Doctor's Orders (13 page)

“Don’t let us worry about all these things, Hans,” she said. “It’s so sweet, so lovely, just to be together—let us not give it up until we have to.” For this was Anthea’s way, to let things drift; to hold on to
thing
s as long as they were pleasant, and to let them go as soon as she was tired of them.

They walked back to the hotel together, Hans’ strong arm about her, helping her down the rough path. He left her on the plateau, leaving her to enter the hotel alone, while he went over to the farm buildings. Anthea went straight upstairs to her room, and was surprised to find Diana waiting there for her. Diana looked a little pale and worried.

“Hello, Diana,” said Anthea, going to the mirror to comb her disarranged hair into place.

“Anthea, I must speak to you,” said Diana.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s about Hans.”

“I guessed that. What do you want to say about Hans?”

“Anthea, you are getting yourself very much talked about in this hotel.”

“Well, that doesn’t worry me. People have to talk about somebody, I suppose; and I don’t care.”

“You are getting Hans talked about, too. And Hans has to live here—he has to be here when you have done.”

“Hans is quite capable of looking after himself.”

“Anthea, will you tell me what your own attitude is? I get so worried about you. Your father gives me the job of looking after you—I could perhaps salve my conscience by saying that he was thinking only of your physical health—but I think he meant more than that. I can’t see you running into trouble without trying to do something about it.”

“And what trouble am I running into?”

“With Hans and this affair. You know it can come to nothing.”

“O.K. then. It can come to nothing, then why worry?”

“You may get hurt in the process of the affair.”

“Ah. In what way?”

“Anthea, you understand me perfectly well; and I’m only trying to help you.”

“Then don’t bother, Diana. I’m not running into any trouble. You can be satisfied about that. And you have no complaints about the way I conform to my health routine. Let it go at that, and don’t worry your head about me.”

“Is it fair to make Hans in love with you—to spoil him for Katrina?”

Anthea suddenly smiled, a joyous smile.

“I don’t know if it’s fair, Diana, but it’s perfectly heavenly; and if you think any little protests of yours are going to make me give up anything so utterly wonderful, then you’re quite mistaken. Why don’t you just stop bothering yourself about me, and let me run my own affairs?”

Diana was suddenly silent. This was the most she had ever succeeded in getting out of Anthea, and it alarmed her. It sounded so much more serious than she had thought it was. She hoped Anthea was not in love. An Anthea really in love would be capable of any wild schemes and acts.

She lay awake for a long time that night, wondering what she should do. She knew that Mr. Wellis would hardly hold her responsible for Anthea’s flirtations, since he had never been able to do anything about them in the past; but she did think he would be justifiably annoyed if this affair got out of hand, and he had been informed of nothing. Should she let him know that Anthea was becoming a little more involved than was quite desirable, in an affair with a young Swiss, and even, perhaps, suggest that a further change of milieu might be a good thing? Diana did not like to think of Anthea’s reactions if she were informed that they were moving from the Morgenberg, but it might have to be done.

One morning, at breakfast, Anthea said:

“Dr. Frederic’s secretary just phoned to remind me that I have an appointment today.”

“I hadn’t forgotten,” said Diana, who had been counting the days to it, in the hope of being taken to the children’s clinic.

“An odd time, though, just after lunch.”

“We can have lunch in the town, then, and be ready for him in good time. I think it is his day for his children’s clinic—he said something about taking me over the place.”

Anthea was not very interested in that, but it opened up possibilities for herself, and she went in search of Hans immediately after breakfast, to discover if he could also be in the same town that afternoon. When she and Diana set off in the hired car, both had high hopes of the day, but neither confided in the other.

Dr. Frederic was pleased with Anthea’s progress: and it was true that her lazy and contented sojourn at the Morgenberg was being of tremendous help to her health.

“I think,” he said, “that, if you go on in this way, you will be able to return to London at the end of the six months, with reasonable safety. Provided, of course, that you then continue to act sensibly.” He turned to Diana.

“I arranged the appointment for this afternoon, so that, if you are still interested, you could accompany me to the children’s clinic.”

There was the old formality in his voice. That Sunday of holiday seemed to be forgotten—his professional manner was a barrier between them. Diana said:

“Yes, I am still interested—if it is not too much trouble for you to take me.”

“And Anthea?” he asked. “Is she interested too?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” said Anthea with complete frankness and rather to Diana’s relief. “And, in any case, I have made other arrangements. I am meeting a
fri
end.”

She met Diana’s eyes, with a challenge in her own. They made arrangements for meeting at the end of the afternoon and Anthea went away, promising the doctor that she would continue to be sensible.

The drive to the children’s home was inclined to be a silent one. Diana was wondering how Anthea would pass the afternoon, sure that it would be in Hans’ company, afraid that Anthea was getting deeper and deeper into this affair. The doctor was absorbed in his own thoughts, preoccupied about one or two difficult cases and the ever-present problem of fitting more work into the day than it could reasonably hold.

Diana was not sure quite what treatment she expected at the children’s home, but she had not expected that, after the briefest welcome from Matron, she would be handed over to a young nurse, who would conduct her over the premises. The young nurse, however, was efficient and charming, and, although she could speak no English, she understood Diana’s German very well. And the children were very interested in their new visitor, so that, by the time the young nurse went away and left her on her own, Diana was already establishing friendly relations; and had half a dozen self-appointed guides among the children who need not stay in bed. By the time Matron came to invite her to afternoon coffee, she had a long list of names of children who wanted foreign stamps, or scraps for the scrap-books, or pieces of material for patchwork cushions and quilts.

Diana had hoped that Dr. Frederic would be joining them for coffee, but Matron said he was too busy. She talked to Diana about the home, and the continual pressing need for more help; and an idea took root in Diana’s mind and rapidly grew there. As Matron went on talking about this work so dear to her heart, Diana contemplated her idea. Why should she not take on a job here? It interested her, it would improve her German and French languages, and it would keep her in touch with Dr. Frederic. When Anthea returned to England, Diana’s job would be at an end. She would be faced with the
necessity of finding a new one. If there was work here, and it was difficult to find people to do it, why should she not stay on, working here? The Matron was a thoroughly kind and genuine person and would be good to work for. Diana thought it well worth while bearing in mind; and when Matron went back to find Dr. Frederic, Diana went back to the children looking at them and the home with new eyes.

A little later, Dr. Frederic walked along one of the wide corridors with Matron. From one of the rooms, there came a sound of hilarious laughter from the throats of many children.

“What goes on there?” asked the doctor, his eyes lighting up at the sound of such gaiety. He had had a long clinic and he looked weary. Matron went to the door, which was slightly open, and pushed it a little wider to look in. The doctor looked over her shoulder.

They saw Diana in the centre of a group of children. She had a small child on her knee, and another, whose neck was in a plaster cast, leaning against her shoulder. She had been reading a story to them in German, and had found some of the older children in convulsions of merriment about her accent; so the story had been abandoned in favor of a lesson for Diana in the dialect spoken by the children; and she, in return, was teaching them to say short things in English. Some of them had been hopelessly overtaken by giggles, and the giggling was infectious, so that even the little ones laughed without knowing why. Dr. Frederic touched Matron on the arm, and they went on, not disturbing the happy group. A little later, they sent a nurse to bring Miss Pevrill, and Diana went out to meet the still white-coated doctor.

“I can’t return with you,” he said, without preamble, “so I am sending you back with Gerhardt, who can return for me later.”

“I don’t mind waiting at all,” said Diana.

“But you have to meet Anthea; and I have a double mastoid to do; and will not be ready for a
long time. So it is better that you go with Gerhardt.”

“Certainly,” she said, noticing that he already looked very tired. “I’m sorry to give him the extra journey.”

“It is his job,” said the doctor shortly, and Diana thought he wanted to be rid of her to get on with his work, so she held out her hand at once.

“Thank you for bringing me,” she said. “Goodbye.”

He took her hand in a firm grip. His was very cold.

“I am sorry I was too busy to show you round. I hope you have been interested all the same.”

“Yes thank you,” she said. “I should like to come again. But I must not keep you now. Goodbye.”

Almost before she had reached the door, he had started back along the corridor. Diana went out to Gerhardt, who stood respectfully with the door of the car open for her; and was whisked away down the mountain. Her afternoon had been interesting, but the doctor had had no time for her, so that it had not been quite what she expected. She realized that the day on the mountain, when they had picnicked together, was one of those exceptions that proved the rule—the rule that his work was the one great, absorbing preoccupation of his life. She had been mistaken in imagining that she had got beyond the impersonal stage with him—she had simply been fortunate enough to share with him one of his rare periods of relaxation. It seemed that he had scarcely noticed her today.

Anthea met Diana at the appointed time and place. She was very gay and excited and talkative, and it was Diana who was quiet and thoughtful. Diana, remembering the friendliness of that Sunday in the mountains, had almost been prepared to discuss the problem of Anthea with the doctor; but this afternoon had shown her plainly that he had
far more important things to occupy his mind than Anthea and herself; and she must cope with this problem alone.

The following week, on the day appointed for the children’s clinic, Diana spent many long minutes communing with herself as to whether she should telephone the doctor’s secretary or not. She could go as far as the town by bus, but the journey to the children’s home up the mountain was almost impossible without a car, unless one was prepared to devote the larger part of the day to it. But if the doctor were going, in any case, to his clinic, and
if he
really wanted visitors for the children, then he would not mind having her as a passenger in the car. On the other hand, she did not want him to think she was pushing herself forward; nor, if she had committed any spoken indiscretion on that night after her accident, did she want him to think she was running after him. Several times she went to the telephone, almost lifted the receiver from its hook, and then changed her mind; but at last, she found enough courage to make the call and speak to Dr. Frederic’s secretary. He sent a message that he would be delighted to take her, and she set happily about making up a parcel and setting off in time to catch her bus. She would be leaving Anthea alone, but she knew that was unimportant since, more often than not Anthea left
her
alone, and Diana’s presence in the hotel would not insure Anthea’s. Madame de Luzy had turned out her workbasket for pretty pieces of material for the little girls
’
patchwork, and the Steuri family and other hotel guests had given her books and magazines from which the children could cut scraps. The stamps for which she had written off, to several friends, had not yet arrived, but she knew she could safely promise them.

She arrived at the doctor’s house in time for his departure, and most of the drive was taken up in discussion about the children, their hobbies, their illnesses, their courage and their liveliness. At the home, Diana found herself once more deserted by the doctor, but received like an old friend by the children; and, on the return journey, the doctor left her in the town, because she had barely time to catch her bus.

“If you really think my visits are of any use,” said Diana, “I would like to come next week.”

“I'm quite sure they are,” said Dr. Frederic. “The children are quite excited about you. Come whenever you can, by all means.”

The next week, however, he was called away to Rome; but had not forgotten her. His secretary telephoned to say that Gerhardt would drive her to the home in the doctor’s absence, and on this, her third visit, the Matron and staff seemed just as pleased to see her as the children. It gave her a wonderful glow of pleasure and satisfaction, and when she came out, saying to Gerhardt that she hoped she had allowed enough time to catch the bus, and Gerhardt informed her that the doctor had instructed him to drive the Fraulein back to the Morgenberg, she felt so happy that life seemed to blossom for her, and the day took on a golden tone. She was experiencing the feeling of being liked and welcomed and considered; and her resolve to try to work here when Anthea returned to London was strengthened.

So her weekly visit to the children became routine. She helped with stamp collections, cut out pieces for the patchwork cushions, giving instructions to little girls working in the dark, stuck scraps into scrap-books, read stories to the little ones, helped to amuse the more fractious of the patients. Usually, she drove with the doctor; but a doctor intent on his work, not, by any means, regarding this as a social occasion. His social occasions, Diana observed, were more likely to be with Antoinette, who often lunched with him on this clinic day, or who was waiting to dine with him in the evening, this being the one day of the week when he was almost certain to be available.

One evening, at the Morgenberg, when Anthea had disappeared as usual, and Diana had been talking of the children to Madame de Luzy, the old lady said:

"It is such a charming thing, the way dear Armand loves those children. You know, all his time for them is given—he does not get one penny from it; yet I often think, of all his valuable work, this is the part he enjoys the most. We, his friends, have said so often that he should be married and have his own family; but there, it seems his work is all he wants
...
”

“I don’t think so,” said Diana. “He has told me that his mind is made up about it.”

“Really? He actually said so?
”

“Yes. It came up, you understand, in the course of discussion about something else.”

“But that is very good news. It is not announced yet, so I will regard what you have said in confidence, but I am indeed surprised that Antoinette has said nothing to me. It is something we have both wanted for so long. How happy the dear child must be.”

Diana was silent. There was certainly no doubt in Madame de Luzy’s mind who was to be the lucky bride. Perhaps it was a good thing—perhaps they were suited to each other so well—perhaps
...
Diana sighed, and Madame de Luzy looked up at her.

“You are tired,” she said, sympathetically. “You must not work too hard for these children. I know Armand—he does not spare his helpers in this precious cause.”

Diana did not contradict her, but she was not tired. She sighed because of the loneliness that suddenly seemed to engulf her, that weighed upon her spirits and depressed her.