“Why, you are not afraid of me?” said Phil. “Yes I am—rather.”
“What for?”
“Oh, because you are older;—and you are so much more of a Crofton boy than I am—and you are very strict—and altogether—”
“Yes, you will find me pretty strict, I can tell you,” said Phil, unable to restrain a complacent smile on finding that somebody was afraid of him. “Well, we must see what we can do. I will hear you to-night, at any rate.”
Between his feeling of kindness and the gratification of his vanity, Phil found himself able to hear his brother’s lessons every evening. He was certainly very strict, and was not sparing of such pushes, joggings, and ridicule as were necessary to keep Hugh up to his work. These were very provoking sometimes; but Hugh tried to bear them for the sake of the gain. Whenever Phil would condescend to explain, in fresh words, the sense of what Hugh had to learn, he saved trouble to both, and the lesson went off quickly and easily: but sometimes he would not explain anything, and soon went away in impatience, leaving Hugh in the midst of his perplexities. There was a chance, on such occasions, that Firth might be at leisure, or Dale able to help: so that, one way and another, Hugh found his affairs improving as the spring advanced; and he began to lose his anxiety, and to gain credit with the usher. He also now and then won a place in his classes.
Towards the end of May, when the trees were full of leaf, and the evenings sunny, and the open air delicious, quite up to bedtime, Phil became persuaded, very suddenly, that Hugh could get on by himself now; that it was not fair that he should be helped; and that it was even hurtful to him to rely on any one but himself. If Phil had acted gradually upon this conviction, withdrawing his help by degrees, it might have been all very well: but he refused at once and decidedly to have anything more to do with Hugh’s lessons, as he was quite old and forward enough now to do them by himself. This announcement threw his brother into a state of consternation not at all favourable to learning; and the next morning Hugh made several blunders. He did the same every day that week; was every afternoon detained from play to learn his lessons again; and on the Saturday morning (repetition day) he lost all the places he had gained, and left off at the bottom of every class.
What could Mr Crabbe suppose but that a sudden fit of idleness was the cause of this falling back? It appeared so to him, and to the whole school; and poor Hugh felt as if there was scorn in every eye that looked upon his disgrace. He thought there could not be a boy in the school who did not see or hear that he was at the bottom of every class.
Mr Crabbe always desired to be just: and he now gave Hugh the opportunity of explaining, if he had anything to say. He remained in the school-room after the boys had left it, and asked Hugh a question or two. But Hugh sobbed and cried so bitterly that he could not speak so as to be understood; and he did not wish to explain, feeling that he was much obliged to Phil for his former help, and that he ought not to complain to any master of its being now withdrawn. So Mr Crabbe could only hope that next week would show a great difference, and advise him to go out with the rest this afternoon, to refresh himself for a new effort.
Hugh did not know whether he had not rather have been desired to stay at home than go out among so many who considered him disgraced. It really was hard (though Holt stood by him, and Dale was his companion as usual) to bear the glances he saw, and the words that came to his ear. Some boys looked to see how red his eyes were: some were surprised to see him abroad, and hinted a favouritism because he was not shut up in the school-room. Some asked whether he could say his alphabet yet; and others whether he could spell “dunce.” The most cruel thing of all was to see Tooke in particularly high spirits. He kept away from Hugh; but Hugh’s eye followed him from afar, and saw that he capered and laughed, and was gayer than at any time this half-year. Hugh saw into his heart (or thought he did) as plain as he saw to the bottom of the clear stream in the meadows, to which they were bound for their afternoon’s sport.
“I know what Tooke is feeling,” thought he. “He is pleased to see me lowered, as long as it is not his doing. He is sorry to see me suffer by my lameness; because that hurts his conscience: but he is pleased to see me wrong and disgraced, because that relieves him of the feeling of being obliged to me. If I were now to put him in mind of his promise, to stand by me, and protect me— I declare I will— it will stop his wicked joy— it will make him remember his duty.”