The wild night wore on. The cries of the wind in the trees grew louder and wilder and more desolate. The rain beat against the curtained glass; the candles guttered and flared; the wood-fire flickered and died out. And still, while hour after hour passed, Ada, Lady Thetford, in her lace and silk and jewels, knelt beside her young husband, and listened to the dark and shameful story he had to tell. She never once faltered, she never spoke nor stirred; but her face was whiter than her dress, and her great dark eyes dilated with a horror too intense for words.
The voice of the dying man sank lower and lower—it fell to a dull, choking whisper at last.
"You have heard all," he said, huskily.
"All?"
The word dropped from her lips like ice—the frozen look of blank horror never left her face.
"And you will keep your promise?"
"Yes."
"God bless you! I can die now. Oh, Ada! I cannot ask you to forgive me; but I love you so much—so much! Kiss me once, Ada, before I go."
His voice failed even with the words. Lady Thetford bent down and kissed him, but her lips were as cold and white as his own.
They were the last words Sir Noel Thetford ever spoke. The restless sea was sullenly ebbing, and the soul of the man was floating away with it. The gray, chill light of a new day was dawning over the Devonshire fields, rainy and raw, and with its first pale ray the soul of Noel Thetford, baronet, left the earth forever.