Gale Warning

by Dornford Yates

  At once I began to move along the edge of the trees, and after perhaps twenty paces, the junction for which I was looking came into my sight. This was to my great relief, for, folly or no, I had added a valuable viewpoint to those I had. The coppice was easy to reach and the view which it offered was clear: and when you are watching someone who must not suspect your game, it is very much wiser to do it from four miles off.

  I made my way back to our aerie in very good cue, for if we were to take our ease for the rest of the day – and I must confess I liked the idea very well – at least we had ended our work on a very high note.

  I went so fast that I had no time to reflect – to be perfectly honest I did not want to reflect – upon a post-prandial communion I had not at all enjoyed. The storm was over, and that was enough for me. My lady had been out of humour, and now was appeased.

  But when I came to where I had left her, she was not there: and when I looked down for the Lowland, the car was gone.

  And then I saw a page from my note-book, lying where I had been standing, at the foot of a tree.

  Its legend went straight to the point: You had been warned.

  If I cannot defend my lady, I cannot defend myself. A man with the sense of a louse would have played backgammon first, and afterwards walked to the bluff to look at the view. But, because I had no such sense, I had let her wait upon a business of which I knew she was sick. And that was the straw which had broken the camel’s back.

  It was true – I had been warned. But having no ears to hear, I had not heard the warning – with this result.

  Audrey was gone…with the car. And the nearest town was Dieppe, some seven miles off.

  I did not at all mind walking the seven miles – for, though there were villages nearer, Dieppe was the nearest place at which I could charter a car. But I could not cover the distance in very much less than two hours, and I did not like the idea of Audrey’s driving alone on the open road. I hoped and prayed she had had the good sense to go home. But out of her present mood God only knew what folly might not arise. And she was far too attractive and far too attractively dressed to leave the car unescorted by some cavalier.

  Once this pregnant reflection had entered my head, I began to imagine vain things and to picture my darling beset by somebody stronger than she, whilst I was out of her ken and so unable to help her in her adversity. This brought the sweat on to my face, and when I put up my glasses to search what roads I could see, my hands were trembling so much that I had to lie down on the ground and hold the binocular steady against the root of a tree. But labour and time were lost, for I saw no sign of the car, so I got to my feet and put the glasses away and then struck out for Dieppe as fast as I could. I went, of course, across country, as being the quickest way, aiming to strike the main road at a point three miles from the coppice, where four ways met. In the ordinary way, this would have been a profitable exercise, but I had no eyes for the country or for the roads I crossed, for all I could think of was Audrey and Audrey’s lovable ways.

  I felt no resentment at all for what she had done. I could only remember how sweet and how splendid she was and what it must have cost her, on that afternoon at Le Bourget, to play to such perfection the part she had promised to take. And then, for more than a month, she had laboured early and late with all her might – and that at an enterprise of which nine men out of ten would have tired in less than a week. She had put her hand to the plough – a hand by no means fitted for such an implement: and until this afternoon she had never looked back. She had never spared herself: and I, who should have spared her, had taken all she gave as a matter of course. Look at it how you will, she had been in my charge; and I had made no allowance for the time-honoured way of a maid.

  Looking back, I think the truth is that, though I scourged myself as I stumbled across the fields, I was not so much to blame as I then assumed. I had kept my eyes upon the duty which I had been set and had favoured a discipline which Audrey had come to observe. But this I had done not only for duty’s sake. Placed as I was, I had been afraid to ‘let up.’

  I was in love with Audrey, and Audrey was at my disposal from morning to night. I had her all to myself for the whole of each day – a privilege, I think, for which a great many rich men would have given as much as they had. We were living on intimate terms and our quarters were very close, and we were posing as lovers – for such as had eyes to observe. Yet, I was not her lover. And though, perhaps, some men would have tried their luck, opportunism so flagrant was more than I could digest.

  So something had to be done.

  By keeping my nose to the grindstone, I left myself no time to think about love. At least, that was the idea – the method in my madness, a word I can fairly use. For I was mad about Audrey: and that is the downright truth.

  I had struck the highway within a very short distance of where I had meant to arrive and was pelting along the tarmac as hard as ever I could, when I breasted a sudden hillock to see the Lowland before me, a quarter of a mile away. The car was standing still by the side of the road.

  My first emotion was one of intense relief: but, as I drew near, I saw that the car was empty, and when I came up at a run, there was no sign of Audrey and nothing whatever to tell me which way she had gone.

  With this, my worst apprehensions came back in a flood, and I went about the car in a frenzy, searching for traces of a struggle within and without. But, though I could find no such signs, I was not comforted, for to my disordered mind this only went to show that the scene of my darling’s abduction was somewhere else.

  I wiped the sweat from my face and threw a frantic look round.

  The road, of course, was empty: there was, I knew, no turning for two or three hundred yards: and, though for the most part the highway itself was open, at this particular spot tall banks were hiding the country on either side.

  Unable to stand such blindness, I flung myself at the bank beside which the car was berthed; and a moment later I was overlooking a meadow of very fair grass. This was studded by several magnificent trees and, since the herbage was green and the sunshine was very bright, the patches of shade which they threw made what was a pretty picture into a striking scene. As though to humour some painter, a number of good-looking Jerseys were leisurely eating their fill, while, sunk in the trees in the distance, I saw the gleam of a farm. A dog and two little children were clearly in charge of the herd, but, since the meadow was fenced, their duties were light: this in a way was as well, for the three were sitting down with their backs to the cows and their six eyes fast upon Audrey, who I afterwards found was telling a fairy-tale.

  The dog was the first to see me, and told the others by growling that I was there. Then Audrey looked round and saw me – and put up a hand and waved.

  As I drew near, she spoke.

  “Are you terribly cross, St John?”

  “I’m too much relieved,” I said.

  “But why ‘relieved,’ St John?”

  “You don’t deserve it,” said I, “but – to find you safe.”

  Audrey addressed the children, speaking in French. “I told you,” she said, “that he was the sweetest thing.”

  With that, she introduced us.

  Jeanne Marie was five, and her brother was six: and both were very clean and very polite: and both, I am sure, believed that I was Audrey’s husband – or if they did not, then it was not Audrey’s fault.

  She patted the ground by her side.

  “Sit down, my darling. We’re on parade, you know. So take a leaf out of my book and don’t let the side down.”

  As I took my seat, she turned to the children again.

  “Monsieur,” she said, “is more clever than any dog. I left him four miles from here, and I never said where I was going, and he never saw me go. Yet, you see he has found me within the hour.”

  Jeanne Marie regarded me, finger to lip.

  “That,” she said, “is because he loves Madame so much.”

  “I never though
t of that,” said Audrey. She threw me a dazzling smile. “Is that how you did it, St John?”

  “I like to think so,” said I, with the blood in my face.

  Audrey addressed my tell-tale.

  “You’re perfectly right,” she said. “I think I’m very lucky, don’t you?”

  Jeanne Marie smiled at me and then looked down at her feet.

  “It is not for me to say.”

  “Oh, you home-wrecker,” said Audrey. “And what does Edouard think?”

  The boy regarded me straightly: then he returned to Audrey, who plainly had all his heart.

  “I think Monsieur is luckier still.”

  Audrey shook her head.

  “You’re wrong,” she said. “He’s very much nicer than me – and I ought to know.”

  “Audrey,” I said, “have a heart. When you talk like that, I want to burst into tears.”

  With the tenderest look, she put out her hand for mine. Then she returned to the children and told them what I had said.

  They nodded approvingly.

  “It does not surprise me,” said Edouard.

  Jeanne Marie went further.

  “That,” she said, “is quite right. It shows that Monsieur loves Madame more than himself.”

  “Can’t we change the subject?” said I. “That child’s too old for her age.”

  Audrey strove not to laugh.

  “Play up, m-my darling,” she quavered. “Don’t let the side down.”

  I took a sudden decision.

  “It’s time we were going,” I said, and, with that, I got to my feet and put out my hands for hers.

  She gave them me, and I pulled her up to her feet. But I did not let her hands go. So we stood very close together, face to face.

  “I’m very sorry,” I said. “I’ve been all sorts of a fool. But I’m wiser now. And I was so thankful to find you – my darling girl.”

  Then I drew her to me and kissed her – to Jeanne Marie’s great delight, for she came to me, all smiling, and asked me to kiss her, too.

  But Edouard regarded me gravely. And when I took him aside to give him a hundred francs, he would not take it from me: so Audrey had to come and put it into his hand.

  We spent two hours in Rouen, before going home that day: and since, though I did not know it, she had a skirt in the car, we were able to berth the Lowland and prove the city on foot. To say I enjoyed myself means nothing at all, for Audrey was at the very top of her bent; and the pleasure she had of, surely, as simple an outing as ever two people took, made me still more ashamed that she should have waited so long for such a holiday. But when I told her as much, she only took my arm and entered a jeweller’s shop and, selecting a silver lighter, ordered this to be engraved with the initials ‘St J.’

  “When will it be ready?” she said.

  “At mid-day tomorrow, Madame.”

  “Thank you,” said I. “We’ll pick it up after lunch.”

  I spoke more truly than I knew.

  It had been in my mind for us to lunch at Rouen and dine and dance at Dieppe; but when, some two hours later, we entered our stable-yard, Bell was there to greet us – with a telephone-slip in his hand.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “but I think we’re off.”

  Audrey and I together pored over the precious words.

  Stand by for Dieppe. Meet Rowley Rouen Cathedral tomorrow mid-day.

  6: The Kingdom of Heaven

  Forty-eight hours had gone by, and Audrey, pencil in hand, was watching my face as I dealt with the telephone. Behind her, Bell stood like a statue, betraying no sort of emotion, not seeming to breathe: and Rowley, keen-eyed and smiling, was standing beyond him again, with the tray which he had been using still in his hand.

  And then I heard Mansel’s voice.

  “I rather think that’ll be John.”

  “It is,” said I. “I’m here.”

  “Good,” said Mansel. “I thought you’d like to know that all is OK. The car in question was shipped twenty minutes ago. Ring up tomorrow somehow to say where you are.”

  “I will,” said I.

  “Take care of your lady friend and give her my love.”

  “I will.”

  “Till then – goodbye and good luck.”

  “Goodbye,” said I, and he put his receiver back.

  I put mine back and looked round.

  “The curtain’s up,” I said. “His car was put aboard twenty minutes ago.”

  I think everybody relaxed.

  “What else did he say?” said Audrey.

  “He only sent you his love and wished us good luck.”

  Audrey glanced at her wrist.

  “How soon do we start?” she said.

  “At midnight, please,” said I. “His boat will come in at two: and I think we ought to be there by half-past one.”

  “I’ll see the cook right away, and then I shall go and lie down. Why don’t you do the same? Bell or Rowley will call us at a quarter to twelve.”

  “Perhaps I will,” said I. “Is everything packed?”

  “All but the food, sir,” said Bell. “I’ll see that’s put in the cars the very last thing.”

  “Well, take it easy, then, for the next two hours. And Rowley, too, of course. It might make a difference tomorrow – you never know.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  I got to my feet.

  “Before we break up,” I said, “there’s one thing I’d like to say. I’ve shown you the line which I think we should try to take. But I haven’t consulted Plato: and Plato may not agree. At a moment’s notice, therefore, we may have to scrap it all and to take some sudden action for which we are not prepared. We shall have no time to think, much less to consult; for if we hesitate, our man will be lost. Now if this should happen to me, I shall act on my own: and everyone else must do exactly the same – and ring this villa up as soon as he possibly can. We’re going to get home tomorrow – no doubt about that. But we’re going to get home on instinct, and nothing else. Of that I’m perfectly sure. And instinct’s a damned good horse but you’ve got to give him his head.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Audrey, before Bell or Rowley could speak.

  And then she was gone, and the three of us were laughing because we could do nothing else.

  Though we left the villa at midnight, we might, as things turned out, have stayed there till six o’clock, for Plato remained aboard until half-past eight.

  I had feared that he might do this – in fact, to tell the truth, I was pretty certain he would: but he could, had he pleased, have landed at two o’clock, and so we had to be ready in case he did.

  Had he disembarked at two, he could have taken the road a long time before it was light; but though the darkness would have helped him to get away, it would also have stood a pursuer in very good stead. Indeed, I should have been thankful if he had taken this course, for he could never have driven without any lights: but this we could have done, because we knew the country so well: so he could never have seen us, although we were close behind, and we could never have lost him, because of the light he shed.

  But if I could see this, so could Plato. So Plato took it easy and never left the steamer till half-past eight. But we spent a wretched night, for, as though to make it still harder, the Customs’ landing hours were not only two and eight-thirty, but also half-past five: so we had no rest at all, but had to stand to three times, when once would have done.

  Still, the weather was fine and warm, and, thanks, of course, to Bell, we were able to bathe and breakfast in somebody’s private flat in the heart of the town. I strongly suspect that the owner was never aware of the flying visit we paid, for the caretaker spoke in whispers and seemed immensely relieved when we took our leave: but we were too thankful to ask any awkward questions and made our way back to the Lowland like giants refreshed.

  I shall never forget one moment of all that day, but for some strange reason I seem to remember most clearly the ‘shining morning face�
� of the town of Dieppe. It was by no means lovely, and its toilet was very slight; but the sunlight made it look cheerful and the rapid change of its expression from that of a sluggard to that of a business man must, I think, have arrested the most preoccupied mind. The streets, from being silent, became in a short twenty minutes the very abode of uproar of every kind, and where there had been no movement, something approaching tumult seemed to prevail. I think it was the bustle and racket which stamped those particular moments so deeply upon my brain, for I had been accustomed to working in peace and quiet, and I found the hubbub distracting – now that I needed my wits as never before.

  Of one thing I was quite sure – that Plato’s vigilance would be, so to speak, at the flood, when first his car began to move off from the quay. Every being he saw would be suspect, and if any car behind him appeared to be going his way, he would simply pull into the pavement and let it go by. As like as not, he would make a tour of Dieppe, his chauffeur driving and he looking out of the window at the back of the car: and if he chose to do that, we were either bound to lose him or bound to betray our interest in his excursion. And so we had decided to let him go as he pleased until he drove out of the town, and then – but not before – to fall in behind; for by that time, I hoped, the edge of his suspicion would have been taken off.

  Here I should say that six roads run out of Dieppe. But that, from our point of view, was not so bad as it sounds, for the six fall into two groups, and three run out to the east and three to the south. Again, as luck will have it, each group of three has a common starting point, where if a man will stand, he can see, without moving, which road any vehicle takes.

  These starting-points were at opposite ends of the town, and though to man them both was simple enough, the line of communication between the two was far too long to be kept by a force like ours. Yet, for obvious reasons, touch had to be maintained, and Plato’s passage signalled the moment he had gone by. Indeed, if this were not done, half our force would not only be left at the post, but be out of the race.