The wicked siren was taken, her victim was left; but left to expiate that miserable infatuation by an after-life of misery; left without a joy in the present or a hope in the future.
“He looks like it,” thought Pamela, remembering that final chapter.
Mrs. Greswold was putting a few slow stitches into the azalea-leaves on her embroidery-frame, and listening to Mr. Castellani with an air of polite indifference.
“Do you know that Riverdale is quite the most delightful house I have ever stayed in?” he said; “and I have stayed in a great many. And do you know that Mrs. Hillersdon is heart-broken at your never having called upon her?”
“I am sorry so small a matter should touch Mrs. Hillersdon’s heart.”
“She feels it intensely. She told me so yesterday. Perfect candour is one of the charms of her character. She is as emotional and as transparent as a child. Why have you not called on her?”
“You forget that Riverdale is seven miles from this house.”
“Does not your charity extend so far? Are people who live seven miles off beyond the pale? I think you must visit a little further afield than seven miles. There must be some other reason.”
“There is another reason, which I had rather not talk about.”
“I understand. You consider Mrs. Hillersdon a person not to be visited. Long ago, when you were a child in the nursery, Mrs. Hillersdon was an undisciplined, inexperienced girl, and the world used her hardly. Is that old history never to be forgotten? Men, who know it all, have agreed to forget it: why should women, who only know a fragment, so obstinately remember?”