I SAT down, and tried to compose my spirits. Now or never wasthe time to decide what it was my duty to my husband and my dutyto myself to do next.

The effort was beyond me. Worn out in mind and body alike, I wasperfectly incapable of pursuing any regular train of thought. Ivaguely felt--if I left things as they were--that I could neverhope to remove the shadow which now rested on the married lifethat had begun so brightly. We might live together, so as to saveappearances. But to forget what had happened, or to feelsatisfied with my position, was beyond the power of my will. Mytranquillity as a woman--perhaps my dearest interests as awife--depended absolutely on penetrating the mystery of mymother-in-law's conduct, and on discovering the true meaning ofthe wild words of penitence and self-reproach which my husbandhad addressed to me on our way home.

So far I could advance toward realizing my position--and nofurther. When I asked myself what was to be done next, hopelessconfusion, maddening doubt, filled my mind, and transformed meinto the most listless and helpless of living women.

I gave up the struggle. In dull, stupid, obstinate despair, Ithrew myself on my bed, and fell from sheer fatigue into abroken, uneasy sleep.

I was awakened by a knock at the door of my room.

Was it my husband? I started to my feet as the idea occurred tome. Was some new trial of my patience and my fortitude at hand?Half nervously, half irritably, I asked who was there.

The landlady's voice answered me.

"Can I speak to you for a moment, if you please?"

I opened the door. There is nodisguising it--though I loved him so dearly, though I had lefthome and friends for his sake--it was a relief to me, at thatmiserable time, to know that Eustace had not returned to thehouse.

The landlady came in, and took a seat, without waiting to beinvited, close by my side. She was no longer satisfied withmerely asserting herself as my equal. Ascending another step onthe social ladder, she took her stand on the platform ofpatronage, and charitably looked down on me as an object of pity.

"I have just returned from Broadstairs," she began. "I hope youwill do me the justice to believe that I sincerely regret whathas happened."

I bowed, and said nothing.

"As a gentlewoman myself," proceeded the landlady--"reduced byfamily misfortunes to let lodgings, but still a gentlewoman--Ifeel sincere sympathy with you. I will even go further than that.I will take it on myself to say that I don't blame _you_. No, no.I noticed that you were as much shocked and surprised at yourmother-in-law's conduct as I was; and that is saying a greatdeal--a great deal indeed. However, I have a duty to perform. Itis disagreeable, but it is not the less a duty on that account. Iam a single woman; not from want of opportunities of changing mycondition--I beg you will understand that--but from choice.Situated as I am, I receive only the most respectable personsinto my house. There must be no mystery about the positions of_my_ lodgers. Mystery in the position of a lodger carries withit--what shall I say? I don't wish to offend you--I will say, acertain Taint. Very well. Now I put it to your own common-sense.Can a person in my position be expected to expose herselfto--Taint? I make these remarks in a sisterly and Christianspirit. As a lady yourself--I will even go the length of saying acruelly used lady--you will, I am sure, understand--"

I could endure it no longer. I stopped her there.

"I understand," I said, "that you wish to give us notice to quityour lodgings. When do you want us to go?"

The landlady held up a long, lean, red hand, in a sorrowful andsisterly protest.

"No," she said. "Not that tone; not those looks. It's natural youshould be annoyed; it's natural you should be angry. But do--nowdo please try and control yourself. I put it to your owncommon-sense (we will say a week for the notice to quit)--why nottreat me like a friend? You don't know what a sacrifice, what acruel sacrifice, I have made--entirely for your sake.

"You?" I exclaimed. "What sacrifice?"

"What sacrifice?" repeated the landlady. "I have degraded myselfas a gentlewoman. I have forfeited my own self-respect." Shepaused for a moment, and suddenly seized my hand in a perfectfrenzy of friendship. "Oh, my poor dear!" cried this intolerableperson. "I have discovered everything. A villain has deceivedyou. You are no more married than I am!"

I snatched my hand out of hers, and rose angrily from my chair.

"Are you mad?" I asked.

The landlady raised her eyes to the ceiling with the air of aperson who had deserved martyrdom, and who submitted to itcheerfully.

"Yes," she said. "I begin to think I _am_ mad--mad to havedevoted myself to an ungrateful woman, to a person who doesn'tappreciate a sisterly and Christian sacrifice of self. Well, Iwon't do it again. Heaven forgive me--I won't do it again!"

"Do what again?" I asked.

"Follow your mother-in-law," cried the landlady, suddenlydropping the character of a martyr, and assuming the character ofa vixen in its place. "I blush when I think of it. I followedthat most respectable person every step of the way to her owndoor."

Thus far my pride had held me up. It sustained me no longer. Idropped back again into my chair, in undisguised dread of whatwas coming next.

"I gave you a look when I left you on the beach," pursued thelandlady, growing louder and louder and redder and redder as shewent on. "A grateful woman would have understood that look. Nevermind! I won't do it again I overtook your mother-in-law at thegap in the cliff. I followed her--oh, how I feel the disgrace ofit _now!_--I followed her to the station at Broadstairs. She wentback by train to Ramsgate. _I_ went back by train to Ramsgate.She walked to her lodgings. _I_ walked to her lodgings. Behindher. Like a dog. Oh, the disgrace of it! Providentially, as Ithen thought--I don't know what to think of it now--the landlordof the house happened to be a friend of mine, and happened to beat home. We have no secrets from each other where lodgers areconcerned. I am in a position to tell you, madam, what yourmother-in-law's name really is. She knows nothing about any suchperson as Mrs. Woodville, for an excellent reason. Her name is_not_ Woodville. Her name (and consequently her son's name) isMacallan--Mrs. Macallan, widow of the late General Macallan. Yes!your husband is _not_ your husband. You are neither maid, wife,nor widow. You are worse than nothing, madam, and you leave myhouse!"

I stopped her as she opened the door to go out. She had roused_my_ temper by this time. The doubt that she had cast on mymarriage was more than mortal resignation could endure.

"Give me Mrs. Macallan's address," I said.

The landlady's anger receded into the background, and thelandlady's astonishment appeared in its place.

"You don't mean to tell me you are going to the old ladyherself?" she said.

"Nobody but the old lady can tell me what I want to know," Ianswered. "Your discovery (as you call it) may be enough for_you_; it is not enough for _me_. How do we know that Mrs.Macallan may not have been twice married? and that her firsthusband's name may not have been Woodville?"

The landlady's astonishment subsided in its turn, and thelandlady's curiosity succeeded as the ruling influence of themoment. Substantially, as I have already said of her, she was agood-natured woman. Her fits of temper (as is usual withgood-natured people) were of the hot and the short-lived sort,easily roused and easily appeased.

"I never thought of that," she said. "Look here! if I give youthe address, will you promise to tell me all about it when youcome back?"

I gave the required promise, and received the address in return.

"No malice," said the landlady, suddenly resuming all her oldfamiliarity with me.

"No malice," I answered, with all possible cordiality on my side.

In ten minutes more I was at my mother-in-law's lodgings.