Doctor's Orders (8 page)

CHAPTER FIVE

Diana
sat in the bus, which jogged its way along the valley roads, and, amazingly, with its foil load of passengers, climbed the mountain ones: She was on her way, without Anthea, to do some shopping, and because she had seen exactly what she wanted in the town where Dr. Frederic lived, she was driving there by bus, on this lovely summer’s day. Anthea had elected to stay behind, and Diana suspected, a little uncomfortably, that she stayed because she wanted to find Hans and be with him: and because Diana did not feel justified in ordering a car unless it were for Anthea’s benefit, she was now in this crowded bus. In some ways, she reflected, the bus had advantages over the car. It did not go so quickly, so that one saw more of the countryside; and it was filled with a constantly-changing assortment of passengers, who provided her with never-ending interest: people who waited at their little farms for the bus, and entered it with baskets full of produce; little provincial people off to visit relatives for the day, exchanging greetings with other passengers, conversing in the dialect which Diana could not easily understand.

There was a special delight in being alone, Diana had to admit; in leaving the bus when it reached the town, and going round the shops in search of the material she wanted. Madame de Luzy was to teach her to do the applique work in organdie that Diana had so often admired in the shops. She would make a tablecloth and napkins to match, and they could go into the hope chest, against the time of her possible marriage. Not that Diana had a hope chest in reality, but there were long evenings at the Morgenberg when her idle fingers wanted something to do, and this elegant work could be the foundation of the lovely things she would like to have in it.

The oblique references in her thoughts to marriage reminded her of Gordon Mackaill, the only man in her life, so far, who had asked her to marry him. Gordon had held a good job in the office where Diana had worked for some time, and the other girls had thought Diana lucky to be singled out by him; but, nice as he was, quite attractive in his way, she had refused to marry him, thinking her lukewarm affection for him insufficient reason for marriage. He wrote to her regularly. He would be coming to Switzerland for his, holiday, especially to see her. Diana had never given him reason to think she would change her mind, but he
w
ent on hoping that she would.

She did her shopping and had her lunch, and then sat on a seat by the lake shore, watching the cavalcade of passers-by. It was a warm day, and very pleasant to sit in the shade of a tree, idly reflecting, half dreaming, as the colorful procession went by; but at last, she thought that she should be going back to the bus stop to start her return journey, and gathered her possessions together, and began to walk along the lake shore.

The town was, as usual, very full, both of people and traffic. Diana stood on the curb with some other people, waiting to cross the road, when, suddenly, it happened. A bus, with the traffic lights in its favor, was rounding a
corner
with considerable speed, when a small dog ran out into the road and then stopped, directly in the path of the bus, and a small boy, apparently the owner of the dog, ran out to bring it back. The bus driver, round the corner, could not see them until the last moment. Diana, standing on the opposite curb, saw it all; and while the woman standing next to her put her hand to her mouth and cried out, Diana flew across the road, acting almost before she had time to think, pushing the child violently away from the path of the oncoming bus. She was then only aware of what seemed a furious blow on her side, and of rolling over and over into what seemed a vast crowd of people, to the accompaniment of incessant yapping from the little dog.

There was, indeed, a vast confusion. People pressed in round her; a gendarme was shouting and gesticulating; the small boy was crying, his dog in his arms, a woman with him scolding shrilly. Two men were helping Diana to her feet, but she could not stand, and somebody ran forward with a cafe chair for her. Voices were asking if she was hurt. She felt vague and dazed and shaken, and could not answer. Somebody said she should have a doctor, and the voices took it up, clamoring for a doctor. She lifted her head, and found herself looking into the face of the woman who had stood beside her on the curb.

She said, shakily:

“Dr. Frederic,” and gave the address.

The woman turned to the policeman.

“I have my car here. I will take her to the doctor—she has her own doctor here.”

The policeman wanted to ask Diana questions. The woman protested that she might be hurt, and the doctor must come first. Diana took no part in any of it; but later found herself being helped into a car by willing hands, and almost wept over by the mother of the boy, who had stopped scolding and now remembered to be thankful.

“Are you all right?” the woman who was driving the car asked Diana. “It was so very brave of you. Quite wonderful.”

“I think I’m all right,” was all Diana could manage to reply, and the woman saw that she was badly shaken, if not actually hurt, and said no more. In a few minutes they were at Dr. Frederic’s door.

Dr. Frederic had had a hard day. Into a day already as full as he dared to arrange for, ha
d
come an emergency operation which had called forth all his skill. He had had a brief lunch with Antoinette, but even Antoinette had failed to bring him any respite, for she seemed too remote from his busy world today to be quite real for him. Sometimes she seemed almost too cool and too dispassionate; too untouched by life that could be for others so turbulent, so violent, so painful. So that he felt it was useless to speak to her of his hopes and aims, she would not understand.

The noise in his hall, therefore, when he was hoping that nothing more would arrive that was unexpected, did not please him. And when his secretary came into the room, saying there had been a little accident, he shrugged his shoulders in hopeless resignation, and went into the hall.

He was astonished to see Diana there, being supported by a well-dressed stranger; and saw, at a glance, that Diana was in no state to be questioned. He said to his secretary: “Take Miss Pevrill into my consulting room,” and then turned back to the stranger to find out what had happened. Then, promising to telephone her with news, and taking Diana’s handbag from her, he saw her out of the front door, and went to Diana.

“Lie down here,” he said; and ran his hands expertly over her to find out if any bones were broken; for it was amazing how often people with broken bones were moved when they should not be.

“Any pain?” he asked Diana; and when she nodded mutely, he said: “Where?”

“All down my side, but I think it is only bruised. A bus hit me.”

“So I heard,” he said dryly, and put a thick cushion behind her so that she could sit up a little. He satisfied himself that she was not badly hurt, and brought her something to drink. While she drank it, he stood with his cool fingers on her pulse, and when she returned the glass, he smiled down at her, so kind and gentle a smile that, even in her shaken state, she was moved by it.

“My secretary is making you some tea,” he said. “She is making it herself, because she knows how English people like it. It will do you good.”

Reaction was beginning to follow shock. Diana felt very sick and was trying to concentrate on not being. Her head continued to swim, and she still could not control her shaking.

“I’m sorry,” she managed to say, “to be a nuisance.”

“Very British of you,” he said, a smile in his voice. He put a hand on her shoulder. “You are not a nuisance. You are a good, brave girl, and one woman in this town has reason to be grateful to you.”

Diana felt tears come into her eyes. She was quite unmanned by his words of praise. She wanted a handkerchief, and she said:

“I suppose I have lost my handbag.”

“No, it is here,” he said, and gave it to her. She took out a small scrap of handkerchief, and remembered her shopping.

“And my parcels?” she asked.

“No. Only your bag—the woman who brought you here gave it to me.”

This seemed the last straw to Diana, in her weak and shaken state. The shopping she had done with so much pleasure, the sewing she was going to do in the long evenings at the Morge
n
berg, was lost. The tears streamed down her cheeks and she put her face in her hands and wept. Dr. Frederic supplemented her wisp of handkerchief with a large one of his own, and thought it would do her good to cry.

He said:

“You need a hot drink, and a long rest. You can have both almost at once.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, behind her hands. “This is quite ridiculous. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, very gently. “It is shock and reaction. You will be quite all right again soon.”

The secretary arrived with the tea.

“May I leave you to give it to Miss Pevrill in the drawing room?” he asked. There are still some appointments to get through. I’m afraid we shall end late today, because of the operation.” He helped the secretary to transfer Diana and the tea tray to the drawing room. “When she has had her tea—quite hot and sweet—get her to lie down on the sofa, and cover her with a rug. She has had a sedative, and will sleep.”

All this was done, while the doctor went back to his consulting room. The tea did Diana a great deal of good; and it was with infinite relief that she lay back on the soft and comfortable sofa and allowed the secretary to cover her with a thick rug. Although her nerves were still in a jumpy and ragged condition, the sedative that had been given her caused her to sleep. Once or twice, the secretary looked in at her, between appointments, and reported to the doctor that she was still sleeping. The doctor told her what had happened, as he had gathered it from the woman who brought Diana to him.

“It was very brave of her,” he said, “and she must have been remarkably quick. The woman said the whole thing was over while
she
only had time to cry out, and stand rooted to the spot with horror. The child would certainly have been run over; but, as it happened, escaped without any hurt, while the dog escaped by itself. And I think Miss Pevrill will be badly bruised, but is lucky to have got off so lightly.”

When Diana awoke, the sunlight had gone and faint shadows were filling the
corner
s of the room. Her first surprise to find herself where she was gave way, firstly, to an awareness of pain, and secondly, to a feeling of guilt that she was still here putting the doctor to trouble.

His voice said quietly:

“How are you feeling now?”

“Oh. I didn’t know you were there.”

“I have just come in. I think I must have woken you.”

“I am being such a nuisance.”

“Not at all. How do you feel now?”

“I am quite all right now, thank you,” she said, and sat up; but when she did so, her head swam.

“Well enough to go back to your hotel?”

“Oh dear,” she said, dreading the journey, “I have lost my bus.”

“If you hadn’t lost it, I would not allow you to travel in it—nor would you wish to. I will tell Gerhardt to bring the Rolls round.”

“It
is
good of you,” she said.

A little later, the doctor led her out of the house and down the steps to the waiting Rolls. A respectful Gerhardt helped her into the back of the car, and the doctor followed her. She turned her face to him in surprise.

“You are not coming, are you?” she asked him.

“Certainly I am coming.”

“But I will be quite all right; and Gerhardt can look after me.”

“Yes, I suppose he could. But he can concentrate on driving with all smoothness and I will look after you. I think perhaps you are not feeling quite as well as you would have me believe.”

Diana gave up. She could not argue. The Rolls slid smoothly away from the pavement and she leaned back and closed her eyes. The secretary had brushed her clothes for her, and bathed her face, and tidied her hair; and Diana did not know that already, down one cheek, she had a large bruise. It stood out angrily against her unusual pallor, and the doctor guessed that she was aching, and still shaken. He put an arm about her, and drew her to lean against his shoulder, and her eyes flew open as she protested.

“If you want to sleep,” he said, “you will be far more comfortable like this.”

She was thankful that the glass partition between themselves and Gerhardt was wound up to the top; thankful that the deepening darkness of the evening brought privacy into the back of the car. Her heart fluttered painfully as she allowed herself to rest in the circle of his arm.

“Relax,” he said, after a minute or two, and there
w
as a faint hint of amusement in his voice. “Relax.
I assure you there is only the most respectful regard in my desire to make you comfortable.”

She relaxed. Oh heaven, she thought, utter, utter bliss. I wish we could go on for ever like this. I wish we had to go a hundred miles.

When she was asleep, he eased her carefully into a yet more comfortable position, and, with his arms about her, gave himself up to thought, as the car went smoothly over the miles and the evening grew darker. At last, her voice said:

“Where are we?” Rather sleepily, rather lazily.

“About thirty kilometres more,” he said.

She worked it out.

“Nearly twenty miles,” she said, thankful for it.

“It will soon go,” he said, thinking she wanted to be home. “How do you feel now?”

“Not too bad, thank you.”

“You are a good, uncomplaining child. How is the headache?”

“Better, but I feel so swimmy—so light-headed.”

“Ah,” he said.

“Is that the stuff you gave me to drink?”

“Could be,” he said.

“How I waste your time,” she said.

“It worries you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, of course. You are so busy, so important.”

“Busy, yes. Important, no.”

“Yes, important, too. Anthea will wonder where I am.”

“Did she not know where you were going?”

“Yes, but I should have been back by the bus, which would have got there before this.”