Bealby; A Holiday. Герберт Уэллс

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СКАЧАТЬ quite close to her and remained, noting the bits of potato that swam about in the pan, the jolly curling of the rashers, the dancing of the bubbles, the hymning splash and splutter of the happy fat. …

      (If it should ever fall to my lot to be cooked, may I be fried in potatoes and butter. May I be fried with potatoes and good butter made from the milk of the cow. God send I am spared boiling; the prison of the pot, the rattling lid, the evil darkness, the greasy water. …)

      “I suppose,” said the lady prodding with her fork at the bacon, “I suppose you call yourself a Boy.”

      “Yes, miss,” said Bealby.

      “Have you ever fried?”

      “I could, miss.”

      “Like this?”

      “Better”

      “Just lay hold of this handle—for it’s scorching the skin off my face I am.” She seemed to think for a moment and added, “entirely.”

      In silence Bealby grasped that exquisite smell by the handle, he took the fork from her hand and put his hungry eager nose over the seething mess. It wasn’t only bacon; there were onions, onions giving it—an edge! It cut to the quick of appetite. He could have wept with the intensity of his sensations.

      A voice almost as delicious as the smell came out of the caravan window behind Bealby’s head.

      “Ju-dy!” cried the voice.

      “Here!—I mean—it’s here I am,” said the lady in the deerstalker.

      “Judy—you didn’t take my stockings for your own by any chance?”

      The lady in the deerstalker gave way to delighted horror. “Sssh, Mavourneen!” she cried—she was one of that large class of amiable women who are more Irish than they need be—“there’s a Boy here!”

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      There was indeed an almost obsequiously industrious and obliging Boy. An hour later he was no longer a Boy but the Boy, and three friendly women were regarding him with a merited approval.

      He had done the frying, renewed a waning fire with remarkable skill and dispatch, reboiled a neglected kettle in the shortest possible time, laid almost without direction a simple meal, very exactly set out campstools and cleaned the frying pan marvellously. Hardly had they taken their portions of that appetizing savouriness, than he had whipped off with that implement, gone behind the caravan, busied himself there, and returned with the pan—glittering bright. Himself if possible brighter. One cheek indeed shone with an animated glow.

      “But wasn’t there some of the bacon and stuff left?” asked the lady in the deerstalker.

      “I didn’t think it was wanted, Miss,” said Bealby. “So I cleared it up.”

      He met understanding in her eye. He questioned her expression.

      “Mayn’t I wash up for you, miss?” he asked to relieve the tension.

      He washed up, swiftly and cleanly. He had never been able to wash up to Mr. Mergleson’s satisfaction before, but now he did everything Mr. Mergleson had ever told him. He asked where to put the things away and he put them away. Then he asked politely if there was anything else he could do for them. Questioned, he said he liked doing things. “You haven’t,” said the lady in the deerstalker, “a taste for cleaning boots?”

      Bealby declared he had.

      “Surely,” said a voice that Bealby adored, “ ’tis an angel from heaven.”

      He had a taste for cleaning boots! This was an extraordinary thing for Bealby to say. But a great change had come to him in the last half-hour. He was violently anxious to do things, any sort of things, servile things, for a particular person. He was in love.

      The owner of the beautiful voice had come out of the caravan, she had stood for a moment in the doorway before descending the steps to the ground and the soul of Bealby had bowed down before her in instant submission. Never had he seen anything so lovely. Her straight slender body was sheathed in blue; fair hair, a little tinged with red, poured gloriously back from her broad forehead, and she had the sweetest eyes in the world. One hand lifted her dress from her feet; the other rested on the lintel of the caravan door. She looked at him and smiled.

      So for two years she had looked and smiled across the footlights to the Bealby in mankind. She had smiled now on her entrance out of habit. She took the effect upon Bealby as a foregone conclusion.

      Then she had looked to make sure that everything was ready before she descended.

      “How good it smells, Judy!” she had said.

      “I’ve had a helper,” said the woman who wore spats.

      That time the blue-eyed lady had smiled at him quite definitely. …

      The third member of the party had appeared unobserved; the irradiations of the beautiful lady had obscured her. Bealby discovered her about. She was bareheaded; she wore a simple grey dress with a Norfolk jacket, and she had a pretty clear white profile under black hair. She answered to the name of “Winnie.” The beautiful lady was Madeleine. They made little obscure jokes with each other and praised the morning ardently. “This is the best place of all,” said Madeleine.

      “All night,” said Winnie, “not a single mosquito.”

      None of these three ladies made any attempt to conceal the sincerity of their hunger or their appreciation of Bealby’s assistance. How good a thing is appreciation! Here he was doing, with joy and pride and an eager excellence, the very services he had done so badly under the cuffings of Mergleson and Thomas. …

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      And now Bealby, having been regarded with approval for some moments and discussed in tantalizing undertones, was called upon to explain himself.

      “Boy,” said the lady in the deerstalker, who was evidently the leader and still more evidently the spokeswoman of the party, “come here.”

      “Yes, miss.” He put down the boot he was cleaning on the caravan step.

      “In the first place, know by these presents, I am a married woman.”

      “Yes, miss.”

      “And miss is not a seemly mode of address for me.”

      “No, miss. I mean—” Bealby hung for a moment and by the happiest of accidents, a scrap of his instruction at Shonts came up in his mind. “No,” he said, “your—ladyship.”

      A great light shone on the spokeswoman’s face. “Not yet, my child,” she said, “not yet. He hasn’t done his duty by me. I am—a simple Mum.”

      Bealby СКАЧАТЬ