Adam Bede HTML version
He was feeling much more strongly than he had done in the morning: it was as if
his horse had wheeled round from a leap and dared to dispute his mastery. He
was dissatisfied with himself, irritated, mortified. He no sooner fixed his mind on
the probable consequences of giving way to the emotions which had stolen over
him to-day--of continuing to notice Hetty, of allowing himself any opportunity for
such slight caresses as he had been betrayed into already--than he refused to
believe such a future possible for himself. To flirt with Hetty was a very different
affair from flirting with a pretty girl of his own station: that was understood to be
an amusement on both sides, or, if it became serious, there was no obstacle to
marriage. But this little thing would be spoken ill of directly, if she happened to be
seen walking with him; and then those excellent people, the Poysers, to whom a
good name was as precious as if they had the best blood in the land in their
veins--he should hate himself if he made a scandal of that sort, on the estate that
was to be his own some day, and among tenants by whom he liked, above all, to
be respected. He could no more believe that he should so fall in his own esteem
than that he should break both his legs and go on crutches all the rest of his life.
He couldn't imagine himself in that position; it was too odious, too unlike him.
And even if no one knew anything about it, they might get too fond of each other,
and then there could be nothing but the misery of parting, after all. No gentleman,
out of a ballad, could marry a farmer's niece. There must be an end to the whole
thing at once. It was too foolish.
And yet he had been so determined this morning, before he went to Gawaine's;
and while he was there something had taken hold of him and made him gallop
back. It seemed he couldn't quite depend on his own resolution, as he had
thought he could; he almost wished his arm would get painful again, and then he
should think of nothing but the comfort it would be to get rid of the pain. There
was no knowing what impulse might seize him to-morrow, in this confounded
place, where there was nothing to occupy him imperiously through the livelong
day. What could he do to secure himself from any more of this folly?
There was but one resource. He would go and tell Irwine--tell him everything.
The mere act of telling it would make it seem trivial; the temptation would vanish,
as the charm of fond words vanishes when one repeats them to the indifferent. In
every way it would help him to tell Irwine. He would ride to Broxton Rectory the
first thing after breakfast to-morrow.
Arthur had no sooner come to this determination than he began to think which of
the paths would lead him home, and made as short a walk thither as he could.
He felt sure he should sleep now: he had had enough to tire him, and there was
no more need for him to think.