Authors: Daphne Du Maurier
Tags: #Fiction, #Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense, #Fiction / Romance - Suspense, #Fiction / Psychological, #Classics
My Cousin Rachel (34 page)
“Does it give you the proof you wanted?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
Something must be missing. Some postscript, on a further scrap of paper, that she had thrust into another sheet of the blotter. I looked once more, but there was nothing. The blotter was clean, save for one folded packet lying on the top. I seized it, and tore away the wrapping. This time it was not a letter, nor a list of herbs or plants. It was a drawing of Ambrose. The initials in the corner were indistinct, but I supposed it was by some Italian friend, or artist, for Florence was scribbled after the initials, and the date was the month of June, of the year he died. As I stared at it, I realized it must be the last likeness ever taken. He had aged much, then, after leaving home. There were lines about his mouth I did not know, and at the corners of his eyes. The eyes themselves had a haunted look about them, as though some shadow stood close to his shoulder and he feared to look behind. There was something lost about the face, and lonely too. He seemed to know disaster was in store. Though the eyes asked for devotion, they pleaded for pity too. Underneath the drawing, Ambrose himself had scribbled some quotation in Italian. “To Rachel. Non ramentare che le ore felici. Ambrose.”
I gave the drawing to Louise. “There is only this,” I said. “What does it mean?”
She read the words aloud, then thought a moment. “Remember only the happy hours,” she said slowly. She gave it back to me, and the letter from Rainaldi too. “Did she not show it you before?” she asked.
“No,” I answered.
We looked at one another in silence for a moment. Then Louise said, “Can we have misjudged her, do you think? About the poison? You see yourself, there is not any proof.”
“There never will be any proof,” I said. “Not now. Not ever.”
I put the drawing back upon the bureau, and the letter too.
“If there is no proof,” said Louise, “you cannot condemn her. She may be innocent. She may be guilty. You can do nothing. If she be innocent, and you accused her, you could never forgive yourself. You would be guilty then, not her at all. Let’s leave this room, and go down into the drawing room. I wish now we had not meddled with her things.”
I stood by the open window of the boudoir staring out across the lawn.
“Is she there?” asked Louise.
“No,” I said, “she has been gone nearly half an hour, and has not returned.”
Louise crossed the room and stood by my side. She looked into my face. “Why is your voice so strange?” she said. “Why do you keep your eyes fixed there, on those steps leading to the terrace walk? Is anything the matter?”
I brushed her aside and went towards the door.
“Do you know the bell-rope on the landing beneath the belfry,” I said to her, “the one that is used at noon to summon the men to dinner? Go now, and pull it hard.”
She looked at me, puzzled. “What for?” she asked.
“Because it is Sunday,” I said, “and everyone is out, or sleeping, or scattered somewhere; and I may need help.”
“Help?” she repeated.
“Yes,” I said, “there may have been an accident, to Rachel.”
Louise stared at me. Her eyes, so blue and candid, searched my face.
“What have you done?” she said; and apprehension came upon her, conviction too. I turned, and left the room.
I ran downstairs, and out across the lawn and up the path to the terrace walk. There was no sign of Rachel.
Near to the stones and mortar and the stack of timber above the sunken garden the two dogs were standing. One of them, the younger, came towards me. The other stayed where he was, close to the heap of mortar. I saw her footsteps in the sand and lime, and her sunshade, still open, tipped upon its side. Suddenly the bell rang out from the clock-tower on the house. It went on and on, and the day being still and calm the sound of it must have traveled across the field, down to the sea, so that men fishing in the bay would have heard it too.
I came to the edge of the wall above the sunken garden, and saw where the men had started work upon the bridge. Part of the bridge still remained and hung suspended, grotesque and horrible, like a swinging ladder. The rest had fallen to the depths below.
I climbed down to where she lay among the timber and the stones. I took her hands and held them. They were cold.
“Rachel,” I said to her, and “Rachel” once again.
The dogs began barking up above, and louder still came the sound of the clanging bell. She opened her eyes, and looked at me. At first, I think in pain. Then in bewilderment. Then finally, so I thought, in recognition. Yet I was in error, even then. She called me Ambrose. I went on holding her hands until she died.
They used to hang men at Four Turnings in the old days.
Not anymore, though.
Daphne du Maurier (1907–1989) was born in London, the daughter of the actor Sir Gerald du Maurier and granddaughter of the author and artist George du Maurier. Her first novel,
The Loving Spirit,
was published in 1931, but it would be her fifth novel,
Rebecca,
that made her one of the most popular authors of her day. Besides novels, du Maurier wrote plays, biographies, and several collections of short fiction. Many of her works were made into films, including
Rebecca, Jamaica Inn, My Cousin Rachel,
“Don’t Look Now,” and “The Birds.” She lived most of her life in Cornwall, and was made a Dame of the British Empire in 1969.
