Not Like Other Girls

by Rosa Nouchette Carey

“Oh, no; there is no need of that,” returned Phillis, in a low voice. “Mother might not like my mentioning it; but I thought you might wonder about Dick, and––” here Phillis got confused.

“Thank you,” replied Archie, quietly; but now he looked at her. “You are very kind. Yes, it was best for me to know.” And then, as Phillis rose and gave him her hand, for he had taken up his hat as he spoke, she read at once that her caution had been in vain,—that he had full understanding why the news had been told to him, and to him only, and that he was grateful to her for so telling him.

Poor Phillis! she had accomplished her task; and yet as the door closed behind the young clergyman, two or three tears fell on her work. He was not angry with her; on the contrary, he had thanked her, and the grasp of his hand had been as cordial as ever. But, in spite of the steadiness of his voice and look, the arrow had pierced between the joints of his armor. He might not be fatally wounded,—that was not in the girl’s power to know; but that he was in some way hurt,—made miserable with a man’s misery,—of this she was acutely sensible; and the strangest longing to comfort him—to tell him how much she admired his fortitude—came over her, with a strong stinging pain that surprised her.

Archie had the longest walk that day that he had ever had in his life. He came in quite fagged and foot-sore to his dinner, and far too tired to eat. Mattie told him he looked ill and worn out; but, though he generally resented any such personal remarks, he merely told her very gently that he was tired, and that he would like a cup of coffee in his study, and not to be disturbed. And when she took in the coffee presently, she found him buried in the depths of his easy-chair, and evidently half asleep, and stole out of the room on tiptoe.

But his eyes opened very speedily as soon as the door closed upon her. It was not sleep he wanted, but some moral strength to bear a pain that threatened to be unendurable. How had that girl read his secret? Surely he had not betrayed himself! Nan had not discovered it, for her calmness and sweet unconsciousness had never varied in his presence. Never for an instant had her changing color testified to the faintest uneasiness. He understood the reason of her reserve now. Her thoughts had been with this Dick; and here Archie groaned and hid his face.

Not mortally hurt, perhaps; but still the pain and the sense of loss were very bitter to this young man, who had felt for weeks past that his life was permeated by the sweetness and graciousness of Nan’s presence. How lovely she had seemed to him,—the ideal girl of his dreams! It was love at first sight. He 240 knew that now. His man’s heart had been set on the hope of winning her, and now she was lost to him.

Never for one moment had she belonged to him, or could belong to him. “He and Nan have cared for each other all their lives,”—that was what her sister had told him; and what remained but for him to stamp out this craze and fever before it mastered him and robbed him of his peace?

“I am not the only man who has had to suffer,” thought Archie, as hours after he stumbled up to bed in the darkness. “At least, it makes it easier to know that no one shares my pain. These things are better battled out alone. I could not bear even Grace’s sympathy in this.” And yet as Archie said this to himself, he recalled without any bitterness the half-tender, half pitying look in Phillis’s eyes. “She was sorry for me. She saw it all; and it was kind of her to tell me,” thought the young man.

He had no idea that Phillis was at that moment whispering little wistful prayers in the darkness that he might soon be comforted.

Who knows how many such prayers are flung out into the deep of God’s mercy,—comfort for such a one whom we would fain comfort ourselves; feeble utterances and cries of pity; the stretching out of helpless hands, which nevertheless may bring down blessings? But so it shall be while men and women struggle and fall, and weep the tears common to humanity, “until all eyes are dried in the clear light of eternity, and the sorest heart shall then own the wisdom of the cross that had been laid upon them.”