Authors: Eleanor Farnes
CHAPTER THREE
A
few
days after the incident of the collis
i
on, Celia found herself free from after luncheon for the rest of the day. This was the first time since she had started her work, that she had had so long a period to herself, and she decided that she would first visit Dorothy and then go down the
mountain
and take the train into Interlaken. With this in
mind,
she wore her most attractive suit and a jaunty little hat, and carried bag and gloves; adopting a conventionality that she had discarded since her arrival.
Dorothy greeted her with delight “Celia, you do look nice. Why are you dressed up?”
“I’m going to Interlaken when I leave you; I have the rest of the day to myself, and it is time I saw something other than the
Rotihorn
and the rest centre and the road that connects them.”
“We came through Interlaken.”
“Yes, and saw the station; now I am going to see more.”
“I hope you have a nice time. Now I have some good news for you, Celia. I am going to get up all day.”
“Good for you, Dodo.”
“Or what
they
call all day. From after breakfast until five o’clock.
Unless
my temperature goes up. But it’s been very good lately—look at my chart
.
”
Celia looked at the chart
.
“It’s a beautiful temperature,” she said admiringly.
“
It used to look like the mountains of Switzerland—now, it’s only the foothills.”
Dorothy laughed delightedly.
“When it looks like East Anglia,” said Celia,
“
we
’ll
be getting you out of here.”
“Is East Anglia flat?” asked Dorothy.
Celia looked at her reproachfully.
“In the morning,” said Dorothy. “I can sit on the terrace, and in the afternoon, I can walk on the plateau. Later on, they will let me walk on the mountain. There are lots of walks, you know, with different numbers, and at first you can only do number one, and then come back again—that is a very short walk; then you can do one and two; and later when you are better, more and more. Soon I will be doing number one.”
“That is fine. Perhaps, sometimes, I will be able to do them with you.”
“Irmgard is going to let me do sewing now. Could you bring me something to sew, Celia? There is a woman here who does lovely tapestry and she says
she
will teach me. Could you bring me some canvas, Celia, and some wool?”
“Yes. I’ll get them in Interlaken for you.”
They talked a little longer, and then Celia left Dorothy, and began her walk down the moun
tain
.
She felt very encouraged by the progress that Dorothy was making. Not only her health, for that was problematical until some test had been made of it; but also in her spiritual recovery. In spite of her illness, she had more life and more
enthusiasm
now than Celia had ever seen in her. Celia felt a deep gratitude to Irmgard, who was Dorothy’s favorite nurse, and to Dr. Sturm, who gave encouragement and interest with all his treatments.
She passed the point where the workmen were beginning on Geoffrey Crindle’s chalet, and later she passed the
Rotihorn
, and went on her way to the village. The sun was shining, the air was clear, and youth and vitality were in her step.
She heard a car overtaking her. She drew into the side of the narrow road to allow it to pass. It drew level with her—a long and gleaming car, built for speed—and slowed down.
"Can I give you a lift?” asked Kurt St Pierre.
She hesitated. His eyes went swiftly over her, taking in the well-cut suit, the jaunty hat, the tastefully chosen accessories.
“If you are going to the village,” she said.
“
Thank
you.”
He opened the door for her, and she joined him on the front seat.
“Free day?
”
he asked, as he set off again.
“Yes. No more duty today.”
“And where are you bound for?”
“The train, please. I am taking the train for Inter
laken.”
“I am going to Interlaken myself. I can drive you in.”
“No, please don’t bother, Mr. St. Pierre.”
“It is no bother, when I am going there.”
She protested no more. Instead, she took a tight grip of her nerves and reminded herself that he must have been driving the mountain roads for many years, and that this one, in particular, he must know like the back of his hand. Nevertheless, each time they came to one of the sharp bends of the zig-zagging road, she sat
cl
enched until it was safely negotiated. The power in the car, which would be so reassuring on an upward climb, seemed a menace going down, but at last they were on the gentler slopes, and then on the wide road that led into the village. From there into
Interlaken
,
it was very easy going, and Celia thoroughly enjoyed herself. They came into the main part of the town, having exchanged a
minimum
of small talk on the journey, and Kurt stopped the car.
“That was lovely,” said Celia. “Thank you.”
He waited round to her side, and opened the door for her
.
“Most of the shops are this way,” he said. ‘The Kursaal and gardens that way.”
“Thank you,” she said again. “Goodbye.”
He nodded, and watched her for a moment as she crossed the road. Then he took some papers from the car, and walked away in the opposite direction.
Celia felt a wonderful feeling of freedom. The rest of this day was her own. She stood on the pavement, looking into a jeweller’s window, wondering what she would do with it. She would look at the shops, and then see the
K
urs
aal
and
gardens, and then explore the town.
The shops were
fascinating
,
displaying a variety and richness of wares that had been missing from most London shops for years. Jewelled watches of infinite variety, beautiful carved ivories, exclusive hand embroidery, all vied for her attention. Stores that could scarcely be called by so humdrum a name as a grocer
’
s, offered goods scarcely less exotic and exciting. Celia saw that nylon stockings and endless varieties of chocolate were apparently in unlimited supply. There
w
ere many of the shops that catered for the tourist, offering souvenirs of every description. Celia amused herself in many of them by playing the musical boxes with which they abounded; musical powder boxes, cigarette boxes, musical chalets.
When she had walked in the gardens, and seen the Kursaal; when she had seen the
clock laid out in fl
owers and the dwarfs who struck out the hours, she deserted the orderliness and opulence of the main streets, and walked narrower roads, crossing two rivers, or two branches of the same river, and pausing to lean on the parapet and admire the cool, translucent green water running so swiftly under the bridge, and the mountains sloping down to the water. She went on, finding older squares, shabbier but no less picturesque; the tall houses, painted green, pink, orange or white, with their balconies bright with flowers. She paused to admire a small church with small, elegant spire, standing at the corner of a cobbled square, flanked by chestnut trees, as yet leafless. It was quiet here, and the gleaming, luxurious cars of the main roads did not intrude. A few children played on the cobbles, calling to each other in the dialect that Celia could not understand.
The sight of the children reminded her of Dorothy, and the fact that she had not yet bought her tapestry canvas and wool. She retraced her steps to the shopping centre, and after a little search, was able to get what she wanted. Suddenly, as she passed one of the souvenir shops, she was halted by the sight of a small array of glass balls, each of which enclosed a model scene—a village in the mountains, a church at the edge of a lake, a lake in the mountains with cows grazing. She knew that, at the slightest shake, a flurry of snowstorm would blot out the little scene, and slowly the snowstorm would subside until the scene was
clear
once more. She remembered these things from her childhood, and for a moment her mood was nostalgic, as her mother, Peter, their old and well-loved house, flitted through her mind and were gone. She must buy one of these little snowstorm balls for Dorothy. She stood on the pavement, for they were arranged on a table in the doorway, and picked them up, one after another, shaking them lightly to see the snow obliterating the highly colored scenes. She was
s
miling
gently to herself, as she watched them.
“Which is it to be?” asked a voice behind her, and she started violently. “The church by the lake? or the village in the mountains? You cannot walk away after playing with them for so long.”
Celia turned swiftly to find Kurt St. Pierre standing behind her, looking down at her with an amused smile.
She said:
“They are fascina
ting
things. My mother had them when she was a child, and I had them when I was a child; and now I want to give one to Dorothy.”
“Dorothy?”
“My niece. She is at the rest centre above the Hotel
Rotihorn
.”
“So?” He seemed surprised at that, but after a moment, he said:
“And which one will you give to Dorothy?”
“I can’t make up my mind between the church and the village, they are both so pretty.”
He picked them up, and took them both inside the shop. A few moments later he came out again with a small parcel, and presented it to Celia.
“There you are,” he said. “Both. Now Dorothy can choose for herself.”
She flushed with delighted surprise.
“Oh, but no
...
” she protested.
“How long do you intend to stay in town?” he asked her.
“I haven’t thought. I must find a place to have tea, soon, and then perhaps some more exploring.”
“There is a concert this evening, chiefly Mozart
.
If that would interest you.”
“Oh, it would,” she said.
“Then if you wait at the
corner
of the Kantonalbank, I can give you a lift ba
ck
to the hotel.
”
“If it isn’t, bothering you too much
,”
she said.
“Not at all,” he replied politely, and, raising his hat to her, he left her standing on the pavement with the little parcel in her hands.
She found a place to have her much-needed tea, and could not resist the temptation to untie the string of the parcel and produce the two glass snowballs. Her lips curved into a smile as she looked at them on the table in front of her. Dorothy could choose the one she liked better, and the other Celia would keep herself. The small present pleased her unreasonably—out of all proportion to its value. It was childish to like it so much, but it was the first present she had received for a long time (excepting Gustave’s little delicacies, which still found their way to her out of the kitchen), and she realized afresh how
pl
e
asant
it was to be thought of. It was a relief to sit here, in this pleasant place, to shelve her problems for a time, to forget the hard work that occupied her days, to feel free and attractive out of her uniform. She was glad that she had worn her nicest suit and the most becoming hat she possessed, glad that Mr. St. Pierre would be able to
thin
k
of her in clothes other than those that he provided for her use. If, thought Celia, he ever spares me a thought at all.
Certainly, over her tea, she spared
him
many of hers. He was of powerful build, and tall with it; not strictly handsome—at least not in the faultlessly regular style—yet decidedly attractive. A man of strong personality, of abundant vitality. Celia had found out from the staff a few of the facts of his life; that he was thirty-four, without parents, or brothers and sisters, that he was a mountain climber of repute, that he might, at any time of the year, winter or summer alike, go off into the mountains, leaving his work, his hotels, his responsibilities behind him for a few days. This, she thought, seemed to fit him well; perhaps because she had first seen
him
in the
mountains,
it seemed that they were his natural
element.
She walked a little more in the town, exploring, and then went to the symphony concert, enjoying every moment of it. Afterwards, she found her way to the Kantonalbank, and waited at the
corner
, watching the passersby; until Kurt's car slid to a
standstill at the curb, and he opened the door for her.
She was prepared for as silent a drive home, as the one to Interlaken had been. Nothing she had yet seen of Kurt St. Pierre had led her to believe that he was talkative; but this
time
,
at least, he was intent on finding things out
.
He began with the concert
.
“Have you enjoyed your Mozart?” he asked her.
“Very much,” she replied.
“You really enjoy symphony concerts, or you went because I advised it?”
“I went because you advised it; and because I always enjoy Mozart.”
“Particularly Mozart?”
“No. At
lea
st,
not in the way that Mozart-lovers mean. Mozart head and shoulders above everyone else.”
“You don't think he was?”
“No. I
think
he’s away up at the top there, but not alone up there. Others are with him.”
“Such as?”
“Beethoven. Schubert You’ll probably disagree.
“Why?”
“It’s getting to be a fashion now to think they are wild and unrestrained and violent But
I
think Beethoven is grand. I love his big bangs. I expect quite soon his perfectly lovely melodies—bits out of all the symphonies and
concertos—
will be called sugary and sentimental and vulgar. But I hope I never think so.”
“So you do know what you are talking about
.
”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“What about the chamber music?”
“Well, I shouldn’t
think
they’ll ever call that anything but perfect
.
The only wonder is that he got away with it in
his day and age.”
Kurt was silent for a while, and Celia respected
h
is mood, and gave her attention to the road before her, brightly lit by the powerful headlights.
“This Dorothy,” he said at last
.
“Yes?”
“Your niece, you said?”
“Yes.”
“How long has she been at the rest centre?”
“Since the day before you caught me falling down the mountain.”
“So. Is that why you are here?”
“Yes, and why I wanted a job here.”
“Ah. Did Anneliese know?”
“
Yes.”
“Has the child no parents?”
“Yes. A mother and a step-father.”
“Why did they not bring her?”
“Not interested, I’m afraid. You see, she is my brother’s child. My brother was killed in the war, and his wife has married again. She never wanted a child, she isn’t fond of children, and she put Dorothy into a boarding school at the very earliest opportunity, and left her to languish there—in holiday times, too.”
“So you have assumed responsibility?”
“Yes. I went to visit her at school on her birthday last year, and was amazed at her condition. How they failed to discover it at the school, I can’t imagine. I wrote to my sister-in-law about it, but
she
didn’t do anything, so I took the child to a specialist myself. And he said that the mountains would probably cure her.”
“Is it necessary that you stay here, too?”
“I think so.”
“Why? She will be well cared for at the sanatorium.”
“Yes, I think so, too. But she has been left too often. She is only ten, and for four years has been in school. She needs
...
” Celia stopped.
“Go on,” said Kurt.
“No. I’m talking too much about myself.”
“You are not talking about yourself at all—you are talking about Dorothy, and I want to hear. What is it she needs?”
“She needs loving. As, of course, all children do.”
“And this is what you will do for her?”
“Yes, I hope so. I blame myself for not looking after her earlier. But you see, I was only fourteen when she was
born
, and the war years were odd years for all of us, and
afterwards I was busy fitting myself into a job; and I doubt if I would have been old enough to do anything much about her before now. But I might have discovered the
disease earlier.”
“It is her mother who should reproach herself.
”
“Oh, Hilda!
Self-reproach
is something she doesn
’
t
know about.”
“How ill is
Dorothy? What does Sturm think about
her?”
“
He doesn’t say very much; he is very cautious. He
says he is getting to know her, and one cannot be in a
hurry. But I am a little wo
rri
ed myself.
”
“Why?”
“
They are being so very careful with her. When I
brought her here, I did not think she was very bad; but the
journey
almost killed her, I think; and they have had her
in bed for a long time
...
When
I th
in
k of what she must
have endured at school, trying to keep up
with the others,
trying to play games ... and getting so ill...”