"Come and open it."
"What for?" and he still peered over among the tombstones, as if
expecting to find Miss Lettie there.
"It is not there that she would go, I think; come quickly with me," I
said.
We walked to the church-entrance, hastily. He searched for the key. He
hadn't it. I put my hand out, and touched it in the door.
"See here! I'm right!" and as I spoke, I drew a match across the stone
step. The wind put out the flame. I guarded the second one with my
shawl, and lighted the lamp.
"Open quickly, before I lose it," I said.
He did, and we went in,--in through the vestibule, where I first had
seen this man, tolling the bell for his mother's death,--up the aisle,
where I had gone the day I saw the thirsty, hungry, little mouse. I felt
afraid, even with this strong man, for I did not know where I was going.
We drew near the pulpit,--the pulpit in which Aaron preached.
"She is not here," Mr. Axtell said; and he looked about the empty pews,
feebly lighted from my small flame.
He started forward as he spoke.
"Don't leave me," I said; and I put my hand within his arm.
What we saw was a change in the pulpit, an opening, as if some one had
destroyed the panelled front of it.
"Come," I said; and I drew near, and put the lamp through the opening,
showing a few stone steps; perhaps there were a dozen of them; at least,
they went down into undefined darkness.
"What is this, Miss Percival?"
"I don't know,--I have never seen it before; but I think it leads to the
tower. You will find her there. Come!" and I went down the first step,
with a feeling far stronger than the prisoner's doomed to step off into
interminable depths, in that Old-World castle famous for wrongs to
mankind,--for I knew my danger: he does not, as he comes to the last
step, from off which he goes down to a deep, watery death.
Mr. Axtell was aroused. He took the lamp from my unsteady hand, and,
bidding me come back, went down before me. At the foot we found
ourselves in a stone passage-way. It seemed below the reach of rains,
and not very damp. Once I hit my foot against a stone, and fell. As Mr.
Axtell turned back to see if I was hurt, he let the light fall
distinctly on the ground. I saw a letter. He went on. I groped for it,
one moment, then found it, and put it, with the torn piece of envelope
to which it might belong, within my pocket. We came, at last,--a long
distance it seemed for only a hundred feet,--to steps again. There were
only three of them. Mr. Axtell held the lamp up; there was an opening. I
shaded the light immediately, and whispered,--
"She's up there, I'm sure. Don't alarm her."
"How can I help it?" he asked.
I had as little of wisdom on the point as he; but I heard a noise. I saw
a glimmer of light, as I looked up; then it was gone. I put my head
through the opening, then reached down for the lamp. I held it up, and
called,--
"Miss Axtell!"
No answer.
"We shall have to go up," her brother said.
I entered the tower, the place I had so loved before,--and now seemed
destined to atone for my love by suffering.
"Don't let the light go out, Mr. Axtell," were all the words spoken; and
we went up the long, winding stairway.
At the top stood Miss Axtell, fixed and statue-like, with fever-excited
eyes. She looked not at us, but far away, through the rough wood inside,
through the stone of the tower: her gaze seemed limitless.
"Come, Lettie! come, sister! come home with me," her brother said.
She heeded not; the only seeming effect was a convulsion of the muscles
used in holding the lamp. I ventured to take it from her.
"Where did you find it?" she asked, in determined tones; "will you tell
me now?"
"Whom is she speaking to?" asked Mr. Axtell.