---- --------- * X J.XJ ^XXXVVyJUJli
1
I
I
FINAL INSTALMENT
He slipped an arm beneath her head
and held something' to her lips. He
had done this before too, only that
time it had been tea—tea which Jen
ny had brought Upstairs. This time
it was horrid stuff. Perhaps the ket
tle hadn’t boiled properly. Nothing
annoyed the Creature more than to be
given tea when the water hadn’t boil
ed properly.
The nice Creature! Diana hoped the
sea wasn’t always rough in Britany
like it had been on the picture post
card she sent.
"Diana.”
It was wonderful how real voices
sometimes sounded in a dream; she
found herself listening with strained
attention to hear it once more, but
everything was silent, and a sigh of
bitter disappointment escaped her.
The other half of her senses was
waking up now: the half that told her
that she was only dreaming, and Diana
knew only too well what that meant.
It meant that presently she would
hear Anna drawing the curtains, their
rings always made such a nasty little
rattle, and she would have to yawn
elaborately and pretend she had slept
well before she opened her eyes to the
world of emptiness.
"Diana.”
She turned again to where in her
dream Rathbone had sat beside her.
He was still there, leaning a little to
wards her, his dark eye on her face.
Diana kept very still. Perhaps she
might manage to fall asleep again and
go on dreaming if she was very care
ful.
She wished he would hold her hand,
but you couldn’t do that in dreams.
It would be like the dream you had
sometimes that you were falling down
a great hill. A dream in which you
knew that any moment you might
reach the bottom and be killed, only
you never did.
She began to whimper faintly:
"Let me go . . . let me go. . . .”
"Diana.”
She knew that she was sinking away,
but she did not mind. There was no
bed under her any more, but just
clouds—soft, fleecy clouds that were
letting her down with infinite gentle
ness into oblivion.
But a voice called her. She forced
her heavy eyes to open and to look in
to eyes that were bent above her, com
pelling, almost praying to her, it
seemed.
Diana . . . listen . . . listen to me.
... Oh, my beloved, try to under-1
stand. ... I will never leave you again.
■ • • Can you hear me? ... I will nev
er leave you again. . . . Diana!”
It was Donald’s voice, though she
had never before heard it with that
note of agony; something must be
the matter: he was in trouble—un
happy, and that was not like him; he
was always so ready to bear other peo
ple’s troubles and forget his own.
But she could not help him now—
she was too tired to try any more to
make him smile. If he would just let
her alone—she was quite happy. . . •
"Never leave you again . . . never
leave you again ...”
She turned her face fretfully from
him; she didn’t believe him, it was
jusr another . . . ruse ... to Keep ner
from going to sleep: the sleep she
had longed for so wearily and tried
so hard to capture—he might leave
her alone now she had so nearly won
through at last.
"Diana
It was as if he were fighting her
for every step of the ground over
which she was slowly slipping away,
and at first she knew contentedly that
he was losing, that in spite of her
weakness and his strength he would
not be able to hold her back.
Funny, that seemed—for a great big
man to be conquered by a little girl.
She began to be faintly interested, to
wonder why it should be. Life was
full of things impossible to explain.
She only knew that she was utterly
; weary and that she wanted to sleep.
She said so presently, half crying,
feebly, but he was relentless, he would
not let her go.
For a mement she fought him with
the last remnants of her strength;
then suddenly she gave in, with a lit
tle sigh and a half smile. . . . "You’ve
got your own way, then ...”
She had said that to him once be
fore—long ago—and he had answer
ed, "I generally do in the long run.”
She waited now to hear him say it
again, he dream wasn’t coming right,
somehow. .
She opened her eyes with a last ef
fort, trying to see his face, but now
she couldn’t ... he was hiding it from
her, against her hands, as he had done
that night in the train. . . .
He was unhappy—-and she hated
him to be unhappy; she knew so well
how it felt.
She gave a little sigh of weary ca
pitulation.
"You always get your own . . .
way,’ she whispered. .
The last word was lost as she fell
asleep.
It was nearly five o’clock in the
morning when Anna, who had stead
i y refused to take any rest, slipped
again into Diana’s room.
Rathbone was still there, standing
at the foot of the bed, his eyes on Di
ana’s quiet face.
Anna crept, up to him.
"Is she—better?”
Rathbone nodded silently.
"Is she—will she—live?”
"Please God.”
Anna closed her eyes for a moment;
then she asked:
Can you leave her for a moment,
sir; I’ll stay.”
He shook his head, but she said ur
gently:
There s someone downstairs who
wants to see you—a man named Hob
son he says he must see you—that
he s been looking for you all night.”
Hobson. ’ Rathbone seemed to
wake with a little start. "Oh, yes —
tell him to give you a message.”
He won’t, sir—he says he must see
you—if it’s only for a moment.” An
na hesitated. Rathbone looked so worn
out, but after a moment she said re
luctantly, "I’m afraid it’s something
very urgent, sir.”
"Very well. I’ll come. . . .”
He bent over Diana, his fingers on
her wrist for a moment; then he
turned and walked out of the room.
Anna took his place at the foot of
the bed. Physically she was half asleep,
but her brain had never been more
active and awake. She was thinking
how queer it was that some women
got all the love, while others, more
worthy and hard working, were pass
ed by.
She knew how near Diana had been
to death; she knew that there had been
one moment at least during the long,
terrible night, when even Rathbone
himself had given up hope ... or
hadn’t he? She could not be quite sure,
but she knew that if ever a man had
fought for a woman’s life he had
fought for Diana’s.
It was as if by sheer will power
he had kept her from slipping away.
Of course, he was in love with her.
Anna found an odd satisfaction in a
discovery of which she was certain
that everybody else was as yet igno
rant.
Mrs. Gladwyn had refused to come
into the room at all; she had taken
cowardly refuge in a fit of hysteria
when she was told that by mistake
Diana had taken an overdose of mor
phine and might die.
It had given Anna some satisfac
i _i___i. l_r_
UUU) aiot/j tv Il/V. **VV vv 1IV1 i»vv
with a wet towel and tell her to be
have; Anna had never liked Mrs.
Gladwyn, and this seemed a heaven
sent opportunity to repay the many
little indignities she had suffered at
that lady’s hands.
She was half dozing, holding firmly
to the bed rail, when Rathbone came
back, it might have been five minutes
or half an hour later; at five o’clock
in the morning it is difficult ro l-':ep
track of time.
Anna started awake, smiling in ner
vous apology, a smile which quickly
faded as she saw Rathbone’s face.
"Why—sir!” she stammered.
He waved her away impatiently.
"It’s all right. You can go. 7ou
had better go to bed. I shall stay rill
the morning.”
"If you would like me to stay . . .”
Anna ventured timidly.
"No. Markham’s up if I want any
thing.”
Anna crept away, closing the door
behind her.
CHAPTER XXVI
Rathbone went back to his old place
beside Diana.
There was a curious gray look in
his face, and he sat for a long time,
his hands clenched between his knees,
his eyes staring blankly before him.
He kept seeing nightmare pictures
of a river, of a woman and of a boy—
a boy who had given his life in an
unavailing attempt to save her.
Hobson had broken down and sob
bed as he told how they had at last
found them:
"Clasped in each other’s arms they
were—as if she’d clung to him . and
dragged him down. I’d have given my
life, sir, rather than anything should
have happened to her.”
Diana stirred a little in her sleep,
and Rathbone turned his head slowly
and looked at her. Better Rosalie’s life
than this child’s, if one of them had
to go.
If it had been Diana . . . the last
six weeks rose before him, a night
mare panorama.
He had tried to do the best thing
for her, and he had done the worst.
He had meant to be kind, and he had
only succeeded in being brutally cruel.
In an aching imagination he saw her
again sitting at that long dining table
in her white frock—so far away from
him and so brave. He had not guessed
that it had been as great a torment
to her as it had been to him.
Supposing he had still been away?
He knew that the chances were that
Diana would have died. This night
had settled all question of the future:
net again would he let her go away
from him. . . . He would have to find
some way . . . Then suddenly he re
membered—the river—and Hobson's
broken story.
He was free, but at what a cost.
The life of the woman whom he bad
cared for and sheltered for so many
years, and the life of a boy who as
yet had known nothing of life. Per
haps in that Jonas was fortunate: he
was a dreamer, and dreamers suffer.
Rathbone knew that now the story
of. his mrriage would have to be made
known: something fresh for the claws
of gossiping vultures to tear to pieces.
Net tnat ne cared lor himself, but it
hurt him inexpressibly for Diana’s
aake, and in a lesser degree for Rosa
lie's. She had meant nothing in lus
life, and yet he knew he would never
forget her, the pitiful, unreal thing
that had lived for so long in his shaw
ow.
"Rosalie, wife of Donald Rath
bone.”
That was what the vultures would
expect him to write on her tombstone;
there seemed something of sardonic hu
mour in it as he sat there, his eyes
on Diana’s face.
She was his wife—the one love of
his life; even if he had never seen her
again, nobody would ever have drawn
near to her place in his heart.
Half child, half woman, spoilt, wil
ful—intolerant of life when it went
the way she did not wish—he yet lov
ed her with every impulse of his man
hood.
And she loved him; for a moment
he lost himself in the wonder of that
thought—and of her sleeping face.
Somewhere in the house a clock
chimed six, and he stood up, stretch
ing his arms, feeling wearied to death,
and yet, amidst all the tragedy sur
rounding him, conscious of a quift,
perfect happiness which nothing could
spoil
Diana stirred a little, as if conscious
of his movement, fearing that he was
leaving her.
Rathbone stood still, and she turn
ed her head, looking at him with half
conscious eyes, whispering his name.
"Donald ...”
"Yes, my heart.”
Her hand fluttered a little towards
him, and he took it in his, quiet and
strongly, as if with it he took her also,
body and soul.
He saw a little doubt flicker across
her eyes and vanish.
"It—isn’t a dream?” she asked.
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. x n xxi vxi xxYix xx i
"No, Diana.” '
"And you’ll never send me away
again?”
"Never again.”
She gave a sigh of contentment.
"I don’t . . . know . . . what’s going
to happen to us,” she said drowsily,
half asleep once more.
"But ... I know ... it will be all
right, always . . if we’re together.”
Rathbone bent and just touched her
lips with his own.
"Yes, my heart—it will be all right
—always—if we’re together.”
THE END
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207 Wallace Building Phone 400
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