Andy’s simple, honest argument made me feel ashamed of the finer sophistries belonging to the more artificial existence of those of my own station.
“Sure, yer ’an’r, there isn’t a bhoy in Connaught that wouldn’t like to be shpoke of wid Miss Norah. She’s that good, that even the nuns in Galway, where she was at school, loves her and thrates her like wan iv themselves, for all she’s a Protestan’.”
“My dear Andy,” said I, “don’t you think you’re a little hard on me? You’re putting me in the dock, and trying me for a series of offences that I never even thought of committing with regard to her or any one else. Miss Norah may be an angel in petticoats, and I’m quite prepared to take it for granted that she is so—your word on the subject is quite enough for me. But just please to remember that I never set eyes on her in my life. The only time I was ever in her presence was when you were by yourself, and it was so dark that I could not see her, to help her when she fainted. Why, in the name of common sense, you should keep holding her up to me, I do not understand.”
“But yer ’an’r said that it might do her harrum even to mintion her wid you.”
“Oh, well, Andy, I give it up—it’s no use trying to explain. Either you won’t understand, or I am unable to express myself properly.”
“Surr, there can be only one harrum to a girrul from a gintleman,” he laid his hand on my arm, and said this impressively—whatever else he may have ever said in jest, he was in grim earnest now—“an’ that’s whin he’s a villain. Ye wouldn’t do the black thrick, and desave a girrul that thrusted ye?”
“No, Andy, no! God forbid! I would rather go to the highest rock on some island there beyond, where the surf is loudest, and throw myself into the sea, than do such a thing. No! Andy, there are lots of men that hold such matters lightly, but I don’t think I’m one of them. Whatever sins I have, or may ever have upon my soul, I hope such a one as that will never be there.”
All the comment Andy made was, “I thought so!” Then the habitual quizzical look stole over his face again, and he said:—
“There does be some that does fear Braches iv Promise. Mind ye, a man has to be mighty careful on the subject, for some weemin is that ’cute, there’s no bein’ up to them.”
Andy’s sudden change to this new theme was a little embarrassing, since the idea leading to it—or rather preceding it—had been one purely personal to myself; but he was off, and I thought it better that he should go on.