And now the morning sky resumes her light,
And nature stands recovered of her night,
My fear, the last of ills, remains behind,
And horror heavy sick upon my mind.—Ibid.
When Drusilla recovered from her deathly swoon, the cold gray light of the winter morning was stealing through the unshuttered windows.
She lifted herself upon her elbow and gazed around her in utter bewilderment. Slowly, slowly came memory back to her. And with it the sense of fear and the instinct of flight. But before she could command her chilled and benumbed limbs, observation and reflection both assured her that there was now no cause for alarm.
The windows were still closed although the shutters were open. Everything in the room was in its usual place. Nothing had been disturbed. No intruder had been there. Whose ever the face had been that had looked in upon her through the window in the dead of night, it had done no harm.
The feeling of relief with which Drusilla acknowledged all this was speedily followed by one of extreme depression; for by all the signs around her, she perceived that Alexander had not yet come home.
The lamps were still burning brightly in the face of the broadening day. And the untasted supper sat in its covered dishes on the hearth. But the fire had burned out and the room was cold.
Very drearily Drusilla arose; put out the lamps and then went up to her own chamber, and rang the bell for her servant, to make her a fire.