For some time they kept to their work in silence, then Derrice spoke again. "Is there anything we can do?"
"I have thought of talking to your husband, but perhaps I had better leave it to you. I'll tell you how things stand. I have made such a mistake,—such a mistake," and her lips quivered so convulsively that she could hardly articulate.
"We all make mistakes."
"Yes, dear, but this was such a stupid one. I have made mistakes all my life, and I have said, 'Help me, Lord, not to make this one again,' and he does help me, but I tumble into a new one. I will never be fit to live, till I am ready to die."
"You dear little woman, you sha'n't talk that way about yourself. Why, the whole town considers you a saint. Didn't you leave your rich family and marry a poor clergyman, and, not content with bringing up your children well, you just set to work to bring up another family of orphans, and have been so sweet and good that everybody helps you, and your relatives give you money—"
Derrice stopped, choked by her volubility, and Mrs. Negus ejaculated, "It is nothing, nothing, if I could only help this one soul."
"Don't cry, please tell me about it. Perhaps Justin can assist, he is so clever."
The little lady dried her tears, and, speaking rapidly, for she was at all times subject to an irruption of children, began: "He is so handsome, and such an attraction for the girls, that I thought it would be well to have him married. Chelda Gastonguay fancied him,—I knew it from the way in which she began to pay me attention, and I encouraged her, for I thought, Here is a girl who will have plenty of money. She will be able to give him comforts he has always been used to, and that he will never get on his small salary. True, she was not converted, but she began coming to church, and I thought she soon would be, for she would not be able to withstand his burning, loving words. My dear, I must not be uncharitable, but I fear hers is a deadly love. I have studied her, and I see that from the first she deliberately chose that man for herself. She set herself to weaken his religious life, to turn him against his people, and to lead him back to the life he once led. He could not be unkind to a woman,—that is, what he calls unkind,—and he has let her go on instead of sending her to the right-about. She is very clever. I am so frightened of her that I tremble when she comes slipping into the house. I overheard her the other day,—she wants him to give up his church and marry her and go away."
"How dreadful!"
"And worse than that, the love is mostly on her side. She was petting and coaxing him. I was going through the hall and the study door was open. She thought I was out, but I wasn't, and I stopped as if I had been paralysed. He would fling himself away and she would come back with her wheedling ways."