[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.)