“Mother, there is profanation in the thought that the vessel chosen by its Maker for that tremendous service could be anything but immaculately, divinely spotless.... Can pure water be drawn from an impure well? or good fruit, to quote the words of her Divine Son, be gathered from a tree that is evil? How could the Mother from whose flesh was formed the sinless Body of the Redeemer, be capable of sin? My God-given reason tells me it is impossible! And—can I ever forget that the Heart that poured forth its Blood upon the Cross was filled from the veins of Mary, when there is not a single Gospel that does not tell me so?”
There was no answer from the pale lips. She said with energy:
“How can we pay her too much reverence, accord her a devotion too profound, to whom Archangels bend the knee and the Son of God accorded filial obedience? Being perfect Man, He is a perfect Son; the desire of such a Son must be to see His Mother honored. From a child I felt the incomparable beauty, the resistless charm, of that Divine Maternity.... I used to steal away alone to think of It. I used to say to myself, seeing you dressed for some dinner or ball, in all your laces and jewels, ‘My earthly mother is beautiful, but my heavenly Mother is far, far more fair!’ and I loved to imagine myself as a little child at Nazareth who had fallen down and lay crying with pain beside the well from whence she nightly drew her pitcher of fresh water, and whom she gathered in her arms and comforted. If love of the Mother of Jesus were prayer, surely I prayed to her then!”
Still there was no response. She sighed and resumed her seat beside the pillow; and said, stooping and touching with her lips the waxen hand:
“I ought to tell you that I wished and tried, to put many questions to the Sisters. But they had pledged their word to discuss with me no question of religious faith, and they were adamant—not at all to my delight. ‘But I am a heretic,’ I said to Sister Édouard-Antoine. ‘Am I not worth the effort to convince and enlighten?’ She said: ‘My dear, when Our Lord wishes to enlighten and convince you, He will do it from within, not from without!’ Now I have told you all there is to tell—nothing is kept back—no shadow lies between us. Are you not content with me now?”
“I shall know peace,” said the relentless voice from the pillow, “only when I have your promise—a pledge that, once given, I know my Ada will keep. Say to me: ‘Mother, I will never become a Romanist, or marry any man who holds the Catholic faith!’ That pledge once given will be kept by you, I know...!”
In her very feebleness lay the strength that was not to be gainsaid or resisted. Her daughter’s tears fell as she whispered in the dying ear:
“Dear little mother, when you have crossed the deep, swift river that separates Time from Eternity, and the Veil has fallen behind you, you will be so wise, so wise!... Not one of the kings, and priests, and prophets who lived of old, will have been so wise as you. Think, dearest and gentlest!—if, by the light that shines upon you then, you were to see that the ancient Faith is the true Faith and the Mother Church the One Church ... would you not grieve to know your Ada shut off from peace—deprived of the true and only Bread of Life—fettered and shackled, body and soul, by an irrevocable vow?... Would you not—”
Her voice broke and faltered. But the pale head upon the pillow made the negative sign, and she went on:
“Will not you—who have submitted yourself so meekly to the will of Almighty God in accepting this cup of death that He now offers you—leave the issue of affairs—in faith that He will do all for the best—to Him? and forbear to exact this promise, which my heart tells me will bring me sorrow and pain!”