Tom had grown stupefied and passive, and his sole dependence was on Norman, so, at last, he made no opposition when his brother offered to conduct him to his father and speak for him. The danger now was that Dr. May should not be forthcoming, and the elder brother was as much relieved, as the younger was dismayed, to see, through the drawing-room window, that he was standing beside Margaret.
“Papa, can you come and speak to me,” said Norman, “at the door?”
“Coming! What now?” said the doctor, entering the hall. “What, Tom, my boy, what is it?” as he saw the poor child, white, cold, almost sick with apprehension, with every pulse throbbing, and looking positively ill. He took the chilly, damp hand, which shook nervously, and would fain have withdrawn itself.
“Come, my dear, let us see what is amiss;” and before Tom knew what he was doing, he had seated him on his knee, in the arm-chair in the study, and was feeling his pulse. “There, rest your head! Has it not been aching all day?”
“I do not think he is ill,” said Norman; “but there is something he thinks I had better tell you.”
Tom would fain have been on his feet, yet the support of that shoulder was inexpressibly comfortable to his aching temples, and he could not but wait for the shock of being roughly shaken and put down. So, as his brother related what had occurred, he crouched and trembled more and more on his father’s breast, till, to his surprise, he found the other arm passed round him in support, drawing him more tenderly close.
“My poor little fellow!” said Dr. May, trying to look into the drooping face, “I grieve to have exposed you to such usage as this! I little thought it of Stoneborough fellows!”
“He is very sorry,” said Norman, much distressed by the condition of the culprit.
“I see it—I see it plainly,” said Dr. May. “Tommy, my boy, why should you tremble when you are with me?”
“He has been in great dread of your being displeased.”