“Be good to her,” said the marquis once more. But Malcolm could not answer for weeping, and the marquis was not satisfied. Gathering all his force he said again,—
“Be good to her.”
“I wull, I wull,” burst from Malcolm in sobs, and he wailed aloud.
The day wore on, and the afternoon came. Still Lady Florimel had not arrived, and still the marquis lingered.
As the gloom of the twilight was deepening into the early darkness of the winter night, he opened wide his eyes, and was evidently listening. Malcolm could hear nothing; but the light in his master’s face grew, and the strain of his listening diminished. At length Malcolm became aware of the sound of wheels, which came rapidly nearer, till at last the carriage swung up to the hall-door. A moment, and Lady Florimel was flitting across the room.
“Papa! papa!” she cried, and, throwing her arm over him, laid her cheek to his.
The marquis could not return her embrace; he could only receive her into the depths of his shining tearful eyes.
“Flory!” he murmured, “I’m going away. I’m going—I’ve got—to make an—apology. Malcolm, be good——”
The sentence remained unfinished. The light paled from his countenance —he had to carry it with him. He was dead.
Lady Florimel gave a loud cry. Mrs Courthope ran to her assistance.