CHAPTER VII.
At Crome all the beds were ancient hereditary pieces of furniture. Hugebeds, like four-masted ships, with furled sails of shining colouredstuff. Beds carved and inlaid, beds painted and gilded. Beds of walnutand oak, of rare exotic woods. Beds of every date and fashion from thetime of Sir Ferdinando, who built the house, to the time of his namesakein the late eighteenth century, the last of the family, but all of themgrandiose, magnificent.
The finest of all was now Anne's bed. Sir Julius, son to Sir Ferdinando,had had it made in Venice against his wife's first lying-in. Earlyseicento Venice had expended all its extravagant art in the making ofit. The body of the bed was like a great square sarcophagus. Clusteringroses were carved in high relief on its wooden panels, and lusciousputti wallowed among the roses. On the black ground-work of the panelsthe carved reliefs were gilded and burnished. The golden roses twined inspirals up the four pillar-like posts, and cherubs, seated at the topof each column, supported a wooden canopy fretted with the same carvedflowers.
Anne was reading in bed. Two candles stood on the little table besideher, in their rich light her face, her bare arm and shoulder took onwarm hues and a sort of peach-like quality of surface. Here and there inthe canopy above her carved golden petals shone brightly among profoundshadows, and the soft light, falling on the sculptured panel of the bed,broke restlessly among the intricate roses, lingered in a broad caresson the blown cheeks, the dimpled bellies, the tight, absurd littleposteriors of the sprawling putti.
There was a discreet tap at the door. She looked up. "Come in, come in."A face, round and childish, within its sleek bell of golden hair, peeredround the opening door. More childish-looking still, a suit of mauvepyjamas made its entrance.
It was Mary. "I thought I'd just look in for a moment to saygood-night," she said, and sat down on the edge of the bed.
Anne closed her book. "That was very sweet of you."
"What are you reading?" She looked at the book. "Rather second-rate,isn't it?" The tone in which Mary pronounced the word "second-rate"implied an almost infinite denigration. She was accustomed in London toassociate only with first-rate people who liked first-rate things, andshe knew that there were very, very few first-rate things in the world,and that those were mostly French.
"Well, I'm afraid I like it," said Anne. There was nothing more to besaid. The silence that followed was a rather uncomfortable one. Maryfiddled uneasily with the bottom button of her pyjama jacket. Leaningback on her mound of heaped-up pillows, Anne waited and wondered whatwas coming.
"I'm so awfully afraid of repressions," said Mary at last, burstingsuddenly and surprisingly into speech. She pronounced the words onthe tail-end of an expiring breath, and had to gasp for new air almostbefore the phrase was finished.
"What's there to be depressed about?"
"I said repressions, not depressions."
"Oh, repressions; I see," said Anne. "But repressions of what?"
Mary had to explain. "The natural instincts of sex..." she begandidactically. But Anne cut her short.
"Yes, yes. Perfectly. I understand. Repressions! old maids and all therest. But what about them?"
"That's just it," said Mary. "I'm afraid of them. It's always dangerousto repress one's instincts. I'm beginning to detect in myself symptomslike the ones you read of in the books. I constantly dream that I'mfalling down wells; and sometimes I even dream that I'm climbing upladders. It's most disquieting. The symptoms are only too clear."
"Are they?"
"One may become a nymphomaniac if one's not careful. You've no idea howserious these repressions are if you don't get rid of them in time."
"It sounds too awful," said Anne. "But I don't see that I can doanything to help you."
"I thought I'd just like to talk it over with you."
"Why, of course; I'm only too happy, Mary darling."
Mary coughed and drew a deep breath. "I presume," she begansententiously, "I presume we may take for granted that an intelligentyoung woman of twenty-three who has lived in civilised society in thetwentieth century has no prejudices."
"Well, I confess I still have a few."
"But not about repressions."
"No, not many about repressions; that's true."
"Or, rather, about getting rid of repressions."
"Exactly."
"So much for our fundamental postulate," said Mary. Solemnity wasexpressed in every feature of her round young face, radiated fromher large blue eyes. "We come next to the desirability of possessingexperience. I hope we are agreed that knowledge is desirable and thatignorance is undesirable."
Obedient as one of those complaisant disciples from whom Socrates couldget whatever answer he chose, Anne gave her assent to this proposition.
"And we are equally agreed, I hope, that marriage is what it is."
"It is."
"Good!" said Mary. "And repressions being what they are..."
"Exactly."
"There would therefore seem to be only one conclusion."
"But I knew that," Anne exclaimed, "before you began."
"Yes, but now it's been proved," said Mary. "One must do thingslogically. The question is now..."
"But where does the question come in? You've reached your only possibleconclusion--logically, which is more than I could have done. All thatremains is to impart the information to someone you like--someone youlike really rather a lot, someone you're in love with, if I may expressmyself so baldly."
"But that's just where the question comes in," Mary exclaimed. "I'm notin love with anybody."
"Then, if I were you, I should wait till you are."
"But I can't go on dreaming night after night that I'm falling down awell. It's too dangerous."
"Well, if it really is TOO dangerous, then of course you must dosomething about it; you must find somebody else."
"But who?" A thoughtful frown puckered Mary's brow. "It must be somebodyintelligent, somebody with intellectual interests that I can share.And it must be somebody with a proper respect for women, somebody who'sprepared to talk seriously about his work and his ideas and about mywork and my ideas. It isn't, as you see, at all easy to find the rightperson."
"Well" said Anne, "there are three unattached and intelligent men inthe house at the present time. There's Mr. Scogan, to begin with;but perhaps he's rather too much of a genuine antique. And there areGombauld and Denis. Shall we say that the choice is limited to the lasttwo?"
Mary nodded. "I think we had better," she said, and then hesitated, witha certain air of embarrassment.
"What is it?"
"I was wondering," said Mary, with a gasp, "whether they really wereunattached. I thought that perhaps you might...you might..."
"It was very nice of you to think of me, Mary darling," said Anne,smiling the tight cat's smile. "But as far as I'm concerned, they areboth entirely unattached."
"I'm very glad of that," said Mary, looking relieved. "We are nowconfronted with the question: Which of the two?"
"I can give no advice. It's a matter for your taste."
"It's not a matter of my taste," Mary pronounced, "but of their merits.We must weigh them and consider them carefully and dispassionately."
"You must do the weighing yourself," said Anne; there was still thetrace of a smile at the corners of her mouth and round the half-closedeyes. "I won't run the risk of advising you wrongly."
"Gombauld has more talent," Mary began, "but he is less civilised thanDenis." Mary's pronunciation of "civilised" gave the word a special andadditional significance. She uttered it meticulously, in the very frontof her mouth, hissing delicately on the opening sibilant. So few peoplewere civilised, and they, like the first-rate works of art, were mostlyFrench. "Civilisation is most important, don't you think?"
Anne held up her hand. "I won't advise," she said. "You must make thedecision."
"Gombauld's family," Mary went on reflectively, "comes from Marseilles.Rather a dangerous heredity, when one thinks of the Lati
n attitudetowards women. But then, I sometimes wonder whether Denis is altogetherserious-minded, whether he isn't rather a dilettante. It's verydifficult. What do you think?"
"I'm not listening," said Anne. "I refuse to take any responsibility."
Mary sighed. "Well," she said, "I think I had better go to bed and thinkabout it."
"Carefully and dispassionately," said Anne.
At the door Mary turned round. "Good-night," she said, and wonderedas she said the words why Anne was smiling in that curious way. Itwas probably nothing, she reflected. Anne often smiled for no apparentreason; it was probably just a habit. "I hope I shan't dream of fallingdown wells again to-night," she added.
"Ladders are worse," said Anne.
Mary nodded. "Yes, ladders are much graver."