The idea of Hetty had just crossed Mr. Irwine’s
mind as he looked inquiringly at Arthur, but his disclaiming
indifferent answer confirmed the thought which had
quickly followed—that there could be nothing
serious in that direction. There was no probability
that Arthur ever saw her except at church, and at
her own home under the eye of Mrs. Poyser; and the
hint he had given Arthur about her the other day had
no more serious meaning than to prevent him from noticing
her so as to rouse the little chit’s vanity,
and in this way perturb the rustic drama of her life.
Arthur would soon join his regiment, and be far away:
no, there could be no danger in that quarter, even
if Arthur’s character had not been a strong
security against it. His honest, patronizing pride
in the good-will and respect of everybody about him
was a safeguard even against foolish romance, still
more against a lower kind of folly. If there
had been anything special on Arthur’s mind in
the previous conversation, it was clear he was not
inclined to enter into details, and Mr. Irwine was
too delicate to imply even a friendly curiosity.
He perceived a change of subject would be welcome,
and said, “By the way, Arthur, at your colonel’s
birthday fete there were some transparencies that
made a great effect in honour of Britannia, and Pitt,
and the Loamshire Militia, and, above all, the ‘generous
youth,’ the hero of the day. Don’t
you think you should get up something of the same sort
to astonish our weak minds?”
The opportunity was gone. While Arthur was hesitating,
the rope to which he might have clung had drifted
away—he must trust now to his own swimming.
In ten minutes from that time, Mr. Irwine was called
for on business, and Arthur, bidding him good-bye,
mounted his horse again with a sense of dissatisfaction,
which he tried to quell by determining to set off
for Eagledale without an hour’s delay.
Book Two
Chapter XVII
In Which the Story Pauses a Little
“This Rector of Broxton is little better
than a pagan!” I hear one of my readers exclaim.
“How much more edifying it would have been if
you had made him give Arthur some truly spiritual
advice! You might have put into his mouth the
most beautiful things—quite as good as reading
a sermon.”
Certainly I could, if I held it the highest vocation
of the novelist to represent things as they never
have been and never will be. Then, of course,
I might refashion life and character entirely after
my own liking; I might select the most unexceptionable
type of clergyman and put my own admirable opinions
into his mouth on all occasions. But it happens,
on the contrary, that my strongest effort is to avoid
any such arbitrary picture, and to give a faithful
account of men and things as they have mirrored themselves
in my mind. The mirror is doubtless defective,
the outlines will sometimes be disturbed, the reflection
faint or confused; but I feel as much bound to tell
you as precisely as I can what that reflection is,
as if I were in the witness-box, narrating my experience
on oath.
