"I believe you, Dexter. I am sure you would not tell a lie."
In an instant his arms were round her neck, and he was clinging to her
unable to speak, but his eyes, his convulsed face, telling the doctor's
daughter that she was right.
That evening, feeling very strange and terribly depressed, Dexter had
gone to his old bedroom, thinking it must be for the last time, and
wondering how Mr Sibery would treat him.
Helen had sat talking to him for quite a couple of hours, winning from
him a complete account of his adventures, and in return relating to him
how concerned every one had been on the discovery of his evasion, and
how bitterly the doctor had been mortified on learning later on that the
boat had been taken. Who were the culprits was known in the course of
the day, with the result that, acting on the suggestion already alluded
to, the doctor had gone down to the mouth of the river to wait the
coming of the borrowers of the boat.
Helen had exacted no promises from Dexter. He had made none, but sat
there with her, his hand in hers, wondering and puzzled how it was that
he could have run away, but the more he thought, the more puzzled he
grew.
"Well," said the doctor that evening, as he sat with his daughter, "I
told Danby that I was more determined than ever; that it was only a
boyish escapade which he must look over to oblige me, and he agreed
after making a great many bones about it. But I feel very doubtful,
Helen, and I may as well confess it to you."
"Doubtful?" she said.
"Yes, my dear. I could have forgiven everything if the boy had been
frank and honest--if he had owned to his fault in a straightforward way;
but when he sought to hide his own fault by trying to throw it on
another, I couldn't help feeling disgusted."
"But, papa--"
"Let me finish, my dear. I know what you are about to say. Woman-like,
you are going to take his part. It will not do. The lying and deceit
are such ugly blemishes in the boy's character that I am out of heart."
"Indeed, papa?" said Helen, smiling. "Ah, it's all very well for you to
laugh at me because I have failed over my hobby; but I feel I'm right
all the same, and I tell you that his ignorance, vulgarity--"
"Both of which are wonderfully changed."
"Yes, my dear, granted, and he does not talk so much about the
workhouse. He was a great deal better, and I could have forgiven this
mad, boyish prank--though what could have influenced him, I don't know."
"I can tell you," said Helen. "A boy's love of adventure. The idea of
going off in a boat to discover some wonderful island where he could
live a Robinson Crusoe kind of life."
"A young donkey!" cried the doctor. "But there, it's all off. I could
have forgiven everything, but the cowardly lying."
"Then, poor fellow, he is forgiven."
"Indeed, no, my dear. He goes back to the Union to-morrow; but I shall
tell Hippetts to apprentice him to some good trade at once, and I will
pay a handsome premium. Confound Hippetts! He'll laugh at me."
"No, he will not, papa."
"Yes, he will, my dear. I know the man."
"But you will not be laughed at."
"Why not?"
"Because you will not send Dexter back."
"Indeed, my dear, but I shall. I am beaten, and I give up."
"But you said you would forgive everything but the deceit and
falsehood."
"Yes, everything."
"There is no deceit and falsehood to forgive."
"What?"
"Dexter has told me everything. The simple truth."
"But he should have told it before, and said he took the boat."
"He told the truth in every respect, papa."
"My dear Helen," said the doctor pettishly, "you are as obstinate as I
am. The lying young dog--"
"Hush, papa, stop!" said Helen gently. "Dexter is quite truthful, I am
sure."
"That is your weak woman's heart pleading for him," said the doctor.
"No, my dear, no; it will not do."
"I am quite certain, papa," said Helen firmly, "that he spoke the
truth."
"How do you know, my dear?"
"Because Dexter told me again and again before he went up to bed."
"And you believe him?"
"Yes, and so will you."
"Wish I could," said the doctor earnestly. "I'd give a hundred pounds
to feel convinced."
"You shall be convinced for less than that, papa," said Helen merrily.
"Give me a kiss for my good news."
"There's the kiss in advance, my dear. Now, where is the news?"
"Here, papa. If Dexter were the hardened boy you try to make him--"
"No, no: gently. He makes himself one."
"--he would have gone up to bed to-night careless and indifferent after
shedding a few fictitious tears--"
"Very likely."
"--and be sleeping heartily by now."
"As he is, I'll be bound," cried the doctor energetically.
"Of course, I may be wrong," said Helen, "but Dexter strikes me as being
so sensitive a boy--so easily moved, that, I am ready to say, I am sure
that he is lying there half-heartbroken, crying bitterly, now he is
alone."
"I'll soon prove that," said the doctor sharply; and, crossing the room
in his slippers, he silently lit a candle and went upstairs to Dexter's
door, where he stood listening for a few minutes, to find that all was
perfectly still. Then turning the handle quietly, he entered, and it
was quite half an hour before he came out.
"Well, papa?" said Helen, as the doctor returned to the drawing-room.
"You're a witch, my dear," he said.
"I was right?"
"You always are, my dear."
"And you will not send him back to the Union schools!"
"Send him back!" said the doctor contemptuously.
"Nor have him apprenticed?" said Helen, with a laughing light in her
eyes.
"Have him ap--Now that's too bad, my dear," cried the doctor. "Danby
will laugh at me enough. You need not join in. Poor boy! I'm glad I
went up."
There was a pause, during which the doctor sat back in his chair.
"Do you know, my dear, I don't feel very sorry that the young dog went
off."
"Not feel sorry, papa!"
"No, my dear. It shows that the young rascal has plenty of energy and
spirit and determination."
"I hope you did not tell him so!"
"My dear child, what do you think me?" cried the doctor testily. "By
the way, though, he seems to thoroughly see through his companion's
character now. I can't help wishing that he had given that confounded
young cad a sound thrashing."
"Papa!"
"Eh? No, no: of course not," said the doctor. "I was only thinking
aloud."
Helen sat over her work a little longer, feeling happier than she had
felt since Dexter left the house; and then the lights were extinguished,
and father and daughter went up to bed.
The doctor was very quiet and thoughtful, and he stopped on the stairs.
"Helen, my dear," he whispered, "see the women-servants first thing in
the morning, and tell them I strictly forbid any allusion whatever to be
made to Dexter's foolish prank."
Helen nodded.
"I'll talk to the men myself," he said. "And whatever you do, make Mrs
Millett hold her tongue. Tut--tut--tut! Now, look at that!"
He pointed to a tumbler on a little papier-mache tray standing at
Dexter's door.
"Never mind that, dear," said Helen, smiling. "I dare say it is only
camomile-tea, and it shows that the poor boy has not lost his place in
dear old Millett's heart."
Helen kissed her father, and stopped at her own door feeling half-amused
and half-tearful as she saw the old man go on tiptoe to Dexter's room,
where, with the light of the candle shining on his silver hair and
beard, he tapped gently with his knuckles.
"Asleep, Dexter?"
There was a faint "No, sir!" from within.
"Make haste and go to sleep," said the doctor. "Good-night, my boy.
God bless you!"
Helen saw him smile as he turned away from the door, and it may have
been fancy, but she thought she saw a glistening as of moisture in one
corner of his eye.
"Poor Dexter!" she said softly, as she entered her room, while the boy,
as he lay there in the cool, soft sheets, utterly wearied out, but
restless and feverish with excitement, felt the doctor's last words
send, as it were, a calm, soothing, restful sensation through his brain,
and five minutes later he was sleeping soundly, and dreaming that some
one bent over him, and said, "Good-night. God bless you!" once again.