“Oh!” I said. “I had not realized 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 colorless, 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 realized 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 motorboats. 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.