The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  “But Lord Winter makes no mystery of his purpose. How can you help but guess it?”

  “I have no wish to guess anything,” Felton explained. “I wait until someone confides in me. Except for what Lord Winter has told me in your presence, he has confided nothing to me.”

  “So you are not his accomplice!” Milady cried with a feigned sincerity that was utterly convincing. “Then you did not even suspect that he intends to bring down upon my head a disgrace that all the punishments of all the earth cannot match in their horror?”

  “You are mistaken, My Lady,” Felton protested, blushing. “Lord Winter is incapable of any such crime.”

  “Perfect!” Milady said to herself. “He knows nothing about all this, yet he calls it a crime! I am making good headway!” Then aloud: “The son of Satan will stop at nothing.”

  “And who is the son of Satan?”

  “Are there two men in England who may be so described?”

  “You mean George Villiers?” Felton asked, his eyes blazing.

  “I mean George Villiers whom the godless and the libertines call Duke of Buckingham. I never dreamed there was a single Englishman in all England who requires such lengthy explanations to make him know who I meant.”

  “The hand of the Lord hangs heavy over his head,” Felton intoned sententiously, “nor shall he escape the punishment which he has earned.”

  With regard to the Duke, Felton was merely voicing the execration all Englishmen entertained toward a man whom the Roman Catholics themselves called the extortioner, the peculator and the profligate, and whom the Puritans referred to simply as Satan, Abaddon, Apollyon or Belial.

  “Ah, God! ah, God!” Milady wrung her hands. “When I crave that Thou visit upon this miscreant the chastisement which he so richly merits, Thou knowest well that I seek not mine own vengeance but rather the deliverance of a whole nation which is in helpless bondage!”

  “You know the Duke of Buckingham?” Felton inquired.

  Gratified that Felton should at last question her and happy that she had achieved this so readily and profitably:

  “Know him?” Milady repeated. “Know him? Alas, I know him to my great sorrow and my eternal grief.” And she wrung her hands as if in a paroxysm of agony.

  Felton, for his part, felt his strength failing; he stumbled toward the door. But the prisoner, watching his every step, sprang forward to intercept him.

  “Be generous, be merciful and listen to my prayer,” she pleaded. “I had a knife as you know; Lord Winter’s fatal prudence deprived me of it because he well knows to what use I would put it. Oh, please do not leave me; please hear me to the end! Give me back that knife for one minute only in the name of pity and charity. I am at your knees, a woman groveling in front of you. Look at me before you close the door upon me; tell me you know I do not seek to harm you.” She paused dramatically, flung her arms about his knees. “To harm you!” she went on. “You, the only just, good and compassionate being I have ever met; you, who may well be my savior. Give me that knife for an instant, I beseech you, for an instant only, and I shall return it to you by the grating. One infinitesimal moment, Mr. Felton, and you will have saved my honor!”

  “You mean to kill yourself!” Felton asked, forgetting in his terror to withdraw his hands from her grasp. “You mean to kill yourself?”

  With consummate artistry, Milady fell back as in a swoon.

  “God have mercy upon me!” she murmured as she sank to the floor, “I have given myself away. He knows my secret and I am lost!”

  Felton hovered over her, motionless and nonplussed. Milady, recognizing that he was still somewhat dubious, blamed herself for underacting her part. Suddenly footsteps in the corridor brought them both to their senses; both recognized Lord Winter’s tread. Felton edged toward the door, Milady sprang toward him.

  “Do not breathe a word of this, I beg you,” she urged in a tense, sultry voice. “Not one word to that man or I am lost and you, you, you will be—”

  Then as the steps drew nearer, fearing that she might be overheard, she pressed her beautiful hand on Felton’s lips with a gesture of extreme terror. Felton gently repulsed her and tottering across the room she sank into a chaise-longue.

  Lord Winter passed by the door without stopping; the echo of his footsteps grew fainter in the distance.

  Felton, pale as death, stood there straining his ears. When all was silence in the corridor, he sighed deeply, like a man suddenly awaking from a dream. Suddenly he darted out of the room. Milady in turn listened to departing footsteps as Felton moved off in the opposite direction from that Lord Winter had taken.

  “Ah!” Milady breathed triumphantly. “At last you are mine!” Then her countenance darkening: “But if he speaks to Lord Winter I am irremediably lost,” she thought. “Winter knows quite well that I will never kill myself; he himself will hand me a knife in Felton’s presence and Felton will soon see that my great despair was but a farce.” She walked to her mirror and gazing into it congratulated herself that she had never before looked more beautiful. She smiled. “True, true,” she concluded confidently. “But Felton will not speak to him.”

  That evening Lord Winter entered with the servant who brought Milady’s dinner tray.

  “My Lord,” she protested, “is your presence a necessary accessory to my imprisonment? Could you not spare me the increase of torment your visits cause me?”

  “What, my dear sister?” Winter replied in mock surprise. “Didn’t you yourself inform me, with those same pretty lips that are so cruel today, that you had come to England for the sole purpose of seeing me quite freely! To be deprived of that joy was so grievous, you told me, that you risked everything: seasickness, tempests, even captivity! Very well, here I am; you should be grateful. What is more, this time my visit has a definite purpose.”

  Convinced that Felton had spoken to him, Milady shuddered. Certainly in the course of her life this extraordinary woman had experienced the most powerful and conflicting emotions; but never before had she felt her heart beat so violently.

  She remained seated; Lord Winter drew up an armchair and sat down beside her. Then he took a slip of paper from his pocket and unfolded it slowly.

  “Pray examine this,” he urged, looking up at her. “I want you to see the kind of passport I myself drew up for you. Henceforth it will serve to identify you in the life I am willing to allow you to live.”

  Turning away from Milady to scan the paper again, he read:

  ORDER OF DUTY ON HIS MAJESTY’S SERVICE

  You are hereby commanded to conduct to———the female person named Charlotte Backson, duly and lawfully condemned to branding, for crimes committed, by order of the courts of justice of the Kingdom of France, and released after fulfillment of sentence.

  Said Charlotte Backson shall reside permanently in the aforementioned place, whence she shall be forbidden to adventure more than a distance of three leagues (nine miles). In the event of attempted escape, the penalty of death shall be imposed forthwith without benefit of trial. Said Charlotte Backson shall be allowed five shillings per day for board and lodging.

  Lord Winter cleared his throat, folded the paper and went on:

  “You will note that your place of destination has been left blank. If you have any preference, you will inform me; provided it be at least three thousand miles from London, your wish will be granted.”

  “That order does not concern me,” Milady said coldly. “It bears another’s name.”

  “A name? Have you a name, pray?”

  “I bear your brother’s name.”

  “No you do not!”

  “I—”

  “My brother is only your second husband; your first husband is still alive! Tell me his name and I will substitute it for Backson.”

  Milady did not move.

  “So, you will not tell me his name? Very well then you shall be entered on the prisoners’ docket under the name of Charlotte Backson.”

  Milady said nothing
but this time her silence was not a piece of strategy. She was mortally afraid. The order, she judged, was ready for execution; Lord Winter, hastening her departure, had probably condemned her to leave that very evening. For a moment her mind went blank, everything fell away from her, she was stunned. Suddenly she noticed that the order bore no signature and her joy at this discovery was beyond control. Lord Winter, his eyes fastened upon her, read her thoughts as he might read an open book.

  “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. “You are looking for the signature and seal. All is not lost, you think, for the order is not signed; he is showing it to me only to terrify me, you say. But you are sorely mistaken! Tomorrow this order will go to My Lord of Buckingham; next day he will return it signed and sealed; and within four-and-twenty hours I shall myself be responsible for its execution. This is all I had to say to you, Madame: I therefore bid you good-bye!”

  “And I tell you, sir, that this abuse of power, which exiles me under a fictitious name, is infamous.”

  “Would you prefer to be hanged under your own name, My Lady? As you know, here in England our law is inexorable on the chapter of marriage. Speak out and tell me what you want. Though my name, or rather my brother’s name, were to suffer for it I am determined to hazard the scandal of a public trial in order to be certain that I shall be rid of you once and for all.”

  Milady, pale as a corpse, made no answer. There was a silence.

  “Well, well,” Lord Winter went on, “I must conclude you prefer to prolong your peregrinations. So much the better, Madame. You know the old saw: ‘A-travel I would go.…’ Upon my word you are not wrong; life is very sweet. That is why I do not intend to forfeit mine at your hands.”

  Milady stared at him but said nothing.

  “The only thing that remains to be settled is your allowance of five shillings. You consider me somewhat parsimonious, do you not? The reason is that I do not care to furnish you with the means of corrupting your jailers. Anyhow, you will always have your charms left with which to seduce them. Employ them then if your failure with Felton has not disgusted you at attempts of the sort.”

  “Felton has not told him,” Milady mused. “Nothing is lost, then.”

  “And now, My Lady, au revoir until we meet again tomorrow when I shall call on you to announce the departure of my messenger.”

  Lord Winter rose, bowed ironically to her and left.

  Milady breathed again: she still had four days before her and four days would suffice to complete the seduction of Felton. But suddenly a terrifying thought flashed through her mind. Suppose Lord Winter were to send Felton himself to get the order signed by the Duke of Buckingham? In that case Felton would escape her, since the accomplishment of her plan depended on the magic of a continuous fascination. Still there was one reassuring aspect to her plight: Felton had not spoken.

  Determined not to appear unnerved by Lord Winter’s threats, she sat down at the table and ate her dinner. Then she fell to her knees as she had done the evening before and said her prayers aloud. Once again the soldier stopped pacing up and down the corridor to listen to her. Presently she heard footsteps lighter than those of the sentinel; someone was coming toward her cell. As the steps stopped before her door:

  “It is Felton, it is he!” she said and began singing the hymn which had excited Felton so violently the previous evening. But though her voice—a sweet, full sonorous voice—rang quite as melodically and pathetically as ever, the door remained shut. To be sure, in one of the furtive glances she darted from time to time at the grating of the door, she thought she detected the ardent eyes of the young man through the serried wires.

  Whether this was true or whether she imagined it, this time at least Felton mustered sufficient self-control not to enter. And yet a few moments later Milady fancied she heard a deep sigh. Then the same steps she had heard approach now withdrew slowly and as though regretfully.

  LV

  CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY

  Next day when Felton entered Milady’s apartment he found her standing on a chair, holding in her hands a kind of rope. Apparently she had made it by tearing some cambric handkerchiefs into strips, twining the strips one with another and tying them end to end. At the noise Felton made in entering, Milady jumped lightly to the ground from her armchair, sat down in it and tried to conceal this improvised cord by dropping it behind her.

  The young man was even paler than usual and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep, proved that he had spent a feverish night. His expression was more austere and stern than ever. He advanced slowly and taking one end of the suicidal rope, which by mistake or design she had allowed to appear:

  “What is this, Madame?” he inquired coldly.

  “That?” Milady smiled with that expression of appealing melancholy which she assumed so skilfully. “Boredom is the mortal enemy of prisoners. I was listless so I amused myself twining this rope.”

  Felton glanced at the wall toward which he had found Milady reaching when he entered; over her head he noticed a gilt-headed peg fixed in the wall and used for hanging up clothes and weapons. He gave a start which the prisoner observed through her lashes.

  “What were you doing standing on that chair?”

  “What can that matter to you?”

  “I wish to know.”

  “Do not question me, sir, you know that we true Christians are forbidden to utter falsehoods.”

  “Well, then, I shall tell you what you were doing or rather what you were about to do. You meant to complete the fatal plan you cherish. Remember, Madame, if God forbids us to lie, He forbids us much more sternly to commit suicide.”

  “When God sees one of His creatures persecuted unjustly and placed between suicide and dishonor,” Milady answered with ringing conviction, “God pardons suicide because such suicide is martyrdom.”

  “You say either too much or too little. Speak, My Lady. In Heaven’s name, make yourself clear.”

  “Ay, you wish me to tell you my misfortunes so you may treat them as fables; you wish to know my plans so you may denounce them to my persecutor. No, I could never bear that! Besides, why should you care about the life or death of an unhappy woman, unjustly condemned? You are answerable for my body alone, are you not? Provided you produce a corpse that can be recognized as mine, no one will ask aught else of you. Indeed, you may perhaps earn a double reward.”

  “I, Madame,” Felton protested indignantly. “Can you dream I would accept a reward for your life? Oh, you cannot possibly believe what you are saying.”

  “Let me act as I please,” Milady cried with increasing excitement. “Every soldier should be ambitious, eh? You are now a lieutenant, are you not? Well, when you follow me to the grave you will be a captain.”

  “What have I done to you,” Felton asked, “that you should burden me with such a responsibility before God and man?” He seemed considerably shaken. “In a few days you will have left here, My Lady. Your life will no longer be under my care and—” he sighed, “you can do what you will with it, because—”

  As though unable to resist giving vent to a holy indignation, Milady interrupted:

  “So you, a pious man, you who are called righteous and just, you ask for but one thing? And what is that thing, alas? Merely that you may not be involved in my death or held to account for it.”

  “I am in duty bound to watch over your life, My Lady, and I shall do so.”

  “But do you understand the mission you are charged with? A cruel enough mission if I am guilty. But what name can you give to it and what name will the Lord give to it if I am innocent?”

  “I am a soldier, Madame, and I obey orders.”

  “Do you actually believe that on the Day of Judgment, God will separate the blind executioner from the iniquitous judge? You refuse to let me kill my body yet you are the agent of the man who has determined to kill my soul.”

  “But I repeat: no danger threatens you. I will answer for Lord Winter as I would for myself.”

  “Poor delude
d soul, what madness to dare answer for another when the wisest and most Godfearing dare not answer for themselves? You are ranged on the side of the strongest and most fortunate of men, even if it means crushing the helpless and most unhappy of women.”

  “Impossible, Madame!” Deep in his heart Felton knew that the argument he was about to give her was a just one. “A prisoner, you shall not recover your freedom through me; living, you shall not lose your life through me.”

  “True, but I shall lose something dearer than life, Felton, I shall lose my honor. And it is you I shall hold accountable before God and men for my shame and my infamy.”

  Impassive as Felton was or appeared to be, this time he could not resist the secret influence which had begun to possess him. To see this woman, beautiful and splendent as a vision, to repel at once the ascendancy of grief and comeliness proved too much for him. It was beyond the power of a visionary, beyond the power of a brain undermined by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith, beyond the power of a heart corroded by the love of Heaven that burns and the hatred of men that devours.

  Milady perceived his disquiet. Intuitively she felt the flame of the opposing passions which set the young zealot’s blood afire. Like a skilful strategist who, seeing his enemy about to fly, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, superb as an ancient priestess, inspired as a Christian virgin, her arms raised, her throat uncovered, her hair disheveled. With one hand she held her gown modestly drawn over her high, firm breasts, and, her look blazing with the fervor which had already raised such havoc in the young man’s heart, she stepped forward and raised her usually low, melodious voice to a pitch of prophetic frenzy, singing:

  To Baal doom the innocent,

  To beasts their martyr prey,

  Our God shall force thee to repent

  Who saveth His alway.

  Felton stood listening to this strange invocation, like one petrified. Then, trembling:

  “Who are you?” he asked, clasping his hands. “Are you a messenger from God or a minister from Hell? Are you angel or demon? Are you Eloah or Astarte?”