The surgeon bowed in acknowledgment of this courteous intimation.
"For my part," Colonel Cholmondeley hastened to say, "I shall not trespass upon her ladyship's hospitality; for—since I am assured that my friend is no longer in danger—I must attend to certain pressing business which calls me elsewhere."
Adeline threw a glance of gratitude upon the Colonel for this expression of his intention to relieve her from the embarrassment of his presence; and accordingly, after partaking of some luncheon, Cholmondeley took his departure.
But ere he left, Lydia Hutchinson had secretly placed a letter, containing a key, upon the seat of the carriage which bore him away.
CHAPTER CCXV.
THE VOICES IN THE RUINS.
It would be impossible to conceive the existence of a more wretched woman than Adeline Ravensworth.
Though wealth and title were hers,—though every luxury and every pleasure were within her reach,—though with jewels of inestimable value she might deck herself at will, and thus enhance her natural charms,—still, still was she the prey to a constant agony of mind which rendered life intolerable.
For it is not all the wealth of India,—nor all the luxuries and pleasures of oriental palaces,—nor all the diamonds that ever sparkled over the brow of beauty,—it is not these that can impart tranquillity to the soul, nor give peace to the conscience.
Such was the bitter truth that Adeline was now compelled to acknowledge!
Shortly after the departure of Colonel Cholmondeley, which occurred at about four o'clock in the afternoon, Lady Ravensworth felt so deeply the want of undisturbed solitude for her meditations and of fresh air to relieve the stifling sensation which oppressed her, that she determined to take a long walk through the quiet fields.