Part 40 (2/2)
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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sured 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 d.a.m.nable suggestions.”
”A few nights of sleep will make you feel better,” Ellsworth said, gravely.
”I tried drugs, but they made me worse. G.o.d! 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.
XXIII
THE CRASH
<script>