom._ But you just said I was alive.

_Whi._ Yes, old chap, you’re alive.

_Tom_ (_puzzled_). I see, your theory is that I’m alive; but I’m not Tom Cobb.

_Whi._ Yes; that’s my theory.

_Tom._ But I’m like him, ain’t I?

_Whi._ Well, now you mention it, you _are_ like him.

_Tom._ Matilda--once more, I implore you---- (_Seizing her hand._)

_Whi._ Matilda, leave the room! (_Takes her to door._) Sir, misled by a resemblance, which I admit to be striking, you have come here under the impression that you are my departed friend. I can excuse the error; but now that it’s been pointed out to you, if ever you attempt to embrace this young lady again, I’ll break your leg and set it myself. [_Exit._

_Tom._ Colonel O’Fipp, I----

_O’Fi._ Stop, sorr. If this conversation is to continue, I must be informed whom I have the pleasure of addressing. Up to the present moment we have only learnt who you are _not_. Let us now proceed to ascertain who ye _are_.

_Tom._ Colonel, I’m in that state of mental confusion, that I declare I don’t know who I am. Give me a little breathing time. When a young man believes he’s been Tom Cobb for twenty-five years, and then suddenly finds himself kicked out of Tom Cobb, with nowhere to go to, he _wants_ a little breathing time to look about him and find a name to let.

_O’Fi._ Well, sorr, for the purpose of this interview one name’s as good as another. Here’s the _Toimes_ newspaper. Ye’ll find many a good name goin’ beggin’ in that. Choose yer name. Here’s a gintleman who was hanged this mornin’! Would ye like _his_ name? He’s done with it.

_Tom._ Don’t be unpleasant, Colonel.

_O’Fi._ Well, put your finger down; take the first that comes. (_Puts COBB’S finger on the newspaper at random._) Here’s one--the Bishop of Bath and Wells.

_Tom._ Nonsense! Who’d take me for a bishop?

_O’Fi._ Then try again. Mr. and Mrs. German Reed.

_Tom._ Don’t be absurd.

_O’Fi._ Well, once more. Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick. What d’ye say to that?

_Tom._ But I don’t look like a major-general.

_O’Fi._ Well, sorr, and what of that? I don’t look like a lieutenant-colonel, do I?

_Tom._ No, you don’t; but a major-general in broken boots!

_O’Fi._ Sure it’s where yer corns have been shootin’ through. Ye wouldn’t have a major-gineral with corns that couldn’t shoot, I suppose?

_Tom._ No!

_O’Fi._ Now, sorr, it’ll take a mighty deal of argument to pursuade me that you’re not Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick in broken boots. Now, I’ve the credit of the surrvice at stake, and when I see a major-gineral in broken boots me harrut bleeds for him, and I long to allow him a pound a week, sorr--a pound a week--to keep up his military position.

_Tom._ A pound a week?

_O’Fi._ No less, sorr. Now, as long as Major-Gineral Arthur Fitzpatrick chooses to claim a pound a week of me, it’s here at his service. But on the onderstanding that he resumes his name and rank, and ceases for ever the dishonourable and unsoldierlike practice of masquerading under a false name. D’ye onderstand me, sorr?

_Tom._ Yes--I understand you.

_O’Fi._ Do ye agree?

_Tom._ I’m so hungry, and seedy, and wretched, that I’d agree to anything. You couldn’t oblige me with the first week in advance?

_O’Fi._ Sorr, it has always been Terence O’Fipp’s maxim to pay everything in advance. I’ll go and get ye a pound, and ye can amuse yeself by writing out the receipt while I’m gone. (_Going._)

_Tom._ (_sitting down to write_). Colonel, I don’t know whether to be very much obliged to you, or to look upon you as the coolest scamp unhung.

_O’Fi._ Sorr, take my word for it, ye’ve every reason to do both.
[_Exit COLONEL O’FIPP._

_Tom._ Now, that man’s commanded a regiment for years--he’s enjoyed the unlimited confidence of his sovereign (whoever that may be), and a thousand men have looked up to him with reverence and esteem. And it’s been left to me (who am not naturally sharp) to find out that he’s an atrocious scoundrel!

_Enter _Footman_, followed by MR. EFFINGHAM, MRS. EFFINGHAM,
BULSTRODE EFFINGHAM, and CAROLINE. COBB takes up newspaper and
sits._

_Foot._ The Colonel will be here directly, ma’am.

[_Exit _Footman_. The others pose themselves in a group, as if
being photographed:--MR. EFFINGHAM seated, MRS. EFFINGHAM
leaning on his left shoulder, CAROLINE seated in a picturesque
attitude at her feet, and BULSTRODE standing gloomily behind._

_Mrs. Eff._ Adolphus, what a sweet spot! A rural paradise, indeed. How balmy, and yet how cheap!

_Eff._ I am an old, old man, and I have learnt the hollowness of outward splendours. The house is, indeed, well enough, and (it may be) cheap--but, after all, what _is_ the house?

_Tom._ (_politely._) Seventy-five pounds a year, on a three years’ agreement, I believe.

_Eff._ (_not heeding him._) After all, what _is_ the house but the outer husk? Let us rather learn to value the fruit within. The shell, truly, is goodly; but where, oh, where is the kernel?

_Tom_ (_politely_). He will be here in one minute. (_All turn to look at him._) I beg your pardon. (_They all turn slowly back again._)

_Bul._ (_gloomily_). To the soaring soul, fettered by stern destiny to the office stool of an obscure attorney, the contemplation of such a paradise opens a new vista of Life’s Possibilities.

_Mrs. Eff._ My crushed and broken boy!

_Bul._ In such a home as this I feel I could lay the warp and woof of a Great Life. In the dingy purlieus of Somers Town life has no warp--no woof.

_Tom._ A kind of shoddy.

_All._ Sir!

_Tom._ Nothing--I didn’t speak. (_They turn back as before._) (_Aside._) Extraordinary family!

_Mrs Eff._ If there is one class of young men I detest beyond another, it is the class of young men who see a humorous side to everything.

_Car._ In the eyes of such a one the doughtiest deeds are the subject of a sneer--the noblest thoughts, the peg on which to hang a parody.

_Bul._ Go to, sir--go to.

_Eff._ (_to MRS. EFF._). I am an aged man--let me play the peacemaker. Remember, you are not as others are--you are a thing of thought--an abstraction. You must not expect the young man of average tastes to grasp you.

_Mrs Eff._ I do _not_ expect any young man to grasp _me_.

_Tom._ And she’s right.

_Eff._ (_rising and approaching TOM_). We pity you, young man, but do not despise you. Read the master thoughts of mighty minds. Withdraw yourself within yourself. Soar. Be abstract. Think long and largely. Study the incomprehensible. Revolve. So will you learn at last to detach yourself from the sordid world, and float, as we float, in thoughts of empyrean purity.

_Car._ Oh, sir, my father is an aged man, and his words are wise. Be led by him and you will prosper.

_Mrs Eff._ The young man is not of those who _can_ detach themselves from the sordid world.

_Tom._ I beg your pardon. The young man is one of those who have detached themselves from the sordid world, so completely that he can’t get back again!

_Enter COLONEL O’FIPP._

_O’Fi._ Now, if you’ve got the receipt---- Mrs. Effingham! I’m rejoiced to see ye! Miss Caroline--Bulstrode--Mr. Effingham, my aged friend! Allow me to inthrojuice ye to a very particular friend and ould comrade--Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (_TOM bows._) Foightin’ Fitz we called him.

_All._ What!

_O’Fi._ Major-General Arthur Fitzpatrick. (_TOM bows._)

_Mrs Eff._ (_crossing to TOM_). Of the 29th Madras Native Infantry?

_Tom_ (_puzzled_). I have no doubt that was my regiment.

_Mrs. Eff._ Viper! (_CAROLINE faints in her fathers arms._)

_Tom._ What!

_Mrs. Eff._ Viper! Deliberate and systematic viper! (_Goes to CAROLINE._)

_Bul._ Poetic fiend in human shape, despair!

_Mr. Eff._ Blighter of fond and faithful hopes, behold your handiwork!

_Tom._ Why, what have I done?

_O’Fi._ (_turning up his sleeves_). Ay, sorr, what have ye done? Answer me that. Come, Gineral, no evasion, or by the blood of the O’Fipps---- (_Turning up sleeves._)

[_CAROLINE revives, and MR. EFFINGHAM and BULSTRODE turn up their
sleeves._

_Car._ No, no--don’t hurt him. I am better now. (_To BULSTRODE, who is turning up his sleeves and advancing in a threatening attitude._) Brother, stand off! (_Throws herself between TOM and the others._) Stand off--father, mother, brother, all! I have loved this man--ay, and I love him still. (_To TOM._) Arthur--my poet-soldier--by our old vows--by the old poetic fire that burns in _your_ heart and kindled mine, tell them--tell _me_--that you can explain everything. (_Falls on her knees to him._)

_Tom._ Upon my word, I shouldn’t like to undertake to do that. Why, I never saw you before in all my life.

_Mrs. Eff._ Despair that plea--it cannot serve you, sir. Your letters bind you--we are so advised.

_Tom._ But it can’t be--it’s impossible.

_Car._ Oh, Arthur, I am told by those who understand these things that you have indeed compromised yourself to the extent required by our common law. But you will not--oh, you will _not_ compel me to bring our sacred loves into Court. You are a poet--a great, great poet--you will be faithful--you will be true. (_Kneels._)

_Mr. Eff._ (_kneels_). Oh, sir, do not compel us to lay bare the workings of her young affections--do not force us to bring her very heartstrings into Court, that ribald minds may play upon them!

_Bul._ (_gloomily_). To the tune of £5000.

_Enter WHIPPLE._

_O’Fi._ (_brandishing a big stick_). Gineral, do not blight this young lady’s harrut. Give her your sacred promise, or by the blood of the O’Fipps (_sees that TOM has taken up a chair and looks threatening_), my son-in-law elect shall teach you your forgotten duty! (_Hands stick to WHIPPLE, and retires._)

_Whi._ (_brandishing stick_). Yes, sir. Promise at once, or nothing shall prevent me from urging this young lady’s natural protector to inflict on you the condign punishment you so richly deserve. (_Hands the stick to MR. EFFINGHAM, and retires._)

_Mr. Eff._ (_brandishing stick_). You speak nobly, sir. I am an old, old man, but I am yet hale and tough as hickory. I have a brave and stalwart son, and it is to his hand I confide the task of avenging the insult offered to his outraged family! (_Hands the stick to BULSTRODE._)

_Bul._ (_gloomily_). What prevents me from flying at his throat? What prevents me from whipping him as I would whip a cur? Tell me, somebody, what is it holds me back?

_Car._ _I_ will tell you--it is mercy.

_Bul._ It is! (_Throwing away stick._) I give you your life!

_Mrs. Eff._ My lion-hearted boy!

_Tom._ Do you know that you are labouring under some surprising and unaccountable delusion?

_Mrs. Eff._ Delusion, sir!

_Bul._ Delusion! Ha! ha!

_Car._ (_kneeling_). No, Arthur, no--this is no delusion, for see, I have your letters. (_Feeling for them._) No, they are with my solicitor.

_Bul._ They are. I am his clerk, and at my broken-hearted sister’s suit, cold calculating man of war, I serve you with this writ!

[_BULSTRODE presents writ, which CAROLINE, kneeling at TOM’S feet,
reaches and hands to him, kissing his hand as she places the writ
in it._

_Tom_ (_looking at writ_). Breach of promise! (_Wildly._) Don’t bring any actions, don’t resort to any violent measures. You say I’m engaged to you. I dare say I am. If you said I was engaged to your mother I’d dare say it too. I’ve no idea who I am, or what I am, or where I am, or what I am saying or doing, but you are very pretty, and you seem fond of me. I’ve no objection. I think I should rather like it: at least--_I’ll try_!

_Car._ (_flinging herself into his arms_). My poet-soldier, and my minstrel boy!

[_MR. EFFINGHAM, BULSTRODE, and MRS. EFFINGHAM group themselves about
CAROLINE and TOM._