“Ah! yes,” cried Hubert; “a fine nature, full of good instincts, and womanly to her finger-tips.”
“Oh! if she were not that, I would never encourage you to think of her,” cried Henriette with a shudder. “It is on this essential goodness of heart that I rely. She would never be able, try as she might, to act in a manner that would really distress those who were dear to her. You may count upon that securely.”
“Yes; I am sure of it,” said Hubert, “but unluckily” (he shook his head and sighed) “I am not among those who are dear to her.”
He rose abruptly, and Henriette followed him.
“Try to win her to-night,” she murmured, “and be sure to express no opposition to her ideas, however wild they may be. Ignore them, humour her, plead your cause once more on this auspicious day—the last of the old year. Something tells me that the new year will begin joyously for you. Go now, and good luck to you.”
“Ah! here you are,” cried Mr. Fullerton, “we were wondering what had become of you. You said you wished to see a reel. Mrs. McPherson is so good as to play for us.”
The kindly old Scottish dame had come, with two nieces, from a distance of ten miles.
A thrill ran through the company when the strange old tune began. Everyone rushed for a partner, and two long rows of figures stood facing one another, eager to start. Temperley asked Hadria to dance with him. Algitha had Harold Wilkins for a partner. The two long rows were soon stepping and twirling with zest and agility. A new and wilder spirit began to possess the whole party. The northern blood took fire and transfigured the dancers. The Temperleys seemed to be fashioned of different clay; they were able to keep their heads. Several elderly people had joined in the dance, performing their steps with a conscientious dexterity that put some of their juniors to shame. Mr. Fullerton stood by, looking on and applauding.
“How your father seems to enjoy the sight!” said Temperley, as he met his partner for a moment.
“He likes nothing so well, and his daughters take after him.”