ng ascent as Malcolm himself.

CHAPTER LXVI.

THE CRY FROM THE CHAMBER.

Brooding--if a man of his temperament may ever be said to brood--over
the sad history of his young wife and the prospects of his daughter,
the marquis rode over fields and through gates--he never had been one
to jump a fence in cold blood--till the darkness began to fall; and
the bearings of his perplexed position came plainly before him.

First of all, Malcolm acknowledged and the date of his mother's death
known, what would Florimel be in the eyes of the world? Supposing the
world deceived by the statement that his mother died when he was born,
where yet was the future he had marked out for her? He had no money to
leave her, and she must be helplessly dependent on her brother.

Malcolm, on the other hand, might make a good match, or, with the
advantages he could secure him in the army, still better in the navy,
well enough push his way in the world.

Miss Horn could produce no testimony, and Mrs. Catanach had asserted
him to be the son of Mrs. Stewart. He had seen enough, however, to
make him dread certain possible results if Malcolm were acknowledged
as the laird of Kirkbyres. No: there was but one hopeful measure, one
which he had even already approached in a tentative way--an appeal,
namely, to Malcolm himself, in which, while acknowledging his probable
rights, but representing in the strongest manner the difficulty of
proving them, he would set forth in their full dismay the consequences
to Florimel of their public recognition, and offer, upon the pledge
of his word to a certain line of conduct, to start him in any path he
chose to follow.

Having thought the thing out pretty thoroughly, as he fancied, and
resolved at the same time to feel his way toward negotiations with
Mistress Catanach, he turned and rode home.

After a tolerable dinner he was sitting over a bottle of the port
which he prized beyond anything else his succession had brought
him, when the door of the dining-room opened suddenly and the butler
appeared, pale with terror. "My lord! my lord!" he stammered as he
closed the door behind him.

"Well? What the devil's the matter now? Whose cow's dead?"

"Your lordship didn't hear it, then?" faltered the butler.

"You've been drinking, Bings," said the marquis, lifting his seventh
glass of port.

"_I_ didn't say I heard it, my lord."

"Heard what, in the name of Beelzebub?"

"The ghost, my lord."

"The wh