Dark Rosaleen by Marjorie Bowen

the window were not up and the young man could see the darkening fields on either side, and the red streak in the west growing fainter. It was a prospect of indescribable melancholy. The only sounds were the hoofs of the horses, an occasional crack of the whip from the coachman, and the heavy breathing of Hermine, as, broken by fatigue, she sank more and more heavily against Pamela.
    Pamela left her hand in her lover’s. To please him she had put a small patch at the corner of her mouth. She was now completely the realisation of his early vision, Louise of the nectarines, of the sunny late afternoon, of the walled fruit garden.
    Tony was on the box, staunch but miserable, shuddering in heavy woollen overcoat and shawl, his face blanched to a blue tint by the freezing weather.
    So Fitzgerald carried with him into this forlorn and alien night all the figments of that summer day long ago, the crouching black in the tapestry, the little girl on the terrace, and all the dreams they brought.
    He tried to shake himself free of these remembrances which were touched with a faint horror. He tried not to remember the lofty green bedroom in the hotel in the rue de Richepanse, nor the water-colour sketch Tom Reynolds had shown him, nor the white feminine garments which Tony had brought from the press in the wall…
    None of these things mattered now. He was happy. He had resolved to devote all his life to Pamela. Already the doctrines and the company of Tom Paine, the ideals and schemes of men like Mr. Tone, like Tom Reynolds, and the other Irish whom he had met in Paris, seemed far away. To his present mood that banquet at White’s was just a piece of bravado.
    That was all over now; whether these men were right or wrong, whether their plans would bring good or evil for Ireland, he could not be among them; it was Pamela and a peaceful life for him. Though he had been dismissed from the army he had some means, and many dear and well-placed relatives… Pamela might have many pleasant days…
    She was looking at him steadily, her blue eyes smiling and tranquil; her expression was one of infinite trust. In an excess of love and gratitude he dropped his face on to her cold hand and pressed his warm lips to her chilled fingers.
    ‘We are pledged now, Pamela. There is nothing but happiness ahead for us.’ But while he spoke some mockery whispered in his soul: ‘How dare one human being ever say that to another?’
    ‘I do not expect very much,’ replied Pamela. ‘Just your company and a little quiet in which to enjoy it.’ She spoke in a whisper for fear of disturbing Hermine.
    Darkness rushed by the window, fitfully broken by the light of the coach lamps which showed nothing but barren glimpses of mud and bare trees, with now and then a gleam in some dark wayside water or the slash of the sleet across a milestone, or the dim glow of a candle in a cottage door or window.
    The travellers shuddered, for the cold was penetrating. The young man could not shake off the intense melancholy of the moment, of the place; it seemed as if the very pulse of the world had stopped and they were riding aimlessly into nothingness. To raise his own spirits he said aloud:
    ‘At Tournai we shall be married, and in a few days we shall be in Ireland and all this will be forgotten.’
    The jolting of the carriage over a hole in the road woke Hermine. She gazed round her, startled, and clung to Pamela.
    ‘This is a long stage!’ she cried. ‘Why do we ride in the dusk? Are we pursued? Ah, they have sent some one after us!’
    ‘No, no,’ cried Fitzgerald earnestly. ‘You are safe now, Hermine! We are across the frontiers, in Flanders. There is nothing to be feared.’
    But Hermine was not completely reassured. She was a soft, timid creature, whose small courage this hurried journey had completely overthrown. She moved to the other end of the carriage and pressed her face close to the cold glass, watching the scattered rays of the carriage lamps moving