The Dark Other by Stanley G. Weinbaum (new ebook reader .txt) 📕

draw up before the house. She had already been watching half an hour, sitting cross-legged in the deep window seat, like her jade Buddha. That equivocal poem of his had disturbed her, lent an added strength to the moods and doubts already implanted by Magda’s mystical tale, and it was with a feeling of trepidation that she watched him emerge wearily from his vehicle and stare in indecision first at her window and then at the Horker residence. The waning daylight was still sufficient to delineate his worn features; she could see them, pale, harried, but indubitably the mild features of her own Nick.

While he hesitated, she darted to the door and out upon the porch. He gave her a wan smile of greeting, advanced to the foot of the steps, and halted there.

“The Doctor’s not home yet,” she called to him. He stood motionless below her.

“Come up on the porch,” she invited, as he made no move. She uttered the words with a curious feeling of apprehension; for even as she ached for his presence, the uncertain state of affairs was frightening. She thought fearfully that what had happened before might happen again. Still, there on the open porch, in practically full daylight, and for so brief a time⁠—Dr. Carl would be coming very shortly, she reasoned.

“I can’t,” said Nick, staring wistfully at her. “You know I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I promised. You remember⁠—I promised Dr. Horker I’d not see you except in his presence.”

“So you did,” said Pat doubtfully. The promise offered escape from a distressing situation, she thought, and yet⁠—somehow, seeing Nick standing pathetically there, she couldn’t imagine anything harmful emanating from him. There had been many and many evenings in his company that had passed delightfully, enjoyably, safely. She felt a wave of pity for him; after all, the affliction was his, most of the suffering was his.

“We needn’t take it so literally,” she said almost reluctantly. “He’ll be home very soon now.”

“I know,” said Nick soberly, “but it was a promise, and besides, I’m afraid.”

“Never mind, Honey,” she said, after a momentary hesitation. “Come up and sit here on the steps, then⁠—here beside me. We can talk just as well as there on the settee.”

He climbed the steps and seated himself, watching Pat with longing eyes. He made no move to touch her, nor did she suggest a kiss.

“I read your poem, Honey,” she said finally. “It worried me.”

“I’m sorry, Pat. I couldn’t sleep. I kept wandering around the house, and at last I wrote it and took it out and mailed it. It was a vent, a relief from the things I’d been thinking.”

“What things, Honey?”

“A way, mostly,” he answered gloomily, “of removing myself from your life. A permanent way.”

“Nick!”

“I didn’t, as you see, Pat. I was too cowardly, I suppose. Or perhaps it was because of this forlorn hope of ours. There’s always hope, Pat; even the condemned man with his foot on the step to the gallows feels it.”

“Nick dear!” she cried, her voice quavering in pity. “Nick, you mustn’t think of those things! It might weaken you⁠—make it easier for him!”

“It can’t. If it frightens him, I’m glad.”

“Honey,” she said soothingly, “we’ll give Dr. Carl a chance. Promise me you’ll let him try, won’t you?”

“Of course I will. Is there anything I’d refuse to promise you, Pat? Even,” he added bitterly, “when reason tells me it’s a futile promise.”

“Don’t say it!” she urged fiercely. “We’ve got to help him. We’ve got to believe⁠—There he comes!” she finished with sudden relief.

The Doctor’s car turned up the driveway beyond his residence. Pat saw his face regarding them as he disappeared behind the building.

“Come on, Honey,” she said. “Let’s get at the business.”

They moved slowly over to the Doctor’s door, waiting there until his ponderous footsteps sounded. A light flashed in the hall, and his broad shadow filled the door for a moment before it opened.

“Come in,” he rumbled jovially. “Fine evening we’re spoiling, isn’t it?”

“It could be,” said Pat as they followed him into the library, “only it’ll probably rain some more.”

“Hah!” snorted the Doctor, frowning at the mention of rain. “The course was soft. Couldn’t get any distance, and it added six strokes to my score. At least six!”

Pat chuckled commiseratingly. “You ought to lay out a course in Greenland,” she suggested. “They say anyone can drive a ball a quarter of a mile on smooth ice.”

“Humph!” The Doctor waved toward a great, low chair. “Suppose you sit over there, young man, and we’ll get about our business. And don’t look so woebegone about it.”

Nick settled himself nervously in the designated chair; the Doctor seated himself at a little distance to the side, and Pat sat tensely in her usual place beside the hearth. She waited in strained impatience for the black magic of psychoanalysis to commence.

“Now,” said Horker, “I want you to keep quiet, Pat⁠—if possible. And you, young man, are to relax, compose yourself, get yourself into as passive a state as possible. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” The youth leaned back in the great chair, closing his eyes.

“So! Now, think back to your childhood, your earliest memories. Let your thoughts wander at random, and speak whatever comes to your mind.”

Nick sat a moment in silence. “That’s hard to do, sir,” he said finally.

“Yes. It will take practice, weeks of it, perhaps. You’ll have to acquire the knack of it, but to do that, we’ll have to start.”

“Yes, sir.” He sat with closed eyes. “My mother,” he murmured, “was kind. I remember her a little, just a little. She was very gentle, not apt to blame me. She could understand. Made excuses to my father. He was hard, not cruel⁠—strict. Couldn’t understand. Blamed me when I wasn’t to blame. Other did it. I wasn’t mischievous, but got the blame. Couldn’t explain, he wouldn’t believe me.” He paused uncertainly.

“Go on,” said Horker quietly, while Pat strained her ears to listen.

“Mrs. Stevens,” he continued. “Governess after Mother died. Strict like Father, got punished when I wasn’t to blame. Just