LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2469, 6 March 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

ONLY TEN MINOTES; OR, WHAT MY DREAM TOLD ME. (Continued.) Chapter 11. So my dream had proved an omen .'.iter all in so far as so exceptional a thing (for me) as a dream of any sort had immediately preceded, and been bound up with, the gain of my Mildred's hand. It may be that, In the elementary sort of dream philosophy which makes dreaming of one thing prognosticate an event of an entirely remote and different kind, to dream that one's uncle is turned into a candle may foreshadow one's own marriage—whether that be so or otherwise, experts will be to tell. However that may be, in a new life the dream had very soon become an old and forgotten story. Mildred's history turned out to be a very simple one, after all, as she told It to me, thouph it was by no means what I had imagined. She and the oonsin of whom she had spoken were the nieces of Miss Reynolds, a rich, somewhat eccentric, exceedingly capricious and extravagantly obstinate old lady, who had adopted Mildred in a very much less generous fashion than uncle George had adopted me. Mildred had tried her best to be grateful, bnt had found it absolutely impossible. She had a very strong nature and decided character, which Miss Reynolds, out of some uncomfortable mixture of duty, whim, and delight in tyranny for its own take, had set heraelf to thwart and distort in every imaginable way. From what I could gather, Miss Reynolds was one of those people who cannot exist without a dependent on whom to exercise their passion for power, and who believe that power consists wholly In making other people conscious slaves. There are such men in thousands ; suoh women in tens of thousands. No wonder that Mildred, having a spirit of her own, had been driven to rebel. Her idea was to make herself Independent by learning how to paint pictures that would sell, and then to take her own life, so far as she could, into her hands. I congratulated myself, more than I can say, on having let her believe that I was poor as I seemed ; and I resolved, in the same spirit, to keep up the part I had assumed until, on our weddirigday, I conld give my wife the pleasant surprise of finding that, in following her heart, she had not condemned herself to a life of poverty and toil. Meanwhile the romance of our engagement would be doubled for me, and she would have the zeet of feeling that she was sEcrificing the world for love and liberty. I would, for my own pleasure In its memory, linger upon the days of my courtship among the hi'ls round Llanpwll. It had all the chirms of romance for us both, without there being any real reason to fear that all would not end well.'. I hardly know whether to call it the beat or the worst of our "engagement that it was so short and flying. I was impatient for its close ; but I lingerod then upon ev*ry hour of it, just as in remembrance Ido now. But it wps impossible that it should be long. Mildred was ready to faoe the poorest, hardest, and most laborious life with me, and was proud to show how oontent she was to beoome the wife of one who would have no wealth but her. Bat there were pressing reasons why there should be no delays in our marriage, save such as the law compelled. Mildred, having rebelled against her aunt, was without either a home or means to find one, for Reynolds simply cast her off without a word. I took lodgings for her at a farm, and within a month of our troth plight married her in the little church cf Llanpwll. It was certainly a marriage in haste, and possibly many may think that I ought to have waited till I had written to uncle George and had rec jived an answer from him.

Very likely I ought to have done so, but at the same time I do not feel very much conscience stricken by my omission. I knew bim to be so generous, kind, full of sympathy with every right impulse, and .regardless of anything like self-interest that not even his own anti-matrimonial principles would stand in my way. He liked people to act for themselves, and hated nothing, not even strange women, more than the idea of being thought tyrannical. I was so anxious that he should take Mildred to his heart as a daughter that I could not bring myself to prejudice him against her by letting him know of her existence before it was too late for him to do anything but make the best of an exceedingly good bargain : for if he could only be surprised into seeing Mildred without w»rniDg he would receive her even into his misogynißtic heart I was sure.

Besides, it would take much too long for letters to pass and repass between Wales and China when I was going to marry Mildred, whatever their tenor might be. I was my own master, and he wished me to ba so; for Miss Reynolds did not detest free women mote than unole George hated slaves. So I wrote to Shanghai the day after my wedding day, and we remained at Llanpwll for our honeymoon. I could not even yet bring myse : f to tell Mildred that she was not the wife of a poor and struggling painter. I almost wished myself one in reality, for she made the illusion as sweet to me as it was dear to her. But she must know it at last J and though I was sorry to leave our first married home, I looked forward to the morrow when I shonld take her back with me to London and to the real life that was to be ours till the end of our days, so that London should become better and dearer even than Llanpwll.

It wu the morning of oar return. I had taken my last plunge into the lake, and was On my way bs.ok to breakfast, fresh and hungry, when Mildred met me halfway with a letter in her hand.

'There's a letter for yon, too,'said she. * But 1 couldn't wait for you to show you thia. See what I have brought on myself,' ehe said, with the brightest and happiest of smiles, * by marrying you !' 'Mildred,' the letter began, 'I waited to see if you were really so lost to all. sense of ehame as to marry that man in rags in opposition to my Irrevocable commands. You have done so, and as you make your bed so you must lie. Understand that henceforth yon are to have no expectations from me. If you had been commonly grateful, and had married to please me, or had remained with me, you may be gratified to know that I had intended to make you my sole heir. As It is, I on the day after your disgrace made my will. Whom I have put in your place is no concern of yours. Enough that Scripture bids us give much to thoie who have much, and that I am your aunt who is ashamed of you, Jane Key^olds

«PS.—lf the man in rags is disappointed j to find he has married a beggar, you can't say I didn't tell you so.' ' Are you disappointed ? ' asked she. 1 You have lost a fortune for my sake ? Mildred, did you know this when—' * When I married yon t Of course I knew it very well; only if I hadn't married yon, I should have done something else to lose it soon enough all the same. If I couldn't serve aunt Jane for love, It isn't likely I should for anything less, I suppose.' * Dear, if I tell you that I have been keeping a secret from you ever since we were married, shall you be very angry indeed ?' I oould see a half-frightened look come into her face.

• A secret ? what do you mean ?' ' You see that, after all, she had no reasonable reason for knowing that I was not an adventurer who had soirehow found out that a'ne had expectations from a rich aunt, and waa disappointed with my bargain on finding that her Expectations had gone off to the other Bide of the moon, where all the loot things are ; or that I had not two or three other wives elsewhere ; or that I was not a professional burglar, or anything else she would not like to be married to. I know she did not suspect anything of the sort, for Mildred was always the most unreasonable of women where I happen to be oonoerned ; but atlll a secret a whole honeymoon long has an unpleasant sound, whatever It may be, and I felt a little sorry that I had dona anything to make her ever so little afraid. Happily, though, It was a secret that would very well bear telling. We had reached the house, and were entering our breakfast-room. •Should you very angry,' I asked, *if I tell you that I have been deceiving you from the beginning, and that instead of being what I told you—there, darling, ie's out now I am a painter ; but the reason I've done nothing as yet is because I've always been too well off t» be anything but Uey, Xoa

can't expect much from a man with an uncle George like mine. We're rich enough already to do without your aunt'u legacy; and my own father left mo nothing because it was a family arrangement that uncle George will ieavo me everything. He's a splendid fellow, and you'll be as fond of him aa I am when he comes homo again. I couldn't find the heart to prevent your doing the bravo thing you did in taking a man without a porny, all for love and liberty — and now I find out that you've lont a fortune by it, I'm gladder still. Why didn't you tell me you had something to lose?' ' Are you the only one to have secrets ? Well then I wanted you to be sure that you married me for myself ; and I was afraid—' * tVo, you wore'nt; yon were no more afraid 1 should marry you for anything but yourself than that you—' * I w»3 afraid you wou'd rathor not marry me at all than let me lose anything for you. There!' 1 We're quits, then j and we'll have no secrets any more. . . . But here's my letter lying here unopened all the while, and taking up the room where a trout or two ought to be. Hallo I Prom Uncle George's lawyer ? What can he have to say ? ' Dear sir—l regret—' The first words silenced me. .And I read, no further aloud: — (To bf continued )