CHAPTER XVIII. — RETURN TO THE NUNNERY.
While we remained at this place I was not punished in any of the usual methods. Perhaps they thought the exposure to a burning sun, and a severe headache, sufficient to keep me in subjection without any other infliction. But immediately on my return to the nunnery I was again subjected to the same cruel, capricious, and unreasonable punishment.
On the first day after my return one of the priests came into the kitchen where I was at work, and I hastened to give him the usual respectful salutation, which I have before described. But he took hold of my arm and said, "What do you look so cross for?" And without giving me time to reply, even if I had dared to do so, he added, "I'll teach you not to look cross at me." He left the room, with an expression of countenance that frightened me. I was not aware of looking cross at him, though I must confess I had suffered so much at his hands already, I did not feel very happy in his presence; yet I always endeavored to treat him with all due respect. Certainly his accusation against me in this instance was as false as it was cruel. But what of that? I was only a nun, and who would care if I was punished unjustly? The priest soon returned with a band of leather, or something of the kind, into which thorns were fastened in such numbers that the inside was completely covered with them. This he fastened around my head with the points of the thorns pressing into the skin, and drew it so tight that the blood ran in streams over my neck and shoulders. I wore this band, or "crown of thorns;" as they called it, for six hours, and all the time continued my work as usual. Then I thought of the "crown of thorns" our Saviour wore when he gave his life a ransom for the sins of the world. I thought I could realize something of his personal agony, and the prayer of my soul went up to heaven for grace to follow his example and forgive my tormentors.
From this time I was punished every day while I remained there, and for the most simple things. It was evident they wished to break down my spirit, but it only confirmed me in my resolution to get away from them as soon as possible.
One day I chanced to close the door a little too hard. It was mere accident, but for doing it they burned me with red hot tongs. They kept them in the fire till they were red hot, then plunged them into cold water, drew them out as quickly as possible, and immediately applied them to my arms or feet. The skin would, of course adhere to the iron, and it would sometime burn down to the bone before they condescended to remove it. At another time I was cruelly burned on my arms and shoulders for not standing erect. The flesh was deep in some places, and the agony I suffered was intolerable. I thought of the stories the Abbess used to tell me years before about the martyrs who were burned at the stake. But I had not a martyr's faith, and I could not imitate their patience and resignation. The sores made on these occasions were long in healing, and to this day I bear upon my person the scars caused by these frequent burnings.
I was often punished because I forgot to walk on my toes. For this trivial offence I have often been made to fast two days. We all wore cloth shoes, and it was the rule of the house that we should all walk on tip-toe. Sometimes we would forget, and take a step or two in the usual way; and then it did seem as though they rejoiced in the opportunity to inflict punishment. It was the only amusement they had, and there was so little variety in their daily life, I believe they were glad of anything to break in upon the monotony of convent life, and give them a little excitement. It was very hard for me to learn to walk on my toes, and as I often failed to do it, I was of course punished for the atrocious crime. But I did learn at last, for what can we not accomplish by resolute perseverance? Several years of practice so confirmed the habit that I found it as difficult to leave off as it was to begin. Even now I often find myself tripping along on tip-toe before I am aware of it.
We had a very cruel abbess in the kitchen, and this was one reason of our being punished so often. She was young and inexperienced, and had just been promoted to office, with which she seemed much pleased and elated. She embraced every opportunity to exercise her authority, and often have I fasted two whole days for accidentally spilling a little water on the kitchen floor. Whenever she wished to call my attention to her, she did not content herself with simply speaking, but would box my ears, pull my hair, pinch my arms, and in many ways so annoy and provoke me that I often wished her dead. One day when I was cleaning knives and forks she came up to me and gave me such a severe pinch on my arm that I carried the marks for many days. I did not wait to think what I was doing, but turned and struck her with all my might. It could not have been a light blow, for I was very angry. She turned away, saying she should report me to the Lady Superior. I did not answer her, but as she passed through the door I threw a knife which I hoped would hit her, but it struck the door as she closed it. I expected something dreadful would be done to me after this wilful violation of a well known law. But I could bear it, I thought, and I was glad I hit her so hard.
She soon returned with a young priest, who had been there but a short time, and his heart had not yet become so hard as is necessary to be a good Romish priest. He came to me and asked, "What is the matter?" I told him the Abbess punished me every day, that in fact I was under punishment most of the time; that I did not deserve it, and I was resolved to bear it no longer. I struck her because she pinched me for no good reason; and I should in future try to defend myself from her cruelty.
"Do you know," said he, "what will be done to you for this?" "No, sir," said I, "I do not know," and I was about to add, "I do not care," but I restrained myself. He went out, and for a long time I expected to be called to account, but I heard no more of it. The Abbess, however, went on in the old way, tormenting me on every occasion.
One day the priests had a quarrel among themselves, and if I had said a DRUNKEN QUARREL, I do not think it would have been a very great mistake. In the fray they stabbed one of their number in the side, drew him out of his room, and left him on the floor in the hall of the main building, but one flight of stairs above the kitchen. Two nuns, who did the chamber work, came down stairs, and, seeing him lie there helpless and forsaken, they took him by the hair of the head and drew him down to the kitchen. Here they began to torment him in the most cruel manner. They burned sticks in the fire until the end was a live coal, put them into his hands and closed them, pressing the burning wood into the flesh, and thus producing the most exquisite pain. At least this would have been the result if he had realized their cruelty. But I think he was insensible before they touched him, or if not, must have died very soon after, for I am sure he was dead when I first saw him.
I went to them and remonstrated against such inhuman conduct. But one of the nuns replied, "That man has tormented me more than I can him, if I do my best, and I wish him to know how good it is." "But," said I, "some one will come in, and you will be caught in the act." "I'll risk that," said she, "they are quarreling all over the house, and will have enough to do to look after each other for a while, I assure you." "But the man is dead," said I. "How can you treat a senseless corpse in that way?" "I'm afraid he is dead," she replied, he don't move at all, and I can't feel his heart beat; but I did hope to make him realize how good the fire feels."
Meanwhile, the blood was flowing from the wound in his side, and ran over the floor. The sight of this alarmed them, and they drew him into another dark hall, and left him beside the door of a room used for punishment. They then came back, locked the hall door, and washed up the blood. They expected to be punished for moving the dead body, but the floor was dry before any of the priests came in, and I do not think it was ever known. Perhaps they did not remember events as distinctly as they might under other circumstances, and it is very possible, that, when they found the corpse they might not have been able to say whether it was where they left it, or not. We all rejoiced over the death of that priest. He was a very cruel man; had punished me times without number, but, though I was glad he was dead, I could not have touched him when he lay helpless and insensible.
A few weeks after the events just related, another trifling occurrence brought me into collision with the Abbess. And here let me remark that I have no way, by which to ascertain at what particular time certain events transpired. The reader will understand that I write this narrative from memory, and our life at the nunnery was so monotonous, the days and weeks passed by with such dull, and irksome uniformity, that sometimes our frequent punishments were the only memorable events to break in upon the tiresome sameness of our unvarying life. Of course the most simple thing was regarded by us as a great event, something worthy of special notice, because, for the time, it diverted our minds from the peculiar restraints of our disagreeable situation.
To illustrate this remark let me relate an incident that transpired about this time. I was one day sent to a part of the house where I was not in the habit of going. I was passing along a dark hall, when a ray of light from an open door fell upon my path. I looked up, and as the door at that moment swung wide open, I saw, before a glass, in a richly furnished room, the most beautiful woman I ever beheld. From the purity of her complexion, and the bright color of her cheeks and lips, I could have taken her for a piece of wax work, but for the fact that she was carelessly arranging her hair. She was tall, and elegant in person, with a countenance of such rare and surpassing beauty, I involuntarily exclaimed, "What a beautiful woman!" She turned towards me with a smile of angelic sweetness, while an expression of sympathetic emotion overspread her exquisitely moulded features, which seemed to say as plainly as though she had spoken in words, "Poor child, I pity you." I now became conscious that I was breaking the rules of the house, and hastened away. But O, how many days my soul fed on that smile! I never saw the lady again, her name I could never know, but that look of tenderness will never be forgotten. It was something to think of through many dreary hours, something to look back to, and be grateful for, all the days of my life.
But to return to my narrative. The priests had a large quantity of sap gathered from the maple trees, and brought to the nunnery to be boiled into sugar. Another nun and myself were left to watch it, keep the kettle filled up, and prevent it from burning. It was boiled in the large caldron of which I have before spoken, and covered with a large, thin, wooden cover. The sap had boiled some time, and become very thick. I was employed in filling up the kettle when the Abbess came into the room, and after a few inquiries, directed me to stand upon the cover of the caldron, and fix a large hook directly over it. I objected, for I know full well that it would not bear a fourth part of my weight. She then took hold of me, and tried to force me to step upon it, but I knew I should be burned to death, for the cover, on account of its enormous size was made as thin as possible, that we might be able to lift it. When I saw that she was determined to make me yield, in self defence, I threw her upon the floor. Would that I had been content to stop here. But no. When I saw her in my power, and remembered how much I had suffered from her, my angry passions rose, and I thought only of revenge.
I commenced beating her with all my might, and when I stopped from mere exhaustion, the other nun caught her by the hair and began to draw her round the room. She struggled and shrieked, but she could not help herself. Her screams, however, alarmed the house, and hearing one of the priests coming, the nun gave her a kick and left her. The priest asked what we were doing, and the Abbess related with all possible exaggeration, the story of our cruelty. "But what did you do to them?" asked the priest "You gave them some provocation, or they never would treat you so." She was then obliged to tell what had passed between us, and he said she deserved to suffer for giving such an order. "Why," said he, "that cover would not have held her a moment, and she would most assuredly have burned to death." He punished us all; the Abbess for giving the order, and us for abusing her. I should not have done this thing, had I not come off so well, when I once before attempted to defend myself; but my success at that time gave me courage to try it again. My punishment was just, and I bore it very well, consoled by the thought that justice was awarded to the Abbess, as well as myself.
CHAPTER XIX. — SICKNESS AND DEATH OF A SUPERIOR.
The next excitement in our little community was caused by the sickness and death of our Superior. I do not know what her disease was, but she was sick two weeks, and one of the nuns from the kitchen was sent to take care of her. One night she was so much worse, the nun thought she would die, and she began to torment her in the most inhuman manner. She had been severely punished a short time before at the instigation of this woman, and she then swore revenge if she ever found an opportunity. Now it was presented. She was in her power, too weak to resist or call for assistance, and she resolved to let her know by experience how bitterly she had made others suffer in days gone by. It was a fiendish spirit, undoubtedly, that prompted her to seek revenge upon the dying, but what else could we expect? She only followed the example of her elders, and if she went somewhat beyond their teachings, she had, as we shall see, her reasons for so doing. With hot irons she burned her on various parts of her person, cut great gashes in the flesh upon her face, sides, and arms, and then rubbed salt and pepper into the wounds. But I will not try to describe it.
The wretched woman died before morning, and the nun went to the priest and told him that the Superior was dead, and that she had killed her. The priests were immediately all called together, and the Bishop called upon for counsel. He sentenced her to be hung that morning in the chapel before the assembled household. The Abbess came and informed us what had taken place, and directed us to get ready and go to the chapel. When we entered, the doomed girl sat upon a chair on the altar. She was clad in a white robe, with a white cap on her head, and appeared calm, self-possessed, and even joyful. The Bishop asked her if she had anything to say for herself. She immediately rose and said, "I have killed the Superior, for which I am to be hung. I know that I deserve to die, but I have suffered more than death many times over, from punishments inflicted by her order. For many years my life has been one of continual suffering; and for what? For just nothing at all, or for the most simple things. Is it right, is it just to starve a person two whole days for shutting the door a little too hard? or to burn one with hot irons because a little water was accidentally spilt on the floor? Yet for these and similar things I have again and again been tortured within an inch of my life. Now that I am to be hung, I am glad of it, for I shall die quick, and be out of my misery, instead of being tortured to death by inches. I did this thing for this very purpose, for I do not fear death nor anything that comes after it. Talk about the existence of a God! I don't believe a word of it. And the story of heaven and hell, purgatory, and the Virgin Mary; why, it's all a humbug, like the rest of the vile stuff you call religion. Religion indeed! You wont catch us nuns believing it, and more than all that, you don't believe it yourselves, not one of you."
She sat down, and they put a cap over her head and face, drew it tight around her neck, adjusted the rope, and she was launched into eternity. To me it seemed a horrid thing, and I could not look upon her dying struggles. I did not justify the girl in what she had done, yet I knew that the woman would have died if she had let her alone; and I also knew that worse things than that were done in the nunnery almost every day, and that too by the very men who had taken her life. I left the chapel with a firm resolve to make one more effort to escape from a thraldom that everyday became more irksome.
At the door the Abbess met me, and led me to a room I had never seen before, where, to my great surprise, I found my bed. She said it was removed by her order, and in future I was to sleep in that room. "What! sleep here alone?" I exclaimed, quite forgetting, in the agitation of the moment, the rule of silent obedience. But she did not condescend to notice either my question or the unpleasant feelings which must have been visible in my features. I did feel very much troubled. I had never slept in a room alone a night in my life. Another nun always occupied the room with me, and when she was absent, as she often was when under punishment, the Abbess slept there, so that I was never alone. I did not often meet the girl with whom I slept, as she did not work in the kitchen, but whenever I did, I felt as pleased as though she had been my sister. Yet I never spoke to her, nor did she ever attempt to converse with me. Yes, strange as it may seem, incredible as my reader may think it, it is a fact, that during all the years we slept together, not one word ever passed between us. We did not even dare to communicate our thoughts by signs, lest the Abbess should detect us.
That night I spent in my new room; but I could not sleep. I had heard strange hints about some room where no one could sleep, and where no one liked to go, though for what reason I could never learn. When I first entered, I discovered that the floor was badly stained, and, while speculating on the cause of those stains, I came to the conclusion that this was the room to which so much mystery was attached. It was very dark, with no window in it, situated in the midst of the house, surrounded by other rooms, and no means of ventilation except the door. I did not close my eyes during the whole night. I imagined that the door opened and shut, that persons were walking in the room, and I am certain that I heard noises near my bed for which I could not account. Altogether, it was the most uncomfortable night I ever spent, and I believe that few persons would have felt entirely at ease in my situation.
To such a degree did these superstitious fears assail me, I felt as though I would endure any amount of physical suffering rather than stay there another night. Resolved to brave everything, I went to a priest and asked permission to speak to him. It was an unusual thing, and I think his curiosity was excited, for it was only in extreme cases that a nun ventures to appeal to a priest When I told him my story, he seemed much surprised, and asked by whose order my bed was moved to that room. I informed him of all the particulars, when he ordered me to move my bed back again. "No one," said he, "has slept in that room for years, and we do not wish any one to sleep there." I accordingly moved the bed back, and as I had permission from the priest, the Abbess dared not find fault with me.
CHAPTER XX. — STUDENTS AT THE ACADEMY.
Through the winter I continued to work as usual, leading the same dull, dreary, and monotonous life, varied only by pains, and privations. In the spring a slight change was made in the household arrangements, and for a short time I assisted some of the other nuns to do the chamber work for the students at the academy. There was an under-ground passage from the convent to the cellar of the academy through which we passed. Before we entered, the doors and windows were securely fastened, and the students ordered to leave their rooms, and not return again till we had left. They were also forbidden to speak to us, but whenever the teachers were away, they were sure to come back to their rooms, and ask us all manner of questions. They wished to know, they said, how long we were going to stay in the convent, if we really enjoyed the life we had chosen, and were happy in our retirement; if we had not rather return to the world, go into company, get married, etc. I suppose they really thought that we could leave at any time if we chose. But we did not dare to answer their questions, or let them know the truth.
One day, when we went to do the work, we found in one of the rooms, some men who were engaged in painting. They asked us if we were contented. We did not dare to reply, lest they should betray us. They then began to make remarks about us, some of which I well remember. One of them said, "I don't believe they are used very well; they look as though they were half starved." Another replied, "I know they do; there is certainly something wrong about these convents, or the nuns would not all look so pale and thin." I suspect the man little thought how much truth there was in his remarks.
Soon after the painters left we were all taken suddenly ill. Some were worse than others, but all were unwell except one nun. As all exhibited the same symptoms, we were supposed to have taken poison, and suspicion fastened on that nun. She was put upon the rack, and when she saw that her guilt could not be concealed, she confessed that she poisoned the water in the well, but she would not tell what she put into it, nor where she got it. She said she did not do it to injure the nuns, for she thought they were allowed so little drink with their food, they would not be affected by it, while those who drank more, she hoped to kill. She disliked all the priests, and the Superior, and would gladly have murdered them all. But for one priest in particular, she felt all the hatred that a naturally malignant spirit, excited by repeated acts of cruelty, is capable of. He had punished her repeatedly, and as she thought, unjustly, and she resolved to avenge herself and destroy her enemy, even though the innocent should suffer with the guilty. This was all wrong, fearfully wrong we must admit. But while we look with horror at the enormity of her crime let us remember that she had great provocation. I hope there are few who could have sought revenge in the way she did; yet I cannot believe that any one would endure from another what she was compelled to suffer from that man, without some feelings of resentment. Let us not judge too harshly this erring sister, for if her crime was great, her wrongs were neither small nor few, and her punishment was terrible.
They tortured her a long time to make her tell what kind of poison she put in the well, and where she obtained it. They supposed she must have got it from the painters, but she would never tell where she procured it. This fact proves that she had some generous feelings left. Under any other circumstances such magnanimity would have been highly applauded, and in my secret soul I could not but admire the firmness with which she bore her sufferings. She was kept upon the rack until all her joints were dislocated, and the flesh around them mortified. They then carried her to her room, removed the bed, and laid her upon the bedcord. The nuns were all assembled to look at her, and take warning by her sad fate. Such a picture of misery I never saw before. She seemed to have suffered even more than the old lady I saw in the cellar. It was but a moment, however, that we were allowed to gaze upon her shrunken ghastly features, and then she was hid from our sight forever. The nuns, except two or three, were sent from the room, and thus the murder was consummated. What else can we call it?
There was one young student at the academy whose name was Smalley. He was from New England, and his father lived at St. Albans, Vt., where he had wealth and influence. This young man had a little sister who used to visit at the convent, whom they called Sissy Smalley. She was young, but handsome, witty and intelligent. For one of her age, she was very much refined in her manners. They allowed her to go anywhere in the building except the private apartments where those deeds of darkness were performed which would not bear the pure light of heaven. I presume that no argument could convince little Sissy Smalley that such rooms were actually in the nunnery. She had been all over it, she would tell you, and she never saw any torture rooms, never heard of any one being punished, or anything of the kind. Such reports would appear to her as mere slanders, yet God knows they are true. I well remember how I used to shudder to hear that child praise the nunnery, tell what a nice, quiet place it was, and how she would like it for a permanent home. I hope her brother will find out the truth about it in season to prevent his beautiful sister from ever becoming a nun.
CHAPTER XXI. — SECOND ESCAPE FROM THE NUNNERY.
It was early in the spring, when I again succeeded in making my escape. It was on a Saturday evening, when the priests and nearly all the nuns were In the chapel. I was assisted out of the yard in the same way I was before, and by the same person. There was still snow upon the ground and that they might not be able to track me, I entered the market and walked the whole length of it without attracting observation. From thence I crossed the street, when I saw a police officer coming directly towards me. I turned down a dark alley and ran for my life, I knew not whither. It is the duty of every police officer in Montreal to accompany any of the sisters whom they chance to meet in the street, and I knew if he saw me he would offer to attend me wherever I wished to go. Such an offer might not be refused, and, certainly, his company, just at that time, was neither desirable nor agreeable.
At the end of the alley, I found myself near a large church, and two priests were coming directly towards me. It is said "the drowning catch at straws." Whether this be true or not, the plan which I adopted in this emergency seemed as hopeless for my preservation, as a straw for the support of the drowning. Yet it was the only course I could pursue, for to escape unseen was impossible. I therefore resolved to go boldly past them, and try to make them think I was a Superior going to church. Trying to appear as indifferent as possible, I approached, and saluted them in the usual way. This is done by throwing forward the open hand, and passing it down by the side with a slight inclination of the head. The priest returns the salutation by standing with uncovered head till you have passed. In the present instance, the priest said, as he removed his hat, "Church is in, Sister." I bowed again, and hastened on. With trembling limbs I ascended the Church steps, and stood there till the priests were out of sight. It was but a moment, yet it seemed a long time. I knew the house was filled with priests and students, some of whom would be sure to recognize me at once. What if they should come out! The thought of it nearly took away my breath. The cold perspiration started from my brow, and I felt as though I should faint. But my fears were not realized, and as soon as the priests were out of sight, I went on again. Soon I came to a cross street, leading to the river, where a large hotel stood on the corner. I followed the river, and travelled all night. The next day, fearing to be seen by people going to church, I hid in a cellar hole, covered over with old boards and timbers.
At night I went on again, and on Sunday evening about ten o'clock I came to a small village where I resolved to seek food and lodging. Tired, hungry and cold, feeling as though I could not take another step, I called at one of the houses, and asked permission to stay over night. It was cheerfully granted. The lady gave me some milk, and I retired to rest. Next morning, I rose early and left before any of the family were up. I knew they were all Romanists, and I feared to trust them.
At noon that day I arrived at St. Oars, a town, named, as I have been informed, for the man who owns a great part of it. I stopped at a public house, which, they called, "Lady St. Oars," where they were eating dinner. The landlady invited me to dine with them, and asked if I belonged to the convent in that place. I told her that I did, for I knew if I told the truth they would suspect me at once. "Do you eat meat?" she asked. I told her I did not. "Do you eat butter on your bread?" I replied in the affirmative, and she gave me a slice of bread and butter, a piece of cheese and a silver cup full of milk. I ate it all, and would gladly have eaten more, for I was very hungry. As I was about to leave, the lady remarked, "There was grease in that cheese, was it a sin for me to give it to you?" I assured her it was not, for I was allowed to eat milk, and the cheese being made of milk, there could be no sin in my eating it I told her that, so far from committing a sin, the blessed Virgin was pleased with her benevolent spirit, and would, in some way, reward her for her kindness.
Leaving Lady St. Oars, I went on to the next town where I arrived at seven in the evening. I called at the house of a Frenchman, and asked if I could stay over night, or at least, be allowed to rest awhile. The man said I was welcome to come in, but he had no place where I could sleep. They were just sitting down to supper, which consisted of pea soup; but the lady said there was meat in it, and she would not invite me to partake of it; but she gave me a good supper of bread and milk. She thought I was a Sister of Charity, and I did not tell her that I was not. After supper, she saw that my skirt was stiff with mud, and kindly offered to wash it out for me, saying, I could rest till it was dry. I joyfully accepted her offer, and reclining in a corner, enjoyed a refreshing slumber.
It was near twelve o'clock before I was ready to go on again, and when I asked how far it was to the next town, they manifested a great anxiety for my welfare. The man said it was seven miles to Mt. Bly, but he hoped I did not intend to walk. I told him I did not know whether I should or not, perhaps I might ride. "But are you not afraid to go on alone?" he asked. "St. Dennis is a bad place for a lady to be out alone at night, and you must pass a grave-yard in the south part of the town; dare you go by it, in the dark?" I assured him that I had no fear whatever, that would prevent me from going past the grave-yard. I had never committed a crime, never injured any one, and I did not think the departed would come back to harm me. The lady said she would think of me with some anxiety, for she should not dare to go past that grave-yard alone in the dark. I again assured her that I had no cause to fear, had no crime on my conscience, had been guilty of no neglect of duty, and if the living would let me alone, I did not fear the dead. They thought I referred to the low characters about town, and the lady replied, "I shall tell my beads for you and the holy Virgin will protect you from all harm. But remember," she continued, "whenever you pass this way, you will always find a cordial welcome with us." I thanked her, and with a warm grasp of the hand we parted.
CHAPTER XXII. — 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.