When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  She nodded wordlessly and moved to her employer's side as the conductor went quickly out of the room.

  Lewis Freemont had closed his eyes by now and his face looked very pale, except for a mark that was slowly darkening on the side of his forehead.

  "Toni—" he said uncertainly once, and she took his hand and held it firmly, as though by the strength of her grip she would force him to retain consciousness.

  "All right, I'm here."

  He moved his head impatiently and opened his eyes then. But then he frowned as though in sudden pain and, to her dismay, he cried her name aloud again— "Toni!"

  "Darling—" The loving term escaped her before she could control her agitation. And then she stopped as he made a strange groping movement of his hand and gathered a fold of her dress in his fingers.

  "What is it?" she exclaimed, half frightened. "What is it?"

  "You're wearing a light dress," he cried in a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice. "A blue dress—no, a green one."

  "Why—why, yes. How do you know?" Then her voice died in her throat.

  "Because I can see it. God in heaven! I can see it. Not very clearly—but I can see it."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TO Antoinette the next ten minutes were never en­tirely clear in her recollection.

  She remembered Lewis Freemont holding tightly to the fold of her dress and repeating over and over again, "I can see it!" and she remembered Oscar Warrender coming back into the room accompanied by a distin­guished-looking man with grey hair.

  She knew that someone tried to put her aside, but that her employer still held her by her dress until she herself gently prised his fingers away. And Oscar Warrender, an unusual streak of excited colour in his cheeks, drew her to one side, leaving the doctor with Lewis Freemont.

  "What happened?" the conductor asked her quietly. "What in God's name happened?"

  "He was lying back with his eyes closed and—" she swallowed and made an effort to steady her voice— "then he opened them and called my name. At first I thought he was in pain. Then he grabbed hold of a fold of my dress as though—as though it were a sort of lifeline. And he said—" again she had to swallow—" he said, "You're wearing a light dress", and—and then that he could see it."

  "Distinctly?"

  "No. But he could see it."

  "It was that sudden blow, of course. One hears of such things. One never expects them to happen to the right person," observed Warrender cynically. But there was no cynicism in the glance he directed at his friend and the doctor. "You must take him home, Miss Bur­ney, as soon as the doctor says he can move."

  "But the concert?—the rest of the concert?" Even to Antoinette, with all her deepest feelings involved, the compulsive conviction that the show must go on was uppermost.

  Oddly enough it was Warrender, the ruthless profes­sional, who said coolly, "The concert can take care of itself. Or rather, I will take care of it. We'll put in something with only the slightest delay. There are cer­tain things that this orchestra and I can do without rehearsal and—"

  "You'll do nothing of the sort!" Lewis Freemont spoke suddenly, with such authority and energy that everyone stood and looked at him in surprise, including the doctor.

  "I'm all right." He ran a perfectly steady hand over his hair. "Only a slight headache physically. And emotionally I won't let myself think of what's happened until afterwards. I can see a little—just a little. The difference between light and utter darkness—" for a moment his iron self-control faltered, but he recovered again and ended, "I'm playing that concerto tonight and no one is going to stop me."

  "It might be wiser—" began the doctor, but he was brushed aside.

  "I'm playing tonight. Has the first bell gone?"

  "Half a minute ago. I heard it," Antoinette said, in a fascinated tone.

  "Then we still have a few minutes left. I'm all right, I tell you! Get me a drink, Toni. No more than a dash of whisky and some water."

  She went over obediently and mixed the drink and brought it to him. He groped slightly for the glass, and she saw that whatever vision he had was anything but clear.

  "It will be difficult," Warrender warned him. "You've learned an entirely different technique of following. You're sure—"

  "Yes, I'm sure. I shall play it as a blind man. Con­duct for me as though I were. I can't see any of you clearly anyway. Just that you're—there." His hand closed on Antoinette's as he spoke and she gripped his fingers warmly in return.

  "There goes the second bell!" They all spoke in un­ison. And Lewis Freemont got to his feet.

  "Give me your arm, Warrender. The full hall light­ing will dazzle me, I expect."

  "I still think—" began the doctor.

  But no one took any notice of him. The two men went out of the room together, and Antoinette—stran­gely cool and calm now—followed them as far as she could without being seen from the hall.

  She stood just inside the door at the side of the stage, watching with her heart in her eyes as Warrender led her employer on to the platform, the first violins mak­ing way for them as they came.

  With an air of quiet assurance Lewis Freemont sat down at the piano, and even glanced round, as though testing the faint degree of vision he had regained. Os­car Warrender went to the conductor's desk and picked up his baton. There was that moment of expectant silence which precedes any eagerly awaited perfor­mance. And then the opening notes of the concerto fell on Antoinette's ears like the answer to her most ardent prayers.

  She stood there throughout the three movements, hardly shifting her position once, not actually tense, but so utterly absorbed and enthralled that physical move­ment never occurred to her.

  As a pianist herself, however unpretentious, she could not help knowing what tremendous concentration and, indeed, sheer physical strength were required for a work of this sort. And once, halfway through the exact­ing final movement, she wondered if he could possibly stay the course after the shock and emotional crisis of the evening. Then she glanced at the conductor and knew from his slight, watchful smile that he was cer­tain all was well. And if Oscar Warrender was satisfied, who was she to doubt?

  The ovation at the end surprised even Antoinette. Perhaps it surprised and overwhelmed him too. At any rate, he went on sitting at the piano, not even attempting to stand and acknowledge the applause, the darkening mark on his forehead very noticeable now that he was pale with exhaustion.

  Then the conductor came down from his desk and went to him, and Antoinette saw her employer raise his head quickly and speak a few urgent words. Immed­iately, with that air of authority and almost nonchalant grace peculiar to him, Warrender turned to the audi­ence and said,

  "Mr. Freemont wants me to explain to you that there was a slight accident this evening, as you can possibly see for yourselves. But this was not entirely a disaster. So many of you showed great sympathy and support when his sight was destroyed by a blow, and he would like you—his audience—to be the first to know that the accident this evening seems to have restored some measure of sight. In these circumstances you will understand—"

  But whatever it was they were to understand was drowned in a fresh outburst of clapping and cheering. It was Lewis Freemont himself who silenced them by striking a chord on the piano. And then, to the stupe­faction of everyone who had ever thought him a self-sufficient, cold-hearted creature, he began to play the strong, simple familiar tune of 'Now thank we all our God'.

  There are some moments so fraught with emotion that they tremble perilously on the thin line which divides sheer sentimentality from pure gold, and only the smallest detail is necessary to push them one way or the other. On this occasion it was supplied by an insignificant-looking little man who was sitting in the third row near the gangway. As though compelled by something outside himself he got to his feet. In fascin­ated concert one group after another followed suit until, in less than a minute, everyone in that vast audience was standing.

  At the end, L
ewis Freemont got up, bowed to the audience and then, taking Oscar Warrender's arm, he left the platform in absolute silence—the most deeply felt tribute that had ever been paid to him.

  Almost in tears, Antoinette took him by both hands as he came up to her. Quite unselfconsciously he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them and said, "I wish I could see you properly. But that will come, I know—that will come!"

  "Home now. And at once." Oscar Warrender's brisk, authoritative words broke in on this emotional mo­ment. And it was he personally who bundled Lewis Freemont into his coat. Then, with Antoinette in close attendance, he shepherded him through the excited crowd at the stage door and drove them both home himself.

  A telephone message from the Hall had already en­sured that Lewis Freemont's own doctor was waiting for him, and once he had been handed over to such expert care there was really no need for either Antoin­ette or Oscar Warrender to remain.

  "Shall I drop you anywhere?" the conductor enquir­ed, as they stood in the hallway of the block of flats together. "I am collecting my wife from Covent Gar­den, but if you don't mind our stopping there first"—he glanced at his watch—"I'll drive you home afterwards."

  Antoinette started to say it was not at all necessary but he interrupted her.

  "Of course it isn't necessary. I know you can get a taxi just as well. But do you suppose either of us can go home in cold blood without discussing this incredible evening first?"

  She laughed a little at that, rather incredulously, for she had never even suspected this almost boyish side of the formidable conductor—the side which his young wife, Anthea, always declared had finally won her.

  "I'd like to come if I may," she said shyly. "I forgot —of course your wife was singing tonight, wasn't she?"

  "Yes. That's why she wasn't at the concert. We us­ually arrange things better, but we just couldn't avoid dates clashing tonight. I don't want to keep her waiting. She'll be nervous anyway, as someone else was con­ducting for her."

  Even as he was explaining, he was leading Antoin­ette out to the waiting car. And before she could won­der if she might have learned just a little more about her employer by remaining at the flat, he was driving away. As though reading her thoughts, he observed, not without sympathy,

  "You've had enough for tonight. We all have." And then, with a short laugh, "I think I was more scared when I heard him saying he could see than I was when the accident happened."

  "Scared?" Antoinette was both amused and incre­dulous. "I don't think you are ever scared, are you?"

  "No more than I can conceal," he replied good-humouredly. "But while I thought he might just be able to recover from the effects of a physical accident, I was certain no artist could take the impact of a near-miracle and have the self-discipline to go on and do a performance just the same."

  "Yes!" Antoinette's voice was warm with affection and pride. "He has self-discipline—more than I've ever seen in anyone else. Wasn't it terribly moving, that last scene?"

  "Very," agreed the conductor briefly. "It was a risk, though. The sort that even a great artist should hesitate to take. With the reaction just a shade the other way we might have had the hysteria of a revivalist meeting on our hands."

  "I don't think he thought about that," Antoinette said simply. "I think it was just that he was so immeas­urably thankful for what had happened and had to say so in his own terms."

  "Perhaps," replied the conductor. "Perhaps." Then, as they turned into Floral Street, he added, "Do you mind waiting here in the car for a few minutes while I go up and fetch my wife?"

  "No, of course not."

  So Antoinette sat alone in the darkness of Oscar Warrender's car, her glance idly on the distant group of fans round yet another stage door, her thoughts still milling round the fantastic events of the evening, from the moment when he had clutched at her dress until he came off the platform and kissed her hands and said, "I wish I could see you properly. But that will come—that will come."

  All her hopes, all her fears, were implicit in those short sentences. She must wish too that full sight would be restored to him. But if it were—he would know the truth.

  At that moment she saw the crowd round the stage door part respectfully, and Oscar Warrender came back towards the car, accompanied now by a smiling, fair-haired girl in a magnificent mink coat. They were talk­ing together with the eager intimacy of people who share most things with zest and pleasure. And, con­cerned though she was with her own affairs, Antoinette looked with interest at the girl who was said to be not only Oscar Warrender's greatest operatic discovery but the love of his life.

  There was an indescribably winning air of vitality and warmth about her and, even as she got into the car, she greeted Antoinette with the frank eagerness of an old friend.

  "You're Lewis Freemont's secretary, aren't you? And you're the one who's most responsible for getting him back to his career again."

  "Oh, I wouldn't say that," disclaimed Antoinette quickly.

  "Oscar says so. And he never throws idle com­pliments around. Do you, darling?" she added as her husband came round and got into the driving seat beside her.

  "Do I what?"

  "Throw idle compliments around."

  "Certainly not. They're the curse of the profession. But what are we talking about? Your singing?"

  "Oh, no! There's only one possible topic tonight—the wonderful news about Lewis. I'm so happy for him. Tell me all about it, Miss—Burney, isn't it?" She turned to Antoinette in the back seat. "All about it. Oscar gave me only the barest outlines."

  "There hasn't been time to do much more," said her husband drily. "Will you join us for supper, Miss Bur­ney?" Afraid of being an intruder, Antoinette began to make polite excuses, but Anthea Warrender interrupted her.

  "Please come. I'm always excited and tremendously wide awake after a performance. And I can see Oscar is beginning to feel the strain of the evening, which means that he'll get more and more uncommunicative, and I shan't ever have a first-hand account of what must have been one of the most exciting scenes that ever happened in the musical world."

  So Antoinette yielded, not at all unwillingly, and went with them to a small, exclusive Italian place where they were evidently very well known. And while Oscar Warrender listened and interjected no more than an occasional comment, Antoinette gave the other girl a clear and detailed account of what had happened.

  "Then even now he can see only hazily?"

  "Yes. But there's all the difference between that and —total eclipse," said Antoinette.

  "Total eclipse! What an odd and telling phrase," ex­claimed Anthea with a slight shudder.

  "He used it himself, the very first day I went to him as his secretary," Antoinette said slowly. "I never for­got it. He said it came from an opera—"

  "Handel's 'Samson'," put in Oscar Warrender almost automatically.

  "Yes, that was it. He said he kept on recalling Sam­son staggering on to the stage and beginning that air. And he said that until then he hadn't had the slightest conception of what it really meant."

  For a second they were all silent, savouring again the full force of the disaster which had fallen on the man they all, in varying degrees, liked or loved. Then Anthea said,

  "But now that's over—over! At least he can see something again. Will that be all he can see, Oscar?" she turned to her husband as though he knew the answer to everything. "Or may he get back his full sight?"

  The conductor shook his head slightly,

  "My dear, how can I say? Only an ophthalmic ex­pert could venture an opinion on that. The man we called out of the audience at the Festival Hall when the accident happened seemed to think it very possible. But I don't even know how well qualified he was to pro­nounce. Only time will tell."

  "But we'll go on hoping! I believe in hoping, don't you, Miss Burney? We'll hope with every bit of con­centration we've got," declared Anthea passionately.

  "Yes," said Antoinette slowly. "We'll go on hoping
."

  And long after they had taken her home and she had told the dramatic story over again to Rosamund, she lay awake in bed, staring into the darkness and thinking, "I'll go on hoping."

  But for what she was to hope she hardly knew.

  The next morning all the newspapers of course car­ried a full account of the concert and the sensational announcement which had been made.

  "You'd better be along at your Lewis Freemont's place in good time," observed Rosamund over break­fast. "The reporters are probably already champing round the block, trying to get statements and fresh information. I must say I feel a bit like champing myself."

  "You?" said Antoinette, laughing. "You've always disclaimed the slightest interest in him."

  "Oh, well—it's the element of human drama that in­trigues one, even if one doesn't know or specially like him. I suppose you yourself feel desperately involved?"

  "Desperately," agreed Antoinette, but so sombrely that she gave a much deeper meaning to the word than Rosamund had intended.

  "Oh, come! It's not an occasion for literal desper­ation. After all, this is a happy business, isn't it?"

  "Yes, of course." But Antoinette sighed involuntar­ily, and Rosamund looked at her curiously as she slipped on her coat and made ready to go.

  "I suppose I'm to expect you when I see you?" she said, but good-humouredly.

  "I should be home reasonably early," countered Antoinette. "But I can't say for sure. I don't know quite what I'll find when I—when I get to his place." And not all her self-control was sufficient to keep a slight tremor from her voice.

  Early though it was when she arrived at Lewis Free­mont's flat, his manager, Gordon Everleigh, was already there, walking up and down the long studio drawing-room with an air of restless expectancy.

  "Hello, Miss Burney. Freemont isn't awake yet, they tell me, which is probably just as well. Last night must have been a hell of a strain, and if he can rest well that's all to the good."