The old gentleman was in his kindest, softest mood.

“Let us remember the words,” said I.

“I give my hand and my word upon it,” cried Sir George.

How easy it is to stake the future upon a present impulse.  But when the time for reckoning comes,—­when the future becomes the present,—­it is sometimes hard to pay the priceless present for the squandered past.  Next morning we all rode home to Haddon,—­how sweet the words sound even at this distance of time!—­and there was rejoicing in the Hall as if the prodigal had returned.

In the evening I came upon Madge unawares.  She was softly singing a plaintive little love song.  I did not disturb her, and as I stole away again I said to myself, “God is good.”  A realization of that great truth had of late been growing upon me.  When once we thoroughly learn it, life takes on a different color.

CHAPTER VII

TRIBULATION IN HADDON

After I had left Haddon at Sir George’s tempestuous order, he had remained in a state of furious anger against Dorothy and myself for a fortnight or more.  But after her adroit conversation with him concerning the Stanley marriage, wherein she neither promised nor refused, and after she learned that she could more easily cajole her father than command him, Dorothy easily ensconced herself again in his warm heart, and took me into that capacious abode along with her.

Then came the trip to Derby, whereby his serene Lordship, James Stanley, had been enabled to see Dorothy and to fall in love with her winsome beauty, and whereby I was brought back to Haddon.  Thereafter came events crowding so rapidly one upon the heels of another that I scarce know where to begin the telling of them.  I shall not stop to say, “Sir George told me this,” or “Madge, Dorothy, or John told me that,” but I shall write as if I had personal knowledge of all that happened.  After all, the important fact is that I know the truth concerning matters whereof I write, and of that you may rest with surety.

The snow lay upon the ground for a fortnight after the storm in which we rode from Derby, but at the end of that time it melted, and the sun shone with the brilliancy and warmth of springtide.  So warm and genial was the weather that the trees, flowers, and shrubs were cozened into budding forth.  The buds were withered by a killing frost which came upon us later in the season at a time when the spring should have been abroad in all her graciousness, and that year was called the year of the leafless summer.

One afternoon Sir George received a distinguished guest in the person of the Earl of Derby, and the two old gentlemen remained closeted together for several hours.  That night at supper, after the ladies had risen from table, Sir George dismissed the servants saying that he wished to speak to me in private.  I feared that he intended again bringing forward the subject of marriage with Dorothy, but he soon relieved my mind.