CHAPTER XIV.

_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.