'Yes,' I said.

  The door opened and Frith came into the room. I pushed Maxim away, I stood up straight and conventional, patting my hair into place.

  'Will you be changing, Madam, or shall I serve dinner at once?'

  'No, Frith, we won't be changing, not tonight,' I said.

  'Very good, Madam,' he said.

  He left the door open. Robert came in and began drawing the curtains. He arranged the cushions, straightened the sofa, tidied the books and papers on the table. He took away the whisky and soda and the dirty ashtrays. I had seen him do these things as a ritual every evening I had spent at Manderley, but tonight they seemed to take on a special significance, as though the memory of them would last for ever and I would say, long after, in some other time, 'I remember this moment.'

  I remember every detail of that evening. I remember the ice-cold consommé in the cups, and the fillets of sole, and the hot shoulder of lamb.

  I remember the burnt sugar sweet, the sharp savoury that followed.

  We had new candles in the silver candlesticks, they looked white and slim and very tall. The curtains had been drawn here too against the dull grey evening. It seemed strange to be sitting in the dining-room and not look out on to the lawns. It was like the beginning of autumn.

  It was while we were drinking our coffee in the library that the telephone, rang. This time it was I who answered it. I heard Beatrice speaking at the other end. 'Is that you?' she said, 'I've been trying to get through all the evening. Twice it was engaged.'

  'I'm so sorry,' I said, 'so very sorry.'

  'We had the evening papers about two hours ago.' she said, 'and the verdict was a frightful shock to both Giles and myself. What does Maxim say about it?'

  'I think it was a shock to everybody,' I said.

  'But, my dear, the thing is preposterous. Why on earth should Rebecca have committed suicide? The most unlikely person in the world. There must have been a blunder somewhere.'

  'I don't know,' I said.

  'What does Maxim say? Where is he?' she said.

  'People have been here,' I said - 'Colonel Julyan, and others. Maxim is very tired. We're going up to London tomorrow.'

  'What on earth for?'

  'Something to do with the verdict. I can't very well explain.'

  'You ought to get it quashed,' she said. 'It's ridiculous, quite ridiculous. And so bad for Maxim, all this frightful publicity. It's going to reflect on him.'

  'Yes,' I said.

  'Surely Colonel Julyan can do something?' she said. 'He's a magistrate.

  What are magistrates for? Old Horridge from Lanyon must have been off his head. What was her motive supposed to be? It's the most idiotic thing I've ever heard in my life. Someone ought to get hold of Tabb. How can he tell whether those holes in the boat were made deliberately or not?

  Giles said of course it must have been the rocks.'

  "They seemed to think not,' I said.

  'If only I could have been there,' she said. 'I should have insisted on speaking. No one seems to have made any effort. Is Maxim very upset?'

  'He's tired,' I said, 'more tired than anything else.'

  'I wish I could come up to London and join you,' she said, 'but I don't see how I can. Roger has a temperature of 103, poor old boy, and the nurse we've got in is a perfect idiot, he loathes her. I can't possibly leave him.'

  'Of course not,' I said. 'You mustn't attempt it.'

  'Whereabouts in London will you be?'

  'I don't know,' I said. 'It's all rather vague.'

  'Tell Maxim he must try and do something to get that verdict altered.

  It's so bad for the family. I'm telling everybody here it's absolutely wicked. Rebecca would never have killed herself, she wasn't the type.

  I've got a good mind to write to the Coroner myself.'

  'It's too late,' I said. 'Much better leave it. It won't do any good.'

  "The stupidity of it gets my goat,' she said. 'Giles and I think it much more likely that if those holes weren't done by the rocks they were done deliberately, by some tramp or other. A Communist perhaps. There are heaps of them about. Just the sort of thing a Communist would do.'

  Maxim called to me from the library. 'Can't you get rid of her? What on earth is she talking about?'

  'Beatrice,' I said desperately, 'I'll try and ring you up from London.'

  'Is it any good my tackling Dick Godolphin?' she said. 'He's your MP.

  I know him very well, much better than Maxim does. He was at Oxford with Giles. Ask Maxim whether he would like me to telephone Dick and see if he can do anything to quash the verdict? Ask Maxim what he thinks of this Communist idea.'

  'It's no use,' I said. 'It can't do any good. Please, Beatrice, don't try and do anything. It will make it worse, much worse. Rebecca may have had some motive we don't know anything about. And I don't think Communists go ramming holes in boats, what would be the use? Please, Beatrice, leave it alone.'

  Oh, thank God she had not been with us today. Thank God for that at least.

  Something was buzzing in the telephone. I heard Beatrice shouting, 'Hullo, hullo, don't cut us off, exchange,' and then there was a click, and silence.

  I went back into the library, limp and exhausted. In a few minutes the telephone began ringing again. I did not do anything. I let it ring. I went and sat down at Maxim's feet. It went on ringing. I did not move.

  Presently it stopped, as though cut suddenly in exasperation. The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten o'clock. Maxim put his arms round me and lifted me against him. We began to kiss one another, feverishly, desperately, like guilty lovers who have not kissed before.

  chapter twenty-six

  When I awoke the next morning, just after six o'clock, and got up and went to the window there was a foggy dew upon the grass like frost, and the trees were shrouded in a white mist. There was a chill in the air and a little, fresh wind, and the cold, quiet smell of autumn.

  As I knelt by the window looking down on to the rose-garden where the flowers themselves drooped upon their stalks, the petals brown and dragging after last night's rain, the happenings of the day before seemed remote and unreal. Here at Manderley a new day was starting, the things of the garden were not concerned with our troubles. A blackbird ran across the rose-garden to the lawns in swift, short rushes, stopping now and again to stab at the earth with his yellow beak. A thrush, too, went about his business, and two stout little wagtails, following one another, and a little cluster of twittering sparrows. A gull poised himself high in the air, silent and alone, and then spread his wings wide and swooped beyond the lawns to the woods and the Happy Valley. These things continued, our worries and anxieties had no power to alter them.

  Soon the gardeners would be astir, brushing the first leaves from the lawns and the paths, raking the gravel in the drive. Pails would clank in the courtyard behind the house, the hose would be turned on the car, the little scullery maid would begin to chatter through the open door to the men in the yard. There would be the crisp, hot smell of bacon.

  The housemaids would open up the house, throw wide the windows, draw back the curtains.

  The dogs would crawl from their baskets, yawn and stretch themselves, wander out on to the terrace and blink at the first struggles of the pale sun coming through the mist. Robert would lay the table for breakfast, bring in those piping scones, the clutch of eggs, the glass dishes of honey, jam, and marmalade, the bowl of peaches, the cluster of purple grapes with the bloom upon them still, hot from the greenhouses.

  Maids sweeping in the morning-room, the drawing-room, the fresh clean air pouring into the long open windows. Smoke curling from the chimneys, and little by little the autumn mist fading away and the trees and the banks and the woods taking shape, the glimmer of the sea showing with the sun upon it below the valley, the beacon standing tall and straight upon the headland.

  The peace of Manderley. The quietude and the grace. Whoever lived within its walls, whatever trouble there was and strife, however much uneasiness and pain, no matter what tears were shed, what sorrows borne, the peace of Manderley could

  not be broken or the loveliness destroyed. The flowers that died would bloom again another year, the same birds build their nests, the same trees blossom. The old quiet moss smell would linger in the air, and bees would come, and crickets, and herons build their nests in the deep dark woods.

  The butterflies would dance their merry jig across the lawns, and spiders spin foggy webs, and small startled rabbits who had no business to come trespassing poke their faces through the crowded shrubs. There would be lilac, and honeysuckle still, and the white magnolia buds unfolding slow and tight beneath the dining-room window. No one would ever hurt Manderley.

  It would lie always in a hollow like an enchanted thing, guarded by the woods, safe, secure, while the sea broke and ran and came again in the little shingle bays below.

  Maxim slept on and I did not wake him. The day ahead of us would be a weary thing and long. High roads, and telegraph poles, and the monotony of passing traffic, the slow crawl into London. We did not know what we should find at the end of our journey. The future was unknown. Somewhere to the north of London lived a man called Baker who had never heard of us, but he held our future in the hollow of his hand. Soon he too would be waking, stretching, yawning, going about the business of his day. I got up, and went into the bathroom, and began to run my bath. These actions held for me the same significance as Robert and his clearing of the library had the night before. I had done these things before mechanically, but now I was aware as I dropped my sponge into the water, as I spread my towel on the chair from the hot rail, as I lay back and let the water run over my body. Every moment was a precious thing, having in it the essence of finality. When I went back to the bedroom and began to dress I heard a soft footstep come and pause outside the door, and the key turn quietly in the lock. There was silence a moment, and then the footsteps went away. It was Mrs Danvers.

  She had not forgotten. I had heard the same sound the night before after we had come up from the library. She had not knocked upon the door, she had not made herself known; there was just the sound of footsteps and the turning of the key in the

  lock. It brought me to reality and the facing of the immediate future.

  I finished dressing, and went and turned on Maxim's bath. Presently Clarice came with our tea. I woke Maxim. He stared at me at first like a puzzled child, and then he held out his arms. We drank our tea. He got up and went to his bath and I began putting things methodically in my suitcase. It might be that we should have to stay in London.

  I packed the brushes Maxim had given me, a nightdress, my dressing-gown and slippers, and another dress too and a pair of shoes. My dressing-case looked unfamiliar as I dragged it from the back of a wardrobe. It seemed so long since I had used it, and yet it was only four months ago. It still had the Customs mark upon it they had chalked at Calais. In one of the pockets was a concert ticket from the casino in Monte Carlo. I crumpled it and threw it into the waste-paper basket. It might have belonged to another age, another world. My bedroom began to take on the appearance of all rooms when the owner goes away. The dressing-table was bare without my brushes. There was tissue-paper lying on the floor, and an old label.

  The beds where we had slept had a terrible emptiness about them. The towels lay crumpled on the bathroom floor. The wardrobe doors gaped open. I put on my hat so that I should not have to come up again, and I took my bag and my gloves and my suitcase. I glanced round the room to see if there was anything I had forgotten. The mist was breaking, the sun was forcing its way through and throwing patterns on the carpet. When I was halfway down the passage I had a curious, inexplicable feeling that I must go back and look in my room again. I went without reason, and stood a moment looking at the gaping wardrobe and the empty bed, and the tray of tea upon the table. I stared at them, impressing them for ever on my mind, wondering why they had the power to touch me, to sadden me, as though they were children that did not want me to go away.

  Then I turned and went downstairs to breakfast. It was cold in the dining-room, the sun not yet on the windows, and I was grateful for the scalding bitter coffee and heartening bacon. Maxim and I ate in silence.

  Now and again he glanced at the clock. I heard Robert put the suitcases in the hall with the rug,

  and presently there was the sound of the car being brought to the door.

  I went out and stood on the terrace. The rain had cleared the air, and the grass smelt fresh and sweet. When the sun was higher it would be a lovely day. I thought how we might have wandered in the valley before lunch, and then sat out afterwards under the chestnut tree with books and papers. I closed my eyes a minute and felt the warmth of the sun on my face and on my hands.

  I heard Maxim calling to me from the house. I went back, and Frith helped me into my coat. I heard the sound of another car. It was Frank.

  'Colonel Julyan is waiting at the lodge gates,' he said. 'He did not think it worth while to drive up to the house.'

  'No,' said Maxim.

  'I'll stand by in the office all day and wait for you to telephone,' said Frank. 'After you've seen Baker you may find you want me, up in London.'

  'Yes,' said Maxim. 'Yes, perhaps.'

  'It's just nine now,' said Frank. 'You're up to time. It's going to be fine too. You should have a good run.'

  'Yes.'

  'I hope you won't get over-tired, Mrs de Winter,' he said to me. 'It's going to be a long day for you.'

  'I shall be all right,' I said. I looked at Jasper who was standing by my feet with ears drooping and sad reproachful eyes.

  'Take Jasper back with you to the office,' I said. 'He looks so miserable.'

  'Yes,' he said. 'Yes, I will.'

  'We'd better be off,' said Maxim. 'Old Julyan will be getting impatient.

  All right, Frank.'

  I climbed in the car beside Maxim. Frank slammed the door.

  'You will telephone, won't you?' he said.

  'Yes, of course,' said Maxim.

  I looked back at the house. Frith was standing at the top of the steps, and Robert just behind. My eyes filled with tears for no reason. I turned away and groped with my bag on the floor of the car so that nobody should see. Then Maxim started up the

  car and we swept round and into the drive and the house was hidden.

  We stopped at the lodge-gates and picked up Colonel Julyan. He got in at the back. He looked doubtful when he saw me.

  'It's going to be a long day,' he said. 'I don't think you should have attempted it. I would have taken care of your husband you know.'

  'I wanted to come,' I said.

  He did not say any more about it. He settled himself in the corner. 'It's fine, that's one thing,' he said.

  'Yes,' said Maxim.

  "That fellow Favell said he would pick us up at the crossroads. If he*s not there don't attempt to wait, we'd do much better without him. I hope the damned fellow has overslept himself.'

  When we came to the crossroads though I saw the long green body of his car, and my heart sank. I had thought he might not be on time. Favell was sitting at the wheel, hatless, a cigarette in his mouth. He grinned when he saw us, and waved us on. I settled down in my seat for the journey ahead, one hand on Maxim's knee. The hours passed, and the miles were covered. I watched the road ahead in a kind of stupor. Colonel Julyan slept at the back from time to time. I turned occasionally and saw his head loll against the cushions, and his mouth open. The green car kept close beside us. Sometimes it shot ahead, sometimes it dropped behind.

  But we never lost it. At one we stopped for lunch at one of those inevitable old-fashioned hotels in the main street of a county town. Colonel Julyan waded through the whole set lunch, starting with soup and fish, and going on to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Maxim and I had cold ham and coffee.

  I half expected Favell to wander into the dining-room and join us, but when we came out to the car again I saw his car had been drawn up outside a cafe on the opposite side of the road. He must have seen us from the window, for three minutes after we had started he was on our tail again.

  We came to the suburbs of London about three o'clock. It was then that I began to feel tired, the noise and the traffic blocks started a humming in my head. It was warm in London

  too. The streets had that worn dusty look of August, and the leaves hung listless on dull trees. Our storm must have been local, there had been no rain here.

  People were walking about in cotton frocks and the men were hatless. There was a smell of waste-paper, and orange-peel, and feet, and burnt dried grass. Buses lumbered slowly, and taxis crawled. I felt as though my coat and skirt were sticking to me, and my stockings pricked my skin.

  Colonel Julyan sat up and looked out through his window. 'They've had no rain here,' he said.

  'No,' said Maxim.

  'Looks as though the place needed it, too.'

  'Yes.'

  'We haven't succeeded in shaking Favell off. He's still on our tail.'

  'Yes.'

  Shopping centres on the outskirts seemed congested. Tired women with crying babies in prams stared into windows, hawkers shouted, small boys hung on to the backs of lorries. There were too many people, too much noise. The very air was irritable and exhausted and spent.

  The drive through London seemed endless, and by the time we had drawn clear again and were out beyond Hampstead there was a sound in my head like the beating of a drum, and my eyes were burning.

  I wondered how tired Maxim was. He was pale, and there were shadows under his eyes, but he did not say anything. Colonel Julyan kept yawning at the back. He opened his mouth very wide and yawned aloud, sighing heavily afterwards. He would do this every few minutes. I felt a senseless stupid irritation come over me, and I did not know how to prevent myself from turning round and screaming to him to stop.

  Once we had passed Hampstead he drew out a large-scale map from his coat-pocket and began directing Maxim to Barnet. The way was clear and there were sign-posts to tell us, but he kept pointing out every turn and twist in the road, and if there was any hesitation on Maxim's part Colonel Julyan would turn down the window and call for information from a passer-by.