The Golden Peaks (15 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

Next morning,
Celia found Geoffrey at one of her tables for breakfast, and was greeted by him with an accusing frown. He occupied always a small table in a corner of the dining room where he could see everything that went on, but Celia waited on him only occasionally, since the waitresses moved round every week to a fresh group of tables, thus ensuring that each in turn was nearest or farthest from the kitchen—an important point when one carried heavy trays.

Celia affected not to notice the frown. A good night’s sleep had refreshed her and she looked upon the world with a more contented eye. She smiled and wished him good morning.

“I’ve been hearing things about you,” he said.

“Good ones, I hope,” said Celia.

“No. First from Gustave and then from Inga, I heard that something had happened to upset you yesterday.”

“Yes, something did, but everything is all right again this morning.”

“What was it, Celia?”

“I can’t talk to you here and now, Geoffrey. I have work to do.”

“When have you not? Have you free time today?”

“Not until after dinner. I’m on duty all day.”

“Then meet me after dinner. As soon as you are free. I will have my car a little way along the road.”

She went away to wait on fresh arrivals. After a while, he called her back to him, pretending he needed more butter. She brought it to him.

“Something would have to happen to upset you, when I am away for the day. I drove over to see my parents.”

“I hope you enjoyed your day.”

“Yes, and I told them all about you. And now, of course, they are dying to meet you.”

“I expect you gave them a very prejudiced account.”

“On your first free day, Celia, we’ll drive over. Shall we?”

“Some time I should be delighted,” she said, realizing that to go to see Geoffrey’s parents would be partly committing herself to something. She moved away
a
gain,
busy about her work.

That evening, it was quite late before she was free. It hardly seemed worth changing her dress and going out again, but she had promised, so she put on a soft, cool, amber-colored silk dress and a loose coat, and walked across the courtyard towards the road. Kurt and Anneliese were talking at the entrance, and they both followed her with their eyes as she went. Anneliese said:

“One would almost expect Celia to be too tired after a full day’s work, to go rushing about in a car.”

Kurt did not answer. He, too, had seen Geoffrey’s car slide quietly over the courtyard on to the road, but he would not have connected the two things in his
min
d
,
without Anneliese’s help.

“She is free to do as she wishes in her spare time,” he said at last.

“Of course,” said Anneliese lightly, and added: “The staff is making bets on the date of the engagement.”

“It is a pity they have nothing better to do with their time,” said Kurt.

Celia came to Geoffrey’s car, as he swung open the door for her. She sank back with a sigh of relief, as it started down the hill.

“So tired,” she said.

“Then you can sit back and rest,” he said, “and we will dawdle along.”

For some time, this program was followed, until Celia turned towards him and said:

“
That was lovely, Geoffrey. Already I feel rested.
”

“Then you can tell me what happened to upset you yesterday. Was it Kurt?”

“Mr. St. Pierre? Good heavens, no. Why should it be?”

“It struck me as possible.”

“You have a one-track mind, Geoffrey. It was nothing to do with him. It was on account of Dorothy.”

“Dorothy!” His voice sounded absurdly relieved.

“Yes. She isn’t so well, and I’ve been hearing some very disquieting news.
”

‘Tell me, Celia, please.”

“The birthday treat was too much for her. We didn’t allow her to strain herself at all—or we thought we didn’t. Mr. St. Pierre carried her most of the time; we tried not to excite her too much; Mr. St. Pierre drove carefully and not too fast. We thought we had looked after her very well.”

“As I’m sure you did,” said Geoffrey.

“But as a result of it, she is back on absolute rest, and will stay there until her temperature comes down.”

“They will give her every possible care,” he consoled.

“I know. That isn’t what worries me. It’s her almost total lack of resistance. Dr. Sturm says she must be there a year at least—by the way he spoke I could see that he thought it would be two. He says that if she hadn’t come here the progress of the disease would have been fast—and then
...”

“You poor dear,” said Geoffrey, taking a hand from the wheel to put over hers.

“What upset me,” said Celia, “was that Dorothy is the one to suffer all this. I fe
el
better about it today, but yesterday, seeing her looking so ill, I couldn’t help remembering what a rotten life she has had. To be only ten years old and to have had so much loneliness and so little loving —that was what got me. Dumped in schools, left there during holidays, and probably fe
el
ing ill half the time; and now to be so sweet and patient. I fed there isn’t anything I can
do
for her. Just giving her a birthday treat puts her back months. Oh, confound it.”

“Now you mustn’t get upset about it again.
”

“No. It’s much better today. I shall find some way out of the problem. You see, I don’t see how I can stay here all the time that Dorothy must stay, and yet I would hate to leave her, even in such a lovely place with such kind people, without anybody of her own.”

“Why can’t you stay?” he asked. “Why must you go?”

She hesitated.

“I know so little about you, really, Celia. Perhaps you have ties in
England
? You must have many friends.
”

“Oh, yes, I have friends, and cousins and so on—but I'm particularly without ties.”

“Then you needn’t go.”

“Well, I have to have a job, and I feel so much more competent to get a job in England. Without a job, I can
’
t stay here; and I'm not sure of the one I have. Mr.
St
. Pierre has never really approved of me as a waitress.
”

“Nor have I,” said Geoffrey.

“I know. But I expect I could stay until the autumn
—
after that, everything is doubtful.”

“It need not depend on your having a job,
”
he said.

“Why, do you know of any other way?” Then, immediately she saw the implication of her remark and blushed. “I’m sorry,” she said, “disregard that, please.”

“No,” said Geoffrey, “that is just what I will not do. It
happen
s tha
t you know there is another way—and there is.
Celia
, my dear, it’s a way that would make me very happy.
You know I love you, don’t you
?”

She did not answer.

“I
think
I loved you the first time you smiled at me. Won’t you marry me, Celia? You could stay here always then. My chalet will be ready for occupation quite soon—we could have the fun of furnishing it together. You could be near Dorothy as long as she is at the sanatorium, and when she is allowed to leave, she can still live here on the mountain and keep well. I would do my best to make you happy, Celia.”

Still she did not answer him.

“Will you think about it, Celia?”

“Of course I will,” she said in a low voice.
“
But I
shouldn’t
marry you, Geoffrey, as a way out of my
troubles.”

“Marry me, darling, for any reason, so long as you
marry me. You don’t feel about me as I do about you?
”

She shook her head, gently.

“No, Geoffrey. I’m terribly fond of you, you know
that
.
”

“That would be enough to start on—perhaps you would come to love me?”

“But if I didn’t.”

He was silent then. Celia felt that she must offer some comfort.

“Perhaps I would,” she admitted, “but it seems too great a risk to take. For you. Love comes, or it doesn’t, but I don’t think there is much one can do about it.”

“I
wonder,” said Geoffrey. “Sometimes
I
think
that if people put a little less belief in that—if they would show more willingness to love—if they would combine a little effort—they would achieve more successes.”

“No,” Celia replied, “I can’t agree with that. If love could come by willing
or wishing, there would be far less unhappiness in the world. It’s unpredictable, uncontrollable; and I believe the people who share it, share a wonderful experience. Lots of people never know that experience—they go through life with second-best, not even knowing, perhaps, that it is second-best. But, Geoffrey, I wouldn’t want to do you the injustice of marrying you and then realizing that you were my second-best.”

“God, nor would I want that,” he said. “But, Celia, why should it be like that? Already we like each other immensely, we share similar tastes and interests. We have a lot in common
...”

“But not love,”
she
said sadly.

“Darling, forgive me, but aren’t you, perhaps, expecting too much from love?”

“I don’t know, Geoffrey. Perhaps I am. I do feel that I’m being so ungrateful and
...”

“Oh, not ungrateful. What has gratitude to do with it?”

“Well, you find an ideal way of solving my problem; and in addition you offer me your love. Of course, I am grateful.”

“Then you will consider it, Celia?
”

“Of course I will. And you, Geoffrey, will give me time to think?”

“All the time you need.”

“You are kind, Geoffrey, and such a comfort to me.”

“Then I have my uses,” he said.

“Darling, don’t be bitter.”

“I’m not,” he said, “and if I were, that
‘
darling
’
would have wiped it out. Celia, I love you with all my heart. Remember it.”

“I will,” she said. He took h
er
hand and kissed it.

“Now I must
l
et you back,” he said, “or we
shall
be locked out.”

When they reached the hotel, very few people were still about. Kurt and Anneliese
w
ere in the large hall, talking to an old gentleman, and they watched as Geoffrey and Celia came in together. Kurt particularly, with brief glances, took in all that he wanted to know. Geoffrey was in love with her—that could not be hidden, and he was making no effort to hide it. And she looked very attractive, and softer and more malleable than she appeared in uniform.

Celia, to relieve any awkwardness that might arise, said goodnight at once to Geoffrey and went up to her room. Kurt asked him to come and have a drink, and the two men left Anneliese talking to the old gentleman, much to her chagrin, excused themselves blithely and went away.

A few evenings later, when Celia had been on duty all day, including the coffee duty in the evening, she breathed relief when at last the time came for her to be free, and slipped out into the courtyard to get cool and to breathe the fresh air. And as she stood there, quite still, satisfied to fill her lungs with this reviving wine-like air, Kurt spoke to her out of the shadows.

“A wonderful evening,” he commented.

He was standing below the window of the office, where a light still burned.

“It’s lovely,” she said, “so fresh.”

“I think there should be a wonderful dawn tomorrow.”

“I can’t read the weather here. In England, the weather signs are so different
.”

“In England, there is nearly always the same weather—grey days, rain and mist
.
”

“No,” she said stoutly. “You are quite wrong. We have wonderful weather—sometimes.”

He laughed at that
‘
sometimes
’
.

“Didn’t you know that I was at School in England?
”
he asked. “So I know for myself. Yes, I admit that—sometimes—you can have wonderful weather. But I doubt if you ever have anything like a sunrise on the mountains.”

“That is something I should love to see,” she said. There was a lengthy silence. Celia was about to say goodnight and go in, when he suddenly spoke again out of the darkness.