Chapter XIX: Act III

SCENE.--_A drawing-room, shabbily furnished, in MR. EFFINGHAM’S
house. COBB is discovered smoking a pipe on balcony with CAROLINE.
The EFFINGHAM family is discovered grouped:--MRS. EFFINGHAM seated;
old EFFINGHAM leaning on her chair, with his arm round her neck,
and BULSTRODE standing moodily behind. As curtain rises CAROLINE
enters from balcony, and throws herself at her mother’s feet._

_Mrs. Eff._ Where is your poet-lover, Caroline?

_Car._ I left him basking on the balcony, in deep communion with his inner self.

_Mrs. Eff._ Ah, what a priceless destiny is yours, my babe--to live a lifetime in the eternal sunlight of his poet brain!

_Car._ It is; but you shall share it--father--mother--brother--all! We will all share it, alway! I would not rob you of one ray that emanates from that divine face, for all the wealth of earth!

_Mrs. Eff._ My unselfish girl!

_Bul._ How nobly he looks when, sickened with the world, he turns his eyes inward to gaze upon his hidden self!

_Mr. Eff._ None but Apollo ever looked as he looks then.

_Car._ Truly. Yet--shall I confess that when I saw him first my idiot heart sank deep within me, because, in the expression of his thoughts, I did _not_ recognize Apollo’s stamp?

_Bul._ Fie, Caroline! Would, you have a poet carry his muse pick-a-back, for daws to pick at? Fie, Caroline--oh, fie!

_Mrs. Eff._ Some thoughts are too deep for utterance.

_Car._ And some too precious. Why should he scatter such gems broadcast? My poet-warrior thinks them to himself.

_Bul._ He does. It is his weird and warlike way.

_Car._ He comes. (_Rises._) His fancy-flight has ended for the nonce. My soldier-minstrel has returned to earth!

_TOM enters from balcony. CAROLINE goes to meet him, and brings him
forward lovingly. His appearance is somewhat altered. He parts his
hair in the centre, and allows it to grow long. He wears a very low
lie-down collar in order to look Byronic. CAROLINE throws herself
at his feet, and MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM cross and group themselves
about him. MRS. EFFINGHAM kneels, BULSTRODE standing moodily behind
his mother._

_Mr. Eff._ Arthur, ennoble us. Raise us one step towards the Empyrean. Give us a Great Thought!

_Bul._ From the vast treasures of your poet brain, we beg some spare small change.

_Tom._ Well, I really don’t know; I haven’t anything just now.

_Car._ We are the bees, and you the flower. We beg some honey for our little hives.

_Tom_ (_with a desperate effort to be brilliant_). Talking of bees (_all take out note-books and write down what follows_)--talking of bees, have you ever remarked how the busy little insect avails herself of the sunshine to gather her sweet harvest from--from every opening flower?

_Mr. Eff._ (_writing_). We have, we have. How true to fact!

_Bul._ (_writing_). You said “her sweet harvest,” I think?

_Tom._ Her sweet harvest.

_Bul._ (_writing_). Her sweet harvest. (_All shake their heads and sigh._)

_Tom._ Her honey, you know.

_Bul._ Thank you. (_Sighs. All finish writing and put up their note-books._)

_Mrs. Eff._ You are a close student of nature, sir.

_Tom._ Yes, I do a good deal in that way.

_Mrs. Eff._ How simple are his words, and yet what priceless pearls of thought lie encased beneath their outer crust!

_Tom._ Yes, I always wrap them in an outer crust, to keep them from the cold. (_All take out note-books and write this down._)

_Car._ (_writing_).

“He wraps them in an outer crust
To keep them from the cold!”

And once I sneered at these grand utterances, just as we continually sneer at shapeless clods upon the road, which, on inspection, turn out to be jewelled bracelets of exceeding price!

_Tom._ Nothing more common. It’s the old story. The superficial mind (_all take out books and write_)--the superficial mind looks for cream upon the surface of the milk; but the profound philosopher dives down deep below. (_Aside._) Much more of this and my mind will give way!

_Mrs. Eff._ You are a deep thinker, sir. I can fancy Shakespeare to have been such another.

_Car._ Shakespeare? Shakespeare never said anything like that! How--how do you do it?

_Tom._ I don’t know. It comes. I shut my eyes and it comes. (_All shut their eyes and try._)

_Car._ I cannot do it. Ah me! I shall never learn to talk like that.

[_MRS. EFFINGHAM rises, goes to BULSTRODE, and leans upon his
shoulder._

_Mrs. Eff._ Bulstrode, had you had communion with the Major-General in earlier life, he might have helped to shape your destiny to some nobler end.

[_MR. EFFINGHAM crosses behind. CAROLINE and COBB remain in
conversation._

_Bul._ No, it might not be. I am fated. Destiny has declared against me. Fettered to the desk of an obscure attorney--forced to imprison my soaring soul within the left-off garments of a father whose figure has but little in common with my own, who can wonder that my life is one protracted misfit?

_Mr. Eff._ (_rising_). My boy, sneer not at those clothes. They have been worn for many, many years by a very old, but very upright man. Be proud of them. No sordid thought has ever lurked behind that waistcoat. That hat has never yet been doffed to vicious wealth. Those shoes have never yet walked into the parlours of the sinful.

_Mrs. Eff._ (_embracing him_). I am sure of that, Adolphus,--I am very, very sure of that.

_Bul._ It may be as you say. I _do_ respect these clothes, but not even a father’s eloquence can gloze over the damning fact that they are second-hand! [_Turns up and exit on to balcony, as MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM exeunt lovingly._

_Car._ A blessing on him. Is he not benevolent?

_Tom._ Yes, he looks so. Why do benevolent people have such long hair? Do they say to themselves, “I am a benevolent person, so I will let my hair grow,” or do they let it grow because they are too benevolent to cut it off?

_Car._ There are thousands of such questions that appear at every turn to make us marvel at Nature’s strange decrees. Let us not pry into these dark secrets. Let us rather enquire whether you have any chance of getting anything to do? (_Rises._)

_Tom._ No; there’s no opening for major-generals just now.

_Car._ And yet how nobly you would lead your troops into action, caracolling at their head on a proud Arabian barb, and rousing them to very frenzy by shouting forth martial songs of your own composition! Oh! it would madden them!

_Tom._ Yes, I think it would! But at present I’ve only my half-pay--a pound a week--and we can’t marry on that.

_Car._ Why not? It is ten shillings a week each. I am content if you are. Say, Arthur, shall we be made one?

_Tom._ My dear Caroline, it’s nonsense to talk about being made one. (_She takes out her note-book._) It’s my experience that when poor people marry, they’re made half a dozen, at least, in no time!

_Car._ Arthur! (_Shuts up book._) Well, I must wait and hope. Oh for a war! (_COBB much alarmed._) A vast, vast, vast war! Oh for the clash of steel-clad foemen! Oh for the deadly cannonade! And loud above the din of battle, I bear my Arthur’s voice, as, like a doughty Paladin of old, he cleaves his path where’er the fight is thickest! Oh! I think I see him doing it! [_Exit CAROLINE._

_Tom._ Yes. I think I see myself doing it! Poor, dear girl, it’s a shame to deceive her, but what can I do in the face of this confounded advertisement, which still appears in all the papers every day! (_Reads._) “£50 reward will be paid to any one who will give any information concerning the whereabouts of Thomas Cobb, M.R.C.S. Apply to Docket and Tape, 27, Paragon, Somers Town!” For just six mouths this blighting paragraph has appeared in every paper in London. Every one is talking about it; a Christmas annual has been published, “How we found Tom Cobb,” and a farce, called “Tom Cobb found at last,” is playing at a principal theatre!

_Enter WHIPPLE._

_Tom._ Whipple, you here?

_Whi._ Yes, how de do? I’m quite well. So’s Matilda.

_Tom._ That name!

_Whi._ She’s downstairs, with Miss Effingham.

_Tom._ Downstairs! And does she--don’t think I ask from an improper motive--does she ever talk about me? (_Sits._)

_Whi._ Never mentions you by any chance. But she often drops a tear to the memory of poor dead-and-gone Tom Cobb.

_Tom._ Oh! she does _that_, does she? That’s rather nasty for you, isn’t it?

_Whi._ Not a bit. (_Sits._) It does her credit, and I honour her for it. The poor fellow’s dead, and there’s an end to him. I loved him as a brother! (_Wiping his eye._) He did my botany papers for me at the College. But it’s no use repining. No power on earth can bring him to life again, now. How she loved that man!

_Tom_ (_half sobbing_). Oh, Matilda! Be good to her, Whipple.

_Whi._ I will, General; trust me.

_Tom._ Is she--is she as fond of the theatre as ever!

_Whi._ Quite. We go every night.

_Tom._ She used to call it the “theayter.”

_Whi._ (_much moved_). She does still!

_Tom._ Bless her for it. And does she still like oysters after the play?

_Whi._ Always. She bargains for ’em--stout and oysters.

_Tom._ She used to call them “histers.”

_Whi._ She does still.

_Tom._ Oh, thank you for this news of her. Oh, Whipple, make that woman happy!

_Whi._ Trust me--I will, for poor dear Tom Cobb’s sake. How she loved that man! (_Wipes his eye._) But this is not business. The Colonel, who is downstairs with Mr. Effingham, begged me to give you this--your weekly screw. Allow me, Major-General. (_Gives him a sovereign._)

_Tom._ Thank you. The Colonel is always regular and punctual with my little pension.

_Whi._ The Colonel is extremely punctilious about money matters. Oh, I quite forgot--he further desires me to say that from this moment he proposes to discontinue your weekly payment.

_Tom_ (_aghast_). What!

_Whi._ From this moment your little pension dries up.

_Tom._ Do you mean to tell me that he intends deliberately to break his plighted word?

_Whi._ That is precisely what I intended to convey.

_Tom._ And cut off my only source of sustenance?

_Whi._ Absolutely.

_Tom._ But hang it, man, don’t he know that his liberty and wealth are at my mercy?

_Whi._ Yes, he knows that; but he’s prepared to risk it. You see, General, Messrs. Docket and Tape are looking out for Tom Cobb. Tom Cobb’s wanted. I don’t know what he’s done, but people talk about a forged will. He’s advertised for every day. You may have noticed it.

_Tom._ Yes, I’ve remarked it.

_Whi._ Well, if Tom Cobb is alive this advertisement is quite enough to keep him quiet. The Colonel, having this fact strongly before his eyes, considers that as he has no further interest in Major-General Fitzpatrick’s existence, he does not see why he should be called upon to contribute to his support.

_Tom._ But it’s ruin! Hang it--it’s starvation! Whipple, you used to be a nice man once--ask him to see me--ask him to speak to me for five minutes! By your old niceness, I implore you!

_Whi._ I can’t resist that appeal! I’ll ask him, but I’m not sanguine. You see, he’s been in the constant practice of breaking his promise for the last sixty-five years, and it’s degenerated into a habit. [_Exit WHIPPLE._

_Tom._ And I did that man’s---- (_Furious._) But I’ll be even with them all. I don’t care now. I’ve nothing to lose, and I’m a desperate man. My mind’s made up. I’ll write to Docket and Tape, and tell the whole truth! (_Sits down to write._) Now, Colonel O’Fipp, tremble, and you, Whipple, tremble, and Matilda. (_Throws down pen._) I would spare Matilda! But no, let _her_ tremble too! (_Finishes letter; about to ring bell._) Now, now, I shall soon know the worst!

_Enter BULSTRODE from balcony._

_Bul._ The Major-General seems moody. On what is he thinking? On the sacking of towns, perchance?

_Tom._ Bulstrode, you’re a lawyer’s clerk, aren’t you?

_Bul._ Cursed be my lot, I am!

_Tom._ Do you happen to know Docket and Tape?

_Bul._ I do!

_Tom._ Who are they?

_Bul._ My loathed employers!

_Tom._ What! Why, then, you know all about this Tom Cobb whom they are advertising for, and whose name is on every tongue?

_Bul._ I should rather say I did.

_Tom_ (_excited_). A--what is he wanted for?

_Bul._ Much.

_Tom._ Yes, but what--what?

_Bul._ It is a weird tale. Wild horses shouldn’t drag it from me.

_Tom._ But, hang it, you can trust _me_.

_Bul._ (_takes his hand_). General, I think I can--but I’m sure I won’t.

_Tom._ But why do you object?

_Bul._ Major-General Fitzpatrick, had you the password of some leaguered town, and an enemy, armed to the teeth, demanded that word at the pistol’s mouth, what would you do?

_Tom._ Tell him at once without a moment’s hesitation.

_Bul._ Then am I made of doughtier stuff. Sir, I hate my employers, I loathe their unholy practices, but--I respect their secrets. Good day; I go to them. [_Exit BULSTRODE._

_Tom._ So it seems I’ve had my head in the lion’s mouth for the last three months without knowing it! Well, well--there is a grim justice in the fact that my punishment will be brought about through the employers of the son of the husband of the mother of the young woman to whom I was to have been married.

_Enter COLONEL O’FIPP._

_O’Fi._ Now, sorr, ye’ve expressed a wish for an audience. On consideration I have resolved to grant it.

_Tom._ You’re very good, Colonel.

_O’Fi._ You may say that, sorr, for I have discovered that ye’re an imposthor. An out and out imposthor, sorr! Ye’re no more a gineral officer than I’m a gineral postman.

_Tom._ But I never said I was. _You_ said I was a major-general; and you ought to know. It isn’t for me to set up my opinion on a military matter against a lieutenant-colonel’s.

_O’Fi._ Sorr, I’m a soft-hearted, simple ould fool, and at first your military bearing deceived me practised oi, and I was moved to pity by yer plausible tale and yer broken boots. I was touched by yer sorrows, and I was disposed to try and heal them.

_Tom._ The boots?

_O’Fi._ The sorrows. Now, sorr, a lie has ever been me scorrn and aversion, and an imposture me deepest abhorrence.

_Tom._ Colonel, I respect your sentiments, for they are my own. You discontinue my allowance, and you are quite right. Your hand.

_O’Fi._ (_rather surprised_). Sorr, ye spake like a gintleman. Ye’re not a gintleman, but ye spake like one. (_Sees note in TOM’S hand._) What’s that?

_Tom._ It’s a letter to Docket and Tape, in which I confess myself to be the Tom Cobb they’re advertising for,--and offering to give them all the information in my power.

_O’Fi._ But ye’re niver goin’ to send that?

_Tom._ I’m going to send it directly.

_O’Fi._ Ye’re doin’ it to frighten me.

_Tom._ Frighten a colonel? I wouldn’t presume to attempt it!

_O’Fi._ But---- Oh! ye’ll niver sind it--it would ruin ye.

_Tom._ It’ll ruin us all. (_Rings._)

_O’Fi._ No, no--they can’t touch me, mind that! I’m a simple ould man; it’s well known, and aisy done. Don’t send that, Tom Cobb, and I’ll pay ye the pound a week; damme, I’ll double it--treble it! I’m a simple ould soldier, and I’m fond of ye, Tom, and I’ll not let ye ruin yeself for me!

_Tom._ Sir, a lie has ever been my scorn and aversion, and an imposture my deepest abhorrence.

_Enter _Servant_._

Take this to the address at once. [_Exit _Servant_._

_O’Fi._ Effingham--Mrs. Effingham--Matilda--Bulstrode--Whipple--all of ye--come here! (_To TOM._) Ye’ve determined to inform on me grey hairs--I’ll be first in the field anyhow--mind that now.

_Enter all the characters from different doors; BULSTRODE and
CAROLINE holding back TOM, WHIPPLE and MATILDA holding back O’FIPP._

_Mrs. Eff._ What--what is the clamour?

_Mat._ Papa, dear, what’s he bin doin’ to ye?

_O’Fi._ This man--who has passed himself off as a major-general--he’s a swindler--an imposthor--he’s deceived us all--he’s practised on our inexperience.

_Car._ Arthur--Arthur--speak--what, oh, what is this?

_Mat._ Don’t call him Arthur--his name’s Tom--Tom.

_Car._ Tomtom? Impossible. Tell them, Arthur, that it is false. Tell them that you are not--you cannot be Tomtom!

_O’Fi._ His name’s Tom Cobb. Tom Cobb, Mr. Bulstrode--and he’s a swindlin’ apothecary--the man you’ve been advertising for these six months.

[_CAROLINE faints in MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM’S arms._

_Bul._ Amazement!

_Mr. Eff._ Monster--once more behold your work!

_Mrs. Eff._ Viper! Creeping, crawling, unadulterated viper!

_Tom._ I am Tom Cobb, M.R.C.S.; there’s my card--“Tom Cobb, 6.” (_Producing handkerchief._) Lead me away.

_Bul._ This is a day of great events. We have sought you everywhere for six months.

_Tom._ I know you have. Your advertisement has been the nightmare of my life.

_Bul._ Amazement! There was a nameless old man, who bore so strong a resemblance to you, that scoffers called him by your name. He died in squalor, barely six months since.

_Tom._ All is over--lead me away!

_Bul._ He was supposed to have much money in the house, though not a penny could be found. But besides this untold gold, there was standing in his name a sum amounting to £12,000!

_Tom._ I know nothing about the £12,000! But I am amenable to the law. Take me to my dungeon!

_Bul._ No dungeon yawns for you, oh, happy sir. Wealth--wealth waits you open-armed!

_All._ What!

_Bul._ You had a father once--that father yet another of his own, the aged man so strangely like yourself. That aged person had a son--that son another son--that son your father, and that other son yourself!

_Tom._ Then--I am the old man’s grandson!

_Bul._ That is the same idea in vulgar phrase. You are his grandson and his heir-at-law.

_Car._ (_reviving_). My poet-surgeon, and my old, old love! (_Embracing him._)

_Mrs. Eff._ My son!

_Bul._ My brother!

_Tom._ Well, Colonel, I must trouble you to hand over the property. If it’s inconvenient----

_O’Fi._ It is. (_From behind his handkerchief._)

_Tom._ Well, I’m sorry, that’s all.

_O’Fi._ Maybe ye’re sorry, sorr; but ye’re not so sorry as I am, I’ll go bail!

_Mat._ Papa dear, don’t fret. Sure, I’m a poor penniless girl now; but ain’t I goin’ to marry a handsome and ginerous young gintleman of good fortune? (_Leaning on TOM’S shoulder._) And won’t he be a son to ye, and give ye a home for the rest of yer days?

[_WHIPPLE appears to remonstrate with her. CAROLINE expresses
indignation and clings to her mother._

_Tom._ But I protest!

_O’Fi._ Tom Cobb, ye spake like a gintleman. Ye’re not a gintleman, but ye spake like one. I accept yer offer with pride and gratitude, my son! (_Seizes his hand._)

_Tom._ Get out! (_Shakes him off._) Whipple, take this young lady. Matilda, go with the bills! (_Hands her to WHIPPLE, who takes her up, expostulating with her._) Caroline, you loved me as a penniless, but poetical major-general; can you still love me as a wealthy, but unromantic apothecary?

_Car._ I can! I can love you as a wealthy anything!

_Mrs. Eff._ We all can!

_Bul._ All!

[_They group about him, MR. and MRS. EFFINGHAM on each side,
BULSTRODE behind, and CAROLINE at his feet; the COLONEL, WHIPPLE,
and MATILDA seated at table, with their heads buried in their
arms._

THE SORCERER.

_AN ENTIRELY ORIGINAL MODERN COMIC OPERA_, IN TWO ACTS.

_First produced at the Opera Comique Theatre, by MR. R. D’OYLY CARTE, on November 17, 1877._

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

SIR MARMADUKE POINTDEXTRE, _an elderly Baronet_.
ALEXIS, _of the Grenadier Guards_--_his Son_.
DR. DALY, _Vicar of Ploverleigh_.
JOHN WELLINGTON WELLS, _of J. W. Wells & Co., Family Sorcerers_.
NOTARY.
LADY SANGAZURE, _a Lady of ancient lineage_.
ALINE, _her Daughter_--_betrothed to_ ALEXIS.
MRS. PARTLET, _a Pew-Opener_.
CONSTANCE, _her Daughter_.

_Chorus of Peasantry._

ACT I.

GROUNDS OF SIR MARMADUKE’S MANSION.

[_Half an hour is supposed to elapse between Acts I. and II._]

ACT II.

MARKET-PLACE OF PLOVERLEIGH.

TIME--THE PRESENT DAY.

THE SORCERER.