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Syd Belton: The Boy who would not go to Sea, a fiction by George Manville Fenn |
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Chapter 11. |
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_ CHAPTER ELEVEN. "May I come in, sir?" "Yes; come in, Broughton," said Syd, recognising the voice, and the butler entered with one hand bound up. "That, sir? Oh, nothing, sir. Only got it in the scrimmage last night. So glad to see you back again, Master Syd." "Oh, don't talk about it, Broughton," groaned the boy. "My father down?" "No, sir; but he's getting up, and your uncle too. I was to come and tell you to make haste." "Yes, I'll make haste," said Syd; and as soon as he was alone he began to dress hurriedly, with every thought of the blackest hue, and a sensation of misery and depression assailing him that was horrible. He quite started as he went to the glass to brush his hair, for his face was white and drawn as if he had been ill. But there was very little more time for thought. The breakfast-bell rang, and he hurried down into the dining-room, glad to get off the staircase and through the hall, where one of the housemaids was still busy, and ready to look at him curiously as the boy who ran away from home--and came back. Syd thought of that latter, for he knew but too well the servants might think it was brave--almost heroic and daring--to run away; to come back seemed very weak and small. In those few moments Syd wished that ten years would glide away, and all the trouble belong to the past. His father was in a chair by the window ready to look up sharply, and then let his eye fall upon the book he was reading without uttering a word. Broughton came in bearing a tray with the coffee and a covered dish or two ready to place upon the table, then he left, and Syd was alone again with his father. "What will he say?" thought the culprit; but he could not decide in which form his verbal castigation would come. As he sat glancing at his father from time to time, Syd noted that there was a scratch upon his forehead, and that a bit of sticking-plaster was on one of his knuckles, proofs these of the severity of the past night's struggle. Then came a weary waiting interval before there was a deep-toned cough outside the door. "Hah!" ejaculated the captain, rising from his seat as the door opened, and the old admiral stumped into the room. "Morning, Harry," he said; "morning, Syd." He closed the door behind him and came forward, and then, odd as it may sound in connection with one who was weak, unwell, and suffering from so much mental trouble, Sydney burst into a hearty fit of laughter. He tried to check it; he knew that under the circumstances it was in the worst of taste; he felt that he would excite his father's anger, and that then he would be furious; but he laughed all the same, and the more he tried the more violent and lasting the fits grew. "Sydney!" cried his father, and then there was a pause followed by a hearty "Ha, ha, ha!" as the captain joined in, and the admiral gently patted his own face first on one side and then on the other. "Yes," he said, quietly; "you may well laugh. I look a nice guy, don't I?" "Oh, uncle! I beg your pardon--but--oh, oh, oh, I can't stop laughing," cried Sydney. "Well, get it done, boy," said the old gentleman, "for I want my breakfast. Oh, here is Broughton." The butler entered with a rack of hot dry toast, and as he advanced to the table the admiral exclaimed-- "Now, sir, look here; you've made a nice mess of my phiz. What have you got to say to this?" The butler raised his eyes as he set down the toast, gazed full in the old gentleman's face, his own seemed frozen solid for a moment, and then, clapping the napkin he carried to his mouth to smother his laughter, he turned and fled. "And that son of a sea-cook begged my pardon last night, and said he was sorry. Yes, I am a sight. Look at my eyes, Harry, swollen up and black. There's a nose for you; and one lip cut. Why, I never got it so bad in action. And all your fault, Syd. There, I forgive you, boy." "Well, it's impossible to give this boy a serious lecture now, Tom," said the captain, wiping his eyes, as he passed the coffee. "Of course. Who wants serious lectures?" said the admiral, testily. "The boy did wrong, and he came back and said he was sorry for it. You've told me scores of times that you never flogged a man who was really sorry for getting into a scrape. Give me some of that ham, Syd, and go on eating yourself. I say, rum old punch I look, don't I?" Syd made no reply, but filled his uncle's plate, and the breakfast went on nearly to the end before the topic dreaded was introduced. "Well, Sydney," said his father, rather sadly, "so I suppose I must let you be a doctor?" "Wish he was one now," cried the admiral. "I'd make him try to make me fit to be seen. Humph! doctor, eh? No; I don't think I shall try to be ill to give you a job, Syd; but I'm very glad, my boy, that you did not take that money." Sydney bent over his coffee, and his father went on-- "It's like letting you win a victory, sir, but I suppose I must give in. I don't like it though." "Humph! more do I," said Sir Thomas. "I'll forgive you though if you train up for a naval surgeon. Do you hear, sir?" "Yes, uncle, I hear," said Sydney. "Then why don't you speak?" "I was thinking of what you said, uncle." "Humph! Well, I hope you'll take it to heart." "Yes," said his father; "you may as well be a surgeon." "That's what I should have liked to be," said Sydney, "if I had been a doctor." "Well, you're going to be, sir. Your uncle and I have talked it over, and you shall study for it, and begin as soon as you're old enough." Sydney sat still, gazing at his plate; but he raised his eyes at last, and looked firmly at his father, who was watching him keenly. "Thank you, father," he said. "No, sir, don't thank me; thank your indulgent uncle." "No, don't, boy, because I give way most unwillingly; and I'm confoundedly sorry you should want to be such a physic-mixing swab." "You needn't be sorry, uncle," said Sydney, quietly; "and I'm very grateful to you, father, but I shall not be one now." "Not be a doctor!" said the captain, sharply. "Then pray, sir, what do you mean to be?" "A sailor, father." "What?" cried the brothers in chorus. "And I want to go to sea at once." "You do, Syd?" "Yes, father. I saw it all when I'd gone away, and I came back for that." "Hurrah!" cried the admiral, starting from his seat, and dropping back with a groan of pain. "Bless my heart!" he cried, "how sore I am! But hurrah! all the same. You'll be a middy, my boy." "Yes, uncle. I want to be at once." "And you'll try to make yourself a good officer, my boy?" cried his father, leaning over the table to catch his son's hand. "Yes, father, as hard as ever I can." "T'other hand, Syd, lad," cried the admiral; and he grasped it firmly. "Try, Harry?--he won't need to try. He's a Belton every inch of him, and he'll make a ten times better officer than ever we did. Here, where's the port? Who's going to drink success to the boy in coffee? Bah, what does the liquor matter! We'll drink it in our hearts, boy. Here's to Admiral Belton--my dear boy--our dear boy, Harry, eh?" "God bless you, my lad!" cried Captain Belton. "You've made me feel more proud of you and happy than I have felt for years." "Here, hi!" roared the admiral; "where's that lubber Strake? I want some one to help me cheer. Sydney, boy, God bless you! I _am_ glad you ran away." "Then you forgive me, father?" "Hold your tongue, sir," cried Captain Belton, laying his hand on his son's shoulder. "There are things that we all like to forget as soon as we can--this is one of them. Let's blot it out." "But I want to ask a favour, father." "Granted, my boy, before you ask." _ |
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