Mrs. Danvers lingered when Frith had gone. “I will apologize to Robert of course,” she said, “but the evidence pointed so strongly to him. It did not occur to me that Mrs. de Winter had broken the ornament herself. Perhaps, if such a thing should happen again, Mrs. de Winter will tell me personally, and I will have the matter attended to? It would save everybody a lot of unpleasantness.”
“Naturally,” said Maxim impatiently, “I can’t think why she didn’t do so yesterday. I was just going to tell her when you came into the room.”
“Perhaps Mrs. de Winter was not aware of the value of the ornament?” said Mrs. Danvers, turning her eyes upon me.
“Yes,” I said wretchedly. “Yes, I was afraid it was valuable. That’s why I swept the pieces up so carefully.”
“And hid them at the back of a drawer where no one would find them, eh?” said Maxim, with a laugh, and a shrug of the shoulders. “Is not that the sort of thing the between-maid is supposed to do, Mrs. Danvers?”
“The between-maid at Manderley would never be allowed to touch the valuable things in the morning room, sir,” said Mrs. Danvers.
“No, I can’t see you letting her,” said Maxim.
“It’s very unfortunate,” said Mrs. Danvers, “I don’t think we have ever had any breakages in the morning room before. We were always so particular. I’ve done the dusting in there myself since—last year. There was no one I could trust. When Mrs. de Winter was alive we used to do the valuables together.”
“Yes, well—it can’t be helped,” said Maxim. “All right, Mrs. Danvers.”
She went out of the room, and I sat on the window seat, looking out of the window. Maxim picked up his paper again. Neither of us spoke.
“I’m awfully sorry, darling,” I said, after a moment, “it was very careless of me. I can’t think how it happened. I was just arranging those books on the desk, to see if they would stand, and the cupid slipped.”
“My sweet child, forget it. What does it matter?”
“It does matter. I ought to have been more careful. Mrs. Danvers must be furious with me.”
“What the devil has she got to be furious about? It’s not her bit of china.”
“No, but she takes such a pride in it all. It’s so awful to think nothing in there has ever been broken before. It had to be me.”
“Better you than the luckless Robert.”
“I wish it had been Robert. Mrs. Danvers will never forgive me.”
“Damn Mrs. Danvers,” said Maxim, “she’s not God Almighty, is she? I can’t understand you. What do you mean by saying you are afraid of her?”
“I did not mean afraid exactly. I don’t see much of her. It’s not that. I can’t really explain.”
“You do such extraordinary things,” said Maxim; “fancy not getting hold of her when you broke the thing and saying, ‘Here, Mrs. Danvers, get this mended.’ She’d understand that. Instead of which you scrape up the remains in an envelope and hide ’em at the back of a drawer. Just like a between-maid, as I said, and not the mistress of a house.”
“I am like a between-maid,” I said slowly, “I know I am, in lots of ways. That’s why I have so much in common with Clarice. We are on the same sort of footing. And that’s why she likes me. I went and saw her mother the other day. And do you know what she said? I asked her if she thought Clarice was happy with us, and she said, ‘Oh, yes, Mrs. de Winter. Clarice seems quite happy. She says, “It’s not like being with a lady, Mum, it’s like being with one of ourselves.” ’ Do you suppose she meant it as a compliment or not?”
“God knows,” said Maxim; “remembering Clarice’s mother, I should take it as a direct insult. Her cottage is generally a shambles and smells of boiled cabbage. At one time she had nine children under eleven, and she herself used to patter about in that patch of garden with no shoes and a stocking round her head. We nearly gave her notice to quit. Why Clarice looks as neat and clean as she does I can’t imagine.”
“She’s been living with an aunt,” I said, feeling rather subdued. “I know my flannel skirt has a dirty mark down the front, but I’ve never walked barefoot with a stocking round my head.” I knew now why Clarice did not disdain my underclothes as Alice had done. “Perhaps that’s why I prefer calling on Clarice’s mother to calling on people like the bishop’s wife?” I went on. “The bishop’s wife never said I was like one of themselves.”