exile. She had seemed, indeed, to forget everything except her married love and trivial pleasures. But she had had moments even then when she would lie in his arms weeping for no cause at all, or when, resting in a chair beside the fire, she stared into the flames musing on what he hardly liked to question, answering his caresses only with sighs.
He had his sad moods himself, and these depressions of hers frightened him. They were so closely united that the mood of one affected the other, and when Pamela was sad her husband would be too. A common memory, a common dread seemed to engulf them both.
He desperately kissed away her tears and spoke of their joys and delights in the Kildare cottage, swearing to her that whatever he did her personal happiness should not be touched. But she shook her head beneath his kisses, knowing too well that he had no power to keep such promises. In her mind was the recollection of how easily she had detached him from his friends in Paris, how quickly he had left all those dangerous Republicans to follow her across the frontier.
‘Then,’ she reflected, ‘we were not married. Now he has had me for several years, perhaps my spell is not so potent.’ She thought, too, with some self-reproach: ‘Perhaps it is wrong to try and keep a man like this inactive,’ and she pulled away from his embraces and went resolutely back to the crate of china and began taking off the wisps of straw and polishing the cups and saucers and plates with her handkerchief.
CHAPTER 3
Fitzgerald returned to the garden. He felt he could not bear more words with Pamela; the moment was past speech, yet why? Sheares had said very little he, Fitzgerald, did not know, and he had been expecting some call from the United Irishmen, but there are days that seem to mark the end of an epoch and this was surely one.
Fitzgerald turned his gaze to where the wall was low. He liked to look across the tranquil stretches of the rich, cultivated country towards the sparkle of the river. Standing there it was difficult to believe that an entire nation was being goaded into desperate revolt, that on every hand were instances of tyranny, oppression, cruelty, intolerance, which had united in one staunch brotherhood the Dissenter and the Catholic, the peasant and the gentleman. Fitzgerald was not familiar with the twists and turns of politics which were the usual weapons of men like Clare and Castlereagh, Grattan and Ponsonby. His nature was essentially simple, and averse to any intrigue; he had no taste for the details of governing. His early training had been military, and he had no guide beyond his own intelligence by which to judge the present situation of his country. The democratic experiment in France did not show now with that pristine splendour in which it had glowed in ’92; hideous excesses had disgraced the cause of liberty, and the name of Jacobin was abhorred by all moderate men in Europe, Englishmen in particular. Even those Whigs who had hitherto considered they stood for advanced and liberal principles, regarded all the disciples of the French Revolution with horror.
Fitzgerald himself had to admit that he had been the victim of a generous, a foolish delusion. He looked back to those first Parisian days of his, that impetuous visit to Paris in ’92 with regret, to the dreams he had had then which he would never be able to have again. Sharp little details emphasised those pictures of the past, the green bedroom in the first hotel where he had stayed, and his meeting with Tom Paine, Mr. Reynolds and the other Irishmen, the water-colour sketch of the girl’s head, then his chance visit to the theatre and seeing Madame de Sillery in her box, and afterwards going home with her to supper, and Pamela asleep by the dead fire in the pale room. That long, cold journey towards Tournai and their marriage; Hermine Compton asleep on the other girl’s shoulder. He had held Pamela’s hand as they watched the rays of
He had his sad moods himself, and these depressions of hers frightened him. They were so closely united that the mood of one affected the other, and when Pamela was sad her husband would be too. A common memory, a common dread seemed to engulf them both.
He desperately kissed away her tears and spoke of their joys and delights in the Kildare cottage, swearing to her that whatever he did her personal happiness should not be touched. But she shook her head beneath his kisses, knowing too well that he had no power to keep such promises. In her mind was the recollection of how easily she had detached him from his friends in Paris, how quickly he had left all those dangerous Republicans to follow her across the frontier.
‘Then,’ she reflected, ‘we were not married. Now he has had me for several years, perhaps my spell is not so potent.’ She thought, too, with some self-reproach: ‘Perhaps it is wrong to try and keep a man like this inactive,’ and she pulled away from his embraces and went resolutely back to the crate of china and began taking off the wisps of straw and polishing the cups and saucers and plates with her handkerchief.
CHAPTER 3
Fitzgerald returned to the garden. He felt he could not bear more words with Pamela; the moment was past speech, yet why? Sheares had said very little he, Fitzgerald, did not know, and he had been expecting some call from the United Irishmen, but there are days that seem to mark the end of an epoch and this was surely one.
Fitzgerald turned his gaze to where the wall was low. He liked to look across the tranquil stretches of the rich, cultivated country towards the sparkle of the river. Standing there it was difficult to believe that an entire nation was being goaded into desperate revolt, that on every hand were instances of tyranny, oppression, cruelty, intolerance, which had united in one staunch brotherhood the Dissenter and the Catholic, the peasant and the gentleman. Fitzgerald was not familiar with the twists and turns of politics which were the usual weapons of men like Clare and Castlereagh, Grattan and Ponsonby. His nature was essentially simple, and averse to any intrigue; he had no taste for the details of governing. His early training had been military, and he had no guide beyond his own intelligence by which to judge the present situation of his country. The democratic experiment in France did not show now with that pristine splendour in which it had glowed in ’92; hideous excesses had disgraced the cause of liberty, and the name of Jacobin was abhorred by all moderate men in Europe, Englishmen in particular. Even those Whigs who had hitherto considered they stood for advanced and liberal principles, regarded all the disciples of the French Revolution with horror.
Fitzgerald himself had to admit that he had been the victim of a generous, a foolish delusion. He looked back to those first Parisian days of his, that impetuous visit to Paris in ’92 with regret, to the dreams he had had then which he would never be able to have again. Sharp little details emphasised those pictures of the past, the green bedroom in the first hotel where he had stayed, and his meeting with Tom Paine, Mr. Reynolds and the other Irishmen, the water-colour sketch of the girl’s head, then his chance visit to the theatre and seeing Madame de Sillery in her box, and afterwards going home with her to supper, and Pamela asleep by the dead fire in the pale room. That long, cold journey towards Tournai and their marriage; Hermine Compton asleep on the other girl’s shoulder. He had held Pamela’s hand as they watched the rays of
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