When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  "His sight!" Rosamund whistled, and then observed practically, "Well, that's better than having his hands injured, I suppose."

  Antoinette could only say, "I suppose so." But she still seemed to hear his voice saying, on a note of incredulous horror, "I can't see anything at all. It's all dark."

  During the next few days both newspapers and radio carried quite a story about Lewis Freemont's accident. It seemed that he had miraculously escaped any real bodily injury, but the optic nerve had been injured and "his sight had been seriously affected."

  The term "blind" was never actually used, but rumours began to circulate, and Rosamund came in one day about a week after the accident and said:

  "I ran into that chap Charles Cane who used to queue with you for concert tickets. He says the story is all about the musical world that Lewis Freemont is totally blind after that accident."

  "T-totally blind?" stammered Antoinette.

  Rosamund nodded.

  "It's ghastly, isn't it? I mean, one didn't like him, but one wouldn't wish that to one's worst enemy."

  Antoinette said nothing. She simply couldn't. And after a minute Rosamund went on thoughtfully, "I sup­pose one could play without being able to see?"

  "Yes, of course." Antoinette's voice sounded slightly husky.

  "But it's not only the practical difficulties," Rosamund said musingly. "There's the question of temperament too. I mean—he's such an arrogant, independent sort of creature. One couldn't exactly imagine his being led on to a platform to—"

  "Don't say such things!" cried Antoinette almost wildly. "How can you? How can you?"

  "I'm sorry." Rosamund looked astounded. "I didn't know you felt so badly about it. I thought you disliked him so much and—"

  "I do dislike him. I've no reason to do anything else," Antoinette asserted feverishly. "But one doesn't cling to one's little likes and dislikes in the face of such disaster. I—I know him well as a concert personality. I respect him as one of the finest artists of the day. The very thought of his being helpless and—and finished is unbearable. I'm haunted by the thoughts—haunted by it!"

  "Why, Toni—" Rosamund sounded a good deal moved. "You mustn't upset yourself so much, dear. It's almost over-generous of you in the circumstances. Considering how badly he treated you, I mean."

  "No, it's not." Antoinette was calmer now. "Personal considerations have nothing to do with it. I still think he behaved abominably to me. But that's unimportant beside what's happened to him. If only one could do something!" And she drew such a long, quivering sigh that Rosamund was moved to offer the very general expression of comfort—

  "Perhaps you'll be able to one day. You never know. Stranger things have happened."

  Antoinette laughed slightly at that, but gratefully. Because, though she could not bring herself to confide even in Rosamund, it was something to have her warm though uncomprehending sympathy.

  And two days later Antoinette was asking herself if Rosamund had some sort of sixth sense which told her about things in advance.

  It was at the end of an exacting day, in which she had been taking the minutes of a long and excessively uninteresting board meeting; the sort of one-day assignment which none of them liked but which each of them at a freelance agency had to take on in turn. Antoinette returned to the office to enquire about the next day's assignment, and as she came into the main corridor, Rosamund was coming out of the assistant manager's office.

  "Oh, there you are!" she exclaimed on a note of excited satisfaction. "I was afraid you mightn't be coming back this evening and the chance would slip. Something quite extraordinary has just turned up—something absolutely up your street. Go in and see Mr. Parnell. He's got what I imagine is the job in the world you would want."

  "Really?" Antoinette looked both mystified and pleased. "What is it?"

  "Go in and ask," Rosamund bade her. "It's a sort of answer to a prayer."

  Intrigued and curious, Antoinette went along to the office of the assistant manager who welcomed her cor­dially, with an air of a man who saw in her the answer to a ticklish problem.

  "I think I've got the perfect job for you, Miss Burney. If you don't mind an assignment of un­specified length, that is."

  "If it's something special I'd regard that as an advan­tage." Antoinette smiled, for the constant change which her present freelance status involved was sometimes a strain.

  "I understand from Miss Heal that you're quite an accomplished pianist?"

  "Well—yes," she admitted as he paused.

  "Know all about musical terms? Could copy musical manuscript and that sort of thing, if necessary?"

  "Ye-es, I think so. Why?"

  "You know who I mean by Lewis Freemont, the pianist?"

  "Why, of course!" She half rose to her feet in sudden alarm. "He's one of the finest pianists today. What about him?"

  "It seems he had a car accident recently—"

  "I know!"

  "Some injury to the optic nerve and he's completely blind, poor chap. Dreadful thing to happen to anyone in mid-career," observed Mr. Parnell, with the cheerful sympathy of the totally uninvolved. "Well, he needs a secretary—someone with considerable musical know­ledge. With most of our girls music is a closed book except for—"

  "I couldn't think of it!" cried Antoinette. "It's out of the question."

  "Why?" Mr. Parnell looked a good deal surprised. "I thought you'd jump at it, with your special know­ledge. He's willing to pay well for the right sort of girl, and I imagine his need is pretty desperate."

  "Oh, but I couldn't!" She was not quite so emphatic that time, though her eyes were still wide with some­thing like alarm.

  "Is it the fact of his blindness that scares you?" Mr. Parnell wanted to know. "I know some people have a horror of any abnormality."

  "No, no, it's not that. At least, not in the sense you mean," she added confusedly.

  The assistant manager regarded her in some per­plexity.

  "Well, Miss Heal seemed to think you'd welcome the offer," he observed at last. "She said something about an answer to a prayer."

  "To a—? Oh?" Suddenly Antoinette remembered herself exclaiming in anguish, "If only one could do something!"

  It had been her ever-present sense of guilt and re­morse which had forced the exclamation from her. She had not perhaps meant it in any literal sense. But now here was the opportunity to do something about the disaster which she, or a malignant fate, had brought upon him. With her special qualifications she could help him. Perhaps more than almost anyone else. As Rosamund had said—almost the answer to a prayer.

  She was trembling slightly, but she clasped her hands together in sudden resolution.

  "I'm sorry I spoke so hastily," she said quietly. "It was a silly sort of momentary panic, a—a feeling that I might not be able to cope. But I think I was wrong. I think perhaps I could be of help to him. I'll take on the job, Mr. Parnell. When do I start?"

  "Good girl!" Mr. Parnell looked relieved. "Can you start tomorrow? Everything cleared up from today's assignment?"

  "Yes, everything," said Antoinette, with the strange sensation of someone launching out upon a tightrope without much preliminary training. "Where do I go? To his Surrey home?"

  "Yes. Place called Pallin Parva. You take a Green Line bus to—"

  "I know. It's slightly over an hour's run."

  "That's right. There'll be quite a bit of travelling, I'm afraid. But in the ordinary way he spends a lot of time at his London flat. Once he's got used to—well, when the poor fellow's worked out some new routine, you'll probably work there a good deal."

  "It doesn't matter," Antoinette said. "The ride is pleasant, and I shall be going against the stream in the rush-hour. It could be much nicer than struggling up to town."

  "Very true." Mr. Parnell's tone was congratulatory now that she had decided to do what he wanted. "I'll phone and let Mr. Freemont know you'll be there to­morrow morning at ten."

  "Thank you," said Antoinette,
and went in search of Rosamund, who was waiting for her with an expectant air.

  "Did you take it?" she demanded.

  "Yes, I took it."

  "I'm glad," said Rosamund. "I think it's the right thing for you."

  "I hope I shall be thinking so by this time tomor­row," replied Antoinette with a doubtful little laugh.

  She lay awake quite a long time that night, facing the fact that she was taking something of a risk in involving herself so deeply in Lewis Freemont's affairs. He might just conceivably remember her name, though she doubted if the name of one unimportant examina­tion candidate would have lingered in his mind. After all, he had had to glance back at his papers to verify it even when he was speaking to her!

  Then it was just remotely possible that, with his un­usually keen ear, he might recognize the voice of the girl who had spoken to him after the accident. But this seemed rather far-fetched even to Antoinette, and even more so as she lay awake in the middle of the night. Telling herself that any risk was worthwhile if she could atone in some small way for something she would always regard as her fault, she fell asleep at last.

  In the morning her mood was neither so hopeful nor so confident. As she boarded her Green Line bus she thought she must have been mad to embark on any­thing fraught with so much risk and so much emotional strain. But it was too late to turn back now, and she sat there watching the inner suburbs and then the outer suburbs slip past, and presently they were in the country, and in what seemed no time she was getting out of the bus at the now familiar stop.

  She even had to walk past the tree, where a long scar was a terrifying reminder of what had happened there. But this time she walked up the drive to Pallin Manor instead of stumbling along it in frantic haste.

  An elderly maid opened the door to her and, having shown her where to put her coat, conducted her to a long beautiful room at the back of the house, where large windows looked out upon a pleasant garden.

  Antoinette took in very few details in that first moment. All she saw was the unnaturally still figure sitting in the high-backed chair by the window. As she came forward he turned his head questingly, evidently trying to judge where she was by the sound of her foot­steps. But with the pathetically unpractised air of some­one quite unused to being blind he looked just past her.

  It shook her more than she would have believed possible, and it was only with a tremendous effort that she kept her voice steady as she said, "Good morning, Mr. Freemont. I'm your new secretary." And she came right up to him and took his hand in hers.

  His long, strong fingers closed round hers tightly, and for the first time in her life Antoinette became aware that the sense of touch is the simplest and most primitive form of communication. The tightness of that clasp told her, more clearly than any words, of his misery and frustration and the agony of helplessness which had descended upon him.

  As she stood there holding Lewis Freemont's hand the last drop of her bitterness and resentment drained from her. Strangely enough, she felt her nervousness go also, and she could say quite naturally,

  "I should like to tell you how proud and pleased I am to come and work for you. I've often heard you play and it has always been a wonderful experience."

  Even then he said nothing, so that she wondered with a flutter of the old panic if he were trying to recall her voice. Then when he spoke all he said was,

  "Did they tell you what has happened?"

  "I know you've had a car accident."

  "And I'm blind. Did they tell you that? I'm quite blind. Like Samson in the Handel opera. "Total eclipse!" I keep on thinking of him stumbling on to the stage and beginning to sing that air. I never had the slightest conception of what it really meant until now."

  She moistened her dry lips and was glad he could not know that there were tears in her eyes.

  "It's ridiculously inadequate to say how sorry I am"—little did he know how inadequate and how sorry!—"but does it help you to talk about it?"

  "Yes." He gave a short surprised laugh. "You funny girl! It helps me to talk about it. No one else has thought of that. They're all so horrified and embar­rassed that they talk of anything but the one thing that matters."

  "Tell me about it, then." She reached for a chair with her free hand and pulled it up, for he seemed either unaware that he still had her hand or unable to let it go, as though it were some thread that held him to normality. "Tell me even—" she steeled herself to say it—"How the accident happened."

  "That's the strangest and most macabre thing about it," he exclaimed. "You may think I'm mad when I've told you."

  "No, I shan't think you mad." Her voice was steady. "Go on."

  "It started—oh, months ago, when I adjudicated at a big music exam—What did you say?"

  "Nothing."

  "Among the candidates was a girl—quite a pretty, intelligent-looking girl. I can't remember her name though I've tried to several times. She was the most astonishing performer I ever heard, in the worst sense of the term. Her technique was quite outstanding, but beyond that there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. She had no real music in her, not a grain of what I can only call musical communication. I told her so frankly and advised her not to flatter herself that she would ever be a concert performer in a million years."

  "Wasn't that rather hard on her?" asked Antoinette, her tone dry in spite of herself.

  He looked surprised and said impatiently, "It was the truth. I think she knew it really. She gave me a rather baleful sort of look—"

  "Did she really?" exclaimed Antoinette in uncontrol­lable surprise.

  "Yes. Why not?"

  "Well—I don't know. It seems an odd sort of thing for a candidate to give the examiner."

  Unexpectedly he laughed a good deal at that, and she saw the taut lines of his face relax.

  "Anyway, I forgot all about her after that." He said that so carelessly that for a moment Antoinette felt again a twinge of the fury he had inspired in her all those months ago. "And then one evening she turned up at a concert. I remember it quite well. I was playing Prokofiev, I think, and then the Beethoven Fourth, and she was right there in the front row. I didn't recognize her at first. I mean I couldn't think who she was. I just knew that I knew her. I think I smiled at her. Anyway, she smiled at me. Then she began to haunt me. She was at every concert at which I appeared, sometimes in the front, sometimes on the platform."

  "Did you mind?" enquired Antoinette irresistibly.

  "Mind? No, of course I didn't mind. Every public performer has to put up with a sort of lunatic fringe," he explained.

  "I see. She was just—part of your lunatic fringe?"

  "Yes, that's what I thought."

  "Perhaps she genuinely liked to hear you play. That could surely be a reason for her constant attendance?"

  After the way I'd brushed her off?" He sounded sceptical. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. She didn't matter until a week or so ago. And then I was driving home—perhaps a little too fast for country roads. There's a crossroads near here—"

  "I know," she said, fascinated.

  "I came round the bend full tilt and—you'll hardly believe it—she was standing there, bang in the middle of the road. I avoided her by a miracle, but the car went into a spin. And then I crashed into a tree, and that was it. She'd had her revenge all right!"

  "But she probably didn't mean it that way at all," cried Antoinette. "You're being almost—almost super­stitious about the poor girl. There could be a dozen explanations—"

  "Give me one," he cut in.

  "Oh, I don't know.—Well, perhaps she had a crush on you. Followed you round, poor creature, wanted to see where you lived. People do that sort of thing. She was probably sick with horror about the whole thing."

  "No," he said slowly. "No, she couldn't have been. Because—and this is almost the strangest part of it all—she simply disappeared after that."

  "D-disappeared?" stammered Antoinette. "What do you mean?"

  "She didn't even wait to s
ee what she had done. Or maybe she waited just long enough to find that I couldn't see her—couldn't identify her. But I'll tell you one thing—" his hand was so tight on hers now that it hurt—"if I ever get my sight back, or even part of it, I'll find that girl if it's the last thing I do."

  CHAPTER TWO

  SO intense was the bitterness in Lewis Freemont's voice that for a moment Antoinette was bereft of speech. Then suddenly he seemed to become aware that he was still holding tightly to her hand, and he released her and exclaimed abruptly, "I'm sorry. Was I hurting you?"

  "No." She withdrew her rather numbed fingers. "Not at all."

  "One forgets how strong one's hands become if one uses them constantly." He flexed his long fingers ab­sently and, spreading them out in front of him, gazed at them with, sightless eyes. "It's so strange not to be able to see them," he said, half to himself. "I must have looked at them a hundred thousand times in my life. You do if you're a pianist. Just by looking at them you can assess their strength and stamina—what they will do easily for you and what you will have to coax them to do. And now—"

  He broke off and sighed impatiently. And, eager to keep him from lapsing into melancholy reflection, An­toinette asked quickly:

  "What would you like me to do first? I expect there are quite a number of letters waiting to be answered, aren't there?"

  "Hundreds of them." He laughed shortly. "Letters of condolence mostly, I suppose. From friends and fans—and people who loathe me."

  "Are there many of the last group?" she asked, smiling.

  But instead of answering her he exclaimed, "What an expressive voice you have! I can tell you're smiling just by the sound of your voice. You are smiling, aren't you?" he added anxiously, as though desperate to check the accuracy of the sense on which he must now place double reliance.

  "Yes, indeed! How quick of you to notice."

  "Music-makers have to have keen hearing," he re­plied. "There's a Viennese saying that we can hear the grass grow.—What was your question? I didn't listen to the words, only to the smile."

  That touched her so much that she had to swallow quite a lump in her throat before she could reply,