Doctor's Orders (18 page)

The dress was black, very simple, most beautifully cut; and, in finished effect, thought Diana, worth the fantastic price paid for it. Anthea was wearing her most expensive, most useless, sandals. High-heeled scraps of twisted leather, soft, light, cunningly contrived. Diana thought she would not go out to find Hans, crossing the plateau, in those.

Gordon was back for dinner, and the four of them, sat in the dining room, among the very few guests remaining, a most oddly assorted group. Gordon disapproved of Leon, that was obvious. Every subject that Gordon seriously started seemed to evaporate under Leon’s refusal to be serious; and when, at last, Gordon touched upon a subject dear to Leon’s heart, that of mountaineering, Gordon was hurt to discover that this man was of a prowess and attainment that he, confined to his office nearly all the year, could never achieve.

When Gordon was talking to Diana, Leon turned to Anthea and said softly:

“Has this young man come from England to see you?”

Anthea shook her head.

“Diana,” she whispered back.

“Oh good. Well, can’t we leave them, and go and talk somewhere? This man does not converse—he lectures.”

Anthea hesitated. Hans would be waiting for her at their usual meeting place. She must go out to him. Leon smiled very persuasively at her.

“Come along,” he said. “My car is very fast, and we can go down the mountain, and find somewhere to tell each other the story of our lives.”

She said:

“You must give me time to change these silly shoes; and to get a coat.”

“Five minutes,” he said.

“Ten,” she parried. “Diana, you will excuse us, won’t you?” I’m sure you want to talk to Gordon.”

Leon smoked in the hall while he waited for Anthea. Five minutes went by, ten, fifteen, twenty. Then she appeared, looking thoughtful and serious, wearing her beautiful mink coat over the Dior dress. Leon noticed that the shoes she had put on were scarcely more sensible than the sandals she had taken off. He said to her:

“Oh, I believe you don't want to go. You look so serious. Am I being a nuisance? Shall we stay here?”

“No,” said Anthea, “let us go.”

But she was still silent and thoughtful. Leon drove with considerably more speed than Anthea thought safe in the mountains, but she did not protest.

“You are very brave,” he said at last.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I’m not brave,” she said. “I just don’t care.”

“Oh, that is bad.”

They drove for several miles.

“That is very bad,” he said.

She did not answer, and they went on for several more miles.

“Are you very unhappy?” he asked then.

“Sometimes I’m unhappy. Sometimes I’m bored.” She expected him to be sympathetic, to offer her some comforting philosophy. She was surprised when he said:

“Well, what can you expect if you stay in that place? Why don’t you go away? When you came into the dining room this evening, I could not imagine why you stay. Your dress from Paris, your shoes the finest in London, your hair obviously lovingly looked after; even your jewels in quite good taste. Who bought them for you, by the way?”

“My father,” she said at once.

“That is excellent. I asked myself why this girl, who is at home in London, but who should be in Paris, stays at the Morgenberg. This jewel is in the wrong setting.”

“I have been staying there for reasons of health,” said Anthea stiffly.

“I am sorry,” he said. “And how is your health?”

“I am better now,” she said. “Quite recovered.”

“Then you should be happy, for that reason and because you can go home. You must stop in Paris, on your way home, and allow me to escort you a little. Will you do that?”

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“And I don’t know you. A situation full of possibilities, full of charm. Let us stop here. It looks warm and inviting.”

Although they had had dinner, they ordered supper which neither of them could eat. They drank champagne, because, said Leon, it was the important occasion of their first outing. They danced. And that was the beginning of Anthea’s undoing. She had held out against him quite well until then, but he danced beautifully, and suddenly she gave herself up to his mood. The warmth and gaiety of the room and its lighting, the music, the Dior dress, her fine French perfume, and his masterly touch, all contributed to delight. She forgot Hans for the moment; forgot her excuse to him, that she must entertain this friend of the doctor’s; gave herself up to enjoyment.

“You are not unhappy now,” said Leon, “nor bored.”

“No. Not unhappy nor bored.”

They sat again at their table, and she found she was telling him about her life in London, and listening to details of his life between Paris and the family chateau. He told her about the wine harvest, the good years and the bad years; the celebrations with which it ended; he told her about
h
is family, the parents, the old aunts, his sister. “Of course, we have much more family feeling than you,” he said, and Anthea, with her own experience before her, could not deny it. Yet in Paris he lived alone, in his flat to which he was obviously attached.

They drove back to the Morgenberg at the same speed, but now Anthea laughed, enjoying it. When they came into the hall, Hans was waiting to lock up. He was quiet and respectful, but he would not meet Anthea’s eyes.

She and Leon went upstairs, said goodnight and parted. Anthea waited a moment or two on her landing, then ran swiftly downstairs again.

“Hans darling, I could not help it,” she said. “I had to go. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Of course. It is all right.”

“But it is not all right, Hans.”

He looked at her.

“Goodnight, Hans.”

“Goodnight.”

She put her arms round his neck and kissed him. When he let her go, she ran up to her room, trying to forget his hurt expression. Darling Hans, she thought, not letting thoughts of the evening with Leon intrude, darling Hans. But Hans, in spite of this, was neglected in the days that followed. Anthea could hardly help herself. Leon gave her no time for herself. On the excuse that Diana wanted to be alone with Gordon, he carried Anthea off every day in his fast car. Most evenings they went into the valley to dine, again leaving Gordon and Diana alone, since Leon took it for granted there could be nothing to keep Anthea at the Morgenberg. Every day, she wore her nicest, newest clothes, knowing that Leon appreciated them. When Leon talked of going back to Paris, she grew disconsolate; when he talked of entertaining her there, she cheered up. She began to see that it would hardly be possible after all to spend the winter here. Already the hotels were emptying
—
life was drifting away to other places for the next few months; these had had their turn, now it was the turn of others. It would soon be dull here, Anthea had to admit, and Leon made everything sound such fun in Paris.

Diana, left with Gordon, could not help envying the other two a little. Nobody could call Gordon amusing—he had no light touches at all. He was all heaviness and seriousness. She walked with him on the mountain, sat with him at luncheon and dinner, talked to him in the evenings. If she had refused to take him seriously before, she was even firmer about it now; until be grew so discouraged that be decided to take the later part of his holiday in Italy. Diana
could not help the relief that spread through her at this news.

On Thursday, they arrived at the house of the doctor for luncheon. Diana had expected Antoinette to be there, but she did not arrive. There were only the five of them. Perhaps Antoinette did not think the occasion interesting enough to grace with her presence, but Diana was pleased. Gordon sat next to the doctor and talked to him a good deal and Dr. Frederic was becomingly serious, and seemed to be genuinely interested in the young man. They drove up to the clinic, Anthea in Leon’s car, and Diana and Gordon with the doctor.

“You must forgive me,” Dr. Frederic said to Gordon, “if I leave you to Miss Pevrill while I work. She is quite competent to show you round, and I hope you will find it interesting. For myself, I have a two-hour clinic which leaves me no time to do the honors.”

Anthea had come loaded down with sweets, which Leon had helped her to choose and buy, and although Matron confiscated them, to be shared out fairly later, they had managed to conceal a few, which they shamelessly used to bribe the children during the afternoon. Once again, Diana was left with Gordon, who was enthusiastic about the doctor.

“Now there’s a man doing some good in the world,” he said. “I like him fine.”

“Yes,” said Diana. “It’s hard not to like him.”

“I’m sure he would agree with me that you’re wasting your time running around Europe with this Anthea.”

“I don’t think so. He thinks I have been good for
Anthea. In any case, he approves of my next job.”

“Your next job? Don’t tell me you’ve taken on another.”

“Yes, I have. I am going to work here, when Anthea goes home.”

“Here? In Switzerland?”

“Here, in this home.”

“Whatever for?”

“The work interests me. I have to have a job, and here is one for me. I get on well with children, too.”

This depressed Gordon even more. It struck the doctor, as he said goodbye to them, that he was rather a cheerless young man for Diana. Diana, seeing him depart for Italy two days later, thought the same. There, she thought with a rueful smile, goes my “affair of the heart.” Not a very exciting one. It never was. Now it seems even less so. And now I am back with no attachments. Free to do as I like, go where I will.

It was not a very cheerful thought. Freedom, which was, of course, so important, sometimes became too much of a good thing. Sometimes, it was good to have ties; things and people that tied one down. Each tie meant a little less freedom, and how willingly she would give up some freedom for friends, a good job, a good husband.

I really have nobody, thought Diana. Nobody. What a ghastly and depressing thought. Surely I have somebody. Anthea is fond of me now; I think Dr. Frederic likes me. Florence, the friend in whose flat she had spent some time in London, would welcome her again for a while. And is that all, she thought. It wouldn’t be very important for any of them if I failed to appear. How important it is, she went on thinking, to be indispensable to someone.

The feeling that she was quite alone began to depress her. She fought against it, telling herself that if she was now not indispensable to somebody, she must make herself indispensable. To the children, for instance, among whom she would work, to Matron, whose right hand she would like to be. Don’t, for goodness sake, she cautioned herself, give way to self-pity. Nothing makes you more boring. It will be a good thing to get away from this Morgenberg and have some real work to do. And in that case, the sooner I can get Anthea home, the sooner I can begin work with the children. Anthea does not need me any more here, and when she returns to
London she has her own
friends
. Her father must take better care of her, see to those periodic checkups and so on.

Would Anthea go, though? Was the doctor’s plan succeeding? To Diana, it seemed that it was succeeding extraordinarily well, and that Leon himself was not at all loth to take on the part the doctor had given him. They were off together at every opportunity, and Anthea found in Leon an entirely new kind of personality. She was used to the young Englishmen whose interest in women had some very definite limits—and these limits she did not find in L
e
on. She could not think of any of her London escorts who would contentedly escort her on long shopping expeditions, and even come into the shops with her and discuss the purchases as Leon did. She would have disapproved if they had shown such a knowledgeable interest in clothes, but Leon had the Frenchman’s interest and taste, and even dared to criticize. He would say, ruefully shaking his head over a handbag which Anthea regarded as a novelty and he as a monstrosity: “We will alter all that in Paris.” Anthea took his words with a good deal of salt: he promised easily, but she doubted if he would give much time to her in Paris. He had come here to rest for a few days—and she still could not understand why he should come to the Morgenberg, it was so definitely not his kind of hotel—and he had found somebody to play with, which was very pleasant for them both. They were really playmates, thought Anthea; having a merry time together for the short time it would last. Pity, her thoughts ran on, that it should be for a short time. It would be nice if Leon
did
mean to escort her round Paris; he was such good company. Yet there was always the feeling that despite this gay and rather flippant exterior, he was quite a businesslike and shrewd person underneath.

Inevitably, the adjustment was being made in Anthea’s mind and heart. Inevitably, as one thing took up more and more of her time and attention, other things took less; as one man occupied her, the other sank into the background. The Morgenberg took on a more real perspective for her; she saw immediately that it was not Leon’s usual milieu, and
she
supposed that Leon and Diana could see, just as easily, just as immediately, that it was not her own. When she saw Hans—sometimes, as she was setting off with Leon in his car—she still thought him wonderfully, ruggedly handsome; but there was also beginning to be a faint surprise at herself for having attached such a tremendous importance to him; for actually having wept about him, when he came late to meet her. “It shows you,” thought Anthea, with elementary philosophy which still rather surprised her, “how a thing can take on a most exaggerated importance; and how important it is to keep everything in perspective.” And that reminded her of Leon. It would be important to keep Leon in perspective, too.
He
must not take on an exaggerated importance. If he could sweep her into a rapid, gay companionship, no doubt he could do it with other people; and perhaps did. With unusual forethought, Anthea told herself to be careful; but continued to enjoy his company.