Doctor's Orders (3 page)

CHAPTER
TWO

It was
the second day of a two-day conference, now drawing to its close. A great deal of business had been settled and dispatched during the two days, a great many speeches made and listened to, some brilliant, some dull. The international flavor of the conference, convened by a health organization of world standing, gave it importance and interest. There were men who attended purely as politicians and administrators, but there were also economists, scientists, doctors, who related the health of the people to the everyday problems of production and the problems of glut and famine.

Dr. Frederic had just finished speaking. As usual, he was forthright, clear-cut and far-seeing. As usual, his speech was tinged with the idealism they had come to expect from him; but which they allowed him in view of his common-sense attitude to all problems. There was a good deal of applause, and the chairman, thanking him, said that what he had said had long needed saying, and it was diplomatic that such a speech had come from a distinguished citizen of a country that could not be accused of having axes to grind or territorial claims to make. The meeting went on its way, coming to its conclusion slowly, and breaking up into the usual groups of men who had something special to say to each other. People began to take their departures, cars were called and manoeuvred into position by patient chauffeurs, and the delegates left to continue their separate lives, some returning to hotels, some to catch trains and airplanes to other countries, some to meet wives and daughters, some to continue discussions of the problems dealt with at the conference.

Dr. Frederic’s gleaming Rolls drew up before the entrance. The immaculate Gerhardt opened the door and stood waiting while the doctor shook hands with several of the delegates and exchanged last comments with them. Then he got into the car, Gerhardt took the driving seat, and the Rolls slid silently away, followed at once by the next in the stream of cars. A few men watched it go. One said: “He is very young to have got where he is.” Another said: “He will go farther yet. He is very able, very far-seeing.” “All the same,” said a third, “I couldn’t see eye to eye with him on his ideas about the Far East,” and that plunged them back into discussion.

Dr. Frederic leaned back, his brief case on the seat beside him, his mind still full of all that had been said during the conference, and tried to relax. There was a long drive before him, and this was an opportunity to take a little much-needed rest. He first made a few notes of points that he specially wished to take up, then he put away his notebook, folded his arms and closed his eyes.

It was when the car drove through the first of the lighted towns they would traverse on their way home, that he realized that it would pass through the town where Richard Wellis’s daughter was staying. At the Splendide, he thought. It might be a polite gesture to stop there for a few minutes, make her acquaintance and inform her of the appointment that had been made for her. He spoke to Gerhardt, and some time later, the car drew up before the brightly-lit entrance of the Splendide. Colored lights were playing on the fountain, and Dr. Frederic watched it for a few moments, thinking it a pretty, delicate thing. Then he turned to go into the hotel.

“Will you dine here, sir?” asked Gerhardt.

“No, I think not. It will be nicer to go home for dinner,” said the doctor. Gerhardt nodded, quite agreeing, for he had a great fondness for the doctor’s cook, Maria.

Dr. Frederic went to the desk, and the receptionist telephoned to Miss Wellis’s room. She was not there, but the page who was called said confidently that she was in the lounge. Dr. Frederic followed the
page to the lounge, but Miss Wellis was not there. The lounge waiter, hearing her name called, said Miss Wellis was in the cocktail bar, and the doctor once more patiently followed the page into the cocktail bar. Here there was quite a crowd. The quiet dignity of the lounge had given way to a lively noise of conversation, sprinkled with laughter and occasional high-pitched protest. “Mees Vellis,” railed the little page, and, because of the prevailing noise, had to call two or three times. The doctor looked about him. This was indeed a different atmosphere from the one in the conference room; before-dinner aperitifs were being taken, and the air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke. Nearly everybody was in evening dress, the black of the men’s clothes contrasting with the bare shoulders and bright colors of the women, and expensive perfumes mingled to lend a headiness to the air, already so smoke-filled. Dr. Frederic felt that he could hardly breathe, and was on the point of leaving the cocktail bar for some place a little less congested, when the page begged him to “come this way,” and he found himself facing a group of people gathered round one of the small tables, looking into Anthea’s blue eyes. He saw a small, slim girl with a betraying flush in her cheeks, and eyes that sparkled mischievously. She had the kind of silvery-blonde hair which he knew was practically never natural and which he abhorred; her evening dress was not at all what he considered modest in a girl of her age, she was smoking in a manner that told him it was a habit with her, and there was an unpleasantly-colored cocktail in a glass on the table before her. Not an auspicious meeting between doctor and patient, indeed. She smiled very charmingly and begged him to sit down, one of the young men at once giving up his seat beside her to the doctor.

“You will join us in a cocktail?” asked Anthea.

“No, thank you. I cannot stay. I am on my way home from a conference, and called in to make your acquaintance.”

“How very nice of you, Dr. Frederic. But can’t you stay and have dinner?”

“No, I regret it is not possible. I trust you left your good father well?”

Anthea made a little polite conversation. The young men drifted tactfully away. Diana was introduced, and then the conversation hung fire. After a few minutes, the doctor rose to go, deciding that now was neither the time nor place to register a protest about this convalescence. Diana rose and accompanied him out of the cocktail bar and through the lounge, into the reception hall.

“It was so kind of you, Dr. Frederic, to stop and call on us,” she said.

He looked down at her. At least, her chestnut hair was natural and nicely dressed, and her evening dress was in the most discriminating taste, but it was a pity she had nothing better to do than waste her time in such a place and such company.

“I thought you would like to know about the appointment,” he said.

“We did know,” said Diana, smiling. “We had heard from your secretary. I expect Mr. Wellis told you, but I am here to look after Anthea—more or less in charge of her.”

“Well, you will do her no good by allowing her to spend her time smoking and drinking in the stuffy, impure air of cocktail bars,” he said brusquely. “I do not think that is what her father had in mind. However, bring her to me, and I will see the extent of her trouble.”

Diana looked a little worried. He had no idea, of course, how carefully and tactfully Anthea had to be handled, but she did not like him to think she was falling down on her job.

He held out his hand to her, and when she put hers into it, gave it a brief shake and let it go. “Goodnight, Miss—er
...
” he said.

“Pevrill,” she supplied. “Diana Pevrill.”

“Goodnight, Miss Pevrill. Do not let her drink spirits.”

“Very well, doctor. Goodnight.”

She stood on the top step of the shallow flight to watch him go. The evening air was certainly fresh and sweet after that of the bar. She saw Gerhardt straighten to attention as he saw the doctor, and he opened the door of the Rolls and drove swiftly and competently away. “That was quick,” thought Gerhardt, who had expected to wait longer. “Now for home and dinner,” and he pressed his foot down on the accelerator.

Diana stood for a few moments on the step, after the car had vanished from her sight. Then she went down the few wide steps on to the drive and stood watching the colored lights playing on the elegant fountain. “Goodness,” she was thinking, “goodness. What a man—and he is to be our doctor all the summer. I thought he would be old, a doctor of such eminence. I was sure he would be old—I suppose because Mr. Wellis always called him ‘my old friend’. But he can’t be forty yet. Thirty-eight, perhaps. How can he be so distinguished, so clever and still so young? Oh my goodness, what a man,” and she took a long breath. She had been taken aback by him, so completely surprised that it was difficult to believe that this tall, dark, absorbed-looking man was the Dr. Frederic she had been imagining as elderly, bald, rotund and kindly.

He was so concentrated, she thought, her eyes on the color that changed from white to green and palest pink. So vital. What was it exactly? So full of purpose, using every bit of himself. His movements were swift and somehow economical; his dark eyes so searching. Suddenly, by comparison with the doctor, the men in the hotel seemed elegant and spineless and weak. His handshake was brief and firm. There was nothing hesitant or undecided about him.

“And he disapproved of us,” she thought suddenly. It was not surprising. Anthea was here to keep in check a serious threat, and she was here to see that it was kept in check, and they had been found in the worst possible place, engaged in drinking aperitifs in a smoke-filled bar. He could not know that she had succeeded in extracting a promise from Anthea that she would have only one cocktail and one cigarette before dinner. He could not know that handling Anthea was a difficult job calling for a good deal of diplomacy. What a pity that he had carried away with him such a bad impression.

Diana knew that she should go in and bring Anthea out of the bar; that they should have their dinner and retire early to bed; but she wanted a few more minutes to herself out here in the peaceful evening. She walked across the road to the side of the lake, a little chilly in her evening dress, but not noticing it. She wanted to think about the doctor. She had had, like any other girl, many dreams of love, many different dreams of falling in love. She knew, when she was sensible, that it would probably happen quite differently from her dreams, if it happened at all. Perhaps she would meet a young man at a dance, or in an office where she worked, or when she was on holiday at a seaside hotel; and he would dance with her, or see her home, or invite her to a cinema; and slowly, beginning with cautious and tender hand-holding, their affair would grow. Nice, but not very romantic; probable, but not thrilling. Dreams were very different things; in dreams, one chose the man above all others and there was romance in plenty. One dreamed of meeting him suddenly, unexpectedly, of seeing him across a crowd of people and recognizing him at once: both of them recognizing in each other the one person in the whole world. Love at first sight, passionate, satisfying love that never wore thin. Dreams, dreams
...
And Dr. Frederic was the stuff that dreams are made of. Diana gave herself an impatient shake, walked briskly back to the hotel, went to find A
n
thea, and carried her into the dining room for dinner.

“Frightfully distinguished and handsome, wasn’t he?” asked Anthea.

“Yes, I suppose he was,” agreed Diana.

“And frightfully stuffy too. I shouldn’t be surprised if he is pompous and a bore.”

“It’s rather soon to judge, isn’t it?” asked Diana. “He couldn’t be expected to approve of finding you where you were.”

“No. I can see I shall have a struggle with him. Oh well, he isn’t near enough to interfere much, anyway, thank goodness.”

And that was all the impact that the doctor made on Anthea. Diana was relieved. He had, apparently, made such an unexpected and terrific impact on herself, that she had rather expected other people to be similarly affected. She was sufficiently sorry, however, that he had found her wanting in her task of managing Anthea, to become very firm after dinner; insisting that after they had had coffee and read their magazines for a short time, Anthea should go to bed.

During the days that followed, Diana tried to be equally firm, but not always with success. It was easy to see how Anthea had reached her present stage, by realizing how little care she took even now, when she was aware of danger. One of the young men in the hotel was the owner of a small but powerful motor launch, and after one ride in it over the waters of the lake, Anthea was enchanted by it and it became a daily occurrence. This would have been all right, if she had bothered to wrap up well, for it could be cold on the water, and the winds blowing off the snows could be very sharp; but she was careless about these things. One evening, when they had both retired early to bed, and Diana was enjoying the luxury of a long read in her comfortable room, Anthea lay and listened to the faint strains of the dance music coming from below; and, at last, could bear it no longer and got up and dressed and went downstairs to dance until the small hours of the morning. Diana was roused by voices in the corridor, feeling sure that one of them was Anthea’s, and, thinking that perhaps she was not feeling well, went into her room to enquire, only to meet Anthea coming in from the corridor in full regalia, her eyes sparkling and her manner suggesting that she had accepted drinks from more than one admirer.

“Oh, don’t be a spoilsport,” was all Anthea would reply to Diana’s protests; and although, in the morning, she had the grace to be a little ashamed of herself, Diana could have no guarantee that the same tiling would not happen again. She must be more wide awake to her duties, she decided, if Anthea was not to be trusted.

What was doubly annoying was that Diana felt that the young men who lived in the hotel were in league with Anthea against her. They were always charming to Diana, and sometimes they persuaded her openly to allow Anthea a little fun, implying that she was unreasonable; but at other times, they slipped off with Anthea on some jaunt of which she would probably disapprove, and she had to fume in impatience until they returned.

On the morning of Anthea’s appointment, Diana was early in her room.

“Anthea, you have your appointment with Dr. Frederic today,” she reminded her.

“Oh yes, what a bore.” Anthea was eating her breakfast, and sipped her coffee as she watched Diana.

“Now, we are going to be punctual,” Diana warned her. “Dr. Frederic is too important to be kept waiting. Besides, our day is our own to use as we like; his is one long round of work and appointments; so mind you are ready on time.”

“How do we go?”

“I have ordered a car. It will be here at ten, so please be ready by then.”

“All right,” said Anthea, indifferently.

“And it’s rather cold, so wear a suit.”

“All right, mamma,” said Anthea, smiling mischievously. Diana laughed at her, and left her to her breakfast.

By fussing round her, fetching things she had forgotten, putting away the clothes she had decided not to wear, Diana had Anthea ready on time, and they left the Splendide punctually. It was necessary to make a rather long way round, as some of the mountain roads were not yet open to traffic, on account of snow, but this pleased Diana well. There was no particular novelty in this drive for Anthea, who was familiar with all the well-known places in Switzerland, but for Diana it was all sheer delight. Anthea was not very talkative, and this also pleased Diana. She was free to devote herself to the beautiful countryside through which they passed. Anthea could always find so much to say to the many young men who admired her, but she became quickly silent and bored with her own sex. She had even studied the driver of the hired car, a man very handsome in the Italian manner, but decided he had no possibilities and at once ignored him.

When they reached Dr. Frederic’s house, they went inside to wait. Almost at once, the secretary came to them, apologetic and distressed.

“I am so very sorry, but Dr. Frederic was called away earlier this morning. I think he will be back soon, if you would be so good as to wait.”

“Certainly,” said Diana. They made themselves comfortable and began to study the many magazines left fox; their perusal. Anthea said:

“Dr. Frederic mustn’t be kept waiting, oh no. But it doesn’t matter about us.”

“Well, it doesn’t really, does it?” said Diana pleasantly. “What is half an hour, here or there, to you?”

Anthea did not deign a reply to this, but looked at her book of French fashion with considerable interest. After half an hour, the secretary brought them some coffee and little sweet biscuits, and more profuse apologies. Anthea accepted the coffee, and looked regretfully at the sweet biscuits.

“No,” she decided, “I’ll have to say no to those.”

“Come along,” persuaded Diana, “you could do with a little more weight.”

“You don’t know what it cost me to get it off,” said Anthea. To the secretary who came later for the tray, she said:

“Does Dr. Frederic often do this?”

“No, and I am sure he will be very sorry indeed. You see a Maharajah flew from India especially to consult him, and Dr. Frederic thought it important that he should be accommodated at the clinic for a few days right away; and that is where he is now. I am sure he will return almost at once.”

“You said that before,” said Anthea.

They waited a little longer, however; and at last he arrived, coming straight to them where they were waiting, his hands stretched out to shake hands, adding his apologies to those of the secretary.

“Now,” he said briskly, “I must not waste more of your time. If you will come in here
...
And Miss Pevrill, do you wish to be present?”

Diana glanced at Anthea.

“I don’t think it is necessary,” said Anthea. “No, it is not necessary. I have a very nice nurse.”

So Diana waited again until the examination was concluded. Then Anthea and the doctor reappeared. He was still brisk. Diana suspected that he had more important things to be seen to than Anthea, but he did not show it in his manner. He waited for Anthea to be seated, then sat down near Diana.