The barbican gate stood ajar, and the old and well remembered doorway at the foot of the tower was also open; they seemed to invite his entrance, and, careless of the consequences, he went mechanically forward.
The old portrait on horseback, the trophy of arms, and the wooden Flemish clock with its monotonous _tick-tack_, still occupied the vaulted lobby. Every thing seemed as he had seen them last. He turned to the left and entered the chamber-of-dais, breathless and trembling, for he seemed instinctively to know that _she_ was there.
He entered softly, and, overpowered by the violence of his conflicting emotions, stood rooted to the spot. The old chamber, with its massive pannelling and rich decorations of the Scoto-French school was partially lighted by the ruddy glow from the great fire-place, and by the last deep red flush of the departed sun that streamed through its grated windows.
The dark furniture, the grotesque cabinets with their twisted columns, the stark chairs with their knobby backs and worsted bobs, the grim full-length of Sir Archibald Napier, cap-a-pie à la cuirassier, the dormant beam with its load of lances, swords, and daggers, were all as Walter had last seen them; but the old lady's well-cushioned chair, her long walking-cane and ivory virreled spinning-wheel had long since disappeared; and hawk's-hoods, hunting horns, spurs, whips, and stray tobacco pipes lay in various places, while in lieu of Lady Grisel's sleek and pampered tom cat, a great wiry, red-eyed, sleuth hound slept on the warm hearth-rug. On all this Walter bestowed not a glance, for his eyes and his soul became immediately rivetted on the figure of Lilian.
With her head leaning on her hand she sat within the deep recess of a western window, and the faint light of the setting sun lit up her features and edged her ringlets with gold. She was absorbed in deep thought.
Lilian, who for days, and months, and years, in health and in sickness, in danger and in safety, in sorrow and in joy, had never for a moment been absent from his thoughts, was now before him, and yet he had not one word of greeting to bestow. He seemed to be in a trance--to be oppressed by some horrible dream.
He observed her anxiously and narrowly. Nothing could be more tender than the love that was expressed in his eyes, and nothing more acute than the agony expressed by his contracted features.