“She had a cousin,” said Maxim slowly, “a fellow who had been abroad, and was living in England again. He took to coming here, if ever I was away. Frank used to see him. A fellow called Jack Favell.”
“I know him,” I said; “he came here the day you went to London.”
“You saw him too?” said Maxim. “Why didn’t you tell me? I heard it from Frank, who saw his car turn in at the lodge gates.”
“I did not like to,” I said, “I thought it would remind you of Rebecca.”
“Remind me?” whispered Maxim. “Oh, God, as if I needed reminding.”
He stared in front of him, breaking off from his story, and I wondered if he was thinking, as I was, of that flooded cabin beneath the waters in the bay.
“She used to have this fellow Favell down to the cottage,” said Maxim, “she would tell the servants she was going to sail, and would not be back before the morning. Then she would spend the night down there with him. Once again I warned her. I said if I found him here, anywhere on the estate, I’d shoot him. He had a black, filthy record… The very thought of him walking about the woods in Manderley, in places like the Happy Valley, made me mad. I told her I would not stand for it. She shrugged her shoulders. She forgot to blaspheme. And I noticed she was looking paler than usual, nervy, rather haggard. I wondered then what the hell would happen to her when she began to look old, feel old. Things drifted on. Nothing very much happened. Then one day she went up to London, and came back again the same day, which she did not do as a rule. I did not expect her. I dined that night with Frank at his house, we had a lot of work on at the time.” He was speaking now in short, jerky sentences. I had his hands very tightly between my two hands.
“I came back after dinner, about half past ten, and I saw her scarf and gloves lying on a chair in the hall. I wondered what the devil she had come back for. I went into the morning room, but she was not there. I guessed she had gone off there then, down to the cove. And I knew then I could not stand this life of lies and filth and deceit any longer. The thing had got to be settled, one way or the other. I thought I’d take a gun and frighten the fellow, frighten them both. I went down right away to the cottage. The servants never knew I had come back to the house at all. I slipped out into the garden and through the woods. I saw the light in the cottage window, and I went straight in. To my surprise Rebecca was alone. She was lying on the divan with an ashtray full of cigarette stubs beside her. She looked ill, queer.
“I began at once about Favell and she listened to me without a word. ‘We’ve lived this life of degradation long enough, you and I,’ I said. ‘This is the end, do you understand? What you do in London does not concern me. You can live with Favell there, or with anyone you like. But not here. Not at Manderley.’
“She said nothing for a moment. She stared at me, and then she smiled. ‘Suppose it suits me better to live here, what then?’ she said.
“ ‘You know the conditions,’ I said. ‘I’ve kept my part of our dirty, damnable bargain, haven’t I? But you’ve cheated. You think you can treat my house and my home like your own sink in London. I’ve stood enough, but my God, Rebecca, this is your last chance.’
“I remember she squashed out her cigarette in the tub by the divan, and then she got up, and stretched herself, her arms above her head.
“ ‘You’re right, Max,’ she said. ‘It’s time I turned over a new leaf.’
“She looked very pale, very thin. She began walking up and down the room, her hands in the pockets of her trousers. She looked like a boy in her sailing kit, a boy with a face like a Botticelli angel.
“ ‘Have you ever thought,’ she said, ‘how damned hard it would be for you to make a case against me? In a court of law, I mean. If you wanted to divorce me. Do you realize that you’ve never had one shred of proof against me, from the very first? All your friends, even the servants, believe our marriage to be a success.’
“ ‘What about Frank?’ I said. ‘What about Beatrice?’
“She threw back her head and laughed. ‘What sort of a story could Frank tell against mine?’ she said. ‘Don’t you know me well enough for that? As for Beatrice, wouldn’t it be the easiest thing in the world for her to stand in a witness-box as the ordinary jealous woman whose husband once lost his head and made a fool of himself? Oh, no, Max, you’d have a hell of a time trying to prove anything against me.’