Doctor's Orders (11 page)

“It seems to me it would be difficult,” said Diana. “Take a person like yourself, for instance, with a passionate devotion to his work; it seems to leave so little room for passionate devotion to anything else. Which perhaps,” she ended up, “is the reason why you have not married.”

He said lightly:

“I wonder why everybody is so interested in getting me married.”

She flushed swiftly.

“I am
not
interested in getting you married,” she denied
.
“I was just wondering what happens when these two interests come up against each other. It just seemed to me that one of them must suffer.”

“If, in the light of later experience, I discover the truth about it, I will let you know,” he said, still lightly.

“I expect I shall not be at hand to hear. At the end of the summer I shall go back to London, and you will hardly have arrived at the truth by then.”

“One cannot tell. I seem to be under a slow and constant pressure, from all my
fri
ends, to get married. Even my old friend Madame de Luzy never fails to bring the subject up. They profess to be thinking of my welfare, of course; but I am always aware of this pressure.”

“I don’t think any amount of pressure would really influence you,” she said, “if your mind was made up.”

“You seem to think I am very strong-minded,” he said. He paused for many long seconds, before he added: “And, in fact, my mind is already made up on this important question.”

She looked quickly at him, her eyes wide, her ches
t
nut hair blowing back from her face.

“To remain a bachelor?” she asked.

His face, which had become quite serious, suddenly broke into a smile as he turned his head to look at her, his eyes going over her face, noticing her beautiful coloring.

“You don’t approve of that?” he asked.

She had to smile, too.

“I don’t suppose any woman really approves of a man remaining a bachelor,” she said. “It would be against her own best interests.”

He looked away again, over the view before him. “No,” he said, answering her question. “My mind is made up to be married.”

She lowered her eyes then, quickly; endeavoring to hide the sudden pain that seized her, that held her immobile for a moment in a paralyzing grip, and then seemed to fill every
corner
of her being. She tried to keep up an appearance of normality. She reached for her wineglass, sipping her wine, gaining a few moments to recover from what had been a sudden shock. The wine did her good, gave her warmth and some stimulation. She forced
h
erself to say calmly:

“You will be married soon?”

“Not very soon. There is no hurry. There are things to be settled first. Perhaps, for me, it is high time I was married. I am not so young, my dear Miss Pevrill, but for the lady in the case, there is plenty of time.”

Diana thought of Antoinette and felt a sharp stab of envy; envy of the woman who had inspired devotion in such a man. Antoinette was such a finished product; so poised, so beautiful. Diana hoped she had warmth and love, too; hoped that she would be able to respond to the doctor’s devotion, to keep it alive, reward it with an equal one. That was the least that he deserved, but people did not always get what
they deserved.

They packed the remains of the lunch into the hamper, and the doctor put it away in the car. He returned to the spot where Diana was sitting.

“Later, we will walk on the mountain, but first a little siesta. Yes?”

“Yes,” agreed Diana, smiling.

“You are comfortable there?”

“Quite,” she said, easing her back against the large boulder.

“We have talked a great deal about me,” he said, “but nothing about you. Please tell me about yourself.”

“I believe,” she said, with some embarrassment, “I talked about myself on the drive back to the Morgenberg in your car.”

Suddenly, as she said that, she wondered if he had told her about his impending marriage because of anything she had talked of, on that long drive.

Had she allowed her feeling for him to come to the top, to be admitted? Was that why he had told her
—
and seemed to make quite a point of telling her
—
that he was already committed? Was he telling her as kindly as possible to forget about him? She had difficulty in bringing her mind back to his next words:

“Oh, very little,” he told her. “About your troublesome aunt who lost her money, so that you had to work for both; and that then you had to nurse her through a long illness, until her death. You have had much trouble?”

“Oh no,” refuted Diana. “Not really. Not more than many people.”

“You choose to make light of it; but I hope there was some fun, too—some enjoyment?”

Diana looked briefly back over the years of her growing up, and the colors seemed uniform and rather drab.

“I suppose there must have been,” she said, “though, looking back it’s a little hard to find.”

“Then I had such a wrong impression of you.”

“Did you? What was your impression of me?”

“That you were a luxury-loving, idle young woman, who had taken no hard knocks from life.”

“Yes, that was a wrong impression; but after all, it’s rather nice to know that I can seem untroubled and not care-worn.”

There was a short but restful silence between them. Then the doctor said:

“We have talked of my own marriage; perhaps we can now hear about your affairs of the heart?”

“Affairs of the heart?” said Diana. “Conspicuous, I’m afraid, by their absence.”

“What?” he asked. “Not one?”

Not one? She asked herself, not one? Must she appear to be so unsought, so undesirable? Must she admit to not having one serious affair of the heart? And would it be quite true if she did? There had been very minor affairs; and there was the one with Gordon which
he
would like to become serious.

Moreover, if he thought that there were other interests in her life and her heart, would it not refute whatever she might have said to him on that long drive home? If she
had
said anything betraying
...

“You hesitate,” said Dr. Frederic. “So you cannot truthfully say there has not been one.”

“Nothing that is serious—nothing that has approached the stage of marriage.”

“And not one that is more serious than the rest?”

“Perhaps just one,” she admitted.

“Ah, now we have it. A young man?”

“Thirtyish.”

“He must be very patient, to do without you all the summer.”

“He has to be patient—he has a job to consider; but he will come over when he
h
as his summer holiday. And then, I can see, I shall have to walk miles and miles over the mountains.”

“So now we have the affair of the heart. Let me congratulate you both.”

“That would be premature. I said that there was nothing that was serious.”

“I see
...
Well, if you will have to walk the mountains for miles and miles, why not get a little training? I think you said you would like to walk.”

Diana rose to her feet.

“Yes, I should like that,” she said. But their walk was hardly training for the serious walking she would later do with Gordon, for they sauntered very contentedly, very lazily, over the soft turf of the mountain, declining to be tempted along the rugged paths, avoiding the steeper inclines, frequently stopping to admire fresh views, or simply to feel the breeze blowing round them and to inhale the cool, exhilarating air. They talked of music and of skiing, of London and of Switzerland, of books and of medicine, and in connection with this last, he told her of his children’s clinic.

It was a home for children in the mountain, he explained. It had its own nursing staff and medical staff, but he visited it as a specialist once a week, devoting an afternoon to his clinic there. Diana gathered that he had a special fondness, a special attachment for this clinic, and she liked the way he spoke of “his” children. He said:

“If you are really interested, I will take you one day.” She warmed with pleasure at his words. “I can arrange an appointment for Anthea on the day I have the clinic, and you can come to see my children. They have very few visitors, partly because of the inaccessibility of the homeland partly because they come from far-away points, even some of them from foreign countries, and so their families cannot get to them. The matron is always glad of anybody who will visit them, read to the little ones, teach them anything, bring them a flavor of the outside world. Children can get very bored, you know, in hospitals and homes, and one of the important things is to stimulate their interests. I warn you, that if you show the slightest interest in them, I shall have no pity on you and you will be doomed to teaching sewing to little girls, or basket-making to little boys; and if you can’t do these things you will be reading stories to them or sending them foreign stamps.”

“But it sounds interesting,” she cried, “and just what I would
like
to do.”

“Very well,” he said. “I gave you a chance to back out, but you weren’t wise enough to take it.”

“Do you prevail upon all your women friends like this?”

“All of them.”

“Mademoiselle Nicol, too?”

“Ah no,” he said. “We must let Antoinette be the exception that proves the rule. Her cool loveliness does not show to its best advantage there.” That was a little damping, and Diana became silent. They turned back to return to the car. and Diana was surprised to find how the hours had flown while they ate and walked and talked, so that, if they wished to reach the Morgenberg by dinner time, they must start back now.

The doctor stayed to have dinner with her, sitting where Anthea usually sat, at their little table for two; and afterwards they were joined at coffee by several of the hotel guests. When Dr. Frederic said he must leave, Diana walked with him to his car. The evening air was fresh and clear, the last of the sunset still lingering in the west, the mountains dark and wild against the light; the blue of night beginning to encroach on the eastern sky, framing a silver crescent moon.

“I feel,” said Dr. Frederic, “that I have been very selfish, usurping your Sunday like this.”

“I have enjoyed it,” said Diana, recog
n
izing this as a pearl of understatement.

“Then I do not need to feel guilty.” He put out his hand. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he said.

She put her hand into his. “Auf Wiedersehen,” she repeated. “And please do not forget your promise about the children’s home.”

“You meant it?” he asked quickly.

“Yes, of course I meant it.”

“Very well, then. I will not forget. Goodnight, Diana.”

“Goodnight, Dr. Frederic,” she said, and watched him get into the car, watched it going down the hill, thinking gladly to herself: He called me Diana.
I
wonder if he noticed, if he meant to. He called me Diana. And if I go to the children’s home, I shall see him—apart from Anthea’s appointments. I hope he won’t forget. I hope Anthea won’t want to come, too. Perhaps she will be like Antoinette, whose “cool loveliness does not show to its best advantage there.” Oh well, I haven’t got any cool loveliness, and I intend to go if he will take me; and I really do believe he enjoyed himself today—at least I hope he did; and he called me Diana
...

Maundering on in this foolish fashion, she returned to the hotel. She did not want to be engaged in conversation by any of the other guests, so she went upstairs to her room, and sat at the open window, looking out over the lakes and mountains which grew darker with every minute, as she went over the events of the day, slowly, with infinite enjoyment.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Diana
met Hans as she returned from her morning walk. He was bringing a large pitcher of cream from the farm into the hotel.

“Guten Tag, Hans,” she said, with a pleasant smile.

“Guten Tag, Fraulein,” he said, pausing. “I think today will not be so good. Already there is much cloud, and later there will be rain.

“I suppose we can’t always have sunshine.”

“Miss Wellis returns today, isn’t it?”

“Yes, today,” said Diana, if she can drag herself away from all her friends. I must order a car to go and meet her.”

“She will have a great many friends in London?”

“A great many. She is almost too much in demand.”

“It would be a pity if we should welcome her back with rain,” said Hans politely, and, with a brief salute, went on his way to the farm, knowing quite well that Diana was reminding him that he was very small fry compared with Anthea’s London friends. Diana felt a little ashamed of herself, but was glad to have done it. If Anthea would not see sense, perhaps Hans would.