LONELY MIDNIGHT WALK.
It was near morning when I entered Mt. Bly, but I did not stop. I
traveled all night, and late in the morning came to a respectable
looking farmhouse which I thought might be occupied by Protestants. I
always noticed that their houses were neater, and more comfortable than
those of the Romanists in the same condition in life. In the present
instance I was not disappointed in my expectations. The lady received me
kindly, gave me some breakfast, and directed me to the next village. I
walked all day, and near night arrived at St. Mary's, where I called at
a house, and asked permission to sit and rest awhile. They gave me an
invitation to enter, but did not offer refreshments. I did not like
to ask for charity if I could avoid it, and I thought it possible they
might ask me to stay over night. But they did not, and after a half
hour's rest I rose to depart, and thanking them for their kindness
inquired how far it was to the next house. They said it was seven miles
to the first house, and nine to the next village.
With a sad heart, I once more pursued my lonely way. Soon it began to
rain, and the night came on, dark and dismal, cold and stormy, with
a high wind that drove the rain against my face with pitiless fury.
I entered a thick wood where no ray of light could penetrate, and at
almost every step, I sank over shoes in the mud. Thus I wandered on,
reflecting bitterly on my wretched fate. All the superstitious fears,
which a convent life is so well calculated to produce, again assailed
me, and I was frightened at my own wild imaginings. I thought of the
nuns who had been murdered so cruelly, and I listened to the voice of
the storm, as to the despairing wail of a lost soul. The wind swept
fiercely through the leafless branches, now roaring like a tornado,
again rising to a shrill shriek, or a prolonged whistle, then sinking to
a hollow murmer, and dying away in a low sob which sounded to my excited
fancy like the last convulsive sigh of a breaking heart. Once and again
I paused, faint and dizzy with hunger and fatigue, feeling as though
I could go no further. But there was no alternative. I must go on or
perish. And go on I did, though, as I now look back upon that night's
experience, I wonder how I managed to do so. But a kind providence,
undoubtedly, watched over me, and good angels guided me on my way. Some
time in the night, I think it must have been past twelve o'clock, I
became so very weary I felt that I must rest awhile at all events. It
was so dark I could not see a step before me, but I groped my way to a
fence, seated myself on a stone with my head resting against the rails,
and in that position I fell asleep.
How long I slept, I do not know. I think it must have been some hours.
When I awoke, my clothes were drenched with rain, and I was so stiff and
lame, I could hardly move. But go I must, so I resolved to make the
best of it, and hobble along as well as I could. At last I reached the
village, but it was not yet morning, and I dared not stop. I kept on
till daylight, and as soon as I thought people were up, I went up to
a house and rapped. A woman came to the door, and I asked if she would
allow me to go in, and dry my clothes, and I would have added, get some
breakfast, but her looks restrained me. They were getting breakfast, but
did not invite me to partake of it, and I dared not ask for anything to
eat. When my clothes were dry, I thanked them for the use of their fire,
and inquired how far it was to the next village. They said the next town
was Highgate, but they did not know the distance.
My tears flowed freely when I again found myself in the street, cold,
hungry, almost sick, and entirely friendless. What should I do? What
would become of me? One thought alone gave courage to my desponding
heart, buoyed up my sinking spirits, and restored strength to my weary
limbs. I was striving for liberty, that priceless boon, so dear to every
human heart. I might, perhaps, obtain it. At least, I would try.
Nerved to renewed effort by thoughts like these, I toiled onward. All
that day I walked without a particle of nourishment. When I reached
Highgate, it was eleven o'clock at night, but in one house I saw a
light, and I ventured to rap at the door. It was opened by a pale, but
pleasant looking woman. "Kind lady," said I, "will you please tell me
how far it is to the States?" "To the States!" she exclaimed, and in a
moment she seemed to understand both my character and situation. "You
are now in Vermont State," said she, "but come in child, you look sad
and weary." I at once accepted her offer, and when she asked how far I
was traveling, and how I came to be out so late, I did not hesitate
to reveal to her my secret, for I was sure she could be trusted.
She invited me to spend the remainder of the night, and gave me some
refreshment. She was nursing a sick woman, which accounted for her being
up so late, but did not prevent her from attending to all my wants, and
making me as comfortable as possible. When she saw that my feet were
wounded, badly swollen, and covered with blood and dirt, she procured
warm water, and with her own hands bathed, and made them clean, with the
best toilet soap. She expressed great sympathy for the sad condition my
feet were in, and asked if I had no shoes? I told her that my shoes were
made of cloth, and soon wore out; that what was left of them, I lost in
the mud, when traveling through the woods in the dark. She then procured
a pair of nice woollen stockings, and a pair of new shoes, some under
clothes, and a good flannel skirt, which she begged me to wear for her
sake. I accepted them gratefully, but the shoes I could not wear, my
feet were so sore. She said I could take them with me, and she gave me
a pair of Indian moccasins to wear till my feet were healed. Angel of
mercy that she was; may God's blessing rest upon her for her kindness to
the friendless wanderer.
The next morning the good lady urged me to stay with her, at least, for
a time, and said I should be welcome to a home there for the rest of my
life. Grateful as I was for her offer, I was forced to decline it, for
I knew that I could not remain so near Montreal in safety. She said the
"select men" of the town would protect me, if they were made acquainted
with my peculiar situation. Dear lady! she little knew the character
of a Romish priest! Her guileless heart did not suspect the cunning
artifice by which they accomplish whatever they undertake. And those
worthy "select men," I imagine, were not much better informed than
herself. Sure I am, that any protection they could offer me, would
not, in the least degree, shield me from the secret intrigue, the
affectionate, maternal embrace of holy Mother Church.
When she found that, notwithstanding all her offers, I was resolved to
go, she put into a basket, a change of clothing, the shoes she had given
me, and a good supply of food which she gave me for future use. But the
most acceptable part of her present was a sun-bonnet; for thus far I had
nothing on my head but the cap I wore in the convent. She gave me some
money, and bade me go to Swanton, and there, she said, I could take the
cars. I accordingly bade her farewell, and, basket in hand, directed my
steps toward the depot some seven miles distant, as I was informed; but
I thought it a long seven miles, as I passed over it with my sore feet,
the blood starting at every step.
On my arrival at the depot, a man came to me, and asked where I wished
to go. I told him I wished to go as far into the State as my money would
carry me. He procured me a ticket, and said it would take me to St.
Albans. He asked me where I came from, but I begged to be excused from
answering questions. He then conducted me to the ladies room, and left
me, saying the cars would be along in about an hour.
In this room, several ladies were waiting to take the cars. As I walked
across the room, one of them said, in a tone that grated harshly on my
feelings, "Your skirt is below your dress." I did not feel very good
natured, and instead of saying "thank you," as I should have done, I
replied in the most impudent manner, "Well, it is clean, if it is in
sight." The lady said no more, and I sat down upon a sofa and fell
asleep. As I awoke, one of the ladies said, "I wonder who that poor girl
is!" I was bewildered, and, for the moment, could not think where I was,
but I thought I must make some reply, and rousing myself I turned to
her, and said, "I am a nun, if you wish to know, and I have just escaped
from a convent." She gave me a searching look, and said, "Well, I must
confess you do look like one. I often visit in Montreal where I see a
great many of them, and they always look poor and pale. Will you allow
me to ask you a few questions?" By this time, I was wide awake,
and realized perfectly where I was, and the folly of making such an
imprudent disclosure. I would have given much to recall those few words,
for I had a kind of presentiment that they would bring me trouble. I
begged to be excused from answering any questions, as I was almost crazy
with thinking of the past and did not wish to speak of it.
The lady said no more for some time, but she kept her eye upon me, in
a way that I did not like; and I began to consider whether I had better
wait for the cars, or start on foot. I was sorry for my imprudence, but
it could not be helped now, and I must do the best I could to avoid the
unpleasant consequences which might result from it. I had just made up
my mind to go on, when I heard in the far distance, the shrill whistle
of the approaching train; that train which I fondly hoped would bear me
far away from danger, and onward to the goal of my desires.
At this moment, the lady crossed the room, and seating herself by my
side, asked, "Would you not like to go and live with me? I have one
waiting maid now, but I wish for another, and if you will go, I will
take you and give you good wages. Your work will not be hard; will you
go?" "Where do you go?" I asked. "To Montreal," she replied. "Then I
shall not go with you," said I. "No money could induce me to return
there again." "Ah!" said she, with a peculiar smile, "I see how it is,
but you need not fear to trust me. I will protect you, and never
suffer you to be taken back to the convent." I saw that I had made
unconsciously another imprudent revelation, and resolved to say no more.
I was about to leave her, but she drew me back saying, "I will give you
some of my clothes, and I can make them fit you so well that no one will
ever recognize you. I shall have plenty of time to alter them if they
require it, for the train that I go in, will not be along for about
three hours; you can help me, and in that time we will get you nicely
fixed."
I could hardly repress a smile when I saw how earnest she was, and I
thought it a great pity that a plan so nicely laid out should be so
suddenly deranged, but I could not listen to her flatteries. I suspected
that she was herself in the employ of the priests, and merely wished to
get me back that she might betray me. She had the appearance of being
very wealthy, was richly clad, wore a gold watch, chain, bracelets,
breastpin, ear rings, and many finger rings, all of the finest gold. But
with all her wealth and kind offers, I dare not trust her. I thought she
looked annoyed when I refused to go with her, but when I rose to go
to the cars, a look of angry impatience stole over, her fine features,
which convinced me that I had escaped a snare.
The cars came at length, and I was soon on my way to St. Albans. I was
very sick, and asked a gentleman near me to raise the windows. He did
so, and inquired how far I was going. I informed him, when he remarked
that he was somewhat acquainted in St. Albans, and asked with whom I
designed to stop. I told him I had no friends or acquaintance in the
place, but I hoped to get employment in some protestant family. He said
he could direct me to some gentlemen who would, he thought, assist me.
One in particular, he mentioned as being a very wealthy man, and kept a
number of servants; perhaps he would employ me.
This gentleman's name was Branard, and my informant spoke so highly of
the family, I immediately sought them out on leaving the cars, and was
at once employed by Mrs. Branard, as a seamstress. Here I found a quiet,
happy home. Mrs. Branard was a kind sympathizing woman, and to her, I
confided the history of my convent life. She would not allow me to work
hard, for she saw that my nerves were easily excited. She made me sit
with her in her own room a great part of the time, and did not wish me
to go out alone. They had several boarders in the family, and one
of them was a brother-in-law [Footnote: This gentleman was Mr. Z. K.
Pangborn, late editor of the Worcester Daily Transcript. Both Mr. and
Mrs. Pangborn give their testimony of the truth of this statement.] to
Mrs. Branard. His name I have forgotten; it was not a common name, but
he married Mrs. Branard's sister, and with his wife resided there all
the time that I was with them. Mr. Branard was away from home most of
the time, so that I saw but little of him. They had an Irish girl in the
kitchen, named Betsy. She was a kind, pleasant girl, and she thought me
a strict Romanist because I said my prayers so often, and wore the Holy
Scapulary round my neck. This Scapulary is a band with a cross on one
side, and on the other, the letters "J. H. S." which signify, "Jesus The
Savior of Man."
At this place I professed great regard for the Church of Rome, and no
one but Mrs. Branard was acquainted with my real character and history.
When they asked my name, I told them they could call me Margaret, but it
was an assumed name. My own, for reasons known only by myself, I did
not choose to reveal. I supposed, of course, they would regard me with
suspicion for a while, but I saw nothing of the kind. They treated me
with great respect, and no questions were ever asked. Perhaps I did
wrong in changing my name, but I felt that I was justified in using any
means to preserve my liberty.