LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1638, 21 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY PARTNER’S STORY. Chambers in Lincoln’s Inn are not very cheerful at any time, but at the enfl of August they are indeed dreary. Why Eastnor and I remained in town, I don’t know; the Term was over, everybody Lad gone for a holiday, and yet here were we still in London, smoking our pipes and looking out on to the silent dreary square. I did not so much wonder at myself, for I had no relatives, and few friends ; but Eastnor could go anvwhore, and had invitations to a dozen country houses ; besides, ho was rich, and could travel. But my partner was a curiously silent man; and though I had lived with him for five years, I knew very little of his history. That he was an exceptionally good man, none know better than I; for ho had found me eight years before an ill-paid uuder-elerk in a small solicitor’s office, and an utter stranger to him ; he had articled me to a good firm, and when I had passed all my examinati ins took me into his own office, and had lately made me a partner. I did not venture to ask him any questions about his past life, though I often asked him why he did not marry ; ho could easily have done so had ho wished, for he was a great favourite with ladies. But he did not seem to care to change his mode of life, and so we lived on from year to year in our dusty chambers, smoking our pipes,—in the winter over the fire, and in the summer at the window, which looked on to the dreary square.

It was growing dusk, and we had neither of us spoken for a long time, when Eastnor suddenly asked, ‘ What are you dreaming of, young un V ‘ Italy,’ 1 said, turning to him. * And why Italy ?’ asked ho. ‘lt has been one of my dreams to travel,’ said I ; * and Italy I want especially to see.’

‘ The Great Desert would be bettor, though I believe even that is not free from ton lists now,’ said Eastnor. ‘ You have travelled so much,’ I said, *' that I suppose Italy is quite well known to you ’ * Yes,’ ho replied, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, and beginning to rotill it, — 1 yes, I think I know it well. Romo is a very dirty place.’

* And Milan,’ said I; ‘ did you ever see Milan Cathedra! by mononlight ?’ * Ah r said tastnor, drawing a long breath and staring at me with such a startled

look on his face that I wondered what ailed him, * Why cli 1 you ask me that?’ ho said sharply, * Merely because I saw a phot 'graph of it in a shop wind w this afternoon, and I was struck with its beauty.' My partner oeemo 1 r lieved, and cuffed away at his pipe in silence, wh In I looked out into the street, not wishing him to think I watched him. '< he moon ro c bright, and clear, mak'ng the square look picturesque, and beautifying the neighbouring houses My eyes were tixed on the old Queen Anne gateway below me, snd I was wondering why hastnor sighed so often, and did not speak, ‘ j ugh,' be said at last* in his old calm t^ne, — ‘Hugh, lam going to tell you a long st ry ; something that. I have never told to a’y man. Vonr question about Milan Cathedrsl has brought before me most vividly a scene he’d a peril d of my life that I can never f,>rg-t, Are you listening?’ ‘ Yes,’ I replied 1 1 was once travelling through Ita’y, and I spent some cays in Milan, It was just this time of year, I remember ; just such a mo plight niv.ht as this. It was Sunday ; the day had been fine but not hot. I had been to church, end had heard, I daresay, a very ordinary sermon ; but sonnehow the pr acher’s words had impressed mo, and I thought how true it was that WC became wrapped up in the earns and pleasures of this life, till we gave little time or thought to spiritual truths, often tota ly forgetting the world to come. As I sat at home in my hotel that Sunday afternoon I pandered on the wickedness and sadness of the world, and as I walked about the city in the evening the same thoughts kept me company. I have said it was a moonlight night, like this, and yet not like this ; for moonlight nights here are only dim reflections of what they are there. As I wondered, I found mysdf in front of the cathedral, 3 cannot describe to you how beautiful, gra-d, and awe-in spiring it looked. I stood and gazed for I don’t know how long, when I gradually became aware of some one sobbing, and then of voices talking Italian. I went a few stops closer, still keeping in shadow, and then I saw, sitting npon a stone in the full moonlight, a young girl crying bitterly, while an elderly woman stood by trying to comfort her /it that time I wss not a good Italian scholar, and could not understand what the woman said, she talked so fast and vehemently; the girl scarce’y spoke, but kept wringing her hands and looking up to heaven, as if she were inv >king the saints to help or protect her. Once the woman threatened ts her, for she walked a lew yards away • and then the girl rushed and took hold of her dress At that I came out of rny corner. au,d addressing myself to them, asked if I could be of any service. 1 had some difficulty in ili£b?ng myself understood, but when they at last salt that I wished to help them, they both began talkin/ so faet that I could not follow what they said, 1 owever, th< y anpeared to be telling the same story, and I felt from their manner tliat there was an unusual proportion of truth in wi at t'ey were saying ; the girl, moreover, who was singularly beautiful, had an open and noble cun , tenance, which I, as a I’.wyer used to studying faces, did not fail to observe.

‘Not being able to make anything of their eloquent tom nt, but that some person or persona had treated the girl badiy, and that she was a good girl (which I did not doubt), I asked her to write her story out, and to meiet me in the morning at the cathedral. She understood What, I meant, and agreed to do as I wished, then , I bade them good night, and they left mo. Even in those days, Hugh, I was not particularly romantic. I knew something of the world, and being the son of a younger son of an earl, was used from my childhood to hear a great deal of cynicism and grumbling at fate, I had known what it was to be poor and mix with rich people ; how hard it was to get on in the wo-Id ; and I knew what was expected of me ; bntas I wandered round the old cathedral in the moonlight I forgot all my ambition, and indulged in the most romantic and foolish dreams. I was impatient to meet the girl again ; and after a restless night I rose early, and, armed with a dictionary, I set out and met Juanita, for that was her name. We went into the cathedral, and seating ourselves in the nave, she road her statement aloud, while I looked out the words I could not cnderstsnd. Now and then her beautiful eyes were fixed on me with such a wistful mournful expression, that I longed to kiss her and vow to protect her all my life. ‘ Hers was and is a well-known story. She was born in Spain, her mother being Spanish, her father an Italian. They were b th dead, and she had no relations that she knew, except a distant cousin of her father’s, who had brought her from Spain, and had promised to take care of her in his own house. He had not kept his word, but had obtained for her a situation as companion and nursi to an old lady ; and having dene so, seemed to consider he had done his duty, for she neither saw nor heard anything more of him ; nor had he answered any of her letters, and she did not know where he was. She had been obliged to leave her situation in consequence of the old lady’s son, who, returning from abroad, no sooner saw her than he fell in love with her, and so worried and forced his attentions upon her that she was obliged to leave. This displeased her mistress, who would willingly have had her for a daughter, but who would not give her a character. An act of injustice that lam afraid many people are guilty of when their pet schemes are thwarted. 4 I asked Juanita why she did not marry the s-m • she turned first red and then pale, and declared vehemently she could not. Then I asked her if she had a lover; she answered, in her simple manner, (To he. continued.)