“don’t go back to your dreary old post office. we’re going to have supper in my room — something hot. come and join us. hurry up!”
there had been an ice carnival, and the last party, tailing up the snow-slope to the hotel, called him. the chinese lanterns smoked and sputtered on the wires; the band had long since gone. the cold was bitter and the moon came only momentarily between high, driving clouds. from the shed where the people changed from skates to snow-boots he shouted something to the effect that he was “following”; but no answer came; the moving shadows of those who had called were already merged high up against the village darkness. the voices died away. doors slammed. hibbert found himself alone on the deserted rink.
and it was then, quite suddenly, the impulse came to — stay and skate alone. the thought of the stuffy hotel room, and of those noisy people with their obvious jokes and laughter, oppressed him. he felt a longing to be alone with the night; to taste her wonder all by himself there beneath the stars, gliding over the ice. it was not yet midnight, and he could skate for half an hour. that supper party, if they noticed his absence at all, would merely think he had changed his mind and gone to bed.
it was an impulse, yes, and not an unnatural one; yet even at the time it struck him that something more than impulse lay concealed behind it. more than invitation, yet certainly less than command, there was a vague queer feeling that he stayed because he had to, almost as though there was something he had forgotten, overlooked, left undone. imaginative temperaments are often thus; and impulse is ever weakness. for with such ill-considered opening of the doors to hasty action may come an invasion of other forces at the same time — forces merely waiting their opportunity perhaps!
he caught the fugitive warning even while he dismissed it as absurd, and the next minute he was whirling over the smooth ice in delightful curves and loops beneath the moon. there was no fear of collision. he could take his own speed and space as he willed. the shadows of the towering mountains fell across the rink, and a wind of ice came from the forests, where the snow lay ten feet deep. the hotel lights winked and went out. the village slept. the high wire netting could not keep out the wonder of the winter night that grew about him like a presence. he skated on and on, keen exhilarating pleasure in his tingling blood, and weariness all forgotten.
and then, midway in the delight of rushing movement, he saw a figure gliding behind the wire netting, watching him. with a start that almost made him lose his balance — for the abruptness of the new arrival was so unlooked for — he paused and stared. although the light was dim he made out that it was the figure of a woman and that she was feeling her way along the netting, trying to get in. against the white background of the snow-field he watched her rather stealthy efforts as she passed with a silent step over the banked-up snow. she was tall and slim and graceful; he could see that even in the dark. and then, of course, he understood. it was another adventurous skater like himself, stolen down unawares from hotel or chalet, and searching for the opening. at once, making a sign and pointing with one hand, he turned swiftly and skated over to the little entrance on the other side.
but, even before he got there, there was a sound on the ice behind him and, with an exclamation of amazement he could not suppress, he turned to see her swerving up to his side across the width of the rink. she had somehow found another way in.
hibbert, as a rule, was punctilious, and in these free-and-easy places, perhaps, especially so. if only for his own protection he did not seek to make advances unless some kind of introduction paved the way. but for these two to skate together in the semi-darkness without speech, often of necessity brushing shoulders almost, was too absurd to think of. accordingly he raised his cap and spoke. his actual words he seems unable to recall, nor what the girl said in reply, except that she answered him in accented english with some commonplace about doing figures at midnight on an empty rink. quite natural it was, and right. she wore grey clothes of some kind, though not the customary long gloves or sweater, for indeed her hands were bare, and presently when he skated with her, he wondered with something like astonishment at their dry and icy coldness.
and she was delicious to skate with — supple, sure, and light, fast as a man yet with the freedom of a child, sinuous and steady at the same time. her flexibility made him wonder, and when he asked where she had learned she murmured — he caught the breath against his ear and recalled later that it was singularly cold — that she could hardly tell, for she had been accustomed to the ice ever since she could remember.
but her face he never properly saw. a muffler of white fur buried her neck to the ears, and her cap came over the eyes. he only saw that she was young. nor could he gather her hotel or chalet, for she pointed vaguely, when he asked her, up the slopes. “just over there —” she said, quickly taking his hand again. he did not press her; no doubt she wished to hide her escapade. and the touch of her hand thrilled him more than anything he could remember; even through his thick glove he felt the softness of that cold and delicate softness.
the clouds thickened over the mountains. it grew darker. they talked very little, and did not always skate together. often they separated, curving about in corners by themselves, but always coming together again in the centre of the rink; and when she left him thus hibbert was conscious of — yes, of missing her. he found a peculiar satisfaction, almost a fascination, in skating by her side. it was quite an adventure — these two strangers with the ice and snow and night!
midnight had long since sounded from the old church tower before they parted. she gave the sign, and he skated quickly to the shed, meaning to find a seat and help her take her skates off. yet when he turned — she had already gone. he saw her slim figure gliding away across the snow... and hurrying for the last time round the rink alone he searched in vain for the opening she had twice used in this curious way.
“how very queer!” he thought, referring to the wire netting. “she must have lifted it and wriggled under...!”
wondering how in the world she managed it, what in the world had possessed him to be so free with her, and who in the world she was, he went up the steep slope to the post office and so to bed, her promise to come again another night still ringing delightfully in his ears. and curious were the thoughts and sensations that accompanied him. most of all, perhaps, was the half suggestion of some dim memory that he had known this girl before, had met her somewhere, more — that she knew him. for in her voice — a low, soft, windy little voice it was, tender and soothing for all its quiet coldness — there lay some faint reminder of two others he had known, both long since gone: the voice of the woman he had loved, and — the voice of his mother.
but this time through his dreams there ran no clash of battle. he was conscious, rather, of something cold and clinging that made him think of sifting snowflakes climbing slowly with entangling touch and thickness round his feet. the snow, coming without noise, each flake so light and tiny none can mark the spot whereon it settles, yet the mass of it able to smother whole villages, wove through the very texture of his mind — cold, bewildering, deadening effort with its clinging network of ten million feathery touches.
