The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (262 page)

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 expression 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 coldly. “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.”

“Well, I suppose I should have said sensitive, highly strung… And this—Renny—stopped your music lessons, eh? Because you failed to pass your matric. Had he given you a good teacher?”

“Splendid. When Renny does anything, he does it thoroughly—even if it’s swearing. I’ve never heard anyone who can curse like Renny.”

“He seems a thoroughgoing beast, but I like him in spite of myself. Is he married?”

Finch shook his head, and he thought of Alayne.

“Doesn’t care about women?”

“They fall for him.”

“Are any of your brothers married?”

“Yes. Eden’s married; that is—well, he’s separated from his wife. She’s in New York. Her name is Alayne. Piers is married, too. He and his wife live at Jalna.”

“Jalna?”

“Yes, that’s the name of our place. Indian military station. My grandfather was stationed there.”

Leigh exclaimed: “Look here, Finch, you must ask me out. I’m eaten up with curiosity to meet this family of yours. You’re like a picture without its frame. I want to be able to see you in that frame. Just give me a chance to use my charms on your Renny and there’ll be no trouble about the week in town. We’ll even have him in to see the show.”

Ada’s voice came from the drawing-room. “If you are not coming back, I wish you’d tell me. I’d find a book to read or go to bed.”

“What a shame to desert her so!” exclaimed Leigh. He returned with his quick, graceful movements to the couch where she lay and bent over her. “Sorry little one. Finch has been telling me about his family. He’s invited me to go out to meet them. Aren’t you jealous?”

“Frightfully.”

“Now we’re going to rehearse our scene for you… Come, Cloutie John, rumple your locks, and show Sis how truly mad you are.”

But the rehearsal was a failure. It was impossible for Finch to abandon himself to his part in that room, with Ada Leigh’s critical eyes fixed on him. Leigh, after a little, saw how impossible it was and gave up the attempt.

He asked Finch to play Time after time Finch’s eyes had been drawn to the shining ivory of the keyboard, flushed by the rose-shaded light. He longed for the feel of it under his hands. He longed to feel the sense of power, of freedom, that always came with that contact. And this was a noble-looking grand piano. He had never touched one in his life… His awkwardness fell from him as he slid on to the polished seat and laid his hands on the keys. Leigh noticed then what shapely hands he had despite their boniness. He noticed the shape of his head. Finch was going to be a distinguished-looking man some day. He was going to help Finch to attain his full spiritual growth, foster with his friendship the genius that he felt sure was in him. “Play,” he said, smiling, and leaned across the piano toward him.

The piano was a steed. Finch’s hands were on the bridle. A moment more and he would leap into the saddle and be
borne away over wild fields of melody under starry skies. The steed knew him; it thrilled beneath his touch. His foot felt for the pedal… What should he play?

He raised his eyes to Leigh’s face, smiling encouragement. He saw Ada’s eyes on him, too, mysterious behind a faint veil of smoke. He wished she were not there. Her presence dimmed the brightness of his contact with the keyboard, as the smoke dimmed the brightness of her eyes. He felt confused. He did not seem able to remember one piece from another.

“What shall I play?” he appealed to Leigh.

“Dear old fellow, I don’t know what things you’ve done. Can you play Chopin? You look as though you could.”

“Yes. I’ll try one of his waltzes.”

But, though his fingers ached to gather the notes, his brain refused to guide them.

“Oh, hell!” he muttered to Leigh. “I’m up against one of my fool fits!”

Late that night he wrote in his diary, at the end of the account of his day’s doings, not the usual item concerning Joan, but in black, desperate-looking characters, the words “Met Ada.”

L
EIGH’S
I
NFLUENCE

I
N THE DAYS
that followed, the friendship between Finch and Arthur Leigh strengthened into one of those sudden, passionate attachments of youth. They wished always to be together, but, as Finch was still at school, and Leigh was a second-year student at Varsity, this was impossible. Leigh, however, had a car of his own, and he made it his habit to call for Finch every noon hour and take him out with him for luncheon. After the rehearsals it became the custom for Finch to return to the Leighs’ house for dinner and to take the late train home. Finch explained this to Renny by saying that he had made a friend of a clever Varsity fellow who was willing to help him with the mathematics which were his weakness. This was partially true, for Leigh would now and again work with him for an hour. At the end of these periods Leigh, who had a bent toward mathematics, found himself nervously exhausted. It was impossible to make Finch really understand even simple problems. The most that Leigh could do was to teach him certain tricks, and to show him how to make use of his excellent memory.