I could not move, I went on standing there, my hand on the bannister.
'It's the picture,' I said, terrified at his eyes, at his voice.
'It's the picture, the one in the gallery.'
There was a long silence.
We went on staring at each other. Nobody moved in the hall.
I swallowed, my hand moved to my throat.
'What is it?' I said.
'What have I done?'
If only they would not stare at me like that with dull blank faces.
If only somebody would say something.
When Maxim spoke again I did not recognise his voice.
It was still and quiet, icy cold, not a voice I knew.
'Go and change,' he said, 'it does not matter what you put on.
Find an ordinary evening frock, anything will do.
Go now, before anybody comes.'
I could not speak, I went on staring at him.
His eyes were the only living things in the white mask of his face.
'What are you standing there for?' he said, his voice harsh and queer.
'Didn't you hear what I said?'
I turned and ran blindly through the archway to the corridors beyond.
I caught a glimpse of the astonished face of the drummer who had announced me.
I brushed past him, stumbling, not looking where I went.
Tears blinded my eyes.
I did not know what was happening.
Clarice had gone.
The corridor was deserted.
I looked about me stunned and stupid like a haunted thing.
Then I saw that the door leading to the west wing was open wide, and that someone was standing there.
It was Mrs Danvers.
I shall never forget the expression on her face, loathsome, triumphant.
The face of an exulting devil.
She stood there, smiling at me.
And then I ran from her, down the long narrow passage to my own room, tripping, stumbling over the flounces of my dress.
Chapter seventeen
Clarice was waiting for me in my bedroom.
She looked pale and scared.
As soon as she saw me she burst into tears.
I did not say anything. I began tearing at the hooks of my dress, ripping the stuff.
I could not manage them properly, and Clarice came to help me, still crying noisily.
'It's all right, Clarice, it's not your fault,' I said, and she shook her head, the tears still running down her cheeks.
'Your lovely dress, Madam,' she said, 'your lovely white dress.'
'It doesn't matter,' I said.
'Can't you find the hook?
There it is, at the back.
And another one somewhere, just below.'
She fumbled with the hooks, her hands trembling, making worse trouble with it than I did myself, and all the time catching at her breath.
'What will you wear instead, Madam?' she said.
'I don't know,' I said, 'I don't know.'
She had managed to unfasten the hooks, and I struggled out of the dress.
'I think I'd rather like to be alone, Clarice,' I said, 'would you be a dear and leave me?