"Take us to the foot of the stairs, laddie. I do not want you to go up. We may hear Mother coming down."
John hesitated, but, finally, led the way, vouchsafing one piece of news as he pushed back a nail-studded door.
"I have got a tricycle."
It gave Aunt B. her opening. At the foot of the stairs she turned and gestured to Cyprian, standing behind her.
"The key is not yet made to lock you out," she reminded him in an undertone. And aloud to John, "Show me the tricycle."
Was it not yet made? Cyprian asked himself; or, rather, would the lock be too rusty for it to turn, after such long disuse?
Up and always up. And Ferlie climbed thus, daily, the ascent of her lonely Purgatory for the little hour when she might unmask her suffering, and face the truth that her soul was exceeding heavy.
It was a long time to Cyprian before he stood outside that door. It had a heavy looped iron handle like that which turns the latch of a church.
He paused but heard no sound within.
His hand grasping the ring was steady; the oaken panels swung back easily under that strong pressure.