Beatrice began whistling again, and she rubbed Jasper’s head with her foot. “I shouldn’t have more to do with her than you can help,” she said.
“No,” I said. “She runs the house very efficiently, there’s no need for me to interfere.”
“Oh, I don’t suppose she’d mind that,” said Beatrice. That was what Maxim had said, the evening before, and I thought it odd that they should both have the same opinion. I should have imagined that interference was the one thing Mrs. Danvers did not want.
“I dare say she will get over it in time,” said Beatrice, “but it may make things rather unpleasant for you at first. Of course she’s insanely jealous. I was afraid she would be.”
“Why?” I asked, looking up at her, “why should she be jealous? Maxim does not seem to be particularly fond of her.”
“My dear child, it’s not Maxim she’s thinking of,” said Beatrice; “I think she respects him and all that, but nothing more very much.
“No, you see,”—she paused, frowning a little, looking at me uncertainly—“she resents your being here at all, that’s the trouble.”
“Why?” I said, “why should she resent me?”
“I thought you knew,” said Beatrice; “I thought Maxim would have told you. She simply adored Rebecca.”
“Oh,” I said. “Oh, I see.”
We both went on patting and stroking Jasper, who, unaccustomed to such attention, rolled over on his back in ecstasy.
“Here are the men,” said Beatrice, “let’s have some chairs out and sit under the chestnut. How fat Giles is getting, he looks quite repulsive beside Maxim. I suppose Frank will go back to the office. What a dull creature he is, never has anything interesting to say. Well, all of you. What have you been discussing? Pulling the world to bits, I suppose.” She laughed, and the others strolled towards us, and we stood about. Giles threw a twig for Jasper to retrieve. We all looked at Jasper. Mr. Crawley looked at his watch. “I must be off,” he said; “thank you very much for lunch, Mrs. de Winter.”
“You must come often,” I said, shaking hands.
I wondered if the others would go too. I was not sure whether they had just come over for lunch or to spend the day. I hoped they would go. I wanted to be alone with Maxim again, and that it would be like we were in Italy. We all went and sat down under the chestnut tree. Robert brought out chairs and rugs. Giles lay down on his back and tipped his hat over his eyes. After a while he began to snore, his mouth open.
“Shut up, Giles,” said Beatrice. “I’m not asleep,” he muttered, opening his eyes, and shutting them again. I thought him unattractive. I wondered why Beatrice had married him. She could never have been in love with him. Perhaps that was what she was thinking about me. I caught her eye upon me now and again, puzzled, reflective, as though she was saying to herself “What on earth does Maxim see in her?” but kind at the same time, not unfriendly. They were talking about their grandmother.
“We must go over and see the old lady,” Maxim was saying, and “She’s getting gaga,” said Beatrice, “drops food all down her chin, poor darling.”
I listened to them both, leaning against Maxim’s arm, rubbing my chin on his sleeve. He stroked my hand absently, not thinking, talking to Beatrice.
“That’s what I do to Jasper,” I thought. “I’m being like Jasper now, leaning against him. He pats me now and again, when he remembers, and I’m pleased, I get closer to him for a moment. He likes me in the way I like Jasper.”
The wind had dropped. The afternoon was drowsy, peaceful. The grass had been new-mown; it smelt sweet and rich, like summer. A bee droned above Giles’s head, and he flicked at it with his hat. Jasper sloped in to join us, too warm in the sun, his tongue lolling from his mouth. He flopped beside me, and began licking his side, his large eyes apologetic. The sun shone on the mullioned windows of the house, and I could see the green lawns and the terrace reflected in them. Smoke curled thinly from one of the near chimneys, and I wondered if the library fire had been lit, according to routine.
A thrush flew across the lawn to the magnolia tree outside the dining room window. I could smell the faint, soft magnolia scent as I sat here, on the lawn. Everything was quiet and still. Very distant now came the washing of the sea in the bay below. The tide must have gone out. The bee droned over us again, pausing to taste the chestnut blossom above our heads. “This is what I always imagined,” I thought, “this is how I hoped it would be, living at Manderley.”