Doctor's Orders (19 page)

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A
little
snow had fallen in the night, and although by the middle of the morning the sun was causing it to melt, the wind was very cold, blowing off the higher snows. On the verandah, coffee on the table before them, Leon and Anthea were talking.

“Yes, I must go back tomorrow,” he insisted. “My father has called me back to a meeting. I have played long enough.”

“I shall miss you,” she said lightly.

“I shall miss you, too,” was his gallant reply, “but not for long.”

“You are at least honest,” said Anthea.

“But not quite so impolite as you think; I mean that you will come to Paris soon and we will meet again.”

“I think you would be so cross if I took you at your word. The telephone will ring in your flat, and you will say: ‘Anthea? Anthea who?’ and then you will remember, and think: ‘Oh, that girl from Switzerland. What on earth induced me to give her my telephone number?”

Leon looked round at her. They were seated side by side, but she was leaning back in her chair, while he was leaning forward with his elbows on the table. She endured his scrutiny unembarrassed, until he said:

“Have you really such a poor opinion of me?”

“No, I have a good opinion of you—you would be flattered if you knew how good—but I do not take you seriously.”

“That is fine. One has to be serious about so much in life, that it is good to meet somebody with whom one need not be serious. But I was quite serious about meeting in Paris. I consider it almost a duty to make you love it better than any other city in the world.”

“Why me?”

He laughed, still looking round at her, his brown eyes merry.

“Because I like to mix my duty with pleasure; and it is a pleasure to be with you because you are pretty, you are well dressed, you are young, and you laugh at my silliness.”

“All right,” he said. “We will meet in Paris.”

“Quite soon, I hope.”

“Yes, why not?” she replied, thinking that, after all, it was getting cold and lonely and quiet up here.

“You can leave when you like—there is nothing to keep you here, is there?”

There was an odd intonation in his voice. Fleetingly, Anthea wondered if he had heard anything of her relationship with Hans, if anybody in the hotel had been talking to him. She had nothing to be ashamed of, she told herself, but, all the same, she hoped he did not know. For a second or two
she
stayed silent, sending a mute apology to Hans, sending it with considerable respect and affection. Then she said:

“No, there is nothing to keep me here.”

They were silent for a while. Anthea wondered how she could ever have thought that she would fit into Hans’ life, or that he could fit into hers. Leon thought it had been almost too easy, and hoped the poor devil had not been really in love with her. Now he could go back to his beloved Paris, and, on her way back to London, she would stay for a while, and he would give her a good time, and the episode would be finished.

“I suppose Diana will be with you in Paris?” he asked.

“Yes, I suppose so. But you needn’t worry about Diana. She is the soul of tact and discretion. She will manage to keep an eye on me without interfering with my enjoyment. She’s really rather clever at managing me, I think—about the first person that ever was.”

Leon thought that perhaps Diana had been even a little cleverer than Anthea knew, but that was a little chapter that Anthea must never know about.

Diana was crossing the hall at that moment. She was saying goodbye to a middle-aged couple who were returning to Holland. The husband had also been here for the benefit of his health and was returning to his native country much better. They had been rather fond of Diana, who had often sat with them in the evenings, listening to stories of their family while she did her embroidery (and while Anthea was supposed to be in bed, but was, in reality, out somewhere with Hans). She saw them to the car, the one she and Anthea had so often hired for their visits to the doctor, and waved to them as they were carried away, thinking that soon there would be nobody left in the hotel, and that it was time she and Anthea also departed.

As she stood in the sunshine, feeling the heat of the sun and the chill of the wind off the snows, at the same time, and enjoying both, Katrina’s voice called her from the main door:

“Fraulein, you are wanted on the telephone.” Diana turned, with a smile. Katrina had spoken in her own language, which Diana always used with her.

“Thank you, Katrina. I am coming.”

Her first thought was that Gordon was telephoning to know if she had changed her mind. Then she thought that it might be Mr. Wellis, wanting to know when they were going home; but she picked up the receiver to discover that it was Dr. Frederic who wanted her.

“Good morning,” he said, and she at once concluded that he was interested in the affair of Leon and Anthea, and was ringing up to find out its progress. His next words soon corrected her conclusion, and reminded her that he had more important things to think about. “My dear Diana,” he went on (and she noticed that it was always Diana now, and never Miss Pevrill), “this is an S.O.S. I am speaking to you from the children’s home, where everything is confusion. We have a minor epidemic on our hands. The place has been swept by influenza. Not only half the children have it, added to their existing complaints, but half the staff, too. Matron is very short-handed and getting desperate. We have been able to borrow only two nurses. Will you come and help?”

“Of course I will,” said Diana quickly. “I’ll come at once.”

“Thank you. I thought you would.”

“Could Anthea help? There must be something she can do.”

“Perhaps, if she keeps well within her limits.”

“We will be there this afternoon, Dr. Frederic.”

“Good girl,” he said, and rang off. She stood still for a moment, aware of the warm glow that spread completely through her. Then she went in search of Anthea, and found her on the verandah with Leon.

“Anthea, I have a job of work for you,” she said.

“Oh no,” protested Anthea.

“Oh yes. And, I think, one for Leon too.”

“So?” he asked, watching her with interest.

“I am going to help at the children’s home, where they have ’flu, and not enough nurses. Anthea can come and help too, if it’s only washing dishes; and dear Leon, you can drive us there. Will you both do that?”

Leon agreed at once. Anthea, after a struggle, and aware that Leon was interested in what she would say, shrugged her shoulders and said:

“Who ever gives
me
dishes to wash must be crazy.”

“
Can
you wash dishes?” asked Leon.

“I suppose I can, if I try,” she said. “When do we go?”

“Now,” said Diana.

“For how long?”

“As long as it’s necessary.”

“Then we’d better go and pack a few things.”

As they went through the hall, Anthea said t
o
Diana:

“Will you pack mine for me, Diana? I must go and say goodbye to Hans.”

Diana turned to look at her. Their eyes met in a clear long look. Diana realized what she meant. This might not be the last she would see of him, but it was, all the same, goodbye.

“All right,” she said. “Don’t be long.”

While Diana went on her way upstairs, Anthea went out across the plateau to the farm buildings, openly looking for Hans. Leon, bringing his car round, saw her go. Katrina, from an upstairs bedroom, saw her go. Frau Steuri, purposefully stuffing a chicken for their lunch, which they would not eat, saw her from the kitchen. Unconscious of any following eyes, she went into the cooling room, and through it into the dairy, and found Hans working there.

‘Hans,” she said, “we are going to Dr. Frederic’s; children’s home for a few days, so I came to say goodbye.”

“So,” he said. “For a few days. It will be hardly worth to come
back here—we close so soon.”

“We shall come back for our things, but I don’t know when. There is influenza at the home, and we are going to help.”

He looked quickly at her; this was the last thing he expected to hear.

“You are going to help?” he asked.

“You needn’t be so surprised. They say I am going to wash dishes.”

“They will find you better work than washing dishes,” he said, and, for the first time for many days, he smiled at her, his strong white teeth gleaming in the dim dairy. He really is beautiful, thought Anthea with fleeting regret. “So it is goo
d
bye, Anthea.”

She held out her hands to him.

“Yes. Goodbye, Hans.”

He took her in his arms, holding her close for a few seconds. Then he let her go. Somehow, this morning, he felt better about her. Now, as she said goodbye, he realized that he had been more for her than a light flirtation; in some strange way, he had been an influence for good. The way this was ending proved that. He had reproached himself many times, because he had thought she was worthless; now he knew she was not.

“In the stories,” he said, “the woodcutter marries the princess. In life, it doesn’t happen so. The princess says goodbye and goes away; and the woodcutter goes on cutting his wood.”

“The princess goes away to wash dishes,” said Anthea, smiling; and Hans took his cue from her, so that they should part without tears.

“I am glad
she
will wash dishes at the home, and not at the Morgenberg,” he said, “for I don’t think she will do it very well.”

He went with her to the door of the cooling room, took her hand for a brief moment, and then gave her a very gentle push away from him. She hesitated, momentarily, and then went on, back to the hotel, tears stinging the back of her eyes, her mind saying over and over the old refrain: Darling Hans, darling Hans. She did not know that Hans felt exactly the same, seeing much of the color and romance going out of his life; felt the sting of tears, and said over and over to himself: Liebling, Liebling, Liebling.

The car was waiting. Anthea went and put on her mink coat. Diana was telling Frau Steuri what had happened, and Frau Steuri was thinking there was no hurry for the chicken after all. Then they were gone. Leon’s car going down the hill with considerably less caution than the usual hired car, and the Morgenberg seemed quiet without them. It seemed with their departure that winter was really on the way. Hans heard it go, from the dairy, and he stood quite still for a few moments, the vision of Anthea in his mind; flowing silver-blonde hair, soft mink, jewels, a carelessness about the proprieties, more than a hint of bravado, but a natural gaiety that was hard to resist. He remembered the days when she had visited the doctor, and, managing to elude Diana, had spent her time exploring with him; the days when he had gone out on business and she had accompanied him; the many, many evenings when she had slipped out of the hotel to meet him. Her laughter and her gaiety colored them all. He realized that with Katrina it would be different. Katrina had never been able to indulge her whims, if she had any; her gaiety had been tempered by too many duties, too much responsibility; bravado would have been frowned upon, and any carelessness about the proprieties swiftly jumped on by her parents. Poor Katrina, he thought. She is young, too, and should have gaiety and fun. His conscience pricked him.
He
hadn’t contributed to either this summer. He made a resolve that they would find time together for fun: they were a serious, hard-working people up on the mountain, but he realized how much color Anthea had brought with her to him, and he resolved that he would bring color and gaiety to Katrina.

Leon stopped the swift progress of his car at one of the towns on their journey, so that they could have luncheon. They wasted as little time as possible upon it, and went on their way again, reaching the children’s home in the middle afternoon. Leon himself carried the baggage inside, and up to the small room which Anthea and Diana were to share; then he left them, promising to return in the evening to find out if they needed anything. He went down to the town, probably to find Dr. Frederic, who had left the home on some of his other work. The usual doctor and nurses were very busy, and Matron was constantly reorganizing, as some of her staff came on duty again, and others went down with this vicious, but mercifully short, attack of influenza.

“It will be better, and more convenient for you both,” she said, “if you wear uniform. You will not
spoil your clothes, the children will pay more attention to you, and it is easier to work in. You will find what fits you from among these. Miss Pevrill, I know, can nurse. Miss Wellis will, I hope, help with the thousand odd jobs.”

“Washing dishes?” asked Anthea.

“No, that will not be necessary. Dr. Frederic has produced two very capable and efficient girls who are helping in the kitchens, nieces of his cook. They will be better there, if you will forgive me, than you. We have a few children who need constant watching at the moment; the ’flu, added to their reasons for being here, makes it very dangerous for them just now
...
And some who are just simply fractious ... you can help us with those. Fit your uniforms and come back to me, and I will explain exactly what you have to do.”