The Golden Peaks (21 page)

So, went on her thoughts, that is the
end
of my love. It must be the end. I mustn’t allow myself to hanker after
him
I must be very, very sensible at this point: I must be ruthless with myself. If my life is to be bearable to me from now on, I have to cut him out of my life; and turn all my thoughts, my energies, to something else. And I suppose I should be grateful that there is something—somebody—else to hand, to which I can turn them.

All the same, cried out her longing heart, I have to turn my back on happiness. Oh, yes, with Geoffrey I feel sure I can find happiness of a sort, but what a different sort. With Kurt, it would have been a complete and utter release, a giving and taking without bounds, a soaring together, a mounting together with wings as eagles
...

It was time to go down. She felt very subdued; dry
-
eyed and sad. She had glimpsed a kind of happiness which was not to be hers, a kind of happiness that gave life its
m
e
aning,
which nourished the spirit. Sadly she knew that marriage with Geoffrey would not bring her this happiness; that, lost this time, it might never return again.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Kurt returned
from the Bellevue, late at night and tired. The Bellevue was
n
ow closing down for the winter, and there had been a great deal to do, a great many figures to look into. At any other time, he would have stayed at the Bellevue overnight, and taken his time over the work, but nowadays, something seemed to pull him back to the Rotihorn as soon as he went away from it. True, it was his home, but he had never felt its magnetism as he did now.

Lisel was on duty with Celia. It was Lisel Kurt saw, when he looked into the hall before putting the car away.

“Ask Roberto to bring me a supper tray, Lisel,” he said, and disappeared again. Lisel went into the kitchen.

“Roberto is to take over the supper tray,” she said.
“
Where is he?”

“In
b
ed long ago. He isn’t on duty.”

“Bother. One of us will have to take it
.
”

“I’ll take it, if you don’t want to,” said Celia.

“I don’t think we ought to be expected to carry trays all that way. Especially in the dark.”

“I don’t mind,” said Celia. “I've been bored all the evening with nothing to do.
”

When the tray was ready, Lisel put a torch on it to light the way, and Celia carried it to the chalet. Kurt started up when he saw who had brought it.

“Why didn’t Roberto come?” he asked.

“Roberto isn’t on duty nowadays after
nin
e
o’clock.
”

“Ah, I had forgotten. I could have eaten my supper in the hotel.” He took the tray from her, and looked at her with a smile. “You would like a cup of coffee?” he
asked. S
he went and brought the big blue cup and saucer she had used once before. Kurt poured out some coffee for her.

“Well,” he
said, “the Bellevue is closing down. And soon this one will, too. The Bellevue for the winter—this for a short time only.”

“
Did the Bellevue have a successful season?”

“Yes, we cannot complain
...
Play to me, Celia.”

Her eyes lit up.

“Shall I?” she asked, not sure if he were serious.

He nodded and
she
went to the piano. She settled herself and ran her fingers over the keys, extemporizing, feeling very much out of practice. Then she began to play. For the first minute or two, she was oddly nervous, afraid of his criticism; then she recovered, and began to enjoy herself. From the quietness of the Liszt Consolations to the fire of the Revolutionary Study; from the placidity of Schubert songs to the exquisite subtleties of Mozart; she played, without any recognized order, the things she had always enjoyed. At last, she stopped and turned to look at Kurt.

“Thank you,” he said.

She smiled.

“I need a lot of practice,” she said.

“But you have the touch, and the temperament,
”
he said.

‘Temperament?” she queried.

“Oh, yes, indeed ... I hope you will come and play on it more often. Come, your coffee is cold; I will give you some fresh.”

She sipped the fresh coffee.

“That reminds me, Mr. St. Pierre—your saying, very kindly, that I may come and play on your piano. I know it isn’t a very good time to mention it, late at night when you have had a busy day
...”

“What is it?” he asked.

“I have been wondering, rather anxiously, about the future. You said just now that the Bellevue is closed, and that soon it will be the
Rotihorn
. And I have
been
wondering about my job.”

“Yes?” he encouraged.

“I know that you open again for the wintersport, and I wondered if there would still be a job for me then.
”

He frowned, looking down at the supper tray thoughtfully.

“I am not sure if it is absolutely necessary for me to have the job,” she said; “but I can’t rea
ll
y make any plans
until
I
know
if
there is the possibility or not
.
I
hope you don
’
t mind that I have brought up the subject.”

“Not at all. You don’t intend to return to England?
’

“Dorothy particularly wants me to stay here
;
and I have told her that I will.”

“
Then you
need
a job, don’t you?”

“I need a job of some kind, yes. And I have had one offered to me, but haven’t made up my mind about it; I thought if I knew about this one here
...
”

“What is the other job?” he asked, looking up at her.

She hesitated. What should she tell him? How much? “Mr. Crindle tells me that he wants a secretary.”

“So.” Kurt looked at her thoughtfully. “Why do you not take it? It would be more suitable for you than waiting at table.”

“I feel he is making the job for me.”

“You would continue to live at the Rotihorn?”

“I haven’t thought that far ahead, because I suppose I feel, at bottom, that I will not take it.”

“Yet, if there is not a job for you here, you are considering it
.
To stay here, in this country, you need work—that is it, isn’t it?”

“Well,”
she
said slowly, “there is another way.”

“So?” He seemed to be waiting for her to go on. “Perhaps,” she said, smiling a little, “I will marry here, and stay for always.”

Suddenly, his look towards h
er
was keen and curious. “Does somebody here want to marry you?” he asked.

She said softly: “I
think
there is an opportunity.”

He looked at her in such a strange and inexplicable fashion that Celia felt impelled to go on:

“I think perhaps I should tell you that Mr. Crindle wants to marry me—he has been wanting to for months.”

“Crindle,” said Kurt, and his eyes blazed into life. “Crindle wants to marry you?”

“Well, you needn’t sound so astonished about it
,
” said Celia, a little resentful that
h
e
should
be
surprised at Geoffrey wanting to marry her.

“What have you told him?” demanded Kurt
.

Celia frowned as
she
looked at him.

“Why should I tell you, when you shout at me like
?”

“I’
m not shouting at you,” said Kurt “What did you
tell him, Celia?”

“I haven’t given him an answer yet,”
she
admitted.
“But he thinks it will be yes.”

“
Why should he think so? Have you given him
reasons?”

Celia was silent
.

Kurt said insistently
, “
Tell me, Celia.”

“No
,
” she said, “I don’t like the way you are taking it.
”

“I will know. What have you told him to make him
think you will marry him?”

“Nothing actually. But he knows I want to stay here to be near Dorothy, he knows I like him very much. We have a great deal in common and he loves me.
”

“Pah
,
” said
Kurt
and walked out on to the balcony and back again. Celia followed him out and was going down the stairs, when he caught her arm and held her.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the hotel. You are rude and disparaging and you have no right to be. I don’t like it. So I
’
m go
ing.”

“Come back, Celia. I do not intend to be rude, but when you talk such arrant nonsense
...”

She allowed herself to be pulled gently into the living
room.

“I
haven’t said anything yet that was nonsense,” she
said.

“But you have. Your reasons for thinking you will marry. You want to be near Dorothy. You like him very much. You have a great deal in common. Is that enough
to marry a man?”

She was silent because she doubted herself.

“It isn’t enough for you,
”
he said.
“
It is milk-and-water. It is mild and kind and level and dull. Herrgott,
how dull!”

Celia
was looking decidedly frigid. She said:

“I would like to tell you, Mr. St. Pierre, that I consider Mr
.
Crindle to be one of the nicest men I
have
ever met. A good deal nicer than you—he wouldn
’
t speak of you in this way.” Then suddenly, she stopped, for hadn’t Geoffrey warned her against Kurt long ago? He had done it more gently perhaps than Kurt, but, nevertheless, he had tried to put her off.

“Have I said he is not? He is a grand fellow. I like him. He is one of the b
es
t—but not for you. He is most decidedly not the man for you.”

“That is for me to decide.”

“Then if you have any sense at all, you will also decide that he is not the man for you. I have known for a long time, Celia, in spite of your English way of hiding your feelings away inside you, that there is plenty of feeling there. You have warmth and life and richness and with the right man you will be able to reach glorious heights of happiness. I knew it before today, but tonight listening to you play, it was plain to me. I saw that you understood; that you knew the poetry of life, that you had a heart to feel its ecstasy, that you knew there were heights to be scaled, and depths, too, to be fought through. Don’t you know that most people go through life without knowing one half of its possibilities—one tenth perhaps? Do you want to throw yourself away and be one of them? Do you, with all this in you, this brilliance, this warmth, this fire, want to give yourself up to dullness?”

She stood silent, covering a tumult
i
n her mind. What was he getting at? Why was he so angry because
she
thought of marrying Geoffrey? What had it to do with him? She stood in silence, her eyes fixed on
him,
while he spoke, and when he finished, their eyes met across the room, his burning, hers wide and questioning.

“
Celia,” he said, “that day on the mountains
...”

“Yes?” she prompted.

He paused, choosing his words. And at that moment, steps were heard on the outside staircase, coming up towards the balcony.

“Confound,” said Kurt, turning angrily towards the window.

Anneliese appeared in the frame of the long window, smiling, very attractive with her slenderness clothed in a dress the blue of the sky. The anger died out of Kurt’s face. He made an obvious effort, and said:

“Ah, Anneliese, come in.”

Anneliese looked from one to the other, and hesitated. “Am I intruding?” she asked. “I can come another
time.
It was only a rather important message
...”

“Come in,” he said. “You are not intruding.”

Celia said:

“Excuse me, please.”

She hurried away, before they could stop her. She did not want to have to exchange politenesses; she did not want anything to break into the mood created by Kurt’s outburst. She wanted to think about it while it was fresh in her
mind.
She walked very thoughtfully back to the hotel, along the mountain path, through the garden. Anneliese, left with Kurt, looked questioningly at him. “What is the matter, Kurt?”

He threw off whatever was troubling him. He smiled. “I’m afraid we were quarrelling, Anneliese.”

“Are you angry with her?”

“I was angry.”

“I am glad you do not look at me like that. Why were you angry?”

“It doesn’t matter—let us not talk of it. She was being stupid, Anneliese.”

“But Celia isn’t stupid,” she said, watching him thoughtfully, “not ever.”

He looked quickly at Anneliese, for she had often tried to give him the impression that Celia was stupid at her work
.

“
I
don’t
think
she should be encouraged,” wait on Anneliese, “to step out of her place. She is already very difficult to control, since her engagement to Mr. Crindle.” Kurt was silent, and Anneliese, who had discovered from Lisel where Celia was, and hurried over on the flimsiest pretext, judged it wise to go no further. But she found that the scene she had broken into weighed more and more on her mind. In the day that followed, she thought often of it and realized that the atmosphere troubled hear. She had obviously broken into something, some incident, in which a great deal of feeling had been aroused. The air had been charged with it.

Anneliese had said to him: “I am glad you do not look at me like that”—in anger, she meant; but now, she wondered. Kurt always looked at her in friendliness, in politeness, in simple affection—even when she appeared on the balcony he had done so. It was a negative attitude. His anger at least betokened a positive one.