“I remember,” he continued, “how he used to quote ‘He that sweareth to his own hurt and changeth not shall never be moved,’—‘qui facit haec non movebitur in aeternum.’ That was his illustration of the principle in practice; the vulgar man sticks to his bargain or his promise; the gentleman goes entirely beyond his promise and does what is expected of him, whether he had given his word or not. The vulgar man tries to wriggle out of an engagement if it does not suit him; the gentleman stands to the most trivial engagement, even if there is no formal promise, though it may cost him much sacrifice. Honour compels him, ‘noblesse oblige.’ The man of poor blood has no honour; he merely has honesty and he thinks the gentleman is a fool. He has not climbed high enough to see.
“You are right, little one; there would be nothing wrong in dismissing Edward; we have no promise, no contract: we may even act to our own hurt by keeping him, if he really should be the thief, but honour demands it. The matter shall be thoroughly investigated before we do anything with Edward.”
Aline having gained her point ran away. She had not intended at first definitely to withstand Mistress Mowbray. However, Master Richard had agreed with her and she dismissed the matter from her mind.
Not so Mistress Mowbray. She was mortified and she was not going to forget it. Besides the child had committed the unpardonable sin of showing that she was a lady and making it equally clear that she, Eleanor Mowbray, belonged to a lower class. Mistress Mowbray was learning her lesson.
Day after day the children used to go at the proper hour and once or twice Edward did leave the door unlocked for a few moments; but they never saw any one come in and finally began to lose heart and feel that they must give it up as hopeless.
CHAPTER VI
BITTERNESS
IAN was alone in the secret room. He had been busy writing and a great pile of papers lay before him. He was tired and felt he could write no more, so he picked up some sketches he had made of the children. They would often come down and sit for him and he had gathered quite a collection. What a wonderful pair they were. Audry was the easier to draw. She was not quite so tantalisingly subtle with her laughing brown eyes and roguish lips. The face was clearly cut, with decided character, from the well defined brows and the strongly marked forms about the eyes down to the firm determined little chin. “Were it not for a certain pair of faces,” he said, “that haunt me day and night I should have said that there could not be anything more beautiful.” He then turned to the sketches of Aline and put them aside one by one impatiently;—why could he not catch the elusive swing of those graceful poses? It was no use; they were unattainable. He was looking discontentedly at a sketch of her face and wondering whether any one could ever draw the infinite variation in the finely modelled form of Aline’s mobile lips, when Audry came in.
He put the drawing down by the papers on the table.
“Writing again,” said Audry; “you are always writing. I cannot think what it is all for.”