"Well, Emma, so we do. Our nerves won't stand it We—we're getting all broken up; we're not so young as we were, and used to regular ways, and—and this sort of thing's beyond us. Every knock at the door starts us trembling. Who—who's that?"
As Mr. Morley was speaking, there came an assault on the front-door knocker which seemed to shake the house. I do not think I ever heard quite such a clatter made by a similar instrument before. That the nerves of the old folks were in a curious condition was immediately made plain; the attack might have been made on them, instead of on the knocker. They drew closer together, clinging to each other for support; consternation was written large all over them. Their behaviour was not that of persons on whom I should have cared to lay the burden of a great responsibility; especially one in which coolness and presence of mind were necessary factors.
The visitor was in a hurry. There had hardly been time to reach the front door when the knocking began again—crash, smash, crash, crash, crash, crash! I really thought the door would have been broken down. The faces of the proper guardians of the house grew whiter, their limbs more tremulous.
"Hadn't you better go and see who's there? Or shall I?"
