Doctor's Orders (5 page)

Diana, in spite of the fact that she had loved the position of the hotel, and her wonderful view across the lake, was not sorry to leave the Splendide. It seemed to her that they had known all the wrong people, doubtless the ones that Anthea preferred, but not the kind she liked to meet herself. The rather raffish young men, the good-time people, seemed to be the kind that Anthea attracted, and Diana was hoping that the hotel in the mountains would be too quiet for such people.

It proved to be so. They drove up to it as the evening was darkening, and it stood isolated on the slope of the mountain. Beyond it, the road dwindled into a rough track which led to the farm buildings connected with the hotel, and then on, round the mountain, to a small hamlet, a handful of chalets grouped together for comfort and company, whose occupants rarely left their homes for the valley. The peace of the evening had settled over the hills and valleys, and the hotel, on its natural plateau, seemed a welcoming place. The plateau was very small, doing little more than accommodate the hotel and its garden. The mountain rose higher behind it, and sloped away before it, revealing one of the inescapably beautiful views to be found everywhere in this country; the green hillsides dipping down to the lakes, sometimes fir-clad, sometimes grey with boulders and rock faces; the giants among mountains in the distance, lifting their snow-covered peaks into the blue of the sky. This evening, drifting cloud obscured much of the view, parting now and then to reveal glimpses of wonders yet unseen, and as the car stood before the hotel entrance, and the porter dealt with the luggage, a cloud passed slowly across the hotel itself, so that they stood in a mist, seeing everything dimly until it had passed. Diana was enchanted. It was easy for her to be delighted, for all of this was so new to her. She quickly saw that Anthea was far from being enchanted. Anthea shivered in the temporary mist of the cloud, drew her coat, round her and said petulantly:

“Do we have to stand out here, in this wretched mist? Is this the air that is supposed to be so good for me? It’s enough to give me pneumonia.”

“We’ll go in,” said Diana quickly. “In any case, it’s going already. You’re tired, and ought to be upstairs in your room.”

Upstairs, in one of the best rooms the hotel could offer, Anthea looked round her in disgust.

“It’s like a hostel,” she said crossly.

Diana laughed, and Anthea looked at her suddenly, because Diana sounded so genuinely amused
—
and there were times, when Anthea forgot to be completely absorbed in herself when she suspected Diana of having an unplumbed personality, which
might even make her, Anthea, feel small. She said: “What’s so funny?”

“Anthea, my dear, it’s easy to see that you’ve never been in a hostel, if you think this is like one. This isn’t like the Splendide, it’s true—nothing terribly luxurious or overstuffed. But it’s absolutely charming, and chock full of character, and I, for one, wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“What is charming about it? It looks bare and bleak and Spartan to me.”

“Well, almost every hotel room you go into looks exactly like every other one. You might be in the Splendide or the Bristol or the Monte Rosa or the Bellevue—there are crowds of them everywhere. But this is different. This hand-carved furniture, and the hand-woven curtains and covers, the handmade rugs, and the window boxes bright with flowers. This is like being in a private house as a guest.”

“And not a really comfortable chair in the room.”

“Oh, we’ll get you one. That will be simple. I’ll speak to the people about it, and have a comfortable chaise-longue brought up for you, so that, whenever you want to rest, you can do so by the windows and enjoy the marvellous view.”

“You’ve got a funny idea of what I consider enjoyable,” grumbled Anthea.

“Well, if you don’t enjoy it,” said Diana, with sudden asperity, “you ought to. And if you don’t appreciate your luck in having a father who can afford to give you everything of the best, and a specialist that lots of people would be only too glad to trust in, and somebody like me to take all the worries from your shoulders, then you ought to again. Why, my goodness, lots of girls in precisely your state of health have got to earn their living and race for their buses every morning, and do their chores every evening, and have nobody at all to think for them and worry about them; and they would think you exceptionally lucky. So count your blessings, Anthea, for a change.”

“
Good lord,” said Anthea, looking at Diana with interest, “what made
you
fly off the handle? I can’t help it if my father happens to be wealthy, can I?”

“No, but you don’t have to grumble about it either.”

“O.K.,” said Anthea. “We’ll wait until you get bored to desperation, too, and then hear what you have to say.” But she did not grumble
any more for that day. She did find that she was considerably more tired than she was used to feeling, but calmed her own quick anxiety by reminding herself of last night’s party and today’s journey; and agreed to Diana’s suggestion that she should have a dinner
-
tray in bed and get a good night’s rest.

“All right, I’ll do that,” she said. “And you go down to dinner, and then come back and tell me the worst; who is staying here and what it’s like and so on ... I don’t know what we’re going to do with our evening dresses—we certainly won’t want them here.”

So Diana went down to dinner alone, and was very glad of that fact, because she was free to be openly interested in everything that went on round her. In the dining room, too, she had the feeling that this was more like a home than a hotel, in spite of the number of the tables; and everything was cosy in spite of the amount of carved wood about. The wooden chairs were hand-carved, but furnished with comfortable cushions, while the corner tables and some of those near the walls had settees to accommodate the diners. The hand-woven linen with the pretty patterns was again in evidence as tablecloths, and Diana suspected that many of the long winter evenings up here were spent in weaving and carving. The wide windows were covered now by their curtains, but Diana knew that they would reveal an absorbing panorama by day.

There were several other guests, but as yet the hotel was by no means full. With customary courtesy, each fresh arrival to the dining room bowed to Diana and wished her good evening. She felt a glow of appreciation. After a while an old lady came into the room and made her way to a small table near a window; the short distance interrupted by several pauses, as people at the other tables spoke to her. She had a beautifully upright carriage and an undoubtedly grande-dame manner, speaking to them with a charming graciousness which Diana thought was perfectly genuine. This served to remind Diana that, so far, she had not seen one of the rather raffish type of person so much attracted by Anthea at the Splendide, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It would be so much easier to look after Anthea without these young men to tempt her to be foolish; though she did not attempt to deceive herself about Anthea’s probable reaction. Anthea would be bored, and, being bored, she would be disagreeable. Diana occupied herself in wondering what she could find for Anthea to do, for Anthea to be interested in. It did not occur to her to wonder what
she
would do, or be interested in, for so many things interested Diana; and she and boredom were only on nodding acquaintance.

The little waitress came to Diana as she was waiting for her coffee.

“Madame de Luzy sends her compliments and asks if mademoiselle would like to take coffee with her.”

Diana looked up in quick surprise and saw that the old lady was smiling at her. She rose at once, and went to her table, seating herself at Madame’s invitation.

“I saw that you are alone, and I know that you are a new arrival, and I thought it might be a little strange and lonely for you.”

“How kind of you. I am not alone here, really, I have a young friend here; but she was tired and had her dinner in bed. So I have the privilege of having coffee with you.”

“A very pretty speech from one of the younger generation, indeed. I am sorry your friend is tired—she will be here for the benefit of her health, I expect?”

“Yes,” said Diana, surprised that it should be guessed.

Madame de Luzy smiled.

“Oh, it is not unusual,” she said. “Many of us come for the same reason.”

“Not you, I hope, Madame?”

“Originally, yes; but now I come because I love the place, and spend two or three months of every summer here. Besides, it still does me good—there is nothing like the mountain air. But you yourself? You don’t need the mountain air?”

“I don’t need it, Madame, at least not for that reason—but I enjoy it.”

“You are from England?”

“Yes.”

“In summer, of course, many thousands of your countrymen come for holidays here; but not to this place. A few, of course, but usually not. There are no amusements but such as people make for themselves. It is a little inaccessible and remote. But if you like to wander in the mountains, and to read, and to enjoy a little music on rainy evenings—of the simple sort—and a little conversation, and a few games; then indeed you can be happy here.”

My goodness, wondered Diana, whatever will Anthea do? She could not see Anthea being satisfied with such simple recreations. They had brought a great many books, but Anthea did not care to read; nor did she care for walking, especially on lonely mountains. Diana saw a big problem facing her; but she shelved it for the moment to talk to this charming and friendly stranger.

When she went back to Anthea, she found her looking idly through magazines.

“Feeling better now?” asked Diana.

“Much. I’ll be quite all right again in the morning. What was it like downstairs?”

“Quiet, rather. I gather it is rather early in the season for this place. They close all the winter, but will be very busy later on.”

“Anybody interesting?”

“Well, from your point of view, I don’t know. I met a very distinguished old lady
...
”

“Old ladies,” interrupted Anthea, disgustedly. “Any men?”

“Not young ones, I’m afraid. One or two middle
-
aged ones in attendance on their wives.”

“Good heavens above! Now do you see what you’ve brought me to? I can’t possibly stay here.”

“You never know who may come tomorrow or the next day or next week. Anything can happen.”

“I’ve already made my guess about this place,” said Anthea. “Nothing can happen here—nothing that will interest me.” But in that, she was quite wrong.

From the beginning of their stay at the Morgenberg, Anthea was a little out of place. Everybody else was aware of it, and Anthea felt it every moment.

She was the hothouse plant in the open garden, strange, exotic, in the wrong element. Her character was unsuited to this quiet life: she had been brought up by a selfish, worldly mother who taught her that the worldly life was the only one worth leading, and who had sent her to private schools and finishing schools that entirely endorsed this view. She thrived among the theatres, night-clubs, race meetings, beauty parlors, gossip and malicious wit of her mother’s world—as far as her likes and dislikes were concerned. Her health, however, could not thrive upon it, when it was allied to a vanity-prompted, stringent diet. She found none of these things that she liked at the Morgenberg, and if her character was unsuited to this life, so was her appearance. Her clothes were all too expensive, too smart, too little adapted to the needs of the place. She persisted in wearing her high heels as long as she was in the hotel or on the plateau, and as Diana could rarely persuade her to go farther, it was seldom that she was seen in sensible shoes. Her fine, silver-blonde hair, hanging to her shoulders, looked quite unnatural now, and the jewellery she customarily wore—expensive gold bracelets with their load of curious charms, clips ornamented with jewels—was as out of place as the rest of her. She looked a picture of suffering boredom as she moved herself and her possessions from one vantage point, of which she had tired, to another, of which she would soon also weary. She was, in short, a suitable guest at the Splendides of any country, but not at the Morgenbergs.

Her boredom was bound to affect Diana. She grumbled continually. Every day she said she did not know how long she could stand it. She was so obviously at odds with life that Diana began to wonder if it could possibly do her any good to remain, and if it would be better to find another place, with at least a little more life.

It was while she pondered this question in her mind that she returned to the hotel one day, from a short walk on the mountain, to find herself face to face with Dr. Frederic in the small hall. She was so surprised that words failed her.

“Ah,” he said, “it is Miss Pevrill. I was about to make enquiries for your young friend, Anthea.”

“I had no idea you were coming today,” said Diana, “or I would have waited in for you. I do hope you haven’t had to wait long.”

“I did not come to see you and Anthea,” he said. “I called upon my very old friend, Madame de Luzy; and as I am here, I cannot go without seeing how my patient is getting on. Does she feel the benefit of the mountain air?”

“Well, you know, that is something that I should like to discuss with you, Dr. Frederic.”

“Then let us come into the small room, and we can talk in private.”