“True, Miss Laurence. I wish you good morning,” and proudly bowing himself out of the room, Gadsby took leave.
“Fool that I am to blush before him, who of all men has the least power over me. It is well I know him, or even I might be deceived by such looks as he just now cast upon me!” cried Lucia, as the door closed after her visiter.
——
CHAPTER V.
It was some weeks after this ere Mr. Gadsby so far mastered his pride as to call again upon the disdainful Miss Laurence. To his great regret he was then informed that she was ill, very ill; and for many days his inquiries were all met by the same painful answer. There is nothing sooner breaks down the barrier of feigned indifference than the illness of one whom we are schooling ourselves to avoid; and thus, in the heart of Gadsby, coldness, distrust, disdain, yielded at once to the most painful solicitude and deep tenderness. This sudden revulsion quite overcame even the caution of this redoubtable coquet, so captious of any appearance of surrendering the long boasted freedom of his heart; and careless of what “the lookers on in Venice” might say, he called daily to make inquiries, and sent to the fair invalid the most beautiful flowers as delicate memorials of his sympathy, however he might once have named them as fit emblems of the frailty of woman’s vows.
One morning early Clarence Walton entered the office of Gadsby.
“Good morning. Have you heard from Miss Laurence to-day, Walton?” was the first inquiry.
“I am sorry to say she is not so well.”
“Is it possible! Who told you—are you sure?” said Mr. Gadsby, turning quite pale.
“Yes; I am told she is better of the old complaint, but her friends think now that she has a confirmed heart disease!” answered Walton, gravely.