Unknown (27 page)

She herself walked slowly on to the
Pride of London
mooring, but once again Mr. Rutherford hailed her and she turned.

“Ever thought how intolerable it would be to live with someone who was absolutely perfect?” he asked pensively. “Somebody who never made a mistake? See what it would mean? You’d always have to be on your best behaviour— never dare to relax because if you put a foot wrong, you’d feel so small, so inferior by comparison! Intolerable, yes, that’s the right word! Much better that we should all be imperfect beings!”

He lifted his hand in salutation and strolled along the towpath. Rosamund watched him until he vanished. Then she went slowly back to the
Pride of London
.

It was not until she went to bed that night that Rosamund was able to read the manuscript of John’s book without fear of interruption. She drew the curtain close over the window so that the light would not show from outside. Then she punched up the pillows to form a comfortable back rest and got into bed.

The manuscript was lying on the table beside her, and for a moment she looked at it irresolutely. Mr. Rutherford had given it to her to read, but had she really any right to? John hadn’t said she might, and without his permission, wasn’t it very much like eavesdropping?

Then, as if she was compelled by a force stronger than herself, she picked it up and turned back the cover. She began to read—

An hour later, when she had come to the end of the four chapters that John had written, she smoothed the last page with a hand that shook.

It hadn’t needed Mr. Rutherford’s opinion to convince her that John had written something exceptional. It shone in every word.

The characters came alive from the typescript pages— they seemed as real as if she had actually met them. And one wanted to know more about them. They
mattered.

As for the plot, though there was no more than, perhaps a third or so of the book written, one was already aware of the threads which, each arrestingly interesting in itself, were later going to be woven into an absorbing, satisfying pattern—

But while all that was so clear and though Rosamund could well understand Mr. Rutherford’s anxiety for John to finish the book, it was something else which held her enthralled.

There was a perceptiveness, a sensitiveness in the way in which it was written that, more than once, made Rosamund catch her breath. This wasn’t just a commercial venture. Nor was it simply a brilliant brain-child. It was something that John had written with his heart’s blood.

This was John, fulfilled and whole. The man she had fallen in love with but whom she had come to believe had no existence outside her own dreams.

And yet how could a man be less in stature than the characters he created? And how could he breathe life into them so convincingly if he didn’t give them something of himself? She read through several passages again and knew that she was right. It was all here—the aspirations, the hopes, the failings that are part of every human being. And something more. The warmth and tenderness that make life worth while—

It was a long time before Rosamund went to sleep, and when she did, her hand was tucked under the pillow, resting on the manuscript which lay there.

*

Dr. Rob and Miss Alice were married late one afternoon. They had said nothing of their intentions to anyone but the vicar, but somehow the news had leaked out and there were half a dozen or so inveterate wedding-watchers in the church when they arrived. Dr. Rob pushed Miss Alice in her chair up the aisle and Rosamund and John followed, side by side, but apart so that not even their hands touched.

One could not say that this church was really very much like that other one. It was much newer for one thing, but all churches have similar features, and when the service began Rosamund, listening, was carried back in time.

And John? She stole a cautious glance at him, but he was gazing straight ahead, his face devoid of all expression.

Then it was all over. The register was signed and they went out into the churchyard. Good-byes were said and the two men helped Miss Alice into the big, comfortable car which Dr. Rob had brought down from London. Then they were off—

“Well, that’s that,” John remarked briskly. “Now, you’ll be wanting to get off—”

The arrangement was that Rosamund should follow the newly married couple in the smaller car. Nobody had asked John what he intended to do and he had volunteered no information.

“Yes,” Rosamund agreed matter-of-factly, “I must go. Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“Thanks, no need for that,” John told her. “I’m going back to the boat—I can walk.”

“Just as you like, of course,” Rosamund said carelessly. “I’m going back as well—for something I’ve forgotten. So—?”

“I’ll walk,” John said shortly, and set off.

Rosamund got into the car and a moment or so later she passed John in the lane. She parked in the field and was aboard the
Pride of London
when he appeared. He came straight to her.

“I’m rather glad you’ve come back, Rosamund” he said in a strained voice. “No, you needn’t be afraid,” as she looked at him with quick, apprehensive eyes. “It’s just that it’s given me an opportunity of saying something I’ve had to admit to myself must be said—”

Her eyes dropped and she waited in silence for him to go on.

“It’s just this, Rosamund—you’ve convinced me beyond doubt that—we’re finished. It’s no good pretending anything else, is it?”

“No, it’s no good pretending,” Rosamund agreed pensively.

“So this is good-bye, Rosamund,” he told her in an oddly mechanical way as if it was a lesson which he had forced himself to learn by heart. “It may take time for you to free yourself of me, but don’t worry, I’ll see to all the arrangements and you needn’t be afraid that I’ll ever make a nuisance of myself again to you. I’ve had my lesson—and loving you as I do, I know that the kindest thing I can do for you, in fact the only thing that may bring you happiness in the future, is to go out of your life entirely.”

“I see,” Rosamund murmured.

“I suppose—no, it’s too much to ask you to forgive me,” he said harshly. “All the same, I’d like you to believe that I am truly sorry—”

“Yes.” It was little more than a whisper.

“So that’s all. Good-bye—and bless you always!" And he turned to go.

“John!”

“Yes?” He stopped but didn’t turn back.

“It’s going to be a lovely evening—clear and a full moon,” she remarked conversationally. “It’s a pity to miss it, don’t you think? I really feel like putting off going back to London—”

He came back to her then and stood over her threateningly, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“You’ll go
now”
he told her savagely. “Otherwise I won’t answer—”

“But, John, it was
you
who told me that it was time I stopped running away from life,” she reminded him. “And I’ve come to the conclusion that you were right.”

He stared at her incredulously, a muscle flickering at the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t try me too high, Rosamund,” he said sternly. “I’m only a very ordinary mortal—-and there are limits—”

“Yes, I think there are,” she told him gravely. “Limits to my own stupidity, John.”

“What!” His hands shot out and he gripped her by the shoulders—but this time she didn’t resist him. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“Yes, I know,” she said, her voice vibrant with certainty. “I’m telling you that I know now that there can never be any happiness for me if—I ran away from you, John!” and slipping her arms round his neck, she lifted her face to his.

With a catch of his breath, he caught her in his arms and held her close. The lips that sought hers were passionate, demanding and yet unutterably tender. There was no escape from their searching eagerness, but she had no wish to escape. To his incredulous joy he felt her respond to him as he had never thought could happen again.

When at last his arms slackened round her it was only sufficient for him to look down into her wide, glowing eyes, even now anxious to make sure that it was true. What he saw must have satisfied him, for he held her close again.

“This is—for always!” he told her huskily, and felt her breath against his lips as she repeated: “Always!”

“But
why
?” John asked at length. “What made you change your mind?”

“Oh—” Rosamund said consideringly, twiddling her finger round a button of his jacket, “this and that! Actually—Mr. Rutherford.”

“Rutherford?” John said sharply. “How does he come into it?”

“He came down here that day last week when you weren’t here,” Rosamund explained. “Simply bursting with rage and frustration because you’d stopped writing. He blamed me up hill and down dale for having got in the way of you finishing what he truly believes could be a masterpiece—”

“Now, listen to me, Rosamund,” John said sternly, “I don’t care a damn if that book would be the best-seller of all time, I won’t have you sacrificing yourself—don’t you understand, it’s your happiness that matters to me, the book is nothing,
nothing
beside that!”

Rosamund sighed plaintively.

“Darling, don’t jump to conclusions! You’ve got it the wrong way round. He gave me your manuscript to read because he said that if he couldn’t convince me,
that
would.”

“Well?”

“I think he was right, John,” Rosamund said with conviction. “It is going to be a wonderful book. And I’m glad. But not exactly because it will be a success. It’s because—I found you again in it—the you I thought I’d lost. But I hadn’t. You were
there,
John!” Her voice lilted with gladness. “The
real
you—the you I loved. Nobody could write like that without being absolutely sincere about it. It was just as Mr. Rutherford said, it spoke for you. Now do you understand?”

“I’m beginning to,” John said slowly. “And I don’t know which I feel most—triumphant because you should feel like that or humble for—the same reason, I think! Do you understand?”

“I think so,” Rosamund said, and gave a little bubbling chuckle which made John smile, though he looked a little puzzled.

“That was a very nice sound—and one that I haven’t heard for all too long,” he remarked. “But what prompted it just then?”

“Oh, something else Mr. Rutherford said,” Rosamund explained. “As a parting shot, he asked me if I realised how dreadful it would be to live with someone who was absolutely perfect. It would mean, he said, that one’s own faults stood out so glaringly. And I thought that seeing I can’t always make up my mind about things quickly, perhaps it was a good thing that you can’t either!”

“Our Mr. Rutherford seems to have talked rather a lot,” John remarked tolerantly. “However, in the circumstances, I’ll forgive him.”

“That’s nice of you!” Rosamund commented mischievously. “Personally, I’ve fallen for him in a big way!”

“Watch it!” John cautioned, half jocular, half serious. “Because I’m not standing for any rivals, Rosamund! You’re mine!
Mine!
Understand?”

“That’s how I want it to be,” Rosamund said contentedly. “Yours! That’s everything.”

Later, they realised that they must let Dr. Rob and Miss Alice know their change of plans.

“Well, you go to the village and phone them,” Rosamund suggested. “While I get us a meal—”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” John agreed reluctantly. “You’ll still be here when I get back, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll be here,” she promised seriously.

Half an hour later he was back again.
Rosebud
and the
Pride of London
were in darkness, but bright beams of light shone out from the uncurtained window of the
Seven Stars
.

John cleared the gangplank in two quick strides, confident of the welcome that awaited him.