Doctor's Orders (16 page)

“Mr. Wellis and I,” said Dr. Frederic, “have been discussing Anthea and her health, and the next step to be taken in her progress; so perhaps you would like to be in the discussion.”

Diana seated herself and smiled at Anthea.

“Dr. Frederic tells me she has made quite remarkable progress,” said her father. “I must say that I am very pleased with her for being such a good and sensible child.”

“Stop talking about me as if I were six years old,” said Anthea. “I’m grown up.”

“Well, you don’t always act like it,” replied her father, “so when I find you being sensible, I feel you deserve a little praise.”

“I have been telling your father,” said Dr. Frederic, “that there is really no reason why you should not return to London as soon as you wish. I do recommend, of course, that you should limit your late nights, put yourself into the hands of a reliable specialist for periodic check-ups, and generally have a regard for your health; but, as long as you do these things, you can return as soon as you wish to London.”

“But I don’t want to go back to London,” said Anthea.

Her father looked at her in astonishment.

“You don’t want to go back to London?” he said, as if he could not believe his ears. “My dear Anthea, when I remember the fuss we had to get you to leave it
...
”

“That was a long time ago. I’ve discovered that I like Switzerland very much.”

The two men were a little nonplussed. Diana, listening, understood what was in Anthea’s mind; and Mr. Wellis understood it, too. The doctor said pleasantly:

“Well, a little longer here can only be beneficial to your health; but there is certainly no need now to remain at the Morgenberg. I now see no objection to your moving to one of the big hotels in the valley. It might be more interesting for you to try a new part of Switzerland, since it isn’t necessary to have these frequent appointments with me. The Engadine, perhaps
...
”

Anthea looked at him without reply. Then she looked at her father, and then at Diana. She did not say anything for what seemed a long time, and the expression on her face changed completely. She had been happy, smiling, vivacious. Now, she was hard and determined and cold. At last, she said:

“I do not intend to return to London yet; and I see no point whatever in uprooting myself to move from one part of Switzerland to another. I am perfectly happy where I am.”

“I seem to remember,” said the doctor, “that you were very unhappy at the Morgenberg, very bored. You would not—what was the word
—
moulder in such a dull place, and I had to be very severe with you. Now I am offering you release.”

“But I don’t want it,”
s
aid Anthea. “And I see now what has been going on. There is a conspiracy.
I see now why father had to make a business trip to this country: why the doctor finds me so much better, well enough to go down from the mountains;
I see that you have all been planning things behind my back.”

“You will, in any case, have to leave the Morgenberg soon,” said the doctor. “It will close down.”

“Then I will stay until it does.” Anthea’s voice was rising sharply as her anger rose. She looked at Diana. “And you,” she added bitterly, “not content with spying on me all the summer, have to carry tales to my father. What did you write to him, what sort of stories have you been putting out about me, to make him hurry out here, to make everybody want to move me? Always setting yourself up as such a model of virtue
...
”

One or two of the other guests were looking curiously in their direction, as Anthea’s voice rose. Her father laid a restraining hand on her arm.

“Be quiet, Anthea,” he said, and there was authority in his voice. “Remember you are in Dr. Frederic’s house and don’t make yourself conspicuous.”

Diana remembered Anthea saying that she did not mind being conspicuous, and half expected a renewed outburst; but apparently even Anthea had a respect for the company she was in at the moment, and hesitated.

“It does not matter,” Dr. Frederic said. “If Anthea feels so strongly about staying at the Morgenberg, we will leave her there. I had an idea she would be glad to leave it. However, it is not worth making a fuss about.”

Mr. Wellis looked as if he thought it were, as if he would have liked to take the matter up with his daughter, but Dr. Frederic looked at him, and a sign passed between the two, and Mr. Wellis decided to wait. Anthea, the wind rather taken from her sails, relapsed into a somewhat sulky silence, and the doctor, feeling that he was neglecting his other guests, went away to them. Antoinette, reaching out a well-manicured hand to rest on his arm, drew him into her circle; and Diana saw him smile at her.

At the end of the evening, when they left for the long drive back to the mountain hotel, Dr. Frederic went with them to their car. Mr. Wellis walked out of the house with Anthea, the doctor was a few paces behind with Diana.

“Do not trouble yourself too much about Anthea,” he said. “I see how self-willed she is, but do not let it upset you. We will think of a plan.”

She was su
r
prised and delighted that he understood how difficult Anthea could be, and how it troubled herself. She said:

“You must not bother about us.”

“And you will be coming as usual, this week, to see the children?”

“I am not sure if Mr. Wellis will still be here, and want me to do something different.”

“Bring him, too. Interest him in our children; and he can help us with the Christmas Fund.” She got into the car, and it set off. After a little while of discussing the evening’s party, the three relapsed into silence and Diana was free to think her
own thoughts. As usual, she went over the things the doctor had said, comforting herself with these small grains of comfort which were all she could get; the fact that he bothered about her at all, and whether she was upset; the fact that he called the children “our” children, and recommended her to interest Mr. Wellis in “us.” Putting herself and himself into one category. Implying a bond between them, even so slight, a bond as a mutual interest in the children’s home.

For the next day or two, Anthea sulked. Now, she looked like the girl Diana had first brought out from England. Her gaiety was gone; she was bored, recalcitrant and would not join m any of their plans. Mr. Wellis had decided to stay a little longer, and this also upset his daughter, who was longing to be able to spend her late evenings with Hans.

On the day appointed for the visit to the children, Diana invited Mr. Wellis to go with her; and he, seeing Anthea bored and disconsolate, swept her up to go too. She went discontentedly, because she knew that Hans was away from the hotel and it was no good remaining behind in the hope of being with him. She expected to be bored, and found, to her great surprise, that she was not. The children accepted her, unquestioningly, as another interested visitor, and spilled their admiration over her unstintingly. They rarely saw the kind of hothouse flower that Anthea was; they loved her shining golden hair, her high heels, her jewels, the make-up she wore. They followed her admiringly, and the ones who must remain in bed followed her with their eyes. She had learned a little German, chiefly from Hans, during the summer; and was triumphant because they understood her better than they understood Diana, who spoke a purer German. They all asked her to come again, and tried to make Diana promise to bring her. At last Anthea said she would, and promised to bring sweets.

“Now you've done it,” said Diana. “They’ll never forget.”

"They don’t need to forget,” said Anthea haughtily. “When I say I will do a thing, I always do it.”

They saw the doctor only briefly, and then he drew Diana aside for a moment, walking with her along the bright corridor.

“How is Anthea?” he asked. “Still cross with everybody?”

“Very; and just managing to hold herself in until her father leaves and she can fly back to Hans.”

“I have an idea. I’m not sure if it is very good or rather silly. You must tell me; but tell her father not to worry about her, and come down to the Bristol on Monday evening for dinner with me, and I will tell you all about it? Is that convenient?”

“Yes,” said Diana. “I will be there.”

“At eight-thirty? Good. I will telephone Mr. Wellis and talk to him.”

Always for somebody else’s good, thought Diana, as they bade him goodbye and left. I see him if it is for a visit to the children, or if it is a dinner party for Mr. Wellis, or if it is a plan for Anthea. Better than nothing, but how very much better if it were purely for myself
...

Mr. Wellis left on Saturday, still anxious, saying he would come over again for a few days as soon as business could spare him. He had talked to the doctor by telephone, but Diana did not know if the doctor’s idea had been communicated to him.

That evening, after dinner, Anthea flew out to the place where she always met Hans. It was a very dark night, and she could not believe, at first, that he was not there. He must be waiting somewhere near by, and, in a moment, would surprise her by coming out of the shadows. She called his name, very softly, but there was no reply. He knew that her father had gone today. He must know the thoughts that had raged in her mind all day; he must know that she would be here
...
Perhaps his family had delayed him. Perhaps there were t
h
ings he must finish before he came out. She called again
softly, and again no reply. He could not be here; he would not hide for as long as this. He was tired of waiting for her. He had seen her in all her fine gowns and going out to dinner parties and thought, as everybody else thought, that the gulf between them was too wide. He had gone back to his Katrina.

Anthea sank down on to the wide, smooth stone that so often she had used for a seat. That was what had happened
—
he had gone back to Katrina. Her mind and heart had been full of him, and he had already forgotten her. Her longing to see him had been so great, and for so long pent up, that it was more than she could bear to be disappointed now. She felt the burning tears fall from her eyes to her cheeks and roll down unheeded, succeeded by more and more, until she suddenly wept bitterly, her face in her hands.

“Schatzi,” said a quiet, gentle voice.

She looked up. It was so dark, she did not see him at first.

“Why do you weep, Schatzi?” asked the voice.

“Oh Hans, I thought you weren’t coming,” she gasped and stretched out a hand. Then she was in his arms, and he, who could not bear to see a girl crying, was whispering love words to her, caressing her gently, holding her closer and closer. Having known she would be here, having felt the rebellion in her all these days but having realized more strongly than ever that there could be nothing permanent between them, he had come out to talk to her seriously, to make a clean break, to advise her to go away from the Morgenberg; in short, to be thoroughly sensible. And here he was, a weeping girl in his arms—but weeping now from relief and joy, rather than from grief and disappointment
—
being anything but sensible.

“Come, Liebling,” he said at last. “This will not do. What are you crying for?”

“Because you weren’t here and I wanted you.”

“So much?”

“I love
being able to talk to you, to be with you like this.”

“You see,” he said, “how important it has become. We should not have started this.”

“Is it important for you too, Hans?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Darling, I don’t see why anybody should ever separate us.”

Hans did not reply. He knew that everybody would try as hard as possible to separate them; and he knew, when he was honest with himself, that it would be the wisest thing; but he was as reluctant as Anthea to contemplate separation at this moment, so she lost her unhappiness and discontent, and was filled with peace and happiness again.

Diana went down to the Bristol on Monday evening, in the hired car, hoping very much that the doctor’s plan was not—as he himself had feared—a silly one, since if something were not done soon to put a stop to Anthea’s affair, it would go too far to be stopped. Anthea’s change, since her father’s departure, was so marked that it could only mean she was happy with Hans again. Diana was even beginning to consider an appeal to Hans’ better feelings, but, being unwilling to do this except as a last resort, decided to wait until she heard what the doctor had to suggest.

She wore the cream dress which Anthea insisted was the prettiest one she possessed. Anthea, surprised that Diana was going out to dinner, and remarkably uncurious about her partner, had offered to lend her her mink coat, so that it was a very resplendent girl who greeted the doctor and was escorted by him to the dining room.

The meal was ordered. There was dancing, but the hotel was now considerably less full and there was more room to dance.

“Shall we?” asked the doctor, exactly as he had asked her before.
“
There is no reason why, because we have come to talk about Anthea, we should not enjoy ourselves, is there?”

Diana rose with a happy smile. The doctor had seen that smile before, and regarded her curiously as he put an arm about her and danced away with her.

Later, he said to her:

“Now, for my idea. You must tell me q
u
ite honestly if you do not think it a good one. ... I have watched Anthea more closely since I realized that her conduct really worries you; and I have come to the conclusion that, like many young people, she follows her desires without paying any attention to their almost certain outcome. She is a product of town life—more than that—of the life of capital cities. I have seen her at her own home in London
—
when she was younger, of course, but it allows me to know what her life is like. I have seen her here, at the Bristol, and noticed her reactions to the music and the lights and the luxury; and at dinner in my own house. This
is
her milieu. Also, I remember her dissatisfaction with the Morgenberg when she was banished there. This convinces me that the life that Hans leads would ultimately make her miserable.

“Now take Hans. A fine fellow. Can you see
hi
m
in the places where Anthea is at home? He would not stay, of course; but if he did, and if Anthea saw him there, she would then realize what a fish out of water she had made him
...
My plan is simply to try to make her see Hans in the light in whic
h
we
see him; so that, without having to lose her respect, or even her affection for him, she will see for herself
h
is unsuitability.”

“And
that,”
said Diana, “is the difficult part.”