Dare made inquiries in respect to the movements of the "Exotics," the
musical troupe with which Blanche Maitland had associated herself, and
without much trouble traced them to Bloemfontein, and came up with them
there.
On the evening of his arrival in the town he attended a performance at
which they were advertised to appear. He wondered as he took his seat
in the hall whether he should find the girl he sought among the
performers, or if she had severed her connection with the troupe in
favour of a more private mode of life.
He gazed round the well-filled room with the object of ascertaining
whether Arnott was present. He was not. It was not very likely, Dare
decided, that he would be; to show up at these performances would suit
neither his inclination nor his policy. Still, there was just a chance.
The room was very full. It was a popular entertainment at popular
prices. Dare resolved to satisfy his curiosity and then leave; he could
gain nothing from sitting through the entertainment, and the night was
extraordinarily close. Fortunately the "Exotics" came on early in the
performance. They were billed to appear again between the pictures
toward the finish. Songs and character dances formed their repertoire.
Dare looked expectantly towards the platform as they came on. There
were nine of them, men and women; the ninth being the accompanist. She
walked on behind the others, and went straight to the piano, a tall,
striking-looking figure, clad in blue and silver which scintillated a
cold brilliance where the lights caught the filmy draperies. It was
Blanche Maitland. The calm, unsmiling face, set off by the stage
finery, and crowned with the dark glossy hair, aglitter with sham
diamonds, looked handsomer than he had ever seen it; but there was
something repellant, he thought, in its cold, unyielding beauty,
something unyouthful in her air of composed aloofness. She moved and
acted like some handsome automaton. Not once did he observe her smile,
or display interest in what she was doing. She was wonderfully
inanimate. And yet her performance at the piano was extraordinarily
skilful, far and away above he ordinary run of talent heard at these
entertainments. One felt one wanted to hear her in something worthier
of her gifts.
Dare kept his seat until the performance came to an end; then he made
his way behind, and sent his card in to her. He was not admitted to the
dressing-rooms; but she came out and interviewed him in the passage, to
the curious interest of one or two people who loitered there. She was
manifestly surprised to see him, and pretended to have forgotten his
name, and when and where they had met. He recalled the circumstances to
her.
"It was so long ago," she said; "I had forgotten."
"I don't call that kind," he returned. "You see, I didn't forget I saw
you in Johannesburg last month."
"Yes!" She looked at him with increased interest. "We were there, of
course. We have been to several places since. We are working down
towards the coast."
"It is a change for you, this life," he said. "Do you find it
agreeable?"
"Oh! I don't know. It amused me at first. But I leave them at the
coast. I came in as a stop-gap because their regular accompanist was
ill."
Her voice sounded a little weary, her face, too, underneath the rouge,
looked tired.
"I'd like to call on you to-morrow, if I may," he said, and paused
expectantly.
She hesitated, regarding him with vague suspicion in her eyes. Then she
mentioned the boarding establishment at which they were staying, and
gave a reluctant permission. It was not a fashionable hostelry;
presumably the "Exotics" were not flourishing in respect to funds.
"We might go for a drive," he suggested, "if you care about it."
She acquiesced, but without enthusiasm. It occurred to Dare that her
manner was a little distrustful. He smiled encouragingly.
"That's kind of you," he observed. "I'm at loose ends in this place.
Then I'll be round about three, if that suits."
He did not feel quite satisfied when he parted from her that she would
keep the engagement; but on the following afternoon when he motored up
to the house, she came out dressed for the drive and met him at the
gate. He was aware, as he helped her into the car, of several curious
faces watching them from the doorway and behind the dingy curtains of
the front room windows. The "Exotics" were frankly interested in the
proceeding, and watched the car and its occupants with eager, envious
eyes until they were out of sight.
"I am glad you are giving up this life," Dare remarked to his silent
companion, as they spun along in the sunshine with the light wind in
their faces. "It's all very well in its way, I don't doubt; but it's
just a trifle sordid, isn't it?"
"What is one to do?" she asked. "One must live. There isn't a wide
choice for women, as you know."
"That's true," he acknowledged, and was silent for a moment. "Why did
you give up teaching?" he asked abruptly.
She reddened and appeared distinctly annoyed.
"That isn't a vastly amusing, nor particularly lucrative form of earning
a livelihood," she returned with sarcasm. "How do you know I was
teaching?"
"I have recently been staying with the Carruthers," he replied. "Mrs
Carruthers spoke of you. I told her I had seen you in Johannesburg."
Blanche looked deliberately away.
"Mrs Carruthers! Was she... She was my very kind friend formerly,"
she remarked in an embarrassed, hesitating way. "I should be sorry if
she thought less kindly of me now."
"Why should she?" he asked.
She brought her face round again, and her eyes, steady and inquiring,
met his fully.
"I don't think you are being quite sincere with me," she said.
Dare was unprepared for this direct attack. He felt at a decided
disadvantage. She was much more shrewd than he had expected.
"Now, I wonder why you should think that?" he asked.
"Oh!" she exclaimed sharply. "Do you suppose I don't know that while
you were in Wynberg you heard me discussed? I've got relations there;
they write to me. The things people say!"
So already the gossip that was being circulated had reached her on her
journeying. Dare scrutinised her closely, uncertain whether to treat
her frankly as she seemed to wish, or to attempt to acquire the
information he needed by less straightforward methods. In the end he
resolved to be frank. Despite all that he had heard relative to her
flight and her previous relations with Arnott, he had a strong
persuasion that the stories concerning her were mostly lies. He
discredited entirely the tale of her elopement. A girl does not run
away with a man and leave him immediately to follow the kind of life she
was at present leading. The fact that Arnott had been in Johannesburg
at the same time that she was there called for some other explanation,
he decided.
"Don't you think that perhaps you have your own indiscretion to blame
for the stories that are being floated?" he asked.
His question seemed to surprise her.
"In what way should you say I have been indiscreet?" she inquired.
"The manner of your leaving is an open secret," he replied.
"There is no secret about it," she returned with some impatience. "I
just went. In my opinion I was quite justified in acting as I did."
"Quite possibly you were," he allowed. "But unfortunately Mr Arnott
acted in the same ill-considered manner. When people do these things
they must expect gossip."
She did not reply to this. Dare judged from her silence that she was
fully informed as to the manner of Arnott's leaving home. This seeming
knowledge of the man's movements shook his faith in her somewhat.
"I suppose you think, with others, that circumstance had something to do
with me?" she said presently.
"I would only believe that," he replied quietly, "if you told me so
yourself."
She looked at him quickly, and then turned her face aside, unwilling
that he should detect the shame in her eyes, and the gratitude that
strove with other emotions at his unexpected answer. She knew so little
of this man, who was but a chance acquaintance; and yet already he
appeared inexplicably mixed up in her life, acquainted with all the most
intimate details concerning her. It puzzled her why he should display
this interest in her affairs. She felt that she ought to resent his
unwarranted interference; and yet oddly she did not feel resentful. It
was after all rather a relief to have some one with whom to discuss
these matters, which were too private and difficult to speak of with
other people. His knowledge of events seemed to constitute a reason, if
not a right, for his discussion of them. But his intimacy with the
Arnotts, and with Mrs Carruthers, inclined her to be somewhat on her
guard with him.
"I don't know why you should be less ready than others to believe the
reports that are spread," she remarked. "Your knowledge of me is so
slight. We've met--three times, is it?"
"I am not judging from my knowledge of you, but from my knowledge of
human nature," he returned.
She laughed cynically.
"Has human nature revealed only its amiable qualities to you?" she
asked.
"Oh! no. Not by any means. But humanity is not without a moral sense.
The baseness which some natures reveal is a form of degeneracy,--a sign
of mental abnormality. In the case of man or woman, deliberate
viciousness denotes a kink somewhere."
She pondered this.
"Yes," she allowed; "you are probably right. But there are a good many
people with kinks. I may have a kink myself... I believe I have."
"Then straighten it out," he advised.
"Oh!" she said in a voice of weary irritation. "What's the use of
talking? Words are easy enough. It's easy enough, perhaps, to act, as
well as think, finely when life runs smoothly. But life is terribly
difficult for some of us--and dull. The dulness, I think, is the
worst."
She stared out at the sunny landscape with hard, dissatisfied eyes, and
the bitterness in her voice increased as she continued:
"I took up this kind of thing--touring and playing--because I thought I
might find it brighter. It seemed so at first... the lights, and the
people, and the noisy excitement of constant moving, constant change.
Now I find that too unutterably dull. The tawdry dresses,--the
limelight,--the sea of white faces, staring, always staring,--cold,
unsympathetic, scarcely interested even. I hate them. I hate playing
those ridiculous airs on timeless, indifferent pianos. I want
something... I don't know... I'm a fool to say all this. I hope you
didn't invite me to drive with you in the belief that you would find me
an amusing companion?"
"I invited you to drive with me," he answered candidly, "because I
wanted to talk to you on the subject which you, yourself, started. I am
very anxious, for Mrs Arnott's sake, as well as in your own interest,
to put a stop to a scandal which is none the less harmful because I
believe it to be a tissue of falsehoods. Since you have heard the
scandal, I am spared the unpleasant task of paining you further by
repeating it. If you choose, I believe you can help me in stopping the
thing. Will you tell me, if you can, where Mr Arnott is to be got at?"
"How should I know?" she asked, flushing.
"I thought you might know," he answered, unconvinced by her words of her
ignorance as to Arnott's whereabouts. "He was in Johannesburg when you
were there. I could have settled this matter then, had I known of it.
But I've only just heard the talk. I want to see him. He ought to be
informed of the report that is going about, which his own indiscretion
is mainly responsible for. I think, if he knew, he would see the wisdom
of putting an end to it."
"I don't," she replied unexpectedly. "I don't think it would make the
least impression on him."
"Oh, come!" he said, surprised. "What grounds have you for supposing
that?"
She glanced at the chauffeur's impassive back, and from it into Dare's
curious, perplexed face.
"Do you think this quite the place for discussing these matters?" she
asked.
Dare was obliged to admit the reasonableness of her remonstrance.
Although they had spoken in lowered voices, they could not be positive
that no part of their talk reached the driver's ears.
"We'll have tea somewhere," he said. "Then we will drive out into the
country where we can get out and walk."
He leaned forward and gave the chauffeur his directions. When he turned
to the girl again he was conscious of a new reserve which betrayed
itself in her manner. She raised no objection to his arrangements; but
a marked constraint showed in her speech. She fell back more and more
upon silence and left the talking to Dare.