The Golden Peaks (11 page)

“That’s soon remedied. Strong
b
oots are the first essential, properly studded or nailed. For the easier climbs, you don’t need much; and as for clothes, you simply wear what you are warm and comfortable in and can move freely in. When we need the heavier gear, I’ve plenty of that. Ice axes and ropes, pitons and so on.”

“I don’t believe I’d be any good, Geoffrey.
”

“I’m sure you would. On your next free afternoon, we’ll
go
and fix you up with boots and any clothing you think right. And we’ll start off with something perfectly simple.”

“You’ll need to, with such a complete novice.”

“You must look at my photographs first—of various climbs. No, on second thoughts, perhaps not.”

“In case I’m scared.”

“Well, they are of the difficult faces, and it might put you off.”

“I hope you won’t feel insulted, Geoffrey, but are you an expert? I feel I ought to know, but I don’t
.
”

“Well, I know what I’m doing in the mountains.”

“I expect that means you’re marvellous. And what about Mr. St. Pierre?”

“What about him?”

“Is he an expert?”

“Well
...
” Geoffrey hesitated. “Yes. I have to hand it to the man—he’s a conqueror.”

She felt unreasonably pleased, pleasure spreading in her like a warm glow. Geoffrey went on:

“He
’
s done some spectacular climbs. Any climber speaks his name with respect. I’ve been with him on one or two expeditions and I know. He has the skill and the strength, the tenacity and the courage; and a clear level head. One couldn’t ask for a better climbing companion.” And after a pause, he said:

“But that doesn’t mean that I have to approve of everything concerning the blighter.
”

Celia laughed lightly, but another man’s praise of Kurt had delighted her. Why should it, she asked herself? What is he to you? Why should you be delighted? But it was as if Geoffrey had set an unconscious seal of approval on her choice.

That
same
evening, she sat in the office after dinner, hard at work to atone for the afternoon hours she had stolen to visit Dorothy. Kurt came into the office and frowned to see her there.

“There is no need to work at this time, Celia.
”

“I played truant this afternoon,” she said, “so I feel that I must.”

“It is only necessary to do the urgent things. Anneliese will cope with the rest when she comes back.”

“She won’t be pleased to find that I have let it pile up.”

“You went to see Dorothy, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

“And how is the little one?” There was a note of tenderness in his voice for Dorothy which was never there for herself. She wondered if it were present for Anneliese.

“She looks fine again now. I hope she is getting better. Anyway, I had some good news from Dr. Sturm.”

“And what was that?”

“He says I can take her out on her birthday next week. No, wait, it is only three days now. And so I am planning a celebration
... I rather think that it is some sort of test on the part of Dr. Sturm, so we must go carefully.”

“And what form are these celebrations going to take?
”

“Well, I can’t
plan
anything until I have asked you for the day off—or part of the day.”

“I
think
you may take it that your application will meet with favorable consideration.” She looked quickly at him, suspecting
him
of pomposity, but was reassured by an unusual twinkle in his eye. “So what do you plan?”

“Dorothy is crazy to see the Trummelbach Falls. People have been talking to her about them, and she can’t imagine them. So that is to be the birthday treat.
”

“Rather a long way for her. How do you propose to
go?”

“Well,
tr
ain
and bus would be too tiring,
I
think.
I
shall
think
up something.” It was in Celia’s mind that
Geoffrey would probably be delighted to take them, but in
view of the reproof she had received through Johanna for
her behavior with Geoffrey on a previous occasion, she did not mention it now.

“On what day is this birthday, Celia?”

“Thursday.”

“Thursday. Good. My car shall be at your disposal on Thursday for the little one, and Roberto shall drive you.
I am a little in love with your Dorothy—because a child who has had illness and loneliness still has such a happy smile. She shall have a happy birthday.”

“Oh, but I couldn’t inconvenience you so much.”

“It doesn’t inconvenience me. On Wednesday I go to the Mirabella—I can come back the same evening. On Thursday you have the car. On second thoughts, I will drive you myself—I think Roberto would be more missed round the hotel than I should. Consider it settled then.” Celia gave a passing guilty thought to Geoffrey, and thanked Kurt for his offer.

“Now,” said Kurt, “what is giving you so much difficulty?”

They bent over the work together.

“You will be so relieved when Anneliese comes back,” said Celia. “I’ve been so slow.”

“You’ve been overworked, I know. But Anneliese returns in a few days, by the end of the week at most.”

Celia felt alternately elated and dejected; elated because she would be with Kurt on Thursday for a long time, and dejected because, with Anneliese’s return, she would go back once more to waiting at table; and see almost nothing of him. Yet slowly the dejection gave way to the elation, and she allowed herself to dream a little. As she went up to her room, very tired, her thoughts gathered round the bright date of her week, Thursday. She was, in fact, almost as anxious to see the Trummelbach as Dorothy; and Kurt would show it to them
.
Kurt’s presence would make it more wonderful for them.

She undressed and
sl
ipped a dressing gown over her nightdress. She stood on the small balcony and looked down at the garden, lit by the lights from the hotel, at the valley, with its yellow lights like golden stars opposed to the silver stars in the sky. There were two things to think
about—Geoffrey’s feeling for her, and Kurt’s kind offer of a birthday treat; and of the two, Geoffrey’s feeling was undoubtedly the more important. Yet she could not keep her thoughts concentrated upon Geoffrey—they wandered
bark
again and again to Kurt
.
Geoffrey was, she had to admit, concerned with sharing a lifetime with Celia. Kurt was concerned with sharing one day—or part of a day. Yet the thought of the day overshadowed the thought of the lifetime. And at last, she gave up the struggle. She thought about Kurt and the birthday treat and the Trummelbach, and what they would do, and how it would go, and what they would say to each other.

She knew it was foolishness, yet it was happiness, too. She knew it was escapism, and she escaped gladly to a temporary world of daydream where things would happen as she wanted them to.

Geoffrey sought h
er
out in the office a day or two later. It was in the evening and she was still at work.

“Am I allowed in here?” he wanted to know.

“If you have any problems for me to settle, or if you wish to find out anything, sir.”

He came in.

“Do you always work as late as this?”

“N
o
, but Anneliese is expected back, and
I want to finish what I can.”

“I went up to see Dorothy this afternoon.
”

“How nice of you, Geoffrey.”

“
And she’s in a most dangerous stat
e
of excitement because she is going out for her birthday.”

Celia
saw what was coming, and her heart sank.

“She’s all of a twitter to see the Trummelbach.”

“Yes.”

“And is she going to see the Trumm
el
bach?”

“Yes.”

“And how are you going to get her there?”

Celia
hesitated. Geoffrey’s open face suddenly darkened. “Well?” he asked, more sharply.

“Mr. St Pierre has very kindly offered to take us,
”
she told him.

It was as if
h
e had received a blow but he did his best to cover it up.

“I take that most unkindly,” he said with an attempt at lightness. “I thought I was your friend.
”

“You see, Geoffrey, I couldn’t begin to arrange anything until I had asked for the time off, and when I did so, and explained
why
I wanted it. Mr. St. Pierre offered. It was very kind of him.”

“You could have said that I was going to take you.”

“But you might have been engaged for that day, Geoffrey.”

“I couldn’t have any engagement that would come before you. You know that.”

“I’m terribly sorry,” sad Celia, and then reproached herself that even in so simple a statement she could be telling a lie; for in truth she was not sorry. Sorry perhaps for Geoffrey’s disappointment, but not sorry for the facts
.

“I do think you should have relied on me,” he said.

She said sadly:

“It’s rather a change to encounter so much kindness all at once. One isn’t usually encouraged to go round asking for things.”

“Well, Celia, listen, darling. In future ask me for anything you want. You cannot delight me more than by letting me do things for you. You will, won’t you?”

She said she would, and after talking for a few minutes longer, he left her to her work.

On Wednesday morning, Kurt was off early to the Mirabella and Celia was kept busy, with little time for thinking, by her correspondence, telephoning, arrangements for the guests, and an occasional departure or arrival.

He had not returned by ten o’clock at night, and the hotel seemed very quiet. Small groups of people sat in the lounge, but only one party, playing a rowdy card game, made much noise. At eleven o’clock the coach returned from Interlaken and quite a crowd of people invaded the hall and lounge, while odd little groups stood in the courtyard chatting in the summer night. By half-past eleven, it was very quiet again. Celia wandered through the public rooms, gathering up odd glasses and coffee cups, taking t
h
e
m
back to the kitchen. At midnight she would be off duty, and could go to bed. She had volunteered to do this evening duty, because Lisel
had had a headache.

Just before midnight, Kurt arrived. She heard the car on the gravel, heard, by listening at the window, when he closed and locked the garage doors. There was a tray of supper waiting here for him, and coffee on the stove. Would he come into the hotel before crossing to his chalet? She stood waiting for the sound of his step on the gravel.

He
came
into the hall, rubbing his hands back over his hair, looking tired. Nobody was there but Celia. He said: “Ah,
Celia.
Get Roberto to bring me a supper tray, will you? I drove back without stopping for dinner. Why are
you still on duty?”

“It isn’t quite midnight,” she said. “I’ll find Roberto—I know the supper tray is ready.”

Kurt went to his chalet, and Celia began to look for Roberto, but Roberto was nowhere to be found. Gone to bed thought Celia, and wondered for a moment whether to rouse him, but decided against it. She would take the tray over to the chalet herself.

It was dark going through the garden and along the mountain path, and the tray soon became heavy. But her eyes grew acc
us
tomed to the darkness, and she made her way carefully. Before she reached the chalet, she heard the sounds of music coming from it, and her first thought was that Kurt had switched on his radio, and it sounded so clear and so loud because the night was so still. Then, as she
camp
to the foot of the outside staircase, she knew that this was no radio music. This was somebody playing the piano with mastery and skill—and it couldn’t be anybody
but Kurt.

Astonishment and delight vied for chief place in her
min
d.
Astonishment at discovering yet another facet of his many-sided personality, delight at finding one that tallied with her own loves and absorptions. He was playing Brahms, variations of a theme of Hayden which she sometimes played herself. But not so well as this, she thought,
standing
still at the top of the stairs, unwilling to go into the room and stop the wonderful flood of sound. She leaned against the wall of the chalet, the flowers on the balcony spreading perfume on the night air, Kurt’s music pouring magic into it, and she listened whole-heartedly; recognizing the music, listening for the touch, noting with delight the ways in which his interpretation differed from hers, but chiefly ravished by the fact that he played with his whole spirit. The severity which usually seemed a part of him, had vanished, and in its place was a passionate spirit. She waited, and listened.