When Love Is Blind

by Mary Burchell

  "I deceived you, you see." Her usually warm and flexible voice was quite toneless. "I took advantage of the fact that you were blind, and I deceived you."

  "Yes, I see."

  He was silent for quite a long time after that, and at last she said:

  "What was the question you wanted to ask me this afternoon? Had you already begun to—suspect?"

  "The question?" He looked up haggardly at her. "What question?—Oh, it seems almost unimportant now. You're not really married, are you?"

  "Married." In the midst of all the other tangle she had almost forgotten that extra piece of fabrication. She laughed a little bitterly, now that she remembered it, and said, her voice running up almost hysterically, "No, of course I'm not married. That was just part of the miserable, ever-growing deception that I practised upon you. Once I'd started to live that lie, I just had to go on lying. There were other details, other contemptible evasions. Would you like to ask about them? Are there any other questions before—" she caught her breath on a sob—"before I go?"

  "Yes," he said, and he drew a long sigh, like a man who has carried a heavy burden for so long that he hardly knows if it has been lifted or not. "Yes, there is just one other thing I must ask you."

  "What is it?" She stood there trembling a little and again with that curiously defenceless air about her.

  "Come here," he said gently, "my good—and bad—angel." And he held out his hand to her with such a compelling gesture that she came in a sort of fascina­tion, and actually knelt by his chair.

  "This is the moment of truth between us, so look at me, Toni."

  She looked at him, somehow without flinching, and he put his strong, beautiful hands lightly round her face.

  "There is really only one question of importance between us." And suddenly she was aware of the ten­derness of his touch. "Do you love me, my darling?"

  It was not at all what she had expected, and the reply came instantaneously from her heart to his.

  "Now—and for ever—whether you want me or not."

  "I want you," he said, catching her close and kissing her. "I want you as I've never wanted anything else in my life. Not even my sight."

  "Don't! Don't put it like that." But she was return­ing his kisses with almost wild eagerness. "Oh, my dear, do you mean that you've forgiven me at last?"

  "No!" He brushed off the idea almost angrily. "One doesn't presume to forgive where one loves. There is nothing to forgive. What is it the Bible says?" He gave that half mocking, half tender smile. " 'You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free.' I never thought until this moment what that really means. I know the truth—and I am free. It's like recovering my sight in double measure." Then, as though in contrast to the solemnity of the moment, he added lightly, "God bless Warrender for his interference."

  "Why, of course!" She sat back and looked at him. "It was Mr. Warrender who engineered this scene."

  "Anthea too. I heard her playing her sympathetic part as she ushered you in. It seems—" he touched her cheek again with a gesture of loving amusement—"that you're not the only one with a taste for decep­tion."

  "Oh, don't call it that. It was so good of them, good of them to bother so much about us, wasn't it?"

  "Well—" there was a flash of the familiar sardonic humour— "I believe every conductor has a secret long­ing to be a producer too. Usually with atrocious results, I might say," he added with a touch of professional realism even at that moment. "Perhaps this was just Oscar Warrender the conductor allowing himself the indulgence of producing a drama."

  "But with marvellous results!" she cried warmly.

  "With marvellous results," he agreed, smiling at her.

  "Let me call them in, so that we can thank them!" She made as though to rise, but he drew her back into his arms again and said, "Wait!"

  "What is it?" She too was smiling now.

  "Just that I want to look at you again. To look at you and see you—see you—see you. Let me savour the miracle one moment longer. I can look at the wo­man I love—and see her."

  "You can look at me for the rest of your life," she told him with a laugh, but her eyes were very tender.

  "It will hardly be long enough," he told her as he kissed her again. "Now call them in. I can bear to share you now."

  And he watched her as she went across to the door, as though every movement she made were a dear and fresh miracle in the world that had been restored to him.

  THE END