The Judge was sitting in his easy-chair beside the table. A book was open on his knees, a long-stemmed pipe was on the chair arm, and the gray and grizzled old dog lay, with head on paws, at his feet. Above him a huge wreath of thin smoke hung in the air. Had I been a painter, I should have wished to lay that picture upon canvas, because seldom could one see expressed so completely the evening of an honest day and of an honorable life, the tranquillity of home, the comfort of meditation, the affection for faithful dog, old volume, and seasoned pipe.
As he looked up at me, however, it suddenly seemed to me that he had grown old; behind his smile of warm greeting I fancied I could observe a haunted look, the ghostly flickering forth of some unwelcome thought held in the subconsciousness.
"Why, Estabrook!" he cried, when he had seen me. "Bless my soul, I didn"t know you would be so prompt. I have understood that young men approached these interviews with reluctance."
"You forget, sir," I answered, knowing that he would have a jest at my expense, "that we made the arrangement in advance."
"We did! We did! That"s a fact. But I had no idea that you would be successful, at least so soon, and if I may say it--so--so--precipitously."
"I plead the spirit of the age," said I.
"It"s a spirit common to all ages, I take it," he answered, with a quirk of his judicial mouth. "Do I understand that you and my daughter have first become engaged and now wish my permission to see enough of each other to become acquainted?"
Perhaps he hit a centre ring with this thrust, for I could only stammer forth an awkward statement about being very sure of my feelings.
"They all are sure!" he said, with a good-natured cynicism. Then he smiled again and pointed toward the ceiling with a long forefinger.
"Perhaps you may be pleased to know that she is very sure," he whispered.
I sat down.
"Yes," said he solemnly. "You are to be envied. I believe her love--as I have seen it grow in these weeks--is the sweetest thing that ever flowed from a human soul."
"You knew that she at first sent me away in the name of her duty to you?" said I.
He looked up at me, shut his book, patted the dog, and laid the pipe on the table.
"No," said he, with a break in his voice. "But I shall not quickly forget that you have been fair enough to her and to me to tell me that."
"May I have her?" I asked.
"Yes," said he. "Of course you may."
I hesitated a moment. Then I laughed. "She told me when you had said that to go to her."
I rose.
"Wait," said he. "That is not all. Before G.o.d, I wish it were."
I had not been watching his expression, but now, when I looked up at him, I saw that the gray look which I had fancied I had seen under his smile had now come out upon his face.
"Estabrook," he said, leaning forward toward me with his lips compressed, "sometime, perhaps years from now, perhaps never, but, if you choose, to-night--you may know what a problem I have had to solve, and what it will cost me to say to you that which I am going to say."
He had lowered his voice as if he wished to be sure that no one could overhear him, and now, when he stopped, he stood with his head turned as if listening to be sure that no one was in the hallway. No sounds came, however, except those of the dog, who whined softly in his dreams, and the complaint of the dry wind, which, instead of diminishing with night, had perhaps increased its intensity, and the rattle of the long French windows through which I could see the gnarled old wistaria vine clinging desperately to the iron balcony, its leaves tossing about as if in agony.
"I have sat on the bench for many years, trying with my imperfect intelligence to adjust the misshapen affairs of men and women," the Judge went on. "Never have I been forced to deal with so terrible a question as lies before me now--to-night."
For a long time, then, he was silent. Finally I spoke.
"Judge," said I, "how can I help?"
"I am afraid," he said slowly, and apparently avoiding my gaze,--"I am afraid that I must call upon you in a manner which will severely weigh upon you. Estabrook," he put his hand upon my shoulder. "I"ve done my best. Do you hear? I"ve done my best."
"I will never doubt it," I a.s.sured him. "Nor do you need to doubt me."
He looked at me steadily for a second; then he went to a drawer and, opening it, took out a packet of folded papers. It was evident that he had placed it there so that he could reach it easily.
I suppose that the gravity of his bearing, the trembling of his hands, in which these papers rustled, and the anxious expression with which he gazed at me, as if I were to decide some question of life or death, infected me with his unrest. I got up, paced back and forth, and finally sat down again facing his empty easy-chair, with my back to the long windows.
The Judge watched every movement I made, his eyes staring out at me from under the brush of their brows. At last, when I had seated myself, he came and sat in front of me, laid the papers on his knees and smoothed them with the palm of his shaking hand.
"My boy," he said, "I wrote these papers, not for you, but for my Julianna. Never has a man had a task so calculated to break his heart.
She was not to read my message to her unless death came and took me, for while I lived, I felt that I might spare her. See! Her name is written across this outside page."
I could find no words to fill the pauses which he seemed obliged to make, for, as you may well believe, I felt the presence of a crisis in my affairs--in the affairs of all of us.
"But, my boy," he went on, "what these pages contain is now for you, if you so decide."
"Decide?" I managed to say. "What must I decide?"
"I will tell you if G.o.d gives me the strength to do it," he said. "It is about Julianna. It is written here. I have sealed it as you see."
"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 doc.u.ment 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."
I caught the arms of the chair in the grip of my two hands and tried to think, but I could find no reason for my remaining, perhaps for a lifetime, in ignorance of some unseen menace to the woman I loved. I think that I was about to tell him that nothing could change my feelings for Julianna, or shake my faith in her, that it was right that I should become her defender, and that I, therefore, must know what hung so threateningly over her. Words were on my tongue, when suddenly the Judge bent his great frame forward and was in another second half kneeling on the floor in front of me, his hands clutching my coat. His face then was the color of concrete, and the dignity which he had worn so long had slipped from him as an unloosened garment falls.
"For her sake!" he whispered. "For her sake, don"t go further. Let the thing be unspoken. My boy, don"t dig up that which is all but buried forever. Listen to me, Estabrook. You trust me. And I, tell you that if I were in your place, knowing what I know--"
"Enough," I said, awed by his pleading. "Do you tell me that it is best for her and for me to make her my wife in ignorance of this thing?"
"G.o.d help me," he said, falling back into his chair.