The Golden Peaks (14 page)

She went upstairs, her heart full of love and pity for Dorothy, thinking that she would need a good deal of cheering up, if she were back on absolute rest. So that she was surprised and delighted, to find Dorothy extremely cheerful.

“Oh, I don’t care,” she said, when Celia asked her what she meant by this. ‘This happened before, and I was soon better. And my wonderful day makes up for this silly old absolute. I’ve been lying here, Celia, thinking of the waterfall, and all those funny stories that Mr. St. Pierre told me when you were climbing, and the music of the cow-bells; and listening to my musical box
...
”

“Now, not too much talking,” said Celia, holding her hand, and sitting beside her bed.

“Oh, I haven’t talked all day—I can talk a little now.”

“Not too much then.”

For Celia was once more grief stricken at the change in Dorothy. Her eyes seemed enormous in her small face, and there was a small hectic flush in her cheeks. Celia could see the rapid pulse-beat under the transparent skin of her neck, and wondered how the child could still smile. She glanced at the temperature chart, and thought of the old joke about the mountains of Switzerland. She said: “Dorothy, don’t talk so much. Rest yourself. Would you like me to read to you?”

“Oh, yes, read me
Tom Sawyer,
please.”

So
Celia
sat by the bed, holding Dorothy’s hand and reading to her, until it was time to go. Then, promising to come again soon, she left the rest centre, and, instead of making her way down to the hotel, she took a different small footpath round the mountain, and found a secluded spot where she could sit and think.

She was so heavy-hearted, so filled with grief on Dorothy’s account, that for a long time, she could not think at all. She could only feel; sorrow at the sight of Dorothy so ill, sorrow at the thought of all the child had suffered in the few brief years of her life, anxiety for the future and apprehension at the thought of the years of care that would be necessary. There was a constriction in her throat that was painful, and tears burned behind her eyes. She told herself that nothing would be gained by crying, yet felt relief as the tears filled her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

Dr. Sturm had said: “Her life would have been a very short one.” Celia knew now the extent of Dorothy’s illness; it grieved her almost beyond bearing that the child should have been shut up in school, suspected of malingering, given no sympathy, while illness slowly consumed her. There had been nobody to love her, nobody to whom she could feel she belonged, nobody who would understand how ill she felt. Until Celia appeared on the scene. Celia reproached herself that she had not made Dorothy her concern much earlier. She had sent birthday and Christmas cards and presents, and had made a few flying visits. She should have done more, much earlier. Now, perhaps, it was too late; for Celia was in no doubt about Dr. Sturm’s feelings about Dorothy. Now, perhaps,
she
must watch Dorothy slowly slipping away. Celia lay on the soft grass of the mountainside and wept.

Then, her overwrought feelings a little relieved, she told herself to be sensible. What would be gained by this? It would be better to plan what she must do.

She sat up again, trying to cool her burning eyes with her hands. Firstly and very important, she must try to stay on here herself, to give Dorothy the strength and encouragement which Dr. Sturm thought so necessary. That meant that she must do all in her power to please Mr. St. Pierre, and perhaps he would allow her to finish the summer season, and stay on for the wintersport. For no other job (and other jobs might not be easy to find) could be so conveniently near the rest centre, or give her so much time for visiting. And secondly, she would have to get in touch with Hilda about finance. Hilda must come to the rescue now, for Celia’s money was almost gone, and she could not pay fees out of her wages as a waitress.

Worried, anxious, feeling the weight of her burden very much today, Celia began her descent to the hotel. She did not wish to come on to the road, for she did not want to meet anybody from the hotel before she had a chance to bathe her eyes and make herself more presentable. She went by small paths, coming to the back of the hotel, near the path leading to the chalet, hoping to slip in through the garden unobserved. But as she approached the gate to the garden, Kurt came through it on his way to the chalet. He had not seen her, and was whistling from Mozart’s
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik,
tunefully and cheerfully. She turned away, hoping he would pass, but he had caught sight of her and called out cheerfully:

“Beautiful day, Celia.”

“Yes,” she said, her face averted, “it’s lovely.” Though she had not noticed the day.

He paused, but she went on towards the gate without
p
a
u
s
ing.
Suddenly, he took a step back, put his hand on her arm, and asked:

“What is the matter, Celia?”

“Nothing is the matter,” she said. “What
should
be the matter?” and pulled her arm from his grasp and ran away from him through the garden, into the hotel, up the stairs and into her room. For
she
knew that, at a word or touch of sympathy, she would dissolve once more into tears, and how foolish
she
would look then, weeping in the garden. Even the sight of herself in the mirror was enough to make the tears flow again. Sternly, she took hold of herself. She bathed her eyes, washed, changed into her evening uniform and went downstairs to wait at dinner. Many curious glances were directed at her, for bathing her eyes had done little to hide the fact that she had been crying.

“Are you not feeling w
el
l?” Inga whispered to her, as they walked out of the dining room together.

“Oh, yes, I’m perfectly well,” said Celia, with an attempt at a bright smile.

“
If you have a headache, or anything, we will manage your work for you.”

“No, thank you. You’re awfully kind, but I’m quite all
right.”

Johanna intercepted her as she piled bowls of salad on to her tray.

“
Celia
, you are all right, no?”

“Quite all right, thank you, Johanna.”

“You have some bad news, perhaps, no?”

“No,” chirpily.

“You can manage your work this evening?”

“Why yes of course.”

And later still Gustave, clumsy in his wish to help asked:

“Are you on coffee duty tonight, Celia?”

“No. It is Inga and Hertha.”

“Good. You look so tired and unhappy. Why don’t you rest?”

So they had all discussed her, thought Celia. How foolish she had been to give way to tears on the mountain. Yet even the thought of their sympathy burned the back of her eyes again. She could not understand it, for she was not given to weeping. Perhaps she had been working rather hard. Perhaps it would do her good to go up to her room, and rest on that peaceful little balcony overlooking the mountains and the valley. She was about to do this, when Inga came up to her.

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

“Oh, dear. What have I done now?”

“I don’t think you have done anything, have you?”

“I can’t remember any sins,” said Celia. “Is Anneliese there?”

“No. Anneliese has gone out—she went out to
dinner
with some
fri
ends.”

Celia was relieved. If she were to receive another lecture from Mr. St. Pierre, she would rather not have it in Anneliese’s presence.

She went into the office. The light was not switched on, although it was almost dark. Kurt was standing by the window, and he said:

“Come here, Celia.”

She went across the room, and stopped at a little distance from him.

“Come here.
”

She went closer and stood by the window.

“Now,” he said, “tell me why you have been crying.” She was surprised—she had expected anything but that. She did not answer, but thought wildly: Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t sympathize with me; knowing that it would need little to upset her
again
.

“It was nothing,” she said with an attempt at lightness. “Just an odious attack of self-pity.”

“Well, I can’t have my waitresses walking about the
dining
room sad and red-eyed. People will think that I bully them. What caused the attack of self-pity?”

Celia
was about to put him off again with attempts at lightness and subterfuge; then suddenly, she changed her
min
d
.
Standing there in the dusk with him, she had a sudden longing to be herself, to be truthful and genuine.

“I was unhappy,” she said in a quiet voice, “about Dorothy.”

“Ah,” he said, after a moment, “what had Sturm to say of the little one?”

“Nothing very good, I’m afraid.
”

“So. Tell me what he did say.”

“He said a great many things. He said that if I hadn’t
ta
k
en
Dorothy to him when I did, she could not have lived long.”

“So,” said Kurt seriously.

“And I thought of all the child had endured. Living in school, her illness ignored, expected to work at lessons and play at
gam
es.
Nobody to love her or write her letters. And
illn
ess
growing and growing in her ... Children are so vulnerable. They have no defence against what grown-ups can do to them. What would have happened to her if I hadn’t gone to see her on her birthday and noticed that she was ill? Or, how much illness could I have prevented by going sooner?”

“You must not reproach yourself. Surely it was for her mother to see.”

“But I do reproach myself.”

“You are young yourself, Celia. Only a child when Dorothy was
born
. You have taken on responsibility early enough. What else did Sturm say?”

“He says that Dorothy must be here at least one year, probably two; I could see that he thought it would be two years anyway.” Her voice broke suddenly, and she was silent, fighting back tears.

“That is a long time,” said Kurt

She was still silent He looked at her in the dusk, but her face was averted, her figure very still. He said:

“If there is anyway, Celia, in which I can be of help to Dorothy, I should be glad to know. She has a courage which I admire in so frail a child.”

Celia wanted to say that he
was very kind but could not trust her voice. She would have liked to pour out her problems but did not dare. She wanted to say that without a job she could not stay, and Dr. Sturm thought it was necessary for her to stay. But she stood still, miserable, subdued. The silence lengthened.

At last, Kurt moved sharply. Well, he thought, if she does not want to confide, I will be the last to force
confidences
. If
she
insists on carrying this burden alone, I cannot help her. He said, his voice more remote now: “Well, please remember, Celia, that I am anxious to help if there is any way in which I can.”

And the sudden remoteness in his voice, which struck on her ears as coldness, did what his sympathy had failed to do, and released a flood of tears which suddenly overpowered her. She sank down on to the nearest chair, her face in her hands, and wept Kurt stood with a hand on her shoulder, waiting for the flood to subside, surprised at her sudden abandonment to weeping. After a moment, he moved his hand on to her hair, and stroked it gently, his fingers in the soft curls; and suddenly Celia was at peace. She wanted to take his hand and hold it against her cheek, wet from weeping; wanted to hold it against her mouth and kiss it
.
It would have .been bliss to turn into his arms, and lean her tired head on his shoulder. But it was better than nothing that sympathy should be in his touch on her hair. After a while, she said:

“I’m sorry I wept. It’s all right now.”

“Everything seems too much for you at times, Celia?”

“Yes,” she said, although now her burden seemed lighter.

“
Your friends are in England, and sometimes you need to overflow, to talk to somebody.”

“
Yes,” she said, surprised at his understanding.

“And you wonder if you can manage alone. But you will,
Celia
,
you will. You are one of the people who
can
manage.”

“I always think,” she said, “that you look upon me as the soul of inefficiency.”

“I? Not at all.”

“In spite of my Nemesis?”

“
That,” he said. “That is because you are not in the
right job, Celia.”

“Please,” she said, “have you a big handkerchief?

He gave her his clean one from his breast pocket, and took from her the inadequate scrap of linen she had wept

“Now,” he said, “don’t worry too much about Dorothy. She is in good hands with Sturm. And remember to tell me in what ways I can help her
...
And don’t, my child, go about the hotel looking like Niobe.”

“I won’t. I assure you I don’t usually weep.
”

“It isn’t a disgrace,” he said. “We aren’t ashamed to laugh when we are amused; why is it so dreadful to weep when we are unhappy? That is very English of you, Celia.” After a moment or two, she went up again to her room. Now, she felt different. There was still a sadness in her, but there was comfort for it, too. True, his concern had all been for Dorothy, but it was comforting to know that there was somebody else interested in Dorothy. In the middle of her concern, she found herself speculating on Kurt. What manner of man was he? She had thought him severe and exacting at first. He could be both of those
things
, yet his music had revealed a passionate spirit, his mountain climbing had revealed, through Geoffrey, courage, tenacity, skill and daring; and she suspected beneath all this a great fund of tenderness for the right person. What heaven, she thought longingly, it would be to be loved by him.