The Golden Peaks (4 page)

She saw Geoffrey Crindle at his table, and he gave her a
smil
e
and a brief salute. Most of her own tables were not yet occupied, but at one of them sat four young Danish students waiting to be served. These four were high-spirited young men who always tried to detain Celia to practise their very halting
English
with her. This evening, she
brought them their soup, and later their main course. She had already served an elderly woman sitting alone, and her other tables were still unoccupied, so she stood at the table of the four young men answering their questions,
h
olding
the large empty dish with one hand, and leaning upon a chair back with the other. They made several
amusing
mistakes, and Celia laughed gaily with them; and when she turned to go back to the kitchen they would have kept her still longer. Then she saw that three guests had arrived while she had been talking, and seated themselves at their table. She was hurrying towards them when
she
suddenly saw, once more, the man she had met on the mountain. He was standing at the entrance to the dining room, looking straight across the tables towards Celia, and there was no doubting the fact that he was very angry.

His face was set in most forbidding lines, and it seemed to her that his dark eyes were burning. Momentarily, she
stared back at him, wondering why he should look so angrily towards her, but with people waiting for their dinner, she had no time to think about it now. When she walked back towards the kitchen, he had disappeared, and did not appear again in the dining room, all the time that Celia was in it.

Later in the evening, Johanna came to her as she was talking to Gustave and Hans. Their work was done, and they were all resting, talking idly, weary, and glad that they had finished for the day. Gustave particularly seemed to have a fondness for Celia; he saved little delicacies for her in the kitchen, told the staff she was going to be his girl, taught her ribald songs in foreign languages, but was, with it all, scrupulously polite and never really intruded. He and everybody else, knew that he was joking.

Johanna said:

“Mr. St. Pierre wishes to see you in the office, Celia.”

“Mr. St. Pierre? I did not know he was back.”

“Only this afternoon,” said Johanna.

“Why does he want to see me? What have I done?”

“I expect he wishes to make your acquaintance. I have not known him before to allow Anneliese to engage a waitress.”

“I hope he’ll approve,” said Celia, smoothing down her apron, and looking anxiously in the small mirror to see if she were tidy.

“I shall tell him you are a very good worker,” said Johanna, “for, indeed, you have done very well. I have been pleased with you.”

Celia went to the office and knocked on the door, but when she went inside and saw him sitting at the desk, she still did not for a few seconds realize that this was Mr. St. Pierre. For this was the man she had encountered on the mountain. He glanced briefly at her, finished signing the letters before him, put them in a pile on one side, and then looked up at her.

“So you are Celia?” he said.

“Yes, sir."

“The waitress whom Miss Sommer engaged for me?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Miss Sommer tells me that when she engaged you, she gave you clearly to understand the kind of behavior that would be required from you.”

Celia waited.

“That is so?” he asked, his dark eyes on her face.

“Well—yes,” she replied, thinking that Anneliese had said very little about behavior, probably thinking it superfluous.

“Then there is no excuse for the sort of thing I saw in the dining room this evening.”

Celia was perplexed for a moment
.

“You mean,” she asked hesitantly, that I should not
talk to guests?”

“
Talk to them? Talk to them? Of course you will talk to them—when they talk to you. You will smile, and be cheerful, and always, unfailingly, polite. But you will
not
lean over the back of their chairs, you will not laugh aloud so that everybody in the dining room can hear you, you will certainly not leave other guests waiting for service while you
finish
a conversation—that is unpardonable. You are expected to have enough discretion to say just enough
and no more.”

Celia
resented
his accusation that the whole dining room could hear her, but she answer
ed
another point. “The visitors at the other table had only that moment
arrived.”

“I saw them waiting,” he said, “and that is enough. If you are out of the room, that is different
.
But you were acting as if you, too, were a guest. And that will not do.
”

“I am sorry,” said Celia stiffly.

“What will do in England,” he said,
“
will not necessarily do here. I insist on good, unobtrusive, good-tempered service, and not even one person is allowed to spoil
the whole.”

Celia stood before him, her head high, silent
.
“As there have been no complaints about you,
” h
e went on, “I am prepared to overlook it this time. But please remember what I have said, for the future
.”

“Johanna said this evening that she is very pleased with me,” said Celia. “If my manner has been too familiar, I will try to change it.”

“Do. We cannot do with irresponsibility.” He looked keenly at her, and Celia thought he was remembering her fall down the mountain, her collision with him in the hotel, her gaffe of this evening. She flushed a little. He said:

“Very well, then, that will do.”

She turned to go. As she reached the door, he said: “Have they made you comfortable here?”

“Yes, thank you, sir.”

“Good. Well, goodnight, Celia.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

She went out of the office, but did not return to the kitchen. Inga and Lisel were still carrying coffee to the lounge, but she had nothing more to do tonight. She went up to her room feeling miserable. Irresponsible, she thought
.
Is that what he thinks of me? Oh lord, as if it wouldn’t do me good to be irresponsible for a change. Sometimes I feel that I’ve taken on too much responsibility.

She walked out on to the balcony, and dropped on to the old chaise-longue. She felt very much a stranger in a strange land. Dorothy was her only link with the old life, and Dorothy was perched up high on the mountain
fighting
her own fight. Tears burned the back of Celia’s eyes, and presently slid slowly down her cheeks. If there were somebody who cared, she thought—just one person. If her mother could be here, or Peter; or even Dorothy, so that they could hold hands and laugh together over some common experience. She sat still in the darkness, forlorn, lonely, and the tears slid unceasingly down her cheeks and dropped on to the hand-made lace of her blouse.

Next day, Kurt sat in his office, planning his
cam
paign
for the spring. This was the time of year when there was much to do. He owned three hotels, and each of the three was conducted on different lines from the others. There was the Bellevue on the shores of Lake Lucerne, which was closed all the winter, and re-opened before Easter; the
Rotihorn
, in the Bernese Oberland, which was open all the year, but enjoyed two peaks of popularity, one for the wintersport and the other for climbing in the summer; and the grand Mirabella, in the south, near the Italian lakes, which was also open all the year.

He
had excellent
managers in the Bellevue and the Mira
bella
—perhaps it was the secret of Kurt’s success that he was able to choose trustworthy and able people to work for him. Here, at the
Rotihorn
, he made his headquarters, so there was no need for a manager here. Johanna ran the housekeeping; Anneliese helped him run the office, and
m
anaged
the guests’ outings, expeditions, concerts and dances.

He was busy at the moment on the Bellevue. It had been necessary this year to do a great deal of decorating. He went through the bills for this work, and made a note of the bookings so far made for Easter. The Bellevue was usually full from Easter until September, but nowadays, with so
many new problems, chiefly to do with post-war currencies, things must not be taken for granted.

Suddenly, as he sat at his work, he was startled by a tremendous crash from the corridor, followed by a tumult of voices. He was out in the corridor immediately, to discover a knot of people gathered together near the dining room. He went towards them.

“What is happening here?” he asked.

Several people spoke to him at once. Lisel and one of the kitchenmaids moved aside, and he saw Celia standing amid a pile of debris, with blood running down her white apron, and her face pale and shaken.

“I'm most terribly sorry,” said a voice at Kurt’s side, and he turned to confront a tall, broad young man with an anxious face. “It was all my fault, I’m afraid. I was late for luncheon, and was charging down the corridor; and I pelted round the
corner
straight into Celia and her tray.”

There was an unpleasant mess on the floor, where broken glass and china mixed with vegetables, sauce and salad. Kurt spoke to the kitchenmaid
:

“Get this cleaned up,” he said. “All right, everybody, go on with what you were doing. You, Ce
li
a, come with me. We must see to this arm.
”

Hertha had given her a table napkin, which she was holding to her arm. Kurt saw that she was trembling. He put a hand behind her shoulder, and propelled her before him into his office. The tall young man hovered anxiously in the background.

“I say, sir,” he said, “you do understand that it was all my fault, don’t you? It was entirely due to my clumsy behavior. I do hope no blame will attach to Celia.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Kurt.

“I am quite willing to pay for any damage; it was entirely due to my idiotic clumsiness.”

“That is all right,” said Kurt. “Please go to your luncheon. You need not be anxious that I will blame Celia.”

The young man departed with relief. Kurt said:

“Sit down.
”

Celia sank on to a chair, still holding the table napkin to her arm. She was very pale, not because she was hurt, but because the suddenness of the collision had been a shock, and the whole incident had humiliated her by bringing her, once more, into such a position before Mr. St. Pierre. It seemed to her that everything was happening that would place her in a more and more unfavorable light.

“Drink this,” said Kurt, coming to her with a small glass.

She made an effort to smile at him.

“No, thank you, sir. I am quite all right.”

“Drink it,” he said.

She took the glass in her trembling hand, and drank the brandy in sips. The napkin had stuck to her arm.

“Wait a moment,” said Kurt. He went away and came
b
ack with a small bowl of warm water in which he had poured antiseptic, and a pad of cotton wool. “Now,” he said, “we will look at your arm.”

He spread a cloth over her lap, and took her arm in his hands. He began to remove the napkin, but it was
firmly
stuck. He began to wash it off with the cotton wool soaked in the warm water, but when he had almost finished, and had turned to soak the pad again, the weight of the material itself pulled it away from the wound, and Celia exclaimed in
pain,
in spite of herself. The blood began to flow again.

Kurt turned at her exclamation, and came quickly to her.

“Hmmm,” he said, for the cut was long and deep. “You
have
hurt yourself badly. We must stop this bleeding. It
seems
to be quite clean, so we will bind it up at once.”

With
hands
that were gentle in spite of their firmness he set about bandaging the wound. Celia, still suffering from shock, feeling a little sick, and touched by the quiet gravity of his voice when she had expected more severity or another reprimand, found, to her horror, that tears had sprung to her eyes and threatened to overflow on to her
ch
e
ek
s. She did her best to blink them back, telling herself not to look foolish in front of him. He was quick and skilful and soon had the bandage in place.

“I hope I didn’t give you much pain,” he said, looking up at her face. Then he saw that her eyes were brimming with tears.

“Oh, come,” he said, “this won’t do.”

In spite of her determination, the tears overflowed and ran down her cheeks. She was chagrined to behave in this fashion.

He removed the cloth and the bowl, and put them aside. He back to her, and standing a little behind her, put his
hand
on her shoulder, firmly, reassuringly. “Now, now,” he said, “don’t do that.” His other hand offered her a clean, white handkerchief, which she took gratefully, and held to her eyes. Suddenly, wearily, she felt at peace. H
er shaking
had stopped, her feeling of humiliation had drained away, and under the touch of his hand on her shoulder, she felt content.

Then he took his hand away, and she was aware of coldness and emptiness where his warmth had been.

“You have had a shock,” he said, “and I expect your arm is throbbing.”

He was excusing her tears, she thought. She straggled to rise, prepared to go.

“You have been so kind,” she said.

“Stay where you are, and rest a little. Had you eaten your lunch?”

“Yes.”

‘Then you must have a cup of coffee.” He rang a bell and ordered coffee for her. While they waited, he did not speak. He stood at the window, looking out, and was so still that Celia had not an inkling of his thoughts or his mood. Perhaps, she thought, I am being a nuisance, though certainly it was not my fault that that young giant should knock me down so violently, all among the broken
glass
, But I
w
as
stupid to allow myself to cry.

The coffee was brought in, rather strong and very hot. Celia could only drink it in sips.

“You are feeling better now?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you, Mr. St. Pierre.”

“Tell me,” he said. “How is the work going? Do you like it?”

“It’s very interesting.”

“Do you find it hard?”

“Well—at first I didn’t find it easy. But I am used to it now—I am getting my second wind.”

“You have not done this kind of work before?
”

“
No,
si
r
.”

“What
d
id you do?”

“When I left school, it was war-time. I worked in a hospital first. Then I drove for a general in London. After the war, I did secretarial work.”

“I see.”

She finished her coffee and set down
the
cup.

“A little more?”

“No, thank you.”

“This afternoon you are to rest.
”

“It is my tea duty today.”

“
Somebody else will do it. You are to rest.”

“No, really,” she protested.
“
I am quite able to do it. And I don’t want to spoil somebody else’s free afternoon.”

“Celia,” he said sharply, “you hear me. You are to rest
.
”

For a moment her eyes blazed, and she looked into his dark eyes defiantly. Then she remembered that he was her employer, and she said dutifully, and a little wearily:

“Yes, sir.”

He heard the weariness in her voice, and knew she was
tired.

“Arm hurting?” he asked. “Headache?”

“A little of both,” she said truthfully.

“Then off you go to your room. One of the girls will bring you some tea later.”

C
el
ia
went to the door. He opened it for her.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “You were very kind.
”

Her eyes met his. For a moment, she felt something of the peace she had felt under the touch of his hand. Then she turned her glance away, and went into the corridor and up the stairs to her room.

“I will sleep this afternoon,” she decided,
“
but first I will sit out on the balcony for a while, and get the sun.

She took the pillow from her bed, and put it on the chaise-lounge on the balcony. Then she lay down with
relief, and relaxed.

This room of hers, up under the roof, had a balcony at the side of the hotel, a very small balcony, but commanding the usual matchless views. She could no longer see the whole length of the superb mountain range, with its snow
p
eaks
and its glaciers, but she could see a good deal of it by looking towards her left, while, in the opposite direction, rose the mountain on which the hotel was built, and immediately before her, the valley, with its rushing river, wound slowly away into the distant mists. Nearer home, she could look down and see the hotel garden, and already some of the guests had finished lunch and were strolling about studying the Alpine plants, or were sitting in the garden chairs reading the papers. From a
corner
of the garden, a narrow footpath ran along the mounta
i
nside for perhaps two hundred yards (though Celia could not be sure of the distance from this height), towards the chalet where Kurt had his private rooms; a particularly beautiful chalet, its balcony full of flowers. Celia could see from here the outside staircase that led to the balcony. She was interested to know what the interior was like, but perhaps she would never see it
.

As she watched, she saw Kurt cross the garden towards the footpath, and kept him under observation as he walked towards the chalet. She saw that he used the outside staircase, and went in by a door on the balcony. The sun was making her drowsy—perhaps she would sleep right here. But no, it would grow cold soon. Better perhaps to sleep on her bed. She rose reluctantly from the place
where she was so comfortable, and just as she was turning to go into her room, she saw that there was another figure on the footpath to Kurt’s chalet. Golden-haired Anneliese was swinging along briskly, and Celia watched her, too, as she reached the chalet, ran up the outside staircase, and went in by the doorway Kurt had used.

“I wonder if there is anything between those two,” wondered Celia, as she took off her shoe
s and h
er
dress and slipped underneath the enormous feather bed which served as an eiderdown, but before she had surmised anything about them, she had fallen asleep, and dreamed that she was crying copiously against Kurt St. Pierre’s shoulder.