“But, Tom, do cheer up. It is nothing to be in such distress at. Papa knows all about it, and while he does, I don’t care half so much.”
“Oh, I wish—I wish—”
“You see, Tom,” said Norman, “after all, though it is very kind of you to be sorry for not being able to get me out of this scrape, the thing one wants you to be sorry about is your own affair.”
“I wish I had never come to school! I wish Anderson would leave me alone! It is all his fault! A mean-spirited, skulking, bullying—”
“Hush, hush, Tom, he is bad enough, but now you know what he is, you can keep clear of him for the future. Now listen. You and I will make a fresh start, and try if we can’t get the Mays to be looked on as they were when Harry was here. Let us mind the rules, and get into no more mischief.”
“You’ll keep me from Ned Anderson and Axworthy?” whispered Tom.
“Yes, that I will. And you’ll try and speak the truth, and be straightforward?”
“I will, I will,” said Tom, worn out in spirits by his long bondage, and glad to catch at the hope of relief and protection.
“Then let us come home,” and Tom put his hand into his brother’s, as a few weeks back would have seemed most unworthy of schoolboy dignity.
Thenceforth Tom was devoted to Norman, and kept close to him, sure that the instant he was from under his wing his former companions would fall on him to revenge his defection, but clinging to him also from real affection and gratitude. Indolence and timidity were the true root of what had for a time seemed like a positively bad disposition; beneath, there was a warm heart, and sense of right, which had been almost stifled for the time, in the desire, from moment to moment, to avoid present trouble or fear. Under Norman’s care his better self had freer scope, he was guarded from immediate terror, and kept from the suggestions of the worse sort of boys, as much as was in his brother’s power; and the looks they cast towards him, and the sly torments they attempted to inflict, by no means invited him back to them. The lessons, where he had a long inveterate habit of shuffling, came under Norman’s eye at the same time. He always prepared them in his presence, instead of in the most secret manner possible, and with all Anderson’s expeditious modes of avoiding the making them of any use. Norman sat by, and gave such help as was fair and just, showed him how to learn, and explained difficulties, and the ingenuity hitherto spent in eluding learning being now directed to gaining it, he began to make real progress and find satisfaction in it. The comfort of being good dawned upon him once more, but still there was much to contend with; he had acquired such a habit of prevarication that, if by any means taken by surprise, his impulse was to avoid giving a straightforward answer, and when he recollected his sincerity, the truth came with the air of falsehood. Moreover, he was an arrant coward, and provoked tricks by his manifest and unreasonable terrors. It was no slight exercise of patience that Norman underwent, but this was the interest he had made for himself; and the recovery of the boy’s attachment, and his improvement, though slow, were a present recompense.