The Modern Library Children's Classics

by Kenneth Grahame

  So Felton had been sent away, the marine guard had been relieved; therefore Felton was obviously under suspicion. This was the last cruel blow Lord Winter had reserved for her.

  Left alone, she arose. The bed which she had hugged through prudence in order that they might believe her seriously wounded burned like a bed of fire. Glancing at the door, she noted that Lord Winter had had a plank nailed over the grating. Doubtless he feared that this opening might furnish her with some diabolical means to corrupt her guards. Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her transports without being observed. She paced the room with all the frenzy of a maniac, with all the fury of a tigress caged. Certainly if she had still possessed the knife, she would not have dreamed of killing herself; she would have plunged it into Lord Winter’s heart.

  At six o’clock Lord Winter entered, armed to the teeth. This man, who hitherto had always seemed to her but a plain somewhat witless gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. Apparently he could foresee, divine and anticipate everything. One glance at Milady told him what was on her mind.

  “I see,” he said, “I see! But you shall not kill me today. You have no weapon now and besides I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence. But I will save him. He will never see you again. All is over. Get your belongings together and pack them up. Tomorrow you go! I had arranged for you to sail on the twenty-fourth but I have decided that the sooner you go the better and safer for all concerned. Tomorrow, by twelve o’clock, I shall have the order for your exile, signed, Buckingham. If you utter one word to anyone before boarding the vessel my sergeant will blow your brains out. He has received orders to do so. If, once aboard, you utter one word to anyone before the captain permits you, he will have you tossed into the sea. This has all been agreed upon.

  “Au revoir, then! That is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see you again to take my leave of you and bid you farewell.”

  Milady had listened to the whole menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips but with rage in her heart. Now she saw him bow and leave the room. Supper was served. Milady ate heartily, for she felt that she stood in need of all her strength. Anything—a miracle or a catastrophe—might well happen during this night which was approaching so menacingly. Great clouds rolled across the sky; distant flashes heralded a fierce storm.

  The storm burst at about ten o’clock. Milady derived a consolation of sorts as she saw Nature partaking in the disorders of her heart. The thunder growled in the air like the anger and fury in her mind. It was as if the blast, whirring across the earth to bow the branches of the trees and to strip them of their leaves, were lashing her and disheveling the very hairs on her head. She too howled like the hurricane as her voice was lost in the great voice of Nature which seemed to Milady to be wailing for despair, like herself.

  Suddenly she heard a tap at her window and, as the lightning flashed, discerned a man’s face behind the bars. She ran to the window and opened it.

  “Felton!” she cried. “I am saved!”

  “Yes,” said Felton, “but hush, hush! I must have time to saw the bars. You make sure that they do not see you through the grating.”

  “They cannot, Felton, and there is another proof that the Lord is on our side! They have boarded up the grating.”

  “Capital! God in His Wisdom has made them witless!”

  “But what must I do?”

  “Nothing, My Lady, nothing. Just shut the window. Go to bed or at least get into bed with all your clothes on. When I have finished, I shall rap at the window. But will you be able to follow me?”

  “Oh, yes!”

  “Your wound?”

  “It troubles me. But I can walk!”

  “Then stand by for the first signal.”

  Milady shut the window, blew out the lamp and, obeying Felton’s injunctions, curled up in bed. Amid the roars and moans of the storm, she could distinguish the steady grinding of the file upon the bars and by the light of every flash she perceived Felton’s shadow across the panes. She spent a whole hour breathless, panting, a cold sweat pearling her brow, her heart wrung by excruciating anguish each time she heard a move in the corridor. Time crawled by. There are moments which last a lifetime.

  An hour later, Felton rapped again. Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. The removal of two small bars formed an opening through which a man could pass comfortably. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes. Shall I take anything with me?”

  “Money, if you have some!”

  “Yes! Thank God, they left me the money I had.”

  “So much the better. I have spent all mine in chartering a vessel.”

  “Take this,” Milady urged, placing a bag full of louis in Felton’s hands. Felton took the bag and dropped it to the foot of the wall.

  “Now,” he said, “will you come?”

  “I am ready.”

  Milady mounted on a chair and passed the upper part of her body through the window. She saw the young officer suspended above the abyss on a rope-ladder. For the first time a feeling of terror reminded her that she was a woman. The yawning emptiness frightened her.

  “I expected this,” Felton said grimly.

  “No, never mind, it’s nothing at all,” Milady assured him. “I will go down with my eyes shut.”

  “Do you trust me?” asked Felton. “What a question!”

  “Put your two hands together. Cross them. That’s right.”

  Felton bound her wrists together with his handkerchief, then knotted a cord around the handkerchief.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Put your arms around my neck and fear nothing!”

  “But I shall make you lose your balance and we will both be dashed to pieces.”

  “Don’t be afraid. I am a sailor.”

  There was not a second to lose. Milady clasped her arms around Felton and slipped out of the window.

  Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, rung by rung. Despite the weight of their bodies, the blast of the hurricane swung them in the air. Suddenly Felton stopped.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Quiet!” Felton warned. “I hear footsteps.”

  “We are lost!”

  For several seconds all was silent. “No,” said Felton, “it is nothing.”

  “But what is that noise?”

  “The patrol making its rounds.”

  “Which way does it pass?”

  “Directly below us.”

  “They will surely discover us!”

  “Not if there is no lightning.”

  “They will run into the bottom of the ladder.”

  “Luckily it is six feet too short.”

  “There they are! Oh, my God!”

  “Hush!”

  Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless within fifty feet of the ground while the soldiers passed below, laughing and talking. It was a horrible moment for the fugitives.

  The patrol passed. The noise of retreating footsteps growing fainter, the murmur of voices died gradually away.

  “Now,” said Felton, “we are safe!”

  Milady heaved a sigh of relief and fainted.

  Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder when he felt there was no support left for his feet, he clung on with his hands, his legs dangling in the void. Presently he reached the last rung. Hanging on by the strength of his wrists, he touched ground. Stooping down, he picked up the bag of gold and placed it between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol had taken. He soon left the path under patrol, climbed down across the rocks, and reaching the sea, emitted a swift, shrill whistle.

  A similar signal replied. Five minutes later a boat appeared, rowed by four men. The boat approached as close as it could to the shore but the water was not deep enough for it to touch land. Felton walked into the water up to his waist, unwilling to entrust his precious bur
den to anyone.

  Fortunately the storm began to subside though the sea was still choppy. The little boat bounded over the waves like a nutshell.

  “To the sloop!” Felton ordered, “and row smartly!”

  The four men bent their oars but the sea was too high for them to make much headway. However, inch by inch, they were leaving the castle behind; that was the main thing. It was almost pitch dark. Already they could barely see the shore from the boat; it seemed even less likely that those ashore could possibly distinguish them.

  A black dot was floating on the sea. It was the sloop. While the boat was advancing with all the strength its four rowers could muster, Felton unknotted the cord and untied the handkerchief which bound Milady’s hands together. When her hands were free he cupped up some sea-water and sprinkled it over her face. Milady heaved a sigh, opened her eyes, and:

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “You are safe!” the young officer told her.

  “Oh, safe! safe!” she exclaimed. “Yes, there is the sky, here is the sea! This air I breathe is the air of liberty. Oh, thank you, Felton, thank you and God bless you!”

  The young man pressed her close against his heart.

  “But what is the matter with my hands?” cried Milady. “It feels as if my wrists had been crushed in a vise.”

  And she raised her arms to survey her bruised wrists.

  “Alas,” exclaimed Felton, looking at her beautiful hands and shaking his head sorrowfully.

  “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing!” Milady protested. “Now I remember all that happened.” Then she looked around her as if in search of something.

  “Here it is!” Felton reassured her, touching the moneybag with his foot.

  They drew near the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat, the boat replied.

  “What vessel is that?” Milady asked.

  “The vessel I hired for you.”

  “Where will it take me?”

  “Wherever you wish, provided you first put me ashore at Portsmouth.”

  “What are you going to do in Portsmouth?”

  “I shall carry out Lord Winter’s orders,” Felton replied with a gloomy smile.

  “What orders?”

  “Then you don’t understand?”

  “No, please explain, I beg you.”

  “As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself. So he sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your deportation.”

  “But if he mistrusted you, how did he come to trust you with such an order?”

  “How could I be expected to know what papers I was bearing?”

  “That is true. And so you are going to Portsmouth?”

  “I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet.”

  “He sets sail tomorrow? Where for?”

  “For La Rochelle.”

  “He need not necessarily set sail!” Milady cried, her usual presence of mind abandoning her.

  “Rest easy: he will not sail.”

  Milady started with joy. She could read into the very depths of this young man’s heart and there she saw Buckingham’s death sentence written in all its particulars.

  “Felton, you are as great as Judas Maccabaeus!” she thrilled. “If you die, I will die with you. That is all I can say to you.”

  “Hush! We must go aboard!”

  Indeed the boat was now alongside the sloop. Felton mounted the ladder first and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her because the sea was still choppy. A moment later they were on the deck.

  “Captain,” said Felton, “this is the lady I mentioned. You are to convey her safe and sound to France.”

  “On payment of one thousand pistoles,” the captain agreed.

  “I have paid you five hundred on account.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Here are the other five hundred, Captain,” Milady broke in, reaching for her bag of gold.

  “No, Ma’am,” the Captain replied. “I make but one bargain and I have agreed with this young man that the remainder is to be paid me only on arrival in Boulogne.”

  “Shall we land there?”

  “Safe and sound, Ma’am, as true as my name’s Jack Butler.”

  “Well, if you keep your word, instead of five hundred pistoles I will give you a thousand.”

  “Hurrah for you then, beautiful lady!” the Captain cried. “May God often send me such passengers as Your Ladyship.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Felton, “take us to the little bay of———. As you recall it was agreed you should put in there.”

  For sole answer the skipper ordered the necessary manoeuvres and toward seven in the morning the little vessel cast anchor as desired.

  During the passage, Felton related everything to Milady: how, instead of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel … how he had returned … how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones as he ascended in order to give him foothold … finally, how, when he had reached the bars he had made the ladder fast.… As for the rest, he concluded modestly, Milady had herself witnessed it.

  Milady, for her part, strove to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words she uttered, she plainly saw that the young fanatic needed rather to be restrained than to be urged on.

  It was agreed that Milady would wait for Felton until ten o’clock; if he did not return by then she was to set sail for France. If for some reason he could not join her aboard but was at liberty, he would catch a later ship and rejoin her in France, at the Convent of the Carmelites at Béthune.

  LIX

  OF WHAT OCCURRED AT PORTSMOUTH ON AUGUST 23, 1628

  Kissing her hand casually, Felton took leave of Milady as a brother might do of his sister, bound for a casual excursion. His whole attitude was calm as usual. But an unwonted brilliance in his glance betrayed an inward fever; he looked paler; his teeth were clenched; his crisp, clipped speech showed how nervous he was.

  So long as he sat in the rowboat bearing him to land, he kept his eyes on Milady. She too, standing on deck, gazed steadfastly at him. Each knew there was no immediate danger of pursuit.

  Felton jumped ashore, climbed the little slope that led to the clifftop, waved to Milady for the last time, and made for the city. A thousand yards further he could barely distinguish the mast of the sloop bobbing up and down on the distant waters. Portsmouth stood about two miles ahead of him; across the haze of early morning, he could make out its houses and towers. He sped on. Beyond Portsmouth lay the sea, dotted with vessels whose masts, like a forest of poplars in winter, bent with each gust of wind.

  Felton looked back over his life, his underprivileged youth, his years among the Puritans, and all the accusations these Puritans leveled at Buckingham, the favorite of two kings, James I and Charles I.

  Comparing the crimes with which public opinion charged this minister—glaring, national and even European crimes, so to speak—with the humbler, private and unknown crimes that Milady invoked, Felton was convinced that, in Buckingham’s dual conduct, the latter were the more reprehensible. In love for the first time in his life, swayed by a novel and strange and ardent urge, he viewed the infamous and imaginary accusations of Milady as through a magnifying glass. In his eyes, her grievances assumed an infinitely exaggerated stature. Thus a scientist, looking through a lens at a molecule invisible to the naked eye when placed beside an ant, sees it as a monster of titanic proportions.

  As Felton raced on, his ardor grew apace. His temples throbbed as the blood rose to his head. Was he to leave the woman he loved or, better, the saint he adored, at the mercy of the most dastardly vengeance? The variety of emotions he had experienced, his present fatigue, and his rising excitement contributed to exalt his mind above all rational, human considerations.

  Reaching Portsmouth at eight, he found the whole population astir. Drums were beating in the streets and in the port; the troops about to emba
rk were marching toward the docks. Covered with dust and streaming with perspiration, his face purple with heat and excitement, Felton sought to enter the Admiralty Building. The sentry refused him access; Felton called for the Orderly Officer.

  “I am Lieutenant Felton, sir, of the Royal Navy,” he said, coming to attention and saluting smartly. “I bear urgent dispatches from Lord Winter.”

  And he produced the letter his protector had addressed to Buckingham.

  As Lord Winter was known to be an intimate of the Duke’s, the officer motioned to him to pass and Felton darted into the palace. Just as he passed into the vestibule another man entered, dusty and breathless as Felton. (So great was his haste that he had left his posthorse at the gate without flinging the reins to a groom. The horse had fallen on its foreknees, exhausted.) Shoulder to shoulder, the two men raced up the steps; they addressed Patrick, the Duke of Buckingham’s confidential valet, simultaneously. But Felton named Lord Winter, whereas the stranger declined to identify himself to anyone save His Grace in person. Each sought to gain access to Buckingham before the other.

  Patrick knew that Lord Winter belonged to the service and that he was a personal friend of his master’s. Quite naturally, therefore, he gave preference to Felton. The stranger, who had perforce to wait, could not conceal his displeasure.

  Patrick led Felton across a large hall where the deputies of La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, who three years before had seized Oléron from the Royalists and had fought doggedly for the Huguenots for some years. Hard on Patrick’s heels, Felton proceeded down a corridor to a dressing room where Buckingham, just out of the bathtub, was putting on his clothes, a matter upon which he always bestowed the most meticulous attention.

  “Lieutenant Felton with dispatches from Lord Winter,” Patrick announced.

  “From Lord Winter, eh? Well, send the Lieutenant in.”

  Felton entered into the presence of a minister who, having tossed a richly gold-embroidered dressing gown over an armchair, was trying on a sky blue velvet doublet, studded with pearls.