 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, patronising
pride in the goodwill 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 fête 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 Second

                                  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
