Rebecca

do hope it won't be dropped. You must use your influence with him. There was not one last year of course. But I remember two years ago, the bishop and I went, and it was quite enchanting. Manderley so lends itself to anything like that. The hall looked wonderful. They danced there, and had the music in the gallery; it was all so in keeping. A tremendous thing to organize, but everybody appreciated it so."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I must ask Maxim about it."

I thought of the docketed pigeonhole in the desk in the morning room, I pictured the stack upon stack of invitation cards, the long list of names, the addresses, and I could see a woman sitting there at the desk and putting a V beside the names she wanted, and reaching for the invitation cards, dipping her pen in the ink, writing upon them swift and sure in that long, slanting hand.

"There was a garden party, too, we went to one summer," said the bishop's wife. "Everything always so beautifully done. The flowers at their best. A glorious day, I remember. Tea was served at little tables in the rose garden; such an attractive original idea. Of course, she was so clever..."

She stopped, turning a little pink, fearing a loss of tact; but I agreed with her at once to save embarrassment, and I heard myself saying boldly, brazenly, "Rebecca must have been a wonderful person."

I could not believe that I had said the name at last. I waited, wondering what would happen. I had said the name. I had said the word Rebecca aloud. It was a tremendous relief. It was as though I had taken a purge and rid myself of an intolerable pain. Rebecca. I had said it aloud.

I wondered if the bishop's wife saw the flush on my face, but she went on smoothly with the conversation, and I listened to her greedily, like an eavesdropper at a shuttered window.

"You never met her then?" she asked, and when I shook my head she hesitated a moment, a little uncertain of her ground. "We never knew her well personally, you know: the bishop was only inducted here four years ago, but of course she received us when we went to the ball and the garden party. We dined there, too, one winter. Yes, she was a very lovely creature. So full of life."

"She seems to have been so good at everything too," I said, my voice just careless enough to show I did not mind, while I played with the fringe of my glove. "It's not often you get someone who is clever and beautiful and fond of sport."

"No, I suppose you don't," said the bishop's wife. "She was certainly very gifted. I can see her now, standing at the foot of the stairs on the night of the ball, shaking hands with everybody, that cloud of dark hair against the very white skin, and her costume suited her so. Yes, she was very beautiful."

"She ran the house herself, too," I said, smiling, as if to say, "I am quite at my ease, I often discuss her." "It must have taken a lot of time and thought. I'm afraid I leave it to the housekeeper."

"Oh, well, we can't all do everything. And you are very young, aren't you? No doubt in time, when you have settled down. Besides, you have your own hobby, haven't you? Someone told me you were fond of sketching."

"Oh, that," I said. "I don't know that I can count it for much."

"It's a nice little talent to have," said the bishop's wife; "it's not everyone that can sketch. You must not drop it. Manderley must be full of pretty spots to sketch."

"Yes," I said. "Yes, I suppose so," depressed by her words, having a sudden vision of myself wandering across the lawns with a camp-stool and a box of pencils under one arm, and my "little talent" as she described it, under the other. It sounded like a pet disease.

"Do you play any games? Do you ride, or shoot?" she asked.

"No," I said, "I don't do anything like that. I'm fond of walking," I added, as a wretched anticlimax.

"The best exercise in the world," she said briskly; "the bishop and I walk a lot." I wondered if he went round and round the cathedral, in his shovel hat and his gaiters, with her on his arm. She began to talk about a walking holiday they had taken once, years ago, in the Pennines, how they had done an average of twenty miles a day, and I nodded my head, smiling politely, wondering about the Pennines, thinking they were something like the Andes, remembering, afterwards, they were that chain of hills marked with a furry line in the middle of a pink England on my school atlas. And he all the time in his hat and gaiters.

The inevitable pause, the glance at the watch unnecessary, as her drawing room clock chimed four in shrill tones, and my rise from the chair. "I'm so glad I found you in. I hope you will come and see us."

"We should love to. The bishop is always so busy, alas. Please remember me to your husband, and be sure to ask him to revive the ball."

"Yes, indeed I will." Lying, pretending I knew all about it; and in the car going home I sat in my corner, biting my thumb nail, seeing the great hall at Manderley thronged with people in fancy dress, the chatter, hum, and laughter of the moving crowd, the musicians in the gallery, supper in the drawing room probably, long buffet tables against the wall, and I could see Maxim standing at the front of the stairs, laughing, shaking hands, turning to someone who stood by his side, tall and slim, with dark hair, said the bishop's wife, dark hair against a white face, someone whose quick eyes saw to the comfort of her guests, who gave an order over her shoulder to a servant, someone who was never awkward, never without grace, who when she danced left a stab of perfume in the air like a white azalea.

"Will you be entertaining much at Manderley, Mrs. de Winter?" I heard the voice again, suggestive, rather inquisitive, in the voice of that woman I had called upon who lived the other side of Kerrith, and I saw her eye too, dubious, considering, taking in my clothes from top to toe, wondering, with that swift downward glance given to all brides, if I was going to have a baby.

I did not want to see her again. I did not want to see any of them again. They only came to call at Manderley because they were curious and prying. They liked to criticize my looks, my manners, my figure, they liked to watch how Maxim and I behaved to each other, whether we seemed fond of one another, so that they could go back afterwards and discuss us, saying, "Very different from the old days." They came because they wanted to compare me to Rebecca... I would not return these calls anymore, I decided. I should tell Maxim so. I did not mind if they thought me rude and ungracious. It would give them more to criticize, more to discuss. They could say I was ill-bred. "I'm not surprised," they would say; "after all, who was she?" And then a laugh and a shrug of the shoulder. "My dear, don't you know? He picked her up in Monte Carlo or somewhere; she hadn't a penny. She was a companion to some old woman." More laughter, more lifting of the eyebrows. "Nonsense, not really? How extraordinary men are. Maxim, of all people, who was so fastidious. How could he, after Rebecca?"

I did not mind. I did not care. They could say what they liked. As the car turned in at the lodge gates I leaned forward in my seat to smile at the woman who lived there. She was bending down, picking flowers in the front garden. She straightened up as she heard the car, but she did not see me smile. I waved, and she stared at me blankly. I don't think she knew who I was. I leaned back in my seat again. The car went on down the drive.

When we turned at one of the narrow bends I saw a man walking along the drive a little distance ahead. It was the agent, Frank Crawley. He stopped when he heard the car, and the chauffeur slowed down. Frank Crawley took off his hat and smiled when he saw me in the car. He seemed glad to see me. I smiled back at him. It was nice of him to be glad to see me. I liked Frank Crawley. I did not find him dull or uninteresting as Beatrice had done. Perhaps it was because I was dull myself. We were both dull. We neither of us had a word to say for ourselves. Like to like.

I tapped on the glass and told the chauffeur to stop.

"I think I'll get out and walk with Mr. Crawley," I said.

He opened the door for me. "Been paying calls, Mrs. de Winter?" he said.

"Yes, Frank," I said. I called him Frank because Maxim did, but he would always call me Mrs. de Winter. He was that sort of person. Even if we had been thrown on a desert island together and lived there in intimacy for the rest of our lives, I should have been Mrs. de Winter.

"I've been calling on the bishop," I said, "and I found the bishop out, but the bishop's lady was at home. She and the bishop are very fond of walking. Sometimes they do twenty miles a day, in the Pennines."

"I don't know that part of the world," said Frank Crawley; "they say the country round is very fine. An uncle of mine used to live there."

It was the sort of remark Frank Crawley always made. Safe, conventional, very correct.

"The bishop's wife wants to know when we are going to give a Fancy Dress ball at Manderley," I said, watching him out of the tail of my eye. "She came to the last one, she said, and enjoyed it very much. I did not know you have Fancy Dress dances here, Frank."

He hesitated a moment before replying. He looked a little troubled. "Oh, yes," he said after a moment, "the Manderley ball was generally an annual affair. Everyone in the county came. A lot of people from London too. Quite a big show."

"It must have taken a lot of organization," I said.

"Yes," he said.

"I suppose," I said carelessly, "Rebecca did most of it?"

I looked straight ahead of me along the drive, but I could see his face was turned towards me, as though he wished to read my expression.

"We all of us worked pretty hard," he said quietly.

There was a funny reserve in his manner as he said this, a certain shyness that reminded me of my own. I wondered suddenly if he had been in love with Rebecca. His voice was the sort of voice I should have used in his circumstances, had this been so. The idea opened up a new field of possibilities. Frank Crawley being so shy, so dull, he would never have told anyone, least of all Rebecca.

"I'm afraid I should not be much use if we have a dance," I said, "I'm no earthly use at organizing anything."

"There would be no need for you to do anything," he said, "you would just be your self and look decorative."

"That's very polite of you, Frank," I said, "but I'm afraid I should not be able to do that very well either."

"I think you would do it excellently," he said. Dear Frank Crawley, how tactful he was and considerate. I almost believed him. But he did not deceive me really.

"Will you ask Maxim about the ball?" I said.

"Why don't you ask him?" he answered.

"No," I said. "No, I don't like to."

We were silent then. We went on walking along the drive. Now that I had broken down my reluctance at saying Rebecca's name, first with the bishop's wife and now with Frank Crawley, the urge to continue was strong within me. It gave me a curious satisfaction, it acted upon me like a stimulant. I knew that in a moment or two I should have to say it again. "I was down on one of the beaches the other day," I said, "the one with the breakwater. Jasper was being infuriating, he kept barking at the poor man with the idiot's eyes."

"You must mean Ben," said Frank, his voice quite easy now; "he always potters about on the shore. He's quite a nice fellow, you need never be frightened of him. He would not hurt a fly."

"Oh, I wasn't frightened," I said. I waited a moment, humming a tune to give me confidence. "I'm afraid that cottage place is going to rack and ruin," I said lightly. "I had to go in, to find a piece of string or something to tie up Jasper. The china is moldy and the books are being ruined. Why isn't something done about it? It seems such a pity."

I knew he would not answer at once. He bent down to tie up his shoe lace.

I pretended to examine a leaf on one of the shrubs. "I think if Maxim wanted anything done he would tell me," he said, still fumbling with his shoe.

"Are they all Rebecca's things?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

I threw the leaf away and picked another, turning it over in my hands.

"What did she use the cottage for?" I asked; "it looked quite furnished. I thought from the outside it was just a boathouse."

"It was a boathouse originally," he said, his voice constrained again, difficult, the voice of someone who is uncomfortable about his subject. "Then--then she converted it like that, had furniture put in, and china."

I thought it funny the way he called her "she." He did not say Rebecca or Mrs. de Winter, as I expected him to do.

"Did she use it a great deal?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, she did. Moonlight picnics, and--and one thing and another."

We were walking again side by side, I still humming my little tune. "How jolly," I said brightly. "Moonlight picnics must be great fun. Did you ever go to them?"

"Once or twice," he said. I pretended not to notice his manner, how quiet it had become, how reluctant to speak about these things.

"Why is the buoy there in the little harbor place?" I said.

"The boat used to be moored there," he said.

"What boat?" I asked.

"Her boat," he said.

A strange sort of excitement was upon me. I had to go on with my questions. He did not want to talk about it. I knew that, but although I was sorry for him and shocked at my own self I had to continue, I could not be silent.

"What happened to it?" I said. "Was that the boat she was sailing when she was drowned?"

"Yes," he said quietly, "it capsized and sank. She was washed overboard."

"What sort of size boat was it?" I asked.

"About three tons. It had a little cabin."

"What made it capsize?" I said.

"It can be very squally in the bay," he said.

I thought of that green sea, foam-flecked, that ran down channel beyond the headland. Did the wind come suddenly, I wondered, in a funnel from the beacon on the hill, and did the little boat heel to it, shivering, the white sail flat against a breaking sea?

"Could not someone have got out to her?" I said.

"Nobody saw the accident, nobody knew she had gone," he said.

I was very careful not to look at him. He might have seen the surprise in my face. I had always thought it happened in a sailing race, that other boats were there, the boats from Kerrith, and that people were watching from the cliffs. I did not know she had been alone, quite alone, out there in the bay.

"They must have known up at the house!" I said.

"No," he said. "She often went out alone like that. She would come back any time of the night, and sleep at the cottage on the beach."

"Was not she nervous?"

"Nervous?" he said; "no, she was not nervous of anything."

"Did--did Maxim mind her going off alone like that?"

He waited a minute, and then "I don't know," he said shortly. I had the impression he was being loyal to someone. Either to Maxim or to Rebecca, or perhaps even to himself. He was odd. I did not know what to make of it.

"She must have been drowned, then, trying to swim to shore, after the boat sank?" I said.

"Yes," he said.

I knew how the little boat would quiver and plunge, the water gushing into the steering well, and how the sails would press her down, suddenly, horribly, in that gust of wind. It must have been very dark out there in the bay. The shore must have seemed very far away to anyone swimming there, in the water.

"How long afterwards was it that they found her?" I said.

"About two months," he said.

Two months. I thought drowned people were found after two days. I thought they would be washed up close to the shore when the tide came.

"Where did they find her?" I asked.

"Near Edgecoombe, about forty miles up channel," he said.

I had spent a holiday at Edgecoombe once, when I was seven. It was a big place, with a pier, and donkeys. I remembered riding a donkey along the sands.

"How did they know it was her--after two months, how could they tell?" I said. I wondered why he paused before each sentence, as though he weighed his words. Had he cared for her, then, had he minded so much?

"Maxim went up to Edgecoombe to identify her," he said.

Suddenly I did not want to ask him any more. I felt sick at myself, sick and disgusted. I was like a curious sightseer standing on the fringe of a crowd after someone had been knocked down. I was like a poor person in a tenement building, when someone had died, asking if I might see the body. I hated myself. My questions had been degrading, shameful. Frank Crawley must despise me.

"It was a terrible time for all of you," I said rapidly. "I don't suppose you like being reminded about it. I just wondered if there was anything one could do to the cottage, that's all. It seems such a pity, all the furniture being spoiled by the damp."

He did not say anything. I felt hot and uncomfortable. He must have sensed that it was not concern for the empty cottage that had prompted me to all these questions, and now he was silent because he was shocked at me. Ours had been a comfortable, steady sort of friendship. I had felt him an ally. Perhaps I had destroyed all this, and he would never feel the same about me again.

"What a long drive this is," I said; "it always reminds me of the path in the forest in a Grimm's fairy tale, where the prince gets lost, you know. It's always longer than one expects, and the trees are so dark, and close."

"Yes, it is rather exceptional," he said.

I could tell by his manner he was still on his guard, as though waiting for a further question from me. There was an awkwardness between us that could not be ignored. Something had to be done about it, even if it covered me with shame.

"Frank," I said desperately, "I know what you are thinking. You can't understand why I asked all those questions just now. You think I'm morbid, and curious, in a rather beastly way. It's not that, I promise you. It's only that--that sometimes I feel myself at such a disadvantage. It's all very strange to me, living here at Manderley. Not the sort of life I've been brought up to. When I go returning these calls, as I did this afternoon, I know people are looking me up and down, wondering what sort of success I'm going to make of it. I can imagine them saying, 'What on earth does Maxim see in her?' And then, Frank, I begin to wonder myself, and I begin to doubt, and I have a fearful haunting feeling that I should never have married Maxim, that we are not going to be happy. You see, I know that all the time, whenever I meet anyone new, they are all thinking the same thing--How different she is to Rebecca."

I stopped breathless, already a little ashamed of my outburst, feeling that now at any rate I had burned my boats for all time