Doctor's Orders (4 page)

“Now, we have arranged a routine,” he said, “which Miss Wellis must follow. She assures me that she will, but I want you to help her to do it. I have written down here just what I want her to do. The temperature chart is important—she has not been keeping that up. I don’t want it invented at the end of the week—I want a true chart. Her rest periods have apparently been erratic, and they must be regular. You will see it is all down here. Milk, cream, eggs and butter will do her no harm—she should have all of them. It is obvious that all is not well with her, but there is no reason why it should not be in the near future, if she co-operates.” The interview was apparently at an end.

“You will come and see me a week today,” he said, preparing to show them out; and then suddenly he smiled at them. “And I,” he added, “will promise not to keep you waiting next time. I hope you have forgiven me.”

He had smiled at both of them, but his last sentence was addressed to Diana. Her heart gave a leap as she smiled back.

“We know how valuable your time is,” she said.

“Can I take you anywhere? I am going straight to the clinic again, to operate.”

“Without your lunch?” asked Diana.

“Lunch can wait until afterwards. Can I take you?”

“No, thank you. We have a car waiting.”

“Then au revoir; keep to the routine, Miss Wellis, and come and see me a week today.”

“Dismissed,” said Anthea with a grimace, as they made for their car. “He thinks a terrific lot of himself, doesn’t he?”

Diana did not reply to that. She asked instead: “What did he say about you, Anthea, during the examination?”

“Nothing much. Trying to frighten me, of course. The specialist in London didn’t think much was wrong.”

By that, Diana gathered that Dr. Frederic did, but she knew that Anthea was not going to tell her any more. She decided that she would do her best to help Anthea keep to the routine, but, as she had suspected, it was difficult. Even about the temperature, Anthea made difficulties. “It’s so silly,” she kept protesting, when Diana reminded her. “That’s just what it isn’t,” said Diana, and took over the temperature chart, and saw that it was properly filled in. She also insisted on the afternoon rest, and Anthea was not too difficult about this, since the young men nearly all disappeared during the day and popped up again in the evening. Getting her to bed early was the main task, and getting her to eat was almost as bad. But Diana persisted until the week had run its course and they were due for the next appointment, when, armed with the temperature chart, they made another trip in the hired car to Dr. Frederic’s house. The appointment was for the early afternoon, and the doctor was ready for them. This time, Diana decided she would be present during the examination, and Anthea made no objection beyond an elaborate shrug of the shoulders. When it was finished and Dr. Frederic had told Anthea to dress again, he sat in thought, studying the chart and thinking about her. When she was dressed, he said gently:

“Come and sit down.” When she was seated, he added: “Now I am going to treat you as a responsible, adult person, Miss Wellis, and speak seriously to you. These are the correct temperatures?”

“Yes,” said Anthea, and Diana nodded.

“And you have kept to the routine?”

“Almost in every respect,” said Diana.

“What was the exception?”

Diana looked at Anthea. Anthea shrugged, and Diana said:

“She objects to the early evenings. And she will not eat.”

“The early evenings I can understand. No young woman likes that. Why will you not eat?”

“The usual reasons,” said Anthea.

“You mean that you have no appetite? That food doesn’t appeal to you?”

“No, I mean that I don’t want to put on weight.”

“That is an extreme foolishness in your case. That is just what you must do—put on ten or twelve pounds. Now this is what I feel, you are not sufficiently aware of the meaning of this illness and you are not taking it seriously. This you must do. And this, I think, you cannot do while you remain at the
Hotel Splendide. I recommend that you move from there.”

“If you are thinking of a nursing home or a hospital, I can tell you that I won’t go,” said Anthea.

“If it were necessary, I should prevail upon you to go, but it isn’t necessary. What I have in mind is a mountain hotel. You need to be higher in the mountains; you need more peace and quiet. You need a restful, orderly existence. Certainly no cocktails or spirits; and an increase in weight.”

Anthea stood up.

“It sounds like a death sentence,” she said. “It would bore me utterly. I will not moulder in some quiet little mountain hotel; and it took me months to get twelve pounds off; I don’t intend to put it back again.”

She picked up her mink coat and her handbag, and turned to the door. She thought he was overstepping his authority, making a mountain out of a molehill, being a wet-blanket and trying to take the pleasure out of life. Just because he was her father’s friend he didn’t have to be a clever doctor.

“Sit down,” said his voice.

She turned in surprise. He was angry, she could see that.

“Sit down,” he said again.

Surprised, she returned to her chair and sat down. He left his desk, and took another chair which he set down facing her. He seated himself and looked at her with a tensed expression.

“What you deserve,” he said shortly, “for such rudeness and foolishness and short-sightedness, is that I should send you away and refuse to have any more to do with you. But because you are my friend’s daughter—and I wonder that he hasn’t sometimes spanked you instead of indulging you
—
I am going to reason with you. You do understand what is the matter with you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Anthea, “but it’s only in the very earliest stages.”

"Ah. And you are qualified to say how long it takes to get past the early stages into some of the others? Of course you are not. It varies in everybody. In a foolish girl who will not eat, but who will drink and smoke and dance, it can be a very short time. If you will not be convinced by me, I can take you to the hospital, and show you things that will not please you at all. I warn you, Miss Wellis, you have got to do as I say: and I shall write to your father and tell him this, too. It is no good expecting that you can come out here and lead exactly the same life that you led in London. A cocktail bar in Switzerland is no healthier than one in London; late hours in crowded rooms are as bad in one place as in another. You have to make a change in your life, or I will not consent to treat you. I would not like to be answerable for the consequences. Now this is what you must do.

“You must leave the Splendide. I will give you the address of a very good, small mountain hotel. You will have to do without a few luxuries, but that will not hurt you. The food is very good and plentiful, and you must eat it. You will have no temptations to stay up late, there will be nothing to do. You will rest at the stated times, and follow the rest of the routine I have already given you. Now, are you prepared to do this?”

“What will happen if I don’t?”

“I think you will become very ill; and it would be a more difficult job to recover then. My good girl, you ha
v
e no choice.”

“All right, then,” said Anthea. “I suppose I have to do as you say. I shall die of boredom.”

“Boredom does not kill so easily. And perhaps you will find time to discover a few resources inside yourself.”

His voice was dry. Diana was profoundly thankful that she had not been the object of his discourse, she felt she would have withered under his contempt. As it was, she felt that she was partly included; he
held her responsible for Anthea’s behavior, and he had already said what he thought of that.

She rose with Anthea.

“I will see you to your car,” he said, and brushed aside her protest, and went with them to the front door of the house and out on to the steps. “I will arrange with the mountain hotel for you,” he said, “and my secretary will telephone you.”

At that moment, a car drew up behind their hired car, and a woman stepped out, helping out a small boy, who was carrying something very carefully in his hands.

“Ah, monsieur le docteur,” cried this little boy, trying to hurry with his precious burden, “see what I have here.”

The doctor turned, his face lighting up with pleasure. Diana did not look at the little boy, she was watching the doctor. His dark face broke into a welcoming smile. He put his hand on the boy’s head, ruffling his hair.

“Ah, my Bruno,” he said, affectionately. “And what is this that you have here? Can this be our mill?”

“Yes, it is our mill,” said the boy, offering it for inspection. It was a crudely made model, little pieces of wood, cardboard, string and cotton; nailed, glued, tied together. But it worked. There and then, Bruno set it on the coping of the steps and set it in motion.

“You see,” he shouted, “it works, Dr. Frederic.”

“Yes, I see. I see that we have here a future engineering genius. It is marvellous and we will take it into my surgery and study it together. But first I will see these ladies to their car; and you, my Bruno, must use that brand new voice of yours more gently. You must not use it for shouting.”

“No, Monsieur,” replied the boy, smiling. “I will use it gently.”

“Yes, like the mill. Now you go in, and I will follow in one moment.”

The boy and his mother went into the house, but, as the doctor turned to the watching Diana and Anthea, yet another car drew up, in front of the hired one. This was elegant, gleaming, grey and enormous, a powerful, panther-like creation which would have no difficulties at all with the mountains. From it there stepped a tall woman, as elegant as her own car, dressed in grey, the last word in Parisian chic. She began at once to speak to Dr. Frederic.

“Armand. Mon cher Armand. Forgive me if I interrupt you, I am in great haste.” She turned to Anthea and Diana with a charming smile. “Just one little moment, I beg you. A few seconds, and I fly.” She turned back to the doctor. “Armand, I have to go to Paris. Now. Immediately. And so I am desolated because I cannot dine with you, as arranged.”

The doctor smiled.

“I am desolated, too. I know what it is, Antoinette, you have an invitation for a dress show and cannot bear to miss it.”

“Indeed, no, Armand. Do you think I would forego dinner with you for a dress show? It is much more important. My brother Pierre has flown in from the States. He goes to London almost at once and then back to New York. So I am driving to Paris to see him, but we will meet as soon as I return, yes?”

“Assuredly we will,” he said.

The newcomer smiled at Anthea again.

“Please forgive me that I interrupt you. I am in so much hurry. And what a beautiful color indeed is your mink. What a lucky person you are.” She smiled again, and went to her car, the doctor escorting her. He kissed her hand at parting, and with a special smile for him, she drove away, quickly gathering speed.

“I apologize for Antoinette,” said Dr. Fre
de
ric. “She usually has beautiful manners, but she is excited now because she is going to see her brother.” He saw them to their car, and turned to Anthea. “If you do as I say,” he said, “you will not regret it. My secretary will write to you about it.”

He stood back to watch them go, and then turned towards the house. Diana sat back in the car, hoping that Anthea would not talk. But Anthea wanted to talk about several things and she was not at all good-tempered about them, so that Diana had to wait until later, to think about the doctor; and as she was always ready for dinner before Anthea, she waited for her on their balcony.

He had been so angry at the conclusion of their visit, she thought. He would have liked to shake some sense into Anthea; and he obviously thought that she, Diana, was tarred with the same brush. His anger had disappeared as if by magic, though, at sight of the little boy, and he had been affectionate, warm and interested. Then he had seemed to change quickly again when Antoinette appeared on the scene, still warm, interested, even affectionate, but in a different way. Yes, she told herself, it was as well you saw him with Antoinette. Not much chance of mistaking what the feeling is there. If Dr. Armand Frederic is the stuff that dreams are made on, they are not your dreams, Diana Pevrill, and you will do well to remember it.

It was sensible advice to herself, but oddly depressing. It was only with difficulty that she could shake off the slight depression, but she had to do it, knowing that when she met Anthea for dinner she would have yet another depression to fight.

CHAPTER THREE

The move
to the Kurhaus Morgenberg took place a week or so after Anthea’s decision to do as the doctor advised. The news of her departure had been received by the young men of the Hotel Splendide with protest and objections. The air here was wonderful and would do her a great amount of good. She would perish of frustration up in the mountains, and the lack of congenial companionship would do her more harm than ever the Splendide would. When they saw that she had to go, they gave her a little farewell party, and this party itself showed Diana the wisdom o
f
their decision. Anthea was reckless and gay, dancing and drinking and finishing off the evening with a speedy trip across the lake in the motor launch; so that next morning, when they were due to depart, she was feeling very tired, rather ill, and quite unequal to the drive into the mountains. When she felt like this, even she saw that something must be done about her health, and it was a subdued Anthea who allowed Diana to help her into the car in the afternoon, and who left her to cope with all the arrangements for the journey and all the luggage.