_MY DEPARTURE FROM LLANTHONY._
The morning for my departure at last arrived. One of the first thoughts
that came to me was, “I wonder if, after all, I am mad, as they tell me
I am? Perhaps I am, and that is the reason for my leaving.” In solitude
on that morning I made a cup of tea, feeling too ill to eat, but I cut a
small portion of bread and butter, in case I should want it. No one came
near me. I thought I should much like to say good-bye to some one, but I
dared not speak, for it was a period of solemn silence. But I still had
no small attachment to the “Novice-mistress,” and would have stayed in
the convent had I only the assurance that I should be permitted to live
in peace, for I had been a sister so long, and (strange as it may appear)
the life itself had still a certain fascination for me. I did not _then_,
as I do _now_, so much blame the system, but those who treated me so
strangely, and often with cruelty.
At last I went into the community room, where I knew I should find the
Mother-mistress. On seeing her, I approached her and put my arms round
her neck, and was about to kiss her, when she shook me off as if I had
been a viper. Had she spoken but one kind word then, my courage to leave
might have been seriously shaken. But now hot tears rushed to my eyes.
I looked straight into her face, and knew I had made no mistake. A few
minutes after this she sent me a note:
DEAR CHILD,
I could not wish you good-bye; the reverend Mother had
forbidden me to do so, or even to come near you.
It was a cold, clear, bright frosty morning, when I left the monastery
at 7 o’clock. I was driven down that beautiful valley, and how I enjoyed
that drive! To my surprise, my conscience did not accuse me of sin in
thus leaving. The morning air seemed to clear my brain, and I knew with a
happy certainty that I was not mad; a feeling of peace with God seemed to
fill my soul. Such a peace I had not experienced for a very, very long
time—so calm, so soft and sweet, so free!
It was sixteen years and a month since I took my first journey to a
convent, and I had not taken a journey since, except when we went to
Devonshire, and from Devonshire to Llanthony, and then we saw nothing,
being in closed carriages, and having strict orders not to raise our
veils from our faces. Those veils were thick and heavy, covering our
faces, and reaching down far below the chin.
But I must return to my narrative. I have explained elsewhere, I think,
that the Prioress would not allow any of my letters to be sent to my
sister, in which I had asked for journey-money, and requested that she
would meet me, and give me instructions as to my best way of finding her.
None of my letters were ever sent. When I left home to go for the first
time to the convent, my sister was about seventeen years of age. Since
then she had married, and was living near Gloucester. Knowing so little
about the world outside a convent, I fancied that if I only asked for
a ticket to Gloucester, I was certain to find my sister. Accordingly,
when we arrived at Llanfihangel, in Wales, I booked to Gloucester. On
my arrival I asked the first man I saw with a fly to drive me to the
post office, as I thought my sister lived near it. Just as I was getting
into the fly I thought I had better tell the driver the name of the
place where my sister lived. He replied that he had never heard of such
a place; so I inquired at the booking-office, and found I must take the
train to a place some miles beyond Gloucester. On my arrival at this
place I went outside the station (it was now dusk) and saw what seemed
to me a stage-coach, and requested that I might be driven to the post
office. When I told the driver the name of the place, he said he could
not take me all the way there. “I will take you,” he said, “as near to
it as I can, and you will then have to walk a few miles farther on.” My
readers may imagine what a terror I was in. I began to fancy myself put
down in a lonely country road, with no house near, darkness reigning, and
all this experience coming to one who had been shut up in convents for
so many years. What was I to do? I was frightened at every one I met,
and as to a _man_, I feared the whole race. As I was thinking that my
best plan would be to try and take the next train back to Wales, I saw a
carriage passing near me, in which was a sweet, gentle, pale-faced lady
in mourning. I ran to the carriage, and said to the lady, tears streaming
down my cheeks:
“Oh, will you please take care of me for a night, for I am looking for my
sister, and cannot find her?”
She said: “Dear child, you cannot come with us. Who are you?”
I replied: “I cannot tell you who I am.”
I was so afraid of saying I was one of Father Ignatius’s nuns, knowing
that the newspapers might be full of it shortly, and that I should be
bringing trouble on Ignatius, and scandal on religion.
A gentleman now came up to me and told me to be off, speaking very
roughly to me. Again I appealed to the lady, assuring her I would go away
and look for my sister directly the morning came, if only she would take
care of me for this one night. The gentleman again told me to be off. But
the lady spoke for me, saying:
“We can’t leave the poor child here, like this!”
I felt grateful to her, though it seemed useless to appeal again. Just
then a still, small voice seemed to whisper these words to me: “Never
mind; you are my child; I will take care of you.” I stopped crying at
once, and, looking up to the lady, I said:
“Thank you so very much for being willing to take care of me, but never
mind; I am God’s child, and I know He will take care of me.”
These words were hardly uttered when the gentleman said, “Jump up.” I
looked in surprise, and could not think where I was to jump to, but I
found he wanted me to jump up and take a seat by the coachman; but I
could not manage this, as I was tired, ill, and worn out, and I had
scarcely tasted food for two days. The gentleman, seeing my inability,
kindly assisted me, and I was taken care of until I eventually found
my sister, who was glad enough to see me. But I was so frightened at
every one. Directly I heard a knock at the door I used to run up to my
bed-room, in case any one should see me, so strong was the force of the
habit I had acquired at the convent. My sister thought it disgraceful
that I should have been allowed to come out of the convent without even
a change of clothes, especially so when Father Ignatius had begged my
own dear mother to give me up to him for the service of God, and after
working as I had done for all those years. I explained that Father
Ignatius was on one of his preaching missions, and knew nothing about my
leaving. She told me to write and ask for some money. Father Ignatius
sent me two pounds, with which he expected me to buy clothes, to settle
myself in life, to pay my journeys, and purchase any other necessaries I
might require. Two pounds! Less than half of what he has paid, or allowed
others to pay, to purchase one cowl for a monk to wear at meal times
and in church; less than the sum he has spent to give the Prioress and
Novice-mistress Christmas presents! Two pounds, after sixteen years of
hard work!
I stayed with my sister about three months, until I was a little less
frightened, and then went to my sister in London. I had to be provided
with every article of clothing, for the habit in which I came forth from
the convent I had worn for about six winters. I was naturally careful
and liked to make my “religious” dress last a long time. One habit I had
worn for nine summers, so really I was never an expensive or extravagant
nun.
At this period, my thoughts often went out to my first Mother Superior
at Feltham; I longed to see her, but for some time I felt afraid to go
to her or even to write, as Father Ignatius had said so much about the
members of the Feltham convent being under God’s curse, and had made us
think that any one who held communication with them would be committing a
grave sin. At last, however, I summoned sufficient courage to write and
tell her that I had left Llanthony. She wrote me a most kind letter, and
asked me to go and see her; this I did, and told her all my Llanthony
experiences. She seemed to take it for granted that I was coming back to
her, and even asked me plainly _when_ I thought of taking up my abode in
the community once more? I told her I had never thought of doing so. I
must frankly acknowledge that I had a very deep affection for this Mother
Superior, and I did not like to disappoint her, so I arranged to return,
and after being there four days she allowed me to have the novice’s
veil, and promised that I might take the black veil in six months’
time. I must confess that this Mother, in comparison with the one at
Llanthony, was kindness itself. I never found at Feltham that one sister
is permitted to tyrannize over another.
After I had been there about three months the reaction came. I compared
the two convents, and actually (with shame I say it) was _mad_ enough to
think that because the Feltham rule was not strict, therefore the life
could not be so perfect! Father Ignatius’s sermons now seemed to come
back to me word for word, especially all he had taught me on monastic
obedience and the will of God. I kept thinking it all over, and could
not banish it from my memory; I felt convinced that it applied to me,
that I had sinned by leaving Llanthony, and was not doing God’s will by
remaining at Feltham. I found no rest till I had unburdened my mind to
the Feltham Mother, and I then implored her to allow me to return. She
thought it nothing short of infatuation, and reminded me of what I had
told her of Mother Wereburgh. However, she left me free to do what I
thought best, advising me first to write to my sister, and to see her
before leaving Feltham. My sister came, but she could make no impression
on me, and she could not comprehend my conduct. Indeed, I must confess
I could not understand it myself; for I did not want to return, yet a
mysterious something seemed to draw me, and force me on against my own
will. Some such experience as this occurred to the Nun of Kenmare, for on
page 29 in her “Autobiography” I read: “I was to all appearances a free
agent, and I was still young, I had full liberty of choice, yet I felt in
some strange way, as I have often felt since, that I had no choice, that
I was led or moved or influenced by some exterior power.” So was it with
me in my infatuation for Llanthony: I could not help myself; I seemed
forced by an invisible yet very real power, which I did not pray against,
and therefore yielded to.