V
In the hall there was light and bustle; people were already arrivingfrom the other hotels and chalets, their costumes hidden beneath manywraps. Groups of men in evening dress stood about smoking, talking"snow" and "ski-ing." The band was tuning up. The claims of thehotel-world clashed about him faintly as of old. At the big glasswindows of the verandah, peasants stopped a moment on their way homefrom the _cafe_ to peer. Hibbert thought laughingly of that conflict heused to imagine. He laughed because it suddenly seemed so unreal. Hebelonged so utterly to Nature and the mountains, and especially to thosedesolate slopes where now the snow lay thick and fresh and sweet, thatthere was no question of a conflict at all. The power of the newlyfallen snow had caught him, proving it without effort. Out there, uponthose lonely reaches of the moonlit ridges, the snow lay ready--massesand masses of it--cool, soft, inviting. He longed for it. It awaitedhim. He thought of the intoxicating delight of ski-ing in themoonlight....
Thus, somehow, in vivid flashing vision, he thought of it while he stoodthere smoking with the other men and talking all the "shop" of ski-ing.
And, ever mysteriously blended with this power of the snow, poured alsothrough his inner being the power of the girl. He could not disabuse hismind of the insinuating presence of the two together. He remembered thatqueer skating-impulse of ten days ago, the impulse that had let her in.That any mind, even an imaginative one, could pass beneath the sway ofsuch a fancy was strange enough; and Hibbert, while fully aware of thedisorder, yet found a curious joy in yielding to it. This insubordinatecentre that drew him towards old pagan beliefs had assumed command. Witha kind of sensuous pleasure he let himself be conquered.
And snow that night seemed in everybody's thoughts. The dancing couplestalked of it; the hotel proprietors congratulated one another; it meantgood sport and satisfied their guests; every one was planning trips andexpeditions, talking of slopes and telemarks, of flying speed anddistance, of drifts and crust and frost. Vitality and enthusiasm pulsedin the very air; all were alert and active, positive, radiating currentsof creative life even into the stuffy atmosphere of that crowdedball-room. And the snow had caused it, the snow had brought it; all thisdischarge of eager sparkling energy was due primarily to the--Snow.
But in the mind of Hibbert, by some swift alchemy of his paganyearnings, this energy became transmuted. It rarefied itself, gleamingin white and crystal currents of passionate anticipation, which hetransferred, as by a species of electrical imagination, into thepersonality of the girl--the Girl of the Snow. She somewhere was waitingfor him, expecting him, calling to him softly from those leagues ofmoonlit mountain. He remembered the touch of that cool, dry hand; thesoft and icy breath against his cheek; the hush and softness of herpresence in the way she came and the way she had gone again--like aflurry of snow the wind sent gliding up the slopes. She, like himself,belonged out there. He fancied that he heard her little windy voice comesifting to him through the snowy branches of the trees, calling his name... that haunting little voice that dived straight to the centre of hislife as once, long years ago, two other voices used to do....
But nowhere among the costumed dancers did he see her slender figure. Hedanced with one and all, distrait and absent, a stupid partner as eachgirl discovered, his eyes ever turning towards the door and windows,hoping to catch the luring face, the vision that did not come ... and atlength, hoping even against hope. For the ball-room thinned; groups leftone by one, going home to their hotels and chalets; the band tiredobviously; people sat drinking lemon-squashes at the little tables, themen mopping their foreheads, everybody ready for bed.
It was close on midnight. As Hibbert passed through the hall to get hisovercoat and snow-boots, he saw men in the passage by the "sport-room,"greasing their ski against an early start. Knapsack luncheons were beingordered by the kitchen swing doors. He sighed. Lighting a cigarette afriend offered him, he returned a confused reply to some question as towhether he could join their party in the morning. It seemed he did nothear it properly. He passed through the outer vestibule between thedouble glass doors, and went into the night.
The man who asked the question watched him go, an expression of anxietymomentarily in his eyes.
"Don't think he heard you," said another, laughing. "You've got to shoutto Hibbert, his mind's so full of his work."
"He works too hard," suggested the first, "full of queer ideas anddreams."
But Hibbert's silence was not rudeness. He had not caught theinvitation, that was all. The call of the hotel-world had faded. He nolonger heard it. Another wilder call was sounding in his ears.
For up the street he had seen a little figure moving. Close against theshadows of the baker's shop it glided--white, slim, enticing.