The Mountains of Spring

by Rosemary Pollock

  As the old lady was sleeping naturally and peacefully the doctor shortly afterwards cleared everybody out of the room. A nurse had been obtained, and for the time being she would attend to the Senora’s needs. There was nothing for anyone else to do, and for a short time Caroline and Isabel toyed with a light lunch in the hotel’s crowded dining room. Diego had temporarily vanished. Afterwards they went to their rooms, and Caroline, lying down on her bed without intending to do more than close her eyes, succeeded in sleeping soundly until nearly half past five,

  When she awoke she had a bath and changed, and then went along to the Senora’s room. A soft tap on the door brought a request from the nurse to enter, and quietly she slipped inside. There was no one in the room but the nurse and her patient, but the latter was awake, and propped up against her pillows. She looked white and tired, but she smiled at Caroline, and extended a hand to her.

  ‘Ah, chiquita…’ She spoke faintly. ‘Come a little closer.’

  Caroline obeyed, taking the fragile hand of the invalid in both her own.

  ‘Did you enjoy the ruins?’ The question sounded rather anxious.

  ‘Yes, I did. Very much.’

  The Senora’s brown eyes stared up at her penetratingly. ‘I thought that perhaps … there might have been something else to interest you. You talked with Diego?’

  ‘Yes—yes, we did talk … a little.’

  ‘Ah … only a little?’

  Caroline flushed. ‘Only a little,’ she repeated. How much had those keen eyes guessed?

  The nurse stepped forward to intervene. ‘The Senora is tired,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, of course. I mustn’t stay.’ Gently, Caroline set the older woman’s hand down on the eiderdown, and smiled at her. ‘I’ll come again,’ she said. ‘If you don’t mind.’

  ‘I shall mind if you do not. Goodbye, my child.’

  As she turned to go the nurse nodded to her. ‘Perhaps tomorrow, senorita.’

  She went back to her own room, and shortly afterwards the telephone rang. It was Diego. He trusted she was comfortable, and stated that at a quarter to eight he would collect her for dinner. He sounded as cool and remote as if they had met for the first time that morning, but when she put the receiver down she was trembling.

  Why, she wondered, did he say nothing? Obviously, the incident at the Temple of Quetzalcoatl had meant less than nothing to him—and as she forced herself to face up to the fact her whole body seemed to wince. But he was behaving as if it had never happened at all, and that was the crowning humiliation.

  He didn’t even think her worth an apology. Punctually at a quarter to eight, however, he did arrive to collect her; She was wearing a simple, short white dinner dress, with no jewellery and her hair loose about her shoulders, and as they went down in the lift and crossed the hall to the dining room a good many pairs of masculine eyes followed her unashamedly, but he made no comment and in fact scarcely looked at her. Isabel was waiting for them—he had, she gathered, established the Mexican girl at their table before going to collect his other responsibility—and as they sat down waiters clustered about them. Despite air-conditioning, and tall windows wide open to the night, it was almost unbearably hot in the room, and throughout the long-drawn-out meal that followed Caroline felt as if she were being stifled.

  Isabel and Diego talked a good deal, with the easy intimacy of long friendship, but Caroline had no wish to join in their conversation, and she didn’t feel like eating either. She thought of the last time she had dined in public with Diego. They had danced together, and he had likened her to a rose … a white rose, in a moonlit garden.

  All at once her helping of smoked salmon revolted her, and, unnoticed by the others, she put her knife and fork down without touching it. Her eyes fell on a vivid bowl of imported roses which had been placed in the centre of the table, and the powerful scent rising from them seemed to her as nauseating as the salmon.

  Valiantly, she struggled through mole poblano— a Mexican speciality which appeared to consist of turkey with chile sauce—a small helping of ice cream and a peach, and then to her profound relief she heard Diego suggest that coffee should be served to them in a private sitting-room upstairs, and they all stood up. The sitting-room had been reserved at the same time as their bedrooms, and was on the first floor, not far from the Senora’s room. It was modern and very comfortable, with large picture windows which looked out across the moonlit valley, and across which no curtains had been drawn. There were deep settees and armchairs, and discreetly shaded table lamps. It was cool and quiet, and as Caroline sat down and leant back against a pile of cushions she felt the headache that had been hovering about her all evening begin to lift.

  Isabel was dispensing coffee—a job which had quite naturally, it seemed, fallen to her rather than to the English girl. She looked more thoughtful and serious than she had done earlier in the evening, and as Diego accepted a cup from her Caroline heard her mention his grandmother.

  ‘She will be all right… won’t she?’ she asked. Her accent was more pronounced than usual, and she sounded a little tense.

  Diego stood looking down at her, and Caroline thought he hesitated. Then: ‘I’m sure of it, Isa,’ he said.

  Her eyes, huge and dark in her magnolia-pale face, gazed up at him appealingly. ‘Really?’

  ‘Really, chica. Go to bed soon, you are tired.’

  She nodded and put her coffee-cup down, obeying him like a child. ‘I think I’ll go now,’ she said. ‘I am weary.’ They both watched as, very gracefully, she moved her wheelchair towards the door. At the door she turned and smiled at them.

  ‘Good-night, Caroline … I may call you so? Buenas noches, Diego.’

  And then she was gone. And Caroline’s heart began to flutter wildly because she was once again alone with Diego Rivel.

  But she need not have felt any particular agitation, for the Mexican himself was totally unembarrassed, and as calm and matter-of-fact as if their relationship had never at any time been on anything but the most formal footing. He suggested that she should pour herself another cup of coffee, and when she offered to pour him one too he accepted.

  Then he sat down and studied her. ‘You also must be tired,’ he said. ‘Soon, I expect, you will wish to go to bed. It is probable that I shall stay up very late—perhaps all night—so you must pay no attention to me.’

  Something in his voice made her glance across at him swiftly.

  ‘It isn’t quite true that the Senora—that your grandmother is certain to be all right … is it?’

  ‘Not quite true,’ he admitted steadily. ‘You are perceptive.’

  ‘But there is a good chance?’ Her eyes were anxious.

  ‘There is an excellent chance that she will prove to be perfectly all right—merely in need of prolonged rest. But on the other hand there is a chance that her heart has been affected. We will not know until the morning.’

  Shortly afterwards he left the room to have a word with the nurse, and was away for some time. Caroline took some Mexican and American magazines from a nearby table and began to leaf through them, but despite the keenness of her anxiety for the old lady, and despite the prolonged nap she had had during the afternoon she was really very tired, and it wasn’t long before her eyelids began to droop. One by one, the magazines slipped from her lap to the floor, and by the time the hands of the electric clock above the fireplace had moved round to ten o’clock she was fast asleep.

  When she awoke it was after midnight, and someone was arranging some cushions behind her head. She could almost have been certain, as she came to herself, that the same hand had lightly stroked her hair, but that wasn’t possible, for the hand belonged to Diego. Covered in confusion, she sat up quickly, and the cushions scattered.

  ‘I didn’t mean to go to sleep!’ she said foolishly.

  ‘Why not? At this hour it is a most natural thing to do. But you will be more comfortable if you go to bed.’

  She recollected that he had been trying to
make her more comfortable, and the thought caused her to flush vividly. But then she remembered what it was that had been on her mind when she went to sleep.

  ‘How is Senora Rivel?’ she asked.

  ‘Sleeping normally. The nurse is pleased.’

  ‘Oh, I—I’m so glad.’

  And then her attention was attracted by a sound— a faint, melodious musical sound. It seemed to be voices mingling in harmony, and she looked round, startled.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That?’ He strode towards one of the windows, and gazed out into the night. ‘It’s mariachi—traditional singers. Come!’ He beckoned to her. ‘From here we cannot see them, but that is not necessary.’

  She joined him at the open window, and from outside in the darkness there rose the throb of guitars, and of vibrant, exquisitely blended voices. They listened for a moment, and then she drew a deep breath.

  ‘ But it’s beautiful!’

  ‘You think so? I am glad, for it is truly Mexican.’

  ‘Are they employed by the hotel?’

  ‘I think not. They will have been sent to serenade someone—a lady, of course. Let us hope she is appreciative!’

  Caroline gazed down into the darkness. ‘What are they singing about?’

  ‘They sing about the mountains—the mountains of eternal spring. In our country it is always spring, and therefore, they say, it is always a time for love.’ She was silent, tears stinging her eyes as she listened. Her heart ached because of the man beside her, and the unearthly beauty of the voices below made the ache so intense that it was almost unbearable. But after a minute or two the melody changed, and because it was better than saying nothing she asked Diego in a husky voice to explain again.

  ‘Now,’ he told her, ‘they are singing of loss, and sadness, and the emptiness of a life from which the light has gone. They say that to a man who has lost his love it is as if a veil has been drawn across the beauty of the earth, and all the world has turned to grey.’

  The song went on and on, rising and falling with a piercing, melancholy beauty that was quite unlike anything Caroline had ever heard before. When it was over they sang another, and then another, and then it finally ceased, and she turned away from the window feeling shaken and exhausted.

  ‘I think,’ she said impulsively, ‘that was the most wonderful thing I’ve ever heard.’

  ‘Yes?’ He closed the window. ‘Perhaps, one flay, someone will send the mariachi to sing for you!’

  After that she went to bed, and in the morning she slept late. It was nearly ten o’clock when she opened her eyes, and strong sunlight was slanting through the Venetian blinds, making patterns on the carpet. She jumped up guiltily, and as soon as she was dressed went along to the Senora’s room. The nurse met her at the door.

  ‘Buenos mas, senorita.’

  Caroline glanced past her into the room. ‘How is Senora Rivel?’

  ‘Well, senorita…’ The nurse’s lips parted to reveal shining white teeth. ‘It is good news! The Senor Doctor says that there is after all nothing wrong. But for a week she must rest here.’

  ‘Oh! But that’s wonderful!’ Caroline felt a relief so enormous that the small elderly woman in the bed might almost have been a relative of her own. ‘Does Senor Rivel know?’ she asked quickly.

  ‘But yes, senorita. He was most happy. But he has had to leave—he has gone back to Mexico City.’

  Caroline stared at her. ‘He has?’

  ‘Si, señorita.’

  ‘I see.’ She did not see at all, but she did her best to dispel the feeling of flatness that the information had produced in her. ‘Can I speak to the Senora now?’ she asked.

  ‘Not now, senorita. She is sleeping, and it would be a pity. Later, yes?’

  ‘Yes … of course.’

  She turned away and went downstairs, wondering where Isabel was. In the dining-room she forced herself to consume a late breakfast of coffee and rolls, and just as she was about to leave her table a waiter came hurrying across to her with a note.

  ‘You must pardon, senorita. The gentleman said that you were to have this most urgently. It should have gone to your room.’

  Surprised and puzzled, she took the note and opened it. It was from Diego, and her fingers trembled as she held it. Its contents were brief and startling.

  ‘Dear Miss Ashley, I hope you will forgive my sudden departure, but I was left with little choice. Isabel has disappeared—I believe to join your brother in Mexico City. It is clearly my duty to follow her. I hope very much that you will be good enough to remain with my grandmother, but of course I have no right to expect it. In any case she is in good hands.’

  It was signed simply ‘Diego Rivel.’

  When she had read it Caroline sat down, rather suddenly, and placed it on the table in front of her. Then she read it through again, three times. After that, with a curiously blank expression on her face, she folded it up, put it into her handbag, and went upstairs to her room.

  Diego had gone away. He had gone in pursuit of the only woman in the world whom he would ever want for a wife. And he had made it absolutely clear, once and for all, that the little English girl who had been foolish enough to fall in love with him meant nothing whatsover in his scheme of things.

  CHAPTER X

  Days passed, and Senora Rivel, benefiting from complete rest and a change of air, improved rapidly. She seemed very pleased to have Caroline with her, and although she actually saw quite clearly that the girl was often very depressed she never gave any indication of having noticed anything. No word came from Mexico City, either from Diego or from Isabel, and nothing was heard from Peter, but all she would say on the subject was that no doubt in the end everything would sort itself out. She had great faith in Diego’s ability to sort things out, and while she would have been happy to see him for an hour or two she was philosophically prepared to accept that he had quite a number of problems to attend to before he could be free to drive out and visit her.

  Caroline was less philosophical, and for her the days dragged by with a dreariness that she herself realized ought not to have been possible in such surroundings. She should, she supposed, have been in Mexico City, endeavouring to keep some sort of an eye on Isabel, but she knew that on the evening before he left Diego had spoken to Senora Dominguez on the telephone, explaining that his grandmother might need her for some time, and in any case the last thing she felt like doing at the present time was dancing attendance on Isabel Dominguez.

  One morning, about a week after Diego’s departure, she was walking, rather aimlessly, in the parched garden of the hotel when she heard a familiar voice calling her name. She was so completely taken by surprise that she didn’t look round for a moment, but when she did she had no difficulty in recognizing the man striding after her. It was Dick Weldon.

  When he caught up with her he held out both his hands, taking possession of her wrists and looking down into her face.

  ‘Well, well! How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ she said untruthfully, gently disengaging her wrists. ‘Have you come to stay here?’

  ‘No, I haven’t. I’ve come on a delightful errand.’

  She looked up at him abstractedly, trying to concentrate on what he was saying. ‘What sort of errand?’

  ‘Well, it’s delightful because it concerns you. Otherwise, I’ll admit, there’s nothing particularly entertaining about it. I have a message for you, from the fiery Miss Dominguez.’

  She turned a little paler. ‘A message? From Isabel?’

  ‘Yes. I ran into her last night, at a rather solemn dinner-party in Mexico City. I asked her if she knew what had happened to you, and she told me. I said I’d be out here to see you more or less as soon as I could get my car started in the morning, and she asked me if I’d give you a message for her. She said she’d been going to send you a cable, but this was better.’

  ‘What—what was the message?’ Caroline asked. Her whole body felt extraordinarily tense.
>
  ‘Well, it’s something of a riddle, and I guess I’m going to have to help you solve it. Whether you want to fall in with what she’s asking you to do is another matter.’

  What is she asking me to do?’

  ‘She wants you to go to Mexico City this afternoon, in time to be in the Cathedral, of all places, by five o clock. She says there’ll be a great surprise in store for you.’

  ‘A great surprise?’ Caroline stared at him, frowning. At first her mind refused to work. She couldn’t understand what it all meant. And then an idea came to her, and more colour deserted her face, leaving her rather frighteningly white.

  Dick Weldon’s face changed. ‘Honey, are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course … I’m perfectly all right. But I think I understand the riddle.’ She spoke flatly, like an automaton.

  ‘Yes.’ Suddenly his warm grey eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I think maybe I could make a guess at it too. And I’m almost sorry. It’s the queerest thing, because from my own point of view I’m certainly not sorry. Nothing could suit me better than Rivel’s marrying that little girl. I know well enough how you feel about him, and if he felt the same way about you … well, I’d be nowhere. I guess I am nowhere anyway, but at least if he’s out of the way I’ve just a chance. The only thing is …’ he laughed briefly, ‘I love you so much I can’t bear to see you miserable!’

  Caroline looked at him in swift concern. ‘You’re—you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,’ she told him warmly. ‘And I do wish … I do wish that things could turn out well for you. But I can’t… you understand, don’t you? You understand everything.’

  ‘Yes, I understand everything. And don’t worry about me.’ He dropped his eyes for a moment, and then he smiled at her. ‘Now then, do you want me to take you to Mexico City?’

  She looked up at him with eyes so full of hurt that his humorous mouth grew a little taut. ‘Do you think I ought to go?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said gently, ‘I think you should. For one thing,’ he reminded her, ‘there’s Peter. I haven’t been able to trace him since you left, but if he’s anywhere about and he knows his girl is going to marry Rivel he can’t be feeling very good. Maybe you should be there.’