A BETTER UNDERSTANDING.
For a long time not a word was spoken. Obed was thunder-struck by
this intelligence. He looked at her in wonder, as her fair girlish
face was turned toward him, not knowing how to receive this
unparalleled communication.
"Oh, my friend," said Zillah, "have I ever in any way shown that I
could have expected this? Yes, I am married--and it is about my
marriage that the secret of my life has grown. Forgive me if I can
not tell you more."
"Forgive you? What are you saying, my child?" said Obed Chute,
tenderly. "I am the one who must be forgiven. I have disturbed and
troubled you, when I was only seeking to secure your happiness."
By this time Obed had recovered from his surprise, and began to
contemplate the present state of affairs in their new aspect. It
certainly was strange that this young girl should be a married woman,
but so it was; and what then? "What then?" was the question which
suggested itself to Zillah also. Would it make any difference--or
rather would it not make all the difference in the world? Hitherto
she had felt unembarrassed in his society, but hereafter all would be
different. Never again could she feel the same degree of ease as
before in his presence. Would he not hereafter seem to her and to
himself as a rejected lover?
But these thoughts soon were diverted into another channel by Obed
Chute himself.
"So you are married?" said he, solemnly.
"Yes," faltered Zillah.
"Well, my child," said Obed, with that same tenderness in his voice,
which was now so familiar to her, "whether it is for good or evil I
do not seek to know. I only say this, that if there is any thing
which I could do to secure your happiness, you could not find any one
who would do more for you than Obed Chute."
"Oh, my friend!"
"Just now," said Obed Chute, "I asked you to be my wife. Do not avoid
the subject, my child. I am not ashamed of having made that proposal.
It was for your happiness, as I thought, as well as for my own. I
loved you; and I thought that, perhaps, if you were my wife, I could
make you happier than you now are. But since it is not to be, what
then? Why, I love you none the less; and if you can not be my wife,
you shall be my daughter. Do not look upon me as a passionate youth.
My love is deep and tender and self-sacrificing. I think, perhaps, it
is much more the love of a father than that of a husband, and that it
is just as well that there are obstacles in the way of my proposal.
Do not look so sad, my little child," continued Obed Chute, with
increased tenderness. "Why should you? I am your friend, and you must
love me as much as you can--like a daughter. Will you be a daughter
to me? Will you trust me, my child, and brighten my life as you have
been doing?"
He held out his hand.
Zillah took it, and burst into tears. A thousand contending emotions
were in her heart and agitating her.
"Oh, my friend and benefactor!" said she; "how can I help giving you
my love and my gratitude? You have been to me a father and a
friend--"
"Say no more," said Obed, interrupting her. "It is enough. We will
forget that this conversation has taken place. And as for myself, I
will cherish your secret, my child. It is as safe with me as it would
be with yourself only."
Now as he spoke, with his frank, generous face turned toward her, and
the glow of affection in his eyes, Zillah felt as though it would be
better to give him her full confidence and tell him all. In telling
him that she was married she had made a beginning. Why should she not
tell every thing, and make known the secret of her life? It would be
safe with him. It would be a fair return for his generous affection.
Above all, it would be frank and honest. He would then know all about
her, and there would be nothing more to conceal.
Thus she thought; but still she shrank from such a confession and
such a confidence. It would involve a disclosure of all the most
solemn and sacred memories of her life. It would do violence to her
most delicate instincts. Could she do this? It was impossible. Not
unless Obed Chute insisted on knowing every thing could she venture
to lay bare her past life, and make known the secrets of her heart.
And she well knew that such a thing would never be required of her,
at least by this generous friend. Indeed, she knew well that he would
be most likely to refuse her confidence, even if she were to offer it
on such an occasion as this.
"I feel," said Zillah at length, as these thoughts oppressed her,
"that I am in a false position. You have been so generous to me that
you have a right to know all about me. I ought to let you know my
true name, and make you acquainted with the story of my life."
"You ought to do nothing of the sort," said Obed Chute. "There are
some things which can not be breathed to any human being. Do you
form so low an estimate of me, my dear child, as to think that I
would wish to have your confidence unless it was absolutely
necessary, and for your own good? No. You do not understand me. The
affection which I have for you, which you call generosity, gives me
no such claim, and it gives me no desire to tear open those wounds
which your poor heart must feel so keenly. Nothing can prevent my
loving you. I tell you you are my daughter. I accept you as you are.
I wish to know nothing. I know enough of you from my knowledge of
your character. I only know this, that you have suffered; and I
should like very much to be able to console you or make you happier."
"You have done very much for me," said Zillah, looking at him with
deep emotion.
"Nothing, as far as I am concerned; but it is pleasant to me to know
that any thing which I have done is grateful to you," said Obed,
calmly and benignantly. "Keep your secret to yourself, my dear child.
You came to me from the sea; and I only hope that you will continue
with me as long as you can to brighten my life, and let me hear your
voice and see your face. And that is a simple wish. Is it not, my
child?"
"You are overwhelming me with your goodness," said Zillah, with
another grateful glance.
She was most grateful for the way in which Obed had given up his idea
of matrimony. Had he shown the excitement of a disappointed lover,
then there would have been a dark future before her. She would have
had to leave his family, among whom she had found a home. But Obed
showed nothing of this kind. He himself said that, if he could not
have her as a wife, he would be satisfied to have her as a daughter.
And when he learned that she was married, he at once took up the
paternal attitude, and the affection which he expressed was that
tender yet calm feeling which might become a father. At the
expression of such a feeling as this Zillah's generous and loving
heart responded, and all her nature warmed beneath its genial
influence. Yes, she would be to him as a daughter; she would show him
all the gratitude and devotion of which she was capable. Under such
circumstances as these her life could go on as it had before, and the
interview of to-day would not cast the slightest shadow over the
sunshine of the future. So she felt, and so she said.
Obed took pains to assure her over and over again how entirely he had
sunk all considerations of himself in his regard for her, and that
the idea of making her his wife was not more precious than that of
making her his daughter.
"It was to have you near me," said he, "to make you happy, to give
you a home which should be all yours; but this can be done in another
and a better way, my child: so I am content, if you are."
Before they left the place Zillah gave him, in general terms, an
outline of her secret, without mentioning names and places. She said
that she was married when very young, that her father had died, that
the man to whom she had been married disliked her, and she had not
seen him for years; that once she had seen a letter which he had
written to a friend, in which he alluded to her in such insulting
language, and with such expressions of abhorrence, that she had gone
into seclusion, and had determined to preserve that seclusion till
she died. Hilda, she said, had accompanied her, and she had believed
her to be faithful until the recent discovery of her treachery.
This much Zillah felt herself bound to tell Obed Chute. From this he
could at once understand her situation, while at the same time it
would be impossible for him to know who she was or who her friends
were. That she would not tell to any human being.
All the sympathies of Obed Chute's nature were aroused as he listened
to what Zillah told him. He was indignant that she should have been
led through any motive into such a marriage. In his heart he blamed
her friends, whoever they were, and especially her father. But most
of all he blamed this unknown husband of hers, who, after consenting
to a marriage, had chosen to insult and revile her. What he thought
he did not choose to say, but to himself he registered a vow that, if
he could ever find out this villain, he would avenge all Zillah's
wrongs in his heart's blood, which vow brought to his heart a great
peace and calm.
This day was an eventful one for Zillah, but the result was not what
might at one time have been feared. After such an interchange of
confidence there was an understanding between her and her friend,
which deepened the true and sincere friendship that existed between
them. Zillah's manner toward him became more confiding, more
trustful--in short, more filial. He, too, insensibly took up the part
of a parent or guardian; yet he was as solicitous about her welfare
and happiness as in the days when he had thought of making her his
wife.