“By the way, young fellow,” he said, “I had that old friend of yours up before me, about a month ago, for the second time.”
Dexter looked at him with a troubled look, and Sir James went on, as he sipped his claret.
“You know—Bob Dimsted. Terrible young blackguard. Always poaching. Good thing if they had a press-gang for the army, and such fellows as he were forced to serve.”
It was at breakfast the next morning that the doctor waited till Dexter had left the table, and then turned to Helen—
“I shall not forgive Danby that unkind remark,” he said. “I could honestly do it now, and say, ‘There, sir, I told you I could make a gentleman out of any material that I liked to select; and I’ve done it.’ But no: I’ll wait till Dexter has passed all his examinations at Sandhurst, and won his commission, and then— Yes, Maria—what is it!”
“Letter, sir, from the Union,” said Maria.
“Humph! Dear me! What’s this? Want me to turn guardian again, and I shall not. Eh, bless my heart! Well, well, I suppose we must.”
He passed the letter to Helen, and she read Mr Hippetts formal piece of diction, to the effect that one of the old inmates, a Mrs Curdley, was in a dying state, and she had several times asked to see the boy she had nursed—Obed Coleby. During the doctor’s absence from the town the master had not felt that he could apply; but as Dr Grayson had returned, if he would not mind his adopted son visiting the poor old woman, who had been very kind to him as a child, it would be a Christian-like deed.
“Yes; yes, of course, of course,” said the doctor; and he called Dexter in.
“Oh yes!” cried the lad, as he heard the request. “I remember all she did for me so well, and—and—I have never been to see her since.”