Damned: The Intimate Story of a Girl

by E. S. Dorrance

With the poignant memory, the girl felt comforted. Life, which hitherto had seemed indifferent when not actually cruel toward her, had grown kind. Surely no malice of Jade Fate could be behind the gift of a child’s adoration.

And in what luxury did she live—she, whose sole capital so recently had been a ripening nectarine! No opportunity was given her to think of her needs. They were fore-attended. Beside her own beautiful room, the young heir’s kingdom was shared with her. And more than her needs were remembered. Mrs. Cabot’s gratitude and affection took the practical form of tickets to theater and opera matinees, of the free use of Jack’s car, and twice of invitations downstairs to dine en famille. In a partial expenditure of her salary, she had acquired, by way of being more worthy her surroundings, some unpretentious, but pretty clothes. The black worn for Trevor Trent she had laid away for the gayer colors liked by Jack, just as she was trying to lay away sorrow for good cheer.

To-day, where was that good cheer?

Here she had shut herself in her room in a panic of foreboding. Was she so used to trouble that she would attract by expecting it? Despite the general kindness toward her, she felt afraid.

There was Dr. Clarke Shayle. At first his show of interest in her had been confined to the period of Jack’s daily treatment, when he would chat with the two of them in the set phrases to which he was given, leaving an impression of impartial friendliness. But a few days before he had returned during the boy’s nap hour to add a detail to his instructions. Even Jack had pierced the pretense and taken occasion, through some instinct or reason over which he grew quite sullen, to acquaint his mother with the fact.

The annoyance shown by Mrs. Cabot brought memory back to the more recent annoyance of this early afternoon. What had given the Marquis d’Elie the right of way to madame’s boudoir? She decided to force the question from her mind as beyond her scope. General hints about the impecunious foreigner had been emphasized by Annette after the style of the French paper-backs which formed her ideas of high-life lived low. Vicariously the maid had thrilled over d’Elie’s infatuation for her beautiful mistress; deplored the fact that m’lady, being, alas, already wedded, might not acquire the right to the proud title of Marquise of France; grieved over the misfortune that her heroine, having no personal fortune, might not with financial safety free herself. Oh, not that madame had any more real feeling for her suitor than for her own husband! Her heart’s love, as Annette had reason to know, was given to another. That complication, however, was according to form, as written in French originals.

All this was peace-poison, Dolores decided, and for such there was no antidote. One thing only must she remember. “M’lady” was John Cabot’s wife. The fact stared from her dressing-table mirror each time, as now, she smoothed her hair and compared its blackness with Catherine’s glory of fine silk and pale gold. Of it she was reminded each time her heart expanded over lonely Jack or her eyes caught the gleam of the limp diamond-and-platinum circlet which was his mother’s latest acquired and much admired “wedding” ring.

She herself had been judged unjustly by appearances. She must not—she would not judge. Married women, she had been told, outgrew the prudishness which mothers taught their daughters. And titled foreigners were said to be more careless of conventions than the great, clean men of America. Every melioration she must consider. Perhaps even the much-discussed pair’s recent suggestions to her, at which she had felt such offense, had been conceived as they were worded, in kindness. Catherine was the wife of the king of the Cabots and the mother of Prince Jack. The queen-mother could do no wrong.

Her decision reached, Dolores realized an unwonted physical fatigue. She lay down on the bed for a moment that she might take a fresh face and mind to Jack. A glance at the ivory clock on her bedside table told her that it was fifteen minutes to three. She closed her eyes with the intention of allowing herself the quarter hour. For several minutes she continued in full consciousness of the trustful thoughts upon which she had decided as a policy. Then soon, although daytime napping was not her habit, she fell into a doze.

Her eyes flashed open before she was fairly awake, as if at a call. For a moment she gave up to an exquisite sensation which had come to her. She felt relaxed, flushed, very much at peace. In a sort of dream, someone with strong arms who cared for her had rocked her as she often had longed to rock Jack. Repeatedly a tender, infusing voice had said to her: “Rest, little girl.... Everything’s all right.... Rest.... Rest.”