Rebecca

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "It's handsome, Madam," she kept saying, leaning back on her heels to look at me. "It's a dress fit for the Queen of England."

  "What about under the left shoulder there," I said, anxiously. "That strap of mine, is it going to show?"

  "No, Madam, nothing shows."

  "How is it? How do I look?" I did not wait for her answer, I twisted and turned in front of the mirror, I frowned, I smiled. I felt different already, no longer hampered by my appearance. My own dull personality was submerged at last. "Give me the wig," I said excitedly, "careful, don't crush it, the curls mustn't be flat. They are supposed to stand out from the face." Clarice stood behind my shoulder, I saw her round face beyond mine in the reflection of the looking glass, her eyes shining, her mouth a little open. I brushed my own hair sleek behind my ears. I took hold of the soft gleaming curls with trembling fingers, laughing under my breath, looking up at Clarice.

  "Oh, Clarice," I said, "what will Mr. de Winter say?"

  I covered my own mousy hair with the curled wig, trying to hide my triumph, trying to hide my smile. Somebody came and hammered on the door.

  "Who's there?" I called in panic. "You can't come in."

  "It's me, my dear, don't alarm yourself," said Beatrice, "how far have you got? I want to look at you."

  "No, no," I said, "you can't come in, I'm not ready."

  The flustered Clarice stood beside me, her hand full of hairpins, while I took them from her one by one, controlling the curls that had become fluffed in the box.

  "I'll come down when I am ready," I called. "Go on down, all of you. Don't wait for me. Tell Maxim he can't come in."

  "Maxim's down," she said. "He came along to us. He said he hammered on your bathroom door and you never answered. Don't be too long, my dear, we are all so intrigued. Are you sure you don't want any help?"

  "No," I shouted impatiently, losing my head, "go away, go on down."

  Why did she have to come and bother just at this moment? It fussed me, I did not know what I was doing. I jabbed with a hairpin, flattening it against a curl. I heard no more from Beatrice, she must have gone along the passage. I wondered if she was happy in her Eastern robes and if Giles had succeeded in painting his face. How absurd it was, the whole thing. Why did we do it, I wonder, why were we such children?

  I did not recognize the face that stared at me in the glass. The eyes were larger surely, the mouth narrower, the skin white and clear? The curls stood away from the head in a little cloud. I watched this self that was not me at all and then smiled; a new, slow smile.

  "Oh, Clarice!" I said. "Oh, Clarice!" I took the skirt of my dress in my hands and curtseyed to her, the flounces sweeping the ground. She giggled excitedly, rather embarrassed, flushed though, very pleased. I paraded up and down in front of my glass watching my reflection.

  "Unlock the door," I said. "I'm going down. Run ahead and see if they are there." She obeyed me, still giggling, and I lifted my skirts off the ground and followed her along the corridor.

  She looked back at me and beckoned. "They've gone down," she whispered, "Mr. de Winter, and Major and Mrs. Lacy. Mr. Crawley has just come. They are all standing in the hall." I peered through the archway at the head of the big staircase, and looked down on the hall below.

  Yes, there they were. Giles, in his white Arab dress, laughing loudly, showing the knife at his side; Beatrice swathed in an extraordinary green garment and hung about the neck with trailing beads; poor Frank self-conscious and slightly foolish in his striped jersey and sea-boots; Maxim, the only normal one of the party, in his evening clothes.

  "I don't know what she's doing," he said, "she's been up in her bedroom for hours. What's the time, Frank? The dinner crowd will be upon us before we know where we are."

  The band were changed, and in the gallery already. One of the men was tuning his fiddle. He played a scale softly, and then plucked at a string. The light shone on the picture of Caroline de Winter.

  Yes, the dress had been copied exactly from my sketch of the portrait. The puffed sleeve, the sash and the ribbon, the wide floppy hat I held in my hand. And my curls were her curls, they stood out from my face as hers did in the picture. I don't think I have ever felt so excited before, so happy and so proud. I waved my hand at the man with the fiddle, and then put my finger to my lips for silence. He smiled and bowed. He came across the gallery to the archway where I stood.

  "Make the drummer announce me," I whispered, "make him beat the drum, you know how they do, and then call out Miss Caroline de Winter. I want to surprise them below." He nodded his head, he understood. My heart fluttered absurdly, and my cheeks were burning. What fun it was, what mad ridiculous childish fun! I smiled at Clarice still crouching on the corridor. I picked up my skirt in my hands. Then the sound of the drum echoed in the great hall, startling me for a moment, who had waited for it, who knew that it would come. I saw them look up surprised and bewildered from the hall below.

  "Miss Caroline de Winter," shouted the drummer.

  I came forward to the head of the stairs and stood there, smiling, my hat in my hand, like the girl in the picture. I waited for the clapping and laughter that would follow as I walked slowly down the stairs. Nobody clapped, nobody moved.

  They all stared at me like dumb things. Beatrice uttered a little cry and put her hand to her mouth. I went on smiling, I put one hand on the banister.

  "How do you do, Mr. de Winter," I said.

  Maxim had not moved. He stared up at me, his glass in his hand. There was no color in his face. It was ashen white. I saw Frank go to him as though he would speak, but Maxim shook him off. I hesitated, one foot already on the stairs. Something was wrong, they had not understood. Why was Maxim looking like that? Why did they all stand like dummies, like people in a trance?

  Then Maxim moved forward to the stairs, his eyes never leaving my face.

  "What the hell do you think you are doing?" he asked. His eyes blazed in anger. His face was still ashen white.

  I could not move, I went on standing there, my hand on the banister.

  "It's the picture," I said, terrified at his eyes, at his voice. "It's the picture, the one in the gallery."

  There was a long silence. We went on staring at each other. Nobody moved in the hall. I swallowed, my hand moved to my throat. "What is it?" I said. "What have I done?"

  If only they would not stare at me like that with dull blank faces. If only somebody would say something. When Maxim spoke again I did not recognize his voice. It was still and quiet, icy cold, not a voice I knew.

  "Go and change," he said, "it does not matter what you put on. Find an ordinary evening frock, anything will do. Go now, before anybody comes."

  I could not speak, I went on staring at him. His eyes were the only living things in the white mask of his face.

  "What are you standing there for?" he said, his voice harsh and queer. "Didn't you hear what I said?"

  I turned and ran blindly through the archway to the corridors beyond. I caught a glimpse of the astonished face of the drummer who had announced me. I brushed past him, stumbling, not looking where I went. Tears blinded my eyes. I did not know what was happening. Clarice had gone. The corridor was deserted. I looked about me stunned and stupid like a haunted thing. Then I saw that the door leading to the west wing was open wide, and that someone was standing there.

  It was Mrs. Danvers. I shall never forget the expression on her face, loathsome, triumphant. The face of an exulting devil. She stood there, smiling at me.

  And then I ran from her, down the long narrow passage to my own room, tripping, stumbling over the flounces of my dress.

  17

  Clarice was waiting for me in my bedroom. She looked pale and scared. As soon as she saw me she burst into tears. I did not say anything. I began tearing at the hooks of my dress, ripping the stuff. I could not manage them properly, and Clarice came to help me, still crying noisily.

  "It's all right, Clarice, it's not your fault," I said, and she shook her
head, the tears still running down her cheeks.

  "Your lovely dress, Madam," she said, "your lovely white dress."

  "It doesn't matter," I said. "Can't you find the hook? There it is, at the back. And another one somewhere, just below."

  She fumbled with the hooks, her hands trembling, making worse trouble with it than I did myself, and all the time catching at her breath.

  "What will you wear instead, Madam?" she said.

  "I don't know," I said, "I don't know." She had managed to unfasten the hooks, and I struggled out of the dress. "I think I'd rather like to be alone, Clarice," I said, "would you be a dear and leave me? Don't worry, I shall manage all right. Forget what's happened. I want you to enjoy the party."

  "Can't I press out a dress for you, Madam?" she said, looking up at me with swollen streaming eyes. "It won't take me a moment."

  "No," I said, "don't bother, I'd rather you went, and Clarice..."

  "Yes, Madam?"

  "Don't--don't say anything about what's just happened."

  "No, Madam." She burst into another torrent of weeping.

  "Don't let the others see you like that," I said. "Go to your bedroom and do something to your face. There's nothing to cry about, nothing at all." Somebody knocked on the door. Clarice threw me a quick frightened glance.

  "Who is it?" I said. The door opened and Beatrice came into the room. She came to me at once, a strange, rather ludicrous figure in her Eastern drapery, the bangles jangling on her wrists.

  "My dear," she said, "my dear," and held out her hands to me.

  Clarice slipped out of the room. I felt tired suddenly, and unable to cope. I went and sat down on the bed. I put my hand up to my head and took off the curled wig. Beatrice stood watching me.

  "Are you all right?" she said. "You look very white."

  "It's the light," I said. "It never gives one any color."

  "Sit down for a few minutes and you'll be all right," she said; "wait, I'll get a glass of water."

  She went into the bathroom, her bangles jangling with her every movement, and then she came back, the glass of water in her hands.

  I drank some to please her, not wanting it a bit. It tasted warm from the tap; she had not let it run.

  "Of course I knew at once it was just a terrible mistake," she said. "You could not possibly have known, why should you?"

  "Known what?" I said.

  "Why, the dress, you poor dear, the picture you copied of the girl in the gallery. It was what Rebecca did at the last fancy dress ball at Manderley. Identical. The same picture, the same dress. You stood there on the stairs, and for one ghastly moment I thought..."

  She did not go on with her sentence, she patted me on the shoulder.

  "You poor child, how wretchedly unfortunate, how were you to know?"

  "I ought to have known," I said stupidly, staring at her, too stunned to understand. "I ought to have known."

  "Nonsense, how could you know? It was not the sort of thing that could possibly enter any of our heads. Only it was such a shock, you see. We none of us expected it, and Maxim..."

  "Yes, Maxim?" I said.

  "He thinks, you see, it was deliberate on your part. You had some bet that you would startle him, didn't you? Some foolish joke. And of course, he doesn't understand. It was such a frightful shock for him. I told him at once you could not have done such a thing, and that it was sheer appalling luck that you had chosen that particular picture."

  "I ought to have known," I repeated again. "It's all my fault, I ought to have seen. I ought to have known."

  "No, no. Don't worry, you'll be able to explain the whole thing to him quietly. Everything will be quite all right. The first lot of people were arriving just as I came upstairs to you. They are having drinks. Everything's all right. I've told Frank and Giles to make up a story about your dress not fitting, and you are very disappointed."

  I did not say anything. I went on sitting on the bed with my hands in my lap.

  "What can you wear instead?" said Beatrice, going to my wardrobe and flinging open the doors. "Here. What's this blue? It looks charming. Put this on. Nobody will mind. Quick. I'll help you."

  "No," I said. "No, I'm not coming down."

  Beatrice stared at me in great distress, my blue frock over her arm.

  "But, my dear, you must," she said in dismay. "You can't possibly not appear."

  "No, Beatrice, I'm not coming down. I can't face them, not after what's happened."

  "But nobody will know about the dress," she said. "Frank and Giles will never breathe a word. We've got the story all arranged. The shop sent the wrong dress, and it did not fit, so you are wearing an ordinary evening dress instead. Everyone will think it perfectly natural. It won't make any difference to the evening."

  "You don't understand," I said. "I don't care about the dress. It's not that at all. It's what has happened, what I did. I can't come down now, Beatrice, I can't."

  "But, my dear, Giles and Frank understand perfectly. They are full of sympathy. And Maxim too. It was just the first shock... I'll try and get him alone a minute, I'll explain the whole thing."

  "No!" I said. "No!"

  She put my blue frock down beside me on the bed. "Everyone will be arriving," she said, very worried, very upset. "It will look so extraordinary if you don't come down. I can't say you've suddenly got a headache."

  "Why not?" I said wearily. "What does it matter? Make anything up. Nobody will mind, they don't any of them know me."

  "Come now, my dear," she said, patting my hand, "try and make the effort. Put on this charming blue. Think of Maxim. You must come down for his sake."

  "I'm thinking about Maxim all the time," I said.

  "Well, then, surely...?"

  "No," I said, tearing at my nails, rocking backwards and forwards on the bed. "I can't, I can't."

  Somebody else knocked on the door. "Oh, dear, who on earth is that?" said Beatrice, walking to the door. "What is it?"

  She opened the door. Giles was standing just outside. "Everyone has turned up. Maxim sent me up to find out what's happening," he said.

  "She says she won't come down," said Beatrice. "What on earth are we going to say?"

  I caught sight of Giles peering at me through the open door.

  "Oh, Lord, what a frightful mix-up," he whispered. He turned away embarrassed when he noticed that I had seen him.

  "What shall I say to Maxim?" he asked Beatrice. "It's five past eight now."

  "Say she's feeling rather faint, but will try and come down later. Tell them not to wait dinner. I'll be down directly, I'll make it all right."

  "Yes, right you are." He half glanced in my direction again, sympathetic but rather curious, wondering why I sat there on the bed, and his voice was low, as it might be after an accident, when people are waiting for the doctor.

  "Is there anything else I can do?" he said.

  "No," said Beatrice, "go down now, I'll follow in a minute."

  He obeyed her, shuffling away in his Arabian robes. This is the sort of moment, I thought, that I shall laugh at years afterwards, that I shall say "Do you remember how Giles was dressed as an Arab, and Beatrice had a veil over her face, and jangling bangles on her wrist?" And time will mellow it, make it a moment for laughter. But now it was not funny, now I did not laugh. It was not the future, it was the present. It was too vivid and too real. I sat on the bed, plucking at the eiderdown, pulling a little feather out of a slit in one corner.

  "Would you like some brandy?" said Beatrice, making a last effort. "I know it's only Dutch courage, but it sometimes works wonders."

  "No," I said. "No, I don't want anything."

  "I shall have to go down. Giles says they are waiting dinner. Are you sure it's all right for me to leave you?"

  "Yes. And thank you, Beatrice."

  "Oh, my dear, don't thank me. I wish I could do something." She stooped swiftly to my looking glass and dabbed her face with powder. "God, what a sight I look," she said, "this damn v
eil is crooked I know. However it can't be helped." She rustled out of the room, closing the door behind her. I felt I had forfeited her sympathy by my refusal to go down. I had shown the white feather. She had not understood. She belonged to another breed of men and women, another race than I. They had guts, the women of her race. They were not like me. If it had been Beatrice who had done this thing instead of me she would have put on her other dress and gone down again to welcome her guests. She would have stood by Giles's side, and shaken hands with people, a smile on her face. I could not do that. I had not the pride, I had not the guts. I was badly bred.

  I kept seeing Maxim's eyes blazing in his white face, and behind him Giles, and Beatrice and Frank standing like dummies, staring at me.

  I got up from my bed and went and looked out of the window. The gardeners were going round to the lights in the rose garden, testing them to see if they all worked. The sky was pale, with a few salmon clouds of evening streaking to the west. When it was dusk the lamps would all be lit. There were tables and chairs in the rose garden, for the couples who wanted to sit out. I could smell the roses from my window. The men were talking to one another and laughing. "There's one here gone," I heard a voice call out; "can you get me another small bulb? One of the blue ones, Bill." He fixed the light into position. He whistled a popular tune of the moment with easy confidence, and I thought how tonight perhaps the band would play the same tune in the minstrel's gallery above the hall. "That's got it," said the man, switching the light on and off, "they're all right here. No others gone. We'd better have a look at those on the terrace." They went off round the corner of the house, still whistling the song. I wished I could be the man. Later in the evening he would stand with his friend in the drive and watch the cars drive up to the house, his hands in his pockets, his cap on the back of his head. He would stand in a crowd with other people from the estate, and then drink cider at the long table arranged for them in one corner of the terrace. "Like the old days, isn't it?" he would say. But his friend would shake his head, puffing at his pipe. "This new one's not like our Mrs. de Winter, she's different altogether." And a woman next them in the crowd would agree, other people too, all saying "That's right," and nodding their heads.