HUBERT TEMPERLEY made a point of going to the tennis-party, on Tuesday, at Dunaghee, in order to talk to Miss Fullerton. He had not expected to find original musical talent in this out-of-the-way place.

Hadria was in a happy mood, for her mother had so far overcome her prejudice against Miss Du Prel, as to ask her to join the party.

The festivity had, therefore, lost its usual quality of melancholy.

It was a warm afternoon, and every one seemed cheerful “and almost intelligent,” Hadria commented. The first words that Mr. Temperley uttered, made her turn to him, in surprise. She was so unaccustomed to be interested in what the people about here had to say. Even intelligent visitors usually adopted the tone of the inhabitants. Hubert Temperley’s manner was very polished. His accent denoted mental cultivation. He spoke with eloquence of literature, and praised enthusiastically most great names dating securely from the hallowed past. Of modern literature he was a stern critic; of music he spoke with ardour.

“I hear that you not only perform but compose, Miss Fullerton,” he said. “As soon as I heard that, I felt that I must make your acquaintance. My friends, the Gordons, are very charming, but they don’t understand a note of music, and I am badly off for a kindred spirit.”

“My composing is a very mild affair,” Hadria answered. “I suppose you are more fortunate.”

“Not much. I am pretty busy you see. I have my profession. I play a good deal—the piano and the ’cello are my instruments. But my difficulty is to find someone to accompany me. My sister does when she can, but of course with a house and family to look after——I am sometimes selfish enough to wish she had not married. We used to be such good friends.”

“Is that all over?”

“It is different. She always manages to be busy now,” said Temperley in a slightly ironical tone.

He plunged once more, into a musical discussion.

Hadria had reluctantly to cut it short, in order to arrange tennis-matches. This task was performed as usual, somewhat recklessly. Polite and amiable in indiscriminate fashion, Hadria ignored the secret jealousies and heart-burnings of the neighbourhood, only to recognise and repent her mistakes when too late. To-day she was even more unchastened than usual in her dealings with inflammable social material.

“Hadria!” cried Mrs. Fullerton, taking her aside, “How could you ask Cecilia Gordon to play with young McKenzie? You know their families are not on speaking terms!”

Everyone, except the culprit, had remarked the haughty manner in which Cecilia wielded her racket, and the gloomy silence in which the set was played.

Hadria, though not impenitent, laughed. “How does Miss Gordon manage to be energetic and chilling at the same time!” she exclaimed.

The Gordons and the McKenzies, like hostile armies, looked on grimly. Everyone felt awkward, and to feel awkward was nothing less than tragic, in the eyes of the assembly.

“Oh, Hadria, how could you?” cried Mrs. Gordon, coming up in her elaborate toilette, which expressed almost as much of the character of its wearer as was indicated by her thin, chattering tones, and unreposeful manner. Her mode of dress was rich and florid—very obvious in its effects, very naÏf. She was built on a large scale, and might have been graceful, had not her mental constitution refused to permit, or to inspire, that which physical construction seemed to intend. She distributed smiles on all hands, of no particular meaning. Though still a young woman, she looked worn and wearied. However, her rÔle was cheerfulness, and she smiled on industriously.

“I am so sorry,” said Hadria, “the quarrel went clean out of my head. They are so well matched. But your sister-in-law will never forgive me.”

“Oh, well, never mind, my dear; it is your way, I know. Only of course it is awkward.”

“What can be done? Shall I run in and separate them?”

“Oh, Hadria, you are ridiculous!”

“I was not meant for society,” she said, in a depressed tone.

“Oh, you will soon get into the way of it,” cried Mrs. Gordon encouragingly.

“I am afraid I shall.”

Mrs. Gordon stared. “Mr. Temperley, I can never make out what Miss Fullerton really means. Do see if you can.”

“How could I expect to succeed where you have failed?”

“Oh, you men are so much cleverer than we poor women,” cried the lady archly. Temperley was obviously of the same opinion. But he found some appropriate Chesterfieldian reply, while Hadria, to his annoyance, hurried off to her duties, full of good resolutions.

Having introduced a couple of sisters to their brother, she grew desperate. A set had just ended, and the sisters were asked to play. This time, no mistake had been made in the selection of partners, so far as the question of sentiment was concerned, but they were fatally ill-assorted as to strength. However, Hadria said with a sigh, if their emotions were satisfied, it was really all they could expect. Considering the number of family feuds, she did not see her way to arranging both points, to everyone’s satisfaction.

Hadria was surrounded by a small group, among whom were Temperley, Harold Wilkins, and Mr. Hawkesley, the brother who had been introduced to his sisters.

“How very handsome Hadria is looking this afternoon,” said Mrs. Gordon, “and how becoming that dark green gown is.”

Mrs. Fullerton smiled. “Yes, she does look her best to-day. I think she has been improving, of late, in her looks.”

“That’s just what we have all noticed. There is so much animation in her face; she is such a sweet girl.”

Miss Du Prel, who was not of the stuff that martyrs are made of, muttered something incoherent and deserted her neighbour. She came up to the group that had gathered round Hadria.

“Ah, Miss Du Prel,” cried the latter, “I am so glad to see you at large again. I was afraid you were getting bored.”

“I was,” said Miss Du Prel frankly, “so I came away.”

The young men laughed. “If only everybody could go away when he was bored,” cried Hadria, “how peaceful it would be, and what small tennis-parties one would have!”

“Always excepting tennis-parties at this house,” said Hubert Temperley.

“I don’t think any house would survive,” said Miss Du Prel. “If people do not meet to exchange ideas, I can’t see the object of their meeting at all.”

“What a revolutionary sentiment!” cried Temperley, laughing. “Where would society be, on that principle?”

Hadria was called away, at that moment, and the group politely wavered between duty and inclination. Temperley and Miss Du Prel strolled off together, his vast height bent deferentially towards her. This air of deference proved somewhat superficial. Miss Du Prel found that his opinions were of an immovable order, with very defined edges. In some indescribable fashion, those opinions partook of the general elegance of his being. Not for worlds would he have harboured an exaggerated or immoderate idea. In politics he was conservative, but he did not abuse his opponents. He smiled at them; he saw no reason for supposing that they did not mean quite as well as he did, possibly better. What he did see reason to doubt, was their judgment. His tolerance was urbane and superior. On all questions, however, whether he knew much about them or little, his judgment was final and absolute. He swept away whole systems of thought that had shaken the world, with a confident phrase. Miss Du Prel looked at him with increasing amazement. He seemed unaccustomed to opposition.

“A vast deal of nonsense is talked in the name of philosophy,” he observed, in a tone of gay self-confidence peculiar to him, and more indicative of character than even what he said. “People seem to think that they have only to quote Spencer or Huxley, or take an interest in heredity, to justify themselves in throwing off all the trammels, as they would regard them, of duty and common sense.”

“I have not observed that tendency,” said Miss Du Prel.

“Really. I regret to say that I notice everywhere a disposition to evade responsibilities which, in former days, would have been honestly and contentedly accepted.”

“Our standards are all changing,” said Miss Du Prel. “It does not follow that they are changing for the worse.”

“It seems to me that they are not so much changing, as disappearing altogether,” said Temperley cheerfully, “especially among women. We hear a great deal about rights, but we hear nothing about duties.”

“We are perhaps, a little tired of hearing about duties,” said Miss Du Prel.

“You admit then what I say,” he returned placidly. “Every woman wants to be Mary, and no one will be Martha.”

“I make just the opposite complaint,” cried Miss Du Prel.

“Dear me, quite a different way of looking at it. I confess I have scant patience with these interfering women, who want to turn everything upside down, instead of quietly minding their duties at home.”

“I know it is difficult to make people understand,” said Miss Du Prel, with malice.

“I should esteem it a favour to be enlightened,” returned Temperley.

“You were just now condemning socialism, Mr. Temperley, because you say that it attempts to ignore the principle of the division of labour. Now, when you lose patience with the few women who are refusing to be Marthas, you ignore that principle yourself. You want all women to do exactly the same sort of work, irrespective of their ability or their bent of mind. May I ask why?”

“Because I consider that is the kind of work for which they are best fitted,” replied Temperley serenely.

“Then you are to be judge and jury in the case; your opinion, not theirs, is to decide the matter. Supposing I were to take upon myself to judge what you were best fitted for, and were to claim, therefore, to decide for you what sort of life you should live, and what sort of work you should undertake——?”

“I should feel every confidence in resigning myself to your able judgment,” said Temperley, with a low bow. Miss Du Prel laughed.

“Ah,” she said, “you are at present, on the conquering side, and can afford to jest on the subject.”

“It is no joke to jest with an able woman,” he returned. “Seriously, I have considerable sympathy with your view, and no wish to treat it flippantly. But if I am to treat it seriously, I must admit frankly that I think you forget that, after all, Nature has something to say in this matter.”

Engrossed in their conversation, they had, without thinking what they were doing, passed through the open gate at the end of the avenue, and walked on along the high road.

Swarms of small birds flew out of the hedges, with a whirring sound, to settle further on, while an incessant chatter was kept up on each side.

“I often think that modern women might take example from these little creatures,” said Temperley, who, in common with many self-sufficient persons, was fond of recommending humility to others. “They never attempt to shirk their lowly tasks on the plea of higher vocations. Not one turns from the path marked out by our great Mother, who also teaches her human children the same lesson of patient duty; but, alas! by them is less faithfully obeyed.”

“If our great Mother wanted instinct she should not have bestowed reason,” said Miss Du Prel impatiently.

Temperley had fallen into the dulcet strains of one who feels, not only that he stands as the champion of true wisdom and virtue, but that he is sure of support from the vast majority of his fellows. Miss Du Prel’s brusqueness seemed to suit her less admirable rÔle.

Temperley was tolerant and regretful. If Miss Du Prel would think for a moment, she could not fail to see that Nature ... and so forth, in the same strain of “pious devotion to other people’s duties” as his companion afterwards described it. She chafed at the exhortation to “think for a moment.”

At that instant, the solitude was broken by the apparition of a dusty wayfarer in knickerbockers and soft felt hat, coming towards them up the road. He was a man of middle height and rather slim. He appeared about five-and-thirty years of age. He had fair hair, and a strange, whimsical face, irregular of feature, with a small moustache covering the upper lip.

Miss Du Prel looked startled, as she caught sight of the travel-stained figure. She flushed deeply, and her expression changed to one of bewilderment and uncertainty, then to one of incredulous joy. She hastened forward, at length, and arrested the wayfarer.

“Professor Fortescue, don’t you remember me?” she cried excitedly.

He gazed at her for a second, and then a look of amazement came into his kind eyes, as he held out his hand.

“Miss Du Prel! This is incredible!”

They stood, with hand locked in hand, staring at one another. “By what happy misunderstanding am I thus favoured by the gods?” exclaimed the Professor.

Miss Du Prel explained her presence.

“Prodigious!” cried Professor Fortescue. “Fate must have some strange plots in the making, unless indeed we fall to the discouraging supposition that she deigns to jest.”

He said that he was on a walking tour, studying the geology of the district, and that he had written to announce his coming to his old friends, Mr. and Mrs. Fullerton, and to ask them to put him up. He supposed that they were expecting him.

Miss Du Prel was greatly excited. It was so long since they had met, and it was so delightful to meet again. She had a hundred enquiries to make about common friends, and about the Professor’s own doings.

She forgot Temperley’s name, and her introduction was vague. The Professor held out his hand cordially. Temperley was not allowed to feel an intrusive third. This was in consequence of the new-comer’s kindliness of manner, and not at all because of Miss Du Prel, who had forgotten Temperley’s elegant existence. She had a look of surprise when he joined in the conversation.

“I can scarcely believe that it is ten years since I was here,” cried the Professor, pausing to look over a gate at the stretch of country.

“I used to visit my friends at Dunaghee every autumn, and now if some one were to assure me that I had been to sleep and dreamt a ten years’ dream, I should be disposed to credit it. Every detail the same; the very cattle, the very birds—surely just those identical sparrows used to fly before me along the hedgerows, in the good old times, ten years ago! Ah! yes, it is only the human element that changes.”

“One is often so thankful for a change in that,” Temperley remarked, with an urbane sort of cynicism.

“True,” said Miss Du Prel; “but what is so discouraging is that so often the charm goes, like the bloom of a peach, and only the qualities that one regrets remain and prosper.”

“I think people improve with time, as often as they fall off,” said the Professor.

The others shook their heads.

“To him that hath shall be given, but to him that hath not——” The Professor smiled a little sadly, in quoting the significant words. “Well, well,” he said, turning to Miss Du Prel, “I can’t say how happy I am to see you again. I have not yet got over my surprise. And so you have made the acquaintance of the family at Dunaghee. I have the warmest respect and affection for those dear folks. Mrs. Fullerton has the qualities of a heroine, kind hostess as she is! And of what fine Scottish stuff the old man is made—and a mind like crystal! What arguments we used to have in that old study of his! I can see him now. And how genial! A man could never forget it, who had once received his welcome.”

Such was Miss Du Prel’s impression, when ten minutes later the meeting took place between the Professor and his old friend.

It would indeed have been hard to be anything but genial to the Professor. Hadria remembered him and his kindness to her and the rest of the children, in the old days; the stories he used to tell when he took them for walks, stories full of natural lore more marvellous than any fairy tale, though he could tell fairy tales too, by the dozen. He had seemed to them like some wonderful and benevolent magician, and they adored him, one and all. And what friends he used to be with Ruffian, the brown retriever, and with every living creature on the place!

The tennis-party began to break up, shortly after the Professor’s arrival. Temperley lingered to the last.

“Is that a son of the celebrated Judge Temperley?” asked one of the bystanders.

“His eldest son,” answered Mr. Gordon; “a man who ought to make his mark, for he has splendid chances and good ability.”

“I have scarcely had a word with you, the whole afternoon,” Temperley said to Hadria, who had sunk upon a seat, tired with making herself agreeable, as she observed.

“That is very sad; but when one has social gatherings, one never does have a word with anybody. I think that must be the object of them—to accustom people to do without human sympathy.”

Temperley tried to start a conversation, taking a place beside her, on the seat, and setting himself to draw her out. It was obvious that he found her interesting, either as a study or in a less impersonal sense. Hadria, feeling that her character was being analysed, did what many people do without realizing it: she instinctively arranged its lights and shades with a view to artistic effect. It was not till late that night, when the events of the day passed before her in procession, that she recognized what she had done, and laughed at herself. She had not attempted to appear in a better light than she deserved; quite as often as not, she submitted to appear in a worse light; her effort had been to satisfy some innate sense of proportion or form. The instinct puzzled her.

Also she became aware that she was interested in Hubert Temperley. Or was it that she was interested in his interest in her? She could not be certain. She thought it was direct interest. She felt eager to know more of him; above all, to hear him play.

On returning to the house, after Temperley had, at last, felt compelled to depart, Hadria found her father and mother and their guest, gathered together before the cheery fire in the study. Hearing his daughter’s step, her father opened the door and called her in. Till now, the Professor had not seen her, having been hurried into the house, to change his clothes and have something to eat.

As she entered, rather shyly, he rose and gave a gasp of astonishment.

“You mean to tell me that this is the little girl who used to take me for walks, and who had such an inordinate appetite for stories! Good heavens, it is incredible!”

He held out a thin, finely-formed hand, with a kind smile.

“They change so much at that age, in a short time,” said Mrs. Fullerton, with a glance of pride; for her daughter was looking brilliantly handsome, as she stood before them, with flushed cheeks and a soft expression, which the mere tones of the Professor’s voice had power to summon in most human faces. He looked at her thoughtfully, and then rousing himself, he brought up a chair for her, and the group settled again before the fire.

“Do you know,” said the Professor, “I was turning into a French sweet-shop the other day, to buy my usual tribute for the children, when I suddenly remembered that they would no longer be children, and had to march out again, crestfallen, musing on the march of time and the mutability of things human—especially children.”

“It’s ridiculous,” cried Mr. Fullerton. “I am always lecturing them about it, but they go on growing just the same.”

“And how they make you feel an old fogey before you know where you are! And I thought I was quite a gay young fellow, upon my word!”

“You, my dear Chantrey! why you’d be a gay young fellow at ninety!” said Mr. Fullerton.

The Professor laughed and shook his head.

“And so this is really my little playfellow!” he exclaimed, nodding meditatively. “I remember her so well; a queer, fantastic little being in those days, with hair like a black cloud, and eyes that seemed to peer out of the cloud, with a perfect passion of enquiry. She used to bewilder me, I remember, with her strange, wise little sayings! I always prophesied great things from her! Ernest, too, I remember: a fine little chap with curly, dark hair—rather like a young Italian, but with features less broadly cast; drawn together and calmed by his northern blood. Yes, yes; it seems but yesterday,” he said, with a smile and a sigh; “and now my little Italian is at college, with a bored manner and a high collar.”

“Oh, no; Ernest’s a dear boy still,” cried Hadria. “Oxford hasn’t spoilt him a bit. I do wish he was at home for you to see him.”

“Ah! you mustn’t hint at anything against Ernest in Hadria’s presence!” cried Mr. Fullerton, with an approving laugh.

“Not for the world!” rejoined the Professor. “I was only recalling one or two of my young Oxford acquaintances. I might have known that a Fullerton had too much stuff in him to make an idiot of himself in that way.”

“The boy has distinguished himself too,” said Mr. Fullerton.

“Everyone says he will do splendidly,” added the mother; “and you can’t think how modest he is about himself, and how anxious to do well, and to please us by his success.”

“Ah! that’s good.”

The Professor was full of sympathy. Hadria was astonished to see how animated her mother had become under his influence.

They fell again to recalling old times; little trivial incidents which had seemed so unimportant at the moment, but now carried a whole epoch with them, bringing back, with a rush, the genial memories. Hadria remembered that soon after his last visit, the Professor had married a beautiful wife, and that about a year or so later, the wife had died. It was said that she had killed herself. This set Hadria speculating.

The visitor reminded his companions of various absurd incidents of the past, sending Mr. Fullerton into paroxysms of laughter that made the whole party laugh in sympathy. Mrs. Fullerton too was already wiping her streaming eyes as the Professor talked on in his old vein, with just that particular little humourous manner of his that won its way so surely to the hearts of his listeners. For a moment, in the midst of the bright talk and the mirth that he had created, the Professor lost the thread, and his face, as he stared into the glowing centre of the fire, had a desolate look; but it was so quick to pass away that one might have thought oneself the victim of a fancy. His was the next chuckle, and “Do you remember that day when——?” and so forth, Mr. Fullerton’s healthy roar following, avalanche-like, upon the reminiscence.

“We thought him a good and kind magician when we were children,” was Hadria’s thought, “and now one is grown up, there is no disillusion. He is a good and kind magician still.”

He seemed indeed to have the power to conjure forth from their hiding-places, the finer qualities of mind and temperament, which had lain dormant, perhaps for years, buried beneath daily accumulations of little cares and little habits. The creature that had once looked forth on the world, fresh and vital, was summoned again, to his own surprise, with all his ancient laughter and his tears.

“This man,” Hadria said to herself, drawing a long, relieved breath, “is the best and the most generous human being I have ever met.”

She went to sleep, that night, with a sweet sense of rest and security, and an undefined new hope. If such natures were in existence, then there must be a great source of goodness and tenderness somewhere in heaven or earth, and the battle of life must be worth the fighting.