The waiter appeared bored; seeing me alone there was no need for him to press, and anyway it was that dragging time of day, a few minutes after half past five, when the nonnal tea is finished and the hour for drinks remote.
Rather forlorn, more than a little dissatisfied, I leant back in my chair and took up the book of poems.
The volume was well worn, well thumbed, falling open automatically at what must be a much-frequented page.
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days; I fled Him, down the arches of the years; I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways Of my own mind; and in the midst of tears I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed slopes I sped
And shot, precipited
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmed fears,
From those strong feet that followed, followed after.
I felt rather like someone peering through the keyhole of a locked door, and a little furtively I laid the book aside.
What hound of heaven had driven him to the high hills this afternoon?
I thought of his car, with half a length between it and that drop of two thousand feet, and the blank expression on his face.
What footsteps echoed in his mind, what whispers, and what memories, and why, of all poems, must he keep this one in the pocket of his car?
I wished he were less remote; and I anything but the creature that I was in my shabby coat and skirt, my broad-brimmed schoolgirl hat.
The sulky waiter brought my tea, and while I ate bread-and-butter dull as sawdust I thought of the pathway through the valley he had described to me this afternoon, the smell of the azaleas, and the white shingle of the bay.
If he loved it all so much why did he seek the superficial froth of Monte Carlo?
He had told Mrs Van Hopper he had made no plans, he came away in rather a hurry.
And I pictured him running down that pathway in the valley with his own hound of heaven at his heels.
I picked up the book again, and this time it opened at the title-page, and I read the dedication.
'Max- from Rebecca.
17 May', written in a curious slanting hand.
A little blob of ink marred the white page opposite, as though the writer, in impatience, had shaken her pen to make the ink flow freely.
And then as it bubbled through the nib, it came a little thick, so that the name Rebecca stood out black and strong, the tall and sloping R dwarfing the other letters.
I shut the book with a snap, and put it away under my gloves; and stretching to a nearby chair, I took up an old copy of VIllustration and turned the pages.
There were some fine photographs of the chateaux of the Loire, and an article as well.
I read it carefully, referring to the photographs, but when I finished I knew I had not understood a word.
It was not Blois with its thin turrets and its spires that stared up at me from the printed page. It was the face of Mrs Van Hopper in the restaurant the day before, her small pig's eyes darting to the neighbouring table, her fork, heaped high with ravioli, pausing in mid-air.
'An appalling tragedy,' she was saying, 'the papers were full of it of course.
They say he never talks about it, never mentions her name.
She was drowned you know, in the bay near Manderley…'
Chapter five
I am glad it cannot happen twice, the fever of first love.
For it is a fever, and a burden, too, whatever the poets may say.
They are not brave, the days when we are twenty-one.
They are full of little cowardices, little fears without foundation, and one is so easily bruised, so swiftly wounded, one falls to the first barbed word.
Today, wrapped in the complacent armour of approaching middle age, the infinitesimal pricks of day by day brush one lightly and are soon forgotten, but then — how a careless word would linger, becoming a fiery stigma, and how a look, a glance over a shoulder, branded themselves as things eternal.
A denial heralded the thrice crowing of a cock, and an insincerity was like the kiss of Judas.
The adult mind can lie with untroubled conscience and a gay composure, but in those days even a small deception scoured the tongue, lashing one against the stake itself.
'What have you been doing this morning?' I can hear her now, propped against her pillows, with all the small irritability of the patient who is not really ill, who has lain in bed too long, and I, reaching to the bedside drawer for the pack of cards, would feel the guilty flush form patches on my neck.
'I've been playing tennis with the professional,' I told her, the false words bringing me to panic, even as I spoke, for what if the professional himself should come up to the suite, then, that very afternoon, and bursting in upon her complain that I had missed my lesson now for many days?
"The trouble is with me laid up like this you haven't got enough to do,' she said, mashing her cigarette in a jar of cleansing cream, and taking the cards in her hand she mixed them in the deft, irritating shuffle of the inveterate player, shaking them in threes, snapping the backs.
'I don't know what you find to do with yourself all day,' she went on; 'you never have any sketches to show me, and when I do ask you to do some shopping for me you forget to buy my Taxol.
All I can say is that I hope your tennis will improve; it will be useful to you later on.
A poor player is a great bore.
Do you still serve underhand?' She flipped the Queen of Spades into the pool, and the dark face stared up at me like Jezebel.
'Yes,' I said, stung by her question, thinking how just and appropriate her word.
It described me well.
I was underhand.
I had not played tennis with the professional at all.
I had not once played since she had lain in bed, and that was a little over a fortnight now.
I wondered why it was I clung to this reserve, and why it was I did not tell her that every morning I drove with de Winter in his car, and lunched with him, too, at his table in the restaurant.