When she awoke, she found herself in bed,—not in the chamber where the murder of Lydia Hutchinson had been perpetrated: no—never since that fatal night had Lady Ravensworth dared to sleep in her boudoir;—but she had adopted as her own apartment, one quite at the opposite end of the building.
Yet, vain—oh! passing vain were the endeavours of the murderess to escape from the phantom of her victim:—had she fled to the uttermost parts of the earth—had she buried herself amidst the pathless forests of America, or made her abode on the eternal ice of the northern pole,—even thither would the spectre have pursued her!
It was midnight when Lady Ravensworth awoke in her chamber, after having fainted upon the stairs.
An ejaculation of terror escaped her lips—for she instantly recollected all that had passed.
The curtains were immediately drawn aside; and a charming female countenance, but totally unknown to Adeline, beamed upon her.
"Tranquillise yourself, lady," said the stranger: "it is a friend who watches by your side."
"A friend!" repeated Adeline, with a profound sigh: "have I indeed a friend? Oh! no—no: I am surrounded by enemies!"
And covering her face with her hands, she burst into an agony of tears.
"Pray compose yourself, Lady Ravensworth," said the stranger, in so sweet and musical a tone that it carried to the heart conviction of friendly intentions.
"And who are you that thus feel an interest in one so woe-begone as I?" asked Adeline, relieved by her tears.