and at once into his mind passed the hush and softness of the snow — yet with it a searching, crying wildness for the heights. he knew by some incalculable, swift instinct she would not meet him in the village street. it was not there, amid crowding houses, she would speak to him. indeed, already she had disappeared, melted from view up the white vista of the moonlit road. yonder, he divined, she waited where the highway narrowed abruptly into the mountain path beyond the chalets.
it did not even occur to him to hesitate; mad though it seemed, and was — this sudden craving for the heights with her, at least for open spaces where the snow lay thick and fresh — it was too imperious to be denied. he does not remember going up to his room, putting the sweater over his evening clothes, and getting into the fur gauntlet gloves and the helmet cap of wool. most certainly he has no recollection of fastening on his ski; he must have done it automatically. some faculty of normal observation was in abeyance, as it were. his mind was out beyond the village — out with the snowy mountains and the moon.
henri defago, putting up the shutters over his cafe windows, saw him pass, and wondered mildly: “un monsieur qui fait du ski a cette heure! il est anglais, done...!” he shrugged his shoulders, as though a man had the right to choose his own way of death. and marthe perotti, the hunchback wife of the shoemaker, looking by chance from her window, caught his figure moving swiftly up the road. she had other thoughts, for she knew and believed the old traditions of the witches and snow-beings that steal the souls of men. she had even heard, ’twas said, the dreaded “synagogue” pass roaring down the street at night, and now, as then, she hid her eyes. “they’ve called to him... and he must go,” she murmured, making the sign of the cross.
but no one sought to stop him. hibbert recalls only a single incident until he found himself beyond the houses, searching for her along the fringe of forest where the moonlight met the snow in a bewildering frieze of fantastic shadows. and the incident was simply this — that he remembered passing the church. catching the outline of its tower against the stars, he was aware of a faint sense of hesitation. a vague uneasiness came and went — jarred unpleasantly across the flow of his excited feelings, chilling exhilaration. he caught the instant’s discord, dismissed it, and — passed on. the seduction of the snow smothered the hint before he realised that it had brushed the skirts of warning.
and then he saw her. she stood there waiting in a little clear space of shining snow, dressed all in white, part of the moonlight and the glistening background, her slender figure just discernible.
“i waited, for i knew you would come,” the silvery little voice of windy beauty floated down to him. “you had to come.”
“i’m ready,” he answered, “i knew it too.”
the world of nature caught him to its heart in those few words — the wonder and the glory of the night and snow. life leaped within him. the passion of his pagan soul exulted, rose in joy, flowed out to her. he neither reflected nor considered, but let himself go like the veriest schoolboy in the wildness of first love.
“give me your hand,” he cried, “i’m coming...!”
“a little farther on, a little higher,” came her delicious answer. “here it is too near the village — and the church.”
and the words seemed wholly right and natural; he did not dream of questioning them; he understood that, with this little touch of civilisation in sight, the familiarity he suggested was impossible. once out upon the open mountains, ‘mid the freedom of huge slopes and towering peaks, the stars and moon to witness and the wilderness of snow to watch, they could taste an innocence of happy intercourse free from the dead conventions that imprison literal minds.
he urged his pace, yet did not quite overtake her. the girl kept always just a little bit ahead of his best efforts.... and soon they left the trees behind and passed on to the enormous slopes of the sea of snow that rolled in mountainous terror and beauty to the stars. the wonder of the white world caught him away. under the steady moonlight it was more than haunting. it was a living, white, bewildering power that deliciously confused the senses and laid a spell of wild perplexity upon the heart. it was a personality that cloaked, and yet revealed, itself through all this sheeted whiteness of snow. it rose, went with him, fled before, and followed after. slowly it dropped lithe, gleaming arms about his neck, gathering him in....
certainly some soft persuasion coaxed his very soul, urging him ever forwards, upwards, on towards the higher icy slopes. judgment and reason left their throne, it seemed, completely, as in the madness of intoxication. the girl, slim and seductive, kept always just ahead, so that he never quite came up with her. he saw the white enchantment of her face and figure, something that streamed about her neck flying like a wreath of snow in the wind, and heard the alluring accents of her whispering voice that called from time to time: “a little farther on, a little higher.... then we’ll run home together!”
sometimes he saw her hand stretched out to find his own, but each time, just as he came up with her, he saw her still in front, the hand and arm withdrawn. they took a gentle angle of ascent. the toil seemed nothing. in this crystal, wine-like air fatigue vanished. the sishing of the ski through the powdery surface of the snow was the only sound that broke the stillness; this, with his breathing and the rustle of her skirts, was all he heard. cold moonshine, snow, and silence held the world. the sky was black, and the peaks beyond cut into it like frosted wedges of iron and steel. far below the valley slept, the village long since hidden out of sight. he felt that he could never tire.... the sound of the church clock rose from time to time faintly through the air — more and more distant.
“give me your hand. it’s time now to turn back.”
“just one more slope,” she laughed. “that ridge above us. then we’ll make for home.” and her low voice mingled pleasantly with the purring of their ski. his own seemed harsh and ugly by comparison.
“but i have never come so high before. it’s glorious! this world of silent snow and moonlight — and you. you’re a child of the snow, i swear. let me come up — closer — to see your face — and touch your little hand.”
her laughter answered him.
“come on! a little higher. here we’re quite alone together.”
“it’s magnificent,” he cried. “but why did you hide away so long? i’ve looked and searched for you in vain ever since we skated —” he was going to say “ten days ago,” but the accurate memory of time had gone from him; he was not sure whether it was days or years or minutes. his thoughts of earth were scattered and confused.
“you looked for me in the wrong places,” he heard her murmur just above him. “you looked in places where i never go. hotels and houses kill me. i avoid them.” she laughed — a fine, shrill, windy little laugh.
“i loathe them too —”
he stopped. the girl had suddenly come quite close. a breath of ice passed through his very soul. she had touched him.
“but this awful cold!” he cried out, sharply, “this freezing cold that takes me. the wind is rising; it’s a wind of ice. come, let us turn...!”
but when he plunged forward to hold her, or at least to look, the girl was gone again. and something in the way she stood there a few feet beyond, and stared down into his eyes so steadfastly in silence, made him shiver. the moonlight was behind her, but in some odd way he could not focus sight upon her face, although so close. the gleam of eyes he caught, but all the rest seemed white and snowy as though he looked beyond her — out into space....
the sound of the church bell came up faintly from the valley far below, and he counted the strokes — five. a sudden, curious weakness seized him as he listened. deep within it was, deadly yet somehow sweet, and hard to resist. he felt like sinking down upon the snow and lying there.... they had been climbing for five hours.... it was, of course, the warning of complete exhaustion.
with a great effort he fought and overcame it. it passed away as suddenly as it came.
“we’ll turn,” he said with a decision he hardly felt. “it will be dawn before we reach the village again. come at once. it’s time for home.”
the sense of exhilaration had utterly left him. an emotion that was akin to fear swept coldly through him. but her whispering answer turned it instantly to terror — a terror that gripped him horribly and turned him weak and unresisting.
“our home is —here!” a burst of wild, high laughter, loud and shrill, accompanied the words. it was like a whistling wind. the wind had risen, and clouds obscured the moon. “a little higher — where we cannot hear the wicked bells,” she cried, and for the first time seized him deliberately by the hand. she moved, was suddenly close against his face. again she touched him.
and hibbert tried to turn away in escape, and so trying, found for the first time that the power of the snow — that other power which does not exhilarate but deadens effort — was upon him. the suffocating weakness that it brings to exhausted men, luring them to the sleep of death in her clinging soft embrace, lulling the will and conquering all desire for life — this was awfully upon him. his feet were heavy and entangled. he could not turn or move.
the girl stood in front of him, very near; he felt her chilly breath upon his cheeks; her hair passed blindingly across his eyes; and that icy wind came with her. he saw her whiteness close; again, it seemed, his sight passed through her into space as though she had no face. her arms were round his neck. she drew him softly downwards to his knees. he sank; he yielded utterly; he obeyed. her weight was upon him, smothering, delicious. the snow was to his waist.... she kissed him softly on the lips, the eyes, all over his face. and then she spoke his name in that voice of love and wonder, the voice that held the accent of two others — both taken over long ago by death — the voice of his mother, and of the woman he had loved.
he made one more feeble effort to resist. then, realising even while he struggled that this soft weight about his heart was sweeter than anything life could ever bring, he let his muscles relax, and sank back into the soft oblivion of the covering snow. her wintry kisses bore him into sleep.
