It is a woman's voice calling round
the house. There, she is at the window now, and rattling it, and, great
heavens! she is calling me.
"Frank! Frank! Frank!" she calls.
I strive to stir and unshutter that window, but before I can get there
she is knocking and calling at another.
Gone again, with her dreadful wail of "Frank! Frank!" Now I hear her at
the front door, and, half mad with a horrible fear, I run down the long,
dark hall and unbar it. There is nothing there--nothing but the wild
rush of the wind and the drip of the rain from the portico. But I
can hear the wailing voice going round the house, past the patch of
shrubbery. I close the door and listen. There, she has got through the
little yard, and is at the back door now. Whoever it is, she must know
the way about the house. Along the hall I go again, through a swing
door, through the servants' hall, stumbling down some steps into the
kitchen, where the embers of the fire are still alive in the grate,
diffusing a little warmth and light into the dense gloom.
Whoever it is at the door is knocking now with her clenched hand against
the hard wood, and it is wonderful, though she knocks so low, how the
sound echoes through the empty kitchens.
Pages:
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267