On his way to Brownsville the next morning Dave found himself still
somewhat dazed by his sudden happiness; the more he thought of it the
more wonderful it seemed. During the day he went through his court
duties like a man in a trance. Such joy as this was unbelievable; he
felt as if he must tell the world about it. He well understood Alaire's
repugnance to divorce, but he was sure that he could overcome it, if
indeed her own truer understanding of herself did not relieve him of
that necessity; for at this moment his desires were of a heat
sufficient to burn away all obstacles, no matter how solid. It seemed,
therefore, that the future was all sunshine.
He had no opportunity of speaking with Judge Ellsworth until court
adjourned. Then the judge took him by the arm, with that peculiarly
flattering assumption of intimacy of which he was master, and led the
way toward his office, inquiring meanwhile for news of Jonesville.
Dave's high spirits surprised him and finally impelled him to ask the
cause. When Dave hinted unmistakably at the truth, Ellsworth exclaimed,
with a sharp stare of curiosity:
"See here! You haven't forgotten what I told you that night on the
train?"
"What? Yes, I had forgotten."
"You promised to tell me if you thought seriously about marriage."
"Very well, then; I'm telling you now."
"Do you mean that, Dave?"
"Of course I do. But don't look at me as if I'd confessed to arson or
burglary. Listen, Judge! If you have good taste in jewelry, I'll let
you help me select the ring."
But Judge Ellsworth continued to stare, and then muttered uncertainly:
"You're such a joker--"
Dave assumed a show of irony. "Your congratulations overwhelm me. You
look as if you were about to begin the reading of the will."
"I want to hear about this right away." Ellsworth smiled faintly. "Can
you come to my office tonight, where we can be alone?"
Dave agreed to the appointment and went his way with a feeling of
amusement. Old folks are usually curious, he reflected; and they are
prone to presume upon the privileges that go with age. In this
instance, however, it might be well to make a clean breast of the
affair, since Ellsworth was Alaire's attorney, and would doubtless be
selected to secure her divorce.
The judge was waiting when Dave called after supper, but for some time
he maintained a flow of conversation relating to other things than the
one they had met to discuss. At last, however, he appeared to summon
his determination; he cleared his throat and settled himself in his
chair--premonitory signs unusual in a man of Ellsworth's poise and
self-assurance.
"I reckon you think I'm trying to mix up in something that doesn't
concern me," he began; "and perhaps I am. Maybe you'll make me wish I'd
minded my own business--that's what usually happens. I remember once,
out of pure chivalry, trying to stop a fellow from beating his wife. Of
course they both turned on me--as they always do. I went to the
hospital for a week, and lost a profitable divorce case. However, we
try to do our duty as we see it."
This was anything but a promising preamble; Dave wondered, too, at his
friend's obvious nervousness.
"So you've found the girl, eh?" the judge went on.
"Yes."
"Are you accepted? I mean, have you asked her to marry you?"
"Of course I have. That's about the first thing a fellow does."
Ellsworth shuffled the papers on his desk with an abstracted gaze, then
said, slowly, "Dave--I don't think you ought to marry."
"So you told me once before. I suppose you mean I'm poor and a failure."
"Oh no! All men are failures until they marry. I'm thinking of what
marriage means; of the new duties it brings, of the man's duty to
himself, to the woman, and to society; I'm thinking of what lies inside
of the man himself."
"Um-m! That's pretty vague."
"I've studied you a long time, Dave, and with a reason. I've studied
heredity, too, and--you mustn't marry."
Law stirred in his chair and smiled whimsically. "I've done some
studying along those lines, too, and I reckon I know myself pretty
well. I've the usual faults, but--"
Ellsworth interrupted. "You don't know yourself at all, my boy. There's
just the trouble. I'm the only man--living man, that is--who knows
you." For the first time he looked directly at his caller, and now his
lids were lifted until the eyes peered out bright, hard, and piercing;
something in his face startled Dave. "I was your father's attorney and
his friend. I know how he lived and how he died. I know--what killed
him?"
"You mean, don't you, that you know who killed him?"
"I mean just what I say."
Dave leaned forward, studying the speaker curiously. "Well, come
through. What's on your mind?" he demanded, finally.
"The Guadalupes had to kill him, Dave."
"Had to? HAD to? Why?"
"Don't you know? Don't you know anything about your family history?"
Dave shook his head. "Well, then--he was insane."
"Insane?"
"Yes; violently."
"Really, I--Why--I suppose you know what you're talking about, but it
sounds incredible."
"Yes, it must to you--especially since you never knew the facts. Very
few people did know then, even at the time, for there were no
newspapers in that part of Mexico; you, of course, were a boy at school
in the United States. Nevertheless, it's true. That part of the story
which I didn't know at the time I learned by talking with General
Guadalupe and others. It was very shocking."
Dave's face was a study; his color had lessened slightly; he wet his
lips. "This is news, of course," said he, "but it doesn't explain my
mother's death. Who killed her, if not the Guadalupes?"
"Can't you guess? That's what I meant when I said they had to kill
Frank Law." Ellsworth maintained his fixity of gaze, and when Dave
started he nodded his head. "It's God's truth. The details were
too--dreadful. Your father turned his hand against the woman he loved
and--died a wife-killer. The Guadalupes had to destroy him like a mad
dog. I'm sorry you had to learn the truth from me, my boy, but it seems
necessary that I tell you. When I knew Frank Law he was like any other
man, quick-tempered, a little too violent, perhaps, but apparently as
sane as you or I, and yet the thing was there."
Dave rose from his chair and bent over the desk. "So THAT'S what you've
been driving at," he gasped. "That's what you meant when you said I
shouldn't marry." He began to tremble now; his voice became hoarse with
fury. "Now I understand. You're trying to tell me that--maybe I've got
it in me, eh? Hell! YOU'RE crazy, not I. I'm all right. I reckon I
know."
"HE didn't know," Ellsworth said, quietly. "I doubt if he even
suspected."
Dave struck the desk violently with his clenched fist. "Bosh! You're
hipped on this heredity subject. Crazy! Why, you doddering old fool--"
With an effort he calmed himself, realizing that he had shouted his
last words. He turned away and made a circuit of the room before
returning to face his friend. "I didn't mean to speak to you like that,
Judge. You pulled this on me too suddenly, and I'm--upset. But it
merely proves my own contention that I'm not Frank Law's son at all.
I've always known it."
"How do you know it?"
"Don't you suppose I can tell?" In spite of himself Dave's voice rose
again, but it was plain from the lawyer's expression that to a man of
his training no mere conviction unsupported by proof had weight. This
skepticism merely kept Dave's impatience at a white heat. "Very well,
then," he argued, angrily, "let's say that I'm wrong and you're right.
Let's agree that I am his son. What of it? What makes you think I've
inherited--the damned thing? It isn't a disease. Me, insane? Rot!" He
laughed harshly, took another uncertain turn around the room, then sank
into his chair and buried his face in his hands.
Ellsworth was more keenly distressed than his hearer imagined; when
next he spoke his voice was unusually gentle. "It IS a disease, Dave,
or worse, and there's no way of proving that you haven't inherited it.
If there is the remotest possibility that you have--if you have the
least cause to suspect--why, you couldn't marry and--bring children
into the world, now could you? Ask yourself if you've shown any
signs--?"
"Oh, I know what you mean. You've always said I go crazy when
I'm--angry. Well, that's true. But it's nothing more than a villainous
temper. I'm all right again afterward."
"I wasn't thinking so much of that. But are you sure it's altogether
temper?" the judge insisted. "You don't merely lose control of
yourself; you've told me more than once that you go completely out of
your mind; that you see red and want to kill and--"
"Don't you?"
"I never felt the slightest desire to destroy, no matter how angry I
chanced to be. I've always asserted that murderers, homicides,
suicides, were irresponsible; that they were sick here." Ellsworth
touched his forehead. "I can't see how any sane man can take his own or
another's life, no matter what the provocation. But I'm not a doctor,
and that's an extreme view, I know. Anyhow, you'll agree that if you
have Frank Law's blood in your veins it won't do to marry."
"I haven't got it," the younger man groaned, his gaze turned sullenly
downward. "Even granting that I have, that's no sign I'd ever--run
amuck the way he did."
"You told me just now that you don't know your family history?"
"Yes. What little I've heard isn't very pretty nor very much to the
family's credit. They were a bad lot, I believe."
"Frank Law had two brothers and a sister, had he not?"
"Yes. One of my uncles was a tough hombre. I'm told he notched his gun
pretty well."
"He was about the worst man of his day. He was shot in Dodge City on
one of his rampages."