“I refuse to allow my agent to walk about as a Dutchman,” said Maxim. “He’d never get rents out of anybody again. Let him stick to his pirate. It might frighten some of them.”
“Anything less like a pirate,” murmured Beatrice in my ear.
I pretended not to hear. Poor Frank, she was always rather down on him.
“How long will it take me to paint my face?” asked Giles.
“Two hours at least,” said Beatrice. “I should begin thinking about it if I were you. How many shall we be at dinner?”
“Sixteen,” said Maxim, “counting ourselves. No strangers. You know them all.”
“I’m beginning to get dress fever already,” said Beatrice. “What fun it all is. I’m so glad you decided to do this again, Maxim.”
“You’ve got her to thank for it,” said Maxim, nodding at me.
“Oh, it’s not true,” I said. “It was all the fault of Lady Crowan.”
“Nonsense,” said Maxim, smiling at me, “you know you’re as excited as a child at its first party.”
“I’m not.”
“I’m longing to see your dress,” said Beatrice.
“It’s nothing out of the way. Really it’s not,” I insisted.
“Mrs. de Winter says we shan’t know her,” said Frank.
Everybody looked at me and smiled. I felt pleased and flushed and rather happy. People were being nice. They were all so friendly. It was suddenly fun, the thought of the dance, and that I was to be the hostess.
The dance was being given for me, in my honor, because I was the bride. I sat on the table in the library, swinging my legs, while the rest of them stood round, and I had a longing to go upstairs and put on my dress, try the wig in front of the looking glass, turn this way and that before the long mirror on the wall. It was new this sudden unexpected sensation of being important, of having Giles, and Beatrice, and Frank and Maxim all looking at me and talking about my dress. All wondering what I was going to wear. I thought of the soft white dress in its folds of tissue paper, and how it would hide my flat dull figure, my rather sloping shoulders. I thought of my own lank hair covered by the sleek and gleaming curls.
“What’s the time?” I said carelessly, yawning a little, pretending I did not care. “I wonder if we ought to think about going upstairs…？”
As we crossed the great hall on the way to our rooms I realized for the first time how the house lent itself to the occasion, and how beautiful the rooms were looking. Even the drawing room, formal and cold to my consideration when we were alone, was a blaze of color now, flowers in every corner, red roses in silver bowls on the white cloth of the supper table, the long windows open to the terrace, where, as soon as it was dusk, the fairy lights would shine. The band had stacked their instruments ready in the minstrel’s gallery above the hall, and the hall itself wore a strange, waiting air; there was a warmth about it I had never known before, due to the night itself, so still and clear, to the flowers beneath the pictures, to our own laughter as we hovered on the wide stone stairs.
The old austerity had gone. Manderley had come alive in a fashion I would not have believed possible. It was not the still quiet Manderley I knew. There was a certain significance about it now that had not been before. A reckless air, rather triumphant, rather pleasing. It was as if the house remembered other days, long, long ago, when the hall was a banqueting hall indeed, with weapons and tapestry hanging upon the walls, and men sat at a long narrow table in the center laughing louder than we laughed now, calling for wine, for song, throwing great pieces of meat upon the flags to the slumbering dogs. Later, in other years, it would still be gay, but with a certain grace and dignity, and Caroline de Winter, whom I should present tonight, would walk down the wide stone stairs in her white dress to dance the minuet. I wished we could sweep away the years and see her. I wished we did not have to degrade the house with our modern jig-tunes, so out of place and unromantic. They would not suit Manderley. I found myself in sudden agreement with Mrs. Danvers. We should have made it a period ball, not the hotchpotch of humanity it was bound to be, with Giles, poor fellow, well-meaning and hearty in his guise of Arabian sheik. I found Clarice waiting for me in my bedroom, her round face scarlet with excitement. We giggled at one another like schoolgirls, and I bade her lock my door. There was much sound of tissue paper, rustling and mysterious. We spoke to one another softly like conspirators, we walked on tiptoe. I felt like a child again on the eve of Christmas. This padding to and fro in my room with bare feet, the little furtive bursts of laughter, the stifled exclamations, reminded me of hanging up my stocking long ago. Maxim was safe in his dressing-room, and the way through was barred against him. Clarice alone was my ally and favored friend. The dress fitted perfectly. I stood still, hardly able to restrain my impatience while Clarice hooked me up with fumbling fingers.