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.