Doctor's Orders (10 page)

If it had not been for Katrina, Diana might even have been grateful for this absorption of Anthea’s, for it made her so much more easy to deal with. She no longer grumbled at being immured at the Morgenberg; she did not miss the life of the Splendide or other hotels like it; she rarely danced, or smoked or drank; and her health improved daily.

Dr. Frederic was pleased with her. She was, he was rather surprised to see, fulfilling his instructions about her mode of life, faithfully and well. Diana, accompanying Anthea to her appointments, felt a great embarrassment in the presence of the doctor. Try as she might, she could not remember just what she had told him on that long drive to the Morgenberg, travelling behind Gerhardt in the Rolls. She remembered the comforting support of his arms; she remembered talking a great deal; she remembered that, finally, he had stopped her talking and told her to be quiet, and that, in her weak and hazy condition, she had shed a few tears of desolation. But what had she talked about? Was it Anthea and the problem of Hans? It might have been, as this was often in the forefront of her mind. Or had she babbled of her private affairs? Had she, worst of all, let fall any hint of her feeling for the doctor himself? That would be unbearable. It was that that accounted for her embarrassment when she saw him. She had not been quite herself, and in just the vague and shaken frame of mind when she might have shown her feeling for him, but he betrayed nothing; and the more embarrassing the things she had talked of, the less likely he would be to let her know of it.

She was very pleased when Anthea came to her to tell her she would be flying back to London for a wedding. She had known that Anthea had been invited to be a bridesmaid, but Anthea’s acceptance had depended on her state of health. Now it was all arranged. Anthea was to fly back some days before the wedding, to be fitted for her dress; and would stay for a week after it, seeing her friends and “picking up a few new clothes.” It seemed to Diana that she already had too many clothes to be able to wear them all, but she welcomed the visit for Anthea’s sake, glad of a break—however temporary
—
from Hans.

“Why don’t you come, too?” asked Anthea. “I can get you an invitation to the wedding.”

“I’d rather stay here,” said Diana. “I shouldn’t know any of the people.”

“Well, if the wedding doesn’t appeal to you, you could still visit your friends, buy some new clothes, and so on.”

Diana smiled at Anthea’s conception of her life. “I have very few friends,” she said, “and I can’t afford to buy any more new clothes; and I would really be very much happier here.”

“All right. Let me know if there is anything I can bring back for you. Oh, it will be good to see London again, and a few nightspots, and some of the old gang
...
”

“You will be careful, Anthea, won’t you?” asked Diana in quick alarm. “Dr. Frederic only consented to your going if you were very sensible.”

“It depends,” said Anthea, laughing, “on the temptations.”

“It’s
your
health at stake, Anthea. Don’t undo all the good work we’ve done.”

“O.K.,” agreed Anthea, equably. “I’ll be sensible.” But Diana could not be sure that she would.

The Morgenberg seemed a very much quieter place without her. Diana was filled with a heavenly feeling of rest and peace, and—though she did not like to admit it—relief at having Anthea off her hands for a short time.

She and Madame de Luzy spent a good deal of time together, hiring the car to take them into the valley for shopping, concerts, and exploration. Those were very pleasant expeditions, and Madame de Luzy would often talk about Dr. Frederic and his many achievements. It was true that she always linked him very decidedly with Antoinette, but Diana told herself she would have to become reconciled to that.

Diana also went for many long walks alone, taking her lunch with her to eat on the mountains. She found Hans at work on more than one occasion, and enjoyed her talks with him. He was sensible, very interesting on the subjects of his own country and his own people, and treated Diana with the greatest respect. Diana did not believe he would have overstepped the line with Anthea either, if Anthea had not flagrantly encouraged him to do so. He certainly was outstandingly handsome in a rugged fashion, and Diana could see his appeal for Anthea, but she hoped that the stay in London would re-orientate Anthea’s ideas, so that, when she returned, she would see Hans’ entire unsuitability; and turn back to the men who
w
ere more at home in her world.

Madame de Luzy went away to spend a few days with friends. Diana supplied herself with some new books, and looked forward to a time of comparative solitude. The respite she was enjoying was altogether agreeable, and she experienced a wonderful content, a welcome ease.

On Sunday, as she took a little walk on the mountain plateau after breakfast, Hans passed her on his way to the farm buildings.

“Dr. Frederic is in the hotel, asking for you,” said Hans.

“Oh? He knows, surely, that Miss Wellis is away?”

“I think so, Fraulein. He asked for you.”

Diana hurried into the hotel. She did not at first recognize the doctor, because he was not wearing the usual professional garb; and when she did so, seeing him in the light grey trousers, cream silk shirt and English-cut jacket of navy blue, she was struck quite anew by his good looks and distinguished bearing. He came to her with his hand outstretched, and she put hers into it, in a welcoming handshake.

“Good morning, Dr. Frederic. You do remember that Anthea is away? She has gone back to London.”

“Yes, I remembered. What I did not know was that Madame de Luzy is also away. I called to see her.”

“Oh, what a pity. You should have telephoned, and that would have saved you a journey. Is it too late to offer you some breakfast or some coffee?”

“I would like some coffee—if you will join me.”

The maid brought their coffee out to the balcony. Diana sat in the shade and poured it for him. She was wearing a cotton summer dress of blue and white, and looked very young and pretty. The cap sleeves covered her shoulders, but left her arms bare, and they were smooth and brown and beautifully moulded. The doctor’s eyes rested on them, and on the youthful lines of her cheek, and on her chestnut hair, full of warm coppery lights, smooth and shining.

“You have a free day today?” Diana asked him.

“A beautiful Sunday stretching before me with no commitments,” he said. “Unusual—very welcome.”

“And you have wasted the first part of it on a fruitless journey.”

“Not wasted. Nor entirely fruitless—since you honor me with your company.”

“Still, it wasn’t what you came for; but anyway, I’m sure this marvellous air must be some compensation.”

“And you?” he asked her. “You have now quite recovered from your accident?”

“Oh, completely, thank you. I
was
pretty hideous with bruises for about a week. You were very kind to me that day.”

“Perhaps you would like to be kind to me, in return?”

“How could I?” she asked him, smiling.

“Spend the rest of this beautiful Sunday with me.” She looked quickly at him, and he smiled at her. “Well?” he asked.

“You think I am lonely,” she said.

“No. I think I am lonely.”

She shook her head.

“I should think you are often glad to be alone,” she said.

“Then must I take it that you do not wish to be bothered with me?”

“Oh no,” she said quickly, and they both laughed.

“Then what shall we do?” he asked.

“What I would
like
to do,” she said, “is to go and see an entirely new part of Switzerland, and take a luncheon with us and picnic somewhere, and then walk
...
”

“How the English love to picnic,” he said. “Don’t you want to?”

“Oh yes. We will ask them here—in the hotel
—
to make us a picnic. And where would you like to go? Lakes, valleys, mountains?”

“Mountains. I love the high places.”

“Ah, then I know the very place to take you, on top of the world.”

He arranged with Frau Steuri for a picnic hamper. Diana went to bring a coat, and they
walked on the plateau while they waited for the hamper. Then they got into the car and set off. It was not the Rolls today, but a fast rakish-looking car which he drove himself. In fact, Diana thought, everything was a little less dignified today; the car, the clothes, the manner. He had shed the professional man, and she hoped she would see more of his personal side, the int
ima
te side of him.

They drove for nearly two hours over difficult roads; roads which climbed steeply, zigzagged rapidly, narrowed dangerously. There was not a great deal of traffic, but, as it was Sunday, enough to make very careful driving essential. At last, however, the doctor left the road and started to, drive along a track barely wide enough to take the car. Now, indeed, the going was rough, and they bounced slowly and carefully along, often bending and twisting, until the path ended altogether, and they drove a short distance over thick mountain grass scattered with boulders, until the boulders became too big to be negotiated. Then the car stopped, and the doctor turned to Diana.

“I think this will do,” he said.

Diana took a long breath.

“Yes,” she said, “I think so, too.”

She got out of the car, and stood looking over a most magnificent panorama of mountain country. It was almost frightening in its bare, bleak majesty
—
great purple masses stretching to the mighty snow mountains behind. Somewhere near was the roar of a waterfall; below her spread a magic carpet of flowers, the Alpine meadow flowers that would be cut for cattle food; beneath her feet the short turf was softly green.

“It’s beautiful,” she said.

“You love the high places—is this high enough for you?”

“Yes, indeed. How did you discover it?”

“I got off the road one dangerous, misty night, when I had come over the pass; and when I could go no further, I stopped. With my torch, I found that hut there; and thinking discretion was the better part of valor, I spent the night there—very comfortably. Next morning, I went on; but when you expressed a wish to picnic in the high places, I remembered it.”

“It is amazing that there shou
l
d be a hut so high up.”

“No, you find them everywhere. Everywhere that a little hay can be grown and stored.”

“Yes, nothing is wasted here—I have often noticed it. Wherever grass will grow, a man will cut it with his scythe, however steep it is. They must be as agile as mountain goats.”

“They cannot afford to waste good grass—they haven’t your rich, big, English meadows.”

They turned back t
o
the car to bring out the hamper. Diana chose a good place for their picnic, and they spread their meal out on the white cloth. For the doctor, the Steuri family had produced their best, and everything was delicious. He helped Diana to the delicacies and poured wine into her glass.

“Ah,” he said. “This is better than hospitals and ailments and troublesome patients.”

“But only for a brief respite,” said Diana. “You would not like to be without them for long.”

“That is true,” he agreed.

The air was wonderfully stimulating and clear; the breeze played gently round them. They could see no road, no human being for as far as the eye could reach; only mountains stretching away to more mountains, and, in the foreground, a few mountain farms. Diana, looking at all this, but thinking of the doctor, said slowly:

“It must be wonde
r
ful, I think, to have one great absorbing occupation in life.”

He looked at her across the small, snowy cloth. “You mean my profession?” he asked.

“Yes. To have something in which one is entirely wrapped up, that absorbs one’s time and thoughts and energies; that is meat and drink to a person
—
and all interest and
d
elight
...”

He was still looking at her, with some curiosity. “And you think my work is all this to me?”

“Well
...
” She was a little confused. “That is the impression I have gathered,” she said.

“And you? You haven’t an absorption of this kind?”

“No. Most people haven’t. It’s only the lucky ones.”

“It needn’t, of course, be absorption in a job,” he said. “It could be in a person.”

“It could be,” agreed Diana. “I suppose, for women, it is usually in a person.”

“And not for men?”

“Well, I suppose, generally—not always, but more often—it is men who have intense absorptions for their work, rather than for a person. I don’t know what happens if somebody with an intense interest in his work suddenly develops an intense interest in a person, too.”

He looked at her quickly, but it appeared she was speaking impersonally. He said, equally impersonally:

“I suppose the two interests could live side by side.”

“I should think,” she said slowly, “that each would suffer from the other.”

“Perhaps,” he said, “it depends on the intensity of the person concerned. Perhaps he—or let us say, she—can generate enough fuel to keep both these interests going.”