Somehow I was glad my rooms were in the east wing. I preferred the rose-garden, after all, to the sound of the sea. I went back to the landing then, at the head of the stairs, and as I prepared to go down, one hand upon the bannister, I heard the door behind me open, and it was Mrs Danvers. We stared at one another for a moment without speaking, and I could not be certain whether it was anger I read in her eyes or curiosity, for her face became a mask directly she saw me. Although she said nothing I felt guilty and ashamed, as though I had been caught trespassing, and I felt the tell-tale colour come up into my face.
'I lost my way,' I said, 'I was trying to find my room.'
'You have come to the opposite side of the house,' she said; 'this is the west wing.'
'Yes, I know,' I said.
'Did you go into any of the rooms?' she asked me.
'No,' I said. 'No, I just opened a door, I did not go in. Everything was dark, covered up in dust-sheets. I'm sorry. I did not mean to disturb anything. I expect you like to keep all this shut up.'
'If you wish to open up the rooms I will have it done,' she said; 'you have only to tell me. The rooms are all furnished, and can be used.'
'Oh, no,' I said. 'No. I did not mean you to think that.'
'Perhaps you would like me to show you all over the west wing?' she said.
I shook my head. 'No, I'd rather not,' I said. 'No, I must go downstairs.' I began to walk down the stairs, and she came with me, by my side, as though she were a warder, and I in custody.
'Any time, when you have nothing to do, you have only to ask me, and I will show you the rooms in the west wing,' she persisted, making me vaguely uncomfortable. I knew not why. Her insistence struck a chord in my memory, reminding me of a visit to a friend's house, as a child, when the daughter of the house, older than me, took my arm and whispered in my ear, 'I know where there is a book, locked in a cupboard, in my mother's bedroom. Shall we go and look at it?' I remembered her white, excited face, and her small, beady eyes, and the way she kept pinching my arm.
'I will have the dust-sheets removed, and then you can see the rooms as they looked when they were used,' said Mrs Danvers. 'I would have shown you this morning, but I believed you to be writing letters in the morning- room. You have only to telephone through to my room, you know, when you want me. It would only take a short while to have the rooms in readiness.'
We had come down the short flight of stairs, and she opened another door, standing aside for me to pass through, her dark eyes questing my face.
'It's very kind of you, Mrs Danvers,' I said. 'I will let you know some time.'
We passed out together on to the landing beyond, and I saw we were at the head of the main staircase now, behind the minstrel's gallery.
'I wonder how you came to miss your way?' she said, 'the door through the west wing is very different to this.'
'I did not come this way,' I said.
'Then you must have come up the back way, from the stone passage?' she said.
'Yes,' I said, not meeting her eyes. 'Yes, I came through a stone passage.'
She went on looking at me, as though she expected me to tell her why I left the morning-room in sudden panic, going through the back regions, and I felt suddenly that she knew, that she must have watched me, that she had seen me wandering perhaps in that west wing from the first, her eye to a crack in the door. 'Mrs Lacy, and Major Lacy, have been here some time,' she said. 'I heard their car drive up shortly after twelve.'
'Oh!' I said. 'I had not realised that.'
'Frith will have taken them to the morning-room,' she said: 'it must be getting on for half past twelve. You know your way now, don't you?'
'Yes, Mrs Danvers,' I said. And I went down the big stairway into the hall, knowing she was standing there above me, her eyes watching me.
I knew I must go back now, to the morning-room, and meet Maxim's sister and her husband. I could not hide in my bedroom now. As I went into the drawing-room I glanced back, over my shoulder, and I saw Mrs Danvers still standing there at the head of the stairs, like a black sentinel.
I stood for a moment outside the morning-room, with my hand on the door, listening to the hum of voices. Maxim had returned, then, while I had been upstairs, bringing his agent with him I supposed, for it sounded to me as if the room was full of people. I was aware of the same feeling of sick uncertainty I had experienced so often as a child, when summoned to shake hands with visitors, and turning the handle of the door I blundered in, to be met at once, it seemed, with a sea of faces and a general silence.
'Here she is at last,' said Maxim. 'Where have you been hiding? We were thinking of sending out a search party. Here is Beatrice, and this is Giles, and this is Frank Crawley. Look out, you nearly trod on the dog.'
Beatrice was tall, broad-shouldered, very handsome, very much like Maxim about the eyes and jaw, but not as smart as I had expected, much tweedier; the sort of person who would nurse dogs through distemper, know about horses, shoot well. She did not kiss me. She shook hands very firmly, looking me straight in the eyes, and then turned to Maxim. 'Quite different from what I expected. Doesn't answer to your description at all.'
Everyone laughed, and I joined in, not quite certain if the laugh was against me or not, wondering secretly what it was she had expected, and what had been Maxim's description.
And 'This is Giles,' said Maxim, prodding my arm, and Giles stretched out an enormous paw and wrung my hand, squeezing the fingers limp, genial eyes smiling from behind horn-rimmed glasses.
'Frank Crawley,' said Maxim, and I turned to the agent, a colourless, rather thin man with a prominent Adam's apple, in whose eyes I read relief as he looked upon me. I wondered why, but I had no time to think of that, because Frith had come in, and was offering me sherry, and Beatrice was talking to me again. 'Maxim tells me you only got back last night. I had not realised that, or of course we would never have thrust ourselves upon you so soon. Well, what do you think of Manderley?'
'I've scarcely seen anything of it yet,' I answered; 'it's beautiful, of course.'
She was looking me up and down, as I had expected, but in a direct, straightforward fashion, not maliciously like Mrs Danvers, not with unfriendliness. She had a right to judge me, she was Maxim's sister, and Maxim himself came to my side now, putting his arm through mine, giving me confidence.
'You're looking better, old man,' she said to him, her head on one side, considering him; 'you've lost that fine-drawn look, thank goodness. I suppose we've got you to thank for that?' nodding at me.
'I'm always very fit,' said Maxim shortly, 'never had anything wrong with me in my life. You imagine everyone ill who doesn't look as fat as Giles.'
'Bosh,' said Beatrice; 'you know perfectly well you were a perfect wreck six months ago. Gave me the fright of my life when I came and saw you. I thought you were in for a breakdown. Giles, bear me out. Didn't Maxim look perfectly ghastly last time we came over, and didn't I say he was heading for a breakdown?'
'Well, I must say, old chap, you're looking a different person,' said Giles. 'Very good thing you went away. Doesn't he look well, Crawley?'
I could tell by the tightening of Maxim's muscles under my arm that he was trying to keep his temper. For some reason this talk about his health was not welcome to him, angered him even, and I thought it tactless of Beatrice to harp upon it in this way, making so big a point of it.
'Maxim's very sunburnt,' I said shyly; 'it hides a multitude of sins. You should have seen him in Venice having breakfast on the balcony, trying to get brown on purpose. He thinks it makes him better-looking.'
Everyone laughed, and Mr Crawley said, 'It must have been wonderful in Venice, Mrs de Winter, this time of year,' and 'Yes,' I said, 'we had really wonderful weather. Only one bad day, wasn't it, Maxim?' the conversation drawing away happily from his health, and so to Italy, safest of subjects, and the blessed topic of fine weather. Conversation was easy now, no longer an effort. Maxim and Giles and Beatrice were discussing the running of Maxim's car, and Mr Crawley was asking if it were true that there were no more gondolas in the canals now, only motor-boats. I don't think he would have cared at all had there been steamers at anchor in the Grand Canal, he was saying this to help me, it was his contribution to the little effort of steering the talk away from Maxim's health, and I was grateful to him, feeling him an ally, for all his dull appearance.
'Jasper wants exercise,' said Beatrice, stirring the dog with her foot; 'he's getting much too fat, and he's barely two years old. What do you feed him on, Maxim?'
'My dear Beatrice, he has exactly the same routine as your dogs,' said Maxim. 'Don't show off and make out
