The Golden Peaks (25 page)

Celia held her close for a minute or two, and then brought out a handkerchief and began to wipe Dorothy’s eyes and cheeks.

“Of course, if you do this,”
she
said, “I shall be sent away at once; and you will be whipped off to bed. Now, come along, Dodo, tell me what is troubling you.
”

“You won’t want me, when you get married,” sobbed
Dorothy.

“
That, of course, is rubbish,” said Celia placidly.

“It isn’t rubbish.”

“Utter rubbish and you know it.”

“My mother didn’t want me when
she
got married.”

“I’m not like your mother.”

“Bernard didn’t want me—and Kurt won’t, either.”

“Kurt loves you already. He loves all children. Dorothy, haven
’
t I promised dozens of times not to leave you?”

“You weren’t married, then.”

“A promise is still a promise. Listen, Dorothy. Now dry your eyes and listen carefully. Look at me. I will never leave you—why, I look upon you almost as my own child.”

“I was
her
own child,” said Dorothy.

“Look, darling, who brought you here?”

“Why, you did.”

“Who took you to the specialist?”

“You did.”

“Who got a job here, waiting at table, to be able to stay near you?”

“You did, Celia.”

“Well, why do you think I did those things? I didn’t have to, but I did them.”

Dorothy did not answer.

“Dorothy, why do you think I did them?”

“Because you like me?” asked Dorothy, timidly.

“Because I love you. Now listen, Dodo. My home is always your home. All the time you are here, I will be near you. Later, when you are stronger, you will come to me for weekends. Later, still, when you are as strong as all normal children, we shall find you a wonderful school here in Switzerland. And always, our chalet will be your home—until you are grown-up and after—as long as you want to be with us. Do you believe that, Dodo?”

“Yes,” said Dorothy.

“Then you mustn’t ever doubt me again.”

“I won
’
t,” promised Dorothy.

Kurt strolled by again, quite near them. He waved a hand to them, and Celia beckoned to him.

He saw at once that Dorothy had wept, but he ignored
it.

“Well,” he asked, seating himself on the other side of Dorothy, “have you decided to take me on as your new un
cl
e?”

She nodded her head.

“Do you think I will take good care of you both?” he asked her. Dorothy pinched Celia’s arm until Celia almost cried out. She understood that Dorothy was imploring her to say nothing of the tears and doubts.

“Yes.” Her voice was small and humble, but still Kurt
c
hose to ignore it. He put an arm round the child and hugged her.

“I don’t know what we
’
ve done, Dorothy, to deserve such a nice person as Celia, do you
?”

Dorothy summoned all her courage and looked straight at Kurt .

“Do you really like me?” she asked him.

“You’re my second-best girl,” he said. “Celia has to be first, of course, but you come next.”

She sighed a long, trembling sigh. Kurt gathered her closer. She was wishing she really belonged somewhere. She was wishing that she
knew,
beyond any doubt, that she was safe for always with Celia. She was wishing that she could relax for ever against Kurt’s warmly enveloping arm.

Celia realized a little of what was beh
in
d that sigh. She thought it would take time to reassure Dorothy. Ten years of indifference would build up a strong element of doubt, and a few months of affection were not enough to wipe it out. Celia realized that proof of their love was the only thing to wipe it out, and that would take time. She had a vast compassion for the vulnerability of children, and here was one case where she could do something about it
.

Some time later, Kurt helped
Celia
into the car again, and drove away from the rest centre, leaving Dorothy a little reassured but still inclined to be subdued. They
came
out of the darkness of the pinewood, to find that Geoffrey was outside his chalet Celia glanced at Kurt, and Kurt at once stopped the car. Geoffrey came over to them.

“Hello,” he said. “They told me you had gone up to the san.”

C
elia
smiled at him. He looked at her, from her to Kurt and then back again.

“How is the victim this morning?” he asked.

“It’s nothing more
than
a sprain,” said Celia. “I fe
el
a fraud.”

“What would you rather have broken it?”

“No, of course not but to have caused so much fuss for a sprain!”

“So you aren’t much the worse for your adventure?
”
asked Geoffrey.

“No.”

“I thought I should find you on my side,” he went on. “I didn’t really think you would go over the bridge.”

“Nobody did,” said
Celia
. “I think I must abase myself, here and now, and admit that I did a very foolish, dangerous, unwise thing; and ask for the forgiveness of both of you, and promise that I won’t do such a thing
again.
And then, if neither of you would mention it again, I’d be very grateful.”

“All right I won’t
,
” said Geoffrey.

“And you, Kurt?”

“I won’t promise. When I think that you might have
been dead today
...”

She looked away from him quickly, searching hastily in her for a topic of conversation, knowing that that tone of voice from Kurt was so revealing that Geoffrey, unless he were deaf, must know what lay behind it
.
She said quickly:

“We weren’t all the time at the rest centre concentrating on my foot
.
We stayed to see Dorothy.”

“Ah, yes,” said Geoffrey dryly,
“
and how is Dorothy?
”

Celia gave him an unnecessarily detailed report about Dorothy. Then they began to talk on other noncontroversial topics, and Celia breathed relief.

“Well,” said Geoffrey at last, “you’d better be getting back to the Rotihorn. Or you’ll be late for lunch.”

“Can we give you a lift?” asked Kurt, “or is your car here?”

“I have some things to attend to here,” said Geoffrey “It’s almost ready for me to move in.” He did not look at Celia, but she felt tears very near her eyes, knowing
that
he had hoped that she would move in with
him
.

“Then shall I see you this evening?” she asked
him
.

“This evening?”

“You haven’t forgotten, Geoffrey? We are hav
ing
dinner together.”

He hesitated for a moment, then he said:

“Do you think there would be any point in it, Celia?
”

“Do you want to speak privately?” interrupted Kurt.

“No, Kurt, don’t go,” said Geoffrey. “No, I don’t
think
there is any point in our meeting this evening, Celia. I know already what you were going to tell me.”

“Oh, Geoffrey.”

“A man would be deaf and blind—and completely insensitive, not to know what has happened to you two.” Celia sat silent, her eyes downcast. After a moment, Geoffrey put a hand on her shoulder.

“Come,” he said. “Cheer up.”

She put her hand on his.

“Geoffrey, I am so sorry.”

“So am I,” he said. “Well, cheer up, this ought to be a happy day for you. We can’t all be prizewinners. I
shall
wait for Dorothy.”

He laughed. As he would have withdrawn his hand,
she
took it in both of hers, and for a moment, rested her cheek on it. Then he withdrew it gently and stepped back.

Kurt held out his hand to Geoffrey. For a brief
tim
e
that seemed an eternity to Celia, the two men looked at each other; then Geoffrey took the hand and gave it a hard grip.

“Good luck,” he said, “all happiness.”

The car slid away down the hill. Kurt put his hand over Celia’s.

“I could weep,”
she
said.

“I know.”

“Pretending it didn’t matter, laughing and making a joke.”

“Isn’t that the best way to do it?
”

“Yes. Yes. Poor Geoffrey.”

They came to the hotel. Kurt turned to her in his seat.

“It seems we are taking our obstacles at lightning speed,” he said. “Already, Dorothy has been told and Geoffrey didn’t heed telling. There remains only Anneliese. As soon as we have told Anneliese, all the world can know.
”

Anneliese, however, did not need telling either. She knew with as much certainty as Geoffrey had known. When she saw them leave together for the rest centre, she made no attempt to get on with her work, but stood at the window of the office, looking out at the mountain range with
unseeing
eyes, too busy with inward plans to notice outward things.

It was finished, she told herself. All the hopes and the dreams of eight or nine years, finished. Finished because this girl had come out from England and insinuated herself into the good books of everybody in the hotel. She could not forgive herself for having been the person to suggest to Celia that she should seek employment here. Without that, Celia might have gone elsewhere, and Anneliese would have had a clear field all the summer.

A cold voice reminded her that she had had a clear field for several summers. Yes, that was true, and Kurt had never taken advantage of those summers. He had been aloof then and he was aloof now; but while there was no other dangerous rival, she could always hope that, one day, he would fall in love with her. There had been other women, of course; and Anneliese, young, immature, had stood by and raged inwardly, consumed with jealousy. There had been Arlette, who had come from Paris, who was dressed with a chic that was positively frightening, and who had lost her head completely over Kurt. There had been an affair of some kind, but Anneliese could never determine its seriousness; she had suffered with all the capacity of an eighteen-year-old over Arlette. After that,
she
had been able to take them with more sang-froid, always hoping, hoping, hoping.

Now, she told herself there is no more hope. He will marry Celia. And I shall go away. I will not stay here to see them together. I shall go back to Zurich
...
I wonder what happened at the bridge? How did she manage to get across? I thought she would come back—I thought she would be overtaken by darkness, and lose herself. And anything could have happened. There might have been fog—there could easily have been fog—but there wasn’t; and one false step in fog
...

Well, anyway, it didn’t happen. And now everybody is
making
a fuss about her. And Kurt is walking about with a light i
n
his eyes, and a lightness in his step ... Oh, Kurt, Kurt, Kurt ... I would have done
anything to get you, yes, anything, anything, anything.

Well, she would have to go back to Zurich. And if she couldn’t marry Kurt, what did it matter whom she married? Rudi would do as well as anybody else. Rudi had money, or his father had; plenty of money, and there was nobody but Rudi to leave it to. She would marry Rudi, and have plenty of new clothes and a new car, and a wonderful house—and jewels, too, since Rudi’s father was such an expert on jewels. After all, what was a chalet in the mountains, where nothing ever happened? If she had married Kurt, she would have insisted on moving to the Mirabella; there would have been quarrels, of course, about that, but then, after the quarrels, what reconciliations!

“Damn, damn,” said Anneliese, wringing her hands together.

She stood for some time longer, lost in thought. Then, suddenly, she moved and went to the telephone, asking for a Zurich number. The conversation was long, and when it was finished, and she stood once more by the window her heart was filled with bitterness. “Well,” she thought, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “now I have burnt my
boats.”

She was on the look-out for Kurt’s return. As the car swept into the courtyard, she went out to meet it, and even as Kurt was saying that only Anneliese remained to be told, she came out of the hotel into the sunshine of the open-air.

“So, you are back,”
she
said, “and what does Dr. Sturm say about the ankle?”

She was smiling. Never had she seemed more beautiful, as she stood by the car looking down at them both.

“Only a sprain,” said Celia, “I have made a fuss about
nothing.”

“A
nd you will soon be able to walk on it?”

“Yes.”

“That is good. I was worried about you, because I forgot about that stupid bridge.”

“My
d
e
ar
Anneliese, it wasn’t your fault. I read the notices, and knew that it was dangerous. It was my own
silly fault
.
”

“I am happy that it was no worse,” said Anneliese. She
was still smiling and Kurt asked:

“What is
making
you so pleased with yourself, Liese?”

“Am I pleased with myself? Does it show so much?”

“Something shows.”

“I have some news,”
she
said. “Would you like to
hear?”

“We would.”

“Rudi has been talking to me on the telephone—and I have
promised
to marry him at Christmas.”

“Ann
el
iese!”

“I know, I know, I know,”
she
said, to Kurt’s expression of surprise. “After all I have said about him, my poor sweet Rudi ... But I have not always meant what I
said.”

Kurt was out of the car, and gave her a good hug, and a kiss on both cheeks.

“But this is wonderful news. You don’t know how happy I am to hear it. You must ask Celia and me to your wedding.”

“But of course.”

“
And you shall come to mine. Does that surprise you?”

“Not very much,” said Anneliese dryly.

That afternoon Celia sat quietly in the
peace
of Kurt’s chalet There had been so much confusion in the hotel, when the news of two approaching marriages had been spread among the staff, that it was good to be here, in the
quiet
, with only Kurt They had enjoyed
dis
cu
ssing
intended alterations in the furnishings of the chalet—they had even touched on the possibility of
enlargin
g it, or building a new one, as time went on; for with Dorothy already a member of the family, and the probability of their own children, this might prove too small. They had talked of the wedding, and some of the necessary arrangements But at last they had fallen silent.

Kurt thought she was asleep in the shelter of his arm, and was surprised when she spoke to him softly:

“Do you remember that night on the mountain, when we waited for the dawn?”

“Mmm.”

“You said you slept there sometimes in summer—and I remember thinking that I should like to do that
.
”

‘Too late for this year, Liebling.”

“I know. But I was thinking of all the things we could do together. I thought of the wintersport, and the hotel
...”

“
You will not be much concerned with the hotel,” he said.

“
No. I don t want to be—I only want to be your wife,
t
hat is enough for me. But I was saying: that I was thinking of all the things we would do together; and it seemed to me that the loveliest would be that; to
c
lim
b
the mountain with you, and sleep on the summit, and wake with the dawn to wait for sunrise and the golden peaks.”

S
he was silent for a while, thinking of the immensity of those peaks, thinking of the wide world of the mountains where he was so much at home; and only herself and Kurt in this vast grandeur.

“We will do that together, won’t we, Kurt?”

“
Yes, we will often do it,” he replied.