‘Well?’ said Guy.
‘I beg your pardon, sir!’ said the captain, while they all laughed, ‘I did not guess you could be so young a gentleman. I am sure, sir, ‘tis what any man might be proud of having done, and—I never saw anything like it!’ he added, with a fresh start, ‘and it will do you honour everywhere. All our lives are owing to you, sir.’
Guy did not cut him short, though very glad when it was over. He felt he should not, in the captain’s place, like to have his thanks shortened, and besides, if ever there was happiness or exultation, it was in the glistening eyes of old Markham, the first time he had ever been able to be justly proud of one of the family, whom he loved with so much faithfulness and devotion.
CHAPTER 24
Is there a word, or jest, or game,
But time encrusteth round
With sad associate thoughts the same?
—ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
Among the persons who spent a forlorn autumn was Mr. Ross, though his troubles were not quite of the same description as those of his young parishioners. He missed his daughter very much; all his household affairs got out of order; the school-girls were naughty, and neither he, nor Miss Edmonstone, nor the mistress, could discover the culprits; their inquiries produced nothing but a wild confusion of mutual accusations, where the truth was undistinguishable. The cook never could find anything to make broth of, Mr. Ross could, never lay his hands on the books he wanted for himself or anybody else; and, lastly, none of his shirts ever had their buttons on.
Mary, meanwhile, had to remain through a whole course of measles, then to greet the arrival of a new nephew, and to attend his christening: but she had made a vow that she would be at home by Christmas, and she kept it.
Mr. Ross had the satisfaction of fetching her home from the station the day before Christmas Eve, and of seeing her opposite to him, on her own side of the table, in the evening, putting on the buttons, and considering it an especial favour and kindness, for which to be for ever grateful, that he had written all his Christmas sermons beforehand, so as to have a whole evening clear before her. He was never a great letter-writer, and Mary had a great deal to hear, for all that had come to her were the main facts, with very few details.
‘I have had very few letters, even from Hollywell,’ said she. ‘I suppose it is on account of Charles’s illness. You think him really better?’