in the morning hibbert realised he had done, perhaps, a foolish thing. the brilliant sunshine that drenched the valley made him see this, and the sight of his work-table with its typewriter, books, papers, and the rest, brought additional conviction. to have skated with a girl alone at midnight, no matter how innocently the thing had come about, was unwise — unfair, especially to her. gossip in these little winter resorts was 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 of skates.
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 haunt him. when he “ski-d,” “luged,” or danced in the evenings, and especially when he skated on the little rink, he was aware that the eyes of his mind forever sought this strange companion of the night. a hundred times he fancied that he saw her, but always sight deceived him. her face he might not know, but he could hardly fail to recognise her figure. yet nowhere among the others did he catch a glimpse of that slim young creature he had skated with alone beneath the clouded stars. he searched in vain. even his inquiries as to the occupants of the private chalets brought no results. he had lost her. but the queer thing was that he felt as though she were somewhere close; he knew she had not really gone. while people came and left with every day, it never once occurred to him that she had left. on the contrary, he felt assured that they would meet again.
this thought he never quite acknowledged. perhaps it was the wish that fathered it only. and, even when he did meet her, it was a question how he would speak and claim acquaintance, or whether she would recognise himself. it might be awkward. he almost came to dread a meeting, though “dread,” of course, was far too strong a word to describe an emotion that 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 — in spite of his decision. this dancing was, however, an act of subconscious surrender; it really meant he hoped to find her among the whirling couples. he was searching for her without quite acknowledging it to himself; and the hotel-world, meanwhile, thinking it had won him over, teased and chaffed him. he made excuses in a similar vein; but all the time he watched and searched and — waited.
for several days the sky held clear and bright and frosty, bitterly cold, everything crisp and sparkling in the sun; but there was no sign of fresh snow, and the ski-ers began to grumble. on the mountains was an icy crust that made “running” dangerous; they wanted the frozen, dry, and powdery snow that makes for speed, renders steering easier and falling less severe. but the keen east wind showed no signs of changing for a whole ten days. then, suddenly, there came a touch of softer air and the weather-wise began to prophesy.
hibbert, who was delicately sensitive to the least change in earth or sky, was perhaps the first to feel it. only he did not prophesy. he knew through every nerve in his body that moisture had crept into the air, was accumulating, and that presently a fall would come. for he responded to the moods of nature like a fine barometer.
and the knowledge, this time, brought into his heart a strange little wayward emotion that was hard to account for — a feeling of unexplained uneasiness and disquieting joy. for behind it, woven through it rather, ran a faint exhilaration that connected remotely somewhere with that touch of delicious alarm, that tiny anticipating “dread,” that so puzzled him when he thought of his next meeting with his skating companion of the night. it lay beyond all words, all telling, this queer relationship between the two; but somehow the girl and snow ran in a pair across his mind.
perhaps for imaginative writing-men, more than for other workers, the smallest change of mood betrays itself at once. his work at any rate revealed this slight shifting of emotional values in his soul. not that his writing suffered, but that it altered, subtly as those changes of sky or sea or landscape that come with the passing of afternoon into evening — imperceptibly. a subconscious excitement sought to push outwards and express itself... and, knowing the uneven effect such moods produced in his work, he laid his pen aside and took instead to reading that he had to do.
meanwhile the brilliance passed from the sunshine, the sky grew slowly overcast; by dusk the mountain tops came singularly close and sharp; the distant valley rose into absurdly near perspective. the moisture increased, rapidly approaching saturation point, when it must fall in snow. hibbert watched and waited.
and in the morning the world lay smothered beneath its fresh white carpet. it snowed heavily till noon, thickly, incessantly, chokingly, a foot or more; then the sky cleared, the sun came out in splendour, the wind shifted back to the east, and frost came down upon the mountains with its keenest and most biting tooth. the drop in the temperature was tremendous, but the ski-ers were jubilant. next day the “running” would be fast and perfect. already the mass was settling, and the surface freezing into those moss-like, powdery crystals that make the ski run almost of their own accord with the faint “sishing” as of a bird’s wings through the air.
