“Oh, that,” I said. “I don’t know that I can count it for much.”
“It’s a nice little talent to have,” said the bishop’s wife; “it’s not everyone that can sketch. You must not drop it. Manderley must be full of pretty spots to sketch.”
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I suppose so,” depressed by her words, having a sudden vision of myself wandering across the lawns with a camp-stool and a box of pencils under one arm, and my “little talent” as she described it, under the other. It sounded like a pet disease.
“Do you play any games? Do you ride, or shoot?” she asked.
“No,” I said, “I don’t do anything like that. I’m fond of walking,” I added, as a wretched anticlimax.
“The best exercise in the world,” she said briskly; “the bishop and I walk a lot.” I wondered if he went round and round the cathedral, in his shovel hat and his gaiters, with her on his arm. She began to talk about a walking holiday they had taken once, years ago, in the Pennines, how they had done an average of twenty miles a day, and I nodded my head, smiling politely, wondering about the Pennines, thinking they were something like the Andes, remembering, afterwards, they were that chain of hills marked with a furry line in the middle of a pink England on my school atlas. And he all the time in his hat and gaiters.
The inevitable pause, the glance at the watch unnecessary, as her drawing room clock chimed four in shrill tones, and my rise from the chair. “I’m so glad I found you in. I hope you will come and see us.”
“We should love to. The bishop is always so busy, alas. Please remember me to your husband, and be sure to ask him to revive the ball.”
“Yes, indeed I will.” Lying, pretending I knew all about it; and in the car going home I sat in my corner, biting my thumb nail, seeing the great hall at Manderley thronged with people in fancy dress, the chatter, hum, and laughter of the moving crowd, the musicians in the gallery, supper in the drawing room probably, long buffet tables against the wall, and I could see Maxim standing at the front of the stairs, laughing, shaking hands, turning to someone who stood by his side, tall and slim, with dark hair, said the bishop’s wife, dark hair against a white face, someone whose quick eyes saw to the comfort of her guests, who gave an order over her shoulder to a servant, someone who was never awkward, never without grace, who when she danced left a stab of perfume in the air like a white azalea.
“Will you be entertaining much at Manderley, Mrs. de Winter?” I heard the voice again, suggestive, rather inquisitive, in the voice of that woman I had called upon who lived the other side of Kerrith, and I saw her eye too, dubious, considering, taking in my clothes from top to toe, wondering, with that swift downward glance given to all brides, if I was going to have a baby.
I did not want to see her again. I did not want to see any of them again. They only came to call at Manderley because they were curious and prying. They liked to criticize my looks, my manners, my figure, they liked to watch how Maxim and I behaved to each other, whether we seemed fond of one another, so that they could go back afterwards and discuss us, saying, “Very different from the old days.” They came because they wanted to compare me to Rebecca… I would not return these calls anymore, I decided. I should tell Maxim so. I did not mind if they thought me rude and ungracious. It would give them more to criticize, more to discuss. They could say I was ill-bred. “I’m not surprised,” they would say; “after all, who was she?” And then a laugh and a shrug of the shoulder. “My dear, don’t you know? He picked her up in Monte Carlo or somewhere; she hadn’t a penny. She was a companion to some old woman.” More laughter, more lifting of the eyebrows. “Nonsense, not really? How extraordinary men are. Maxim, of all people, who was so fastidious. How could he, after Rebecca?”
I did not mind. I did not care. They could say what they liked. As the car turned in at the lodge gates I leaned forward in my seat to smile at the woman who lived there. She was bending down, picking flowers in the front garden. She straightened up as she heard the car, but she did not see me smile. I waved, and she stared at me blankly. I don’t think she knew who I was. I leaned back in my seat again. The car went on down the drive.
When we turned at one of the narrow bends I saw a man walking along the drive a little distance ahead. It was the agent, Frank Crawley. He stopped when he heard the car, and the chauffeur slowed down. Frank Crawley took off his hat and smiled when he saw me in the car. He seemed glad to see me. I smiled back at him. It was nice of him to be glad to see me. I liked Frank Crawley. I did not find him dull or uninteresting as Beatrice had done. Perhaps it was because I was dull myself. We were both dull. We neither of us had a word to say for ourselves. Like to like.