“Oh, is not that beautiful?” exclaimed Audry. “It is as beautiful as you are, Aline dear. Where did you learn about drawing, Master Menstrie?”
It was a charming little head with bold free lines and full of expression, very like an Andrea del Sarto.
“Oh, when I was in Florence and Venice,” said Ian; “it was a great time for me and I learned many things that it would have been almost impossible to learn over here. I was lucky enough to get to know both Paolo Veronese and Tintoretto as they called him, but I like the Florentine work better still. I often think I might have been an artist, but I have too many other responsibilities.”
Aline looked up at this point. “Yes, that is wonderful. Father was very fond of drawing and had several friends who were artists. There was Master Lindsay, who did a beautiful portrait of mother, but do you know I do not believe he could have drawn as well as that; it is so bold and free and yet sensitive and delicate in its details. His work was much more cramped and over-elaborated. No,” she said, holding the drawing at arm’s length, “I am sure he could not have done it nearly so well.”
“Well, never mind about the drawing,” said Menstrie; “what were you thinking about?”
“I was thinking that the theft could not very well have taken place at night. If it had, probably many more things would have gone. But some one may have slipped into the little room for a moment when the old seneschal’s back was turned. We might go along and find out when Edward is there, whether we can hear and know what goes on from the secret passage.”
“It is just about now that Edward fetches the silver,” said Audry.
So the two children jumped up and ran to the door. “Good-bye,” said Aline, waving her hand, “wish us luck.”
Ian watched them go and then fell into a reverie. What a strange thing it was that chance should have brought him to Holwick! He looked at the drawing which was still on his knee. “Leonardo would have given something to draw her head,” he mused. “But neither he nor Raphael could have done it justice. Yes, she is like her, very like, and yet more beautiful. Who could have believed that any one could be more beautiful? This child’s father must have been handsome as she says. I wonder in what way I am to be of service to her. It’s a pity that she is of the old faith. Somehow I feel that that is going to be a difficulty. I should find it very hard to get any assistance if it were needed. The other side would not look at me and my side would not look at her. I wonder if they would even help me myself,” he pondered. “I do not hold with most of them by any means. I fancy that child’s father would have been more to my liking. How narrow and unkind they all are. Think of a Catholic like Sir Thomas More, a very saint of a man, coming to the block. Will nothing ever soften men’s hearts? John Knox is all very well, but he’s dour. No, John, my friend, Plato was quite right; if you do not understand beauty you will have to serve a little apprenticeship before St. Peter will open the gates. Harmony not strife,--the Beauty of Holiness,--think of it, Master John, think of it! With what humility and yet with what ecstasy we shall worship in that presence.