The Golden Peaks (20 page)

“A
ham
roll,” she said, “and a piece of chocolate. And some tea in my Thermos.”

“Ah,
Celia
,” he said, “you were indeed well met. I must stop and have a feast
.
”

“It’s very little,” she said apologetically, wishing she had not eaten all day, so that she would have food to offer him now.

“It’s very much to anybody as hungry as I am,” he said.

They sat down on the thick, short grass and
Celia
unstrapped her rucksack and spread the meagre contents before him. His face was dirty, she saw, and he needed a shave. He looked very weather-beaten and very brown, but in his eyes there was a stillness, a content, that she envied him. He ate without speaking, and finished off her tea after
making
sure
she
did not want any herself.

“That was fine,” he said, and, instead of being prepared to go on, he flung himself back on the grass, having relieved
hims
elf
of the encumbering rucksack and ropes.

“All this looks very professional -and most awe-inspiring,” said Celia. “Have you had a very difficult climb?”

“A little difficult
but
not too bad,” he said. “When I am not so tired, Celia, I will talk to you about it. I’d like to explain to you what it is I get from the mountains.”

A
glow like sunshine spread over her at the warmth in his voice. She glanced down at him. He had shut his eyes,
and she thought if he were not already asleep, he would be in a very short time. She sat still, content, beside him. It would be more sensible for him to go back to the hotel, to have a bath and a meal and go to bed and rest properly. She began to say so, but he made no answer and she realized that he was asleep. She allowed herself the small indulgence of studying him asleep.

By the appearance of his clothes, his scratched face and his bruised hands and fingers, she judged that the climb had been one that she, at least, would call very difficult
.
Whereas he had looked extremely tired, he now looked completely relaxed; and in sleep, his sternness had entirely disappeared. He had taken off the hat with the absurd little cluster of feathers, and she saw that his hair, usually so rigorously kept in order, was
disordered,
was quite wavy,
failing
over his forehead in a dark lock. It was dusty, with minute pieces of stone in it—as if, she thought, loose scree had fallen upon him and some had stayed in his hair She wanted to put back that dark lock, and take out the fragments. She would like to run her fingers through his hair. Why, he had one or two grey threads at the temples, which she had never been near enough to notice before, and which she wanted to pull out for him.

Her eyes went over his face. Love for him swept through her. She had often thought about falling in love, she had even wondered once or twice if she were in love, but she had never experienced such feeling as this. With this man, she felt, if only he loved me, I could lose all my shyness, my last reserve; there would never be any question of pride because we would be one and the same person.
It
would be like two streams coming together, merging, flowing on, indistinguishable one from the other. I could give and give and give, and always know that the gift was honored. I could
make
love to him, knowing that I was honored.

Her thoughts played with this idea. She would lean over and kiss his mouth, so much less severe in sleep; kiss his eyes, their dark lashes heavy on his ch
ee
k; r
u
n her hand
g
ently, gently, over his hair; and where the collar of his windjammer jacket was tight, looking uncomfortable for him in his present position, she would pull the zip-fastener gently down to give him comfort, and slide her hand inside it against his warmth.

A little smile played round her mouth. He would open his eyes, then, she thought, and look at her with a smile in them. And, at that moment, he opened his eyes, as if in answer to her thoughts, and looked straight up into hers. Instantly she was scarlet with confusion, and turned quickly away, averting her face, ashamed of the liberties her thoughts had taken. There was a long pause.

“It seems I’ve been asleep,” he said at last.

“Yes,” she replied.

“
Shall we get going, Celia? I shall get damnably stiff lying here.”

She watched while he fixed his rucksack, and they went
on.

“
Oh, my dear,” he said, “every inch of me aches. I shall sleep for a week.”

She still did not reply. She could not talk. She was wondering how unguarded her own face had been, when he woke so suddenly and saw it. She was confused, and followed him down a steep and stony path, hardly realizing what
she
was doing. She did not even realize that it was a path she would have treated with considerable respect at more normal times, so that when he turned suddenly back to her, wondering if she could manage it, she was surprised and could not stop and came up against him bodily. He put out his hands to steady her, and she found herself unexpectedly in his arms. She looked up to apologize swiftly, and their lips came together in a swift, close kiss.

Shaken, Celia drew away. One thought was uppermost in her mind. He would never have done such a thing without the encouragement she had given him a short time before. She had asked for it, but he must never imagine for a moment that she was to be had for the asking. She said:

“I’m so sorry—you stopped so suddenly. I wasn’t prepared for it.”

He looked at her oddly. She was tempted to throw herself into his arms again, but she lowered her eyes, and waited for him to go on. He said quietly:

“I should apologize. I, too, was taken unawares.”

There was a stiffness about his voice and his words
.
They went on, co
m
ing at last on to the road to the
Rotihorn
. Celia wondered if they should go in separately, but surely, if he thought so, he was the one to do something about it. But he did nothing, and they walked through the dusk of the courtyard together. There, she thought, he would go in by the main entrance, while she went in at the side, but still he walked beside her, going in with her. In the corridor, Inga met them, and paused, curiously.

“Inga,” said Kurt, “we are in need of dinner. See that Celia gets hers, will you, and tell Roberto I will have mine in the chalet. If you feel at all stiff, Celia, a hot bath will do you good.”

At that moment, Anneliese turned into the corridor from the hall. She took in every detail
o
f the picture. Kurt
bark
from his climb, looking, as he always did afterwards, much the worse for wear, yet stirring every fibre in her by his ruggedness and masculinity; shrugging out of his heavy rucksack, dropping it on to the coil of ropes on the floor. Celia, dressed in sensible clothes, not so disordered as Kurt, yet obviously weary, too; and Inga saying that Celia could have dinner right away in the staff room, and
Roberto
would bring Mr. St. Pierre’s immediately to the
chalet.

“There’s no hurry,” said Kurt, “I need my bath before anything else.
”

C
elia, following Inga towards the little staff room, knew at once that Anneliese was annoyed, and she could guess what had annoyed her; but she could not have imagined how extremely angry and jealous Anneliese was. For Anneliese did not know they had but recently met, at the end of their day on the mountains. She did not know that Kurt, starting out at three o’clock in the morning had had more than seven hours start of Celia. She saw only that they returned together, both in climbing gear. No doubt,
Celia
had had to wait at some point of the day—she could not follow where Kurt would lead, but Anneliese saw, in her
imagina
tion,
Kurt returning to Celia for a meal that
she
would have ready; she thought of the utter loneliness
o
f the mountains—they would have the world to themselves and anything might happen; she knew how tired and spent the men were when they returned from a stiff climb—spent yet exultant, weary yet transported, in the kind of mood when they would turn to a woman’s breast for rest. Anneliese could see it all; and what she saw filled her with unrest. She was driven by a demon of jealousy. What had ever possessed her to suggest that Celia should work here? Why had she not seen her as a potential danger? How would it be possible to get rid of her now, and get rid of her quickly? Could her work be complained of again? Could some slip, some catastrophe, be fastened on her? Anneliese sought for a way to discredit her, but could think of nothing that was reasonable at the same time.

There was Geoffrey Crindle, of course. He was in love with Celia—everybody in the hotel could see that. He made no secret of it, talking to her at every opportunity, taking her out in his car whenever she would go, visiting her young niece at the sanatorium, getting Celia up to his chalet on the pretext of discussing decorations. Could he be used in getting Celia away from the Rotihorn? Would a hint to him about Kurt and Celia be a hint in the right place? It
w
ould
all help, decided Anneliese, and she went in search of Geoffrey.

The impression Geoffrey received was that Anneliese was concerned about Celia. Anneliese did not want Celia to get a wrong impression from Kurt, did not want her to be hurt by misreading his friendliness. After all, Anneliese implied, she and Geoffrey knew Kurt: they knew that there had been women in his life, but Celia did not. And there was, when all was said and done, Anneliese had continued, a certain understanding between herself and Kurt that—well, hardly left him free to be interested in Celia.

Geoffrey was also anxious that Celia should not be interested in Kurt, and he gave only a passing interest to Anneliese’s news that there was an understanding between herself and Kurt. It explained several things, of course; explained why she had so consistently refused her Rudi, explained why Kurt was still unmarried and apparently content, at thirty-four. But it was in Celia that Geoffrey’s interest lay, and it was Celia he sought out as soon as possible.

She was about to visit Dorothy at the rest centre. He offered to drive her up there, but she preferred to walk, so he accompanied her. She was in a very happy frame of
mind that
day, and he was reluctant to break into it with any controversial subject, so he put off his discussion until the return journey. She had recently read his latest book and they about it, and he said he would incorporate the suggestions she had made in his next book; he had been approached on the subject of adapting one of his most successful detective novels to a play, and he suggested that Celia should take on the job of helping him
.

“In fact, he
said, “I really do need that secretary,
Celia
. You’d better take on the job. Or better still, marry me, and then I shall get a secretary, too, unpaid.”

“How mercenary you are,
”
she teased.

They found Dorothy still improving. She was once more allowed to get up in the afternoon, once more allowed to work for a little while on her tapestry; but they were, as Dr
.
Sturm had said they would have to be, progressing very slowly this time. Nearly all the patients ware adults, so that Dorothy was very popular there, inclined to be spoilt, and, for the first time in her life, knowing what it was like to be pampered a little. In spite of this, she
cl
ung to
Celia
.
Celi
a
was the outside world, the real world, and Dorothy, whose experience of the real world had not been a very happy one, knew that Celia was her prop and stay. A visit from
Celia
made the day a red-letter day; as soon as one visit was over, Dorothy began to look forward to the
next.
As long as
Celia
was near, as long as
she
could have visits from her, little notes from her or telephone messages, all was well—Dorothy could be content
.

On the way back to the hot
el
, Geoffrey tackled the
subject of Kurt

“I hear,” he said, “that you have started on your moun
taineering
career. I can’t h
el
p
fe
el
ing
sorry that you d
id not
allow me to be your first guide—I always wanted to be—but still, how did you enjoy it?
”

“Oh,” said Celia. “I’d hardly call it mountaineering. It was very simple. If it had been real mountaineering, I
think
I would have asked you to be my guide. As it was, I enjoyed myself very much indeed. It really was a wonderful day.”

“Celia.”

“Yes?”

“You’ll probably think I like to bring up the same old bogey, but I do think, my dearest, you want to be careful with Kurt
.
”

She looked at him in perplexity.

“Mr. St. Pierre?” she asked. “But why? What is the matter this time?”

“Well, if it wasn’t real mountaineering, and you didn’t really need a guide, then you didn’t need Kurt.”

“No,” she said, “I didn’t.”

“Then you went together, simply because you wanted to be together?”

“Geoffrey, my dear, when and where did we go somewhere together?”

“I can tell you when but not where; it was when you had your day climbing together. Tuesday, was it, or Wednesday?”

She laughed.

“Now who told you that?” she asked. “We have never been climbing together; and I should never dream of asking Mr. St. Pierre to be my guide. I should have come to you. I simply walked to Faulho
rn
, over a clearly defined path—well, the greater part of the way it was defined—and enjoyed a long, lovely day by myself
...
And when I was almost back, I fell in with Mr. St Pierre who had started off at three in the morning and had a really stiff climb; and we happened to walk into the hotel together. That is absolutely all.”

“Then I have to beg your pardon. I heard something quite different.”

“From Anneliese?”

“Yes.”

“Who was very annoyed?”

“No. She wasn’t annoyed at all. But she knows Kurt as I do; and she didn’t want you to be led up the garden any more than I do. She was concerned about you—as
I
am.”

“That’s
very kind of her,” said Celia dryly.

“K
i
n
der
perhaps than you realize. I don’t know why she and Kurt keep their understanding private, probably because, as they are working together, it is more convenient, but still the understanding exists. So she doesn’t want you to get a wrong impression.”

“Oh,” said Celia. And after a moment, she added; “What, exactly, is an understanding?”

“That
’
s what I’m not quite sure about,
”
he confessed. “It could
moan
an engagement—or it could mean something rather more illicit; but knowing the two of them, I think it means an engagement.”

“Oh,” said Celia again, remembering the very special celebration for which Willi had made his masterpiece. Then, determined not to show her hurt even to Geoffrey, she said:

“Well, as we did not go mountaineering together, there was no need for you to be concerned, or Anneliese. And as for these repeated warnings of yours, Geoffrey, I assure you they are not in the least necessary. There are no personal relations between Mr. St. Pierre and myself.” She thought of the kiss on the mountainside, and decided that one kiss, not intended and immediately apologized for, hardly constituted personal relations.

“Sorry. Celia. You aren’t angry, are you? It’s only my love for you that makes me anxious about you.”

“I know, Geoffrey.”

“I want to look after you all the time, protect you from harm that probably doesn’t exist, shield you from every possible unhappiness. Why don’t you marry me, Celia?”

She stood still and faced him.

“Why don’t I?” she asked. “I don’t know, Geoffrey— but it’s probably that I think you’re not getting a good bargain. ... It has everything to recommend it to me,
and
yet
...”

“I would be more than satisfied,” he said, “with whatever you gave me.”

“But it isn’t love,” she cried. “I like you so much; and I can see that I would perhaps like being married to you
...
but it just isn’t fair to you.”

“I don’t see any reason why it shouldn’t be a great success,” he said. “Come on, Celia, make up your mind.” She looked at him seriously.

“Yes,” she said, “I will make up my mind. Give me just a little longer, Geoffrey. It’s an irrevocable step and there’s no need for haste. But I will soon let you know.” He took a deep breath.

“You’ve never been so encouraging,” he said. “Celia, you’ve given me hope, love.”

She smiled at him, and they walked on together. “Lord,” he said, “what times we will have, Ce
lia
.”

“I haven’t said yes,” she said.

“But I think you’re going to, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps,” she said. Then cried out: “See, what you are doing, trying to force the issue. Wait, Geoffrey, wait.”

“All right,” he said, contented, “I can wait.”

Celia sat on the balcony of her room, reflecting that this little balcony, only large enough to accommodate the wicker sofa and herself, had been the scene of a good deal of her serious thinking. Up here, she could be alone, free from any interruption. Looking down she could see the garden sprinkled with guests, some of them strolling about, already changed for dinner; others seated in groups talking, when they should be changing for dinner. Celia was already in her evening uniform, but she had a little time before she need go downstairs, time in which to think over the news that Geoffrey had given her.

I suppose I knew all the time, she thought; ever since the celebration day, when they went off so happily together. I have tried to shut my eyes to it: he never acts towards her in a loverlike way, but why should he, in public? They are working together, and they give a business-like impression. But if I had wanted to see the truth,
I could have found it in innumerable things: his concern
over Anneliese’s mother; Inga’s saying that her parents look upon him as their son; the importance of their celebration.