Authors: Eleanor Farnes
“Are any of us?” she asked.
“I didn’t like seeing you in this job at the beginning. It irked me, seemed all wrong. Then I heard he had taken you to the Mirabella; and then that you were staying here the whole summer, if possible, and it made me uneasy.
”
“I’m sure you’ve never heard a word against Mr. St. Pierre from anybody on his staff.”
“That’s true, but then I’ve never seen him taking out anybody on his staff—with the exception of Anneliese.
”
“Then why don’t you worry about Anneliese?
”
“Anneliese is Swiss, like St. Pierre. They understand each other. Also, I happen to know that Anneliese is expected to marry a young man in Zurich. That is a protection for Anneliese. When she goes off to the Mirabella, nobody thinks anything of it.”
“Do you
m
e
an
that they thought something of it when
I w
ent?”
“No, don’t misunderstand me. Everybody knows that Anneliese was too busy. But
I
worried about you, Celia.
”
She smiled at him with the bewitching smile that had taken his breath away the first time he met her.
“Then you mustn’t, Geoffrey. I do appreciate it that you should even think about me. Mr. St. Pierre scarcely notices me, and at the Mirabella he made me work hard, and behaved very well. He always behaves well—almost, one might say, indifferently.”
He still looked anxious. She put a hand on his arm, and at once, his hand closed over it.
“All right,” he said, “we’ll let it go. Only remember, Celia, that—as I said before—St. Pierre is no angel. I shouldn’t say this, I daresay, but he has a certain reputation. And now you’ll go away thinking
that
I’m a meddling
busybody, and you’ll think less of me, for it
.
”
“I shall not, Geoffrey. I feel delighted to know
that
I
have such a staunch friend out here.”
“Then, Celia, if you really thin
k
of me as your friend, let me take you out sometimes, will you? I'd be
delighted.
For old times’ sake, if for nothing else. Will you?”
She looked at him with a teasing smile.
“
Then
,”
she said, “I should probably have somebody warning me against you, and worrying because I was with you so often. You see, Geoffrey, there isn’t any
difference.
But I will come—I would like to—and I feel we really are friends after this afternoon.”
They walked down to the hotel together, and came into the courtyard. They paused for a moment by the fountain, and Celia put her hand under the waterspout
laughing
as the force of the water splashed it in all directions, and drank from her hand. Anneliese was talking to Kurt at the window of the office, and they both saw the
small in
cident.
Geoffrey reminded her once more that she had said she would go out to dinner with him; she laughingly consented again. Then they went their separate ways into the hotel.
Kurt frowned.
“Celia does not seem to understand the attitude she should adopt to the guests,” he said.
Anneliese knew very well that Geoffrey Crindle was a friend of her family, but she chose to say nothing in Celia’s defence. Kurt said, turning away from the window:
“I
shall
have to get Johanna to speak to her.”
Anneliese’s lips curved in a satisfied smile.
CHAPTER FIVE
The hotel Rotihorn
filled up for Easter, and with each fresh batch of arrivals excitement and holiday feeling mounted higher. The lounges were always occupied now, and often full, and sometimes Celia had to thread a way through the many people who gathered chatting in the large hall. The courtyard before the hotel held gleaming cars, utilitarian cars, little battered cars. The wrought iron garden seats and chairs, newly painted white, with red and white striped cushions in them, stood in inviting groups at scattered points in the garden, and round the courtyard. The spring flowers were at their loveliest, and the Rotihorn sported masses of them.
The tempo of work for the staff
gr
ew faster and faster. Only now did Celia realize how leisurely they had been working before, and she was grateful that she had had time to become accustomed to her new job, before having to plunge into the race it had now become. There was extra help at luncheon and dinner with the waiting. Three women from chalets dotted on the mountainside, came in before the meal and left again afterwards. They were respectable, comfortably-off married women, but, after the fashion of the thrifty Swiss, they saw no reason why they should not supplement their incomes by occasional work.
There was little time to spare. For the four days of the Easter, nobody had any time off, and for the week following, very little. Celia found herself working like an automaton, sometimes, by the time dinner was reached, almost in a daze; which the many languages spoken all round her did nothing to improve. When she was tired, she found it more difficult to switch over quickly. There were French and English, Americans, Swiss and some Scandinavians. Inga could speak Norwegian, and furnished Celia with a few key words; but when she was tired, even these escaped her. She found herself answering German with French, French with English. Fortunately, everybody seemed to
think
it funny; everybody had to have patience with the everlasting language question.
Anneliese seemed to be everywhere during this busy period. She was efficiency personified. She went on with her ordinary secretarial work, the bookings, the bills, the correspondence, but in addition to this, she arranged concerts, she arranged for coaches to transport guests quickly into Interlaken, she undertook telephone calls for people unable to cope with the telephone in a strange language, she arranged journeys and expeditions and booked seats. Her golden head was often to be seen in the middle of a group of guests, all trying to find out somet
h
ing. Kurt, helping her during the rush, was often at her side.
Had Celia realized it, it was this increased being with Kurt that kept Anneliese so sweet-tempered. The knowledge that she worked for Kurt and with Kurt, kept her always to a high standard, almost as if she worked imagining that he watched her. At one time, it had occurred to Anneliese, that, since Celia was accustomed to secretarial work, she might help her in the office, and another girl could be found for waiting at table. She had d
el
iberately made u
p
her
mind t
hat,
she would rather shoulder the work herself, than have Celia in the office when Kurt was there. Anneliese wanted him as much as
possible
to herself.
A concert had been arranged at the hot
el
itself for the evening of Easter Sunday. If the evening were cold or du
ll
, the concert would be h
el
d in the large lounge; but if the night should prove moonlit and mild, it would be
held in t
he courtyard. The staff was particularly unexcited at the thought of the concert—it was, apparently,
something
they had seen and heard so often before,
Swiss
folk-dancing, folk-singing, music, including the Alpine horn, flag
-
throwing, that they said they would not bother to
watch. As two waitresses were asked to be on duty to bring coffee or drinks to the audience, and Celia had never seen this type of concert, she volunteered to be on duty. Inga was
the other who said she would h
elp.
Celia met Kurt as she was hurrying through the corridor
at luncheon time that day. He paused.
“So, Celia
,”
he said, smiling.
“
Now we become busy
.”
“We certainly do, Mr. St Pierre.”
“You are going to watch the concert tonight?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I am to be on duty.”
“What? Who appointed you to be on duty?”
“I offered to be. I wanted to see it
.
I only wish that Dorothy could see it too.”
“Why not?” asked Kurt. “Could it not be arranged?”
“I wouldn’t dare to ask,” said Celia, smiling, “but it would have been a grand treat for her.”
Kurt looked at her carefully. It seemed to him that Celia was beginning to show the strain of her work. Some well-spring in her was flagging. Perhaps it was only temporary. He said:
“Shall I see if I can arrange it? I can talk to my old friend, Dr. Sturm.”
“Perhaps you’d better not
.
I have no way to bring her or take her back.”
“I can arrange that, too. It is only a matter of
min
utes
with the car.”
Celia doubted if Dr. Sturm would agree—it seemed too revolutionary a proposal to her. She was, therefore, agreeably surprised when Kurt sent her a message that he would bring Dorothy down just after dinner.
That evening, as Celia stood by one of the hotel entrances and looked across the courtyard, she could not remember when she had seen a more
mag
ic scene. T
he night had mercifully proved to be mild and
moonlit
and the guests were arranged on the garden chairs at the white
-
painted tables, and on many others brought from the hotel. The people from all over the mountainside had
come
too
;
some seated with the guests on three sides of the courtyard
,
others standing in the shadows of trees, or
sitting
along the edge of the water troughs, unheeding the
s
plashing
of the water behind them. Gentle colored floodlighting
ha
d been
fixed up by Roberto, and poured on to the performers, in their traditional costume, the women full
s
kirted, wi
th fine white blouses and the black hats with u
pstanding
black lace
brims, the men with feathers in their hats, and black velvet jackets, red-braided, brass-buttoned. The floodlighting fell on the masses of spring flowers, too, and between the
branches of the trees, and caused long shadows to lend mystery to the scene and spread little pools of blackness among the light. Against this background, the performance went on. The lilting singing, the swinging dance, the far
-
reaching music of the Alpine horn, were more enchanting in the open air, in this still,
clear
night
.
The flag thrower sent his flag—scarlet with its white cross—higher and higher through light and shadow, and caught it with dexterity. Dorothy, on her garden chair, squirmed with delight Every time Celia came back to her, having earned coffee to the guests, Dorothy squeezed her hand and said once more: “Oh, Celia, isn’t it lovely?”
A
t last it was over. The performers went into the hotel for refreshments. The audience stood about in groups,
talking,
laughing, every sound carrying on the
clear
air. The
fl
oodlightin
g
went out abruptly, and everybody laughed as darkness swept over them. Slowly, they realized
that it was far from being a dark night—there was actually a moon—and
s
mall
groups wandered off for walks
.
The people resident on the mountain trudged home again. Slowly, the courtyard emptied.
Dorothy, sitting in the hall, waiting to be taken home, looked very tired. Celia, free at last, hurrying towards her, felt a fresh pang. The child looked so frail, it was to be hoped this evening’s ex
cite
ment had not been too much for her.
“You are to have this,” said Celia, holding out a glass of
milk.
“It is nearly all cream. We must get some fat on you somehow.”
Dorothy took the glass, and sat there, very small in her big chair, sipping the milk. Kurt came from the corridor, looking for her. He gave the child a charming smile which
Celia
did not remember his using for anybody else.
“Ah, there you are. I shall have Dr. Sturm after me if we do not return you soon. W
el
l, little one, and did you like
the concert?”
“Oh, it was beautiful,” said Dorothy earnestly. Kurt saw that she looked tired, and taking the milk from her and putting it down on a table, he picked her up in his arms.
“It is late for you and you are tired,” he said. “In a few minutes you will be back in your bed.”
“Isn’t Celia coming?” she asked anxiously.
Kurt looked
back
and saw Celia watching them. It struck him that Celia looked tired, too.
“Come, Celia,” he said. “Dorothy wants you.” Dorothy leaned, exhausted, against Celia in the back of the car, as it swept its way up towards the plateau and the rest centre.
“Do you remember coming up here that first night?" she asked, “in that awful old car.”
“Yes,” said Celia.
“I did fe
el
so terribly ill,” said Dorothy.
“I know you did, darling.”
“It seems such a long time ago that we were in England.”
“Yes,” said
Celia
again.
“Do you want to go back,
Celia
?”
“I shall be glad to go back because it will mean you are better.”
“
I
don’t want to,” said Dorothy. “I like it here. I hate to remember that beastly school. Do you remember how cross that old Miss Skinner was when you took me away? And how angry the school doctor was? And how my mother snapped at you? Everybody there was angry and horrid, and tried to stop you doing things. But everybody here seems so nice.”
“It was just a little bad patch," said
Celia
soothingly. “You’re tired now, Dodo. Don’t talk.
”
For Celia was aware of Kurt driving the car, and listening to the childish voice. And she did not want him to think of her as an aggressive or managing person, who swept headmistresses and school doctors out of her way.
Kurt, when he stopped the car at the rest centre and helped them out, gave no sign that he had heard anything; but there was a picture in his mind of this small red-headed girl battling against unsympathetic authority for the sake of her niece.
He said: “I will carry her in,” and lifted Dorothy in his arms.
“
Please come, too,
Celia
,” said Dorothy.
Celia
hesitated, but followed when Kurt nodded at her. They were met in the large hall by Irmgard, who immediately took control, put Dorothy into a wheel chair and whe
el
ed her towards the lift.
“So,” she said, her usual happy smile on her face, “you have been very gay tonight. Did you enjoy yours
el
f?”
“It was lovely, Irmgard. Please can
Celia
come up and say goodnight to me?”
“I am keeping Mr. St. Pierre waiting, Dorothy,” said Celia.
They all looked towards Kurt
.
“Go along,” he said, “and say goodnight to her.”
“I won’t be long,” said Celia.
Dorothy smiled at him.
“Goodnight, Mr. St. Pierre,” she said, and blew him a
ki
ss. He laughed and replied with a salute, and went outside again to wait for Celia.
Celia
went upstairs into Dorothy’s room, but she would
not stay.
“I must say goodnight to you now, Dodo. Mr. St Pierre is a very busy man. It was nice of him to fetch you and bring you back—I mustn’t keep him waiting.”
“Come again soon,
Celia
.”
“Whenever I can, my dear.”
She went downstairs and out to the waiting car, but there was nobody waiting in it. She looked about her, and at first saw nobody on the plateau
ei
ther. Then, as she looked again, she saw the glow of a cigarette and walked towards it. It was well away from the entrance to the centre, and he was standing with his back to her, looking out over the valley and the mountain ranges. She stopped a little behind him.
“I hope I didn’t keep you too long, sir,” she said.
“You have been very quick,” he said, without turning. “Come here, Celia, and look at this.”
She stood at his side looking out with him. He said: “The lights from the building are a distraction. Come along here a little way; it is better without lights.”
She followed him as he went a short way along the mountain path, her eyes not yet accustomed to this light after the brilliance of the building, and her heart beating high, lest she took a false step and went hurtling down the steep slope. After a while, he stopped and turned.
“Now see,” he said, and stood beside her as they looked out from their mountain perch.
Celia took a deep breath, and stood and gazed and gazed, at a vast panorama of mountain and glacier under the light of the moon. There were stars, too, on the soft grey-blue of the sky, and down in the valley, there were little lights that gleamed yellow. These little yellow lights were oddly comforting, as if the vastness of the mountain range was almost too purely perfect, too magnificent, too cold under its glaciers and its eternal covering of snow.
How long they stood gazing, Celia did not know. But here without any shelter, the wind blew cold, and, wearing only her evening uniform with its fine white blouse, she shivered. Kurt saw her shiver and without a word, he took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders. She looked up at him with a
quick smi
le, half in gratitude, half in protest, and then looked away as a wave of pure happiness washed over her. The coat was warm with his warmth, and she hugged it to her, immeasurably comforted by this small gesture.
“Well, Celia,” he said at last, “you have see
n
something tonight to remember when you are back in England, haven’t you?”
“Yes, indeed,” she said.
“
They look so cold and remote and untouchable,” said Kurt. “They are an eternal challenge to me.”
“I see them only as a lovely picture,” said Celia. “But you see them quite differently.”
“Yes,” he said. “As ridges and couloirs, as chimneys and glaciers; as a challenge to accept, as difficulties to overcome. And Herrgott, what a satisfaction there is in overcoming them. I think I must plan another climb soon.”
“You know the mountains very well,” said Celia.
“Nobody knows the mountains very well. It has been said that there is nothing new to discover in the Alps; all
the difficult ascents have been made, everything is conquered. Yet, of course, that isn’t true. Everything has climbed; once perhaps, twice, ten times. Yet the twelfth time, everything may be different. The weather
changes
and is
b
ad, the whole climb becomes so dangerous, so extremely perilous that once more the mountain is the conqueror and one is lucky to come back alive. There are
m
oments
of the blackest despair, and moments of the finest
exaltation
.
Sometimes, at the end of a really difficult ascent, I swear I will never attempt it again; but as soon as the bruises have gone, and the ache has disappeared, I find myself
thinking
ahead, planning the next one.”
He turned to go back, and she turned, too. This time, he walked so closely behind her and slightly to one side, that often, as she picked her footholds in the light of the moon, their shoulders touched; and Celia rebuked herself for the thrill that coursed through her.
“Do you climb alone?” she asked him.
“Sometimes, yes, alone. Sometimes with companions. A few times with a famous guide. No amateur climber, like myself, however many renowned climbs he makes, can match these guides, who spend half of every year in the mountains. Yet when I am alone is the best for me.”
Yes, thought Celia, when he is alone, like an eagle on the wing, like a lord of the mountain. And she felt that he had no need of anybody else—he was sufficient unto himself.
They reached the plateau and the car. Celia took off his jacket and returned it to him, and they drove away towards the hotel. They swept into the now deserted courtyard, and Kurt stopped before the
main
entrance, for Celia to alight.
“If you get out here, I will put the car away,” he said.
She turned towards him.
“I must
thank
you for giving Dorothy her treat this evening,” she said.
“It was a pleasure,” he said formally.
“For her, it
was
a pleasure,” said Celia, “and she has had very few pleasures. You made me very happy—by making her happy.”
For a moment, their eyes met, and she was surprised to find his so dark, so warm and friendly, when they were always so searching and not always sympathetic. He said: “It doesn’t take much to make a child happy. Now, good night, Celia.”
She was dismissed. She got out of the car, saying, “Goodnight, Mr. St. Pierre,” and went into the hotel, and towards the staircase. Anneliese came out of the corridor and followed her up the stairs.
“Oh, Celia,” she said. “Where ever did you get to? Inga had to clear up by herself.”
Celia turned quickly, surprised at the resentment in Anneliese’s voice.
“I went back to the rest centre with Dorothy,” she said.
“Who gave you permission?” Anneliese’s voice was undoubtedly cold.
“Mr. St. Pierre told me to go along, so I thought it was all right.”
Celia looked so surprised at Anneliese’s manner, that Anneliese quickly changed it
.
“In that case,”
she
said, “I suppose it was all right, but Inga was not pleased.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Celia. “I will see Inga in the morning.”
Anneliese tried to wipe out of Celia’s mind any memory of bad temper. She said:
“Did your little niece enjoy the concert?”
“Yes, she was ve
r
y thrilled.”
“She is a sweet child,” said Anneliese, who had scarcely noticed Dorothy.
“It was very good of Mr. St. Pierre to bring her,” said Celia. Anneliese did not answer that. She was wondering why a journey, that could be made in a few minutes, had taken such a long time.
After the Easter rush, things became a little quieter at the Hotel Rotihorn, but never again so quiet as they had been at the time of Celia’s arrival. There were regular comings and goings, regular concerts and dances and expeditions. All the time, the pace was increasing gradually, until Inga told Celia, in August it would reach its
climax
in one long nightmare of work. Celia refused to look so far
ahead
,
and decided to take what the moment brought. Her life seemed to have settled into a routine. The work no longer seemed so hard and she no longer became so tired. Her free periods were divided between Dorothy and rambles over the mountain. When she had nearly a whole day free, she would go farther afield, taking the train. Alone, she achieved the journey in the chair hoist and enjoyed it thoroughly.
After the concert, Dorothy had had a relapse. Her temperature had soared and she had been put back to bed and kept there. Celia was alarmed at her feverishness, and worried about a further loss of weight. It
seem
ed to her that there was no improvement since they had left England—perhaps, indeed, the reverse. To her repeated regrets, Dr. Sturm had only one answer: “Ah, well, we know now where we a
r
e with her. Her strength must be built up very slowly. She has no resistance, no stamina, and she goe
s
down—quickly—psst! Do not be sorry, my dear young lady, it has given us some valuable knowledge. And do not reproach yourself. I am the person responsible for her.
”
But Celia was sorry, and often reproached herself
. She
went as often as she could to see the patient Dorothy.
Geoffrey she also saw often. It seemed that he arranged to go and inspect the progress of the work on his chalet on the
very afternoons that Celia chose to visit Dorothy; so that they had many chats o
n
the mountainside, or on the wide balcony of his chalet. He waylaid her so often in the hotel, that many eyebrows were raised, and the whole sta
ff
had heated discussions as to whether anything would come of it or not. Anneliese noticed Geoffrey’s intense interest in Celia with pleasure, and never showed the slightest disapproval when she came across than speaking
in
the corridors; rather she gave them a brilliant smile before passing on. Some of her free afternoons were spent driving with him; her rare free evenings might be given over to dinner with him. Their regard for each other was mutual, they were always at home with each other, and Celia
felt
a growing affection for him. Of Kurt, she had seen very little since the evening of the concert.