Rebecca

before. We were always so particular. I've done the dusting in there myself since — last year. There was no one I could trust. When Mrs de Winter was alive we used to do the valuables together.'

'Yes, well — it can't be helped,' said Maxim. 'All right, Mrs Danvers.'

She went out of the room, and I sat on the window-seat, looking out of the window. Maxim picked up his paper again. Neither of us spoke.

'I'm awfully sorry, darling,' I said, after a moment, 'it was very careless of me. I can't think how it happened. I was just arranging those books on the desk, to see if they would stand, and the cupid slipped.'

'My sweet child, forget it. What does it matter?'

'It does matter. I ought to have been more careful. Mrs Danvers must be furious with me.'

'What the devil has she got to be furious about? It's not her bit of china.'

'No, but she takes such a pride in it all. It's so awful to think nothing in there has ever been broken before. It had to be me.'

'Better you than the luckless Robert.'

'I wish it had been Robert. Mrs Danvers will never forgive me.'

'Damn Mrs Danvers,' said Maxim, 'she's not God Almighty, is she? I can't understand you. What do you mean by saying you are afraid of her?'

'I did not mean afraid exactly. I don't see much of her. It's not that. I can't really explain.'

'You do such extraordinary things,' said Maxim; 'fancy not getting hold of her when you broke the thing and saying, 'Here, Mrs Danvers, get this mended.' She'd understand that. Instead of which you scrape up the remains in an envelope and hide 'em at the back of a drawer. Just like a between-maid, as I said, and not the mistress of a house.'

'I am like a between-maid,' I said slowly, 'I know I am, in lots of ways: That's why I have so much in common with Clarice. We are on the same sort of footing. And that's why she likes me. I went and saw her mother the other day. And do you know what she said? I asked her if she thought Clarice was happy with us, and she said, 'Oh, yes, Mrs de Winter. Clarice seems quite happy. She says, 'It's not like being with a lady, Mum, it's like being with one of ourselves.' ' Do you suppose she meant it as a compliment or not?'

'God knows,' said Maxim; 'remembering Clarice's mother, I should take it as a direct insult. Her cottage is generally a shambles and smells of boiled cabbage. At one time she had nine children under eleven, and she herself used to patter about in that patch of garden with no shoes and a stocking round her head. We nearly gave her notice to quit. Why Clarice looks as neat and clean as she does I can't imagine.'

'She's been living with an aunt,' I said, feeling rather subdued. 'I know my flannel skirt has a dirty mark down the front, but I've never walked barefoot with a stocking round my head.' I knew now why Clarice did not disdain my underclothes as Alice had done. 'Perhaps that's why I prefer calling on Clarice's mother to calling on people like the bishop's wife?' I went on. 'The bishop's wife never said I was like one of themselves.'

'If you wear that grubby skirt when you call on her I don't suppose she does,' said Maxim.

'Of course I didn't call on her in my old skirt, I wore a frock,' I said, 'and anyway I don't think much of people who just judge one by one's clothes.'

'I hardly think the bishop's wife cares twopence about clothes,' said Maxim, 'but she may have been rather surprised if you sat on the extreme edge of the chair and answered 'Yes' and 'No' like someone after a new job, which you did the only time we returned a call together.'

'I can't help being shy.'

'I know you can't, sweetheart. But you don't make an effort to conquer it.'

'I think that's very unfair,' I said. 'I try every day, every time I go out or meet anyone new. I'm always making efforts. You don't understand. It's all very well for you, you're used to that sort of thing. I've not been brought up to it.'

'Rot,' said Maxim; 'it's not a question of bringing up, as you put it. It's a matter of application. You don't think I like calling on people, do you? It bores me stiff. But it has to be done, in this part of the world.'

'We're not talking about boredom,' I said; 'there's nothing to be afraid of in being bored. If I was just bored it would be different. I hate people looking me up and down as though I were a prize cow.'

'Who looks you up and down?'

'All the people down here. Everybody.'

'What does it matter if they do? It gives them some interest in life.'

'Why must I be the one to supply the interest, and have all the criticism?'

'Because life at Manderley is the only thing that ever interests anybody down here.'

'What a slap in the eye I must be to them then.'

Maxim did not answer. He went on looking at his paper.

'What a slap in the eye I must be to them,' I repeated. And then, 'I suppose that's why you married me,' I said; 'you knew I was dull and quiet and inexperienced, so that there would never be any gossip about me.'

Maxim threw his paper on the ground and got up from his chair. 'What do you mean?' he said.

His face was dark and queer, and his voice was rough, not his voice at all.

'I–I don't know,' I said, leaning back against the window, 'I don't mean anything. Why do you look like that?'

'What do you know about any gossip down here?' he said.

'I don't,' I said, scared by the way he looked at me. 'I only said it because — because of something to say. Don't look at me like that. Maxim, what have I said? what's the matter?'

'Who's been talking to you,' he said slowly.

'No one. No one at all'

'Why did you say what you did?'

'I tell you, I don't know. It just came to my head. I was angry, cross. I do hate calling on these people. I can't help it. And you criticised me for being shy. I didn't mean it. Really, Maxim, I didn't. Please believe me.'.

'It was not a particularly attractive thing to say, was it?' he said.

'No,' I said. 'No, it was rude, hateful.'

He stared at me moodily, his hands in his pockets, rocking backwards and forwards on his heels. 'I wonder if I did a very selfish thing in marrying you,' he said. He spoke slowly, thoughtfully.

I felt very cold, rather sick. 'How do you mean?' I said.

'I'm not much of a companion to you, ami?' he said. 'There are too many years between us. You ought to have waited, and then married a boy of your own age. Not someone like myself, with half his life behind him.'

'That's ridiculous,' I said hurriedly, 'you know age doesn't mean anything in marriage. Of course we are companions.'

'Are we? I don't know,' he said.

I knelt up on the window-seat and put my arms round his shoulders. 'Why do you say these things to me?' I said; 'you know I love you more than anything in the world. There has never been anyone but you. You are my father and my brother and my son. All those things.'

'It was my fault,' he said, not listening. 'I rushed you into it. I never gave you a chance to think it over.'

'I did not want to think it over,' I said, 'there was no other choice. You don't understand, Maxim. When one loves a person 'Are you happy here?' he said, looking away from me, out of the window, 'I wonder sometimes. You've got thinner. Lost your colour.'

'Of course I'm happy,' I said, 'I love Manderley. I love the garden, I love everything. I don't mind calling on people. I just said that to be tiresome. I'll call on people every day, if you want me to. I don't mind what I do. I've never for one moment regretted marrying you, surely you must know that?'

He patted my cheek in his terrible absent way, and bent down, and kissed the top of my head. 'Poor lamb, you don't have much fun, do you? I'm afraid I'm very difficult to live with.'

'You're not difficult,' I said eagerly, 'you are easy, very easy. Much easier than I thought you would be. I used to think it would be dreadful to be married, that one's husband would drink, or use awful language, or grumble if the toast was soft at breakfast, and be rather unattractive altogether, smell possibly. You don't do any of those things.'

'Good God, I hope not,' said Maxim, and he smiled.

I seized advantage of his smile, I smiled too, and took his hands and kissed them. 'How absurd to say we are not companions,' I said; 'why look how we sit here every evening, you with a book or a paper, and me with my