The Golden Peaks (8 page)

“
I leave her in your good hands, Luigi,
”
said Kurt, an
d
gave Celia a brief bow, and left her. Luigi, never having
seen
Celia
before but gathering from Mr. St. Pierre’s behavior, the impression that she was somebody important, magnanimously overlooked the f
ac
t that
she
was not in evening dress, and summoned a waiter by uplifting a finger. They proceeded to give her prompt and deferential service. Celia was amused—yet, in spite of hers
el
f, a little impressed. She wondered what change there would be in their attitude if she were to say: “No, Luigi, you must not waste your time on me. I am only a secretary, and only that for a couple of days—I ought to be buried in a back room with a typewriter.
”
She did not say it. She smiled at Luigi as he absented himself with a bow to attend to other guests, and gave herself up to watching all that went on.

She saw at once that she was in a truly cosmopolitan milieu. She saw that Kurt carried himself with an assurance that was as effective here as at the
Rotihorn
. He dined with two men, and waiters and commis vied for his attention and approval. He danced two or three times with women who were elegantly gowned and expensively bejewelled, while anxious waiters did their best to keep the next course at the correct temperature. There was no doubt about it—his authority was unquestioned. His every word was deferred to—waiters, bellboys, porters and clerks would all be anxious to please.

As she watched the dancing, studying the dresses and jewels with an interested eye, she suddenly wished that she were dancing among them herself. It seemed a very long time since she had dressed up in her evening dresses, and danced. She would like to be dancing there—with Kurt St. Pierre. The thought startled her. It
had
slipped into her mind so suddenly, unheralded. Yet facing it squarely, she knew that she would like it; that it would give her immense pleasure. She thought back over her day—and realized that the drive with him had already given her pleasure, and that this day would probably stand out from all others as a red-letter day. She cautioned herself not to let him become important to her. All sorts of repressing thoughts came up in her mind: she had eventually to go back to England, she was an unimportant cog in his business affairs, she had no knowledge of his friends (among whom might be many beautiful and cosmopolitan women); she had much better keep her mind on Dorothy and her work and her return to England.

When she left the dining room, she went out into the cool air of the evening, and walked for a while by the side of the lake. Others walked there, too, but not singly. The glowing ends of cigarettes went in twos or threes, and voices conversing leisurely told of people spending this evening in company. A feeling of loneliness descended on her. It would be pleasant to have a companion here.

At last, she went up to her luxurious room. She was tired, but she could not sleep. Her window was open, and laughter and snatches of talk came up to her, with the occasional purring of a car on the gravel. Her mind was overfull of new impressions, of the mountains, of the Mirabella, of the place where they had lunched, and of Kurt himself.

The next day was one long session of work, interrupted at intervals by meals on trays. Kurt came and went, occupied with a thousand things. Maria came in several times from the larger office where she worked, and it struck Celia that Maria resented her being here, but there was nothing Celia could do about that, and this might be the only time that
she
would be at the Mirabella. When Kurt was in the small office, he dictated letters at great speed, in English. When he was out, Celia painstakingly put them into French or German, and typed them. The whole day she was busy, and the whole day she wondered if she would once more dine in the restaurant, and if Kurt might possibly take some notice of her. It was a great disappointment to have her dinner also brought to her on a tray, and to
hear
that Kurt was in conference. After dinner, he was still busy but did not need her longer, so she walked once more by the edge of the lake, alone, and tried to fight an unreasonable despondency.

She was in bed, but restless and not sleepy, when her room telephone rang. Kurt’s voice spoke to her:

“
I think,” he said, “we shall be able to get off in the
morning.
I’ve been trying to despatch everything here today. Can you be ready by eight-thirty?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Celia.

“Have they made you quite comfortable in your room?”

“Oh, yes—it’s a wonderful room,
thank
you.”

“Good. Goodnight, Celia. Sleep well.”

“Goodnight, Mr. St. Pierre,” she said, and rang off with a sudden lift of her spirit. How nice of him, she thought, and then asked herself derisively what was so nice. That he inquired if she were comfortable? That he hoped she would sleep well? Well, anyway, she defended him to herself, it
was
nice to hear a friendly voice before
she
went to sleep.

The next day was spent chiefly in travelling, and when the
Rotihorn
was reached, Kurt told her to take the rest of the day to herself; but on the following morning, Celia was back in her neat uniform, waiting at table, and it was as if her trip to the Mirabella had never been. For two days, she was on duty in the afternoon, and could not go to see Dorothy. On the third day, thinking that the child would have missed her, she set off as soon as she was free, to walk up to the rest centre.

As she approached Geoffrey Crindle’s chalet, she saw that he was standing on the grass, overlooking the valley and the mountains, with a scribbling pad and pencil in his hands. The men were now at work, transforming the chalet to his requirements. He waved to her as
she
came along the rough roadway.

“Are you coming to see me?” he called.

“No.” She stopped near him, breathing hard after her climb. “I’m on my way to see Dorothy. I haven’t seen her for several days and
she
will be missing me.”

“Then I hope to see you on your way down. I’m still looking forward to that chat you promised me.”

“I’ll look out for you.”

“I hear you’ve ban gallivanting to the Mirabella.”

“Yes. The drive there and back was magnificent
.
”

“So is the Mirabella, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, in a different way. I must be off, but perhaps I will see you coming down.”

Dorothy was delighted to see her and eager to
s
how
her the progress of the tapestry on which
she
was working. She was doing it beautifully, revealing a hitherto unsuspected talent for needlework. She was also proud to tell Celia that she might now walk on the terrace both in the morning and the afternoon. “Soon,” she said, “I shall be on the walks. You see. And then I may be taken out occasionally. That will be wonderful, won’t it
Celia
?”

“Yes. I will have to find the loveliest places for you.”

When
Celia
was ready to go again, Dorothy said:

“These
tim
es
when you come to see me, go quicker than any other time. When will you come again?”

“Whenever I can. But the hotel will be very busy over Easter, Dodo, and
I
shall have lots of work to do; so you mustn’t mind if you don’t see me—I shall come when I
can.”

She made h
er
way down the
mountain as far as Geoffrey’s chalet
and he at once abandoned what he was
doing to join her. They began to walk down the mountain
road together. When they came to a seat on the hillside,
overlooking the valley, he said:

“Let us stop and talk here. As soon as you get back to the hotel, we shall be virtually to
rn
apart. You cannot talk to me in the public rooms—not with any comfort—and
I
may not intrude into your regions.”

They sat down together on the wooden seat
.
“This
is
nice,” he said. “I began to think we should never get together. When will you come out with me and have dinner?”

“I don’t have time, Geoffrey.”

He looked at her in quick surprise, and she colored. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’m afraid I think of you as
Ge
offrey.”

“But you couldn’t please me more,” he said. “Now I shall take advantage, of the slip of the moment and feel justified in calling you Celia all the time. But don
’
t tell me that you haven’t time.”

“I haven't really.”

“
You had time to go to the Mirabella with Kurt.
”

“Oh, but that was a business trip. Boss’s orders.
”

Geoffrey frowned, and sat beside her digging his heel into the grass surrounding the seat
.

“I don’t like it at all,” he said at last
.

“You don’t like what?” she asked him in surprise.

“This job of yours. This waiting at table. This being more or less obliged to go off with St. Pierre on his say-so. A girl like you—brought up as you were brought up—to have to do this menial job.”

“Oh, I’m
afraid we look at it differently,
”
said Celia.
“I
don’t
think
it is
menial.
I admit I shouldn’t like it in most places, but the
Rotihorn
is different. The whole staff is so pleasant and nice and friendly. And I need
a
job if I am to stay here and be able to see Dorothy. Now almost any other job would still make it necessary to pay for my board and lodging—this one doesn’t. The hotel is so suitably near the rest centre. It’s practically ideal.”

“I can't like it at all. The sister of Peter Dorrelson in such a job.”

“Oh, Peter wouldn’t have minded at all. Peter had a common-sense outlook on life. He had all sorts of ideas for launching himself in the business world and
making
his way, if he came back. Peter saw at once the need for
s
elling
up our lovely home—though if anybody loved the place, it was Peter. I guess Peter would stand behind me in this.
”

“If you had Peter to stand behind you, I wouldn’t mind so much,” said Geoffrey.

She looked at him, slightly puzzled.

“Do you think I can’t look after myself?” she asked.

“I hope you can, but I don
’
t know.” He rose from the seat, and walked away looking out over the valley and the majesty of the mountains; then he came back again and looked down on her. “Look here, Celia, I expect you’ll tell me to mind my own business, and there’s every reason why you should. I knew your brother very well, and was proud to know your mother, too; but you and I didn’t know each other and you may well resent my shoving my oar in. Hang it, this sounds like damned interference, but I do feel I ought to give you a warning.”

She sat back, surprised.

“A warning, Geoffrey? A warning about what?”

He looked momentarily embarrassed.

“Come along,” she said. “Out with it, Geoffrey. I shan’t mind whatever you say. What do you want to warn me about?”

“Well, it's St. Pierre, as a matter of fact
.
”

“Mr. St Pierre?”

“Look here, Celia, I’d hate you to
think
of me as a meddler
...”

“I won’t
,
” she assured
him
.

“But, after all, you’re young and you’ve lived a sheltered life
...”

“Not so sheltered as all that, believe me,” interrupted
Celia.

“And now you’re in a job which—well—might leave you open to—er—certain approaches
...”

Celia laughed. It was a gay and ringing laugh, and it put Geoffrey, already embarrassed, completely out of his
stride.

“Oh, Geoffrey, you’re a dear to think about me, and I like you. And I do think you’re brave to tackle all this on my behalf. But really, I don’t need to be warned.”

“You see, you don’t see the slightest danger.”

“There
isn’t
any danger.”

“But there is. Good lord, I know the man. Not that he isn’t a damn fine chap. I like him immensely. But he isn’t
English
,
Celia, and you may not realize how differently he
thinks
on certain things. You may not even realize how delightfully frank and open you are yourself—another
thing
that he could misunderstand. I’ve been at the Roti
horn
, Celia, on and off, for years. He’s no angel, Celia.”