The man who asked the question watched him go, an expression of anxiety
momentarily in his eyes. "Don't think he heard you," said another, laughing. "You've got to shout
to Hibbert, his mind's so full of his work." "He works too hard," suggested the first, "full of queer ideas and
dreams." But Hibbert's silence was not rudeness. He had not caught the
invitation, that was all. The call of the hotel-world had faded. He no
longer heard it. Another wilder call was sounding in his ears. For up the street he had seen a little figure moving. Close against the
shadows of the baker's shop it glided--white, slim, enticing. VI


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_.