Father Dan was dreadfully distressed. More than once while I was
speaking he crossed himself and said, "Lord and His Holy Mother love
us;" and when I came to an end he began to reproach himself for
everything, saying that he ought to have known that our lad (meaning
Martin) did not write those terrible letters without being certain they
were true, and that from the first day my husband came to our parish the
sun had been darkened by his shadow.
"But take care," he said. "I've told nobody about the compact we made
with your husband--nobody but our Blessed Lady herself--and you mustn't
think of that as a way out of your marriage. No, nor of any other way,
no matter what, which the world, and the children of the world, may talk
about."
"But I can't bear it, I can't bear it," I cried.
"Hush! Hush! Don't say that, my daughter. Think of it as one of the
misfortunes of life which we all have to suffer. How many poor women
have to bear the sickness and poverty, not to speak of the drunkenness
and death, of their husbands! Do they think they have a right to run
away from all that--to break the sacred vows of their marriage on
account of it? No, my child, no, and neither must you.
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