yself to do
next.

The effort was beyond me. Worn out in mind and body alike, I was
perfectly incapable of pursuing any regular train of thought. I vaguely
felt--if I left things as they were--that I could never hope to remove
the shadow which now rested on the married life that had begun so
brightly. We might live together, so as to save appearances. But to
forget what had happened, or to feel satisfied with my position, was
beyond the power of my will. My tranquillity as a woman--perhaps my
dearest interests as a wife--depended absolutely on penetrating the
mystery of my mother-in-law's conduct, and on discovering the true
meaning of the wild words of penitence and self-reproach which my
husband had addressed to me on our way home.

So far I could advance toward realizing my position--and no further.
When I asked myself what was to be done next, hopeless confusion,
maddening doubt, filled my mind, and transformed me into the most
listless and helpless of living women.

I gave up the struggle. In dull, stupid, obstinate despair, I threw
myself on my bed, and fell from sheer fatigue into a broken, 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 to me. 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 no disguising it--though I loved him so
dearly, though I had left home and friends for his sake--it was a relief
to me, at that miserable time, to know that Eustace had not returned to
the house.

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

"I have just returned from Broadstairs," she began. "I hope you will do
me the justice to believe that I sincerely regret what has happened."

I bowed, and said nothing.

"As a gentlewoman myself," proceeded the landlady--"reduced by family
misfortunes to let lodgings, but still a gentlewoman--I feel 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