“Who on earth can it be?” said Agatha. “Can’t they find the wicket, the idiots?”
“Oh, I hope not! Do come upstairs, Agatha.”
“No, I won’t. Go you, if you like.” But Gertrude was afraid to go alone. “I think I had better waken Miss Wilson, and tell her,” continued Agatha. “It seems awful to shut anybody out on such a night as this.”
“But we don’t know who it is.”
“Well, I suppose you are not afraid of them, in any case,” said Agatha, knowing the contrary, but recognizing the convenience of shaming Gertrude into silence.
They listened again. The storm was now very boisterous, and they could not hear the bell. Suddenly there was a loud knocking at the house door. Gertrude screamed, and her cry was echoed from the rooms above, where several girls had heard the knocking also, and had been driven by it into the state of mind which accompanies the climax of a nightmare. Then a candle flickered on the stairs, and Miss Wilson’s voice, reassuringly firm, was heard.
“Who is that?”
“It is I, Miss Wilson, and Gertrude. We have been watching the storm, and there is some one knocking at the—” A tremendous battery with the knocker, followed by a sound, confused by the gale, as of a man shouting, interrupted her.
“They had better not open the door,” said Miss Wilson, in some alarm. “You are very imprudent, Agatha, to stand here. You will catch your death of—Dear me! What can be the matter? She hurried down, followed by Agatha, Gertrude, and some of the braver students, to the hall, where they found a few shivering servants watching the housekeeper, who was at the keyhole of the house door, querulously asking who was there. She was evidently not heard by those without, for the knocking recommenced whilst she was speaking, and she recoiled as if she had received a blow on the mouth. Miss Wilson then rattled the chain to attract attention, and demanded again who was there.
“Let us in,” was returned in a hollow shout through the keyhole. “There is a dying woman and three children here. Open the door.”