g my breath.
Then I heard Mrs. Danvers speak. "I expect she has gone to the library," she said. "She's come home early for some reason. If she has gone to the library you will be able to go through the hall without her seeing you. Wait here while I go and see."
I knew they were talking about me. I began to feel more uncomfortable than ever. It was so furtive, the whole business. And I did not want to catch Mrs. Danvers in the wrong. Then Jasper turned his head sharply towards the drawing room. He trotted out, wagging his tail.
"Hullo, you little tyke," I heard the man say. Jasper began to bark excitedly. I looked round desperately for somewhere to hide. Hopeless of course. And then I heard a footstep quite close to my ear, and the man came into the room. He did not see me at first because I was behind the door, but Jasper made a dive at me, still barking with delight.
The man wheeled round suddenly and saw me. I have never seen anyone look more astonished. I might have been the burglar and he the master of the house.
"I beg your pardon," he said, looking me up and down.
He was a big, hefty fellow, good-looking in a rather flashy, sunburnt way. He had the hot, blue eyes usually associated with heavy drinking and loose living. His hair was reddish like his skin. In a few years he would run to fat, his neck bulging over the back of his collar. His mouth gave him away, it was too soft, too pink. I could smell the whiskey in his breath from where I stood. He began to smile. The sort of smile he would give to every woman.
"I hope I haven't startled you," he said.
I came out from behind the door looking no doubt as big a fool as I felt. "No, of course not," I said, "I heard voices, I was not quite sure who it was. I did not expect any callers this afternoon."
"What a shame," he said heartily, "it's too bad of me to butt in on you like this. I hope you'll forgive me. The fact is I just popped in to see old Danny, she's a very old friend of mine."
"Oh, of course, it's quite all right," I said.
"Dear old Danny," he said, "she's so anxious, bless her, not to disturb anyone. She didn't want to worry you."
"Oh, it does not matter at all," I said. I was watching Jasper who was jumping up and pawing at the man in delight.
"This little beggar hasn't forgotten me, has he?" he said. "Grown into a jolly little beast. He was quite a youngster when I saw him last. He's too fat though. He needs more exercise."
"I've just taken him for a long walk," I said.
"Have you really? How sporting of you," he said. He went on patting Jasper and smiling at me in a familiar way. Then he pulled out his cigarette case. "Have one?" he said.
"I don't smoke," I told him.
"Don't you really?" He took one himself and lighted it.
I never minded those things, but it seemed odd to me, in somebody else's room. It was surely rather bad manners? Not polite to me.
"How's old Max?" he said.
I was surprised at his tone. It sounded as though he knew him well. It was queer, to hear Maxim talked of as Max. No one called him that.
"He's very well, thank you," I said. "He's gone up to London."
"And left the bride all alone? Why, that's too bad. Isn't he afraid someone will come and carry you off?"
He laughed, opening his mouth. I did not like his laugh. There was something offensive about it. I did not like him, either. Just then Mrs. Danvers came into the room. She turned her eyes upon me and I felt quite cold. Oh, God, I thought, how she must hate me.
"Hullo, Danny, there you are," said the man; "all your precautions were in vain. The mistress of the house was hiding behind the door." And he laughed again. Mrs. Danvers did not say anything. She just went on looking at me. "Well, aren't you going to introduce me?" he said; "after all it's the usual thing to do, isn't it, to pay one's respect to a bride?"
"This is Mr. Favell, Madam," said Mrs. Danvers. She spoke quietly, rather unwillingly. I don't think she wanted to introduce him to me.
"How do you do," I said, and then, with an effort to be polite, "Won't you stay to tea?"
He looked very amused. He turned to Mrs. Danvers.
"Now isn't that a charming invitation?" he said. "I've been asked to stay to tea? By heaven, Danny, I've a good mind to."
I saw her flash a look of warning at him. I felt very uneasy. It was all wrong, this situation. It ought not to be happening at all.
"Well, perhaps you're right," he said; "it would have been a lot of fun, all the same. I suppose I had better be going, hadn't I? Come and have a look at my car." He still spoke in a familiar rather offensive way. I did not want to go and look at his car. I felt very awkward and embarrassed. "Come on," he said, "it's a jolly good little car. Much faster than anything poor old Max ever has."
I could not think of an excuse. The whole business was so forced and stupid. I did not like it. And why did Mrs. Danvers have to stand there looking at me with that smoldering look in her eyes?
"Where is the car?" I said feebly.
"Round the bend in the drive. I didn't drive to the door, I was afraid of disturbing you. I had some idea you probably rested in the afternoon."
I said nothing. The lie was too obvious. We all walked out through the drawing room and into the hall. I saw him glance over his shoulder and wink at Mrs. Danvers. She did not wink in return. I hardly expected she would. She looked very hard and grim. Jasper frolicked out onto the drive. He seemed delighted with the sudden appearance of this visitor whom he appeared to know so well.
"I left my cap in the car, I believe," said the man, pretending to glance round the hall. "As a matter of fact, I didn't come in this way. I slipped round and bearded Danny in her den. Coming out to see the car too?"
He looked inquiringly at Mrs. Danvers. She hesitated, watching me out of the tail of her eye.
"No," she said. "No, I don't think I'll come out now. Good-bye, Mr. Jack."
He seized her hand and shook it heartily. "Good-bye, Danny; take care of yourself. You know where to get in touch with me always. It's done me a power of good to see you again." He walked out onto the drive, Jasper dancing at his heels, and I followed him slowly, feeling very uncomfortable still.
"Dear old Manderley," he said, looking up at the windows. "The place hasn't changed much. I suppose Danny sees to that. What a wonderful woman she is, eh?"
"Yes, she's very efficient," I said.
"And what do you think of it all? Like being buried down here?"
"I'm very fond of Manderley," I said stiffly.
"Weren't you living somewhere down in the south of France when Max met you? Monte, wasn't it? I used to know Monte well."
"Yes, I was in Monte Carlo," I said.
We had come to his car now. A green sports thing, typical of its owner.
"What do you think of it?" he said.
"Very nice," I said, politely.
"Come for a run to the lodge gates?" he said.
"No, I don't think I will," I said. "I'm rather tired."
"You don't think it would look too good for the mistress of Manderley to be seen driving with someone like me, is that it?" he said, and he laughed, shaking his head at me.
"Oh, no," I said, turning rather red. "No, really."
He went on looking me up and down in his amused way with those familiar, unpleasant blue eyes. I felt like a barmaid.
"Oh, well," he said, "we mustn't lead the bride astray, must we, Jasper? It wouldn't do at all." He reached for his cap, and an enormous pair of motoring gloves. He threw his cigarette away on the drive.
"Good-bye," he said, holding out his hand; "it's been a lot of fun meeting you."
"Good-bye," I said.
"By the way," he said carelessly, "it would be very sporting and grand of you if you did not mention this little visit of mine to Max? He doesn't exactly approve of me, I'm afraid; I don't know why, and it might get poor old Danny into trouble."
"No," I said awkwardly. "No, all right."
"That's very sporting of you. Sure you won't change your mind and come for a run?"
"No, I don't think I will, if you don't mind."
"Bye-bye, then. Perhaps I'll come and look you up one day. Get down, Jasper, you devil, you'll scratch my paint. I say, I call it a damn shame Max going up to London and leaving you alone like this!"
"I don't mind. I like being alone," I said.
"Do you, by Jove? What an extraordinary thing. It's all wrong, you know. Against nature. How long have you been married? Three months, isn't it?"
"About that," I said.
"I say, I wish I'd got a bride of three months waiting for me at home! I'm a poor lonesome bachelor." He laughed again, and pulled his cap down over his eyes. "Fare you well," he said, starting up the engine, and the car shot down the drive snorting explosive fury from the exhaust, while Jasper stood looking after it, his ears drooping, his tail between his legs.
"Oh, come on, Jasper," I said, "don't be so idiotic." I walked slowly back to the house. Mrs. Danvers had disappeared. I stood in the hall and rang the bell. Nothing happened for about five minutes. I rang again. Presently Alice appeared, her face rather aggrieved. "Yes, Madam?" she said.
"Oh, Alice," I said, "isn't Robert there? I rather fancied my tea out under the chestnut tree."
"Robert went to the post this afternoon, and isn't back yet, Madam," said Alice. "Mrs. Danvers gave him to understand you would be late for tea. Frith is out too of course. If you want your tea now I can get it for you. I don't think it's quite half past four yet."
"Oh, it doesn't matter, Alice. I'll wait till Robert comes back," I said. I supposed when Maxim was away things automatically became slack. I had never known Frith and Robert to be out at the same time. It was Frith's day of course. And Mrs. Danvers had sent Robert to the post. And I myself was understood to have gone for a long walk. That man Favell had chosen his time well to pay his call on Mrs. Danvers. It was almost too well chosen. There was something not right about it, I was certain of that. And then he had asked me not to say anything to Maxim. It was all very awkward. I did not want to get Mrs. Danvers into trouble or make any sort of scene. More important still I did not want to worry Maxim.
I wondered who he was, this man Favell. He had called Maxim "Max." No one ever called him Max. I had seen it written once, on the flyleaf of a book, the letters thin and slanting, curiously pointed, the tail of the M very definite, very long. I thought there was only one person who had ever called him Max...
As I stood there in the hall, undecided about my tea, wondering what to do, the thought suddenly came to me that perhaps Mrs. Danvers was dishonest, that all this time she was engaged in some business behind Maxim's back, and coming back early as I had today I had discovered her and this man, an accomplice, who had then bluffed his way out by pretending to be familiar with the house and with Maxim. I wondered what they had been doing in the west wing. Why had they closed the shutters when they saw me on the lawn? I was filled with vague disquiet. Frith and Robert had been away. The maids were generally in their bedrooms changing during the afternoon. Mrs. Danvers would have the run of the place. Supposing this man was a thief, and Mrs. Danvers was in his pay? There were valuable things in the west wing. I had a sudden rather terrifying impulse to creep upstairs now to the west wing and go into those rooms and see for myself.
Robert was not yet back. I would just have time before tea. I hesitated, glancing at the gallery. The house seemed very still and quiet. The servants were all in their own quarters beyond the kitchen. Jasper lapped noisily at his drinking bowl below the stairs, the sound echoing in the great stone hall. I began to walk upstairs. My heart was beating in a queer excited way.
14
I found myself in the corridor where I had stood that first morning. I had not been there since, nor had I wished to go. The sun streamed in from the window in the alcove and made gold patterns on the dark paneling.
There was no sound at all. I was aware of the same musty, unused smell that had been before. I was uncertain which way to go. The plan of the rooms was not familiar to me. I remembered then that last time Mrs. Danvers had come out of a door here, just behind me, and it seemed to me that the position of the room would make it the one I wanted, whose windows looked out upon the lawns to the sea. I turned the handle of the door and went inside. It was dark of course, because of the shutters. I felt for the electric light switch on the wall and turned it on. I was standing in a little anteroom, a dressing-room I judged, with big wardrobes round the wall, and at the end of this room was another door, open, leading to a larger room. I went through to this room, and turned on the light. My first impression was one of shock because the room was fully furnished, as though in use.
I had expected to see chairs and tables swathed in dust-sheets, and dust-sheets too over the great double bed against the wall. Nothing was covered up. There were brushes and combs on the dressing table, scent, and powder. The bed was made up, I saw the gleam of white linen on the pillowcase, and the tip of a blanket beneath the quilted coverlet. There were flowers on the dressing table and on the table beside the bed. Flowers too on the carved mantelpiece. A satin dressing gown lay on a chair, and a pair of bedroom slippers beneath. For one desperate moment I thought that something had happened to my brain, that I was seeing back into Time, and looking upon the room as it used to be, before she died... In a minute Rebecca herself would come back into the room, sit down before the looking glass at her dressing table, humming a tune, reach for her comb and run it through her hair. If she sat there I should see her reflection in the glass and she would see me too, standing like this by the door. Nothing happened. I went on standing there, waiting for something to happen. It was the clock ticking on the wall that brought me to reality again. The hands stood at twenty-five past four. My watch said the same. There was something sane and comforting about the ticking of the clock. It reminded me of the present, and that tea would soon be ready for me on the lawn. I walked slowly into the middle of the room. No, it was not used. It was not lived in anymore. Even the flowers could not destroy the musty smell. The curtains were drawn and the shutters were closed. Rebecca would never come back to the room again. Even if Mrs. Danvers did put the flowers on the mantelpiece and the sheets upon the bed, they would not bring her back. She was dead. She had been dead now for a year. She lay buried in the crypt of the church with all the other dead de Winters.
I could hear the sound of the sea very plainly. I went to the window and swung back the shutter. Yes, I was standing at the same window where Favell and Mrs. Danvers had stood, half an hour ago. The long shaft of daylight made the electric light look false and yellow. I opened the shutter a little more. The daylight cast a white beam upon the bed. It shone upon the nightdress case, lying on the pillow. It shone on the glass top of the dressing table, on the brushes, and on the scent bottles.
The daylight gave an even greater air of reality to the room. When the shutter was closed and it had been lit by electricity the room had more the appearance of a setting on the stage. The scene set between performances. The curtain having fallen for the night, the evening over, and the first act set for tomorrow's matinee. But the daylight made the room vivid and alive. I forgot the musty smell and the drawn curtains of the other windows. I was a guest again. An uninvited guest. I had strolled into my hostess's bedroom by mistake. Those were her brushes on the dressing table, that was her dressing gown and slippers laid out upon the chair.
I realized for the first time since I had come into the room that my legs were trembling, weak as straw. I sat down on the stool by the dressing table. My heart no longer beat in a strange excited way. It felt as heavy as lead. I looked about me in the room with a sort of dumb stupidity. Yes, it was a beautiful room. Mrs. Danvers had not exaggerated that first evening. It was the most beautiful room in the house. That exquisite mantelpiece, the ceiling, the carved bedstead, and the curtain hangings, even the clock on the wall and the candlesticks upon the dressing table beside me, all were things I would have loved and almost worshipped had they been mine. They were not mine though. They belonged to somebody else. I put out my hand and touched the brushes. One was more worn than its fellow. I understood it well. There was always one brush that had the greater use. Often you forgot to use the other, and when they were taken to be washed there was one that was still quite clean and untouched. How white and thin my face looked in the glass, my hair hanging lank and straight. Did I always look like this? Surely I had more color as a rule? The reflection stared back at me, sallow and plain.
I got up from the stool and went and touched the dressing gown on the chair. I picked up the slippers and held them in my hand. I was aware of a growing sense of horror, of horror turning to despair. I touched the quilt on the bed, traced with my fingers the monogram on the nightdress case, R de W, interwoven and interlaced. The letters were corded and strong against the golden satin material. The nightdress was inside the case, thin as gossamer, apricot in color. I touched it, drew it out from the case, put it against my face. It was cold, quite cold. But there was a dim mustiness about it still where the scent had been. The scent of the white azaleas. I folded it, and put it back into the case, and as I did so I noticed with a sick dull aching in my heart that there were creases in the nightdress, the texture was ruffled, it had not been touched or laundered since it was last worn.
On a sudden impulse I moved away from the bed and went back to the little anteroom where I had seen the wardrobes. I opened one of them. It was as I thought. The wardrobe was full of clothes. There were evening dresses here, I caught the shimmer of silver over the top of the white bags that enfolded them. There was a piece of gold brocade. There, next to it, was velvet, wine-colored and soft. There was a train of white satin, dripping on the floor of the wardrobe. Peeping out from a piece of tissue paper on a shelf above was an ostrich feather fan.
The wardrobe smelt stuffy, queer. The azalea scent, so fragrant and delicate in the air, had turned stale inside the wardrobe, tarnishing the silver dresses and the brocade, and the breath of it wafted towards me now from the open doors, faded and old. I shut the doors. I went back into the bedroom once again. The gleam of light from the shutter still shone white and clear on the golden coverlet of the be