Carefully he placed the notes in a shabby leather pocket-book; then from his desk he took an old mouth organ. He went into the clothes closet and shut the door. Then, putting his head under the tail of a heavy overcoat to muffle the sound, he laid his lips against the instrument and began wistfully to play.
IV
FINCH—THE ACTOR
ONE AFTERNOON, a month later, Finch was standing among a group of amateur actors in the narrow passage between the stage and the row of dressing-rooms in the Little Theatre. They were dispersing after a rehearsal of St. John Ervine’s John Ferguson, and Mr. Brett, the English director, had just come up. Hands in pockets, he lounged over to Finch, and, with an eager smile lighting his clever, humorous, actorish face, observed: “I want to tell you, Whiteoak, how awfully pleased I am with your performance today. If you keep on as you’re going now, you are going to make a really splendid Cloutie John.”
“Thanks—Mr. Brett,” stammered Finch. “I’m glad you think I’m all right.” He was crimson from embarrassment and deep joy. Praise! Warm praise, before all of them!
Arthur Leigh broke in: “Yes, that’s just what I’ve been telling Finch, Mr. Brett. He’s simply splendid. I’m certain of this, that I’m doing my own part better since he’s been playing Cloutie John. He brings a feeling of absolute reality into it.”
Finch stared straight ahead of him, his fixed expression a burning mask for the confused elation of his spirit.
“Well, I’m very, very pleased,” reiterated Mr. Brett, pushing toward the door—he was yearning for his tea. “Tomorrow at the same hour, then, and everybody on time.”
The door at the end of the passage was opened and a gust of crisp December air rushed in. The players drifted in a small body on to the stone steps. The walls of the university rose about them, showing here and there a lighted window. The arch of the Memorial Tower glistened in a bright armour of ice. Leigh turned to Finch as they reached the last step.
“I wish you lived in town, Finch,” he said. “I’d like to see something of you. But there’s always that beastly train to be caught.”
“I’m afraid I’ve missed it tonight. I’ll have to take the late one. Ten-thirty.”
Leigh looked rather pleased. “That’s good news. You’ll come home with me to dinner, and we can have a talk. Besides, I’d like my mother and sister to meet you. I’ve been talking about you to them.” He turned his, clear, rather feminine gaze eagerly on Finch.
“Sorry… Sorry,” muttered the boy.
“What utter nonsense! Of course you can come. Why not?” He slipped his arm persuasively through Finch’s.
“Oh, I don’t know. At least—well, my clothes aren’t right. And besides… you know I’m no good with women— ladies. Your mother and sister ’d think me an awful dud. I’d have nothing to say, and—and—look like—Cloutie John.”
Leigh broke into delighted laughter.
“If only you would! If only you would both look and act like him! They’d throw themselves on your neck and embrace you. Come along, don’t be an idiot!” He drew Finch on through the delicate drift of snowflakes, the air on their faces icy, yet somehow crisply caressing. Other young figures were moving quickly through the park, silhouetted against the whiteness.
Finch had, from the first moment of acquaintance, liked and admired Arthur Leigh, been flattered by the attraction he so evidently had for the other, but now he experienced a sudden outrush of warmth toward him which filled him with wonder. He felt that he loved Leigh, wanted to be his near, his closest friend. The pressure of Leigh’s slender, small-boned body against his made him feel stronger than he had ever felt before. “Very well,” he said, “I’ll go.”
They boarded a streetcar and stood together, swaying, hanging by the straps, smiling into each other’s eyes, oblivious of the other passengers. They recalled amusing moments of the rehearsal, muttered lines of their parts, were almost suffocated by laughter. They were so happy they scarcely knew what to do.
But as Leigh put his latchkey into the lock, and Finch stood behind him before the imposing doorway of Leigh’s house, young Whiteoak felt again an overwhelming shyness.
“Look here,” he began, “look here, I—I—” But the door was open and he was inside the hall, where bright firelight was dancing over the surfaces of polished wood and brass, where there was such a look of immaculacy and order as Finch had never before beheld. The sound of girls’ voices laughing together came from the drawing-room. The two youths darted up the stairway.
“Friends of Ada’s,” Leigh said, leading the way into his own room. “If once they captured us, they’d never go home. Mother hates the dinner to be late, and besides we must have a decent time for talking before you go. I refuse to hand you over to a parcel of girls.”
They threw off their coats and caps. Finch endeavoured to hide his stupefaction at the sight of so much luxury in a boy’s room. Of course, Leigh was scarcely a boy—he was twenty—but he had never talked about his home, never seemed to be especially affluent though he had plenty of pocket money. Finch had no idea what business or profession his father was in.
His host threw open a door and revealed a bathroom of virgin white and blueness. On a small table by the enamel tub stood a bowl of white narcissi just breaking into bloom.
“I like to look at lilies while I’m in the tub,” explained Leigh. “I bathe my soul in them while I bathe my skin in suds.”
Finch stared, first at the narcissi, then at his friend. “You’re rather like that chap yourself,” he mumbled.
“What chap?”
“Narcissus. I mean—you’re so—well, it’s not hard to picture you gazing at your reflection in a pool—looking awfully picturesque and all that.”
Leigh looked delighted. “How I wish I had been Narcissus! The role would have suited me perfectly—gazing and gazing, and adoring—myself! We’d better go ahead and wash, old fellow. The girls are gone, and I hear the first dinner gong.” He flung a snowy-white embroidered towel to Finch and went back to the bedroom whistling. He knew that young Whiteoak was embarrassed, shy, and he wanted to put him at his ease.
He wanted very much to gain Finch’s confidence, even his love. He felt extraordinarily drawn to the boy, whom he looked upon as much younger than himself, though the difference was only two years. Still, Finch was at school yet, while he was in his second year at Varsity. There was something in Finch’s gaunt face and sad eyes that he found himself constantly remembering, trying to clarify into a definite attraction. From chance phrases, allusions that Finch had let fall, he felt that he was misunderstood at home, that there was no one there to appreciate the sensitive depths of his nature, no one to love him with understanding and sympathy. He himself had been always so enfolded in love and understanding. He must ask Finch about his family, try to learn something that night of the setting of his life. He could not quite make him out. He knew that his grandfather had been an officer in India, that his family owned a lot of land, but Finch was so rough at times, so almost uncouth… He brushed his waving brown hair before the glass till it shone.
Finch had not been able to bring himself to the point of using the embroidered towel. He had hung it carefully among others of its kind on the glass rack, and had rubbed his face and hands dry on a corner of a bath towel. He now appeared in the doorway very shining with a damp lock on his forehead and his long red wrists protruding pathetically from the sleeves of his blue serge coat.
In the drawing-room they found Leigh’s mother and sister. Two sisters, Finch thought at first, the mother looked so young.
“My friend Finch Whiteoak,” Leigh introduced him, a protective hand on his arm. “This is my mother, Finch, and this ill-looking young person my sister Ada.”
In turn their soft hands lay in Finch’s bony one. In turn he saw the soft pale oval of each face, the drooping locks of bronze hair, the heavy-lidded grey eyes. But the mother’s hair had a tinge of gold, her eyes a tint of blue, and the amused and tolerant expressi
on of her mouth made him afraid of her.
“Brothers will say such cruel things about their sisters,” she said, with an adoring smile at her son. “I suppose you do it occasionally yourself.”
Finch, breathing heavily, stammered: “Well—I suppose so—at least, I really don’t know.”
“Honestly now,” said Leigh, “don’t you find Ada distressingly ill-favoured?”
She returned their gaze serenely, and Finch stammered again: “Oh, look here, Leigh…”
Mrs. Leigh observed: “Arthur has talked of you a great deal. He thinks your acting of the idiot boy quite wonderful.”
“Ah, that’s easy for me,” grinned Finch. “The idiot part.”
“Mother,” broke in Leigh, “how can you? Cloutie John isn’t an idiot. He’s mad. Absolutely, gloriously mad.”
Ada Leigh said, in a low deep voice, with a look into Finch’s eyes which set them definitely apart from the others: “Is that easy, too, for you? The madness, I mean.”
Her brother answered for Finch, fearing that he would give another stammering, grinning reply “The easiest thing in the world, my child. All he has to do is to be himself. He’s absolutely, gloriously mad also. Just wait until you see the play. When Cloutie John comes on the stage, madness, like an electric current, is going to thrill the soul of that simpleminded audience. We’re all thrilled by him, even at rehearsals.”
Ada continued to gaze into Finch’s eyes as though Leigh had not spoken.
“I expect I am a little mad,” he answered, feeling now not shy, but oddly troubled.
“I wish you would teach me how to be mad. I am far too sane to be happy”
“I couldn’t teach anyone anything except how to play the fool.”
Mother and son were leading the way to the dining room.
Finch saw that the table, delicately bright, was laid for four. Evidently Mrs. Leigh was a widow, though she did not look at all like Finch’s idea of one. Perhaps her husband was merely out of town.
Nothing could draw him into conversation. With set face he ate his way slowly and solemnly through the intricacies of the meal. Leigh, depressed by the sense that his friend was making no impression but one of stupidity on his mother and sister, talked little. Ada seemed to make no effort to please anyone but herself, and her pleasure apparently lay in making Finch aware of the insistent gaze of her long, heavy-lidded eyes. Mrs. Leigh alone kept the talk from dying into silence. Her voice, lighter and higher than her daughter’s, flowed brightly on, though Finch had the feeling that her thoughts were far away. Across her brightness a shadow fell once when she referred to the “time of my husband’s death, five years ago.”
When dinner was over she left them, returning only for a moment to the drawing-room in an ermine evening cloak to say goodbye before she was whirled away in a dove-grey limousine. They had followed her to the stone porte cochére to see her off. Leigh had tucked her in and kissed both her hands.
“Isn’t she the most adorable mother to own?” he demanded, as they returned to the fireside.
“Rather,” agreed Finch, his eyes on Ada. She had settled herself among the cushions of a deep couch, her narrow sloping shoulders, her slender arms, from which open filmy lace sleeves fell away, seeming almost transparent in their whiteness. Between her rather pale lips she held a Chinese-red cigarette holder.
Leigh suddenly found his tongue. He talked eagerly of the play to Finch, criticized Mr. Brett’s directing of it, rehearsed one of his own important speeches, appealing to Finch for criticism.
“Come, Finch,” he said, at last, determined to show off his friend before his sister, “let’s do our scene together where you come to the house at night, after I’ve killed Witherow. Have you got your whistle here?”
“Oh no. I can’t possibly. I’d feel a frightful fool.”
“If it’s because of Ada, I’ll send her away.”
“I wish you would do it to please me,” said Ada. “I should love to see it.”
“She’s likely to fly into a passion if she doesn’t get what she wants. Aren’t you, Ada?” asked her brother.
“You can’t make me believe that,” said Finch.
“Just the same she’s a very determined young person, so you may as well give in. Wait, I know what we need to loosen things up. A whisky and soda, That wine at dinner was native and there’s simply nothing to it but gas on the stomach. Come along to the dining room. You won’t want anything, will you, Ada?”
“No, thanks. I’ll just wait here.”
In the dining room Leigh said: “I don’t think we need whisky, Finch. Nothing so common. A nice little créme de menthe or Benedictine, eh? I said whisky before Ada merely to put her off the scent; she doesn’t like it. But she does like liqueurs, and I don’t think they’re good for a young girl, do you? I really have to look after Ada, you know, my father being dead. What will you have?”
“Oh, I don’t care.” Finch stared at the glittering array of glasses in the cabinet Leigh opened.
“Benedictine, then. We’ll both have Benedictine. Isn’t the colour of it glorious? I want you to come and stay the week of the play with me, Finch. You can’t possibly go home at night after the performance.” At that moment he definitely made up his mind to take young Whiteoak into his intimate circle, to make him his most intimate friend. He perceived his sister’s intense interest in him. She too was sensitive to the inner things of life. She recognized something peculiar, different, beautiful, in Finch.
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Leigh was astonished. He had expected Finch to be most gratefully eager to accept any offering of friendship from him.
“But why not?”
“Oh, I don’t know. But I think I’d better not. Thanks just the same.”
Leigh had been accustomed all his life to doing exactly what he wanted to, to having whatever he desired. His face showed the calm brightness of youth whose will has never been crossed.
“What nonsense! Of course you’ll come. You’re only shy. We need see very little of my mother and Ada, if it’s that you mind.”
“No. The truth is,” Finch burst out, “I should never have gone into this thing.”
Leigh said nothing, only looked at him with bright questioning eyes.
“I believe I’ll have another glass of that—er—Benedictine.”
“I don’t think I would if I were you. It’s rather potent… You were saying—”
Finch carefully set down his empty glass, fragile as a bubble. “You know I failed in my matric, Leigh.”
“Certainly. Consequently you’ll not need to swat at all this year. Take it easy.”
“But my family—”
“Tell me about your family Finch. You’ve never spoken of your parents to me.”
“They’re dead. My eldest brother runs things.”
“Your guardian, eh? What sort of chap is he? Hard to get on with?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He’s sharp-tempered if you don’t toe the mark. But he’s awfully kind sometimes.”
“What makes you think he won’t be kind this time?”
“He’s got no opinion of theatricals and things of that sort. He’s all for horses.”
“Ah, I remember. I saw him ride gloriously at the horse show. I’d like to meet him. I might be able to persuade him that play-acting is good for you.”
“You’re quite wrong there, Leigh. He stopped my music lessons because of the matric business.”
“Good heavens!” Leigh restrained himself from saying, “What a beast!” He asked: “And you were keen about music?”
“Awfully.”
“More than about acting?”
“Much more.”
“And you’ve never mentioned it to me!” His tone expressed hurt.
“We were always talking about sport or the theatre.”
Leigh, with a gesture almost of petulance, turned to the sideboard. He refilled his own glass and that of Finch. “You are amazingly reticent,” he said co
ldly. “I thought we were friends.”
Finch sipped his Benedictine. He did not question why it was so suddenly given, after having been withheld. He saw Leigh in a glittering aura, a beautiful and desired being who would go through life choosing his paths, his friendships, with princely ease. He exclaimed eagerly: “But we are! We are! At least, I am yours—I mean, you are mine… Only, you can’t understand. I didn’t think you’d be a bit interested in my family or what I cared about. Like music, you know… Til be awfully glad to spend that week with you, Leigh, if you want me. I’ll manage it somehow.”
His long, hollow-cheeked boy’s face was flushed with emotion, his eyes glistened with sudden tears.
Impulsively Leigh put his arm about his shoulders. “We are friends then—for always. I can’t tell you what you mean to me, Finch. I’ve been attracted by you from the first moment I saw you. You’re unlike any other fellow I know. I’m positive you’ve genius, either dramatic or musical. We’ll see. Tell me all about it, anyhow.”
“There’s not much to tell—Leigh.”
“Call me Arthur.”
Finch’s eyes lighted. “Oh, may I? Thanks awfully. I’ll like that… There’s nothing much to tell, Arthur. I can’t play decently yet, but I’d rather be doing it than anything. I think it’s chiefly because I can lose myself doing these things. Forget that I’m Finch Whiteoak.” He stared in silence at the floor for a moment, his hands thrust in his pockets, then he raised his eyes to his friend’s face and asked ingenuously: “It’s wonderful when you’re able to forget yourself completely, isn’t it?”
“It must be… But I couldn’t do it, Finch. I’m so damned self-conscious. I’m always posing. I don’t want to forget myself. My great joy in life is watching my own stunts. But,” he added, seriously, “my feeling about you is not self-conscious. It’s real. As real as you are, and you’re as real as one of those spirited horses your red-headed brother rides so well.”
Finch uttered one of his sudden guffaws. “I’m real enough, but I’m no more spirited than a—than a—why, I guess Renny’d take a fit if he heard anyone call me spirited.”
08 Whiteoaks of Jalna Page 7
