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Updated: June 14, 2025
À BECKETT, GILBERT ABBOTT (1811-1856). Comic writer, b. in London, the s. of a lawyer, and belonged to a family claiming descent from Thomas
Mary, the time's come for you and me to fade off the Beckett scene together." I listened without interrupting him once: at first, because I was stunned, and a thousand thoughts beat dully against my brain without finding their way in, as gulls beat their wings against the lamp of a lighthouse; at last, because I wished to hear Julian O'Farrell to the very end before I answered.
I could scarcely boast of Lord R 's I acquaintance. I knew no one named Haxton, and, except my hatter, no one called Walton; and this peer wrote as if we were intimate friends! I looked at the back of the letter, and the mystery was solved. And now, to my consternation for I was plain Richard Beckett I read: "To George Stanhope Beckett, Esq., M.P."
The very sound of the name, "Péronne," is an echo of history, as Brian says. Hardly a year-date in the Middle Ages could be pricked by a pin without touching some sensational event going on at that time at Péronne. I remember this from my schooldays; and more clearly still from "Quentin Durward," which I have promised to read aloud to Mother Beckett.
From there the gray car ran on almost due east to Péronne, out of the country of Surrey-like, Chiltern-like downs, into a strange marshy waste, where the river Somme expands into vast meres, swarming with many fish. It looked, Father Beckett said, "Like a bit of the world when God had just begun to create life out of chaos." Poor Péronne!
Dynevor Terrace was said to have dark, damp kitchens, but by none who had ever been in No. 5, when the little compact fire was compressed to one glowing red crater of cinders, their smile laughing ruddily back from the bright array on the dresser, the drugget laid down, the round oaken table brought forward, and Jane Beckett, in afternoon trim, tending her geraniums, the offspring of the parting Cheveleigh nosegay, or gauffreing her mistress's caps.
Wouldn't you feel as if he went with you, if you made a pilgrimage from town to town he knew in their days of beauty if you travelled and studied some scheme for helping to make each one beautiful again after the war? If you did this in his name and his honour, could he have a better memorial?" "I guess God has let Jim speak through your lips, and tell us his wish," said Mr. Beckett.
If old Beckett hadn't been bursting with pride in the heroic girl who'd got a medal for nursing infectious cases in a hospital near St. Raphael, I'd have given up the game for a bad job. I'd have taken it for granted that Jim and the fiancée had met before we met him at St. Raphael.
I looked with consternation in the face of the Marquis. "What apology can I offer to Monsieur the Mar to Monsieur Droqville? It is true my name is Beckett it is true I am known, though very slightly, to Lord R ; but the letter was not intended for me. My name is Richard Beckett this is to Mr. Stanhope Beckett, the member for Shillingsworth. What can I say, or do, in this unfortunate situation?
Ernest Beckett, now Lord Grimthorpe, a lover of all superiorities, who has known the ablest men of the time, takes pleasure in telling a story which shows Oscar Wilde's influence over men who were anything but literary in their tastes. Mr.
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