world is like a feather dancing in the light now; and Gloria is the sun. (She rears her head angrily.) I beg your pardon: I’m off. Back at nine. Goodbye. (He runs off gaily, leaving her standing in the middle of the room staring after him.)
END OF ACT III
ACT IV
The same room. Nine o’clock. Nobody present. The lamps are lighted; but the curtains are not drawn. The window stands wide open; and strings of Chinese lanterns are glowing among the trees outside, with the starry sky beyond. The band is playing dance-music in the garden, drowning the sound of the sea.
The waiter enters, shewing in Crampton and McComas. Crampton looks cowed and anxious. He sits down wearily and timidly on the ottoman.
WAITER. The ladies have gone for a turn through the grounds to see the fancy dresses, sir. If you will be so good as to take seats, gentlemen, I shall tell them. (He is about to go into the garden through the window when McComas stops him.)
McCOMAS. One moment. If another gentleman comes, shew him in without any delay: we are expecting him.
WAITER. Right, sir. What name, sir?
McCOMAS. Boon. Mr. Boon. He is a stranger to Mrs. Clandon; so he may give you a card. If so, the name is spelt B.O.H.U.N. You will not forget.
WAITER (smiling). You may depend on me for that, sir. My own name is Boon, sir, though I am best known down here as Balmy Walters, sir. By rights I should spell it with the aitch you, sir; but I think it best not to take that liberty, sir. There is Norman blood in it, sir; and Norman blood is not a recommendation to a waiter.
McCOMAS. Well, well: “True hearts are more than coronets, and simple faith than Norman blood.”
WAITER. That depends a good deal on one’s station in life, sir. If you were a waiter, sir, you’d find that simple faith would leave you just as short as Norman blood. I find it best to spell myself B. double-O.N., and to keep my wits pretty sharp about me. But I’m taking up your time, sir. You’ll excuse me, sir: your own fault for being so affable, sir. I’ll tell the ladies you’re here, sir. (He goes out into the garden through the window.)
McCOMAS. Crampton: I can depend on you, can’t I?
CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. I’ll be quiet. I’ll be patient. I’ll do my best.
McCOMAS. Remember: I’ve not given you away. I’ve told them it was all their fault.
CRAMPTON. You told me that it was all my fault.
McCOMAS. I told you the truth.
CRAMPTON (plaintively). If they will only be fair to me!
McCOMAS. My dear Crampton, they won’t be fair to you: it’s not to be expected from them at their age. If you’re going to make impossible conditions of this kind, we may as well go back home at once.
CRAMPTON. But surely I have a right —
McCOMAS (intolerantly). You won’t get your rights. Now, once for all, Crampton, did your promises of good behavior only mean that you won’t complain if there’s nothing to complain of? Because, if so — (He moves as if to go.)
CRAMPTON (miserably). No, no: let me alone, can’t you? I’ve been bullied enough: I’ve been tormented enough. I tell you I’ll do my best. But if that girl begins to talk to me like that and to look at me like — (He breaks off and buries his head in his hands.)
McCOMAS (relenting). There, there: it’ll be all right, if you will only bear and forbear. Come, pull yourself together: there’s someone coming. (Crampton, too dejected to care much, hardly changes his attitude. Gloria enters from the garden; McComas goes to meet her at the window; so that he can speak to her without being heard by Crampton.) There he is, Miss Clandon. Be kind to him. I’ll leave you with him for a moment. (He goes into the garden. Gloria comes in and strolls coolly down the middle of the room.)
CRAMPTON (looking round in alarm). Where’s McComas?
GLORIA (listlessly, but not unsympathetically). Gone out — to leave us together. Delicacy on his part, I suppose. (She stops beside him and looks quaintly down at him.) Well, father?
CRAMPTON (a quaint jocosity breaking through his forlornness). Well, daughter? (They look at one another for a moment, with a melancholy sense of humor.)
GLORIA. Shake hands. (They shake hands.)
CRAMPTON (holding her hand). My dear: I’m afraid I spoke very improperly of your mother this afternoon.
GLORIA. Oh, don’t apologize. I was very high and mighty myself; but I’ve come down since: oh, yes: I’ve been brought down. (She sits on the floor beside his chair.)
CRAMPTON. What has happened to you, my child?
GLORIA. Oh, never mind. I was playing the part of my mother’s daughter then; but I’m not: I’m my father’s daughter. (Looking at him funnily.) That’s a come down, isn’t it?
CRAMPTON (angry). What! (Her odd expression does not alter. He surrenders.) Well, yes, my dear: I suppose it is, I suppose it is. (She nods sympathetically.) I’m afraid I’m sometimes a little irritable; but I know what’s right and reasonable all the time, even when I don’t act on it. Can you believe that?
GLORIA. Believe it! Why, that’s myself — myself all over. I know what’s right and dignified and strong and noble, just as well as she does; but oh, the things I do! the things I do! the things I let other people do!!
CRAMPTON (a little grudgingly in spite of himself). As well as she does? You mean your mother?
GLORIA (quickly). Yes, mother. (She turns to him on her knees and seizes his hands.) Now listen. No treason to her: no word, no thought against her. She is our superior — yours and mine — high heavens above us. Is that agreed?
CRAMPTON. Yes, yes. Just as you please, my dear.
GLORIA (not satisfied, letting go his hands and drawing back from him). You don’t like her?
CRAMPTON. My child: you haven’t been married to her. I have. (She raises herself slowly to her feet, looking at him with growing coldness.) She did me a great wrong in marrying me without really caring for me. But after that, the wrong was all on my side, I dare say. (He offers her his hand again.)
GLORIA (taking it firmly and warningly). Take care. That’s a dangerous subject. My feelings — my miserable, cowardly, womanly feelings — may be on your side; but my conscience is on hers.
CRAMPTON. I’m very well content with that division, my dear. Thank you. (Valentine arrives. Gloria immediately becomes deliberately haughty.)
VALENTINE. Excuse me; but it’s impossible to find a servant to announce one: even the never failing William seems to be at the ball. I should have gone myself; only I haven’t five shillings to buy a ticket. How are you getting on, Crampton? Better, eh?
CRAMPTON. I am myself again, Mr. Valentine, no thanks to you.
VALENTINE. Look at this ungrateful parent of yours, Miss Clandon! I saved him from an excruciating pang; and he reviles me!
GLORIA (coldly). I am sorry my mother is not here to receive you, Mr. Valentine. It is not quite nine o’clock; and the gentleman of whom Mr. McComas spoke, the lawyer, is not yet come.
VALENTINE. Oh, yes, he is. I’ve met him and talked to him. (With gay malice.) You’ll like him, Miss Clandon: he’s the very incarnation of intellect. You can hear his mind working.
GLORIA (ignoring the jibe). Where is he?
VALENTINE. Bought a false nose and gone into the fancy ball.
CRAMPTON (crustily, looking at his watch). It seems that everybody has gone to this fancy ball instead of keeping to our appointment here.
VALENTINE.