“Something about her?” I cried.
He bent his head as if I had struck him from above.
“You may break the seal if you must. I have fought many battles to bring myself to tell you that you may read what is there.”
I reached for the package.
“Wait,” said he. “The contents of this document need never be given to her if she becomes your wife. Nor is it necessary for you to read what is there set forth if you only will choose not to do so. These are strange words between men in these modern times, Estabrook. But I have guarded my honor carefully all my life. And now, though the temptation has been almost more than I could stand, as you may believe some day,—or perhaps know in the next five minutes, which are walking toward us out of eternity,—yet I have determined that you should know everything if you chose.”
“I do choose,” I said firmly.
He shrunk back as if I had struck at him again.
“Think!” he begged. “No good can come of your knowledge. It cannot avert harm if harm must come. And more—be cool in your judgment, or you may ruin all of us.”
“But, Judge Colfax,” I cried out, “your proposal of choice is empty. One cannot reject or accept the unknown.”
“It must be so,” said he. “There is an astounding fact about Julianna which you do not know. About that fact I have written this message, so that when I had gone she might be prepared in case the worst—in case the worst—the improbable—the unexpected, the unthinkable—should come.”