CHAPTER FORTY ONE.

HOW THE DOCTOR PUNISHED.

Dexter's interview with Helen was long and painful, for at first it seemed as if she had lost all confidence and hope in the boy, till, realising all this, he cried in a wild outburst of grief--"I know how wrong it all was, but nearly everybody here seemed to dislike me, and I did tell the truth about the boat, but no one believes. Do--do ask him to send me away."

There was a long silence here, as, for the first time, in spite of a hard fight, Dexter could not keep back his tears.

The silence was broken by Helen, who took his hand, and said gently--

"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."