Rebecca

by Daphne Du Maurier

  "Don't forget, you're dining with us on the fourteenth of next month."

  "Oh, are we?" I stared at him blankly.

  "Yes, we've got your sister-in-law to promise too."

  "Oh. Oh, what fun."

  "Eight-thirty, and black tie. So looking forward to seeing you."

  "Yes. Yes, rather."

  People began to form up in queues to say good-bye. Maxim was at the other side of the room. I put on my smile again, which had worn thin after Auld Lang Syne.

  "The best evening I've spent for a long time."

  "I'm so glad."

  "Many thanks for a grand party."

  "I'm so glad."

  "Here we are, you see, staying to the bitter end."

  "Yes, I'm so glad."

  Was there no other sentence in the English language? I bowed and smiled like a dummy, my eyes searching for Maxim above their heads. He was caught up in a knot of people by the library. Beatrice too was surrounded, and Giles had led a team of stragglers to the buffet table in the drawing room. Frank was out in the drive seeing that people got their cars. I was hemmed in by strangers.

  "Good-bye, and thanks tremendously."

  "I'm so glad."

  The great hall began to empty. Already it wore that drab deserted air of a vanished evening and the dawn of a tired day. There was a gray light on the terrace, I could see the shapes of the blown firework stands taking form on the lawns.

  "Good-bye; a wonderful party."

  "I'm so glad."

  Maxim had gone out to join Frank in the drive. Beatrice came up to me, pulling off her jangling bracelets. "I can't stand these things a moment longer. Heavens, I'm dead beat. I don't believe I've missed a dance. Anyway, it was a tremendous success."

  "Was it?" I said.

  "My dear, hadn't you better go to bed? You look worn out. You've been standing nearly all the evening. Where are the men?"

  "Out on the drive."

  "I shall have some coffee, and eggs and bacon. What about you?"

  "No, Beatrice, I don't think I will."

  "You looked very charming in your blue. Everyone said so. And nobody had an inkling about--about the other things, so you mustn't worry."

  "No."

  "If I were you I should have a good long lie tomorrow morning. Don't attempt to get up. Have your breakfast in bed."

  "Yes, perhaps."

  "I'll tell Maxim you've gone up, shall I?"

  "Please, Beatrice."

  "All right, my dear. Sleep well." She kissed me swiftly, patting my shoulder at the same time, and then went off to find Giles in the supper room. I walked slowly up the stairs, one step at a time. The band had turned the lights off in the gallery, and had gone down to have eggs and bacon too. Pieces of music lay about the floor. One chair had been upturned. There was an ashtray full of the stubs of their cigarettes. The aftermath of the party. I went along the corridor to my room. It was getting lighter every moment, and the birds had started singing. I did not have to turn on the light to undress. A little chill wind blew in from the open window. It was rather cold. Many people must have used the rose garden during the evening, for all the chairs were moved, and dragged from their places. There was a tray of empty glasses on one of the tables. Someone had left a bag behind on a chair. I pulled the curtain to darken the room, but the gray morning light found its way through the gaps at the side.

  I got into bed, my legs very weary, a niggling pain in the small of my back. I lay back and closed my eyes, thankful for the cool white comfort of clean sheets. I wished my mind would rest like my body, relax, and pass to sleep. Not hum round in the way it did, jigging to music, whirling in a sea of faces. I pressed my hands over my eyes but they would not go.

  I wondered how long Maxim would be. The bed beside me looked stark and cold. Soon there would be no shadows in the room at all, the walls and the ceiling and the floor would be white with the morning. The birds would sing their songs, louder, gayer, less subdued. The sun would make a yellow pattern on the curtain. My little bedside clock ticked out the minutes one by one. The hand moved round the dial. I lay on my side watching it. It came to the hour and passed it again. It started afresh on its journey. But Maxim did not come.

  18

  I think I fell asleep a little after seven. It was broad daylight, I remember, there was no longer any pretence that the drawn curtains hid the sun. The light streamed in at the open window and made patterns on the wall. I heard the men below in the rose garden clearing away the tables and the chairs, and taking down the chain of fairy lights. Maxim's bed was still bare and empty. I lay across my bed, my arms over my eyes, a strange, mad position and the least likely to bring sleep, but I drifted to the border-line of the unconscious and slipped over it at last. When I awoke it was past eleven, and Clarice must have come in and brought me my tea without my hearing her, for there was a tray by my side, and a stone-cold teapot, and my clothes had been tidied, my blue frock put away in the wardrobe.

  I drank my cold tea, still blurred and stupid from my short heavy sleep, and stared at the blank wall in front of me. Maxim's empty bed brought me to realization with a queer shock to my heart, and the full anguish of the night before was upon me once again. He had not come to bed at all. His pajamas lay folded on the turned-down sheet untouched. I wondered what Clarice had thought when she came into the room with my tea. Had she noticed? Would she have gone out and told the other servants, and would they all discuss it over their breakfast? I wondered why I minded that, and why the thought of the servants talking about it in the kitchen should cause me such distress. It must be that I had a small mean mind, a conventional, petty hatred of gossip.

  That was why I had come down last night in my blue dress and had not stayed hidden in my room. There was nothing brave or fine about it, it was a wretched tribute to convention. I had not come down for Maxim's sake, for Beatrice's, for the sake of Manderley. I had come down because I did not want the people at the ball to think I had quarreled with Maxim. I didn't want them to go home and say, "Of course you know they don't get on. I hear he's not at all happy." I had come for my own sake, my own poor personal pride. As I sipped my cold tea I thought with a tired bitter feeling of despair that I would be content to live in one corner of Manderley and Maxim in the other so long as the outside world should never know. If he had no more tenderness for me, never kissed me again, did not speak to me except on matters of necessity, I believed I could bear it if I were certain that nobody knew of this but our two selves. If we could bribe servants not to tell, play our part before relations, before Beatrice, and then when we were alone sit apart in our separate rooms, leading our separate lives.

  It seemed to me, as I sat there in bed, staring at the wall, at the sunlight coming in at the window, at Maxim's empty bed, that there was nothing quite so shaming, so degrading as a marriage that had failed. Failed after three months, as mine had done. For I had no illusions left now, I no longer made any effort to pretend. Last night had shown me too well. My marriage was a failure. All the things that people would say about it if they knew, were true. We did not get on. We were not companions. We were not suited to one another. I was too young for Maxim, too inexperienced, and, more important still, I was not of his world. The fact that I loved him in a sick, hurt, desperate way, like a child or a dog, did not matter. It was not the sort of love he needed. He wanted something else that I could not give him, something he had had before. I thought of the youthful almost hysterical excitement and conceit with which I had gone into this marriage, imagining I would bring happiness to Maxim, who had known much greater happiness before. Even Mrs. Van Hopper, with her cheap views and common outlook, had known I was making a mistake. "I'm afraid you will regret it," she said. "I believe you are making a big mistake."

  I would not listen to her, I thought her hard and cruel. But she was right. She was right in everything. That last mean thrust thrown at me before she said good-bye, "You don't flatter yourself he's in love with you, do you? He's lonely, h
e can't bear that great empty house," was the sanest, most truthful statement she had ever made in her life. Maxim was not in love with me, he had never loved me. Our honeymoon in Italy had meant nothing at all to him, nor our living here together. What I had thought was love for me, for myself as a person, was not love. It was just that he was a man, and I was his wife and was young, and he was lonely. He did not belong to me at all, he belonged to Rebecca. He still thought about Rebecca. He would never love me because of Rebecca. She was in the house still, as Mrs. Danvers had said; she was in that room in the west wing, she was in the library, in the morning room, in the gallery above the hall. Even in the little flower room, where her mackintosh still hung. And in the garden, and in the woods, and down in the stone cottage on the beach. Her footsteps sounded in the corridors, her scent lingered on the stairs. The servants obeyed her orders still, the food we ate was the food she liked. Her favorite flowers filled the rooms. Her clothes were in the wardrobes in her room, her brushes were on the table, her shoes beneath the chair, her nightdress on her bed. Rebecca was still mistress of Manderley. Rebecca was still Mrs. de Winter. I had no business here at all. I had come blundering like a poor fool on ground that was preserved. "Where is Rebecca?" Maxim's grandmother had cried. "I want Rebecca. What have you done with Rebecca?" She did not know me, she did not care about me. Why should she? I was a stranger to her. I did not belong to Maxim or to Manderley. And Beatrice at our first meeting, looking me up and down, frank, direct, "You're so very different from Rebecca." Frank, reserved, embarrassed when I spoke of her, hating those questions I had poured upon him, even as I had hated them myself, and then answering that final one as we came towards the house, his voice grave and quiet. "Yes, she was the most beautiful creature I have ever seen."

  Rebecca, always Rebecca. Wherever I walked in Manderley, wherever I sat, even in my thoughts and in my dreams, I met Rebecca. I knew her figure now, the long slim legs, the small and narrow feet. Her shoulders, broader than mine, the capable clever hands. Hands that could steer a boat, could hold a horse. Hands that arranged flowers, made the models of ships, and wrote "Max from Rebecca" on the flyleaf of a book. I knew her face too, small and oval, the clear white skin, the cloud of dark hair. I knew the scent she wore, I could guess her laughter and her smile. If I heard it, even among a thousand others, I should recognize her voice. Rebecca, always Rebecca. I should never be rid of Rebecca.

  Perhaps I haunted her as she haunted me; she looked down on me from the gallery as Mrs. Danvers had said, she sat beside me when I wrote my letters at her desk. That mackintosh I wore, that handkerchief I used. They were hers. Perhaps she knew and had seen me take them. Jasper had been her dog, and he ran at my heels now. The roses were hers and I cut them. Did she resent me and fear me as I resented her? Did she want Maxim alone in the house again? I could fight the living but I could not fight the dead. If there was some woman in London that Maxim loved, someone he wrote to, visited, dined with, slept with, I could fight with her. We would stand on common ground. I should not be afraid. Anger and jealousy were things that could be conquered. One day the woman would grow old or tired or different, and Maxim would not love her anymore. But Rebecca would never grow old. Rebecca would always be the same. And her I could not fight. She was too strong for me.

  I got out of bed and pulled the curtains. The sun streamed into the room. The men had cleared the mess away from the rose garden. I wondered if people were talking about the ball in the way they do the day after a party.

  "Did you think it quite up to their usual standard?"

  "Oh, I think so."

  "The band dragged a bit, I thought."

  "The supper was damn good."

  "Fireworks weren't bad."

  "Bee Lacy is beginning to look old."

  "Who wouldn't in that get-up?"

  "I thought he looked rather ill."

  "He always does."

  "What did you think of the bride?"

  "Not much. Rather dull."

  "I wonder if it's a success."

  "Yes, I wonder..."

  Then I noticed for the first time there was a note under my door. I went and picked it up. I recognized the square hand of Beatrice. She had scribbled it in pencil after breakfast.

  I knocked at your door but had no answer so gather you've taken my advice and are sleeping off last night. Giles is anxious to get back early as they have rung up from home to say he's wanted to take somebody's place in a cricket match, and it starts at two. How he is going to see the ball after all the champagne he put away last night heaven only knows! I'm feeling a bit weak in the legs, but slept like a top. Frith says Maxim was down to an early breakfast, and there's now no sign of him! So please give him our love, and many thanks to you both for our evening, which we thoroughly enjoyed. Don't think anymore about the dress. [This last was heavily underlined] Yours affectionately, Bee. [And a postscript] You must both come over and see us soon.

  She had scribbled nine-thirty a.m. at the top of the paper, and it was now nearly half past eleven. They had been gone about two hours. They would be home by now, Beatrice with her suitcase unpacked, going out into her garden and taking up her ordinary routine, and Giles preparing for his match, renewing the whipping on his bat.

  In the afternoon Beatrice would change into a cool frock and a shady hat and watch Giles play cricket. They would have tea afterwards in a tent, Giles very hot and red in the face, Beatrice laughing and talking to her friends. "Yes, we went over for the dance at Manderley; it was great fun. I wonder Giles was able to run a yard." Smiling at Giles, patting him on the back. They were both middle-aged and unromantic. They had been married for twenty years and had a grown-up son who was going to Oxford. They were very happy. Their marriage was a success. It had not failed after three months as mine had done.

  I could not go on sitting in my bedroom any longer. The maids would want to come and do the room. Perhaps Clarice would not have noticed about Maxim's bed after all. I rumpled it, to make it look as though he had slept there. I did not want the housemaids to know, if Clarice had not told them.

  I had a bath and dressed, and went downstairs. The men had taken up the floor already in the hall and the flowers had been carried away. The music stands were gone from the gallery. The band must have caught an early train. The gardeners were sweeping the lawns and the drive clear of the spent fireworks. Soon there would be no trace left of the fancy dress ball at Manderley. How long the preparations had seemed, and how short and swift the clearance now.

  I remembered the salmon lady standing by the drawing room door with her plate of chicken, and it seemed to me a thing I must have fancied, or something that had happened very long ago. Robert was polishing the table in the dining room. He was normal again, stolid, dull, not the fey excited creature of the past few weeks.

  "Good morning, Robert," I said.

  "Good morning, Madam."

  "Have you seen Mr. de Winter anywhere?"

  "He went out soon after breakfast, Madam, before Major and Mrs. Lacy were down. He has not been in since."

  "You don't know where he went?"

  "No, Madam, I could not say."

  I wandered back again into the hall. I went through the drawing room to the morning room. Jasper rushed at me and licked my hands in a frenzy of delight as if I had been away for a long time. He had spent the evening on Clarice's bed and I had not seen him since tea-time yesterday. Perhaps the hours had been as long for him as they had for me.

  I picked up the telephone and asked for the number of the estate office. Perhaps Maxim was with Frank. I felt I must speak to him, even if it was only for two minutes. I must explain to him that I had not meant to do what I had done last night. Even if I never spoke to him again, I must tell him that. The clerk answered the telephone, and told me that Maxim was not there.

  "Mr. Crawley is here, Mrs. de Winter," said the clerk; "would you speak to him?" I would have refused, but he gave me no chance, and before I could put down the receiver I heard Fra
nk's voice.

  "Is anything the matter?" It was a funny way to begin a conversation. The thought flashed through my mind. He did not say good morning, or did you sleep well? Why did he ask if something was the matter?

  "Frank, it's me," I said; "where's Maxim?"

  "I don't know, I haven't seen him. He's not been in this morning."

  "Not been to the office?"

  "No."

  "Oh! Oh, well, it doesn't matter."

  "Did you see him at breakfast?" Frank said.

  "No, I did not get up."

  "How did he sleep?"

  I hesitated, Frank was the only person I did not mind knowing. "He did not come to bed last night."

  There was silence at the other end of the line, as though Frank was thinking hard for an answer.

  "Oh," he said at last, very slowly. "Oh, I see," and then, after a minute, "I was afraid something like that would happen."

  "Frank," I said desperately, "what did he say last night when everyone had gone? What did you all do?"

  "I had a sandwich with Giles and Mrs. Lacy," said Frank. "Maxim did not come. He made some excuse and went into the library. I came back home almost at once. Perhaps Mrs. Lacy can tell you."

  "She's gone," I said, "they went after breakfast. She sent up a note. She had not seen Maxim, she said."

  "Oh," said Frank. I did not like it. I did not like the way he said it. It was sharp, ominous.

  "Where do you think he's gone?" I said.

  "I don't know," said Frank; "perhaps he's gone for a walk." It was the sort of voice doctors used to relatives at a nursing home when they came to inquire.

  "Frank, I must see him," I said. "I've got to explain about last night."

  Frank did not answer. I could picture his anxious face, the lines on his forehead.

  "Maxim thinks I did it on purpose," I said, my voice breaking in spite of myself, and the tears that had blinded me last night and I had not shed came coursing down my cheeks sixteen hours too late. "Maxim thinks I did it as a joke, a beastly damnable joke!"

  "No," said Frank. "No."

  "He does, I tell you. You didn't see his eyes, as I did. You didn't stand beside him all the evening, watching him, as I did. He didn't speak to me, Frank. He never looked at me again. We stood there together the whole evening and we never spoke to one another."