“If you mean, sir, that I am to get my discharge, it's better to tell the truth at once. I would n't take it. No, sir, I 'll stand by what I 've done. I see I never could be a doctor, and I have my doubts, too, if I ever could be a gentleman; but there's something tells me I could be a soldier, and I'll try.”
Conyers turned from him with an impatient gesture, and walked the room in moody silence.
“I know well enough, sir,” continued Tom, “what every one will say; perhaps you yourself are thinking it this very minute: 'It 's all out of his love of low company he 's gone and done this; he's more at home with those poor ignorant boys there than he would be with men of education and good manners.' Perhaps it's true, perhaps it is 'n't! But there 's one thing certain, which is, that I 'll never try again to be anything that I feel is clean above me, and I 'll not ask the world to give me credit for what I have not the least pretension to.”
“Have you reflected,” said Conyers, slowly, “that if you reject my assistance now, it will be too late to ask for it a few weeks, or even a few days hence?”
“I have thought of all that, sir. I 'll never trouble you about myself again.”
“My dear Tom,” said Conyers, as he laid his arm on the other's shoulder, “just think for one moment of all the misery this step will cause your sister,—that kind, true-hearted sister, who has behaved so nobly by you.”
“I have thought of that, too, sir; and in my heart I believe, though she 'll fret herself at first greatly, it will all turn out best in the end. What could I ever be but a disgrace to her? Who 'd ever think the same of Polly after seeing me? Don't I bring her down in spite of herself; and is n't it a hard trial for her to be a lady when I am in the same room with her? No, sir, I'll not go back; and though I haven't much hope in me, I feel I'm doing right.”
“I know well,” said Conyers, pettishly, “that your sister will throw the whole blame on me. She 'll say, naturally enough, You could have obtained his discharge,—you should have insisted on his leaving.”
“That's what you could not, sir,” said Tom, sturdily. “It's a poor heart hasn't some pride in it; and I would not go back and meet my father, after my disgrace, if it was to cost me my right hand,—so don't say another word about it. Good-bye, sir, and my blessing go with you wherever you are. I 'll never forget how you stood to me.”
“That money there is yours, Dill,” said Conyers, half haughtily. “You may refuse my advice and reject my counsel, but I scarcely suppose you 'll ask me to take back what I once have given.”