CHAPTER XLIII
FOR THE STAR
He ought to have known, he did know, his danger. If he
was not sure of it during his ride to the coast, while he
crossed the Channel, and felt the wild spray dash against
his face like the greeting of an old friend, nor in the long
journey that took him northward through many a smiling
valley and breezy upland of that country which he had once
thought so gloomy and desolate, which seemed so fair and
sunny now, because it was hers, he ought to have realised
it when he rode under the old oaks at Hamilton Hill, and
dreaded, even more than he longed, to see her white dress
glancing among their stems. Above all, he ought to have
been warned, when, entering the house, though Lady
Hamilton herself did not appear, he felt surrounded by
her presence, and experienced that sensation of repose
which, after all his tumult of anxiety and uncertainty,
pervades a man's whole being in the home of the woman
he loves. There were her gardening gloves, and plain straw
hat, perhaps yet warm from her touch, lying near the door.
There were flowers that surely must have been gathered by
her hands but a few hours ago, on the table where he laid
his pistols and riding-wand. There was her work set aside
on a chair, her shawl thrown over its back, the footstool she
had used pushed half across the floor, and an Iceland
hawk, with hood, bell, and jesses, moving restlessly on the
perch, doubtless in expectation of its mistress's return.
He tried hard to deceive himself, and he succeeded. He felt that in all his lawless infatuation for this pure, spotless woman, he had never loved her so well as now—now, that she was his friend's wife! But he argued, he pleaded, he
