“No, no,” said Isabel, with a decision that was always obeyed. “Go on with your tea, Tom. I’d like to go across to the stable, Mrs. Wernham.”
“Did ever you hear tell!” exclaimed the woman.
“Isn’t the trap late?” asked Isabel.
“Why, no,” said Mrs. Wernham, peering into the distance at the tall, dim clock. “No, Madam—we can give it another quarter or twenty minutes yet, good—yes, every bit of a quarter.”
“Ah! It seems late when darkness falls so early,” said Isabel.
“It do, that it do. Bother the days, that they draw in so,” answered Mrs. Wernham. “Proper miserable!”
“They are,” said Isabel, withdrawing.
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?”