So far Fate had conspired against her with a nice regard for every detail. She became possessed by the pertinent query: Why should she expect the mind of Fate to change?
Any question over the advisability of telephoning Rufus Holt was answered by her inability to go out in search of a booth. Just before one fevered dawn the idea of advertisement came and crowded out the sickening controversy over whether John or the matron was to blame. Why hadn’t that occurred to her before? In a return of expectation, she composed a “personal” that seemed to her adequately “covered”—recognizable only to him addressed. There was piquancy in the thought that the Press which had been her enemy should now serve her as a friend. Fortunate that she knew which of the morning papers he was accustomed to read with care—doubly fortunate that there still was enough left of her hoard to pay for a single notice.
The poor-spirited landlady looked especially pessimistic over the errand on which she was asked to go, any chance of a reward depending upon its success. Her new tenant was likely to be a great deal of trouble, she anticipated aloud, and she never before had been reduced to taking dogs. Had not the room been so long vacant, she would not have considered the pair of them. She suspected, moreover, from the things they were doing without, that they had about reached the limit of their wherewithal. However, none could say but what she always looked on the bright side of things and she’d do her best about getting all the display the money would buy for the personal.
Dolores’ confidence increased after the old woman had gone. Such doubts as crowded in, she exorcised with the reminder that her advertisement would have succeeded or failed in one day’s time. Often in the past she had deplored the fact that the marvelous output of the press should die in a day; now she rejoiced in the fact. By to-morrow he would have come or—But she would not—dared not face the alternative.
That night her baby was born.
The old woman did what she had time for and the charity doctor stayed a while. Afterward, Dolores must have sunk into a state of semi-consciousness—must have slept or dozed away the time, for she roused to incredulity on being told that it was noon of the next day.
Two other facts penetrated her listlessness. The life of that day’s Times must soon be spent and her child was a girl.
Suppose he did not come. That meant that another girl-child was fatherless. Already, in the world’s opinion, she would be accounted worse than motherless.
As before, time became merely a variation of hope and despondency.... What was that? Surely, an Airedale bred to watchfulness would not grow so excited had he not recognized a step or voice!... But no, he was a silly dog, silly and extremely bored. He and she, too, must have imagined the step and the voice.
A girl, their babe—a hapless, little human, who was not to inherit even such paternal affection and care as could be spared from poppy paste. Another girl she had brought into a world which had no justice for unprotected girls.... Perhaps, if he did not come, it would be best that their baby be spared the learning of life—the humiliations, the disillusionments, the death-stab of love that lied.... Since he had not come, love must have lied. Both her messages would not have gone astray. There was significance in this second failure. Too late to protect her from his weakness had come his strength. If he did not, would not come——