“Please, Miss Leicester, a gentleman wishes to see you,” said Susan, putting her rosy face in at the school-room door, as Isabel was giving the children their last lesson.

“To see me, Susan?” exclaimed Isabel.

“Yes, Miss, he asked for you, but he would not give his name.”

“Very well, Susan. Who can it be?” she asked, turning to Alice.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” answered Alice, laughing, “you had better go and see.”

On entering the drawing-room, Isabel saw to her astonishment that it was Louis Taschereau. “This is indeed a surprise,” she said, extending her hand, for in her present happiness she could not be ungracious or unkind.

Encouraged by her cordial greeting, Louis began: “I thought of writing, but determined on seeking an interview, as a letter could but inadequately convey what I wished to say. I have suffered much, as you are aware, and my troubles have made me a very different man; but a gleam of light seems once more to shine on my path, and I hope yet to repair the error of my life. Can you will you overlook and forgive the past, and be again to me all that you once were? I know that I do not deserve it, but I will try to atone for the past if, dear Isabel, you will be my wife.”

“Stay, Dr. Taschereau!” interposed Isabel, “I am just about to marry a clergyman who is going abroad.”

Had a cannon-ball fallen at his feet, Louis could scarcely have been more dumbfounded than he was at this intelligence. He became deadly pale, and she thought he would faint.

“You are ill, Dr. Taschereau. Let me ring for some wine.”

“Don’t ring, I don’t want any. Is this true?” he continued, “are you really going to marry another?”

“I am, and I do not see why you should be surprised.”

“Why do you make me love you so? Why must your image intrude itself into every plan, and all be done as you would approve, if, after all, you are to marry another? You would not wonder at the effect of what you have told me, if you knew how the hope that you would forgive me and yet be mine, has been my only comfort a long, dreary time.”

“You have no right to speak in this way, Dr. Taschereau; it was I who had cause of complaint, not you. But I am very sorry that you should feel so; very sorry that you should have suffered yourself to imagine for a moment that we could ever be again to each other what we once were. And do not think that my present engagement is the cause of my saying this; for never, never, under any circumstances, could I have been your wife after what has passed. I say not this in anger or ill-will for the past, I do not regret it I feel it was best.”

“Will you not tell me the name of the fortunate clergyman?” he asked.

“Certainly, if you wish it; it is no secret. It is Everard Arlington.”

“Everard Arlington!” he exclaimed in unfeigned astonishment. “It was the knowledge of his hopeless attachment that made me hope almost make sure that you had not entirely ceased to love me, and might yet be mine; the more despairing he became, the higher my hopes rose.”

“How could you, how dared you, indulge such thoughts after what I said in the woods at D?” exclaimed Isabel, indignantly. “If Everard had so long to believe that his attachment was unavailing, it was because Isabel Leicester would not give her hand unless her heart went with it; because I respected his affection too much to trifle with it, and not at all on your account. Believe me, that from the time I first learned that you were married, every thought of you was rigidly repelled, and it was arrant presumption in you to suppose anything else,” she continued, proudly, the angry tears suffusing her eyes.

The conference was here ended, to Isabel’s great relief, by the entrance of Everard, who looked inquiringly at each.

“How are you, old fellow?” he said (for Isabel’s proud anger fled at his approach), “what brought you here so unexpectedly?”

“Oh, a little private affair,” he replied, looking rather uncomfortable; but there was that in Louis’s eye, as he said this, that made Isabel distrust him; something that made her determined to put it out of his power to misrepresent and make mischief. True, he had said how changed he was, and spoken of the reformation his trials had made. Certainly he had been more calm under disappointment than had been his wont. But still she doubted him. She had seen that look before, and knew that it was the same false Louis, not so changed as he imagined. The dark side was only lying dormant; she could read his malicious enjoyment in that cruel smile, and knew its meaning well. Meeting his glance with one of proud defiance and quiet determination, which said, as plainly as words, “I will thwart your fine plans, Mr. Louis,” she said:

“You are aware that I was formerly engaged to Dr. Taschereau. His business here to-day was to endeavor to renew that engagement. I need not say how very strange and absurd this appears, as you are acquainted with the circumstances under which the former engagement terminated.”

“Yes, that was the ‘little private affair,’ but I find that you have already won the prize; allow me to congratulate you.”

Louis said this in a frank, pleasant manner, appearing to take his own disappointment with so much good nature, at the same time blending a certain degree of sadness in his tone as quite to deceive Everard and win his sympathy. But the thundering black look which he cast at Isabel fully convinced her that she was right.

“You will dine with us, of course,” said Everard, cordially.

“I shall do so with pleasure,” returned Louis.

Isabel bit her lip. “Just to see how much he can annoy me,” she thought. But if this was his object he must have been disappointed, so totally unconscious of his presence did Isabel appear, and when he addressed her personally her manner was colder than even Everard thought necessary.

The heat of the rooms became very oppressive during the evening, and Isabel stepped out on the lawn to enjoy the refreshing breeze, but was soon surprized to find that Louis had followed her.

“Let us at least be friends,” he said. “You will remember that it was not in anger we last parted.”

But Isabel was silent.

“You doubt me,” he continued. “I do not blame you, but you are harsh, Miss Leicester.”

“Not harsh, but just,” returned Isabel. “Friends we can never be; enemies I trust we never were.”

“You draw fine distinctions. May I ask what place in your estimation I am permitted to occupy?” said Louis, sarcastically.

“No place whatever, Dr. Taschereau; I must ever regard you with indifference,” returned Isabel, coldly.

“Be it so,” he replied, angrily. “You have obstinately refused all offers of reconciliation, and must therefore take the consequences.”

“The consequences? You speak strangely, Dr. Taschereau.”

I repeat: the consequences. I determined long since that you should never marry another, and my sentiments on that subject have not changed. No; I vow you shall not!” he added, with the old vindictive expression.

“How dare you hold such language to me, sir?” cried Isabel, indignantly.

Without answering, he drew a pistol from his pocket and would have shot her, but, changing his purpose, he turned upon Everard, who was approaching. With a cry of horror, Isabel threw herself between them, and prevented Louis from taking as good an aim as he might otherwise have done; for though the ball, in passing, grazed her shoulder, it passed Everard harmlessly and lodged in the acacia tree. With parted lips, but without the power of speech, she clung to Everard in an agony of terror for a moment, and then lay motionless in his arms. In terrible apprehension he carried the senseless girl into the house, fearing that she was seriously hurt, as the blood had saturated a large portion of her dress, which was of very thin texture. Of course the consternation into which the family was thrown by the shot, followed by the entrance of Everard with Isabel in this alarming condition, was tremendous. But happily Isabel was more terrified than hurt, Dr. Heathfield pronouncing the wound of no consequence (to Everard’s intense disgust), telling her to take a glass of wine and go to bed, and she would be none the worse for her fright in the morning in fact treated the whole thing quite lightly, and laughed at Isabel for her pale cheeks, saying that such an alabaster complexion was not at all becoming. He promised to send her something to prevent the wine making her sleep too soundly, meaning a composing draught to enable her to sleep, as he saw very little chance of her doing so without. Everard volunteered to go with him for it. On their way, Dr. Heathfield remarked that he was afraid Everard thought him very rude and unfeeling. Everard, who had been very silent, replied that he did.

“Then do not think so any longer,” said the Doctor, laying his hand on his companion’s shoulder. “I saw how scared she was, and treated the case accordingly. You are both great favorites of mine, so I hope you will not be offended. Do you know what became of the scoundrel?”

“He made for parts unknown immediately after he fired,” replied Everard, sternly, while the heavy breathing showed how much it cost him to speak calmly. “It is quite a Providence that one of us is not dead at this moment, as he is a splendid marksman. I don’t know which of the two the shot was intended for; if for me, she must have thrown herself between us.”

“She is just the girl to do it,” cried the Doctor, grasping him warmly by the hand. “I have always had a very high opinion of her.”

“I should think so,” said Everard, with a quiet smile of satisfaction.

Fortunately Isabel had no idea that Everard had gone with the Doctor, or she would have been terribly anxious, for fear Louis should still be near. But guilt makes cowards of all, so Louis was now in a fearful state of mind: for he was passionate, hasty, violent and selfish, but not really bad-hearted, and jealous anger and hatred had so gained the mastery over him that he had been impelled to do that at which, in cooler moments, he would have shuddered. So now he was enduring agony, fearing lest his mad attempt at murder had been successful, yet not daring to inquire. Ah, Louis! you are now, as ever, your own worst enemy.”