"Not free to do wrong, Marion! And the only bondage which the Catholic Church lays upon people is to forbid their doing what is wrong."
"I must be free to judge for myself what is wrong," returned Marion, with a haughty gesture of her head. "But we had better not talk of this, Helen. We do not think alike, and I do not wish to say anything disagreeable to you."
"Nor I to you," said Helen; "and indeed I have no talent for argument. One needs Claire for that. Dear Claire! how I wish she were here!"
"So do I," said Marion; "but not for purposes of argument, I confess."
Glad to do something to please her aunt and cousin, Marion went willingly the next Sunday to the Catholic church; and, having already seen the organist—a pleasant young music teacher—accompanied Helen into the choir-loft. Here, sitting quietly in a corner during the first part of the Mass, she had time to contrast the scene before her with that which she had witnessed during the other Sundays of her stay in Scarborough. The first thing which struck her was the poverty of the small building, as compared with the luxury and beauty of the Episcopal place of worship. Here were no finely-carved and polished woods; but plain, plastered walls, relieved from bareness only by the pictures which told in simple black and white the woful story of the Cross. The sound of moving feet and scraping benches on the uncovered floor jarred on her nerves after the subdued quiet, which was the result of carpeted aisles and pews; while the appearance of the congregation spoke plainly of humble, hard-working lives. No suggestion of social distinction and elegance was here. But in the sanctuary there was something of beauty to please even her æsthetic eye.
The small altar was beautifully dressed with freshly-cut flowers, draped with spotless linen and fine lace, and brilliant with light of wax tapers. Evidently Helen's careful hand and convent-bred taste had been there, even as Helen's pure, sweet, young voice was even now singing the angelic words of the "Gloria." The priest, who was a pale and rather insignificant-looking man, certainly lacked the refined and scholarly air of the handsome young clergyman with whom Marion instinctively compared him; but there was an assured dignity in his air and gestures, as he stood at the altar, which she was too keen an observer not to perceive, and remember that the other had lacked.
In the midst of these mingled thoughts and impressions—thoughts and impressions wherein devotion had no place—she was suddenly summoned to sing. She took her place with the self-possession which never failed her, and began that beautiful strain to which Gounod has set the sacred words of the "Ave Maria." There were not many musically trained ears or critically trained tastes among the congregation below, but even they turned instinctively to see what voice was rising with such divine melody toward heaven. Over and over again Marion had sung these words without thinking of their meaning, but she had never before sung them in the Mass; and now something in the hush of the stillness around her, in the reverence of the silent people, in the solemn, stately movements of the priest and the uplifting of the chalice, seemed to fill her with a consciousness that she, too, was uttering a prayer—a prayer of such ancient and holy origin that careless lips should fear to speak it.
"Sancta Maria, Mater Dei!"—Never before had the wonder, the majesty, the awfulness of the Name struck her as it struck her now, when she was, as it were, the mouthpiece for all the believing hearts that so called the Blessed Maid of Israel. "Ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostræ." Her voice sank over the last words with a strange sense of their meaning. The hour of our death! It would come to her, too, that hour—a sudden, intense realization of the fact seemed to run through her veins like ice,—and when it came, would it not be well to have appealed in earnest to Her who stood by the Cross, and was and is eternally the Mother of God?
Such a thought, such a question was new to this proud and worldly spirit. Why it came to her at this moment is one of the miracles of God's grace. It was not destined to make any lasting impression; but for the time it was strong enough to cause her, when the hymn was ended, to go and kneel down in the place she had left; while from her heart rose the appeal which only her lips had uttered a moment before, "Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for me now and at the hour of my death."
It gratified Helen to observe that Marion knelt with apparent devoutness during the solemn portion of the Mass; but when they came out of church, and she turned with a smile to congratulate her on her singing, she was struck by the paleness and gravity of the beautiful face. "What is the matter?" she asked, quickly. "Has anything displeased you?"