The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

Milady uttered this plea with such vehemence and such burning eloquence that Felton, attracted despite himself, took a few steps into the room.

  He has come in, Milady thought.

  “Madame, if you really are in pain, I shall have a doctor sent for. If you are deceiving us, so much the worse for you. Thus we shall have no reason to reproach ourselves.”

  For her only reply Milady buried her beautiful head in the pillow and sobbed bitterly. Felton gazed at her for a moment with his usual impassivity. Then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be a long one, he went out, the servant following him. Lord Winter did not appear.

  “I fancy I am beginning to see my way,” Milady mused with savage joy, drawing the bedclothes over her face to conceal her satisfaction from anyone who might be spying on her.

  Two hours later she decided it was time for her illness to cease. She would get up and contrive somehow to gain an advantage of some sort. She had only ten days in all; two were already gone. Earlier the orderly had brought her breakfast; surely someone would be coming shortly to remove the table. And surely Felton would appear too.

  She was not mistaken. Felton returned, and without noticing whether Milady had touched the food or not, motioned to the orderly to carry away the table. He stood by the doorway, alone, still silent, a book in his hand.

  Milady, deep in a chair beside the fireplace, a picture of beauty, pallor and resignation, looked for all the world like a saintly virgin awaiting martyrdom. Felton approached her and said:

  “Lord Winter, a Roman Catholic like yourself, believes that you might suffer at being deprived of the rites and ceremonies of your faith. He sends you this book so you may read the ordinary of your mass every day. Here it is!”

  At the manner in which Felton placed the book on the little table near which Milady sat, at the tone in which he said your faith and your mass, and at the disdainful smile which accompanied them, Milady concentrated her attention on him. Then, noting the plain, severe arrangement of his hair, the exaggerated simplicity of his dress and the marmorean polish, hardness and impassivity of his brow, she recognized him for one of those somber Puritans whom she had so often met both at the Court of King James and at that of the King of France, where despite memories of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, they sometimes sought refuge.

  A sudden inspiration swept through her mind, the sort of guiding impulse which occurs only to people of signal genius and only in times of great crisis which are to decide their fortunes or their very lives. Felton’s mere emphasis of the pronoun your as he referred to faith and mass, and a cursory glance at him, sufficed to dictate Milady’s future strategy and to reveal to her all its importance.

  With the quick intelligence that characterized her, she protested:

  “I a papist?” The contempt in her voice matched his. “I, say a Romish mass? Heavens, sir, Lord Winter, that corrupt Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his superstition. This is a trap he is setting for me!”

  “And to what faith do you belong, Madame?” Felton asked with an astonishment he could not wholly conceal.

  With feigned exaltation:

  “I shall tell you,” Milady cried, “when I have accomplished the full suffering I must undergo for the sake of my beliefs.”

  Felton’s look disclosed to Milady the extent of the progress she had made thanks to these few words. Nevertheless the young officer stood silent and motionless; only his glance had betrayed him.

  “I am in the hands of mine enemies!” she continued with all the fervor she knew that Puritans affected. “So, let my God preserve me or let me perish for His sake! I beg you to convey this to Lord Winter.” She pointed toward the missal but forbore to touch it, as if to do so must inevitably contaminate her. “Take this back,” she commanded, “and make use of it yourself, for I am sure you are doubly the tool of Lord Winter—an accomplice in his persecutions and an accomplice in his heresies.”

  Still silent, Felton picked up the book with the same repugnance he had shown in delivering it, and retired, wrapped in thought.

  At about five o’clock that evening, Lord Winter appeared. Milady had found time aplenty to trace her plan of action; she received him with the air of a woman who has already recovered all her advantages. His Lordship sat down in an armchair facing hers and, stretching his legs nonchalantly on the hearth:

  “Apparently we have decided to go in for a bit of apostasy?” he jeered.

  “I do not know what Your Lordship means.”

  “I mean since we last met you have changed your religion. Have you by any chance married again—this time a Protestant!”

  “I beg you to explain,” the prisoner countered regally. “I vow I can hear what you say but it all makes no sense.”

  “It amounts to this, Madame: you have no religion whatever. It is best so.”

  “Atheism would seem more in keeping with your principles.”

  “I confess it is all one to me what you believe in.”

  “Why bother to profess your godlessness, My Lord? Your debauchery and crimes speak for themselves.”

  “What! you dare speak of debauchery, you, Messalina, you, Lady Macbeth! Either I misunderstand you or else you are confoundedly impudent!”

  “You talk so because we are being overheard, sir,” Milady replied frigidly; “you seek to prejudice your jailers and your hangmen against me.”

  “My jailers, my hangmen! Ha, Madame, you speak very poetically. Yesterday’s comedy is turning to tragedy, eh? Ah, well, within a week you will be where you belong and good riddance, too. My task will then be over.”

  “A task of infamy,” Milady retorted with the exaltation of a victim provoking a judge. “An impious horror!”

  “God save us, I vow the hussy is going quite mad! Come, come, be calm, Madame Puritan or I shall consign you to a cell. By Heaven, it must be my Spanish wine that has gone to your head. Never mind, that type of drunkenness is innocuous and without consequence.”

  With which Lord Winter withdrew, swearing as lustily as ever gentleman swore in that age of profanity and invective. And Felton, stationed behind the door, just as Milady had supposed, missed no word of the scene.

  “Yes, go, go,” Milady adjured her brother. “But remember: the consequences of your iniquity are upon you, while you, weak fool, will wake up to them too late!”

  Silence fell once again over her prison. Two hours passed by. When the orderly brought in Milady’s supper, she was lost in her devotions. Prayers she had heard from the lips of an austere Puritan, an old servant of her second husband, rose melodic and eloquent out of her ecstasy. She paid not the slightest attention to what was going on. Felton motioned to the orderly not to disturb her and, when all was arranged, he went out quietly with the soldiers.

  Knowing she might be watched, Milady continued her prayers to the end. It seemed to her, as clearly as she could judge under the circumstances, that the sentry halted occasionally to listen to her. For the time being nothing could have pleased her better. She rose, stepped toward the table, ate but scantily and drank only water. An hour later the orderly came to remove the table. This time, Milady noted, Felton did not accompany him.

  Immensely excited, she realized it was because he feared to see her too often. She turned toward the wall to smile triumphantly, conscious that her mere expression would have betrayed her hypocrisy.

  She allowed a half-hour to pass. Then, when all was silence in the old castle save for the eternal murmur of the waves as the vast sea broke against the rocks, she began to sing. In a pure, harmonious and vibrant voice, she chanted a psalm she knew to be in greatest favor with the Puritans at the time:

  Lord Thou hast now forsaken us

  To try our faith and strength,

  Yet merciful and generous

  Thou shalt forbear at length.

  These verses were anything but poetic but the Puritans cared little for artistic ornament.

  As she sang, Milady listened. The sentry on guard stopped; there was no m
ore pacing outside her door. Congratulating herself upon the effect of her psalmody, she continued to sing with inexpressible feeling and fervor; the notes seemed to her to spread far down the corridor and to echo progressively, from vault to vault, bearing some magic charm to soften the hearts of her jailers. However the sentry, doubtless a zealous Roman Catholic, was presumably able to shake off the spell. For, through the door:

  “Hold your tongue, Madame,” he enjoined. “Your song is as dismal as a De Profundis. It’s bad enough to be on duty here, but if we have to listen to such doldrum lamentation, it’s more than mortal man can bear.”

  A stern voice broke in. Milady instantly recognized it as Felton’s:

  “Hush, man! What business is this of yours, you rascal? Have you had orders to stop this woman singing? No: you were told to guard her and to fire on her if she attempted to escape. Very well, do as you were told and don’t let me catch you going beyond your orders.”

  An expression of unspeakable joy illumined Milady’s countenance, but it was as fleeting as the reflection of a flash of lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, she continued to sing, summoning all the charm, power and seduction Satan had bestowed upon her voice:

  Despite my tears, despite my cares,

  My exile and my chains

  I have my youth, my loving prayers

  And God who knows my pains.

  To the rude, unpolished poetry of this psalm, Milady’s voice lent a grace and an effect which the most impassioned Puritans, finding them seldom present in the songs of their brethren, had perforce to conjure up with all the resources of imagination. Felton would have vowed he was hearing that angel who brought consolation to the three Hebrews in the burning, fiery furnace. Milady continued:

  Oh God, most powerful and just,

  The day of our release must come,

  We shall reach Heaven if so we must,

  Or die in martyrdom.

  This verse, into which this accomplished enchantress put all her passion, struck home. The young officer, thoroughly bewildered, flung open the door and stood there, pale as ever but with eyes aflame:

  “Why are you singing?” he mumbled. “That voice … that voice of yours …”

  “I crave your pardon, sir!” Milady was all humility, “I forgot that my songs are out of place in this house. Perhaps I offended you in your beliefs. But it was not purposely, I vow. Forgive me, then, for a wrong which may seem serious but which was certainly not intended.”

  Milady was so beautiful at this moment and her religious ecstasy cast so luminous an expression upon her features that Felton, dazzled, fancied he was beholding that angel whom had only heard.

  “Ay, Madame,” he mumbled, “you are troubling and exciting the people who are meant to watch over you.”

  Nor did the witless young man gauge the incoherence of his words as Milady’s lynx eyes read into the depths of his heart.

  “I shall not worship,” Milady said, her eyes downcast, her voice mellow, her attitude resigned. “I shall pray inwardly.”

  “No, Madame, I beg you,” Felton said uncertainly, “But at night especially, pray do not sing so loud.”

  And, feeling he could no longer maintain his severity toward such a prisoner, he took to his heels. As he walked down the corridor:

  “You are right, Lieutenant,” the sentry said. “Such songs upset a body. And yet, heigh-ho! we get used to them, sir. The lady prisoner has a lovely voice!”

  LIV

  CAPTIVITY: THE THIRD DAY

  Felton had come to see her, certainly, but there was still another step to take: Milady must detain him and they must remain together quite alone. At present she only sensed obscurely how to achieve this result.

  There was even more to do: he must be made to speak in order to be spoken to. Milady knew very well that her greatest charm lay in her voice which, in its richness and variety ran the gamut of tones, from the speech of humans to the melopoeia of angels.

  Yet despite her powers of seduction, Milady might well fail, for Felton was forewarned against the slightest hazard. From that moment on, she watched over her every gesture and her every word, from the simplest glance and the merest reflex down to her very breath, for a breath might well be interpreted as a sigh. In short, she studied every reaction of hers, much as a clever actor who has just been assigned a new rôle in a type of acting to which he is unaccustomed.

  In so far as Lord Winter was concerned, her plan of conduct was easier; she had already determined upon it the night before. She would remain silent and dignified in his presence; now and again, she would irritate him by affected disdain or by a contemptuous word; she would provoke him to outbursts and threats that offered a contrast to her own resignation. Felton would see this; he might perhaps say nothing, but he would have seen everything.

  Next morning Felton came as usual, but Milady allowed him to preside over all the preparations for breakfast without addressing a word to him. As he was about to withdraw, a ray of hope cheered her, for she fancied he was about to speak. But his lips moved without uttering a sound. With a powerful effort to control himself, he recommitted to his heart the words about to escape his lips and he left hastily.

  Toward noon, Lord Winter entered. It was a rather fine winter’s day; a few rays of that pale English sunshine, which sparkles but does not warm, filtered through the prison bars. Milady, gazing out of the window, pretended not to hear the door as it opened.

  “Well, well!” said Lord Winter, “after playing comedy and then tragedy I see we are now playing melancholy.”

  The prisoner vouchsafed no reply.

  “I understand,” Lord Winter went on. “Quite! How happy you would be to have the freedom of that shore! How happy to be on a fine ship cleaving the waves of that emerald-green sea! How happy, whether on land or water, to catch me in one of those nice little ambushes you are so adept at laying. Patience, patience! Only four days more and you shall feel the shore beneath your feet, the sea will be open to you—more open perhaps than you would wish—and England will at long last be rid of you!”

  Milady clasped her hands and raising her beautiful eyes to heaven:

  “O Lord, O Lord my God!” she said with an angelic meekness of gesture and tone. “Forgive this man as I myself forgive him.”

  “Pray on, damned soul that you are!” Lord Winter sneered. “Your prayers are the more generous since you are in the power of a man who will never forgive you, I swear it!”

  With which he left her. But as he went out, she sensed a piercing glance fixed upon her through the half-opened door, and as she looked up, she glimpsed Felton moving aside hastily to prevent her seeing him. Encouraged, she fell to her knees and began to pray:

  “O my God, my God,” she cried, “Thou knowest in what holy cause I endure tribulation. Give me then strength, I pray, to bear my trial with fortitude and charity!”

  The door opened gently; the beautiful supplicant, pretending to hear nothing, continued in a tearful voice:

  “O God of vengeance, O God of grace, wilt Thou suffer the abominable plots of this man to be carried out!”

  Then only she feigned to hear the sound of Felton’s footsteps. Rising, quick as thought, she blushed as if ashamed of being surprised on her knees.

  “I would not wish to disturb anyone who is praying, My Lady,” said Felton gravely. “Pray continue your devotions, I would not wish you to interrupt them on my account.”

  “How do you know that I was praying, sir?” she asked in a voice broken by sobs. “You are mistaken I assure you; I was not praying.”

  In the same serious voice but in a gentler tone, Felton went on:

  “Surely you do not think I assume the right to prevent a fellow creature from bowing down before the Creator? God forbid! Besides, My Lady, repentance becomes the guilty. Whatever crime they may have committed, I hold the guilty to be sacred when they do obeisance at the feet of God.”

  “Guilty?” Milady protested. “I, guilty?” Her smil
e would have disarmed the angel on the Day of Judgment: “Guilty! Ah God, Thou knowest whether I am innocent or guilty! Say that I have been sentenced, sir, if you will; but as you know, that God Who loves martyrs sometimes allows the innocent to be condemned.”

  “Your condemnation itself is reason enough for prayer,” Felton replied. “But if you are innocent, the stronger the reason, and I shall add my own prayers on your behalf.”

  “Oh! how just, how righteous a man you are!” cried Milady throwing herself at his feet. “I cannot hold out any longer; I am desperately afraid of weakening when I shall be called upon to face the ordeal and confess my faith. I implore you, sir, to listen to the plea of a woman in despair. You have been deceived about me but that is not the question. I only ask one favor, no more; if you grant it, I shall bless you both in this world and in the next.”

  “You must speak to my master, Madame,” Felton replied. “I am not so fortunately placed as to mete out pardon or punishment. God has placed this responsibility in the hands of one who is of loftier station than I.”

  “No, I shall speak to you, to you alone! I beg you to listen to me instead of contributing to my shame and ruin.”

  “If you deserved this shame and invited this ruin, you must submit to it as an offering to God.”

  “What? What are you saying, man? Oh, why can’t you understand? When I speak of shame, you think I speak of some sort of punishment—prison, say, or the gallows? Would to Heaven these might be my lot! What do I care about prison or death?”

  “Now I, in turn, do not understand.”

  “Or rather you pretend not to understand me, sir,” the prisoner replied, smiling incredulously.

  “Nay, on my honor as a soldier and my faith as a Christian, I swear that is not true.”

  “Do you mean to tell me you are ignorant of Lord Winter’s designs upon my person?”

  “I assure you I am quite ignorant of them.”

  “Impossible. You are his confidant!”

  “I beg you to observe that I am not in the habit of lying, My Lady.”