CHAPTER XXI. Life is war, Eternal war with woe. Who bears it best Deserves it least. YOUNG. MR. LANETON had a house in St. James's Square, and in his rooms there occasionally mingled with scheming capitalists, intriguing politicians, embarrassed nobles, and the herd of dependents which wealth clusters round it-some of the most fashionable members of the gay world, and some men of intellectual eminence. It was rarely that he could get Una to make her appearance at these receptions; but on this occasion she consented to do so, and an alcove, almost separated from the splendid suite of rooms by silken draperies, had been tastefully fitted up for her especial use. Her reserve proceeded from thoughtfulness rather than from that silly shyness which shuns society from a belief that the individual is the object of universal attention. From affectation of any kind Una was perfectly free; and, though she had mixed little in society, there was a natural grace in her deportment, and a ready perception of what would be grateful to those she addressed, which were a thousand times more pleasing than the cold placidity of conventional elegance. Few persons who observed her gentle and retired manner, and the sweet smile which usually lighted up her face when even common-places were addressed to her, could have formed any conception of the depth of thought and emotion which that charming look of youthful deference concealed. But occasionally she dropped an expression, indicating a maturity of intellect so much above her years, and a strength of character so little to be expected from her appearance, as to induce a suspicion that those sentiments, far from being her own, had been adopted without examination, and were the mere mechanical utterance of her lips. Let physiognomists say what they may, the mind is a great sealed volume. In the daily intercourse of life how little do we know of those whose hands we shake-whose features are: perfectly familiar to us! What passions may rage, hidden by the blandest manners, the most smiling lips-what dark schemes be harboured in breasts which seem to heave only with the softest emotions! Who, looking on that face of celestial beauty in the Berberini palace, can read in it a foul history of lust and murder? In every mind a larger history is secreted than is ever revealed; perhaps even at the last day those thoughts which lie deepest in the heart will be published with reserve. The trials and the griefs which show no sign are lightly esteemed; yet it is a startling reflection, that the heart may be seared or blighted-that hope and faith may be dead within it-that recklessness and despair may usurp the place of all cheering and elevating instincts-while the countenance scarcely exhibits a trace of the desolation and ruin within. Una sat in her recess, retired from the crowd which thronged her father's rooms. Her hair, which at all times required but little arrangement, was now left to flow in its natural tresses; but dressed low behind, and rolled over a jewelled bar, it displayed its lustrous shades of colour, and exhibited to perfection the ideal beauty of her head. Tremore was enchanted with the kindness of her welcome; yet, from casual expressions which she let fall, and enquiries which she made, he could not fail to see that she received him with so much interest on account of his presumed connection with Cavendish, and that she seized every opportunity of gaining some further information as to the motives of his departure. “Mr. Damer has just quitted me," she said; "do you know him? He was the nearest of Cavendish's friends-if I said his only friend, I do not know that I should be wrong." Florian replied with truth, that he had only heard his name the previous day, and had not seen him yet. "That is strange!" she said. "He is with John Smith now;" and she smiled as, looking towards Damer, she encountered his glance. Tremore observed him with some curiosity. He was tall, and had contracted a stoop in his shoulders, which gave to his whole figure an appearance of heaviness. His hair appeared to have grown grey before its time, as his features indicated the prime of manhood. They were pale and meditative, but free from any trace of mental emotion, excepting a slight contraction between the eyebrows, the result, probably, of habitual thought. A small mouth, and a smile of peculiar sweetness, gave grace and almost beauty to his countenance. His eyes, commonly fixed in their gaze, seemed to overlook surrounding objects, and to pierce the distance; nor was this peculiarity disturbed except when he engaged in animated discourse, when they kindled with inward light, and reflected his thoughts as truly as the speech which expressed them. 66 Do you think you shall like him?" Una asked. "He is much changed since I first knew him. He is more reserved, and more indifferent to society than he was." "Is there not some mystery about him?” enquired Florian. "The other day, when Lady Geraldine mentioned his name, no one could explain who he was, though every one knew him." "There must have been some badinage in that," she rejoined. "John Smith was his guardian in early life." "His guardian! Why, I should almost have taken him for the younger man." "Yet the fact is as I have told you," she |