III
In the morning Hibbert realised he had done, perhaps, a foolish thing.The brilliant sunshine that drenched the valley made him see this, andthe sight of his work-table with its typewriter, books, papers, and therest, brought additional conviction. To have skated with a girl aloneat midnight, no matter how innocently the thing had come about, wasunwise--unfair, especially to her. Gossip in these little winter resortswas worse than in a provincial town. He hoped no one had seen them.Luckily the night had been dark. Most likely none had heard the ring ofskates.
Deciding that in future he would be more careful, he plunged into work,and sought to dismiss the matter from his mind.
But in his times of leisure the memory returned persistently to haunthim. When he "ski-d," "luged," or danced in the evenings, and especiallywhen he skated on the little rink, he was aware that the eyes of hismind forever sought this strange companion of the night. A hundred timeshe fancied that he saw her, but always sight deceived him. Her face hemight not know, but he could hardly fail to recognise her figure. Yetnowhere among the others did he catch a glimpse of that slim youngcreature he had skated with alone beneath the clouded stars. He searchedin vain. Even his inquiries as to the occupants of the private chaletsbrought no results. He had lost her. But the queer thing was that hefelt as though she were somewhere close; he _knew_ she had not reallygone. While people came and left with every day, it never once occurredto him that she had left. On the contrary, he felt assured that theywould meet again.
This thought he never quite acknowledged. Perhaps it was the wish thatfathered it only. And, even when he did meet her, it was a question howhe would speak and claim acquaintance, or whether _she_ would recognisehimself. It might be awkward. He almost came to dread a meeting, though"dread," of course, was far too strong a word to describe an emotionthat was half delight, half wondering anticipation.
Meanwhile the season was in full swing. Hibbert felt in perfect health,worked hard, ski-d, skated, luged, and at night danced fairly often--inspite of his decision. This dancing was, however, an act of subconscioussurrender; it really meant he hoped to find her among the whirlingcouples. He was searching for her without quite acknowledging it tohimself; and the hotel-world, meanwhile, thinking it had won him over,teased and chaffed him. He made excuses in a similar vein; but all thetime he watched and searched and--waited.
For several days the sky held clear and bright and frosty, bitterlycold, everything crisp and sparkling in the sun; but there was no signof fresh snow, and the ski-ers began to grumble. On the mountains was anicy crust that made "running" dangerous; they wanted the frozen, dry,and powdery snow that makes for speed, renders steering easier andfalling less severe. But the keen east wind showed no signs of changingfor a whole ten days. Then, suddenly, there came a touch of softer airand the weather-wise began to prophesy.
Hibbert, who was delicately sensitive to the least change in earth orsky, was perhaps the first to feel it. Only he did not prophesy. He knewthrough every nerve in his body that moisture had crept into the air,was accumulating, and that presently a fall would come. For he respondedto the moods of Nature like a fine barometer.
And the knowledge, this time, brought into his heart a strange littlewayward emotion that was hard to account for--a feeling of unexplaineduneasiness and disquieting joy. For behind it, woven through it rather,ran a faint exhilaration that connected remotely somewhere with thattouch of delicious alarm, that tiny anticipating "dread," that sopuzzled him when he thought of his next meeting with his skatingcompanion of the night. It lay beyond all words, all telling, this queerrelationship between the two; but somehow the girl and snow ran in apair across his mind.
Perhaps for imaginative writing-men, more than for other workers, thesmallest change of mood betrays itself at once. His work at any raterevealed this slight shifting of emotional values in his soul. Not thathis writing suffered, but that it altered, subtly as those changes ofsky or sea or landscape that come with the passing of afternoon intoevening--imperceptibly. A subconscious excitement sought to pushoutwards and express itself ... and, knowing the uneven effect suchmoods produced in his work, he laid his pen aside and took instead toreading that he had to do.
Meanwhile the brilliance passed from the sunshine, the sky grew slowlyovercast; by dusk the mountain tops came singularly close and sharp; thedistant valley rose into absurdly near perspective. The moistureincreased, rapidly approaching saturation point, when it must fall insnow. Hibbert watched and waited.
And in the morning the world lay smothered beneath its fresh whitecarpet. It snowed heavily till noon, thickly, incessantly, chokingly, afoot or more; then the sky cleared, the sun came out in splendour, thewind shifted back to the east, and frost came down upon the mountainswith its keenest and most biting tooth. The drop in the temperature wastremendous, but the ski-ers were jubilant. Next day the "running" wouldbe fast and perfect. Already the mass was settling, and the surfacefreezing into those moss-like, powdery crystals that make the ski runalmost of their own accord with the faint "sishing" as of a bird's wingsthrough the air.