Towards the end of the two years, however, a change began to take place. We all know how slowly the tide rises or ebbs, and so in life. Alterations commence and proceed a considerable length before they are recognised. A certain feeling of weariness overcame him. He went to see her as frequently as ever, yet he found himself less eager to start, and felt a sense of freedom when the evening was over and he rode home.
He received an invitation to visit a friend for a fortnight, and upon his return it seemed to him that Rosa had completely changed. Where was the grace, the beauty, the glow that had fascinated him two years ago? Where was that indefinable attraction he had experienced so powerfully? He could look at her now without emotion.
The truth was the dream was fading, and he was beginning to see the woman as she was, and not as he had painted her to himself. He had poured out all his heart to her—now he had nothing further to give, he saw her as she really existed.
He had met her too soon. If he had not known her till he was forty, possibly he might have married her as a matter of judgment.
Once a lover sees his mistress as commonplace, the spell is over. Rosa wearied him, and he soon found his attendance upon her a burden. Yet he was bound by his own previous conduct to continue it.
An incident now occurred which should have been welcome to him, as giving him his freedom, but which he considered to bind him still more strongly. His cousins, who resided at the Manor House free of expense, required a sum of money to convert a lease into a freehold. Their fortune consisted of the lease of several well-situated houses in a fashionable watering-place, which they sublet to great advantage. The houses had not many years now to run, and they were bemoaning themselves at the prospect of losing their income, when an unexpected opportunity occurred to purchase the freehold at a moderate price.
They begged Barnard to let them have the money in payment of an old debt due from his father to their father. One brother had borrowed from the other, and had never been able to repay the principal without endangering his position. True, he had repaid sums of £50 and £100 on several occasions; true, the children (these ladies), since their father’s death, had resided at the Manor House.
Their education had been paid for, and since they came to womanhood an annual sum equal to the interest on the loan had been handed over to them. The actual loan in these varied ways had been returned over and over again, yet it had never been formally repaid.
Martial was too young and too generous to plead these things, and the extremely exhausted state of his own finances. He promised to let them have the money, but he had to borrow it, and the knowledge of this came to Mr. Wood’s ears.
Mr. Wood had never supposed Barnard to be wealthy; still, when a man lives in a fine house—almost a mansion—keeps a good table, and rides a good horse, even a keen merchant can sometimes scarcely believe he is deep in the abyss of poverty. But when he found that Barnard had been borrowing money he made inquiries, and discovered that the accepted suitor of his daughter and heiress was really penniless.
Mr. Godwin, the agent or steward of the estate of which the Manor House Farm was a part, had even been heard to say that Barnard only remained a tenant upon sufferance, for his rent was in arrear.
As a matter of course, Mr. Wood upon this informed his daughter and Barnard one evening that their engagement must be broken off for the present. If Barnard succeeded some day in regaining a position, he would be welcome indeed. If not, as a gentleman, he must see that Rosa could not be his. Not to prejudice Rosa’s chances, Barnard must in future be more sparing in his visits.
From different causes the lovers received this intelligence calmly enough. Rosa shed a few tears, and then reflected that after all Martial could still call once a week. In time the seasons would alter; there would be good crops, and Martial would have money. Besides, they were both very young, and by-and-by, when Mr. Wood saw how constant she was to Martial, he would relent; she was sure he would. Her estimate of the circumstances was probably accurate. She did not weep any more, but went about her usual employment cheerfully.
Martial worked himself into a fever of excitement (not that he let her see his irritation), but his annoyance was with himself, because he did not feel any indignation. He knew, if he would admit the truth to himself, that it was a welcome release from an irksome position. But he ought to have been burning with indignation—he ought to have called upon all the gods, and at least persuaded Rosa to elope with him.
Instead of which, a sense of complacency stole over him. He could walk and ride and read without the inward necessity of associating every idea with Rosa.
But just in proportion as he felt this sense of complacency, so he resolved to force himself to remain faithful to his first choice, to confirm all his vows, and ultimately to carry them into effect. He wrote in this vein to Rosa, promised eternal constancy, and when he saw her, renewed his promises; yet even in the act of speaking he could not help noticing that her eyes showed no trace of midnight tears, nor did her manner seem the least degree less cheerful.
Still, no matter what he thought, he must conscientiously carry out his plighted word; it was his duty; the duty of
