When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  "What is the latest report?" Antoinette asked eager­ly. "I came away last night before his own doctor had examined him. I thought it was best. He'd been sur­rounded by people all the evening, and what he needed was peace."

  "Quite right. I understand Dr. Butler wasn't willing to commit himself to any firm opinion. They've got Sir Everard Blakin coming this morning. Until then no statement can be given out, of course. That's really why I'm here. I thought you might find some of this tough to handle without a man to back you."

  "How kind of you! I'm so glad you're here—and so early too.

  "Well, that was Warrender's idea." Gordon Everleigh grinned suddenly. "He phoned me at some unearthly hour and suggested I got along here. He seemed to think you needed some support, and he has a rehearsal this morning himself."

  "He thinks of everything," exclaimed Antoinette gratefully. "He's really a wonderful man, isn't he?"

  "Hm-m—" Gordon Everleigh rubbed his chin medi­tatively and smiled again—"That's a matter of opinion. I have heard him described as a monster, but that was by an angry prima donna who had failed to get her own way. I suppose it depends if you keep on the right side of him or not."

  "I suppose so," Antoinette agreed. And then she re­alized that they were just making conversation, and she forced herself to open the post and deal with one or two routine matters.

  Presently Mrs. Partridge, the housekeeper, looked in to say that her master was awake and had had breakfast, and if Mr. Everleigh liked to go in and see him he would be welcome.

  "He's staying in bed for the time being," she said. "Dr. Butler wanted him to do so until Sir Everard has seen him."

  "Is he—can he—" Antoinette hardly knew how to form her question. "Mrs. Partridge, can he see any better this morning?"

  "He didn't say so, Miss Burney. Only that he can see."

  Gordon Everleigh went away to the bedroom then, and Antoinette typed a few letters and answered, in the most diplomatic way possible, some pressing telephone calls. Then, just as she was wondering what else she could do, the telephone bell rang again, and when she picked up the receiver it was Charmian St. Leger's voice which said smoothly,

  "Is that you, Miss Burney?"

  "Yes, Mrs. St. Leger." Antoinette strove to make that as coolly official as possible.

  "Oh, you recognized my voice?" There was a char­ming little laugh from the other end of the wire. But as Antoinette offered no comment on that, the well-pitched voice went on, "I've seen the news in the papers, of course. Is it—true?" Even then she could not resist the affecting little break in her voice. "Has Lewis really recovered his sight?"

  "To a small degree. How far that can be improved one doesn't yet know."

  There was a pause, then Mrs. St. Leger said, "It's rather awkward for you, isn't it?"

  "I haven't found it so."

  "I mean, it will be if he completely regains his sight."

  "That's hardly the primary consideration, Mrs. St. Leger. Was that what you rang up to say?" asked An­toinette coldly.

  "Oh, no." Again that slight laugh. "Please tell him that my thoughts are very much with him and that I hope I shan't much longer have to communicate with him through a third person. Can I trust you to give him the whole of that message?"

  "Certainly." Antoinette's tone was icy.

  "Well, unhappily, one has to question the integrity of anyone who has altered information to suit herself on other occasions," Mrs. St. Leger explained plain­tively. "I hope I can trust you this time, Miss Burney." And then the line went dead.

  Antoinette uttered a word she seldom used and hung up the receiver. As she did so she heard the sound of a mellow, resonant voice in the hall, and gathered that the famous Sir Everard Blakin had arrived during her telephone conversation with Mrs. St. Leger.

  A minute or two later Gordon Everleigh came back into the room and said, "The Great Man is here."

  "How did you find Mr. Freemont? Was he cheer­ful?"

  "Very. I wish I were half as cheerful. I thought I had no nerves left. In my profession you go mad if you allow yourself that indulgence. But today I feel as ner­vous as a kitten."

  Antoinette felt so too. But she managed to hide the fact, and Gordon Everleigh went on moodily,

  "It isn't only that he's a great artist. He's shown such guts over this. One can't bear the thought of a dis­appointment now. And anyway, I like him," he added after a long pause.

  "So do I," said Antoinette.

  "I know you do. You ought to marry him, you know," remarked Gordon Everleigh, and laughed.

  "Oh, please don't say such silly things!"

  "I mean it," declared the manager more seriously. "You've done more for him than anyone else over this, and he's well aware of it. He was talking just now about his accident—about that strange girl who caused it, or so he insists. And he said, 'Isn't it strange that one's life can be ruined by one girl and rebuilt by another?' That was a pretty handsome tribute to you, I thought."

  "He—said that?"

  "Yes."

  "He does hate that—that other girl, doesn't he?"

  "Well, wouldn't you?"

  "I don't altogether believe in her," Antoinette man­aged to say. "I think he just attributed all sorts of evil intentions to some perfectly harmless creature."

  "You'd never convince him of that." Gordon Ever­leigh shook his head and smiled. "I hadn't realized how constantly he still thinks of her. He says that one of the reasons he's so thankful about the return of his sight is that now he has a chance of finding her."

  "It's a ridiculous obsession," cried Antoinette des­perately. And when Gordon Everleigh looked at her in astonishment, she passed her hands over her cold, pale cheeks and muttered, "I'm sorry. I think I'm getting jittery too."

  But after that she managed to appear calm. Until they heard Sir Everard and Dr. Butler come out of the bedroom, and then she said feverishly,

  "Go and speak to them. Find out what Sir Everard has to say. As Mr. Freemont's manager you're per­fectly entitled to ask."

  He seemed a long while gone, and Antoinette felt strangely numb by the time she heard the front door close. Then a moment later Gordon Everleigh came back into the room, looking so relaxed and cheerful that Antoinette felt like a drab ghost beside him.

  He must have felt the contrast too, for he exclaimed, "Good heavens, don't look like that! It's good news, not bad. Blakin won't commit himself absolutely, of course. They never will. But he's strongly hopeful that a very large measure of sight can be restored. He wants Freemont in his own nursing home and under his immediate care for a week or so. There may even be a minor operation—"

  "Nothing that involves one's sight is minor," inter­rupted Antoinette almost irritably.

  "Well, that's just a manner of speaking. Anyway, on balance, Blakin is very hopeful. And if that's so I don't know why we should be otherwise."

  "No, indeed!" said a voice from the doorway. And, as they both uttered exclamations and turned, Lewis Freemont came slowly into the room, feeling for any­thing in his path, it was true, but with already a much greater degree of confidence than he had ever displayed since he became blind.

  Antoinette started up and went to him quickly. But he smiled and put her aside, though gently.

  "No," he said, "let me do it myself. You can't ima­gine the fascination of being able to see where things are even dimly when you haven't been able to see them at all for so long.—Is that you, Gordon?" He turned accurately in his manager's direction, though obviously without being able fully to identify him.

  "Yes." Everleigh came forward. "I've just been talking to Blakin, and I hear that you're going into his nursing home for treatment. As far as these cautious experts will ever commit themselves—"

  "They can't, you know," interrupted the other man with a smile. "It's only the confident amateur who knows all the answers. In his field as well as mine."

  "Well, that's true," Gordon Everleigh conceded with a laugh. "But he did seem to think there was a
good chance of success."

  "So he told me." By now Lewis Freemont had found his way to his usual chair, and he sank into it with a certain air of relief, Antoinette noticed, like a man who had successfully accomplished a rather daring feat.

  With difficulty she resisted the desire to go to him and put a comforting and congratulatory arm round him. Instead she merely asked, "When will you be going into the nursing home?"

  "This afternoon."

  "So soon?"

  "It can't be too soon, Toni, if it's really going to mean the restoration of my sight."

  "No, of course not."

  She was silent after that, and the two men dis­cussed the reports of the previous night's concert and—on the optimistic insistence of Gordon Everleigh—the possibilities that would open out if something like full sight were restored.

  Everything was on a determinedly cheerful note. But after Everleigh had taken his leave, Antoinette's em­ployer sat silent, a very thoughtful expression on his handsome, rather worn face. Then at last he said,

  "You'll stay on here while I'm away, won't you?"

  "There won't be anything much for me to do," she pointed out.

  She had not thought until that moment of anything but staying. But his words suggested to her that this might be her one chance of making a logical break with him. He, however, evidently had no such idea.

  "I'd rather leave everything in your hands," he said almost impatiently. "What else should I do? And any­way, I couldn't imagine your not being here when I come home."

  "I'll be here," she promised him. "Of course I'll be here."

  "And then—" he smiled slowly—"if Blakin has done his work properly, I shall really see you at last."

  "Yes," she said sadly, "you'll really see me at last."

  But he was too much absorbed in his own bright hopes to notice anything odd in her tone.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  DURING the week following the Festival Hall con­cert, Antoinette was torn by conflicting emotions. With all her heart she longed for Lewis Freemont's sight to be fully restored. Yet she dreaded inexpressibly the moment when he would look at her and know her for the girl he blamed for his blindness.

  She had been shattered to learn from Gordon Ever­leigh that, even in the moment of his brightest hopes, he had recalled his implacable determination to track down that girl; and now that discovery was so near she was shaken with terror.

  Identified as the object of his almost obsessional hatred, bereft of the very special link which his blind­ness and her tenderness had forged between them, she would be simply the girl who had spoiled his life and then grossly deceived him. How would the love of any man—much less a ruthless, arrogant man like Lewis Freemont—survive such a discovery?

  With fresh anguish and remorse she recalled reading out that list of names from which she had deliberately omitted her own, and it seemed to her now that this had been the ultimate in contemptible deception. She might tell herself that desperation had driven her. She could even imagine that some people might understand and have pity for her terrible situation. But could she really suppose that Lewis Freemont, of all people, would look with sympathy and understanding on the fact that she had actually profited by his blindness to deceive him?

  She wished now that she had not allowed herself to be stampeded into saying she would be at the flat when he returned from the nursing home. How could she be there? It was unthinkable that the moment of his re­turn should also be the appalling moment of truth. But he had made a point of it and this at least she had promised him. Was she to fail him even in this?

  From the regular reports which she received she knew that the day after he entered the nursing home an operation had been performed. But after that there had just been the conventional bulletins about "as well as can be expected", "in good spirits" and so on. The important fact was that he had to be kept absolutely quiet and no visitors were allowed.

  Not until the end of the week did Gordon Everleigh come in—full of the vital optimism which contributed so much to his successful handling of artists—bringing the news that Sir Everard Blakin had the very highest hopes of complete success.

  "The great man declares that everything has gone exactly as it should," Gordon Everleigh said. "Free­mont is still in a darkened room. But, barring any dra­matic change, he should be home in a matter of days."

  "Of days?" Antoinette could not keep from her voice a slight quiver of mingled joy and apprehension.

  Mistaking this for disappointment, Gordon Ever­leigh said cheeringly: "Yes. But you won't have to wait as long as that to see him. He wants you to go along there tomorrow. There's something he wants to discuss with you. He'll expect you about three."

  "What does he want to discuss with me?" She was frightened and could not hide the fact.

  "I have no idea," said the manager, looking rather surprised.

  Antoinette moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue and said nervously, "He—he won't be able to see me yet, will he?"

  "I'm afraid not." Again misreading the reason for the tremor in her voice, Gordon Everleigh patted her shoulder kindly. "He's still in a darkened room, as I told you. But cheer up! He'll soon be home now, prac­tically as good as new. You go along to see him tomorrow and let him give you his own news."

  So the following afternoon Antoinette went to Sir Everard Blakin's fashionable nursing home, trying, though without much success, to control the tremors of anxiety and dread which shook her from time to time.

  A pleasant-faced young nurse told her she was ex­pected and took her along a wide, elegant-looking corri­dor and ushered her into the darkened room where Lewis Freemont was sitting. He turned eagerly at the sound of her entrance, but it was plain that at this stage he was still relying largely on his acute hearing to tell him who was there and what was happening.

  She came to him immediately and, taking his hand in the warm, firm clasp which she knew meant so much to him, she said, "It's wonderful news about the success of the operation! But I can well imagine that these last days of waiting must be the worst."

  "Well—" his fingers were tight on hers—"I get a sort of panic occasionally, in case everything is going to be dark again after all. But most of the time I keep my nerve—" he laughed slightly, in a sort of self-mockery—"and I tell myself that everything is going to be all right."

  "I know it is."

  She could sense that her quiet confidence communi­cated itself instantly to him. But not only that; it also suddenly settled the worst of her own inner conflicts. For all at once she knew, beyond any doubt or con­fusion, that whatever the outcome to herself—or in­deed, to him—what really mattered was that his sight should be restored.

  It was a discovery which brought a fresh wave of revulsion for the tangle of deception in which she had involved herself. In that moment she thought calmly that it would not have taken much to make her confess the whole thing.

  But, as she reached for a chair with one hand—still letting him hold the other hand—her new-found calm was put to an immediate and terrifying test. For he said, almost conversationally,

  "Toni, there's a question I want to ask you, and I wish you'd promise in advance that you'll answer it truthfully."

  She was so petrified with shock and fear that her hand closed spasmodically on his, though she was not aware of it until he exclaimed, "What's the matter? What are you so scared about?"

  "I'm not scared," she managed to insist. "It's just—just such an odd way for you to speak to me. As though—" she swallowed—"you thought I might not tell you the truth."

  "Well," he said sombrely, "have you always told me the truth?"

  "Of course! To—to the best of my ability." She hated herself for this further lie. But what else could she do, short of making a full confession? And for this she simply had not prepared herself.

  There was an odd moment of silence and she felt he was looking hard at her, as though willing himself to pierce the darkness of the room and t
he veil which still hung between him and complete vision. Then, even as he drew breath to speak again, she rushed into the first words that came to her.

  "There's something I want to say first!" Her tone was unnaturally bright and, with an almost symbolical ges­ture, she drew her hand away, as though severing the real line of communication between them. "It's about the—the different situation there will be in the future, now that you're going to recover your sight. You won't really need me any more for—"

  "Of course I shall need you," he interrupted almost irritably. "What is all this nonsense? You know more about my affairs by now than I do myself. There's no question of my doing without you."

  "But you didn't have a full-time secretary before you were blind," she reminded him. "You told me so yourself. You said you disliked personal ties, and that you preferred just to have someone from an agency from time to time. You could do that again, couldn't you?"

  "I don't want to do that again!" He sounded angry and, in some odd way, almost scared.

  "It would truly be the best way. Particularly if—you force me to say this—if you still have some sort of romantic feeling for me."

  "Why can't you say it frankly?" he demanded rough­ly. "You mean—if I love you still. Well, suppose I do? What about it?"

  "N-nothing," she stammered. "Except that—you must see it!—it would be best for us to make a break now. Believe me, you have quite an idealized notion of me. You've literally never seen me. You hardly know me, in the real sense of the word. If you met me—"

  "Not know you?" he repeated. "Not know you, Toni? Why, I know you as well as it's possible to know any woman without making love to her in the final sense of the term!"

  "Don't talk like that!" she cried. "You're putting a totally false value on our relationship. The whole world is opening out for you once more. Your career has been given back to you. You will be the complete musician again. It's music that is your world! Not me or any other woman. The very way you talk of music is proof of that. I'll never forget some of the things you've said—"

  "What, for instance?" he interrupted her suddenly.