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 pa.s.sing, grazed her shoulder, it pa.s.sed 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 p.r.o.nouncing the wound of no consequence (to Everard's intense disgust), telling her to take a gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sionate, 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."

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"What makes you look so sad Everard; Isabel was not much hurt; not hurt at all I may say."

"I was not thinking of her just now Emmy," he answered smiling, but the smile pa.s.sed away, and left his face very sad indeed.

"What is it Evvie," she asked in the old coaxing way, seating herself beside him on the seat round the old Elm tree.

"I was thinking of Grace," he replied "you can't think how her keeping away pains me."

"I wouldn't think of it, if I were you, it is very mean and ill-natured of her, but she will get over her huff after a while."

"That would be all very well, if I were going to remain here, but you know how soon I go and----"

"Oh Everard," (Emmy could not contemplate this event with composure) "Oh Everard, I can't bear you to go, and she threw her arms round his neck, weeping pa.s.sionately.

His sisters were not much given to tears, this one in particular, the brightest of them all, so that this genuine bust of grief was the more perplexing.

He was endeavouring in vain to soothe her, when little Emmy came upon the scene, and seeing her mamma in trouble, she set up a terrific howling, and running at Everard, she seized his coat to steady herself and commenced to kick him with all the force she could muster, exclaiming "naughty, naughty, to make my mamma cry."

This warlike attack upon her brother set Emily laughing, while he feigned to be desperately hurt by the tiny feet at which the round blue eyes grew wonderfully well satisfied. Isabel now joined them alarmed by the cries of her little playmate. Emmy looking very brave scrambled upon mamma's knee, from whence she darted very defiant glances at her uncle.

"I think I will go to Ashton Park" said Everard.

"Do you think that it will do any good" asked Emily.

"I hope so, Grace is not bad hearted, only vexed, besides, I should wish to leave on good terms with the old lady."

"I have no doubt that she pities you immensely." Everard laughed "I will go now" he said, "and we hope you may be successful" returned both warmly.

"Good evening Lady Ashton" said Everard when he arrived at the Park; entering the drawing-room from the lawn.

"Oh is that you, you poor unfortunate boy," returned her ladyship compa.s.sionately.

"Pray spare your pity, for some more deserving individual," answered Everard laughing, "I think myself the most fortunate of mortals."

"Don't come to me with your nonsense, you are very silly, and have behaved in a most dishonorable manner towards your family."

"Will you be kind enough to state in what way," replied Everard colouring, "I confess I can't see it."

"Why, in offering to that governess girl."

"You are severe."

"Oh I haven't patience with you; my sympathy is all with poor Grace, who feels quite disgraced by it."

"She cannot think so, seriously, or if she does, she ought to be ashamed.

"Hoighty, toighty, how we are coming the parson to-night."

"Pshaw," exclaimed Everard impatiently.