When John left us, I rode to The Peacock with Dorothy and Madge, and while I was bidding them good-by my violent cousin, Sir George, entered the inn.  Dorothy ran to her father and briefly related the adventures of the night, dwelling with undeserved emphasis upon the help I had rendered.  She told her father—­the statement was literally true—­that she had met me at the Royal Arms, where I was stopping, and that she had, through fear of the storm and in dread of highwaymen, asked me to ride beside their coach to Rowsley.

When I saw Sir George enter the room, I expected to have trouble with him; but after he had spoken with Dorothy, much to my surprise, he offered me his hand and said:—­

“I thank you, Malcolm, for the help you have rendered my girls, and I am glad you have come back to us.”

“I have not come back to you, Sir George,” said I, withholding my hand.  “I met Mistress Vernon and Lady Madge at the Royal Arms, and escorted them to Rowsley for reasons which she has just given to you.  I was about to depart when you entered.”

“Tut, tut!  Malcolm, you will come with us to Haddon Hall.”

“To be ordered away again, Sir George?” I asked.

“I did not order you to go.  You left in a childish fit of anger.  Why in the devil’s name did you run away so quickly?  Could you not have given a man time to cool off?  You treated me very badly, Malcolm.”

“Sir George, you certainly know—­”

“I know nothing of the sort.  Now I want not another word from you.  Damme!  I say, not another word.  If I ever ordered you to leave Haddon Hall, I didn’t know what I was doing,” cried Sir George, heartily.

“But you may again not know,” said I.

“Now, Malcolm, don’t be a greater fool than I was.  If I say I did not order you to leave Haddon Hall, can’t you take me at my word?  My age and my love for you should induce you to let me ease my conscience, if I can.  If the same illusion should ever come over you again—­that is, if you should ever again imagine that I am ordering you to leave Haddon Hall—­well, just tell me to go to the devil.  I have been punished enough already, man.  Come home with us.  Here is Dorothy, whom I love better than I love myself.  In anger I might say the same thing to her that I said to you, but—­Nonsense, Malcolm, don’t be a fool.  Come home with us.  Haddon is your home as freely as it is the home of Dorothy, Madge, and myself.”

The old gentleman’s voice trembled, and I could not withstand the double force of his kindness and my desire.  So it came about that when Madge held out her fair hand appealingly to me, and when Dorothy said, “Please come home with us, Cousin Malcolm,” I offered my hand to Sir George, and with feeling said, “Let us make this promise to each other:  that nothing hereafter shall come between us.”

“I gladly promise,” responded the generous, impulsive old man.  “Dorothy, Madge, and you are all in this world whom I love.  Nothing shall make trouble between us.  Whatever happens, we will each forgive.”