Bealby; A Holiday. Герберт Уэллс

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      But young Bealby maintained an obstinate fight against the inevitable.

      He had no gift of lucid exposition. “I ain’t going to be a servant,” he said. “I don’t see what right people have making a servant of me.”

      “You got to be something,” said Mr. Darling.

      “Everybody’s got to be something,” said Mrs. Darling.

      “Then let me be something else,” said young Bealby.

      “I dessay you’d like to be a gentleman,” said Mr. Darling.

      “I wouldn’t mind,” said young Bealby.

      “You got to be what your opportunities give you,” said Mr. Darling.

      Young Bealby became breathless. “Why shouldn’t I be an engine driver?” he asked.

      “All oily,” said his mother. “And getting yourself killed in an accident. And got to pay fines. You’d like to be an engine driver.”

      “Or a soldier.”

      “Oo!—a Swaddy!” said Mr. Darling decisively.

      “Or the sea.”

      “With that weak stummik of yours,” said Mrs. Darling.

      “Besides which,” said Mr. Darling, “it’s been arranged for you to go up to the ’ouse the very first of next month. And your box and everything ready.”

      Young Bealby became very red in the face. “I won’t go,” he said very faintly.

      “You will,” said Mr. Darling, “if I ’ave to take you by the collar and the slack of your breeches to get you there.”

§ 3

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      The heart of young Bealby was a coal of fire within his breast as—unassisted—he went across the dewy park up to the great house, whither his box was to follow him.

      He thought the world a “rotten show.”

      He also said, apparently to two does and a fawn, “If you think I’m going to stand it, you know, you’re JOLLY-well mistaken.”

      I do not attempt to justify his prejudice against honourable usefulness in a domestic capacity. He had it. Perhaps there is something in the air of Highbury, where he had spent the past eight years of his life, that leads to democratic ideals. It is one of those new places where estates seem almost forgotten. Perhaps too there was something in the Bealby strain. …

      I think he would have objected to any employment at all. Hitherto he had been a remarkably free boy with a considerable gusto about his freedom. Why should that end? The little village mixed school had been a soft job for his Cockney wits, and for a year and a half he had been top boy. Why not go on being top boy?

      Instead of which, under threats, he had to go across the sunlit corner of the park, through that slanting morning sunlight which had been so often the prelude to golden days of leafy wanderings! He had to go past the corner of the laundry where he had so often played cricket with the coachman’s boys (already swallowed up into the working world), he had to follow the laundry wall to the end of the kitchen, and there, where the steps go down and underground, he had to say farewell to the sunlight, farewell to childhood, boyhood, freedom. He had to go down and along the stone corridor to the pantry, and there he had to ask for Mr. Mergleson. He paused on the top step and looked up at the blue sky across which a hawk was slowly drifting. His eyes followed the hawk out of sight beyond a cypress bough, but indeed he was not thinking about the hawk, he was not seeing the hawk; he was struggling with a last wild impulse of his ferial nature. “Why not sling it?” his ferial nature was asking. “Why not even now—do a bunk?”

      It would have been better for him perhaps and better for Mr. Mergleson and better for Shonts if he had yielded to the whisper of the Tempter. But his heart was heavy within him, and he had no lunch. And never a penny. One can do but a very little bunk on an empty belly! “Must” was written all over him. He went down the steps.

      The passage was long and cool and at the end of it was a swing door. Through that and then to the left, he knew one had to go, past the stillroom and so to the pantry. The maids were at breakfast in the stillroom with the door open. The grimace he made in passing was intended rather to entertain than to insult, and anyhow a chap must do something with his face. And then he came to the pantry and into the presence of Mr. Mergleson.

      Mr. Mergleson was in his shirt-sleeves and generally dishevelled, having an early cup of tea in an atmosphere full of the bleak memories of overnight. He was an ample man with a large nose, a vast under lip and mutton-chop side-whiskers. His voice would have suited a succulent parrot. He took out a gold watch from his waistcoat pocket and regarded it. “Ten minutes past seven, young man,” he said, “isn’t seven o’clock.”

      Young Bealby made no articulate answer.

      “Just stand there for a minute,” said Mr. Mergleson, “and when I’m at libbuty I’ll run through your duties.” And almost ostentatiously he gave himself up to the enjoyment of his cup of tea.

      Three other gentlemen in deshabille sat at table with Mr. Mergleson. They regarded young Bealby with attention, and the youngest, a red-haired, barefaced youth in shirt-sleeves and a green apron was moved to a grimace that was clearly designed to echo the scowl on young Bealby’s features.

      The fury that had been subdued by a momentary awe of Mr. Mergleson revived and gathered force. Young Bealby’s face became scarlet, his eyes filled with tears and his mind with the need for movement. After all—he wouldn’t stand it. He turned round abruptly and made for the door.

      “Where’n earth you going to?” cried Mr. Mergleson.

      “He’s shy!” cried the second footman.

      “Steady on!” cried the first footman and had him by the shoulder in the doorway.

      “Lemme go!” howled the new recruit, struggling. “I won’t be a blooming servant. I won’t.”

      “Here!” cried Mr. Mergleson, gesticulating with his teaspoon, “bring ’im to the end of the table there. What’s this about a blooming servant?”

      Bealby, suddenly blubbering, was replaced at the end of the table.

      “May I ask what’s this about a blooming servant?” asked Mr. Mergleson.

      Sniff and silence.

      “Did I understand you to say that you ain’t going to be a blooming servant, young Bealby?”

      “Yes,” said young Bealby.

      “Thomas,” said Mr. Mergleson, “just smack ’is ’ed. Smack it rather ’ard. …”

      Things too rapid to relate occurred. “So you’d bite, would you?” said Thomas. …

      “Ah!” said Mr. Mergleson. “Got ’im! That one!” …

      “Just smack ’is ’ed once more,” said Mr. Mergleson. …

      “And now you just stand there, young man, until I’m at libbuty to attend to you further,” said Mr. Mergleson, and finished his tea slowly and eloquently. …

      The second footman rubbed his shin thoughtfully.

      “If I got to smack ’is ’ed much,” he said, “ ’e’d better change into his slippers.”

      “Take him to ’is room,” said Mr. Mergleson getting up. “See ’e washes the grief and grubbiness off ’is face