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Sir Thorald lay dead on the hillock above the river Lisse; Alixe slept beside him; Rickerl was somewhere in the country, riding with his Uhlan scourges; Molly Hesketh waited in Paris for her dead husband; the Marquis de Nesville's bones were lying in the forest where he now sat, watching the sleeping child of the dead man. His child? Jack looked at her tenderly.
I would have given my right hand rather than have to admit a flaw in her that is, the one fatal flaw: slyness hidden under apparent frankness, which means an inherited tendency to deceit. This may sound as if I had found the poor child out in a lie. But there has been no spoken lie. She has only done the sort of thing I might have expected Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to do.
You are sound and whole, and that is why your friendship has been such a boon to me. You have saved me from tilting against many windmills. I suppose you'll think I'm "preambling" now, to put off the evil moment of telling you about Ellaline de Nesville's girl. But no. For once you're mistaken in me. After all, it isn't an evil moment.
Presently Jack asked him where the messengers were, and he said he didn't know, but that they had perhaps gone to the kitchens for refreshments. "Go and find them, then; here, give me the bridles," said Jack; "if they are eating, let them finish; I'll hold their horses. Why doesn't Mademoiselle de Nesville's carriage come back from Saint-Lys?
"You see," he ended, "that the country is full of spies, who hesitate at nothing. There were three or four of them who tried to rob the Château; they seem perfectly possessed to get at the secrets of the Marquis de Nesville's balloons.
I daresay three months ago I should have growled over such a marriage, felt inclined to wash my hands of the girl, perhaps, but now now I'm delighted to have her married and off my hands. That sounds callous, but I can't help it. It's true. The Frenchman seems a gentleman, and fond of her trust Ellaline de Nesville's daughter to make men fall in love! and I wish them both joy."
I keep wondering what ancestress of Ellaline de Nesville's, or Fred Lethbridge's, is gazing out of those azure windows which are this girl's eyes. If Fred's soul, or Ellaline's, peeps from behind the clear, bright panes, it contrives to keep itself well hidden so far. But I expect anything.
"You will have your hands full," said Jack, repressing an angry sneer; "if you wish, my aunt De Morteyn will charge herself with Mademoiselle de Nesville's safety." "True, Lorraine might go to Morteyn," murmured the marquis, absently, examining a smoky retort half filled with a silvery heap of dust. "Then, may I drive her over after dinner?" "Yes," replied the other, indifferently.
How comes Ellaline de Nesville's and Fred Lethbridge's daughter to be what this girl seems? That's what I ask myself; but there again your letter helps. You remind me that "our parents are not our only ancestors." But enough of all this rhapsodizing and doubting.
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