Authors: Eleanor Farnes
Doctor's Orders (6 page)
He was obviously quite at home in this place. He led Diana into a small sitting room. The Morgenberg, in common with many hotels on the Continent, especially those which dealt chiefly with their own compatriots and not the foreign tourists, did not boast a large lounge. That was something that English people felt the need of, but was not always necessary. The occupants of this hotel sat in the dining room and chatted, or went to their rooms, or met on the long balcony on one side of the building. This was yet another source of annoyance to Anthea. The small sitting room, a concession to people who must have such a thing, was very comfortable but had the rather desolate air of rooms that were little used.
“Now,” said the doctor, “what is it you wish to discuss?”
“Whether it was a wise move to bring Anthea to this place. I do not wish, of course, to seem to question your advice. As far as her bodily health goes, I am sure it was the best. But she is so utterly bored, so desperately bored. She is really unhappy here. She cannot settle to anything; she does not like to read, or to walk. She can only talk to the people who speak English, and not all of them do. She seems so out of place and so miserable that I really wonder whether it is a good thing to keep her here?”
“Is it possible,” asked Dr. Frederic, looking at Diana in a reflective way, “that a young woman can really have so few resources?”
“Only too possible, I’m afraid,” replied Diana.
“And is it possible that, after such expensive schools and language mistresses, she cannot make conversation in any language but her own?”
“That’s only too possible also,” Diana told him.
“What a waste,” he said, shaking his head. “But if she is as miserable as you say, then perhaps a move would be advisable. If, however, her health has benefited, and I think it would benefit yet more from a prolonged stay, then I think she should stay, bored or not. Has she no hobbies, nothing to occupy her?”
“Apparently not.”
“Well, I will see her, and make an examination
first.”
Diana went away to find Anthea, and went unsuccessfully from point to point. Anthea, on a different route, returned to the hotel while Diana was searching, and met Dr. Frederic herself. They began to talk. Dr. Frederic had been a little surprised to hear that Diana spoke of Anthea as if she did not know her very well—he had imagined them old friends. If not, why had Diana accompanied such a wilful, and possibly disagreeable young woman across Europe?
“Miss Pevrill tells me you are not happy here,” the doctor said, after preliminary greetings had been exchanged.
“Well, it’s rather a dull hole, isn’t it?” asked Anthea, but automatically bringing forth a charming smile, reacting to the most handsome man she had seen for more than a week.
“I think it a very beautiful place,” he said. “But your friend tells me you are desperately bored.”
“Perhaps she’s bored,” suggested Anthea mischievously. “I wondered how long she would stand it.”
This was a new point of view for the doctor. Indeed, he thought, it is just as probable that she is bored, as that this one should be. He said:
“If I find that you are no better here, perhaps arrangements can be made for you to move; but if your health has improved, I think you should stay here—at least, to give it a longer trial. Will you agree to that?”
Anthea shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose I should have to,” she said.
“And Miss Pevrill would agree?
”
“I suppose so. I don’t know what she will do, or not do.”
“Have you not been friends for a long time?”
“Good heavens, no. I didn’t know her until this Swiss trip came on the map. At least, I believe I did meet her years ago, when I was small; I’m not sure about that; but she’s not really my friend. She’s a friend of my father’s.”
“Of your father’s? Surely she is a little young to be Mr. Wellis’s friend?”
Anthea shrugged her shoulders once more. “Well, he suddenly produced her when he wanted somebody to come with me. And nobody else would do. He seemed to think that she was marvellous. I suppose he’s reached the age when he likes women young.”
It was a vulgar remark, with a vulgar thought behind it, and, as soon as it was spoken, Anthea regretted it. She often did this; said or did things which she was immediately sorry for; but a streak of obstinacy in her would not apologize, would not let her retract. She knew that what she had said should be retracted, but the obstinacy held her back.
Dr. Frederic looked at her, and his dark eyes were inscrutable. He thought: Heaven preserve me from this young woman’s world and its uselessness. He felt again the reluctance to waste his time on this case, yet knew that he must for Richard Wellis’s sake.
“Well,” he said briskly, “as soon as Miss Pevrill returns, we will go to your room and make the examination.”
Diana returned almost at once, smiling when she saw Anthea, apologizing to the doctor, explaining how she had looked everywhere. Dr. Frederic looked at her as she made her explanations, saw the clothes that were suitable for the mountain, the shoes that were sensible, the air of good breeding, the general rightness of her outward appearance. He could understand that a man of Richard Wellis’s calibre and worth might well be interested in her, and fond of her, and though he lent no credence to Anthea’s wild hints, what she had said raised an unconscious barrier in the doctor’s mind between Diana and himself. She was part of this world that he had no use for.
Dr. Frederic found Anthea much improved already by the change from the Splendide. Her temperature was steadying wonderfully, and she seemed generally more calm, in spite of the boredom. He recommended brusquely that she should stay at the Morgenberg.
“A sentence of imprisonment,” said Anthea.
“You would do better,” he said
stern
ly, “to regard it as a message of hope. Do you realize that I have just told you you are improving? If you had been sensible in the first place, this sentence of imprisonment—as you call it—would have been unnecessary. If you are not sensible now, a worse sentence will have to be passed. You have a very good chance here, and if you do not wish to go on to a hospital or a sanatorium, you will do well to appreciate it.”
Anthea looked down sulkily.
“Come,” he said. “I am sure you are too sensible at heart not to feel what is best for you. I will give you an ultimatum. You do your best and co-operate, and I will also do my best. If you will not co-operate, then I cannot accept you as a patient.”
“In that case,” said Anthea, “there is no choice.”
“You will co-operate?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Excellent. Then let us hear no more nonsense about boredom. Now, we have an invitation to coffee with my dear old friend, Madame de Luzy, and I shall expect to see you eating all the creamiest cakes.”
They all went downstairs, and on to the balcony where Madame de Luzy was waiting for them at the shady end. The cakes the doctor had mentioned, heaped with whipped cream from the dairy, were already waiting, and the waitress soon brought the coffee. They gathered about the table.
“It is a pity we cannot persuade you to stay to dinner,” said the old lady. “It is always such a great pleasure to me when you remember to come and see me.”
“I remember you much oftener than I am able to come, but you will appreciate that I am very busy.”
“
Yes, of course I do understand that.”
“And today, I have already an engagement for dinner.”
“Then we must make the most of what we have. Is it Antoinette to whom you are engaged for dinner? I have not heard from her for some time, so when you see her, please remind her that I still like to hear her news.”
“It is Antoinette, and your message shall be delivered. What a wonderful place this is. One can almost feel the peace dropping round one, like a gentle rain.”
“We have a poet,” said Diana
,
smiling suddenly, “who says something the same. ‘Peace comes dropping slow’
...
”
He turned to look at her. Their eyes met, hers with delight in them, his with curiosity.
“Do you feel it here?” he asked her.
“Often,” she replied.
“Then perhaps you will find you can endure the boredom of the stay here,” he said.
She was about to protest quickly that she was never bored here, but Anthea said:
“Poetry and peace. I don’t want either of them.”
Madame de Luzy smiled at her.
“At your age, my dear, no. You are so young and so very pretty, you naturally want other things. A little patience, my child, and you can have them. A little patience, and the delightfulness of your youth, and your spun-silver hair, and your gay ways, will be able to work havoc irreparable.”
Anthea looked up quickly, suspecting sarcasm, but the old lady’s smile was warm and her glance affectionate. Dr. Frederic looked surprised, as if this were an over-generous estimate indeed. Diana, wishing she had been able to assure him that she was not bored in this lovely place, felt that now was the wrong moment. She saw that Anthea was quite unreasonably pleased with the compliment from Madame de Luzy, and, for the first time, a suspicion came into Diana’s mind that Anthea’s difficult qualities came from a feeling of inferiority. She at once discounted it. Anthea and a feeling of inferiority? No, it was absurd. Yet a little of the idea remained.
The doctor went as soon as he had drunk his coffee. It was Madame de Luzy who walked with him to his car, and talked for a few minutes before standing back to watch Gerhardt steer the Rolls down the steep road. Diana had watched him walking over the short, soft grass of the plateau, and, just as he was about to step into the car, he had turned and given her a smiling salute. Given them a smiling salute, she amended, since obviously Anthea was included. And now the car would carry him away from the Morgenberg and the mountains, and through valleys and villages to the clean wide streets of the lakeside city, where he was an honored citizen, where his fine, large house and his pleasant servants waited for him, where he would get ready for dinner with the tall, elegant woman called Antoinette. Antoinette knew him intimately. Antoinette knew when he was tired, when he was pleased, what interested him. Antoinette could call him “che
r
Armand” in her clear and pleasant voice, and extend her hand to him, knowing that it was his pleasure to kiss it. Diana felt an angry annoyance with the Antoinette she had never met, and seen only once briefly, and a painful jealousy of her, too.
CHAPTER FOUR
Anthea
finished her breakfast and sat back in her chair. She and Diana breakfasted, every fine morning, on the balcony, overlooking the valleys and lakes. After the meal, at which Anthea was eating much more than she had believed possible before leaving London—for which she blamed the mounts in air—it was customary for Diana to go for a short walk, and for Anthea to laze on the plateau, reading, or talking to Madame de Luzy, for whom she had developed a genuine liking. This morning, Diana set off as usual, liking this short respite, which normally was for not more than half an hour. Anthea lounged in her chair, lazily watching the few people who emerged from or went into the hotel, or walked about the soft grass; but when Madame de Luzy did not appear, she suddenly decided that she would go for a short walk herself.
She was still abysmally bored, but now she was forcing herself to be resigned. She had set a definite date for her return to London. The specialist had said originally that six months of mountain air would probably cure her. To be on the safe side, she called it seven, and told herself that she would be back in London at the end of October. If she behaved herself at this mountain morgue for three months, perhaps that ogre Dr. Frederic would permit her to spend the rest of the time at an hotel less quiet, less funereal. The fact that everybody else seemed to th
ink
this place a Paradise did not weigh with Anthea. There was no dancing, none of the gaiety which kept her going.
She was wearing shoes that were sensible from Anthea’s point of view, so she set off along the rough road that led towards the farm buildings. She had passed them before, scoffing at the idea of calling them farm buildings. Her friends in England who owned farms, and who asked her sometimes to spend
country weekends with them, owned model farms with really beautiful farm buildings of red brick and tile, approached by good farms roads of concrete. Their cowsheds were spic and span, their methods up-to-date. This lonely farm on the mountain, run in conjunction with the hotel, was, to Anthea, a rough and makeshift affair; but Anthea had little perception. She did not realize, because the buildings were poorer, that this was a gem of simplicity and neatness, run with as much economy of effort as was possible in the different and more difficult circumstances.
Curiosity prompted her to go and look inside the buildings. She went through one low door, and exclaimed in surprise at finding herself on the edge of a swiftly running, small stream. How odd, she thought impulsively, to have a stream indoors. Standing in it, on large flat stones, were large flattish tubs, full of milk. The icy mountain water lapped round them, gurgling and bubbling occasionally; and the top of the milk was a rich yellow. Cream, thought Anthea, more and more cream for those delicious cakes that put on pounds and pounds of weight. She stepped across the stream on stones put there for that purpose, and went through another low door into the dairy. There was a big butter chu
rn
here, and it was here, obviously, that the cheeses were made, and the soft cream cheese that was another temptation to Anthea to eat. Everything was spotless, the flagged floor, the long stone slabs that made the wide dairy shelves, every piece of equipment, every utensil. Almost painfully clean, thought Anthea, but how reassuring, too. She heard a sound from the low room where the pans of milk kept cool, and turned to find a man watching her in the low doorway. She stared at him in complete surprise, and he ducked his head and came through the doorway into the dairy.
He was an enormous young man, over six feet in height, superbly built. He looked as strong as an ox, but he moved with a light and easy swing. And he
was, thought Anthea, shatteringly handsome in a rugged, masculine, most disturbing fashion. He smiled at her, and his teeth were the whitest and strongest she had seen.
“Guten Tag, gnadiges Fraulein,” he said, and his voice was very deep, but pleasant; and she saw that he had confidence in himself, and was not at all intimidated by her.
“Good morning,” she replied in English. “I do hope it is all right for me to be in here.”
“It is all right,” he said, changing at once to English, with a tremendous rolling of the ‘r’, and a strong accent.
She felt, most unusually for Anthea, oddly shy. She had been about to say now beautifully clean and well-kept the farm buildings were, but she realized that it would be an insult. This young man never expected them to be anything else. Meeting anybody so virile and handsome in her own set she might have said laughingly: “Where have
you
been all my life?” But she couldn’t say that either to this young man. Instead, she fell back on ordinary politeness, and asked:
“Is this your farm?”
“Part is mine, just as part of the hotel is mine. It is a family affair.” He spoke slowly and carefully, having some trouble with his English. It did not occur to Anthea that, as a well-educated English girl, she should be able to speak to him in his own language.
“I haven’t seen you before,” she said, wondering why not, if he were the owner.
“Because the Fraulein does not leave the plateau,” he said smiling.
“How do you know?”
“I see you there often. Do I not know all that happens in my own house?”
The thought that he had seen her, and she had never set eyes on him, intrigued her.
“I hope the Fraulein is already better?” he asked.
“Oh, there’s nothing the matter with me,” said Anthea hastily. It seemed important that he should realize this. “It is really just a precaution, coming here.”
“A precaution?” he asked, not understanding the word; and at her efforts to explain and his to understand, they fell to laughing merrily together. Then suddenly, another person appeared in
the low doorway, a small, fair-haired Swiss girl of about eighteen years, wearing a dark dress and an apron, and with her fair hair in plaits about her head.
“Guten Tag, Hans.”
“Guten Tag, Katrina.”
The girl gave a little bow to Andrea.
“Guten Tag, Fraulein.”
Anthea became the visiting hotel guest. She nodded a gracious good morning and went through the first low door.
“This is fascinating,” she said, indicating the low tubs of milk.
“The Fraulein would like some cream?” asked Hans, and, reaching for a long ladle, he skimmed cream off the top of the milk and offered it to her. Anthea shook her head. She could not eat rich cream unaccompanied. So Hans offered the big ladle to Katrina, who, feeling that this was a dreadful extravagance, drank the cream instead. Anthea laughed, and tossed her fine silvery hair back from her shoulders; and called out “Auf Wiedersehen,” to them, going out once more into the morning sunshine.
Hans and Katrina watched her go. Katrina said:
“She is pretty, that one. Don’t you think so?”
They fell naturally into their own dialect.
“Not so pretty as you, Katrina,” replied Hans, laughing.
She looked up at him shyly and adoringly.
“You tease me,” she protested. He laughed, put his arm about her shoulders, and stood watching Anthea as she strolled slowly back towards the plateau. Her hair was shining in the sun like silver gilt, and blowing gently in the morning breeze. Katrina suddenly felt that her own pretty fair hair, in its neat braids round her head, was the color of hay, and a curious depression took hold of her.
“Have you no work to do,” asked Hans, “that you are here so early in the morning?”
“I have finished my work at home,” said Katrina, “and your mother wanted me to work for her today. This morning, I shall do ironing, and this afternoon mending.”
“Then we shall meet at lunch-time,” said Hans. “Now you run off to your ironing and leave me to my work.”
Katrina made off towards the hotel, obedient as always. Hans watched her for a second or two, before turning back into the farm buildings. Katrina, always a little shy, gave Hans’ mother a polite greeting, and was soon occupied in ironing a large pile of tablecloths, pillowcases and other linen. The hotel staff liked her. They all greeted her affectionately: “Grass Gott, Katrina,” as they went about their work. She gave them all her charming, childlike smile, but did not pause in her ironing. She was always happy to come to work at the Morgenberg. She lived in the small hamlet at the end of the rough road, and as she had several small brothers and sisters, it was necessary that she should live at home and help her mother; but the money she earned by working part-time at the Morgenberg was a great help to the family. She herself loved these times. The hamlet was so very quiet, a remote cluster of chalets set in the mountains, but here so much was happening all the time. She heard the staff discussing the guests, and got glimpses of the strange world beyond the mountains. She ate delicious meals here, whose like never appeared at her home. And, the main reason for her delight, here she saw Hans.
It was a source of never-ending amazement and wonder to Katrina that, of all the girls on the mountain, or down in the valley, or in the hotel as guests, Hans had chosen herself. She accepted it with humility, yet was also fiercely proud of it. She had known him all her life, but it was not until two years ago that she had come to work here, and he had taken any real notice of her. It had been difficult to convince herself that his interest in her was growing—even harder to convince her family, who considered Hans out of her stars; but this winter, he had called sometimes at the house and watched her working at her loom while he talked to her father; and the people on the mountains were beginning to think of them together, beginning to think that Hans would not do so badly after all, for Katrina, poor as she was, was a willing worker and had a pleasant nature. It was, however, always Katrina that they thought of as the lucky one. Any woman, they considered, would be proud to have Hans.
So that Katrina lived for the middle of the day when Hans would come in for his meal; and then for the time when, her work finished, she would pass the farm on her way home, and stop to talk to him for a few minutes.
Anthea, returning to Diana on the plateau, found her thoughts full of Hans. His physical strength and rugged good looks had made a great impression on her on first meeting him, but now she seemed to remember particularly his mobile laughing mouth and brown eyes that also seemed to hold a smile.
She said to Diana:
“Have you seen the young man who owns this hotel?”
“I think it is owned by the family,” said Diana. “There are three or four people concerned.”
“How do you know this?”
“Oh, one hears things. I am interested, and Madame de Luzy, who comes here every year, knows the family well. There is Frau Steuri, title mother; her daughter Anna; a son who works away in a business of his own, and another son who stays here and runs the farm and helps to run the hotel.”
“Called Hans,” added Anthea.
“Yes, I believe so. Why?”
“I met him this morning.”
“Not until this morning? I have seen him several times, and had some interesting talks with him.”
“You never told me.”
“Why should I? How did I know you would be interested? You aren’t interested in most of the people here.”
“But he’s different. Why, he’s magnificent.”
“Yes, he’s a fine-looking man,” agreed Diana. “When have you talked to him? He doesn’t come into the public rooms of the hotel.”
“Oh, I like to go higher up the mountain. If you go up through the fir woods, you come out on to a lovely open stretch almost at the top. There is a wonderful view of the lakes from there
...
“But about Hans,” interrupted Anthea impatiently.
“I’m telling you. He has cut a lot of wood, high up on the mountain, and several afternoons he has been at work getting it down to the hotel. It is quite an operation. I’ve watched him working and sometimes talked to him.”
Anthea said no more. Diana looked at her curiously, thinking that any handsome and virile young man would attract Anthea, but Hans was so obviously not her kind that she surely would not interest herself in him. But Diana, although she knew that Anthea was bored, did not know the depths of that boredom, and the impact that Hans had made on a life so empty. Anthea let the subject drop, but she thought and planned a good deal. She sat on the balcony, apparently reading, but in reality telling herself how much she had missed by moping round the hotel and not going out, or keeping her eyes open.
She kept them open to such good effect that day that she actually saw Hans leave the hotel and take the path that led, in steep zigzags, through the fir plantation and up the mountain. She took her rest as usual, and was still on the chaise longue in her room when Diana came in to her.
“Anthea, here is a nice thing! Madame de Luzy has a car this afternoon to take her down to the valley for some shopping, and she has invited us to go with her. We can even stay and dine there, if you would like to.”
“Oh dear, what a pity it should be .today. I feel so tired.”
“Do you?” Diana was all quick concern. “Why are you so tired? Have you exhausted yourself in any way? Do you feel unwell?”
“No. I am all right, but just tired. I would love to go with Madame de Luzy, but I feel so appallingly lethargic. Do you think I could make my excuses?”
“Of course you can. She thought it would be a welcome change for you; but we can easily arrange it for ourselves another day, when you feel better. I’ll go down and tell her we cannot go.”
“But you can go,” said Anthea. “There’s no reason for you to stay back—you’re not tired. You’d like to go, wouldn’t you?”
“I’d love to, but you wouldn’t mind?”
“Good heavens, no. We see enough of each other, don’t we?”
She said these words with quite a charming smile. Diana, saying goodbye, thought that really Anthea could be so nice sometimes. Anthea even came down and saw them go, waving goodbye to them and wishing them a good time; and when the car had started its cautious way down the slope, she turned and made her way across the plateau, and took the path that climbed through the woods to the top of the mountain.