PRh827 G6 1898 A r^ A- = ^ ^^ 33 - — 33 6 = 1 = — !■ 1 — — 1 — ^^ CO 0- DO 7 = -n = 1 4 JONES, Henry Arthiz^. The Goal. ^Hfc. SfJm^ j^ rSt. LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE [ This play is here privately printed atid not for pub- lication or general circulation. All its dramatic rights are fully protected, and proceedings will be immediately taken against any one who attempts to infringe them?\ THE GOAL A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES AUTHOR OF THE TEMPTER," "THE CRUSADERS," "MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL," " THE LIARS," " THE MASQUERADERS," " THE DANCING GIRL," "THE CASE OF REBELLIOUS SUSAN," "THE TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES," "THE rogue's COMEDY," "THE PHYSICIAN," "THE MIDDLEMAN," " SAINTS AND SINNERS," "JUDAH," ETC. LONDON PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS 1898 THE GOAL «xi^av \_This play is here privately printed and not for pub- lication or general circulation. All its dramatic rights are fully protected, and proceedings luill be immediately taken against any one who attempts to infringe them^ THE GOAL A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT BY HENRY ARTHUR JONES AUTHOR OF THE TEMPTER," "THE CRUSADERS," "MICHAEL AND HIS LOST ANGEL," " THE LIARS," " THE MASQUERADERS," " THE DANCING GIRL," "THE CASE OF REBELLIOUS SUSAN," "THE TRIUMPH OF THE PHILISTINES," "l rogue's COMEDY," "THE PHYSICIAN," "THE MIDDLEMAN," " SAINTS AND SINNERS," "JUDAH," ETC. LONDON PRINTED AT THE CHISWICK PRESS 1898 Grip PERSONS REPRESENTED. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer. Daniel Famariss, his son, engineer. Sir Lydden Crane, M.D. Adams, Sir Stephen's butler. Peggie Lovel. Nurse Clandon. Scene. — Sir Stephen's Bedroom in Belgravia. Time. — The Present. Bureau bi3 o o 3Dt!idajij K THE GOAL. Scene.— r//^ Bedroom ^/ SIR STEPHEN FAMA- RISS, Belgrave Square. A very richly -furnished apartment, with every evidence of wealth and luxury. A Jiandsoine brass bedstead, with the bedclothes rumpled, is in the left-hand corner of the room, placed sideways to audience. A large bow-window, rather -deeply recessed, is in the right-hand corner of the room, and looks across to the handsome ball- room of anotJier house. The ballroom is lighted and decorated for a dance, and figures are seen moving across its windows in accordance tvith in- dications given through the play. Where, however, the stage appointments do not allow of the ball- room being seen and the guests being handso7nely dressed, the window must be so arranged as to suggest that the ballroom is at the side, out of sight, and not facing the audience. A door left down stage. Above the door a large handsome bureau. A door right up stage. Down stage left a hand- some fireplace with small fire burning. A mirror over fireplace. A large comfortable sofa down stage right centre. A small table left of sofa just above it. AnotJier small table dotvn stage left with lamp lighted, a medicine bottle or two, spirit lamp, and other paraphernalia of a sick room. A large pier looking-glass up stage at foot of bedstead. Other furniture as required, all indicating great wealth and comfort. Time, about ten on an April evenijig. Moonlight through window. Discover on sofa, asleep, SIR STEPHEN FAMARISS. A rug is thrown over him, and his head is buried in a pillow, so that the audience see nothing but a figure under the rug. NURSE CLANDON, in nurse's costume, about thirty, is seated in chair at I B table, reading. The door, left, is very softly opened, and SIR LYDDEN CRANE enters, a little, dry, shrewd, wizened old man about seventy, with 7iianners of a London physician. Nurse rises and puts down her book. CRANE. Well ? How has he been all the after- noon ? NURSE. Just as usual. He won't keep quiet. About an hour ago he fell asleep. \^Poi7iting to SIR STEPHEN. CRANE. Mr. Daniel Famariss has not arrived ? NURSE. No. He sent another telegram for him this evening. And he keeps on asking for the even- ing papers. CRANE. Well? NURSE. I've kept them from him. They all have long accounts of his illness. \_Taking an evening paper from under the table-cover, givingit to CRANE.] Look! CRANE. YTaking paper, reading?\ "Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dying " Hum ! \^A very getitle knock is heard at door left. Nurse goes to it, opens it. ADAMS conies in a step. ADAMS. I beg pardon. Mrs. Lovel has sent in to ask how Sir Stephen is ; and to say that she is very sorry the ballroom is so near his bedroom ; and if the noise of the ball will upset Sir Stephen she will be very pleased to put it off, and send her guests away. NURSE. What do you think, Sir Lydden .? CRANE. All excitement is very dangerous for Sir Stephen. The next attack may be fatal. [SIR STEPHEN stirs, throws off the quilt. He is in a rich dressing-gown. A wiry, handsome, very intellectual- looking man about seventy -five ; well-seasoned, vigorous frame ; pale, sharp, strong features, showing signs of gi'eat recent pain. He listens as SIR LYDDEN continues.'] Will you give my compliments to Mrs. 2 Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to postpone the ball ? SIR S. [Behind ///w.JWill you give my compli- ments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that since she is so kind I will beg her to do nothing of the kind. What rubbish, Crane ! Because I happen to be dying, to stop the innocent pleasure of a couple of hundred young people ! Thank Mrs. Lovel very much, Adams, for sending in, and say that I am not at all sure that I shall die to-night ; but that if I do, her dancing won't in the least interfere with my dying, and I hope she won't allow my dying to interfere with her dancing. And in any case I very much wish the ball to take place. [ Very imperiously.^ It 's not to be put off! You understand .-' ADAMS. Yes, Sir Stephen. [Going. SIR S. And, Adams, give my compliments to Mrs. Lovel, and say that if she doesn't mind I should like to see Miss Lovel in her ball-dress for a moment before the ball. Say that I'm quite presentable, and I won't frighten Miss Lovel. [Exit ADAMS. SIR S. Well, Crane, am I going off this time ? CRANE. This last attack coming so quickly after the other is very alarming and — very dangerous. SIR S. Yes, but am I going to pull through again, or must I put up the shutters .'' CRANE. Well— well SIR S. [Seeing paper on floor where CRANE has thrown it.} Is that to-night's paper? [j^^ reply.] Give it to me. Nurse ! NURSE. [Deprecatingly.'] Sir Stephen SIR S. Give it to me. [Nurse gives it to him reluctantly, afid then goes up to window. SIR S. [Reading from paper.] " Alarming illness of Sir Stephen Famariss. Angina Pectoris. Fatal symptoms. Sir Stephen Famariss, the great engineer, is dying " There's nothing like making sure of your facts. CRANE. Too sure! SIR S. [Z>r//?'.] So I think. What do you say ? How long am I going to live? CRANE. Well SIR S. Come out with it, old friend. I'm not afraid to hear. CRANE, With the greatest care I see no reason why you shouldn't live some weeks — or months. - ! i; S, Shall I live long enough to carry out my Milford Haven scheme ? CRANE. No. You certainly won't. SIR S. [^S/iows i?itense disappointment.!^ You're sure ? CRANE. I'm sure. SIR S. But I shall live long enough to start it, to put it into other hands, into my son's hands — if the rebellious fool will only learn wisdom and make it up with me before I die. I shall live long enough for that ? CRANE. No. I fear not. SIR S^ [Going to biij'ea7i.'\ But I've got a third of it on paper. \UnlocMng bureau, taking out plafis.'] I've kept it here. I've worked at it when I couldn't sleep. If I can last out another six months, I can do it. Come, Crane, don't be stingy. Give me another six months ! Eh } t RANK. Sir Stephen, you won't last six months even with the greatest care. You may not last six weeks SIR S. Nor six days .? CRANE Nor six days. SIR S. Nor six hours ? CRANE, Oh ! SIR S. Nor six hours. Thank you. I'm pre- pared. CRANE. Your son has not come yet .-* SIR S. No. I've telegraphed him twice — and my terms. CRANH Is it worth while — of course you know 4 best — is it worth while to stick out for terms when ? SIRS. When one is in face of death. Yes — on a matter of principle. If Dan comes here, he comes on my terms. I'll keep my word ; I won't set eyes on him — he shan't pass that door until he owns he was wrong. CRANE. But SIR S. [Gettitig- excited.] But he was wrong. He was wrong, and no power on earth CRANE. [Soot /ling kirn.] Hush! If he does come you must avoid all excitement in meeting him. Your only chance of prolonging your life is to keep ab- solutely quiet. You must lay up all day SIRS. Lay up all day ! Don't talk nonsense ! CRANE. If you don't SIR S. If I don't CRANE. You may die at any moment. SIR S. But if I do, I'm dead already. No, Crane, I'll live to my last moment, whenever it comes. When I do take to my bed, I'll take to it once for all, in the churchyard, beside my Peggie ! [ Very softly, very tenderly, half to himself.] My Peggie ! My Peggie ! If I do go off, I shall see her again I suppose — if it isn't all moonshine ! Open the window, Nurse ! It's getting hot here! [The Nurse opens windotv.] Open that champagne. Crane, and pour yourself out a glass, and pour me out a glass. My Peggie ! My Peggie ! I wonder if it is all moonshine ! [ The musicians in the ballroom opposite begin to time np tJicir fiddles. Nurse comes dowii. SIR S. That 's right ! Tune up ! Tune up ! And Peggie Lovel promised me the first dance ! Tune up ! NURSE. You must keep quiet SIR S. [Pettishly ?[ Run away ! Run away ! [CRANE makes Nurse a sign and she goes off, door right. CRANE has opened the champagne and ponred ont two glasses. He brings one to SIR STEPHEN. 5 SIR S. It 's the eighty-four Saint Marceaux. I've left you half what's left of this, Crane, and I've left my mule of a boy the other half. He 's my heir. I won't see him, no, not if I CRANE. Hush! Hush! SIR S. I won't see him unless he submits. But I've left him every penny, except what goes to charities and churches. It 's very puzzling to know what to do with one's money, Crane. I've left a heap to charities, and I've squared all the churches. I hope it won't do much harm. [^ Uttle chuckle.'] There's one thing I regret in dying. Crane. I shan't be able to hear my funeral sermons. But you will CRANE. Don't make too sure. I may go off first, but if I am doomed, I hope the oratory will be of as good a vintage as this. SIR S. It ought to be, considering what I've left them all. Give them a hint, Crane, not to whitewash my sepulchre with any lying cant. Don't let them make a plaster-of-Paris saint of me ! I won't have it ! I won't have it ! I've been a man, and never less than a man. I've never refused to do the work that came in my way, and, thank God, I've never refused to taste a pleasure. And I've had a rare good time in this rare good world. I wish I'd got to live it all over again ! CRANE. You do ? SIR S. Yes, every moment of it, good and evil, pleasure and pain, love and work, success and failure, youth and age, I'd fill the cup again, and I'd drain it to the dregs if I could. You wouldn't ? CRANE. No. Once is enough for me. SIR S. You see. Crane, before starting in life I took the one great cardinal step to secure success and happiness. CRANE. What's that 1 SIR S. I made an excellent choice of my father and mother. Not rich. Not aristocratic. But a good, sound, healthy stock on both sides. What's the cause of all the weak snivelling pessimism we 6 hear ? What 's the cause of nine-tenths of the misery around us ; ruined lives ; shattered health ; physical, moral, intellectual beggary? What 's the cause of doctors' bills ? CRANE. Well, what is ? SIR S. Men and women exercise no care in choos- ing their fathers and mothers. You doctors know it ! You doctors know it ! Once choose your father and mother wisely, and you can play all sorts of tricks with your constitution. You can drink your half- bottle of champagne at seventy-five and enjoy it ! Another glass ! CRANE. No, I must be going! [Rising.] ^nd \tapping bottle] you mustn't take any more. SIR S. Don't talk nonsense. Sit down ! Sit down ! Another glass ! Hobnob, man, hobnob ! Life 's but a span ! Why this may be the last time, eh ? CRANE. Any time may be the last time. Any moment may be the last moment. SIR S. Well, then, let us enjoy the last moment ! I tell you. Crane, I'm ready. All my affairs are in perfect order. I should have liked to have finished that Milford Haven scheme — but if it isn't to be — [deep sig/i] — Hob-nob, man, hobnob ! CRANE. What a lovely wine ! SIR S. Isn't it .' I remember Goethe says that the man who drinks wine is damned, but the man who drinks bad wine is doubly damned. Pray God you and I may be only damned once. Crane. CRANE. Oh that 's past praying for — in my case. SIR S. Eighty-four! I was boring a hole through the Rockies that summer — ah, Crane, what glorious summers I've had — seventy-five glorious golden sum- mers — and now — Hobnob, man, hobnob ! You've had a good innings too. Crane. CRANK. Hum! Pretty fair I I eat well, drink well, sleep well, get my early morning jog in the Park and enjoy it, get my two months on the moors, and enjoy them. I feel as fit to-day as I did thirty 7 years ago. There 's only one pleasure that has left me! SIR S. Don't fret about that! We thought it a pleasure, old crony, while it lasted. Now it 's gone, let's call it a plague and a sin, and thank God for giving us a little peace in our old age. Yes, yes, let 's shake our heads solemnly at the youngsters and pre- pare for our latter end. Ah, dear, dear, what a havoc women have made of the best half of my life, but — {brightening] — I've left some good work behind me in spite of the wretches. And, thank Heaven, my throat has held out to the last. {Drinking. CRANE. {Drtnking:\ And mine ! SIR S. Crane, what was that joke that came up at poor Farley's funeral ? CRANE. Joke! SIRS. Don't you remember while we were waiting for them to bring dear old Farley downstairs Maid- ment began telling that story about the geese and the Scotchboy and the bugle CRANE. Yes, yes, to be sure. {Beginning to laugh. SIR S. And just as we were enjoying the joke, we suddenly remembered where we were, and you pulled us up — and the joke was spoilt ! CRANE. Yes, yes, I remember. SIR S. Crane, if Maidment tells that story at my funeral, don't pull him up CRANE. Eh ? SIR S. It's a good joke, man! Don't waste it! Have your laugh out, and say from me, that, other conditions being favourable, I'm enjoying it as heartily as any of you 1 You will, eh ? You will ? CRANE. Yes, I will! I will! [They both laugh a little. ADAMS opens door left, a?i(i comes in a. step. ADAMS. Miss Lovel has come, Sir Stephen. SIR S. Show her in, Adams. {Exit ADAMS. CRANE. I must be going. 8 [Re-enter ADAMS, shoiving in PEGGIE LOVEL, a debutante of eighteen in her first ball-dress, radiant, excited, beantifidly dressed, a vision of girlish loveliness. She is frivolozis and self-conscious and fidl of little airs and graces, constantly glancing at herself in the two mirrors. She is in cloak and carries a large bo7t,quet. ADAMS. [Annoimcifig] Miss Lovel. [Exit ADAMS. SIR S. Come in, Peggie. I mustn't call you Peggie any more. Come in, Miss Lovel. PEGGIE. Mamma said you would like to see me for a minute before the ball ! SIR S. If you don't mind. PEGGIE. How d'ye do. Sir Lydden ? [ Shaking hands. CRANE. How d'ye do, Miss Lovel ? Good-night, Sir Stephen. [Holding otU hand. SIR S. Don't go, old chum. [Taking his hand, i'etaining it, keeping CRANE. CRANE. I must. [Taking out watch.'] I have a consultation at eleven. SIR S. [Pitcously:\ Don't go, old chum. CRANE. It's really pressing. It's Lord Albert Swale. He won't last till the morning. SIR S. Don't go. I may be meeting him soon, and I'll make your apologies. [ Very piteously.] Don't go, old chum ! CRANE. I must. [Nurse enters right.] Nurse, I want a word with you downstairs. fNurse crosses lo left, and exit.] [ To SIR S.] I'll look 'in, the first thing in the morning. SIR S. Do. You'll find me — at home. CRANE. Good-night. Good-night, Miss Lovel. PEGGIE. Good-night, Sir Lydden. CRANE. [In a loiv lone to PEGGIE.] You mustn't stay long, and you mustn't let Sir Stephen 9 c excite himself. [To SIR S.] I'd rather see you in bed SIR S. [P^ery impatiently?^ Tut! Tut! Tut! I won't be buried before I'm dead. [Rather curtly?^ Good-night. [CRANE waits. SIR S. [Imperiously.] Good-night. [CRANE is going-.'] And Crane, remember — no whitewash on my sepulchre ! [Exit CRANE, left. [PEGGIE meantime has taken off her cloak and laid down her bonqiiet. All through scene she is eager and excited^ glances at herself in the glasses very oftefi. PEGGIE. I'm so sorry you're ill, Sir Stephen. SIR S. I'm not ill, my dear. The old machine seems just as strong and tough as ever, only — it 's gone " crack " in a weak place. Well, I've knocked it about all over the world for seventy-five years, and if it hadn't gone crack in one place, I suppose it would in another. Never mind me. Let 's talk about you. Go and stand there, and let me look at you. PEGGIE. [Displaying her dress.] Do you like me } Do you like my dress .-' SIR S. It's a triumph! PEGGIE. [Chattering oil] You can't imagine what trouble mamma and I have taken over it. Long sleeves are coming in for evening wear. So I had long sleeves at first. I was all sleeves. So I had them taken out and short sleeves put in. The dressmaker made a horrible muddle of them. So we tried long sleeves again. I looked a perfect fright ! SIR S. I won't believe it. PEGGIP^ Yes, I did, I assure you. So at the last moment I had the long sleeves taken out and the short sleeves dodged up with lace. Which do you like best ? Long sleeves or short sleeves } SIR S. Long sleeves for ugly arms — short sleeves for beautiful arms ! PEGGIE. [Frozen ing at him and shaking her head.] Ah I what do you think of the bodice "i 10 SIR S. Enchanting ! PEGGIE. It is rather neat, isn't it ? SIR S. Neat ? I should call it gorgeous ! PEGGIE. Oh, you must see the one I've got for the Lardner's dance next Monday. Would you like to see it .-• SIR S. Very much — on Monday. PEGGIE. I'll run in for a moment before I go. SIR S. Do. PEGGIE. That 's a square-cut bodice. This is a round-cut bodice. Which do you like best ? Round- cut bodices, or square-cut bodices ? SIR S. To-night I like round-cut bodices. On Monday I think I shall prefer square-cut bodices. PKGGIE. I think I prefer a square-cut bodice. I had a square-cut bodice to this at first. I looked a perfect monster, so I had it taken out and this round- cut bodice put instead ; I'm not sure that it 's quite right now, and I've tried it on fifty times — I'm worry- ing you to death. SIR S. No! no! PEGGIE. Yes I am, and I can't stay five minutes. Are you sure you wouldn't rather have the ball put off? We will put it off even now if you wish. SIR S. Not for the world ! not for the world ! PEGGIE. That is so good of you. But I really think you'll be better to-morrow. I'm sure you will. You aren't really very ill, are you ? Do you like this embroidery ? '^Pointing to trimming 07i key bodice, SIR S. It's beautiful ! Isn't it Indian work ? PEGGIE. Yes, handmade. It took a man twelve or fifteen years to make this one strip. SIR S. A quarter of a lifetime to decorate you for a few hours. It was time well spent. Ah, Peggie, that 's the sum and meaning of all our toil and money- grubbing ! PEGGIE. What is? SIR S. To make our women-folk beautiful. It all comes to that in the end. Let Nature and Art knock II their heads together till doomsday they'll never teach one another any finer trick than to show a beautiful maiden to a handsome young fellow, or a handsome young fellow to a beautiful maiden. [PEGGIE has got behind him and is admiring Jicjself in the glass. PEGGIE Really! Really! Yes, I suppose you're right. You're sure I'm not worrying you SIR S No, no. Don't go. I'm quite at leisure now to the end of my life. PEGGIE. Oh, you mustn't talk like that. So I may tell mamma that you like my dress ? What do you think of the skirt ? SIR S. Isn't there too much trimming on it ? PEGGIE. Oh no ! oh no ! SIR S. Yes, there's too much trimming. PEGGIE. Oh no! Oh no! The dressmaker said there wasn't enough. SIRS Stupid hussies, dressmakers ! They're like other folks ! They're always the last to know any- thing about their own business. Tell your dressmaker that simplicity is the keynote of a great style in dressmaking, and engineering — subtle simplicity. The next time she is going to make you a dress tell her to take a walk through our National Gallery PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen, you surely wouldn't dress me like those old guys in the National Gallery. What would my partners say ? SIRS Your partners! Ah, you pretty tyrant, you'll turn a great many heads and set a great many hearts beating to-night ! PEGGIE. Shall I ? Shall I ? SIR S. Why, you've set my old worn-out heart fluttering, and, goodness knows, it ought to have done beating for pretty girls at seventy-five— it ought to know better at seventy-five ! But it doesn't, and — [risittgzvith great determination] — I'veagreatmind PEGGIE, [A little alarmed^ Sir Stephen, what arc you going to do ? SIR S. Don't you remember your promise ? PEGGIE. My promise ? SIR S. Your birthday party six years ago ! You danced with me, and you promised that I should be your first partner at your first ball after you came out! PEGGIE. Of course— I'd forgotten ! SIR S. But I hadn't ! Will you keep your promise, Peggie ? Will you keep your promise ? PEGGIE, Wouldn't it be dangerous and — you don't really wish it ? SIR S. [Si?iking down.'] You're right, my dear. I'm foolish with old age. Forgive me ! PEGGIE. I'm sorry to disappoint you. But you'll be able to see us dancing across the garden. You can stand at that window and look on. SIR S. Look on! That's all I'm fit for now — to look on at life ! [Turmng away his head. PEGGIE. Sir Stephen, what 's the'matter ? SIR S. I've always been in the thick of the fight, Peggie. And I feel to-night as strong as ever I did, and they tell me I must lay up and look on — [?-?s7/{<^ loiiJt great energy and deteri)iination\ — I won't ! I won't ! PEGGIE. Sir Stephen ! SIR S, I can't bear it, Peggie. I've enjoyed my life, and I don't want to leave it. I want to live, and live, and live, and I will ! Ah, what a selfish old coward I am ! I'm like a man who has sat down to a good table d'hote, and eaten and drunk his fill, and now the host tells me that my place is wanted for another guest, I cry out and want to have my dinner over again ! Don't take any notice of me, dear. Tell me about your partners. Who 's going to dance with you to-night ? PEGGIE. Oh, I suppose, Mr. Lascelles, Freddie Lister, Lord Doverbury, Johnny Butler, Sir Egerton Wendover, Dick French — amongst others. SIR S. Peggie 13 PEGGIE. Yes- SIR S. You won't misunderstand me, dear. I'm old enough to be your grandfather. {Takes her hand very tenderly.'] You won't misunderstand me. [Vejy seriouslyi] Take care how you choose your partner for life. You'll have a wide choice, and all your future happiness, and the happiness perhaps of many genera- tions to come will depend on the one moment when you say " Yes " to one of the scores of young fellows who'll ask you to be his wife. Take care, dear ! Take care ! Look him thoroughly up and down ! Be sure that he has a good full open eye that can look you straight in the face, and be sure that the whites of his eyes are clear. Take care he hasn't got a queer- shaped head, or a low forehead. A good round head, and a good full high forehead, do you hear ? Notice the grip of his hand when he shakes hands with you ! Take care it 's strong and firm, and not cold and dry. No young man should have a cold dry hand. Don't say " Yes " till you've seen him out of trousers, in riding dress, or court dress. Look at the shape of his legs — a good well-shaped leg, eh, Peggie > And take care it is his leg ! See that he 's well-knit and a little lean, not flabby ; doesn't squint ; doesn't stammer ; hasn't got any nervous tricks or twitchings. Don't marry a bald man ! They say we shall all be bald in ten generations. Wait ten generations, Peggie, and then don't marry a bald man ! Can you remember all this, dear .'* Watch his walk ! See that he has a good springy step, and feet made of elastic — can do his four or five miles an hour without turning a hair. Don't have him if he has a cough in the winter or the spring. Young men ought never to have a cough. And be sure he can laugh well and heartily — not a snigger, or a wheeze, or a cackle, but a good, deep, hearty laugh ri^ht down from the bottom of his chest. And if he has a little money, or even a good bit, so much the better ! There now ! You choose a man like that, Peggie, and I won't promise you that you'll be happy, but if you're not it won't be your fault, and it won't be his, and it won't be mine ! PEGGIE. Very well, Sir Stephen, I'll try and remember. SIR S. Do, my dear, do ! It's a good legacy, my dear. I've left you another. You won't be disap- pointed when my will 's read PEGGIE. Oh, Sir Stephen ! SIR S. No, you won't ; but remember my advice to-night. That 's the best wedding present for any girl. PEGGIE. Very well. Sir Stephen! I must be going. Good-bye. ^Giving hey hand. SIR S. Yes, I suppose you mustn't stay. {Taking her hand, keeping it as lie had kept CRANE'S, as if he couldn't bear to let her go^ Good-bye. \_Looking longingly at her luith a nmte entreaty to stay. PEGGIE draws her hand away, puts on cloaky takes up bouquet, and goes to door, left. He zvatches her all the ivhile. PEGGIE. {^At door, runs back to him.] Sir Stephen, I'll keep my promise. You shall be my first partner. {^Offering her card.] Write your name down for my first dance. SIR S. But I shan't be there. PEGGIE. I'll stay out, and keep it for you. SIR S. No, no PEGGIE. Yes, yes ! I insist. Put your name down ! [He writes on her card. Enter Nurse, left. PEGGIE. Good-bye, Sir Stephen. SIR S. Good-bye, Peggie! [Softly?)^ Peggie! Her name was Peggie ! My wife's name was Peggie ! [She be J ids and kisses Jiis forehead ; then goes to door, turns and looks at him. PEGGIE. Au'voir! [Blows him a kiss and exit, left, SIR STEPHEN looks longingly after her, walks a little up and down the room. 15 NURSE. [Anxiouslj/.] Sir Stephen, don't you think you might lie down now ? SIRS. Run away ! Run away ! NURSE. Won't you rest a little on the sofa ? SIR S. Run away ! Run away ! NURSE. Can I get you anything .'' SIR S. Run away! Run away! \_Pacing iLp and down^ Mr. Daniel Famariss hasn't come yet } NURSE. No. You know they said that he was away surveying in an out-of-the-way country, where no message could reach him. SIR S. If he should come too late, tell him — tell him — I'm gone surveying in an out-of-the-way country — where no message can reach me ! \Sits aown, changing tone] Dear me, Nurse, I'm afraid this dying is going to be a very tiresome business for both of us ! NURSE. Oh, Sir Stephen, I'm sure I don't mind ! SIRS. You don't .? You don't mind .? You're in no hurry .? That 's very good of you. NURSE. Sir Stephen, don't you think SIR S. What? NURSE. Last night you said you would send for a clergyman. SIR S. Did I .'' That was at two o'clock in the morning. How horribly demoralized a man gets at two o'clock in the morning ! NURSE. But, Sir Stephen SIR S. Well? NURSE. Don't you think you ought to begin to think of better things } SIR S. Well. I'm seventy-five. Perhaps it is time. What better things } NURSE. Death and — ^judgment, SIR vS. Don't talk nonsense. I don't call death and judgment better things. NURSE. But, Sir Stephen — you will be judged. SIR S. Judged ? Yes. But I shan't be judged by the prayers I've said and the psalms I've sung. I shan't be judged by the lies I've told, and the deceits i6 I've practised, and the passions I've given way to. I shan't be judged by the evil and rottenness in me. No, I shall be judged by the railways I've made, and the canals I've scooped, and the bridges I've built — and let me tell you, my dear creature, my accounts are in good order, and ready for inspection at any moment, and I believe there 's a good balance on my side. [Giu'sts Jiavc been asseinbling in the ballroom. Dance vmsic bursts out. Dancing begins ?\ Ah ! What tune is that ? \Goes up to window, begins dancing a few steps, swaying with the niiisic. NURSE. [^Frightened.l Sir Stephen ! Sir Stephen ! SIR S. Run away ! Run away ! NURSE. Sir Stephen, you wouldn't be found dancing at the end ? SIR S. Why not? I've done my work! Why shouldn't I play for a little while ? \_A bell is heard.'\ Hark ! Wasn't that the front door bell ? NURSE. Yes. [Goes to door, left. SIR S. Go down stairs and see if that 's my son. If it is, tell him \Gentle knock at door left. ADAMS enters a step. The dancing and mnsic are con- timied in the ballroom, ADAMS. I beg pardon, Sir Stephen. Mr. Daniel Famariss has arrived SIRS. Ah! \Getting excited. ADAMS. And would like to see you. SIR S. Tell him he knows the conditions. NURSE. But, Sir Stephen SIR S. Run away, my good soul! Run away! [To ADAMS.] He knows the conditions. If he accepts them I shall be pleased to see him. DAN'S voice outside door, Father ! SIR S. Shut that door. [ADAMS nearly closes door, which is kept open a few inches from the other side. 17 D DAN. [Outside?, Father! You won't shut the door in my face ? SIR S. Keep on that side of it, then. Adams, you can go. Leave the door ajar. [Exit ADAMS, left. SIR STEPHEN, z£;?V/2 an imperious gesture, points Nurse to door right. Exit Nurse, right, with an appealing gesture to SIR STEPHEN. SIR S. [Goes to door, left ; it is still open a few inches. '\ Are you there, Dan ? DAN. {Outside?: Yes, father. SIR S. I vowed I'd never set eyes on you again, till you owned you were wrong about those girders. You were wrong? [No reply.'] You were wrong? [A^^ reply. \ Do you hear .? Confound you, you know you were wrong. \Xo reply.] Do you hear, Dan? Why won't you say you were wrong ? You won't ! [ Slams door, goes, sits, has an outburst of anger, re- covers, listens, goes back to door, opens it a little.'] Are you there, Dan ? DAN. [Outside.] Yes, father. SIR S. You were wrong, Dan. [No reply.] \ haven't got long to live, Dan. It 's angina pectoris, and the next attack will kill me. It may come at any moment. Dan, you were wrong? Why won't you say so ? Even if you tell a lie about it ? [Pause. DAX. [Outside. \ I was wrong. SIR S. Ah ! [Flings open the door, DAN runs in. SIR STEPHEN meets him, embraces him affec- tionately, with a half sob?^ Why didn't you say it before ? You knew how much I loved you. Why did y;ou keep apart from me all these years ? DAN. I'm sorry, sir. But perhaps it was for the best. I've done very well. SIR S. Of course you have. You are my son. But how much better you'd have done if you had stuck to me ! How much better we should both have done ! I'm sorry, too, Dan. I was wrong, too — not about the girders. You were wrong about them, i8 Dan. But I was wrong to be angry and to swear I wouldn't see you. Ah, what could I have done with you at my side ! I could have carried out my Milford Haven scheme. Perhaps it isn't too late ! [Going to bureau, getting more and more excited.'] I've got all the plans here [ Takifig out a heap of plans. DAN. Not now, father, not now ! SIR S. Yes, now, my boy ! To-morrow may be too late ! [Going to table.] Come here, my lad ! Oh, Dan, what years we've wasted ! Come here ! I want you to carry this out. You'll have immense opposition. Beat it down ! You'll have to buy Shadwell and his lot. They're a dirty gang. But you'll have to do it. I hate bribery, Dan, but when you've got to do it, do it thoroughly ! Then there 's Mincham. Buy him over, if you can, at a small figure — say a thousand pounds — he 's a mean little cur ; but offer him that, and if he won't take it, snap your fingers at him, and swamp him ! Remember the trick, the scoundrel's trick, he served me over the granite for the viaduct. Remember it, Dan, and don't spare him ! swamp him ! ' swamp him ! [ With great energy of hate. DAN. Father SIR S. Bring your chair up, I must go on now — while it 's all before me ! I want you to carry this Milford Haven scheme out ! I want it to be said that what old Stephen Famariss couldn't do, young Dan Famariss could ! The father was a great man, the son shall be a greater, eh } Look here, you must start on this side. I've had all the soundings made DAN. To-morrow, father, to-morrow ! SIR S. No, now ! There 's no such thing as to- morrow ! We'll go through it now — in case — There 's a great world-tussle coming, Dan — I shan't live to see it — but it 's coming, and the engineer that ties England and America will do a good turn to both countries. England to America in four days ! I want that crown ' I Kings, chap, ii., verses 8, 9. 19 to rest on your head ! Look ! you must begin here ! Look ! Just there ! You must throw a bridge over \_Stops suddenly , puts Jus hand to his heart, his face indicates intense agony. Nurse enters right. DAN. Father SIR S. [Persisting risii?g. with a wild aimless gesture.'] Throw a bridge from here — to the other side, and then DAN. Father, what is it ? SIR S. The end, Dan. [His face shows that he is suffering great pain. A great hirst of dance miisic. Nurse brings him chair to sit.] No, thank you. I'll die standing. England to America in four days. [Long pause. He stands bolt upright with great de- termination^ You were wrong about those girders, Dan — My Peggie — I wonder if it 's all moonshine — Peggie — My Peggie [Dies, tuntbles on floor. Nurse and DAN stand over him. Music and dancing in ballroojn louder than ever. Nurse kneels over him and watches, while Big Ben in distance strikes eleven. Nurse nods to DAN in co7ifirmation that it is all over. CURTAIN. CHISWICK PRESS :— CHARLKS WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANK. LONDON. DATE DUE 1 i I ! 1 m GAYLORD PRINTED IN U S A UC SOUTHERN REGIOMAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 611070 4