Artists -- Fiction; England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; London (England) -- Fiction
As Earl Beauport ceased speaking he gathered himself together and
walked towards the door, never trusting himself to look for an instant
towards where his wife sat cowering in grief, lest his firmness should
desert him. Down the stairs he went, until entering his library he shut
the door behind him, locked it, and throwing himself into his chair,
leant his head on the desk, and covering it with his hands gave way
to a passion of sobs which shook his strong frame as though he were
convulsed. Then rising, he went to the book-case, and taking out a
large volume, opened it, and turned to the page immediately succeeding
the cover. It was a big old-fashioned Bible, bound in calf, with a
hideous ancient woodcut as a frontispiece representing the Adoration
of the Wise Men; but the page to which Lord Beauport turned, yellow
with age, was inscribed in various-coloured inks, many dim and faded,
with the names of the old Brakespere family, and the dates of their
births, marriages, and deaths. Old Martin Brakespere's headed the list;
then came his son's, with "created Baron Beauport" in the lawyer's
own skimpy little hand, in which also was entered the name of the
musical-amateur peer, his son; then came George Brakespere's bold entry
of his own name and his wife's, and of the names of their two sons.
Over the last entry Lord Beauport paused for a few minutes, glaring at
it with eyes which did not see it, but which had before them a chubby
child, a bright handsome Eton boy, a dashing guardsman, a "swell"
loved and petted by all, a fugitive skulking in an assumed name in the
cabin of a sea-tossed ship; then he took up a pen and ran it through
the entry backwards and forwards until the name was completely blotted
out; and then he fell again into his train of thought. The family
dinner-hour was long since passed; the table was laid, all was ready,
and the French cook and the grave butler were in despair: but Lord
Beauport still sat alone in his library with old Martin Brakespere's
Bible open before him.
CHAPTER IV.
ON THE DOORSTEP.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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