Rebecca

'Do you play golf at all, Mrs de Winter?' said Mr Crawley.

'No, I'm afraid I don't,' I answered, glad that the subject had been changed again, that Mrs Danvers was forgotten, and even though I was no player, knew nothing of the game, I was prepared to listen to him as long as he pleased; there was something solid and safe and dull about golf, it could not bring us into any difficulties. We had cheese, and coffee, and I wondered whether I was supposed to make a move. I kept looking at Maxim, but he gave no sign, and then Giles embarked upon a story, rather difficult to follow, about digging a car out of a snow-drift — what had started the train of thought I could not tell — and I listened to him politely, nodding my head now and again and smiling, aware of Maxim becoming restive at his end of the table. At last he paused, and I caught Maxim's eye. He frowned very slightly and jerked his head towards the door.

I got up at once, shaking the table clumsily as I moved my chair, and upsetting Giles's glass of port. 'Oh, dear,' I said, hovering, wondering what to do, reaching ineffectively for my napkin, but 'All right, Frith will deal with it,' said Maxim, 'don't add to the confusion. Beatrice, take her out in the garden; she's scarcely seen the place yet.'

He looked tired, rather jaded. I began to wish none of them had come. They had spoilt our day anyway. It was too much of an effort, just as we returned. I felt tired too, tired and depressed. Maxim had seemed almost irritable when he suggested we should go into the garden. What a fool I had been, upsetting that glass of port.

We went out on to the terrace and walked down on to the smooth green lawns.

'I think it's a pity you came back to Manderley so soon,' said Beatrice, 'it would have been far better to potter about in Italy for three or four months, and then come back in the middle of the summer. Done Maxim a power of good too, besides being easier from your point of view. I can't help feeling it's going to be rather a strain here for you at first.'

'Oh, I don't think so,' I said. 'I know I shall come to love Manderley.'

She did not answer, and we strolled backwards and forwards on the lawns.

'Tell me a bit about yourself,' she said at last; 'what was it you were doing in the south of France? Living with some appalling American woman, Maxim said.'

I explained about Mrs Van Hopper, and what had led to it, and she seemed sympathetic but a little vague, as though she was thinking of something else.

'Yes,' she said, when I paused, 'it all happened very suddenly, as you say. But of course we were all delighted, my dear, and I do hope you will be happy.'

"Thank you, Beatrice,' I said, 'thank you very much.'

I wondered why she said she hoped we would be happy, instead of saying she knew we would be so. She was kind, she was sincere, I liked her very much, but there was a tiny doubt in her voice that made me afraid.

'When Maxim wrote and told me,' she went on, taking my arm, 'and said he had discovered you in the south of France, and you were very young, very pretty, I must admit it gave me a bit of a shock. Of course we all expected a social butterfly, very modern and plastered with paint, the sort of girl you expected to meet in those sort of places. When you came into the morning-room before lunch you could have knocked me down with a feather.'

She laughed, and I laughed with her. But she did not say whether or not she was disappointed in my appearance or relieved.

'Poor Maxim,' she said: 'he went through a ghastly time, and let's hope you have made him forget about it. Of course he adores Manderley.'

Part of me wanted her to continue her train of thought, to tell me more of the past, naturally and easily like this, and something else, way back in my mind, did not want to know, did not want to hear.

'We are not a bit alike, you know,' she said, 'our characters are poles apart. I show everything on my face: whether I like people or not, whether I am angry or pleased. There's no reserve about me. Maxim is entirely different. Very quiet, very reserved. You never know what's going on in that funny mind of his. I lose my temper on the slightest provocation, flare up, and then it's all over. Maxim loses his temper once or twice in a year, and when he does — my God — he does lose it. I don't suppose he ever will with you, I should think you are a placid little thing.'

She smiled, and pinched my arm, and I thought about being placid, how quiet and comfortable it sounded, someone with knitting on her lap, with calm unruffled brow. Someone who was never anxious, never tortured by doubt and indecision, someone who never stood as I did, hopeful, eager, frightened, tearing at bitten nails, uncertain which way to go, what star to follow.

'You won't mind me saying so, will you?' she went on, 'but I think you ought to do something to your hair. Why don't you have it waved? It's so very lanky, isn't it, like that? Must look awful under a hat. Why don't you sweep it back behind your ears?'

I did so obediently, and waited for her approval. She looked at me critically, her head on one side. 'No,' she said. 'No, I think that's worse. It's too severe, and doesn't suit you. No, all you need is a wave, just to pinch it up. I never have cared for that Joan of Arc business or whatever they call it. What does Maxim say? Does he think it suits you?'

'I don't know,' I said, 'he's never mentioned it.'

'Oh well,' she said, 'perhaps he likes it. Don't go by me. Tell me, did you get any clothes in London or Paris?'

'No,' I said, 'we had no time. Maxim was anxious to get home. And I can always send for catalogues.'

'I can tell by the way you dress that you don't care a hoot what you wear,' she said. I glanced at my flannel skirt apologetically.

'I do,' I said. 'I'm very fond of nice things. I've never had much money to spend on clothes up to now.'

'I wonder Maxim did not stay a week or so in London and get you something decent to wear,' she said. 'I must say, I think it's rather selfish of him. So unlike him too. He's generally so particular.'

'Is he?' I said; 'he's never seemed particular to me. I don't think he notices what I wear at all. I don't think he minds.'

'Oh,' she said. 'Oh, well, he must have changed then.' She looked away from me, and whistled to Jasper, her hands in her pockets, and then stared up at the house above us. 'You're not using the west wing then,' she said. 'No,' I said. 'No, we have the suite in the east wing. It's all been done up.'

'Has it?' she said. 'I didn't know that. I wonder why.'

'It was Maxim's idea,' I said, 'he seems to prefer it. I She said nothing, she went on looking at the windows, and whistling. 'How do you get on with Mrs Danvers?' she said suddenly.

I bent down, and began patting Jasper's head, and stroking his ears. 'I have not seen very much of her,' I said; 'she scares me a little. I've never seen anyone quite like her before.'

'I don't suppose you have,' said Beatrice. Jasper looked up at me with great eyes, humble, rather self-conscious. I kissed the top of his silken head, and put my hand over his black nose.

'There's no need to be frightened of her,' said Beatrice; 'and don't let her see it, whatever you do. Of course I've never had anything to do with her, and I don't think I ever want to either. However, she's always been very civil to me.'

I went on patting Jasper's head.

'Did she seem friendly?' said Beatrice.

'No,' I said. 'No, not very.'

Beatrice began whistling again, and she rubbed Jasper's head with her foot. 'I shouldn't have more to do with her than you can help,' she said.

'No,' I said. 'She runs the house very efficiently, there's no need for me to interfere.', 'Oh, I don't suppose she'd mind that,' said Beatrice. That was what Maxim had said, the evening before, and I thought it odd that they should both have the same opinion. I should have imagined that interference was the one thing Mrs Danvers did not want.