A pleasant spring morning found Frank Gadsby—where? Not promenading Chestnut street—not lounging upon the steps of a fashionable hotel, nor whispering smooth flatteries in the ear of beauty; but positively up those three flights of stairs, in that gloomy back room dignified by the name of study. Several books were open before him, and papers—promising, business-like looking papers, with red tapes and huge seals—were scattered around him. Indeed, the very man himself had a more promising, business-like appearance; there was less of the dandy, more of the gentleman, and the look of self-complacency lost in a more serious, thoughtful expression. As I said before, Mr. Gadsby had talents, hidden beneath the mask of frippery, which needed but some impetus to bring into power, and this impetus seemed now to have been supplied.

For three months the fashionable world had wondered why so often its most brilliant ornament had been missing from its gay gatherings; nor, perhaps, wondered more than Mr. Gadsby himself at his own sudden distaste for those pursuits which had but lately afforded him so much pleasure. Perhaps the remonstrances of his friend Walton had awakened him to a sense of the unprofitable life he was leading; but, as we have more to do with effects than causes, at present, we will not pursue the inquiry.

For some time, perhaps half an hour, Gadsby steadily applied himself to his studies—now turning over the pages of a folio, now lost in deep thought, and then rapidly transferring his conclusions to paper. At length, with a sigh of relief, as if he had mastered some complicated problem of the law, he pushed books and papers from him, and, rising from the table, walked back and forth the narrow limits of his study.

“Are you ready?” said Clarence Walton, unceremoniously opening the door.

“I believe I shall not go. Make my excuses, if you please, to the ladies,” replied Gadsby, slightly embarrassed.

“Not go! Why, what has come over you, man? The party are now only waiting your presence to start. What will Miss Laurence think? It will never do to slight her invitation in this way. Come!”

“No!” answered Gadsby. “Say what you please for me to Miss Laurence; if she chooses to take offense, it matters but little to me. The frowns of one whose smiles are so general, are easily borne. I hope you will have a pleasant ride.”

“But what new freak is this? Last night you were in fine spirits for the excursion, and I am sure you received the invitation of Miss Laurence with undisguised pleasure.”

“Think so? Well, I have altered my mind—that’s all,” said Gadsby, carelessly.

“Ah-ha! Are your wings scorched, that you thus shun the presence of the irresistible Lucia?”

“Cannot a man of business absent himself from the society of a flirt, without giving a reason, Walton?” said Gadsby, tartly.

“A man of business! Good—excellent! I will report that weighty concerns of the law interfere with your engagements. You wont go, then?”

“No!” and saying this, Gadsby took up a book and sat down, with a dogged, resolute air.

“Well, I must be off. Au revoir.”

No sooner did the door close after his friend, than, throwing away the book, Gadsby started up, exclaiming:

“No! this syren—this coquette—this all fascinating woman, as she is called, shall find I am not so easily made her dupe! She is a perfect mistress of art, that is certain; for who that did not know her would think the light of her beautiful eyes shone only to deceive—they are heavenly! Who would think that sweet, gentle smile which she sometimes wears, and the soft, witching tones of her voice were but superficial. In outward appearance she is a type of all that is most perfect in woman; and if this beauty of mind and person but extended to the heart—ah, I dare not think of it! I am told she considers me a vain, conceited fellow—ha! ha! she shall find yet that I am not what I have appeared, and that this vain, conceited fellow, has at least wit enough to see through and despise her arts. What a beautiful morning for the ride. I was foolish not to go; besides, she may think—no matter what she thinks. But then I would not be uncivil; as I accepted the invitation, I should have gone. I wish I had. Let me see, it is now ten o’clock; perhaps I may yet be in time. Yes, I will show her that I can meet her fascinations unmoved, and leave her without one sigh of regret—heigh, ho!” And Mr. Gadsby ended his soliloquy by catching up the broom-brush and rapidly applying it to his shoulders and arms, and then with a glance at the small looking-glass, he seized his hat, and rushing down stairs, swiftly thridded his way through the crowd until he reached the residence of Miss Laurence, whence the party were to set forth. Running up the steps, he rang the bell.

Much to his mortification he learned the party had been gone about ten minutes, and he was turning from the door, when the servant added,

“Miss Laurence is at home—will you walk in, sir?”

Then she had not gone! Strange!—no, he would not go in; but perhaps he had better, and apologize for his apparent rudeness. Yes, he would go in; and following the servant, he was ushered into the drawing-room.

Sending up his card, Gadsby sat down to await the entrance of the lady. Opposite the sofa on which he reclined hung the full length portrait of Miss Laurence—the work of the unfortunate young painter whom love of her had driven from his native land. It was a beautiful creation of art, but not more beautiful than the fair original herself. There was grace, dignity, and repose in the attitude, harmonizing so perfectly with the sweet expression of the features. The eyes of Gadsby were soon riveted upon it, and rising from his seat, he approached nearer, and remained standing before it, lost in contemplating its loveliness.

“Charming girl!” he exclaimed inadvertently aloud; “but false as thou art charming!”

Imprudent man! These words were not lost; even as he spoke the fair Lucia herself stood very near him, waiting for him to turn around that she might address him; but as she caught this expression, a glow of indignation suffused her features, and with noiseless footsteps she glided from the room.

“How dare he say this of me!” she exclaimed, as she closed the door of her chamber; “what reason have I given him for such a supposition! He judges of me by his own false and fickle heart; yet why should I care for the opinion of such a man as he is. How stupid in John to say I was at home. I believe I will send word I am engaged; no, I will even see him, and let him know by my indifference how little value I place either on his society or his opinion.”

And Lucia re-entered the drawing-room with a stately step, and received the salutation of her visiter with the utmost hauteur of manner.

“I have called, Miss Laurence, to apologize for my apparent incivility in not keeping the engagement formed with you last evening,” said Gadsby, with evident embarrassment.

“It was not necessary, Mr. Gadsby, to take so much trouble for that which is of so little consequence,” answered Lucia, coldly.

“Pardon me, Miss Laurence, nothing but—but imperative business—”

“Pray do not exhaust your invention, sir, for excuses.”

Gadsby’s face crimsoned.

“Let me hope nothing serious prevented your accompanying the party, Miss Laurence,” he at length said.

“To be more honest than you, I had no inclination to go, and therefore did not.”

“But last evening—”

“O, last evening I arranged the excursion merely for my friends, not feeling, of course, obliged to go with them,” was the answer.

“Then I certainly cannot regret so much the cause which prevented my joining them, since the only attraction would have been wanting.”

This implied compliment was noticed only by a haughty bow.

“Cold, unyielding beauty!” thought Gadsby, carelessly turning over the leaves of an annual.

“False, idle flatterer!” thought Lucia, pulling her bouquet to pieces.

“Those are beautiful flowers, Miss Laurence—what have they done to merit such treatment at your fair hands!” said Mr. Gadsby, glad of the opportunity to say something, for he felt himself completely embarrassed by her repulsive manners. “You treat them with as little favor as you do your admirers, and throw them from you with as little mercy. Fair, beautiful flowers!” he added, gathering up the leaves of a rose from the rich carpet, “fit emblems they are in their fragility of woman’s short-lived faith and truth.”

“A lesson upon faith and truth from Mr. Gadsby is a paradox well worth listening to!” retorted Lucia, with a sarcastic smile.

“Why so—do you then believe me destitute of them?”

“I have never deemed the subject worthy of reflection; yet, if I mistake not, the world does not burthen you with such attributes.”

“And the world is probably right, Miss Laurence,” answered Gadsby, piqued and angry. He arose, and walked several times across the room, then again pausing before her, he said in a softened tone, “And yet, although our acquaintance has been but brief, I trust I have given you no reason to pass such severe censure upon me.”

A quick retort rose to the lips of Lucia, but as she raised her eyes, they met those of Gadsby fixed upon her with an expression such as she could not well define, so strangely were reproach and tenderness blended. She was embarrassed, a deep blush mantled her face, and the words were unspoken.

“She is not, then, utterly heartless—that blush belies it!” thought Gadsby. “Say, Miss Laurence, may I not hope for a more lenient judgment from you than the world accords?” he said, again addressing her.

“What ails me? Why do I tremble thus? Am I really to be the dupe of this deceiver. No! let me be true to myself!” mentally exclaimed Lucia; and then, with a look which instantly chilled the warm impulse in the heart of Gadsby, she said,

“My opinion can be of very little consequence to Mr. Gadsby.”

“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.

——