“I was but a girl when I was married, Basil—­an innocent, unsuspecting girl, just seventeen.  I might plead, in excuse of what followed, that I was married without my own inclination being consulted—­unwillingly sacrificed to money that never has done me any good, and never will.  I might plead my youth, my unhappiness, the utter want of congeniality with the man I married; but I will not.  You shall judge me without excuses.  I must, however, tell you that at first, for the first two years of my married life, I was in despair.  There seemed to me no hope, no respite—­nothing but despair.  Now I have grown accustomed to my misery, and can wear it with a smile; then it was otherwise.  At that time I was first introduced to Count Jules Ste. Croix.  I hate myself,” she continued, passionately, “when I remember how that man duped me.  I did not think him handsome, although other ladies raved of his beaux yeux and his classical face.

“But I liked him, Basil, because he had the art of expressing silent sympathy for me.  He said nothing—­if he had done so, my pride would have taken fire and I should have been saved—­but all that other men say in passionate words, he conveyed to me in passionate looks.  He was very kind to me; he used to visit us a great deal, and on several occasions he stood between me and Lord Lisle’s fierce anger.

“He knew all my distress, my troubles, my misery, as well as I know them myself.  Let me tell you briefly, Basil, that at this unhappy time I wrote to him three letters—­only three.  I was so miserable, so wretched, that, unless I had opened my heart to some one, I must have died.  Now listen, Basil, and do not wonder if I have ceased to believe in men.  He answered them, and then, after a time, presumed upon my having written to him.  Oh, Basil, if I could but spare myself the shame of telling you!  He made a compact of friendship with me that nothing was ever to break.  I was but a frightened child, and I made it.  He asked me to lend him money.  Oh, Basil, I was but a frightened, terrified girl, and I lent it!  Then he tried to make love to me—­he flattered me; he followed me like my shadow.  But there I was firm; he could, not frighten me into anything I thought wrong.”

“Why, the man is a villain!” cried Basil; “an unprincipled, cowardly villain!”

“Wait,” she said, laying her hand on his arm.  “Wait; you have not heard all.  He uses the three letters as a means of extorting money from me.  Now he threatens that if I do not lend it to him, he will show them to my husband.”

Basil sprang from his seat, with a hot flush on his handsome young face.

“I will shoot him!” he said.  “Such a man is not fit to breathe the air of heaven.”

“Hush!” she said again.  “You cannot help me unless you are calm.  My husband does not love me, Basil.  The least whisper of this, and, innocent as I am, I should be separated from him and disgraced.  It is from this I want you to save me.  If I were married to a noble, generous man, I should go to him at once, and tell him the truth.  If Lord Lisle knew it, he would use it as a pretext for separating himself from me.  Basil, you are my knight—­you must save me; you must get those letters.”