The many, long, dreary days of suspense that followed awaiting a reply from Archbishop Christie were surely days of indescribable penance. No one for a confident but myself, and my thoughts so pent up within me that I had to contrive some means of relief. My heart was crushed and broken. The suppression of my feelings and the burning sensation of the physical pain I had to endure in the awful conflict of soul and body were almost unbearable. I took advantage of the only remedy within this Roman "house of correction." I would go to the garret, which was the nurses' dormitory, and holding my garb up so that I could move freely, I would pace the floor, hundreds of times, exhausting, so to speak, the surplus energy caused by the unrighteous indignation. And, at the same time, praying in my simple way to the saints for light as to the next step to take. During the late hours of the sleepless nights, with the heavy burden of my troubles on my mind, I would walk the floor of my little room (about ten feet square) like some caged animal pacing his den in quest of liberty.
At the holiday season I wrote a short letter to Archbishop Christie, wishing him the greetings of the season, to which I received the following reply:
Portland, Oregon, January 2, 1912.
Dear Sister:
I thank you sincerely for your kind Xmas remembrance.
My Xmas was an exceedingly busy one. But it brought me great consolation. The large number of men and women who received holy communion was most edifying. Asking God to grant you a blessed New Year, I am,
Sincerely in Xto,
X A. CHRISTIE.
It had been over four months since I had written my letters for redress to him, and he never once even acknowledged receipt of them, and in this letter, as you can see, he never once mentioned anything about them.
In my depressing perplexities, I had begun to think that there was no such thing as redress in the order, and that the clause in my book of rule, "the right to apply to high ecclesiastical authority," was a blind and a farce, as was the teaching of "fatherly" kindness.
As my eyes opened I realized that I might as well try to tear down the mighty stone walls of the Rocky Mountains, which I could behold daily, as to move the Roman Catholic "religious" machine to interest itself in righting wrongs for a sister in the community. There was nothing for me to do but live on and take whatever wrongs the system was pleased to mete out to me to the end of my days, or to play the hypocrite for a few years, waiting for something better, if those in authority saw fit to give me a change.
I should have had the same privilege of receiving and sending mail in Canada as other American citizens are accorded, but not so. The system, as it always does, demanded and delegated to itself the right to scrutinize all mail sent or received by its subjects. So, in order that I might send and receive letters dealing with subjects other than the Roman Catholic religion and convent, I had to gain the confidence of a "secular" and receive my mail outside the convent.
I had written to a friend in Spokane, Washington, Mrs. A. J. Kearney, who was a graduated nurse from St. Vincent's Hospital, telling her of my trouble and that I was contemplating leaving the order, as I was at last satisfied in my own mind that this was the only step to take. I received an encouraging reply and wrote again, planning further.
In the meantime, I continued my novenas to the Blessed Virgin Mary, St. Anthony and St. Joseph, in heart-breaking sorrow and tears—praying for enlightenment, as I had been doing for weeks and months. In all earnestness and sincerity I was bowing, scraping, kneeling, pleading to the images, the statues and the fourteen stations of the cross.
At last, after so long a time, it came to me as if a thunderbolt had come from Heaven, that these statues and images and relics could do me no good. They were all clay and material. What I needed was something divine, but after living what I had lived, I was now ready to believe in nothing. I thought that if God was a just God, He could not and would not permit such oppression and cruelties and injustices to be perpetrated in the name of Christian religion and in His name. I decided that if there was a God who was the Creator of heaven and earth and all things therein, He would surely hear me if I would pour out my heart to Him. So I fell upon my knees and prayed as I had never prayed before—not to St. Anthony, not to St. Joseph, not to St. Vincent de Paul, no, not even to the Blessed Virgin Mary or any other saint, but to God Almighty, asking Him to show me the light and right; that "if what I am living is right, give me strength and courage to live it and endure it to the end, and I will try to believe it. But, O, God! if it is not right, show me the right that I may do Thy will; be Thou my helper now and forever," and I left my future in His hands, continuing to ask His help and guidance each day.