His talk was chiefly of Settlesham, old Mr. Wilmot’s parish, where he had been making a visit to his former tutor, and talking over the removal to Eton of Tom, who had well responded to the care taken of him, and with his good principles confirmed, and his character strengthened, might be, with less danger, exposed to trial.
It had been a visit such as to leave a deep impression on Norman’s mind. Sixty years ago, old Mr. Wilmot had been what he now was himself—an enthusiastic and distinguished Balliol man, and he had kept up a warm, clear-sighted interest in Oxford throughout his long life. His anecdotes, his recollections, and comments on present opinions had been listened to with great eagerness, and Norman had felt it an infinite honour to give the venerable old man his arm, as to be shown by him his curious collection of books. His parish, carefully watched for so many years, had been a study not lost upon Norman, who detailed particulars of the doings there, which made Ethel sigh to think of the contrast with Stoneborough. In such conversation they came to the entrance of the hamlet, and Mary, with a scream of joy, declared that she really believed that he was going to help them! He did not turn away.
“Thank you!” said Ethel, in a low voice, from the bottom of her heart.
She used him mercifully, and made the lessons shorter than usual, but when they reached the open air again, he drew a long breath; and when Mary eagerly tried for a compliment to their scholars, asked if they could not be taught the use of eyelids.
“Did they stare?” said Ethel. “That’s one advantage of being blind. No one can stare me out of countenance.”
“Why were you answering all your questions yourself?” asked Mary.
“Because no one else would,” said Norman.
“You used such hard words,” replied Ethel.
“Indeed! I thought I was very simple.”
“Oh!” cried Mary, “there were derive, and instruction, and implicate, and—oh, so many.”