The Golden Peaks (24 page)

“Not at all,” said Celia; “I am very grateful for the handcart.”

She was not quite so grateful when she had bumped about in it, over the rough mountain path, with Kurt holding the handle at the back, and the owner acting as a brake in the front; but at last they came to the hotel, and she was wheeled into the courtyard.

Anneliese and Geoffrey and several members of the staff came running out at their arrival. Kurt lifted Celia out and stood holding her in his arms. He thanked the man for his help, promising
to go and see him later, and then carried Celia into the hotel and set her down on a couch.

Geoffrey came to her side. He, too, had been anxious and fearful, and now he stood with Celia’s hand in his, and a great relief spreading through him. Anneliese was pale and very quiet. The others were profuse in their pleasure at seeing
Celia
back.

“I think the first thing,” said Kurt, “is to get somebody to look at your ankle.”

“There is a doctor staying here,” said Anneliese. “He has gone to bed.”

“Then we will get him out of his bed. I will go up for him,” said Kurt.
Celia
did not watch him go. She thought that the love that had been so lately avowed, must be
obvious for everybody to see, and she did not want to hurt Geoffrey; not here, in the presence of all these people. But, she heard Kurt’s footstep, followed him in imagination, heard him being polite and charming to the doctor-guest
, and
felt that there would always be so strong a bond between
them
that they would always be conscious of each other.

When the doctor had looked at the ankle, and pronounced it a bad sprain, and said that he thought nothing was broken but he would not be sure until the swelling had subsided, the members of the staff dispersed. Anneliese said goodnight and went to her room, where she stood at the window staring unseeingly out into the night, her heart filled with bitterness. She had known very well what she was doing, and she was only sorry that fate had decreed that Celia could escape comparatively unhurt.

Geoffrey said goodnight to Celia, and obviously wanted a moment of two alone with her, but Kurt was waiting to carry her upstairs, so he promised to see her in the morning and went away. Kurt lifted Celia into his arms, and carried her to her little room under the roof. He looked round it,
s
ee
ing
it with new eyes. He had not been in this room for a very long time.

He set Celia on the bed.

“Can you manage? Or shall I send help?”

“I can manage.”

“This room is not right for you,” he said.

“I like it very much.”

“You must move. You must come over to me, Celia—and soon. Will you?”

Their eyes met, and they smiled at each other slowly. “Yes,” she said. “Soon.”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Next morning,
Kurt was
up
early, and without waiting for Roberto to bring h
im
breakfast, was in the dining room of the hotel before any of the guests. Anneliese was there, in her usual corner, speaking to Hertha, but as Kurt appeared Hertha went away to bring his breakfast and he sat down opposite Anneliese.

“Good morning,” he smiled.

“Good morning,” said Anneliese.

She talked to him but she would not look at him. This was unusual in Anneliese, who often fixed her eyes upon him in a manner that he found faintly embarrassing. He said:

“What is the matter, Anneliese?”

“The matter? Nothing. Why should anything be the matter?” She spoke sharply, and color flooded into her cheeks and receded again. He was surprised, and looked at her more intently. She said:

“You must excuse me, please, Kurt. I have finished.”

“But you haven’t. And there isn’t anything that needs doing so early in the morning. Stay and drink some more coffee.”

She chided herself for her stupidity, but in truth, she was so overwhelmingly conscious of her own guilt for the happenings of the evening before, that she found it difficult to sit opposite him; afraid that he would read it in her countenance. She was prepared for worse news and would willingly have accepted it. As it was, she was afraid that something would arouse suspicion in Kurt, and she wished to get away from him.

Breakfast finished, they went their separate ways, Anneliese into the office, Kurt up the stairs to Celia’s room. On the landing he found Trudi, one of the chambermaids, whom he sent ahead to find out if Celia would see him.

He tapped at her door, and went in. He looked swiftly about the room, and walked through it to the balcony. “What, are you already up and dressed?”

“Yes. How could I lie in bed this morning?”

He to her side, and sat beside her on the wicker sofa, looking into her eyes.

“Nothing is changed?” he asked.

“Nothing is changed.”

He kissed her.

“And the ankle?”

“A little painful—not bad, really.
”

“You slept well?”

“Wonderfully. Did you?”

“No, scarcely at all. I spent most of the night smoking on my balcony and thinking about you.”

“Kurt, you didn’t.”

“But I did. It was an important night in my life. Here was the thing I had waited for all those years. Here was the one woman I want to marry, telling me that she loves me and will marry me. Last night, I realized that my life can be full and complete; it is up to
m
e now. I have all that is necessary to make it so. And yours, too. And so I smoked, and thought, and made a good many resolutions about us, Celia.”

“And all I did was to go to sleep.”

He laughed.

“You haven’t waited as long as I have. You had no time to be anxious about meeting your life partner. I am ten years older than you, Celia.”

“It seems to me,” said Celia, smiling at him, “that you expect a very great deal from your wife.”

“Of course; and I hope she expects a good deal from me. Or does it come down to just one thing, after all? Yes, it does, of course. It comes down to love; or comes up to it.”

“I have enough of that,” said Celia.

“Oh, Celia, what times we are going to have.”

A little later, they came down to earth to remember such mundane trifles as breakfast and X-rays and doctors; and they brought into Celia's mind other important things and people, such as Dorothy and Geoffrey and Anneliese.

There was no lift at the Rotihorn, which was a long and
rambling building, so Kurt carried Celia downstairs into a small room near the office, and ordered that breakfast should be brought to her there.

“Now, we will arrange things,” said Kurt. “When shall we be married, Celia?”

“I am in your hands,” she said.

“Then
I
say next month. We are now at the end of September. We will
b
e married at the end of October, and then, in November, when we should be closed anyway, you and I can go away together.”

“It’s very soon,” said Celia.

“
Too soon for you?”

“No
...
But if you should change your mind
...
”

“What?”

“All right,”
she
said. “I didn’t say it. I wish I hadn’t
.
I know you never will—any more than I will.”

“Oh, Celia.”

She reached out a hand to him.

“I’ve been dreaming about
you,
Kurt all the summer. That’s why I feel so sure.”

“Then the end of October?”

“Yes. But don’t tell anybody yet, please.”

“Why not? I want to tell everybody.”

“Not before I tell Dorothy and Geoffrey. I don’t want them to hear from anybody else.”

“Of course not. You will tell Dorothy, of course; but Geoffrey?”

“I will tell him, too. I was to have dinner with him tonight. He is expecting his answer—and I’m afraid he thinks it will be yes.”

“Poor devil,” said Kurt quietly.

“There is somebody else, too,” said Celia. “Anneliese.”

“Ah, yes, Anneliese. Well that of course, is my job.”

“Yes.
”

They looked at each other, long and quietly.

“You do know, Celia, that there was never anything between Anneliese and myself?”

“I thought you were engaged to be married.”

“Never anything like it.”

“You were so intimate with her family, going to stay with them, and so
on...”

“They were good to me when I was a child, Celia. When my parents died, I was a young boy, and every bit of my c
o
nfid
e
n
c
e
drained out of me. Anneliese’s father put it back. He first took me mountaineering; first gave me an interest in a new life. I have always known Anneliese; I have always thought it unwise to have her here as secretary; but I owed her and her family so much. It hasn’t always been easy, Celia, to keep our relationship steady. You understand that I would say this only to you.”

“Do you
think
she
will marry Rudi?”

“I
think
so,
eventually. He’s a fine fellow, Celia—and only for Anneliese, is he a doormat
.
”

Celia sighed.

“Pity,” she said, “that things can’t work out well for
everybody. How lucky we are, Kurt.”

Later, he helped her into the car and drove her to the rest centre, where Dr. Sturm X-rayed her ankle.

“I
think
it is no more than a bad sprain,” he said,
“
but you go and see your little niece Dorothy, and in a little while I will let you know.”

Kurt helped Celia on to the terrace, found her a sunny and secluded
corner
of it, and went in search of Dorothy. He found her and brought her to Celia, and left them to talk, while he strolled on the plateau and smoked.

“Whatever happened to you?” asked Dorothy
.

“I
sprained
my
ankle
on the mountain. I think it is only a sprain, but Dr. Sturm has X-rayed it in case any bones were broken.”

“Does it hurt?”

“Oh, a little. It isn’t important. Nothing to worry
about
.”

“Did Dr. Sturm talk about me?”

“Only to say you are now making real progress.
”

“Yes
.
He came to see me yesterday, and he said he was
most
pleased with me. He said I am good and
patient.”

“
That’s wonderful,” said Celia, knowing that these little doses of encouragement were as much a part of Dr.
Sturm’s cure as any physical examination. “And you
are
good and patient.
”

“Celia
,
Irmgard was telling me that your hotel will soon close. What will you do then?”

“It only closes for a little while, Dodo, and has a good
clean
and a little decoration and then opens up again for the wintersport. But, in any case, as to what I should do, I have a piece of good news to tell you.”

Dorothy looked at her with wide eyes.

“What is it?” she asked eagerly, a sparkle coming into her eyes.

“That something has made it possible for me to stay here for as long as I like—for always, in fact
.
”

“As long as I am here, in the centre?”

“Yes.”

“What is it?” she asked again eagerly.

“I am going to marry Kurt, and live with him in his chalet on the mountain.”

She smiled at Dorothy, but Dorothy did not see it. The sparkle died out of Dorothy’s face, and the eager smile vanished from her face.

“Dorothy. Darling. It’s good news—good for all of us.”

Dorothy looked at Celia, and then away again.

“I expect you’re awfully glad about it,” she said.

“Yes, of course I am, Dodo, and you must be, too.”

“Yes, of course.” Nothing could have sounded less glad than Dorothy’s voice. “I hope you’ll both like being married.”

Celia put out an arm and drew Dorothy against her. “Now, what’s the matter, lassie? Out with it.”

“There isn’t anything the matter,” said Dorothy.

“Oh, yes, there is. There’s something you don’t
li
ke
and I insist on knowing what it is; because it seems to me that everything is going to be wonderful.”

And at that Dorothy burst into tears.