Authors: Eleanor Farnes
Her annoyance stayed with her, and slowly in
creased.
Celia walked through the public rooms of the hotel, and thought that, with the passing of the busy season, and the subsequent quiet throughout the place, her job was rapidly becoming superfluous. It was not necessary to have four waitresses in the dining room now. They frequently had days off, to compensate for the rush they had endured in the height of the season, and today Celia was free. It was a wonderful limpid day; not so brilliant as the days of high summer, but still clear and sunlit. She was tempted to climb the tall green peak which had challenged her throughout the whole summer. Soon, she would have no time for expeditions, but must decide, in all seriousness, what must be done for the future.
A few people sat about the courtyard reading or chatting. The water running from the fountain into the first trough, and from there into the second, sang its usual cheerful accompaniment. The fountain was crowned with begonias now, and the same flowers lent their brilliant colors to the balconies. Soon they would be finished, too. The whole staff was looking forward to the relief from work at the end of the season, but not Celia. This had been a wonderful summer for her in many ways, and she viewed its approaching end with sadness.
She went to the kitchen and asked Gustave to pack a lunch for her. He promised that it would be a special one. She went upstairs and changed her dress for a sensible skirt and a coffee-colored shirt under her suede waistcoat
.
She put on her socks and climbing boots and took her rucksack and her stick. As she returned to the kitchen for her lunch, she encountered Anneliese.
“So you are going climbing, are you?” asked Anneliese.
“Yes, I’m going to climb that tall green peak that challenges me from my window every day.
”
“You are feeling very energetic,” laughed Anneliese.
“Which is
the
best way to follow?” asked Celia, and listened while Anneliese gave her detailed instructions.
“You must go up as far as Mr. Crindle’s chalet, and then instead of going up to the pinewood, you turn off by the chalet with the blue shutters, and take the path that goes round the mountain—you know the one? good—until
you come to a small shrine. Then you turn off in an upward direction and follow the path. It soon becomes just a footpath, and sometimes it is a little rough and you may lose it, but it will appear again; a
n
d there is some sort of path right to the top. But you will have to work very hard to get there and back by dinner time, unless you decide to come back by the shorter route.”
“Which is the shorter route? Do you think I could find it?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. It is much rougher, that is all. But when you are at the top, there are only two paths down; the one you came by, and another. If you follow the other, you will come sooner or later to a ravine with a small wooden bridge across it. When you are over that, it is not hard to find your way down—you can see landmarks everywhere. It is much shorter, but as I said, a little more difficult.”
“I’m a mere beginner, Anneliese—will it be too difficult for me?”
“Oh, no. Anybody can do it really.”
“Thank you. I’ll get off now. I just have to get my
lunch.”
Anneliese watched her go. Her face was inscrutable,
and her eyes were cold and vengeful.
Celia
set off in high spirits. It was a wonderful day, the air like wine. Her rucksack was light and comfortable, and she was otherwise unimpeded. The thought crossed her mind as
she
came to Geoffrey’s chalet that he might like to go with her; her steps slackened while she thought about
thi
s
,
but she was reluctant to turn back to the hotel. So she went on alone, leaving the chalet behind her, and turned off when she came to the blue shutters.
It was very pleasant on the path round the mountain. Soft wind blew against her
face,
and the sound of the cowbells rose and fell with its rising and fading. The sun shone on the snow peaks, and she could see where fresh snow had fallen during the night. Soon, snow would begin to blanket everything. The cows would be taken down from the summer meadows, and the mountains would be wrapped in winter quiet
.
She came to the shrine, and turned her face upwards. The path had already dwindled to a footpath, and after a while, it left the pastures and zig-zagged its way through the forest
.
Here it was dark and chill, and a little depressing for the forest was thick and went on for a long way. It blocked out the view and kept off the sunshine, and Celia began to wonder if she would ever climb out of it Several times
she
was forced to rest, for she had set herself a good pace and was soon breathless on such a steep path.
At last, the trees became thinner and soon dwindled away altogether, leaving her above the forest with a marvellous view of the mountains, a feeling that she was now really on top of the world, and a wind that was much colder than the one in the valley. She set off again, for the top of the peak, and now what had been a stiff walk became a climb. She often used her hands to help her upwards, and her stick was indispensable. She soon became so hot that she took off the suede waistcoat, knowing it would be useful to put on again at the top, when she ceased to climb. As Anneliese had told her, the path seemed to disappear altogether at times, especially on the steeper stretches, and more than once Celia felt a stab of fear as she hauled herself up from boulder to boulder.
At last, however, she came to the top, and stood there, queen of all she surveyed on all sides. Before her stretched the giants among mountains, their snow-peaks reflecting the sunlight and between them and herself a green valley with scattered mountain farms, and the ever-present tinkling of the bells. All round her, valleys and mountains; and a majesty of cloud that rivalled them, settling round their peaks, but not obscuring the sun. This would be the place to rest and have her luncheon. She was surprised to find how late it was when she looked at her watch. She was ravenously hungry and she started on Gustave’s special luncheon with a delight that she had never known in the old days, for so mundane a thing as food.
After luncheon, she thought she could afford to rest a little longer. She had seen nobody since leaving the chalet with the blue shutters, where a little girl had waved to her. She had all this magnificence, this splendor, to herself. She lay back on the grass, listening to the vast silence—for the sound of the cowbells, a tinkling noise from the distance when she sat up, completely disappeared when she lay down. She had discovered this before; one heard the distant carillon plainly at one part of a path—then one turned in a different direction, or a shoulder of rock intervened, and the sound was gone.
She almost fell asleep. Her climb had tired her, and she was weary and contented. She was glad that there was a shorter way down, because her legs were beginning to ache. She sat up, deciding that she must start now, for she had spent a long time here at the top, and must be back in time for dinner, for
she
still had a job to do, light as it was. In
any
case, it was almost dark at dinner-time, and she must be back before dark. So she slung her lightened rucksack over her shoulder, grasped her stick, and took the second path, ignoring the one by which she had climbed.
It was certainly rougher on this path, and steeper. And Celia believed it was more frightening going down, if not so
exhausting
. She tried to recapture some of the confidence she had felt with Kurt, and found herself wi
sh
ing that Kurt were with her. She allowed herself to pretend that he was; that he was there, just behind her, watching the confidence in her step, and the courage with which she tackled the mountains. After all, she told herself, Kurt wouldn’t consider this a climb at all—this would be child’s play to him. She found that this encouraged her immensely, and she went on further, allowing herself to daydream shamelessly; that not only was Kurt following her, but that it was Kurt her husband, who followed her; that they would cross the bridge, descend the mountain, and return to their chalet—not the hotel, but Kurt’s chalet. The stove would be lit, and the chalet would be warm against the evening chill. They would
close
the long window, and draw tie curtains, and Roberto would bring their dinner across from the hotel; and when they had eaten it, and lingered over their coffee, she would play the piano for him, until he insisted on her stopping. Her mind went on further, playing dangerously, rather recklessly, so that
she
ceased to notice if the descent were difficult, and came suddenly, unexpectedly, to the wooden bridge.
Then dismay fastened on her. For the wooden bridge was barricaded. Poles had been fastened across the handrails, and a large notice in three languages informed her that the bridge was dangerous and unsafe to cross.
She was now in a quandary. There were only two courses available to her. To go on, over the bridge; or to go back, up to the top and down again by the long way. Both filled her with reluctance. It was dangerous to go forward; it was unbelievably tedious to go back. But one of them she must do. To go back would not only be tiring (and she was already tired), but would certainly mean being on the mountain after dark, and she had no torch and would certainly never find that disappearing path without one. To go on would be madness if the bridge were really unsafe.
She advanced to the bridge and took hold of the handrail. She tried to shake i
t
but it was amazingly firm. She ducked under the barrier to test the wooden planks of the bridge with her foot, and once more they seemed quite strong and firm. Surely it would hold for one minute, while one slender and not very heavy girl crossed by it, to the other side. Her standing upon the planks had no effect on them—they did not move at all. She looked down into the ravine which the little bridge crossed. It was a sharp
cl
eft in the mountain, and far below she could see nothing but boulder and rock. Not attractive, certainly. She stood in inde
ci
sion.
She realized that she ought to go back, but her heart failed her. It looked so simple to reach the other side of this bridge. It could not be more than twelve feet in length, and seemed strong enough. She advanced almost to the middle and still it seemed sound; and then
she
suddenly saw that it was the timbers on the far side that had broken—caught probably by a spring-time avalanche. Her heart began to thump painfully, as she edged forward. A glance downward into the ravine set her shaking, and almost she began to go back. Then suddenly the bridge creaked.
I can jump that little distance, she thought
.
I have often jumped much farther than that at school. I can take two more
steps
and jump, and I shall be perfectly safe. After all, they put that notice there because crowds of tourists might be impelled to cross it, all at once. The bridge creaked again, and suddenly
she
was afraid to go
back,
afraid of falling into the ravine below, completely afraid. She took a flying leap over the end of the bridge on to the far
si
de of the ravine, landing awkwardly, scrambling, slipping,
falling
down the
sl
ope, away from the ravine, into safety. She had lost her stick—
it
had probably fallen into the ravine, and had gone for good. But she saw, as she straightened herself and sat up, that a fairly good footpath stretched before her.
She was
shaken,
so
she
sat still for a minute or two, try
ing
to regain her composure. She knew
she
had done a very foolish
thing
.
She knew that if Kurt heard of it he would be very angry. As a mountaineer,
she
thought with a wry smile, I have blotted my copybook.
She
began
to rise, and the moment her right foot touched the ground, she dropped back again, for intense pain shot through her ankle. Now what had happened? She tried again, more carefully, and once again came the pain. She struggled to her feet, and knew that she would never get down the mountain unaided. She had sprained or broken her ankle, she believed, and could not touch her foot to the ground without a recurrence of the pain. She sat down and took off her boot, for she was troubled by the
constriction,
and in a minute or two it had swollen so that she knew she would not be able to put the boot on again.
“Well, Celia,”
she
told hers
el
f,
“
it looks as if you must stay here until someone comes to find you.” If she had not lost her stick,
she might have made an effort to get along. Without it, she was helpless. She sat still, the view of the mountain spread before her, and amused herself for a while by picking out the landmarks Anneliese had mentioned.
At the hotel Rotihorn, nobody had yet missed her. It was almost dinner-time, and people, were in their rooms changing. Roberto noticed that Celia had not taken her letters from the rack, but thought no more about it. Anneliese came down from her room in a black dinner-dress, and did not even look towards the letters. Kurt
came
out of his office.