A butterfly sped past us on the terrace, silly and inconsequent.
“You heard what they said,” he went on; “they think she was trapped there, in the cabin. The jury will believe that at the inquest too. Phillips will tell them so.” He paused. Still I did not speak.
“I only mind for you,” he said. “I don’t regret anything else. If it had to come all over again I should not do anything different. I’m glad I killed Rebecca. I shall never have any remorse for that, never, never. But you. I can’t forget what it has done to you. I was looking at you, thinking of nothing else all through lunch. It’s gone forever, that funny, young, lost look that I loved. It won’t come back again. I killed that too, when I told you about Rebecca… It’s gone, in twenty-four hours. You are so much older…”
22
That evening, when Frith brought in the local paper, there were great headlines right across the top of the page. He brought the paper and laid it down on the table. Maxim was not there; he had gone up early to change for dinner. Frith stood a moment, waiting for me to say something, and it seemed to me stupid and insulting to ignore a matter that must mean so much to everyone in the house.
“This is a very dreadful thing, Frith,” I said.
“Yes, Madam; we are all most distressed outside,” he said.
“It’s so sad for Mr. de Winter,” I said, “having to go through it all again.”
“Yes, Madam. Very sad. Such a shocking experience, Madam, having to identify the second body having seen the first. I suppose there is no doubt then, that the remains in the boat are genuinely those of the late Mrs. de Winter?”
“I’m afraid not, Frith. No doubt at all.”
“It seems so odd to us, Madam, that she should have let herself be trapped like that in the cabin. She was so experienced in a boat.”
“Yes, Frith. That’s what we all feel. But accidents will happen. And how it happened I don’t suppose any of us will ever know.”
“I suppose not, Madam. But it’s a great shock, all the same. We are most distressed about it outside. And coming suddenly just after the party. It doesn’t seem right somehow, does it?”
“No, Frith.”
“It seems there is to be an inquest, Madam?”
“Yes. A formality, you know.”
“Of course, Madam. I wonder if any of us will be required to give evidence?”
“I don’t think so.”
“I shall be only too pleased to do anything that might help the family; Mr. de Winter knows that.”
“Yes, Frith. I’m sure he does.”
“I’ve told them outside not to discuss the matter, but it’s very difficult to keep an eye on them, especially the girls. I can deal with Robert, of course. I’m afraid the news has been a great shock to Mrs. Danvers.”
“Yes, Frith. I rather expected it would.”
“She went up to her room straight after lunch, and has not come down again. Alice took her a cup of tea and the paper a few minutes ago. She said Mrs. Danvers looked very ill indeed.”
“It would be better really if she stayed where she is,” I said. “It’s no use her getting up and seeing to things if she is ill. Perhaps Alice would tell her that. I can very well manage the ordering. The cook and I between us.”
“Yes, Madam. I don’t think she is physically ill, Madam; it’s just the shock of Mrs. de Winter being found. She was very devoted to Mrs. de Winter.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I know.”
Frith went out of the room after that, and I glanced quickly at the paper before Maxim came down. There was a great column, all down the front page, and an awful blurred photograph of Maxim that must have been taken at least fifteen years ago. It was dreadful, seeing it there on the front page staring at me. And the little line about myself at the bottom, saying whom Maxim had married as his second wife, and how we had just given the fancy dress ball at Manderley. It sounded so crude and callous, in the dark print of the newspaper. Rebecca, whom they described as beautiful, talented, and loved by all who knew her, having been drowned a year ago, and then Maxim marrying again the following spring, bringing his bride straight to Manderley （so it said） and giving the big fancy dress ball in her honor. And then the following morning the body of his first wife being found, trapped in the cabin of her sailing boat, at the bottom of the bay.
It was true of course, though sprinkled with the little inaccuracies that added to the story, making it strong meat for the hundreds of readers who wanted value for their pennies. Maxim sounded vile in it, a sort of satyr. Bringing back his “young bride,” as it described me, to Manderley, and giving the dance, as though we wanted to display ourselves before the world.