Damned: The Intimate Story of a Girl

by E. S. Dorrance

Dolores herself had to guess from whom they came, just as she assumed John Cabot’s wish that she let him fulfill his promise to Jack “to look after her” until such time as he thought wise to see her. Rufus Holt, who had found and advised the new location, had made no explanation. Even when he had closed her fingers around a roll of five one-hundred-dollar bills, he had left her to assumption.

But Dolores knew. And, knowing, she was in a way content. Alone except for the Airedale puppy, who had greeted her more vociferously than the rest of her luggage, she relaxed in her sense of an all-protective love and tried to live on the significance of deep-hearted pansies, American beauties and forget-me-nots.

At the end of the fourth week a receipt was tucked under her living-room door for the second month’s rental in advance. That it was not for three months—or six—gave her a feeling of anticipation. A month at a time meant that a change might be expected before the third payment became due. With the expenditure of each dollar of her cash-in-hand this feeling increased. Five hundred dollars was a very great deal of money. But even five hundred would be consumed in time by one healthy young woman and one fast-growing dog. An all-protective love must realize that. Perhaps by the time the five hundred was gone——.

She had to fight her first impulses of extravagance. Her tendency was to tip unwisely and too well, to order a superfluity of the disguising veils she had taken to wearing on the long river-side tramps which were the anticipation of the Airedale’s mornings and the reminiscences of his puppy dreams at night; to let him grow too fat. Unable to decide what name for the dog Jack’s old-young mind would have hit upon, she continued to call him “puppy” or “pups,” as certain unimaginative people she had known were satisfied with “kittie” for their cat or “baby” for their child.

Conscientiously allowing herself only legitimate expenditures, Dolores’ gladness increased, as her roll of bills thinned, that it had not been a thousand, seven hundred, or even six. It might so easily have been more. Toward the end of the second month she felt hopeful—almost sure—that the worst soon would be over. The very thought of it dizzied her with happiness. To see him again, if only for a moment or two——.

But she had to be satisfied with hearing his voice. Rung suddenly from her sleep one night, she half believed his telephone call a dream until the metallic sound of his up-hung receiver told her that the opportunity was passed. Until morning she lay awake, fondling, one by one, his carefully covered sentences.

He had intended not to speak with her at present. But the wish had conquered him to-night to hear her assurance that she understood. He had been a criminal and must work out his sentence. Under a sacred obligation to protect her, he had injured her at each attempt, from the finale at the lingerie shop to her present exile. She had shown pity for his weakness before and perhaps could forgive him now. He never could himself.

He had been overcome in the moment of his greatest strength, when he had felt safe in his sorrow. Now, when weakest, he dared not tempt himself. His only chance of reinstating himself in his own opinion was to win the fight he had undertaken. Their loyal acquaintance would explain.

Meantime was she well and would she try to be contented until he could force a change? And would she believe?

That she did believe steadied Dolores through the discouragement of another prepaid rent receipt. When the “change” came, it was not of John’s enforcement. One afternoon Rufus Holt called on her. He came in on the breeze that wafted him through life. His smile was still cheery, his manner even more courteous than usual. Yet he was different. Considerately he attempted to “explain.”