Rebecca

by Daphne Du Maurier

  Frank hesitated, half glancing out of the window at Maxim on the lawn. "I don't know," he said. "Maxim did not seem to object, did he? I thought he took the suggestion very well."

  "It was difficult for him to do anything else," I said. "What a tiresome person Lady Crowan is. Do you really believe all the people round here are talking and dreaming of nothing but a fancy dress ball at Manderley?"

  "I think they would all enjoy a show of some sort," said Frank. "We're very conventional down here, you know, about these things. I don't honestly think Lady Crowan was exaggerating when she said something should be done in your honor. After all, Mrs. de Winter, you are a bride."

  How pompous and stupid it sounded. I wished Frank would not always be so terribly correct.

  "I'm not a bride," I said. "I did not even have a proper wedding. No white dress or orange blossom or trailing bridesmaids. I don't want any silly dance given in my honor."

  "It's a very fine sight, Manderley en fete," said Frank. "You'll enjoy it, you see. You won't have to do anything alarming. You just receive the guests and there's nothing in that. Perhaps you'll give me a dance?"

  Dear Frank. I loved his little solemn air of gallantry.

  "You shall have as many dances as you like," I said. "I shan't dance with anyone except you and Maxim."

  "Oh, but that would not look right at all," said Frank seriously. "People would be very offended. You must dance with the people who ask you."

  I turned away to hide my smile. It was a joy to me the way he never knew when his leg had been pulled.

  "Do you think Lady Crowan's suggestion about the Dresden shepherdess was a good one?" I said slyly.

  He considered me solemnly without the trace of a smile. "Yes, I do," he said. "I think you'd look very well indeed."

  I burst into laughter. "Oh, Frank, dear, I do love you," I said, and he turned rather pink, a little shocked I think at my impulsive words, and a little hurt too that I was laughing at him.

  "I don't see that I've said anything funny," he said stiffly.

  Maxim came in at the window, Jasper dancing at his heels. "What's all the excitement about?" he said.

  "Frank is being so gallant," I said. "He thinks Lady Crowan's idea of my dressing up as a Dresden shepherdess is nothing to laugh at."

  "Lady Crowan is a damned nuisance," said Maxim. "If she had to write out all the invitations and organize the affair she would not be so enthusiastic. It's always been the same though. The locals look upon Manderley as if it was a pavilion on the end of a pier, and expect us to put up a turn for their benefit. I suppose we shall have to ask the whole county."

  "I've got the records in the office," said Frank. "It won't really entail much work. Licking the stamps is the longest job."

  "We'll give that to you to do," said Maxim, smiling at me.

  "Oh, we'll do that in the office," said Frank. "Mrs. de Winter need not bother her head about anything at all." I wondered what they would say if I suddenly announced my intention of running the whole affair. Laugh, I supposed, and then begin talking of something else. I was glad, of course, to be relieved of responsibility, but it rather added to my sense of humility to feel that I was not even capable of licking stamps. I thought of the writing desk in the morning room, the docketed pigeonholes all marked in ink by that slanting pointed hand.

  "What will you wear?" I said to Maxim.

  "I never dress up," said Maxim. "It's the one perquisite allowed to the host, isn't it, Frank?"

  "I can't really go as a Dresden shepherdess," I said, "what on earth shall I do? I'm not much good at dressing-up."

  "Put a ribbon round your hair and be Alice-in-Wonderland," said Maxim lightly; "you look like it now, with your finger in your mouth."

  "Don't be so rude," I said. "I know my hair is straight, but it isn't as straight as that. I tell you what, I'll give you and Frank the surprise of your lives, and you won't know me."

  "As long as you don't black your face and pretend to be a monkey I don't mind what you do," said Maxim.

  "All right, that's a bargain," I said. "I'll keep my costume a secret to the last minute, and you won't know anything about it. Come on, Jasper, we don't care what they say, do we?" I heard Maxim laughing as I went out into the garden, and he said something to Frank which I did not catch.

  I wished he would not always treat me as a child, rather spoiled, rather irresponsible, someone to be petted from time to time when the mood came upon him but more often forgotten, more often patted on the shoulder and told to run away and play. I wished something would happen to make me look wiser, more mature. Was it always going to be like this? He away ahead of me, with his own moods that I did not share, his secret troubles that I did not know? Would we never be together, he a man and I a woman, standing shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, with no gulf between us? I did not want to be a child. I wanted to be his wife, his mother. I wanted to be old.

  I stood on the terrace, biting my nails, looking down towards the sea, and as I stood there I wondered for the twentieth time that day whether it was by Maxim's orders that those rooms in the west wing were kept furnished and untouched. I wondered if he went, as Mrs. Danvers did, and touched the brushes on the dressing table, opened the wardrobe doors, and put his hands among the clothes.

  "Come on, Jasper," I shouted, "run, run with me, come on, can't you?" and I tore across the grass, savagely, angrily, the bitter tears behind my eyes, with Jasper leaping at my heels and barking hysterically.

  The news soon spread about the fancy dress ball. My little maid Clarice, her eyes shining with excitement, talked of nothing else. I gathered from her that the servants in general were delighted. "Mr. Frith says it will be like old times," said Clarice eagerly. "I heard him saying so to Alice in the passage this morning. What will you wear, Madam?"

  "I don't know, Clarice, I can't think," I said.

  "Mother said I was to be sure and tell her," said Clarice. "She remembers the last ball they gave at Manderley, and she has never forgotten it. Will you be hiring a costume from London, do you think?"

  "I haven't made up my mind, Clarice," I said. "But I tell you what. When I do decide, I shall tell you and nobody else. It will be a dead secret between us both."

  "Oh, Madam, how exciting," breathed Clarice. "I don't know how I am going to wait for the day."

  I was curious to know Mrs. Danvers' reaction to the news. Since that afternoon I dreaded even the sound of her voice down the house telephone, and by using Robert as mediator between us I was spared this last ordeal. I could not forget the expression of her face when she left the library after that interview with Maxim. I thanked God she had not seen me crouching in the gallery. And I wondered too, if she thought that it was I who had told Maxim about Favell's visit to the house. If so, she would hate me more than ever. I shuddered now when I remembered the touch of her hand on my arm, and that dreadful soft, intimate pitch of her voice close to my ear. I did not want to remember anything about that afternoon. That was why I did not speak to her, not even on the house telephone.

  The preparations went on for the ball. Everything seemed to be done down at the estate office. Maxim and Frank were down there every morning. As Frank had said, I did not have to bother my head about anything. I don't think I licked one stamp. I began to get in a panic about my costume. It seemed so feeble not to be able to think of anything, and I kept remembering all the people who would come, from Kerrith and round about, the bishop's wife who had enjoyed herself so much, the last time, Beatrice and Giles, that tiresome Lady Crowan, and many more people I did not know and who had never seen me, they would every one of them have some criticism to offer, some curiosity to know what sort of effort I should make. At last, in desperation, I remembered the books that Beatrice had given me for a wedding-present, and I sat down in the library one morning turning over the pages as a last hope, passing from illustration to illustration in a sort of frenzy. Nothing seemed suitable, they were all so elaborate and pretentious, those gorgeous costu
mes of velvet and silk in the reproductions given of Rubens, Rembrandt and others. I got hold of a piece of paper and a pencil and copied one or two of them, but they did not please me, and I threw the sketches into the wastepaper basket in disgust, thinking no more about them.

  In the evening, when I was changing for dinner, there was a knock at my bedroom door. I called "Come in," thinking it was Clarice. The door opened and it was not Clarice. It was Mrs. Danvers. She held a piece of paper in her hand. "I hope you will forgive me disturbing you," she said, "but I was not sure whether you meant to throw these drawings away. All the wastepaper baskets are always brought to me to check, at the end of the day, in case of mislaying anything of value. Robert told me this was thrown into the library basket."

  I had turned quite cold all over at the sight of her, and at first I could not find my voice. She held out the paper for me to see. It was the rough drawing I had done during the morning.

  "No, Mrs. Danvers," I said, after a moment, "it doesn't matter throwing that away. It was only a rough sketch. I don't want it."

  "Very good," she said, "I thought it better to inquire from you personally to save any misunderstanding."

  "Yes," I said. "Yes, of course." I thought she would turn and go, but she went on standing there by the door.

  "So you have not decided yet what you will wear?" she said. There was a hint of derision in her voice, a trace of odd satisfaction. I supposed she had heard of my efforts through Clarice in some way.

  "No," I said. "No, I haven't decided."

  She continued watching me, her hand on the handle of the door.

  "I wonder you don't copy one of the pictures in the gallery," she said.

  I pretended to file my nails. They were too short and too brittle, but the action gave me something to do and I did not have to look at her.

  "Yes, I might think about that," I said. I wondered privately why such an idea had never come to me before. It was an obvious and very good solution to my difficulty. I did not want her to know this though. I went on filing my nails.

  "All the pictures in the gallery would make good costumes," said Mrs. Danvers, "especially that one of the young lady in white, with her hat in her hand. I wonder Mr. de Winter does not make it a period ball, everyone dressed more or less the same, to be in keeping. I never think it looks right to see a clown dancing with a lady in powder and patches."

  "Some people enjoy the variety," I said. "They think it makes it all the more amusing."

  "I don't like it myself," said Mrs. Danvers. Her voice was surprisingly normal and friendly, and I wondered why it was she had taken the trouble to come up with my discarded sketch herself. Did she want to be friends with me at last? Or did she realize that it had not been me at all who had told Maxim about Favell, and this was her way of thanking me for my silence?

  "Has not Mr. de Winter suggested a costume for you?" she said.

  "No," I said, after a moment's hesitation. "No, I want to surprise him and Mr. Crawley. I don't want them to know anything about it."

  "It's not for me to make a suggestion, I know," she said, "but when you do decide, I should advise you to have your dress made in London. There is no one down here can do that sort of thing well. Voce, in Bond Street, is a good place I know."

  "I must remember that," I said.

  "Yes," she said, and then, as she opened the door, "I should study the pictures in the gallery, Madam, if I were you, especially the one I mentioned. And you need not think I will give you away. I won't say a word to anyone."

  "Thank you, Mrs. Danvers," I said. She shut the door very gently behind her. I went on with my dressing, puzzled at her attitude, so different from our last encounter, and wondering whether I had the unpleasant Favell to thank for it.

  Rebecca's cousin. Why should Maxim dislike Rebecca's cousin? Why had he forbidden him to come to Manderley? Beatrice had called him a bounder. She had not said much about him. And the more I considered him the more I agreed with her. Those hot blue eyes, that loose mouth, and the careless familiar laugh. Some people would consider him attractive. Girls in sweet shops giggling behind the counter, and girls who gave one programs in a cinema. I knew how he would look at them, smiling, and half whistling a tune under his breath. The sort of look and the type of whistle that would make one feel uncomfortable. I wondered how well he knew Manderley. He seemed quite at home, and Jasper certainly recognized him, but these two facts did not fit in with Maxim's words to Mrs. Danvers. And I could not connect him with my idea of Rebecca. Rebecca, with her beauty, her charm, her breeding, why did she have a cousin like Jack Favell? It was wrong, out of all proportion. I decided he must be the skeleton in the family cupboard, and Rebecca with her generosity had taken pity on him from time to time and invited him to Manderley, perhaps when Maxim was from home, knowing his dislike. There had been some argument about it probably, Rebecca defending him, and ever after this perhaps a slight awkwardness whenever his name was mentioned.

  As I sat down to dinner in the dining room in my accustomed place, with Maxim at the head of the table, I pictured Rebecca sitting in where I sat now, picking up her fork for the fish, and then the telephone ringing and Frith coming into the room and saying "Mr. Favell on the phone, Madam, wishing to speak to you," and Rebecca would get up from her chair with a quick glance at Maxim, who would not say anything, who would go on eating his fish. And when she came back, having finished her conversation, and sat down in her place again, Rebecca would begin talking about something different, in a gay, careless way, to cover up the little cloud between them. At first Maxim would be glum, answering in monosyllables, but little by little she would win his humor back again, telling him some story of her day, about someone she had seen in Kerrith, and when they had finished the next course he would be laughing again, looking at her and smiling, putting out his hand to her across the table.

  "What the devil are you thinking about?" said Maxim.

  I started, the color flooding my face, for in that brief moment, sixty seconds in time perhaps, I had so identified myself with Rebecca that my own dull self did not exist, had never come to Manderley. I had gone back in thought and in person to the days that were gone.

  "Do you know you were going through the most extraordinary antics instead of eating your fish?" said Maxim. "First you listened, as though you heard the telephone, and then your lips moved, and you threw half a glance at me. And you shook your head, and smiled, and shrugged your shoulders. All in about a second. Are you practicing your appearance for the fancy dress ball?" He looked across at me, laughing, and I wondered what he would say if he really knew my thoughts, my heart, and my mind, and that for one second he had been the Maxim of another year, and I had been Rebecca. "You look like a little criminal," he said, "what is it?"

  "Nothing," I said quickly, "I wasn't doing anything."

  "Tell me what you were thinking?"

  "Why should I? You never tell me what you are thinking about."

  "I don't think you've ever asked me, have you?"

  "Yes, I did once."

  "I don't remember."

  "We were in the library."

  "Very probably. What did I say?"

  "You told me you were wondering who had been chosen to play for Surrey against Middlesex."

  Maxim laughed again. "What a disappointment to you. What did you hope I was thinking?"

  "Something very different."

  "What sort of thing?"

  "Oh, I don't know."

  "No, I don't suppose you do. If I told you I was thinking about Surrey and Middlesex I was thinking about Surrey and Middlesex. Men are simpler than you imagine, my sweet child. But what goes on in the twisted tortuous minds of women would baffle anyone. Do you know, you did not look a bit like yourself just now? You had quite a different expression on your face."

  "I did? What sort of expression?"

  "I don't know that I can explain. You looked older suddenly, deceitful. It was rather unpleasant."

  "I did not mean t
o."

  "No, I don't suppose you did."

  I drank some water, watching him over the rim of my glass.

  "Don't you want me to look older?" I said.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it would not suit you."

  "One day I shall. It can't be helped. I shall have gray hair, and lines and things."

  "I don't mind that."

  "What do you mind then?"

  "I don't want you to look like you did just now. You had a twist to your mouth and a flash of knowledge in your eyes. Not the right sort of knowledge."

  I felt very curious, rather excited. "What do you mean, Maxim? What isn't the right sort of knowledge?"

  He did not answer for a moment. Frith had come back into the room and was changing the plates. Maxim waited until Frith had gone behind the screen and through the service door before speaking again.

  "When I met you first you had a certain expression on your face," he said slowly, "and you have it still. I'm not going to define it, I don't know how to. But it was one of the reasons why I married you. A moment ago, when you were going through that curious little performance, the expression had gone. Something else had taken its place."

  "What sort of thing? Explain to me, Maxim," I said eagerly.

  He considered me a moment, his eyebrows raised, whistling softly. "Listen, my sweet. When you were a little girl, were you ever forbidden to read certain books, and did your father put those books under lock and key?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "Well, then. A husband is not so very different from a father after all. There is a certain type of knowledge I prefer you not to have. It's better kept under lock and key. So that's that. And now eat up your peaches, and don't ask me any more questions, or I shall put you in the corner."

  "I wish you would not treat me as if I was six," I said.

  "How do you want to be treated?"

  "Like other men treat their wives."

  "Knock you about, you mean?"

  "Don't be absurd. Why must you make a joke of everything?"