"It is. I'd like to believe that you don't belong to the Laws, but I
can't put much faith in that childhood fancy of yours. Run it down;
convince yourself. But first go to the girl, whoever she is, and tell
her the facts. If she's the right sort--"
"No, no!" The words were wrung from Dave's lips. "She knows too well
how heredity acts; she's had one experience."
"Eh? You say she knows--Who is she, Dave? Don't tell me you
mean--Alaire?"
Dave nodded.
"Damnation!" Ellsworth leaped to his feet and, striding around the
desk, seized his caller roughly by the shoulder. "What are you telling
me? Good God, Alaire! A married woman! So you--cut under Ed Austin,
eh?" Momentarily Ellsworth lost control of himself; his eyes blazed and
his fingers tightened painfully. "What damnable trick have you played
on that girl? Tell me before I choke you."
For once Dave Law's passion failed to ignite at the heat of another's
anger; he only sat limp and helpless in the judge's grasp. Finally he
muttered: "I played square enough. It's one of those things that just
happen. We couldn't help ourselves. She'll come to you for her divorce."
The lawyer uttered a shocking oath. "Then it's no mere romantic
infatuation on her part?"
"Oh no!"
Ellsworth loosed his grip. He turned away and began to pace the office
floor, shaking his head. "This is--unfortunate. Alaire, of all
people--as if she didn't have enough to bear." He turned fiercely upon
the cowering figure in the chair, saying: "I'll tell her the whole
truth myself, before she goes any further."
"No! Oh, please! Let me, in my own way." Dave writhed and sank his face
in his hands once more. After a while he said, "I'm waiting for you to
tell me it's all a nightmare."
"Humph!" The judge continued his restless pacing. "I was sorry for you
when you came in here, and it took all my strength to tell you; but now
you don't matter at all. I was prepared to have you go ahead against my
advice, but--I'll see you damned first."
"You have damned me."
When Ellsworth saw the haggard face turned to his he ceased his walk
abruptly. "I'm all broken up, Dave," he confessed in a gentler tone
than he had used heretofore. "But you'll thank me some day."
Law was no longer the big, strong, confident fellow who had entered the
office such a short time before. He had collapsed; he seemed to have
shrunk; he was pitifully appealing. Although there were many things he
would have said, many questions upon his tongue, he could not voice
them now, and it was with extreme difficulty that he managed to follow
the judge's words at all.
After a time he rose and shook Ellsworth's hand limply, mechanically;
then he shambled out of the office. Like a sick man, he stumbled down
the stairs and into the street. When he entered his hotel the clerk and
some of the idlers in the lobby looked at him queerly, but he did not
see them.
All that night Dave walked the floor of his room or sat hunched up on
the edge of his bed, staring at the wall and fighting the fears that
preyed upon him.
He had faith enough in Alaire to believe that she would marry him
regardless of the facts; her kiss, that one delirious moment when he
had held her to his breast, had taught him much, and it was, in fact,
this very certainty which made his struggle so hard. After all, why
not? he asked himself a thousand times. Ellsworth's fears were surely
exaggerated. Who could say that Frank Law had passed on his heritage?
There was at least a chance that he had not, and it would require more
than a remote possibility, more evidence than Ellsworth could summon,
to dismay Alaire. Suppose it should transpire that he was somehow
defective? What then? The signs of his mental failing would give ample
warning. He could watch himself carefully and study his symptoms. He
could lead the life of a sentinel perpetually on guard. The thing might
never come--or at the worst it probably would not manifest itself until
he was further along in years. That, it seemed, was the family history,
and in such a case Dave was assured of half a life at least. Ellsworth
was altogether too fearful. Yes, and he was too officious by far. This
was something that did not concern him.
But such reasoning naturally brought little comfort. Dave's fears would
not be put down. In common with most men of splendid physique, he had a
vague contempt for those less perfect; disease or deformity had never
failed to awaken his pity, and he had often argued that defective human
beings, like unhealthy stock, should not be allowed to mate and to
perpetuate their weaknesses. This eugenic conviction had helped to ease
his conscience somewhat during his acquaintance with Alaire, for he had
told himself that Ed Austin, by reason of his inherited vices, had
sacrificed all right to love and marriage. These thoughts came home now
to roost. What was Ed's evil heritage compared to his own? It was as
vinegar to vitriol.
And yet shining through all Dave's distress, like a faint, flickering
beacon in a storm, was that old doubt of his parentage; and to this he
finally began to pin his hopes. In the day or two that followed his
interview with Ellsworth, it afforded him almost the only comfort he
knew; for in the end he had to face the truth; he could not marry if he
were really Frank Law's son.
Those were dark hours for Dave. He discharged his duties automatically,
taking no interest whatever in his work; his nights he spent in morose
meditation. Unable to sleep, he tramped the hot streets in an effort to
fight off his growing nervousness. He became irritable, despondent; his
eyes took on the look of an invalid's; his face aged and grayed.
Physically, too, he grew very tired, for no burden is heavier to bear
than that of doubt and indecision.
One afternoon Ellsworth entered his office to find Dave waiting for
him. The young man began in a shaky, husky voice:
"I can't stand it, Judge. I'm going to pieces, fast."
"You do look bad."
"Yes. I don't sleep. I'm so irritable I can't get along up at the
courthouse. I'm licked. The worst of it is, I don't know whether it's
all imagination, or whether you really stirred up that devilish
sleeping thing in me. Anyhow, something has got me. All I can do is
study and analyze and watch and imagine--I sit all night
thinking--thinking, until everything gets queer and distorted. If I
were sane before, you've about unbalanced me with your damnable
suggestions."
"A few nights of sleep will make you feel better," Ellsworth said,
gravely.
"I tried drugs, but they made me worse. God! Then my fancies WERE sick.
No, I'm going to get out."
"Where? How?"
"I'm going north to look up the members of my family and learn who I
really am. I resigned from the Ranger force to-day. That's no place for
a fellow with a--homicidal mania."
"Dave! You're taking this thing too absolutely and too hard," Ellsworth
declared.
But Dave went on, unheeding. "Another reason why I want to get away now
is that Alaire will expect me to come to her when she sends for me
and--I wouldn't dare trust myself."
"Have you told her--written her?"
"Not yet, and I sha'n't until I trace out the last doubt in my own
mind."
In an effort to cheer, Ellsworth put his arm about the sufferer's
shoulders. "I'm sure you'll do the right thing, Dave," he said. "Maybe,
after all, your instinct is true and you're not Frank Law's boy. I hope
so, for this thing weighs me down as it weighs you; but you mustn't let
it whip you. Don't give in, and meanwhile, above all things, try to get
some sleep."
Dave nodded and mumbled something; then he slouched out, leaving the
lawyer overcome by a great pity. Ellsworth had seen men, stunned by a
court sentence, turn away from the bar with that same dumb, fixed look
of hopelessness in their eyes. Impulsively he cursed the sense of duty
that had prompted him to interfere.