When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  "Oh—I don't know. A dozen things." She groped confusedly in her memory for some of the revealing, telling phrases he had used; anything that might dis­tract him from the dangerous subject of herself. But only one thing came to her very clearly, and she could not quite recall when he said it. On his insistence, how­ever, she spoke again, not very steadily.

  "You told me once that the first requisite of the true musician is to make music. Just that—and to serve the composer one is privileged to interpret. You claimed no honour, no glory. Just the right to make music—and to serve the great."

  "I said that?—to you?"

  "Yes."

  "When?"

  "I don't exactly remember when. It's the sort of thing which just sinks down into one and becomes part of one."

  "But you can't remember when I said it to you?"

  She was struck by the extraordinary change that had come into his voice, but she could only say uncertainly, "N-no. Does it matter?"

  "I'll say it matters!" There was a note of grim triumph in his voice that was frightening in its intensity. "I remember! I remember exactly when I said it to you. My God, what a fool I've been! That explains every­thing. I said it to you the day I failed you in that music exam at St. Cecilia's."

  "No!" she cried in utmost terror. "No!" And she struggled to withdraw the hand which he had suddenly seized again. But he held her so that there was no possi­bility of escape. "That wasn't me," she lied wildly.

  "Of course it was! Why did I never think of that before?" There was still that note of triumph in his tone, and his grip was so tight that it hurt. "And the name—" he obviously made a tremendous effort of memory—"the name was Antoinette. That was it! An­toinette—Toni—Antoinette. You looked at me as though you could have killed me. And then—you began to follow me round—"

  "I didn't!"

  "You were there at nearly every concert. You even sat in the front row and smiled at me once. And finally—" his voice dropped to a harsh half-whisper— "you were there, in the middle of the road that day. Toni, in God's name, why did you do that to me?"

  "It's all wrong—" she began wildly, and at that mo­ment, the pleasant young nurse opened the door and said,

  "Sir Everard to see you, sir."

  "He can wait," replied Lewis Freemont savagely.

  "Sir Everard doesn't wait!" exclaimed the nurse in a scandalized tone. And, as though in proof of this, the famous surgeon came briskly into the room with an air of great authority.

  "Ah, Freemont—" he began genially.

  But Antoinette heard no more. This was her mo­ment, her one chance of escape. Snatching her hand away, she fled to the door, where the nurse was waiting determinedly to escort her elsewhere. In her view, quite obviously, mere visitors dwindled to extreme unimport­ance once the Great Man arrived. But she said pleasant­ly to Antoinette:

  "You can wait in the room on the right."

  "No, thank you. I can't wait."

  "I don't think Sir Everard will be long."

  "I can't wait!" Antoinette repeated almost frantically.

  "I must go. Please tell Mr. Freemont—tell Mr. Freemont—"

  But what was she to tell Mr. Freemont?

  For one moment of tragic confusion she could do nothing but stare at the other girl, until she saw astonishment written so plainly on her face that sheer necessity forced a decision.

  "Tell him," Antoinette said slowly, "that I'm sorry I couldn't wait. But we had already said everything there was to say."

  Then she went out of the nursing home and into the sunlit street, and she walked and walked, not really knowing where she was going.

  After a while, a sort of leaden order began to come into her chaotic thoughts.

  It was over. Everything was over. The long, long months of deception. The alternation of hope and des­pair. His desperate need of her. The bitter-sweet know­ledge that he loved her, and would do so until he knew who she really was.

  There would be no need now to make excuses for not being there when he returned home. The fact would be self-explanatory. She would never have to face the moment when he looked at her and she saw appalled recognition dawn in his eyes.

  In a way, she supposed, she would be thankful for that small mercy. But she felt thankful for nothing—only sick and dazed and despairing because her world had finally crashed around her.

  Without knowing it, she had walked instinctively in the general direction of his flat, and now she found herself within sight of it. Perhaps subconsciously the part of her which was the conscientious secretary was still aware that there were one or two minor matters to set right. This was her best opportunity to tie up those loose ends. He was still in the nursing home and could not possibly come home and surprise her. Even to­morrow might be too late.

  She went into the block and up to the well-known door which had been for her the threshold to so much happiness. Everything was very quiet when she let her­self in with her own key, so Mrs. Partridge and the maids were evidently out. And in the silent flat, and alone, she began to sort out and put right the few matters still outstanding.

  The shock of disclosure and the scene which had followed seemed to have left her with a strange clarity of mind. She worked without pause for perhaps an hour. Then she glanced round and knew that any competent secretary could walk in there tomorrow and take things up exactly where she herself had laid them down.

  Another secretary.

  She sat at her desk for the last time, trying to ima­gine the place without her and failing. Though that, of course, was absurd, she told herself. Life went on and the waters closed over the place one had left. New contacts were formed, new friendships made, new plans hatched, new triumphs achieved. He would manage all right without her.

  That was what hurt most of all. He would manage all right without her. After being his support and his inspiration for so long she was suddenly entirely super­fluous. And at that thought she buried her face in her hands and sat there for a long, long time, until she roused herself with a violent start to realize that the front door bell was ringing.

  A sort of illogical panic held her rigid for a mo­ment. Then common sense told her that this could be no one specially important. And getting to her feet, she went into the hall and opened the door.

  "No one specially important," was not quite an accurate description. It was Oscar Warrender who stood outside.

  "I looked in to hear the latest news," he said. "Ever­leigh told me you were going to the nursing home this afternoon."

  "Oh, yes—yes—" All that beautiful clarity of thought seemed at this point to desert her, and she stood there staring at him, unable to imagine what she was going to say to this terrifyingly penetrating man.

  "May I come in?" He spoke a little abruptly.

  "Yes, of course." She stood aside and then, closing the door behind him, she followed him into the study.

  It was ridiculous, but she could think of nothing with which to start the conversation, and after a moment he said, grimly but not unkindly,

  "Well, I see it's bad news. You'd better tell me."

  "It's not bad news. Not about him. What makes you think such a thing?" she exclaimed.

  "The fact that you've obviously had some sort of shock."

  "Oh—" she passed her hands absently over her cheeks which felt cold and probably looked pale, she supposed. "It's nothing to do with—him. I mean, no­thing to do with his sight. He was—quite well, when I was him. Sir Everard came while I was there—"

  "And what had he to say?" Oscar Warrender asked quickly.

  "I don't know. I didn't—stay."

  "Didn't wait to hear his report, you mean?" the con­ductor looked incredulous. "Why not?"

  "I couldn't." She swallowed nervously.

  "What do you mean—you couldn't?"

  "Mr. Warrender," she said desperately, "I'm going away. I've finished here." She looked round helplessly. "It's—over."

  "Oh, I see." Oscar Warrender was not one to need h
is facts underlined. It obviously cost him no effort of memory to recollect almost word for word the disclos­ure Antoinette had once made to him. It might not have been of great importance to him, but he remem­bered it, and he said, without hesitation, "You mean that Freemont recognized you at last?"

  "Yes."

  "By actually seeing you?"

  "No. By something I said. But it was equally con­clusive."

  "Did he upbraid you?—tell you you could go?" He seemed to think he had a right to know. And without hesitation she conceded him that right. People did where Oscar Warrender was concerned.

  "There wasn't time for that," she explained. "Sir Everard arrived just at that point. There was just a—a ghastly sort of moment of truth before we were inter­rupted. I think he could have killed me." She shivered.

  "Oh, no, no, no." The conductor dismissed that idea impatiently. "People don't kill each other for reasons like that."

  "You don't understand," Antoinette said painfully. "You don't understand even now. Not even you. I've lived with it all too long not to know what the real situation is. Rightly or wrongly, Mr. Warrender, he regards me as the cause of his blindness. For months and months he has nursed his hatred and the hope of one day identifying the girl who caused the accident. Well, he has identified her. He's found that I am the girl. And even that isn't all. He has also found that for months I've deceived him. I took advantage of the very fact that he was blind to deceive him."

  "He fell in love with you, nevertheless."

  The statement was so coolly positive that Antoin­ette derived an odd moment of comfort from it even then. But she sighed and said, "Only because he didn't know who I really was."

  "So he both loves you and hates you?" The con­ductor gave an odd little smile and added half to him­self, "And then they say that the love-hate relation­ships of opera aren't true to life!"

  She was silent, and after a moment he asked, "What are your plans now?"

  "I—have no plans." She looked slightly dazed. "It's a little early to make plans, isn't it?"

  "It's never too early to make future plans when pre­sent ones have failed," was the dry retort. "And brood­ing over failure is the one sure bar to success."

  "I'm not looking for success." She almost resented being forced to the painful use of her numbed thoughts and emotions.

  "No, I know," replied the great conductor brusquely. "You want to creep away into a corner and nurse your grief. A dismal and excessively boring exercise when put to the test. Don't waste time and thought on it. The fact is that your musical gifts interest me, Miss Bur­ney, particularly your unusual capacity for reproducing orchestral tone on a piano. I could use you quite a lot, and put a good deal of such work in your way. Would you be interested?"

  Would she be interested? At one time she would have been transported with joy to have Oscar Warren­der ask her such a question. But now only one con­sideration operated. She stared at him and said appre­hensively, "You're a dangerously close link with— him."

  It had evidently not occurred to the famous conduc­tor to regard himself as a mere link with anyone. He made a slight grimace of amused protest.

  "I have a certain significance apart from that," he pointed out. And at that Antoinette laughed, though shakily.

  "Don't think I'm ungrateful for the compliment—the kindness—"

  "No kindness is involved, Miss Burney." Oscar Warrender spoke categorically. "In professional matters I am not kind. One cannot afford to be if one wishes to maintain standards. If I offer you work, be sure it is because I know your work has value. What is your answer?"

  "Do I have to give it now?"

  "I will give you until eight o'clock this evening."

  "So exact a deadline?" She was startled.

  "Major decisions should always have strict deadlines. And in any case, I need a quick decision. I must make other arrangements if you are not willing to co-oper­ate. Telephone me before eight."

  "I will." She was surprised to hear the docile note in her voice. But she was even more surprised to find that, as she watched him go, there was already a faint stir­ring of interest—almost excitement—in her heart. And this served to blunt the inevitable pain of leaving the familiar flat for the last time.

  She walked home, putting off the moment when she would have to give some sort of explanation to Rosa­mund. And she was guiltily relieved to find a note to say that Rosamund had gone out and would not be in until late.

  If she had had to sit alone with nothing to think about but the afternoon's disaster she would have been wretched indeed. As it was, Oscar Warrender's sudden offer demanded immediate consideration, in a way that forced everything else out of the exact foreground of her thoughts.

  It was true that, if she accepted, she would still be in contact with the world of Lewis Freemont; something she had dismissed as impossible only a few hours ago.

  But was her whole life to be directed by the fear and pain connected with one man? And, if she were care­ful, she could surely manage to avoid him. With some sympathetic co-operation from Oscar Warrender—

  She paused, recalled his irrefutable statement that in professional matters he was ruthless, and decided that she must not expect help in any emotional problem from that quarter. Why should she, come to that? Her life was her own, and she must learn to live it.

  Without her knowing it, the conductor's bracing words were already beginning to take effect. There was no virtue in creeping into a corner to nurse one's grief. She had been made a splendid—an unprecedent­ed—offer. The kind of challenge any real musician would embrace with pride and delight. Had she really imagined for one moment that she could reject it?

  It was not even eight o'clock before Antoinette tele­phoned to Oscar Warrender and told him that she was ready and willing to work with him.

  "Good!" She could not but be flattered by the fact that there was genuine satisfaction in the great man's voice. But she did feel something of a check when he added, "Then come along right away, will you? There's a good deal to discuss."

  "To—to your apartment, do you mean?" It was only a matter of hours since she had left the building, telling herself she would never return.

  "Yes, of course." There was nothing in Oscar Warrender's voice to suggest he would have any sympathy with nostalgic reflections of that sort. "I'll expect you in about twenty minutes." And he rang off.

  Antoinette slowly hung up the receiver, since there seemed nothing else to do. Than she hastily threw on a coat and went out and hailed a taxi. Perhaps speed was better than reflection if one wanted to avoid nervous tension.

  For all her resolution, it cost her a pang to enter the familiar building, take the familiar lift, past the floor where she could never, never go again, and on to the apartment where the famous conductor and his wife lived.

  Anthea Warrender herself opened the door to her and greeted her like an old friend.

  "How nice to see you again!" she exclaimed. "Give me your coat, dear, and go into the studio." And she gave Antoinette's arm an almost affectionate squeeze before ushering her through the doorway which had proved the threshold to her own career.

  Antoinette went forward—and then stopped dead. For the man who turned from the window to face her was not Oscar Warrender. It was Lewis Freemont.

  CHAPTER NINE

  "WHERE did you come from?" she whispered at last, as though he were a ghost. "Where did you come from?"

  "From the nursing home, of course. Warrender fetch­ed me—with very little opposition, I might say. Blakin had completed his miracle." He spoke in short, jerky sentences. "I can see almost perfectly again. I can see —you."

  She had no idea what she could answer to that. She just stood there, almost motionless, without defence against any bitter verdict he might pronounce. And what he finally said was:

  "How—lovely you are. I'd forgotten how lovely."

  "Oh—" she blinked her lashes against the sudden rush of tears. And then he went on, exactly as though
they were taking up their conversation where it had been interrupted that afternoon, "Toni, tell me now. Why did you do that dreadful thing to me?"

  "But I didn't," she cried. "I didn't! Won't you under­stand? There was nothing deliberate about it. I was there, crossing the road, it's true, but I didn't even hear your car coming. There was an aeroplane over­head making a tremendous noise. You were almost on top of me before I realized you were there, and then I recognized the car and was paralysed with fright and shame and a sort of guilt that I was there at all. It was all over in seconds. And after that there were just the days and weeks and months of useless remorse, while I asked myself again and again why I hadn't moved."

  "But you disappeared. Once you had done it—"

  "Don't use that term!" she cried in furious despair. "As though I did it on purpose. It was an accident, I tell you! An accident—an accident—an accident!" And she began to cry wildly.

  "But after that—you came to me." He spoke almost as though he were reading something from an unwind­ing scroll, and he hardly seemed aware of her sobbing. "You came into my life with the first gleam of light and hope and reality in all that nightmare. What made you do that, Toni?"

  "I wanted to make some sort of amends. There was suddenly this incredible chance. I knew I was mad to take it, but I had to do it. It was like—" her voice dropped to a whisper again—"like the hand of God, that second chance."

  As though drawn irresistibly, she came close to him then. And, equally without the power to resist, he put out his hand and touched her cheek.

  "Your cheek is wet," he said, as though even now he relied on touch rather than sight to confirm an impres­sion. And then, almost tenderly, "Don't cry, Toni. Weren't you afraid of being found out?"

  "Every day. Almost every hour. But I had to go on. And then Mrs. St. Leger had the dreadful idea of send­ing for the list of the students who failed that exam. I think she sensed I was deadly afraid for some reason."

  "But the list came! Why wasn't your name on it?"

  "It was. But—" she drew a deep breath—"don't you remember? It was I who read it out to you."

  "Oh, my God, so you did!" And suddenly he dropped into a chair and buried his face in his hands.