THE NAME.
THE girl returned to the house, and talked and laughed as usual. The fuss of preparation for the Squire’s return, with a keen appetite after his long ride, was over, and honest Martha was already predicting that the “darkening would come before Willie was heam,” and rehearsing the lecture she would give him if so it should be.
The girl laughed. “Is he afraid of you, Mrs. Gillyflower?” asked she, suddenly grave again.
“Why sud he, lass, so lang as he keeps gude hours and gude manners? But he kens weel eneugh he’s nobbut to tak’ care o’ himsel’, and Martha’s weel pleased.”
“Wilful and wayward the young lads be— ‘taint easy ruling them, ma’am,” said her young guest, with the gravity of a sage. “I wonder how half o’ them ever lives to thirty year.”
“Thirty year! — not they. If they wam’t looked after by wiser heads, there wad na be ane o’ them left at yan score and twea — wi’ couds en fevers, to say nowt of the faws, en clinks, en sizzupers they’re gettin’ ever an’ always.”
The concluding items in old Martha’s catalogue sounded ominously in the girl’s ear, but she laughed again. After a little time, she left the kitchen unnoticed, and passed out of the hall-door.
The renown of Lussha Sinfield was high as a master of the cudgel. She had heard the story of that day’s fight. A chance had given William Haworth the victory, but a deadly hand had struck him.
Had not the same hand struck Tinkler Gordon, the Scot, what seemed but alight blow, and the Tinkler seemed never the worse for three whole days, and at the end of that time he sickened, and soon died; and it was found that the tap of Sinfield’s skilful cudgel had broken the brawny Tinkler’s skull.
In the meantime, William Haworth was riding homeward. The sun was just at the edge of the horizon, and the melancholy glory of evening tinted all the landscape.
As he rode at a walk, the by-road there making a little turn, looking over his right shoulder toward the old house, whose chimneys, now not three hundred yards away, rose over the familiar thorn-trees and elms — upon his saddle, on the left side, a hand was laid, and, with a quick glance, he saw his beautiful guest looking up in his face.
That look was radiant There was admiration, there was gratitude in it The Squire drew the bridle instantly, smiling down in return.
I dare say she thought Lussha Sinfield about the most formidable champion on earth. In her proud face was beaming that sympathy with the heroic that makes the beauty of girls almost sublime.
“Willie — Willie — oh Willie! — you’re hurt.”
“Nothing,” he laughed.
“All for me! I’ll never forget ye, Willie.”
“I say it is nothing. Oh, how I wish it were! I wish I could lay down my life for you,” said this romantic Squire, whose chivalry was rising to a wild adoration in the light of her beauty.
She was gazing up at him steadfastly, and speaking in her low sweet tones.
“My man! And all for a poor lass!”
“For my beautiful friend — my fairy-queen — my treasured guest!”
“I’m a proud girl.” Suddenly there was a little sob, and a little gush of tears.
Willie was by her side, and caught her hand in both his to his lips.
“No — no, none o’ that, Willie,” she said gently, but in the old sad way that was not to be gainsaid. “I’ll see to your wound, Willie. I’ll cure it myself. We have our own way of curing everything. I will — but oh! — that’s nothing.”
Willie laughed again, and said: —
“It is nothing — the hurt is nothing; but— “in a changed tone he said— “but that you should think of me, and care -for me, ever so little, is more than all the world and more than life to me.”
Gazing in his face, she repeated, as if to herself, with the same melancholy rapture, “My man — my man!”
“If you trusted me better now, if you thought me ever so little worthier, just as a little sign that you do not quite distrust me, you said you would tell me, some time— “
“My name? Oh yes! I will,” she said slowly and very gently. “A strange name you’ll think it. Euphan Curraple, that is it I would not tell it to another here.”
“Euphan! It is a beautiful name! I know you ever so much better now, dear Euphan! Oh, Euphan! my only, only love!”
“No — no, Willie; you don’t know me better, and you’re not to talk so. You gave me your word. You’re true-hearted — didn’t I say you were? — and you’ll keep your word. Get on your horse again, Willie, and no wild talk; but home, and I’ll follow the path.”
“Well, Euphan, there’s a secret between us, isn’t there? — a secret in my keeping. Your name. It is only a sign of trust between us. God bless you for it!”
“Come — come, Willie, up and home; they’ll wonder what keeps you — they’ll be coming.”
“Well, Euphan, if I were never to say it more, you are my life and my hope, the star of my worship! Euphan, my darling!”
“If you were never to say it more, well, never say it more, Willie. Can’t we talk like other folk? Can’t we be kind without being foolish? We should know one another longer than we are ever like to do, before we can tell truly what’s to say the one o’ the other. Wide is the world, and many kinds, and chance or change, and nothing stays, some in walls, some under barns, no two songs the same, and some that meet and like, and lose; love passing like a ship at sea and comes no more; and so, Willie, be merry while ye may, lad, and we’ll sing while the way lies together, and think after.” And with a light sad laugh, the girl waved him toward the house, and herself ran up the little footpath in the same direction, and was lost among the briers and bushes that grow through the clefts of the old gray rocks that peep through the sward as you mount that wild and winding way to Haworth Hall.