When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  He ran his hands over the keyboard. And then, with that brilliance of attack for which he was famous, he launched into the third movement.

  She stood quite near to him, nearer than she had ever been when she had heard him play before, and it seemed to her that she had never heard even him play like this. There was power, beauty, authority. But these there had always been. In addition there was an almost unearthy quality of understanding, as though, blind though he was, he could see further than mere human range.

  To Antoinette it was the most breathtaking musical experience of her life, and at the end she was wordless.

  "Where are you?" he said, and turned from the piano.

  "I'm here." She came close to him, and without a word he put his arms round her and hid his face against her.

  For almost a minute of utter amazement and deepest emotion she was silent. Then she timidly passed her hand over his hair and said, "Thank you."

  "No." There was the faintest huskiness in his voice. "Thank you. I thought I couldn't—wouldn't ever play again."

  "That was just part of the shock and the natural revulsion of feeling from being helpless," she told him gently. "You couldn't really live without playing, could you?"

  He shook his head.

  "Do you want to play any more just now?"

  "No. In some queer way I'm utterly exhausted. I didn't know I could be so—" he hesitated for the word and then said a little distastefully—"emotional."

  "It was a rather emotional occasion," said Antoin­ette. And he laughed at that and leant his head against her again, with a naturalness that stirred the strangest tenderness within her.

  "You play quite beautifully," he said almost dreamily.

  "Do I?" She could not disguise the happiness—indeed, the triumph—in her voice. For if ever a man was having to eat his words without knowing it, Lewis Freemont was doing that at this moment. "I'm rather out of practice."

  "Well, so am I." And they both laughed at that.

  "You must have worked very hard," he went on. "Your technique is excellent. You phrase musically too, though you're—what shall I say?—a bit musically inhibited. There's a great deal of feeling there, but you don't quite know how to express it. There's a sort of gap between the way you feel and the way you speak with your fingers. Do you know what I mean?"

  "Yes, I know what you mean." And all at once she did.

  "We'll find a way round that," he said in a singularly contented tone. And she looked down at the smooth dark head that was still against her and she was defi­antly glad that she had deceived him for his own good. If she had read out that full list earlier that morning none of this could have happened. As it was—

  That was the moment when something indefinable stirred her senses with a flick of warning. Nothing so strong as alarm—just a sort of awareness that they were not alone. And, looking up over Lewis Freemont's head, she saw that Charmian St. Leger was standing framed in the garden doorway.

  "Good morning, Mrs. St. Leger," said Antoinette calmly, and she was keenly aware of the jerk with which her employer sat up straight again.

  "Charmian?" His voice struck a note of not entirely pleased enquiry. "You'll have to make more noise when you come in, my dear. It's a trifle disconcerting to have someone come upon one unawares."

  "So I gather." She laughed, but the sweetness of her tone had an edge to it for once.

  "Don't be silly." He answered the tone rather than the words. "I don't usually prop myself against my secretary. But you come at a rather emotional moment. I'm almost literally unstrung with relief at the discovery that I can play again."

  "But did you ever doubt it, Lewis dear? I didn't. I knew you would play again and be as great as ever."

  "Then you had the advantage of me," was the dry retort, "for it was more than I knew." And, getting to his feet," he indicated to Antoinette by no more than a pressure on her arm that she was to lead him back to his chair.

  Immediately Mrs. St. Leger came forward and, with a sort of possessive tenderness, took over from An­toinette whether she wished it or not. As she did so, Antoinette suddenly realized that Sir Horace's letter and the accompanying list were lying open on the table for anyone to see.

  With a speed sufficient to gratify even Mrs. St. Leger she abandoned her employer to that lady's care and guidance and, in one comprehensive sweep, gath­ered up the morning's post.

  "Is it all right if I go now?" she asked a little breath­lessly. "I really have quite a number of things to do." And, hardly waiting for her employer's word of per­mission she fled to her office. As she went she heard Mrs. St. Leger say with a gently amused little laugh,

  "Poor girl, she was quite embarrassed at being caught like that! You shouldn't play on her feelings quite so much, Lewis. You'll have a tiresome case of adoration on your hands if you're not careful."

  At any other time Antoinette would have stayed to hear the answer to that subtle little dig. But something even more urgent claimed her agitated attention. She had started on a deception, and, if she were to escape sudden disaster, it must be carried through to the last efficient detail. In other words, Sir Horace Keen's list must go and another be substituted.

  Having found with some difficulty a few sheets of paper of a kind seldom used in her work, she hastily typed out the list, omitting her own name. Then, re­solutely though again with a sickening qualm of con­science, she tore the original list into shreds and stuffed these into her handbag. Only when she had creased the substitute list in the same folds as Sir Horace's letter did she feel virtually secure.

  Anything else seemed of such minor importance after this that she had to force herself to go on with her routine work. But this she did so that the sound of her typewriter should support her contention that she had a lot of work to do.

  As she had expected, Mrs. St. Leger came in pres­ently, to ask very charmingly but quite confidently to see the list of names supplied by Sir Horace. Then she stood beside Antoinette's desk studying it for so long that Antoinette's nerves were in shreds by the time she said, rather discontentedly,

  "It's so odd! One would have thought he would be bound to identify one name from such a comparatively short list."

  "Oh, I don't know." Somehow Antoinette con­trived to look no more than reflective. "I can't imagine that Mr. Freemont attached much importance to the names of unsuccessful candidates once he had con­signed them to oblivion. As a matter of fact, none of the names seemed to recall as specific personality to him."

  "Was he very disappointed?"

  "Yes, he was at first."

  "And then he went off at a tangent and offered to play for you?"

  "Not exactly. He insisted on my playing for him first. And from that I managed to lead him on to play­ing for me."

  "How clever of you," said Mrs. St. Leger coldly. And she looked at Antoinette with such dislike that Antoinette was both shocked and amused.

  But at least that ended the interview. Mrs. St. Leger went away and Antoinette was free to file the letter and list and tell herself that she was safe.

  It was difficult not to feel at least a trifle self-con­scious when she saw her employer again. Not only was there the memory of that moving scene earlier in the day, there was also the recollection of Mrs. St. Leger's warning about his having "a case of unwanted adora­tion on his hands" if he were not careful.

  Antoinette hoped angrily that he had not attached the remotest importance to this ridiculous statement, or imagined that Mrs. St. Leger had been able to see something which he could not. If either was the case it seemed to cause him no embarrassment. He began to talk to her immediately about his decision to start playing again, and to recast their daily timetable to allow for practising.

  Finally, she ventured to ask, "Does this mean that you are thing of taking up your professional career again?"

  "Not necessarily," he said quickly. "Don't try to rush me. I still loathe the very idea of—" he hesitated.

  "I know," she finished calmly.
"—Of being led on to a platform. You keep on getting bogged down in that quite unimportant detail. Which is more import­ant to you—the figure you cut or the music you pro­duce?"

  He gave a startled, annoyed little laugh.

  "You do have a bracing way of putting things, don't you?" he said disagreeably. "I wish Charmian St. Leger could have heard the way you said that."

  "Why?" enquired Antoinette calmly.

  "Never you mind," he retorted. But she thought she had successfully counteracted any remarks about un­wanted adoration, and the reflection gave her a good deal of satisfaction.

  Neither made any further reference to his inter­rupted career. Only, when she was going, he said, "It's been quite a day, Toni, hasn't it?"

  "Yes, it has," she replied more sombrely than she had intended, for the weight of her deception was still heavy upon her.

  "You sound very grave about it. You don't sound as though you're smiling at all."

  "Oh, but I am!" she exclaimed, and smile she did then. And she put her hand into his with that quick gesture of friendliness which expressed as much as any smile.

  "Yes, I can hear it now." He smiled too, and his fingers were strong and warm round hers.

  "It's a day to be grateful for all our lives," she said slowly. And then she bade him good-bye.

  "You funny child," he exclaimed half mockingly as he let her go. And then, as she reached the door, "But I'm not ungrateful, Toni. I'm not ungrateful."

  All the way home in the bus her heart was singing. And for minutes on end she could forget about the de­struction of that list and think only of the wonderful fact that, guided by her hand, he had taken the first great step back to real recovery. For this she had made the terrifying decision to go and work for him. For this she had done something which would otherwise have been unforgivable.

  As she got off her bus someone almost beside her was hailing a taxi, and at the sound of a familiar voice she turned and recognized Gordon Everleigh.

  "Mr. Everleigh!" she exclaimed on impulse, and Lewis Freemont's good-looking manager turned.

  "Hello, Miss Burney. How are things going?" His hand was actually on the taxi door and the query was obviously purely conventional.

  But when she said, in a great breathless rush, "Won­derfully! He played for me today," Gordon Everleigh exclaimed,

  "He what? Here—get in. Can I drive you anywhere? I'm going to Waterloo myself, but I'll willingly miss my train if your news is true."

  "It's quite true, and you needn't miss your train," Antoinette told him with a smile, as she got into the taxi with him. "Waterloo will do for me too."

  This was not strictly correct, but she hardy cared where they drove as long as she could tell her news to someone who could appreciate its full significance. And certainly she could have had no more entranced an audience than Gordon Everleigh as she rapidly de­scribed what had happened at Pallin Manor that morn­ing.

  "He played! He actually played for you! And how did he play?"

  "Divinely. I've never heard him play better."

  "No insecurity or—"

  "Oh, no, no!" She laughed at the very idea. "The attack was superb and the—the understanding was so complete. As though physical blindness had only in­creased his artistic vision."

  "And you just made him take over where you left off?"

  "It seemed a good idea," she explained.

  "A good idea! It was a stroke of genius, you won­derful girl. If kissing in taxis were not so suspect I'd kiss you. I always knew it would have to be a woman who worked the miracle with him. A man argues with logic, but a woman improvises with inspiration. It had to be a woman—and not Charmian St. Leger. Well, here we are at Waterloo, and I've three minutes to get my train. Here's my office number. Keep in touch and I'll be down at Pallin in the next few days. God bless you! You deserve a medal."

  He patted her approvingly on the shoulder, paid the taxi-driver and was gone in a whirl of congratulation and relief.

  As for Antoinette, she slowly made her way to the Underground, not minding in the least that she now had to retrace most of the way she had come. It was worth it—oh, a hundred times worth it—just to hear him say, "It had to be a woman—and not Charmian St. Leger."

  CHAPTER FOUR

  "YOU'RE LATE," observed Rosamund as Antoinette came in. Then, turning to look at her, she added, "Have you won a fortune or something? You look—oh, I don't know!—as though heaven had smiled on you today."

  "Heaven has smiled on me today!" Antoinette slipped off her coat and flung it with uncharacteristic carelessness on to the settee. "Lewis Freemont played for me today. The first time he has touched the piano since—it happened."

  "He played for you?"

  "And I played for him, incidentally."

  "Toni!" Rosamund was staggered. "What did he say?"

  "He said—" Antoinette smiled as she remembered the completeness with which he had unknowingly re­versed his own judgment—"he said I played quite beautifully."

  "And you managed not to throw it in his teeth that he had once dismissed you as a clever automaton with­out a glimmer of the divine spark?" cried Rosamund incredulously. "I think you're a saint. Or else very silly," she added as an afterthought. "For even if the poor man is blind, it's good for him to be told a hard truth from time to time."

  "It wasn't the right moment," replied Antoinette, with more masterly understatement than Rosamund could possibly imagine. "He made me play for him—"

  "How?" asked Rosamund curiously.

  "By representing it as one of the few things which would still give him pleasure and interest. Though I think that was a bit of an exaggeration, to get his own way," Antoinette explained hastily. "Anyway, I stopped playing just at the point when he was mad keen to hear the rest, and I told him he would have to do the next movement, as my technique was not up to it. And he did just that."

  "Almost without realizing what he was doing?"

  "Not quite like that—no. He was startled at first. Then, in some way, he was almost relieved at having his hand forced. Almost as though he longed to be convinced against his will. He thought he wouldn't—perhaps even couldn't—ever play again. All I did was to stampede him into trying, before he could build up his wall of resistance again."

  "It sounds Freudian to me," said Rosamund, "but very clever. How did he play?"

  "Divinely," asserted Antoinette, as she had to Gor­don Everleigh. "I don't think he ever played better."

  "It must have been pretty moving," observed Rosa­mund thoughtfully. "Didn't you both nearly burst into tears at the end?"

  "Not exactly. But—" Antoinette bit her lip at the recollection—"he put his arms round me rather grop­ingly and—and thanked me."

  "Oh, dear, how slave-making," said Rosamund, more than half seriously. "He isn't my type, but I think that would have got round my heart. Whatever did you do?"

  "There wasn't time to do anything much," Antoin­ette confessed. "Mrs. St. Leger characteristically chose that moment to make an entry."

  "Oh!" Rosamund was enjoyably scandalized. "Was she furious?"

  "Yes, I think she was," said Antoinette, not without satisfaction. "She sugared over the cracks, of course, with the best fondant icing. But I heard her warn Mr. Freemont afterwards that if he wasn't careful he would have a bad case of unwanted adoration on his hands."

  "The cat! Did you let that go unchallenged?"

  "Of course." She thought of the speed with which she had fled to her office with the incriminating list. But in order to give a reasonable air to her attitude, she added, "What should I have said? Why give her the gratifi­cation of supposing I cared one bit about what she said or thought?"

  "Most people would have wanted at least to know what he said in return," declared Rosamund. "Did you wait for that?"

  "No." And at the note of indifference in her tone, Rosamund laughed, in a slightly relieved way.

  "You set all my fears at rest," she said, pulling a funny little grimace. "No girl
with any tender feelings towards a man could have resisted waiting to hear his reply. I'd rate you completely safe from the famous Freemont charm."

  "Oh, yes, I'm completely safe," Antoinette assured her with a laugh. And picking up her coat, she went to her own room.

  But when she had shut the door of her room behind her she stood for a whole minute, her coat hanging unnoticed over her arm, her thoughts following the curious path opened up by her conversation with Rosa­mund.

  So she was completely safe, was she? Completely safe from any danger of becoming "a bad case of un­wanted adoration."

  The very term was ridiculous, of course. At no time had she adored Lewis Freemont. She admired him be­yond measure as an artist. She would even go so far as to say that she found him thrilling, intriguing, fas­cinating—any of the feelings one did have towards a great personality who could so completely transport one from the everyday world.

  But all that was concerned with the artist, Lewis Freemont. As a person—?

  Antoinette hung her coat in the wardrobe, ran a comb absently through her hair and sat down on the side of her bed. As a person Lewis Freemont had been for long enough an odious, entirely unacceptable figure in her consciousness, nothing more nor less than the man who had temporarily spoiled her life. For months she had thought of him only with anger and resent­ment. She had not exactly wished him ill, because she was not that sort of girl. But she could never have imagined herself entertaining the slightest feeling of friendliness towards him.

  And then, in a matter of seconds, his whole image had been changed. From an unassailable, deeply re­sented figure of power he had been suddenly reduced to someone for whom she felt anguished pity, someone with a greater claim on her sympathy and loving care than anyone else she had ever known. It was a change too profound and sudden to leave her emotions rea­sonably balanced, particularly when along with that sense of pity went an even deeper sense of personal responsibility.

  Up to a point she had kept a reasonably well-balanced outlook. She had been a conscientious, sym­pathetic, efficient secretary. But, on his own reckoning, she had also on occasion been very down-to-earth and bracing—right up to the moment when he made her play for him.