it now, or what happiness can there possibly be to me without
Inez? Besides, I turn from the thought of her, with her refined
beauty, her delicate nature, her innumerable accomplishments, her
true and tender heart, and think of that other one, with her
ungovernable passions, her unreasoning temper, and her fierce
intractability, where I can see nothing but the soul of a savage,
unredeemed by any womanly softness or feminine grace. Oh; father! was
it well to bind me to a Hindu? You will say, perhaps, that I should
not judge of the woman by the girl. But, father, when I saw her first
at ten, I found her impish, and at fifteen, when I married her, she
was no less so, only perhaps more intensified. Fierce words of insult
were flung at me by that creature. My God! it is too bitter to think
of. Her face is before me now, scowling and malignant, while behind
it, mournful and pitying, yet loving, is the pale sweet face of Inez.

"But I dare not trust myself further. Never before have I spoken to
you about the horror which I feel for that Hindu. I did not wish to
pain you. I fear I am selfish in doing so now. But, after all, it is
better for you to know it once for all. Otherwise the discovery of it
would be all the worse. Besides, this is wrung out from me in spite
of myself by the anguish of my heart.

"Let me do justice to the Hindu. You have spoken of her
sometimes--not often, however, and I thank you for it--as a loving
daughter to you. I thank her for that, I am sure. Small comfort,
however, is this to me. If she were now an angel from heaven, she
could not fill the place of Inez.

"Forgive me, dear father. This shall be the last of complaints.
Henceforth I am ready to bear my griefs. I am ready for the
sacrifice. I can not see _her_ yet, but when I reach England I must
see you somehow. If you can not meet me, you must manage to send her
off to Pomeroy, so that I may see you in peace. With you I will
forget my sorrows, and will be again a light-hearted boy.

"Let me assure you that I mean to keep my promise made years ago when
I was a boy. It shall be the effort of my life to make my wife happy.
Whether I succeed or not will be another thing. But I must have time.

"No more now. I have written about this for the first and the last
time. Give my warmest and fondest love to nurse. I hope to see you
soon, and remain, dear father,

"Your affectionate son,

"Guy Molyneux."

For some time after reading this letter Zil