The Golden Peaks (23 page)

“Good evening, Anneliese. Did the party from Holland get off safely?”

“Yes, at last,” said Anneliese.

“Is Celia about?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her. She had a day off.”

“I wanted to talk to her, but after dinner will do.”

During the serving of dinner, Inga also approached Anneliese.

“Johanna wants to know if you gave Celia permission to stay out. She was to be back for the dinner service.
”

“I did not give her permission. She went climbing. Perhaps it took longer than she allowed. Can you manage?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Dinner went on. The latecomers were served. People sat in the lounge with their coffee, and still Celia had not returned. Roberto, in his turn, talked to Anneliese.

“Do you say that Celia went
climbing
today?”

“Yes. Gustave packed her a lunch, and she had climbing boots. She was going to the top of the shrine peak.
”

“She should have been back by now.”

“Yes, I thought so. It will be dark on the mountain.”

“
She could hardly get lost. The path is simple to follow. She would come back the same way, of course.”

“Well, I told her both ways, so she could please herself.”

“But it isn’t possible to come the steep way. The bridge was damaged in the spring.”

“Good heavens,” said Anneliese, putting both hands to her cheeks in a most effective pretense of dismay, “I forgot all about the bridge.
”

“But how could you forget?” asked Roberto. “Only the other day we talked of it, you and Inga and Johanna and I—when Herr Weiss wanted to take the calves across.”

“It went completely out of my mind,” said Anneliese. “Well, it wouldn’t matter, because she would be sure to go back. She would probably call at a chalet for a light; and she will soon be back.
”

As the evening wore away, and Celia did not appear, Roberto
w
ent to Kurt. After a few moments in thought, he went to Geoffrey, and explained the position. Neither of them was worried.

“We must go and look for her,” said Kurt
.
“I expect she is all right. She is sensible. If it gets too dark for her to go on, she will wait for somebody to find her. She will not risk advancing in the dark.”

“She would go by the shrine I suppose?”

“Yes. I think she would keep to the path.”

“But suppose
she
tackled the bridge?”

They looked at each other briefly, and quickly away. “Perhaps,” said Kurt, “we should separate. You go by the shrine, and I by the steep way.”

“She won’t, surely, try the bridge?”

“Then you will find her. Take a coat, and brandy, and perhaps bandages.”

“I’ll bring her straight back to the hotel. If we aren’t back by a reasonable time, bring a party to find us.”

“And you, for me, after a reasonable time.”

“Let’s hope it won’t be necessary,” said Geoffrey.

“Yes,” said Kurt “Good luck.”

He took a strong torch himself, that sent out a powerful beam of light. He took a coat and brandy and bandages. He did not think for a moment that she would be hurt. He thought she would be waiting for somebody to come and meet her, but the brandy would be useful if she were chilled. Though probably, Geoffrey Crindle would be the one to find her. It had been stupid of Anneliese not to remember about the broken bridge.

He was strong and fit and muscular, and he climbed fast. He thought he was on a useless journey, since he did not think Celia would cross the bridge; and he wanted to be up and back again by the time she reached the hotel with Geoffrey. An insidious thought wormed its way into his mind. Suppose, it suggested suddenly, that Celia
did
cross the bridge?

For a moment, he paused in his climb, and a hot wave of panic rushed over him. Suppose that she did! What terrible consequences might spring from that.

He saw that, when she reached the bridge, she would find it tiring to have to go back the way she had come, but he thought she would do it. He had not seen the bridge since it had been damaged, and did not know its extent. She might have considered it safe enough, and tried to cross, and in that event, she had either had luck with her, or luck had deserted her. Surely, if luck had been with her, she would have returned to the hotel by now. That meant that she had gone back and Geoffrey would find her, or she had tried to cross and the bridge had not stood her weight. His mind shied away from the possibility of that; he would not think of that deep and rugged ravine and Celia falling down, down into it from the bridge. Yet the thought returned again and again, until at last it took possession of his mind, and he found himself hurrying more and more, driven on by his fear.

Was it possible, he wondered, that he had waited too long to tell her of his love for her? Was it possible that now he would never have the chance? Could it be a malicious blow of fate that, now he had found his love, he must lose her? For he knew without any shadow of doubt (and if any shadow of doubt had existed, it would certainly have been wiped out now) that Celia was the woman he had waited for. He had thought she must know it, too. So many things had pointed that way. Their kiss on the steep hillside seemed to him to have made it plain, to have resolved doubt. He would have told her then, but that she seemed to be anxious to forget it, unaware of the longed-for thing that had happened to him. He was about to tell her after she had played to him in his chalet. It had seemed to him that their thoughts, and the stream of their feelings, were so much one that she must be as aware of it as he; and
then
she had started to talk of Geoffrey, to speak of him as a possible husband. Why, Kurt had even suspected her of teasing him, of leading him on, of being about to say
that
she had known of his love all the time; he had certainly not been prepared to hear of Geoffrey to learn that she was even considering him as a possible husband.

The thought of her was warmly with him, driving away the chill fear. He remembered her frank and friendly smile, the softness of her curling auburn hair, the promise in her of depths that matched his own. He had suspected those depths from the beginning, had known of them when she stood on the mountain top with him, under the moon or waiting for the sunrise, had had them revealed to him clearly when she filled his chalet with music. She knew, too, and felt the poetry in life, the magic, the spirit behind the material things, the divine spark.

He could not now be far from the bridge. He flashed his torch from side to side of the path and, as he went, he whistled so that Celia would hear him coming, would be reassured.
It
was a very dark night, with no moon, and a good deal of cloud to blot out the stars. If Celia were anywhere on this side of the ravine, she would see his torch, h
e
ar
him coming. But he still believed that it would be Geoffrey who would find her. If, prompted that evil insidious
thought,
she is to be found at all. Once more, fear clutched at him and drove him on.

Then he heard a call. He was sure of it. He stood still, waiting for it to be repeated. Yes, there it was, distant yet clear. He hurried along the path, and, not hearing it again,
called
himself. He received an answer, plainer now. He
be
gan
to run, swinging his torch; and came suddenly upon her, sitting at the side of the path.

“Celia,” he cried with relief, and stooped down beside her at
once.
“Darling, what is the matter? Why are you
here?”

“Kurt,” she said with ineffable relief. She had wondered if she must stay here all night. She had thought it must be already the middle of the night, since she could not see her watch and the time had dragged so slowly and
painfully past. She had, with much pain,
dragged herself a little way along the path from time to time, until it grew so dark that she was afraid to go any farther. Then she had waited and waited, growing colder and more lonely with every passing moment. Now, here was Kurt, running to her side, stooping beside her, kneeling on the short turf and
t
aking her into his arms, closely and warmly and comfortingly.

“Oh, my sweetheart,” he said, “how cold you are,
”
and held her closer and rubbed his warm cheek against her cold on
e
. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Why did you not get back? Are you hurt?”

“My ankle,” she said. I
can’t stand on my right foot at all.
”
But it didn’t matter about the foot now, it didn’t matter about anything. Kurt was here, almost as if he were still part of her dream, calling her h
is
darling, his sweetheart, holding her closely to give his life-givin
g
warmth to her coldness.

“I have brought you a coat,” said Kurt, helping her to put it on, “and you must drink a little of this brandy.” She
d
id so, coughing a little over it. “Give me your cold hands.” He was very warm from his rapid climb, and her small cold hands were lost in his. “I will soon have you back at the
Rotihorn
,” he said, “warm and comfortable.”

“
It’s
so
good to have you here,” she said, not wanting to move.

He took her into his arms
a
gain
.

“It’s good that you are here,” he said. “I thought you might be at the bottom of the ravine. Celia, you have given me a bad hour—later I will be angry with you for daring to cross that bridge. Now, I can only be thankful that you are all right
.
” He turned her face up towards his, and kissed her lips in the darkness, and Celia gave herself up to his kiss without reservation.

“I love you, Celia.”

“I know
...
And I love you, Kurt
.
”

“I know.”

“We didn’t need to say it.”

“We shall say it, over and over again. Darling, I must get you home.
”

“Not yet. A little later. This time can never come again—this time of—of recognition.
”

“I recognized you, Celia, long
ago.”

“Did you? Yet you always seemed ste
rn
. You always
seemed
to disapprove of me. But I
think
I recognized you that very first day, on the mountain.”

“Yet you dared to talk to me about Geoffrey.
”

“Poor Geoffrey.”

“Poor Geoffrey indeed, to have lost you. But then he never had you. You were mine long ago, but you put on a stiff and cold English front. Couldn’t you see that I was full of my love for you that day on the mountains?”

“I thought you
had
seen my love.”

“Yes
—
I
wondered. But you were so frigid again afterwards—after I kissed you
...
And that night, when you played to me, I wanted to tell you then.”

“I was never sure of you,
”
she said, sighing, “but I often dreamed of this happening.”

“
Did you dream of
this
happening,” he asked, kissing her again. For timeless minutes, they were lost in each other, but at last, Kurt returned to reality, and said they must try to be sensible and must get Celia back to the hotel, and have her ankle examined. He bandaged it for her, while she held the torch, and helped her to her feet.

“Now you must carry the torch,” he said, “and show me the way, and I will carry you.”

“But you can’t carry me all the way back.”

“Perhaps not. We will see how we go. The worst places I will carry you over, and we can
stop to rest.”

They set off, Kurt carrying Celia easily, and Celia lighting the way. Several times he stopped to rest. When he did so, Celia kissed him, insisting that she was too heavy, imploring to be allowed to hobble along on his arm.

“For one kiss,” he said laughing, “I would climb the Matterhorn with you.”

She kissed him again, marvelling at the happiness in his laugh, at the strength of his arms.

They came at last to a mountain chalet, and here Kurt stopped.

“I am almost sorry,” he said,
“
that we can now have help.”

“Yes, I too,” she said.

“It is enough for us to be alone, isn’t it, Celia?”

“Yes.”

“And always will be.”

“I hope so.”

“Give me a kiss.”

She lifted her face to him.

They lingered a little longer before Kurt went to the chalet for help. All the man had to offer them was the handcart in which he brought wood down from the mountains, shopping up from the valley, and in which he took hay to his animals; but this he offered willingly, and came out himself to lend a hand.

“Do you mind riding in the handcart?” asked Kurt.