There is, however, in man some wholesome fear of running away, which at times either takes the place of resolution, or else initiates the mechanical action of guiding his feet in the right direction—of prompting his speech and regulating his movement. Otherwise no young man, or very few at least, would ever face the ordeal of asking the consent of the parents of his inamorata. Such a fear stood to me now; and with a seeming boldness I approached Joyce’s house. When I came to the gate I saw him in the field not far off, and went up to speak to him.
Even at that moment, when the dread of my soul was greatest, I could not but recall an interview which I had had with Andy that morning, and which was not of my seeking, but of his.
After breakfast I had been in my room, making myself as smart as I could, for of course I hoped to see Norah—when I heard a knock at the door, timid but hurried. When I called to “come in,” Andy’s head appeared; and then his whole body was by some mysterious wriggle conveyed through the partial opening of the door. When within, he closed it, and, putting a finger to his lip, said in a mysterious whisper:—
“Masther Art!”
“Well Andy! what is it?”
“Whisper me now! Shure I don’t want to see yer ’an’r so onasy in yer mind.”
I guessed what was coming, so interrupted him, for I was determined to get even with him.
“Now, Andy! if you have any nonsense about your ‘Miss Norah,’ I don’t want to hear it.”
“Whisht! surr; let me shpake. I mustn’t kape Misther Dick waitin’. Now take me advice! an’ take a luk out to Shleenanaher. Ye may see some wan there what ye don’t ixpect!”—this was said with a sly mysteriousness, impossible to describe.
“No! no! Andy,” said I, looking as sad as I could, “I can see no one there that I don’t expect.”