Less Than Angels (25 page)

The door opened and a manservant, hardly old or dignified enough to be called a butler, stood before them.

‘Good morning. Will you kindly tell your master that the Foresight candidates have arrived?’ said Vanessa, assuming a grand manner.

‘The Professor is in the morning-room,’ said the manservant. ‘Perhaps you would care to wait here a moment.’

They stood in the hall looking about them. The monastic motives were repeated here, with more friars’ heads appearing in unexpected places, as bell-pulls and handles to the carved gothic doors.

‘Is all this supposed to have any significance?’ muttered Mark. ‘I wonder if it gives any indication of the kind of hospitality we may expect?’

‘Ah, so you have all come,’ Professor Mainwaring emerged from a door, rubbing his hands. ‘ Henry will take your luggage to your rooms, which you shall see after luncheon. Now here is the cloakroom, no doubt you would like a wash after your long journey.*

Mark and Digby, who were not in the habit of washing their hands more than they considered absolutely necessary, which was not very often, and did not need the cloakroom for any other purpose, declined his offer, but the girls took advantage of it.

‘Let us leave the ladies to
powder their noses
, then; I believe that is the correct expression,’ chuckled the Professor. ‘They should be able to find their way to the morning-room to join us in a glass of sherry-wine. The sound of our laughter will, I hope, point the way if they are at all doubtful,’

Mark and Digby followed him shrugging their shoulders and tapping their foreheads with significant gestures. The Prof, was evidently in what they regarded as one of his ga-ga moods today.

‘Good morning,’ said Miss Clovis, rising from her seat by the fire. ‘Now do come and get warm. I’m afraid you must be cold after your journey,’ A glance at Digby’s hands had told her that they were red with cold in spite of the knitted gloves, and he looked as if he might be getting chilblains.

‘Now, what has Henry seen fit to bring us?’ mused Professor Mainwaring, retiring to a side table and lifting various decanters, like a priest at an altar, thought Mark dispassionately. ‘The Tio Pepe-I wonder if you would find that too dry?-or the Amontillado? And what is this? Ah, yes, ginger wine, a non-alcoholic cordial, very warming to the vitals, I believe,’

‘I should prefer the Tio Pepe,’ said Mark boldly. ‘I prefer a dry sherry,’

‘I should like Amontillado, please,’ said Digby, thinking he had better be different. There was, as far as he could see, no clue as to which they were supposed to choose. It was like one of those questionnaires which Catherine sometimes made up for her magazines, where you received marks for your answers and the total indicated the type of man you should marry or whether you were really well-groomed or would make a good wife.

It did occur to him that perhaps they ought to have chosen the ginger wine, as Primrose, who disliked alcohol, had done. Vanessa was very feminine and undecided and in the end asked the Professor to choose for her, which seemed to please him very much. But Digby felt that he and Mark could hardly have adopted this course.

‘Miss Clovis and I have been drinking—ah -‘ he examined his glass and went on in a surprised tone,
‘gin.
I forget now why that was.’

‘I don’t like sherry very much,’ said Miss Clovis brusquely.

‘Yes, that was it. You prefer “mother’s ruin”, as they call it.’He went into laughter in which the young people joined a little doubtfully. It did not seem quite right to be joking about Miss Clovis.

At that moment the booming of a gong was heard and Henry appeared in the doorway. ‘Luncheon is served,’ he announced gravely.

‘There need be no formality about going in to luncheon,’ declared Professor Mainwaring. ‘Perhaps Miss Clovis and I should lead the way to the table simply because we know where it is to be found.’

Digby appeared almost to choke as he drained the last drop of his sherry. Mark gave him a hearty thump on the back which hardly improved matters.

The dining-room was papered in deep crimson. On the walls were two or three oil-paintings which looked as if they might have been valuable, mainly because they were so very dark and old-looking; it was just possible to see that they were still-lifes of dead pheasants, hares, lobsters, and other raw materials of the kitchen. The round table was laid with a heavy white double damask cloth and well-cared-for silver and glass. An Edwardian epergne, filled with out-of-season fruits, stood in the centre.

‘Now I wonder what Mrs. Bush has provided for us today,’ said Professor Mainwaring in a confident tone. ‘Ah, soup, that is a good beginning. And I see that we have Barbara to wait on us. She is good enough to come up from the village when I have guests,’

A tall awkward-looking girl with red hands began to serve the soup.

‘My mother had a maid called Barbara,’ said the Professor in a thoughtful tone.

There was a polite expectant silence round the table.

‘She had a song of willow,’ he continued, perhaps surprisingly, but Mark managed to catch the allusion, though he hardly knew what he was expected to do with it.

‘Othello,’ he muttered.

A haunch of venison was brought on to a side table.

‘During the last war,’ the Professor went on, ‘we had American troops stationed here in the village,’

Barbara put a hand up to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

‘Well, perhaps I had better not continue my story here,’ he broke off regretfully. ‘Now, have you everything you want?’ Roast potatoes and brussels sprouts had been served with the venison, also red currant jelly and a thick dark gravy tasting of port wine.

Let’s get on with the eating and not talk so much, thought Digby desperately. He and Mark had found almost nothing in the kitchen for breakfast that morning, and his hunger was formidable.

‘I wonder what you will think of this wine?’ asked Professor Mainwaring genially, as Henry came round with a bottle. ‘I should be interested to have your opinion of it,’

I bet you would, thought Mark, and yet the old man did not appear to be speaking sarcastically.

‘Very full-bodied,’ he murmured.

Digby did not venture an opinion, but Vanessa said that it tasted like the smell of incense.

‘Are you a Catholic, then, Miss Eaves?’ asked Miss Clovis sharply.

‘Oh, no, I’m not anything, but I adore Catholic churches, don’t you?’ said Vanessa, turning her head in Professor Mainwaring’s direction so that her long jade ear-rings swung in a rather provocative way.

‘We have not asked for details of the candidates’ religious views on the application forms,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It might have been interesting if we had. It is perhaps a mistake to concentrate exclusively on academic achievements. In my young days it was rather different, though the light had been seen in certain quarters. It took courage, I can tell you, not perhaps of the very highest order, but courage nonetheless, to proclaim oneself a Rationalist. Now, it seems more courageous to be a Baptist or a Methodist. There is something
chic
 is there not, about Roman and Anglo-Catholicism?’

‘High church services are more interesting,’ Digby ventured. ‘The ritual is more colourful.’

‘Do you believe in the celibacy of the clergy?’ rapped out Miss Clovis suddenly.

‘I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ve never really thought about it,’ said Digby.

‘Well, then, what about the celibacy of the anthropologist in the field?’

‘Oh, surely a man needs a companion out there,’ said Digby warmly.

‘A woman can be such a great help in his work,’ said Vanessa in her soft tones, ‘and men do need loving, after all.’ She seemed to enfold Professor Mainwaring, as well as Mark and Digby, in a glance from her melting eyes.

‘Then you don’t regard the anthropologist as a dedicated being very much like a priest?’ went on Miss Clovis.

The young men did not answer immediately, for although they regarded themselves in their role of anthropologists as superior to most other men and certainly to priests, they did not consider that it was necessary for them to forego any of the pleasures enjoyed by these lesser men.

‘After all, there’re some things a man’s just
gotta
have,’ said Mark, in imitation of his American colleague Brandon J. Pirbright.

‘I believe that to be a fallacy,’ declared Professor Mainwaring. ‘It is like the idea that one should drink more alcohol in the tropics, which is quite erroneous. Indeed, the less you drink there the better you will be.’

This pronouncement seemed to plunge the young men into a gloomy silence. Deprived of love and of drink, a spell of fieldwork seemed less delightful.

‘I don’t think anthropologists should be married. There might be the complication of children and all that,’ said Primrose, rather red in the face.

‘Of course the
great
ones have been in some way dedicated beings,’ mused the Professor. He then went on to name one or two who had been and rather more who, in his opinion, had not, whose names it would be invidious to mention here.

‘I always think Mr. Mallow is in some way dedicated to his work,’ declared Miss Clovis. ‘He has that look about him. I was very much afraid that he was going to marry Miss Swan, but I see that it has come to nothing. Of course I am all for bringing people together where it is likely to be of lasting benefit to anthropology, but in this case I felt the girl was really much too young.’

‘A fanatical light shines in his eyes when he speaks of the mother’s brother,’ said Mark, who was becoming a little tipsy.

An apple tart and a dish of mince pies were brought to the table.

‘Shall we say then that we are aspiring rather than dedicated beings?’said the Professor, seeming to sum up. ‘You remember Pope’s line,
And little less than angel, would be more
— of course his argument is not altogether appropriate here and it would take too long to go into it now, though I am sure we could have a most interesting and fruitful discussion. Now what would your plans for fieldwork be, should you be awarded a grant?’ he asked, suddenly almost businesslike. ‘Shall we go round the table? Miss Eaves?’

The candidates were by this time considerably mellowed by the food and drink, so that they were able to expand and even embroider the bare schemes they had thought out. It seemed as if each one was going to benefit some primitive people so enormously that it would be difficult to decide who was
not
to be awarded a grant. The mysteries of secret societies were to be unveiled, so that grievances could be set right and the task of the harassed Administration lightened an hundredfold; primitive agricultural methods, after a careful study of the indigenous social systems and rules of land tenure, were to be revolutionized, so that the desert should indeed blossom like the rose; the position of women was to be so vastly improved that they could take their place as equal citizens with men to the benefit of all. And finally, reports and articles were to flow forth for the glory of pure knowledge and the swelling of the learned journals.

Professor Mainwaring listened with attention, but it did seem to Digby, who was the last to speak, that by the time his turn came the old man was beginning to grow a little sleepy. Once his eyes seemed to close and his head to droop forward on to his chest.

‘I suppose we shall have coffee in the smoking-room?’ asked Miss Clovis sharply, for Henry was hovering near, awaiting instructions.

‘What was that? Coffee?’ The silver beard jerked up ‘By all means, wherever you like. I shall retire to my study now,’

‘He will have a rest,’ said Miss Clovis confidentially, as she poured the coffee, spilling it in the saucers. ‘I expect you would like to explore the grounds. I have one or two things to see to so I shan’t come with you.’

‘Do you think that manservant has been mocking us?’ asked Digby as they strolled by an ornamental lily pond. ‘And what has he done with our luggage? I hope nobody has unpacked for us. I believe that used to be the custom in some houses before the war.’

‘I hope not,’ giggled Vanessa. ‘I can guess what newspaper Primrose will have wrapped her bedroom slippers in.’

‘The
Times
is best for wrapping things,’ said Mark seriously. ‘The sheets are larger and more durable. There seems to be a moral there.’

‘All that talk about celibacy was rather unnerving for you boys,’ said Vanessa. ‘Strange, isn’t it, that Felix has never married, and he’s still so attractive. I wonder if
I
could make him happy? There’s only about fifty years’ difference in our ages, less really.’

‘Seventy weds twenty,’ said Mark. ‘You can imagine the headlines.’

‘Do you think Clovis is after him?’ asked Digby. ‘Or even old Minnie Foresight?’

They discussed these possibilities for some time in a rather frivolous and unsuitable manner and then, as it was getting near the time when they might expect tea and the air was becoming too chilly to make walking enjoyable any more, they went back to the house. They found Miss Clovis waiting in the morning-room, Professor Mainwaring still apparently ‘resting’. Tea was brought and Miss Clovis, unused to the rather elaborate apparatus which it seemed to entail here, asked if one of the young women would like to pour out. But in the end it was Digby, slow, but careful and efficient, who managed the complications of the silver teapot and the kettle with a little flame underneath it.

‘We don’t change for dinner here,’ said Miss Clovis. ‘I don’t suppose you have brought anything with you to change into,’ she added, remembering the smallness of their luggage.

‘I have a clean shirt,’ said Mark jokingly, ‘but perhaps it won’t be necessary to put it on? Do you think Professor Mainwaring would expect it?*

‘Oh, no, he is taking you as you are,’ said Miss Clovis rather obscurely. ‘And in any case, the dining-room is not particularly well lit. I shall see you anon,’ she added with a touch of gaiety.

Dinner was as elaborate as luncheon had been, and the candidates almost wondered whether they were being put through an ordeal by eating and drinking. When the meal was over they went to have coffee in the drawing-room which they had not yet seen. It was a nobly proportioned room and the walls were hung with more oil-paintings whose dense brownish texture, made it seem, like those in the dining- room, that they might be of some value. Some were portraits, presumably of the Professor’s ancestors, though no immediate likenesses were discernible.