Doctor's Orders (2 page)

“It sounds almost too easy, Mr. Wellis.”

“How little you know Anthea. It will be no sinecure, believe me. I will, of course, pay all your expenses, for you to live exactly on the scale on which Anthea lives, and a salary which will make it well worth your while. Don’t decide now. Think it over and ring me up. I must say you look as if a summer in Switzerland would do you good, too.”

“It sounds heavenly, but I’ll do as you say; think it over and ring you up. How will Anthea take to a duenna, I wonder?”

“There’s just one thing,” said Mr. Wellis, thoughtfully. “If you do take the job—and I hope you will—I think we will not let Anthea know that you are being paid for it. She will, of course, guess that you are getting expenses, or gifts in kind; but she is never reconciled to authority; and I know by the way she treats my secretaries, or the maids, or anybody over whom she has any power, that you would never have the slightest authority over her if she knew you were a paid employee. Forgive me for this straight speaking, but I know my Anthea. It would be better if she felt we were under an obligation to you—as indeed, we all should be. As an old friend of the family, for instance.”

“Yes, I understand,” said Diana. “At first glance, it seems very tempting. I feel I should agree to it now.”

“Don’t do anything in a hurry. Ring me at my office tomorrow morning. Now, have a little more wine—you already look better for it. And choose a sweet for yourself—I never have sweets myself, I shall stick to cheese. And I suddenly have a better idea—you shall meet me here again tomorrow for lunch and then you can let me know what you have decided.”

He felt a curious pleasure in knowing that he would see her the next day. He would have put her into a taxi, outside the restaurant, but she shook her head.

“I shall go window-shopping,” she said. “If I
do
take your job, Mr. Wellis, I shall have to have some new clothes, or Anthea would be ashamed to be seen with me.”

“I think you look charming,” he said.

“Ah, but you have a very kind eye,” she laughed.

He watched her walk along Piccadilly with an easy, upright carriage, her chestnut hair shining under the little hat. He thought: I must give her a cheque to cover her initial expenses, clothes and so on. As she disappeared among the passers-by, he went on his way, blessing the happy chance that had brought about their meeting.

Diana, much lighter of heart than she had been before her meeting with Mr. Wellis, did not do much window-shopping after all. She tired very easily these days, so she took a bus back to her friend’s flat and let herself in to its quietness and simple comfort. She supposed that this tiredness was simply reaction from all that she had had to do during the recent weeks. By no stretch of imagination could her aunt have been called a good patient. She had been irascible, demanding and ungrateful, and expected Diana to be at hand day and night; and even after her death, there had been so much to attend to, such a great deal of unrewarding business to get through, that it had called for all Diana’s strength to stand up to it. Now she felt a longing to relax, to be lazy and do nothing. The knowledge that she must soon get work to do had never been far from her consciousness, but she had been unable to tackle it right away. Florence’s flat had been a refuge, a sanctuary.

Florence was now away for a few days, but the flat was still marvellously here and at Diana’s disposal. When she went into it on this particular afternoon, it was restful and quiet. She went into the kitchen and made some tea, and took it into the living room to drink it by the open window and to review the offer that Mr. Wellis had made her. The more she thought of it, the better it sounded, the more tempting it appeared; and she felt a moment of panic because she had not closed with the offer at once, and the chance might be lost to her. She should have jumped at it: perhaps she should run out, even now, to the telephone and accept the offer before it was taken away from her. Then common sense prevailed. She had a luncheon appointment with him tomorrow, and it was most unlikely that he would meet with another person suitable for such a job so soon.

Drinking her tea, she slowly relaxed. Switzerland for a whole summer. She had never been abroad
—
she would be of little use to Anthea as a guide, but presumably Anthea, with her father’s wealth behind her, was used to travelling and would not be confused by its difficulties. Diana had seen as many pictures of Switzerland as most people; from pictures, books and hearsay, she knew quite a lot about the country; but now she would know the real thing. She thought of high mountains, their snow-covered peaks lost in the clouds; of lakes lying in the valleys, the little steamers making their criss-cross way upon them, of gentian lying in dark blue pools, of the alpenrosen and the flowers that grew on the meadows. It would be good to be there, even as duenna to Anthea.

Anthea. That gave her pause. Anthea, from her father’s account, was a difficult person. Diana was by no means sure that she would be able to cope with a difficult person. True, she had her experience with her aunt to help her; but Anthea was twenty-one and wayward. What had her father said of her? Too jittery a life, too many late nights, drinks and smokes, and too little food. Diana had never met Anthea, and she could make no picture of her, yet she must act as duenna to her this summer. What exactly did Mr. Wellis have in mind when he used that word? Diana decided they must get it sorted out; she must know exactly what her duties were to be: presumably, to keep Anthea from drinking and smoking and late night parties', to get her to eat and rest an
d
lead a quiet life. Mr. Wellis had said it would be
a
sinecure; Diana began to see that, indeed, it might be the reverse of that.

Next day, at luncheon, she said that she would accept the job, and Mr. Wellis arranged for her to have dinner with his family at their London flat, so that she might meet Anthea and have, if she wished it, a last chance of backing out. So that Diana, reflecting that Anthea’s father hardly recommended the work to one, went prepared to meet a thoroughly troublesome and difficult personality; and was met by a docile, lamb-like girl whose politeness left nothing to be desired, curious, certainly, about her duenna, but pleasant and amenable. She was a small, slim girl, with clear blue eyes which she used with considerable effect, and shining silver-blonde hair which fell to her shoulders. It was not a natural color, but a very pretty one, and Diana could see at once that Anthea was certainly the kind to attract men and to be spoiled by them.

Anthea and her mother were, indeed, very curious about Diana. How was it, they wondered, that she was an old friend of Richard Wellis, and they had never met her before? True, they had heard something about the old aunt, but they did not remember hearing anything of Diana, yet here she was, apparently prepared to be so infinitely obliging as to accompany Anthea for the whole of the summer. It was strange—they both thought that, although they did not mention it to each other; but they were prepared to ignore its strangeness because it was so convenient. Mr. Wellis was relieved to have her daughter off her hands, and Anthea, having studied Diana all through dinner, decided she could fare a great deal worse, and that Diana would do. She did not intend that Diana should have any authority over her, or change her life in any way.

When Diana returned to her friend’s flat in a taxi paid for by Mr. Wellis, all the details of her engagement had been settled, and he would arrange the journey, the bookings at an hotel, and the appointments with the doctor.

“It seems almost too good to be true,” Diana said to Florence, who had just returned from a few days’ holiday.

“Well, you’ve had a bad break for the last few years; it’s time luck changed for you.”

“You won’t have to put up with me for long, after all.”

“It wasn’t a case of putting up with you. You’re easy to live with, and you do your share of the chores, and you don’t get bad-tempered and irritable. I’ve shared my flat, at times, with some horrors. I’ve vowed I won’t do it again.”

“Yet you took me in.”

“You see how soft I am. But you were only for a little while—and you are the only one I really liked. Well, I’m glad this job looks so good, and I hope you don’t discover too many snags.”

Diana hoped so, too. She was not foolish enough to imagine that Anthea was always as sweet and amiable as she had been at dinner.

She spent the next ten days preparing for her journey and overhauling her wardrobe, while Mr.
Wellis undertook his part of the arrangements. One of the things he did was to write again to Dr. Frederic, to tell him when his daughter would be in Switzerland, where she would be staying, and to express once more his gratitude that Dr. Frederic would find the time to watch her progress.

Mr. Wellis himself took the two young women to the airport in his big car and saw them safely started on their journey. Anthea, in a blue suit and very high-heeled shoes, with her silvery hair lifting slightly in the wind and a mink coat over her arm, attracted the usual amount of attention, especially from the smartly-uniformed young men about the place. She took it as her due, and Diana thought that being companion and guardian to her was not likely to be a bed of roses; certainly, tiresome details of journeying were likely to be easily smoothed over, when she could command flattering male attention all along the way, but Diana could see that it was not always going to be pleasant to be the appendage.

The flight was quick and simple, and, at Basle, porters and taxis made their transfer to the train equally simple. They were established in their hotel a few hours after leaving London, and Anthea was inspecting her new quarters with detached tolerance. Diana wondered how much of this apparent indifference was assumed and how much was real. If it was assumed, a pose of worldliness over youthful interest, there was hope for her yet; but if it was real, and she was really bored by all this, at the age of twenty-one, then Diana would be sorry for her indeed. For Diana, who was twenty-seven, there was excitement and interest and glamor in this sudden change in her life.

Mr. Wellis had spared no expense, and Diana supposed there was no reason why he should. He was wealthy and his only child was concerned. Yet for herself, she would be living on a luxurious scale which she had never known. They had a small suite in the hotel—two bedrooms, each with its private bath, and a sitting room between the bedrooms, which had a large balcony overlooking the lake. Anthea, whom the journey had tired, decided to lie down for a while before changing for dinner. Diana unpacked the cases they had been able to bring with them by air, which did not take her long. The rest of their luggage was following overland. Then she went on to the sitting room balcony, seated herself in one of the painted wicker chairs, and watched the life going on below her.

The hotel drive from the lakeside road swept in to the main entrance round a vividly green, semicircular lawn, on which a fountain played into a wide, shallow basin. To the right of the hotel as Diana looked down, there was a garden with brightly pai
n
ted chairs and tables set among the lawns and flowers, and small groups of people were seated there, reading and chatting. Several gleaming cars were
at
rest on the drive before the entrance, and many more glided along the road that ran round the edge of the lake. The lake itself shimmered in a slight evening haze, bright but not glaring, and was calmer than a mill-pond. One of the small lake steamers was at the landing stage, unloading a few passengers, taking on a few more before continuing its crisscrossing of the lake between the many small villages. All round the lake rose the mountains—not the white-crowned giants to which Diana was so eagerly looking forward, but the green hills, still some five or six thousand feet high, some richly wooded, which rose steeply from the still waters of the lake. It was a far cry from London, a scene of peacefulness, and, as Diana sat and watched it all, some of the strain and the restlessness seemed to die out of her, replaced by a little of the peacefulness of the still water and the everlasting hills.

A little later, she went to the door of Anthea’s bedroom, tapped lightly on it and opened it a few inches, to discover that Anthea was sleeping. She looked unexpectedly young and frail and vulnerable, and Diana withdrew quietly to let her finish her sleep. She bathed and changed into a simple dinner dress, and resumed her interested watching from the balcony. When A
n
thea did wake, she came out wearing a very glamorous housecoat, and looking refreshed.

“Came to see what you were wearing,” she said, eyeing Diana’s simple dress. “We underdress, do we?”

“I feel that it’s safer until I’ve seen what eve
r
ybody else is wearing,” said Diana, who, not having many evening dress occasions in her life, was feeling far from underdressed.

“Good heavens, I don’t bother about that. I wear what I want to wear,” said Anthea. “By the way, thanks for unpacking for me, but you needn’t have done it. The hotel maid would have been all right. How did my green pleated dress travel?”

“Very well. It’s a wonderful dress, Anthea.”

“Nice, isn’t it? I’ll wear it tonight.”

It was a ballet-length dress of finest n
in
on, intricately and wonderfully pleated to give a live swing to the skirt; and the little shoulder cape that went with it was also pleated. It would have been a deliberately demure dress on some people, but it did not look demure on Anthea. Diana thought that nothing would. She was, as usual, an arresting picture, and when they went into the dining room, she was a magnet for all eyes. The way she tossed her silvery hair behind her shoulders, the way she undulated on her high heels across the room to their table by the window, showed that she knew it. At that moment, Diana knew what she meant by her use of the word underdressed. She knew that she herself, in her charming grey-blue dress, would not have attracted the attention of everybody in the room; and the next moment, she knew quite surely that she did not want to attract the kind of attention that Anthea attracted.

Anthea was also very quick at making acquaintances. When they sat in the lounge after dinner with the coffee tray before them, she produced her gold cigarette case, put a cigarette between her very red lips, and then looked about her helplessly for a light. She had a little gold lighter in her evening bag, but she was not wrong in thinking that she need not produce it. A young man appeared at her side before even the coffee waiter could get there. “Allow me,” he said, and Anthea smiled so charmingly on him that he was emboldened to stay and pass a few introductory remarks about the weather, her journey and the hotel. He knew the town and the neighborhood well, and Anthea said he must tell them what were the things not to miss seeing, and soon he was seated with them, and introductions had taken place all around.

A little later, two friends of his, seeing him thus amicably conversing with two girls, one quite attractive and the other positively dazzling, came to join him; and soon Diana and Anthea were in the middle of a lively group, and liqueurs had joined the coffee on the little table before them, and the beautiful gold cigarette case went round and round. Then somebody suggested that a walk by the lake would be very nice, and Anthea agreed at once.

“You must have a coat, Anthea,” said Diana immediately.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Anthea.

“Yes. It will be cold out there. You must have a coat. I will get it for you.”

They all waited politely while the coat was brought. It was a coat worth waiting for, of silver mink. The young man who had been so prompt in offering his lighter let his eyes linger on its beautiful softness. He had offered his lighter because she was a pretty girl, prettily dressed, and he was a little bored; but the casual way in which she treated such valuable possessions as mink coats and gold cases made him think that she would be worth cultivating for more reasons than one.

It was heavenly walking by the lake, thought Diana. If only she had been alone, or with Anthea even, but the escorting young men, all wanting to talk to Anthea, spoiled it for her. Anthea was
expert at the light stumble, and blaming it on her high-heeled shoes, so that a strong masculine arm should be available for her support. They returned to the hotel with Anthea holding the arms of two of the young men as if she had known them for months. They stood on the drive outside the main entrance, talking for a few minutes.

“Too soon to go in yet,
”
said one young man.

“Much too soon,” agreed Anthea.

Diana decided that now was the moment to be firm. There had been no occasion yet for any trial of strength with Anthea; but, unless she were to be a mere appendage, trailing along behind Anthea, and half a dozen escorts, she must make herself clear at the outset, make her presence felt, So, wondering if she would sound firm enough, and hoping so, she said clearly:

“No, it is not too soon for you, Anthea. It is high time you were in bed. You have had a tiring day, so say goodnight to everybody and come along.”

Anthea turned and looked at her in astonishment. Their eyes met. Diana returned the look smilingly and confidently.

“Oh, please, mademoiselle, do not take her away from us yet,” said one of the escorts.

Diana smiled on him, too.

“But I must,” she said. “Anthea has not been very well, and must have a lot of rest. Goodnight, and thank you for that pleasant walk.”

“Anthea,” said the original young man. “What a charming name. Goodnight, Mademoiselle Anthea, we shall meet again.”

Anthea hesitated. Then she smiled brilliantly on the young man and followed Diana to the lift. Diana thought: “I took her by surprise—that was too easy.”

Anthea thought: “I really am tired, I’d rather go to bed, but she needn’t think I am going to be ordered round just as she thinks fit.”

When Anthea was in bed, Diana stood once more on the balcony of the sitting room, before going to bed herself. She could not help contrasting Anthea’s way of conducting her affairs with her own way. She could have been in this hotel for days before anybody really approached her in friendliness; and then an acquaintance thus began would have proceeded slowly, steadily. But Anthea was not in the place five minutes before she had begun to gather her entourage, and Diana admitted she was clever. She knew all the little tricks, and they served her in good stead. Diana knew that she would scorn to use these little tricks herself, yet she could not help admitting that it must be very pleasant to be so instantly attractive.

She left the balcony and went into her room. The sudden change from her old life to this new one still seemed rather incredible. “Too story-book,” she thought. “I shall wake up and find myself by the cinders in rags. But at least, it is interesting. At least, I can’t say with any degree of certainty what will happen tomorrow. And with Anthea, I have a feeling that anything might.”

She drew back her curtains, switched off the lights, and dragged herself away from the window, with its view of the lake and mountains under a half-moon, to her bed.