She pulled on her overshoes, wrapped a large tartan shawl around her, put on a man's felt hat, and ventured out along the causeways of the first yard. It was
very dark. The
wind was roaring in the great elms behind the outhouses. When she came to the second yard the
darkness seemed deeper. She was unsure of her footing. She wished she had brought a lantern. Rain blew against her. Half she liked it, half she felt unwilling to battle.
She reached at last the
just visible door of the stable. There was
no sign of a light anywhere. Opening the upper half, she looked in: into a
simple well of darkness. The
smell of horses, and ammonia, and of warmth was startling to her, in that full night. She
listened with all her ears, but could hear nothing save the night, and the stirring of a horse.
'Maurice!' she called, softly and musically, though she was afraid. 'Maurice--are you there?'
Nothing came from the darkness. She knew the rain and wind blew in upon the horses, the
hot animal life. Feeling it wrong, she entered the stable, and drew the lower half of the door shut, holding the upper part close. She did not stir, because she was
aware of the presence of the dark hindquarters of the horses, though she could not see them, and
she was afraid. Something wild stirred in her heart.
She
listened intensely. Then she heard a small noise in the distance--far away, it seemed--the chink of a pan, and a man's voice speaking a brief word. It would be Maurice, in the other part of the stable. She stood motionless, waiting for him to come through the partition door. The horses were so
terrifyingly near to her, in the invisible.
The
loud jarring of the inner door-latch made her start; the door was opened. She could
hear and feel her husband entering and invisibly passing among the horses near to her, in
darkness as they were,
actively intermingled. The rather
low sound of his voice as he spoke to the horses
came velvety to her nerves. How
near he was, and how invisible! The darkness seemed to be in a
strange swirl of violent life, just upon her. She
turned giddy.
Her
presence of mind made her call, quietly and musically:
'Maurice! Maurice--dea-ar!'
'Yes,' he answered. 'Isabel?'
She saw nothing, and the
sound of his voice seemed to touch her.
'Hello!' she answered cheerfully, straining her eyes to see him. He was still busy, attending to the horses near her, but
she saw only darkness. It
made her almost desperate.
'Won't you come in, dear?' she said.
'Yes, I'm coming. Just half a minute. Stand over--now! Trap's not come, has it?'
'Not yet,' said Isabel.
His voice was
pleasant and ordinary, but it had a slight suggestion of the stable to her. She wished he would come away.
Whilst he was so utterly invisible she was afraid of him.
'How's the time?' he asked.
'Not yet six,' she replied. She disliked to answer into the dark. Presently he came very near to her, and she retreated out of doors.
'The weather blows in here,' he said, coming steadily forward, feeling for the doors. She shrank away. At last she could dimly see him.
'Bertie won't have much of a drive,' he said, as he closed the doors.
'He won't indeed!' said Isabel calmly, watching the dark shape at the door.
'Give me your arm, dear,' she said.
She pressed his arm close to her, as she went.
But she longed to see him, to look at him. She was nervous. He
walked erect, with face rather lifted, but with a curious tentative movement of his powerful, muscular legs. She could feel the
clever, careful, strong contact of his feet with the earth, as she balanced against him. For a moment he was a
tower of darkness to her, as if he rose out of the earth.