Doctor's Orders (21 page)

CHAPTER TWELVE

When
the time came for Diana to go down to the doctor’s house for dinner, she was so desperately tired, that, for any other occasion, she would have preferred to drop into bed and sleep. She found the unaccustomed night work long and tiring, and did not sleep well during the day. Matron had noticed it, and was herself doing the night duty this evening, so that Diana might go down to the town. Diana did not doubt that Dr. Frederic had arranged it all.

Some of the staff had returned to duty, but others had taken to their beds, so that the situation, though not so desperate as it had been at the beginning, was still far from normal. Matron, who had worked as hard as anybody, but still showed no sign of succumbing to the illness that had swept through the home, said that this must be the last lap. Practically all the staff had had it by now, and in a few days
she
hoped the strength would be back to normal. Diana hoped that it would. She was so tired that she fell asleep almost whenever
she
sat down; yet, during the daytime, when she had time to
sl
eep, all the little sounds of the building kept her awake.

It seemed an immense amount of trouble to get ready for the dinner. She must set her hair, put her hard-worked hands in order, press her dress; but, because it was for Dr. Frederic, she found the time and energy to do it. Besides, who else might be there? She did not know if it was to be a small dinner party or a large one, and
she
must be as presentable as possible for the doctor’s guests.
Almost
certainly, Antoinette would be there.

The doctor did a rapid round of his patients before asking for Diana, and when she went to meet him, she found that he was driving his fast car himself. He helped her in, and took the wheel.

“You look very tired,” he said.

“I am. In a few days, all the staff should be back, and then I think I shall sleep for a week.”

“An excellent idea. Take as much rest as you can, Diana, in those few days. It is when you are so tired, without reserves, that you are likely to get it yourself.”

“I will be as careful as I can.”

“Rest now, while we drive down. If you like to lean upon me, you are very welcome.”

“I’m very comfortable, thank you. How is Anthea?”

“Completely recovered from her tiredness. I don’t think we need to have much concern about her health now, as long as she is sensible. And certainly very happy at the moment. Leon arrived yesterday, and they seem to find a lot to laugh at together.”

“Your plan worked without a hitch.”

“Yes.”

“The only danger is that she might be as charmed by Leon as she was by Hans.”

“If she is going to be charmed by every young man who crosses her path, she is going to have a rough passage through life. Anyway, Leon is adept at managing his own affairs; and the whole relationship is not an unsuitable one, as the Hans one was.”

“Yes, I can see that Leon can look after himself, but I wouldn’t like Anthea to be unhappy about him.”

“At the moment, she is very happy. Stop worrying about her.”

They came to the house, and Diana found that only Leon and Anthea were waiting to greet her. She wondered if that was because she was rather early, but found, as the doctor handed round sherry, that there were to be only the four of them. She was relieved and glad, especially relieved that Antoinette had not been invited. The four knew each other well enough for the conversation to be easy and unstrained.

They went in to dinner, at the small dining table, Leon facing the doctor, Diana facing Anthea. Anthea was wearing a chiffon dress that Diana did not remember seeing before, and looked very pretty indeed. In fact, the few days’ separation, and a separation that had been filled for Diana by work and nursing, sickness and busyness, had given Diana a new and clear impression of Anthea that would not have been possible had they seen each other every day. And Diana saw that Anthea was indeed changed, from that first journey to Switzerland and the first few days at the Morgenberg. Her appearance and her character had both been subject to it. She had lost a hardness, a stridency, a certain boldness that had jarred on Diana then; and that had brought round her, at the Splendide, a type of young man very, different indeed from Leon d’Avenay. In fact, Diana did not think Leon would have been at all interested in Anthea then. She still retained the unusual frankness of speech, but now it did not jar; it gave her a challenging attraction. Her make-up, too, which had been conspicuous and not in the best of taste, had toned down considerably; and the slightly
outré
taste in dress had been modified a little, so that, still extremely chic, she was a little less stagey.

“You look dead on your feet,” Anthea said to Diana, who, her thoughts rambling, had not spoken for some time.

“I must look frightful,” said Diana. “Everybody keeps telling me how tired I look.”

“You look quite lovely,” said the doctor. “And if you fall asleep over your soup, nobody will mind.”

“I’m too hungry to do that,” said Diana, laughing.

“Tell me,” said Anthea, “how is my darling little Peter Neuffert? I watched him for several nights, and I thought he was getting better.”

There was a short silence. Diana looked at Dr. Frederic and he looked back at her. Then Diana looked down at her plate, and could not answer.

“What’s the matter?” asked Anthea. “What happened to him?”

“My dear,” said the doctor, “we couldn’t save him. He died two days ago.”

“Oh no,” said Anthea, horrified.

“I don’t think we could have saved him, even if he hadn’t caught the ’flu. It only hurried what was bound to happen. He was a lovely child, a merry child, but he was doomed when he came to us. We worked hard on him for months, but I think we all knew our poor skill just wasn’t good enough.”

Anthea hardly heard what he said. Her eyes filled with tears. This was the little boy she had watched for days, that she had joked with, seeing his big dark eyes light up with fun, that she had told stories to, laughing with him at her poor German and her strange accent. And now he was dead. The tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Anthea,” said Diana, and at the word, Anthea put her face in her hands and wept.

“I’m sorry,” she said, rising from the table.

“It’s all right,” said Leon, rising with her. “I’ll see to this.” He went out into the hall, with his arm about a weeping Anthea, and Diana looked across at the doctor.

“She doesn’t often come up against life,” said Diana.

“No. Isn’t it strange, Diana, how few people have imagination? There are hospitals all over the country, all over the world; and they are full of people who are ill, many of them dying. But people never remember them, until they have somebody who is dear to them in a hospital, until it is brought home to them
...
Too much imagination, perhaps, is not a good thing for one’s peace of mind, but a little more in everybody would help a lot of causes.”

“Yes,” said Diana.

“Come. We will not wait for them. You are hungry. And you and I have been working, so we will go on with our dinner
.”

In a little while, Leon came back alone. “Running repairs to the complexion are now in progress,” he announced cheerfully, taking his seat. “Anthea begs you not to wait for her.”

“We didn’t,” said the doctor. “She is better now?”

“Oh yes. Your little problem child has possibilities after all, Armand.”

“I think so, too,” he replied.

“But nobody as yet has tried to plumb them. Do you approve, Diana, of her spending a few days in Paris on her way home?”

“Yes, I think so, as long as you allow me to sleep half the time; and will look after her properly while I do it.”

“Most properly,” promised Leon.

Anthea came back then, her make-up faultless again, a faint redness round her eyes the only sign of her weeping.

“Sorry, everybody,” she said, “to make a fuss.”

Strange, thought Diana, everybody thinks so much better of her for weeping about the little boy. I do, myself. It took her right off her guard, and showed that she is just as tender-hearted as anybody else. What Diana did not realize was that everybody else thought better of her too, because she had worked and worked, and never once thought of complaining, except to say that she was tired.

After dinner, they took coffee in the drawing room. Diana sat in the
corner
of a deep settee, and took hers from the doctor when Anthea had poured it out. She put it down on a small table, listening idly to the general conversation, and in less than two minutes she was asleep. The others noticed it, and talked in soft voices for a while, but when they forgot and spoke normally, they still did not wake Diana. Dr. Frederic put a soft cushion under her head without waking her, and Leon drank her coffee. The time passed, and she slept on. They were discussing whether to keep her all night, when at last she woke; and overhearing them, she protested that she must go back, because she was on duty next morning, going back to day duty. Nothing would persuade her to stay, so the doctor had Gerhardt bring round the Rolls, and escorted her out to the car when she had said her goodbyes to Leon and Anthea.

He got into the back of the car with her, and once more the glass screen between them and Gerhardt was wound up to the top.

“Come,” said Dr. Frederic, and put out his arm
i
n an inviting gesture. “You are tired. Come and rest.”

A reward for a good girl, thought Diana, sinking comfortably into the circle of his arm. A wonderful reward. She hoped she would not go to sleep again, and so waste the precious minutes. She tried to keep awake by talking.

“Don’t you think Anthea is much improved since the beginning of the summer?” she asked.

“Much improved.”

“Not only in health, I mean.”

“Yes, I understood you. Improved in every way. A lot of it is due to you.”

“Not to me, so much as to a different life. A lot to Hans, of course, too.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Leon likes her?”

“I am sure he
likes
her—he would not bother with her otherwise. But if what you are really
asking is: Is he in love with her, then I do not think so. But with Leon one would not easily tell.”

“Will Anthea be all right with him in Paris?”

“While you sleep?”

“Oh, I don’t want to sleep. I shall explore Paris by myself—but they obviously don’t want me.”

“Yes, I think she will be all right. Leon has good sense, you know. Are you trying to make a match there, Diana?”

"No. I just wondered about him.”

“His family would be very particular. They would not like him to marry an Englishwoman—but then, if he wanted to, I am sure he would.”

“I was only thinking that he would be so good for Anthea—I think he would be able to control her without her realizing it too much. But there is no hurry; she is young; there is lots of time ahead for marriage.”

“For Anthea, yes.”

There was a silence heavy with meaning. Diana remembered his own marriage. She wished she had the courage to speak to him about it. The time in which she saw him was such a little part of his whole time—she had no means of knowing what he did with all the rest; no means of knowing how and when he saw Antoinette, what plans he was making. She felt she must know something. She asked: “You said you had made up your mind on this subject. Will your marriage be soon, Dr. Frederic?”

He was silent for a few long seconds, and she wondered if she had gone too far. Then he said: “Quite soon now, I think.”

And that was all. Nothing added, no details, no dates. Diana felt snubbed. She had gone too far. She relapsed into silence, too miserable now, in any case, to go to sleep.

When they reached the building high up on the mountain, with snow falling sparsely from a dark sky, the doctor helped Diana out of the car, saw her into the light and warmth of the home, kissed her hand respectfully and left her, saying that he hoped to see her soon. Diana went quietly up to her room, undressed and slipped into bed, and once there, not even the aching love she felt for Dr. Frederic could keep her awake. Her sleep was sound and dreamless.

Within the next few days, the normal staff was back to full strength, most of the children had recovered from this extra trial, and the nursing routine slipped back into its conventional pattern. Diana
realized that they could do without her now, and telephoned Anthea to make arrangements for their homeward journey. They would take the train for Paris, stay in a hotel there for a short time, and then fly to London. That meant, reflected Diana, that she would be free to take on other work in roughly a fortnight’s time, and she wished that Dr. Frederic had been a little quicker in speaking to the Matron about her. She was tempted to speak for herself, but remembering that he had been eager to arrange it, she refrained; but she was surprised that he was s
o
slow. His normal way of working was swift and direct.

It was settled that when he came to the home for his weekly clinic, he would take Diana back with him. She would also stay overnight in his house, and next day she and Anthea would leave for Paris. Matron made her a very sincere speech of thanks, and Diana, still wishing to speak of her desire to take up work here, contented herself with promising to come again very soon. The children had made a most charming gesture of farewell for her. The older boys had made a little model of the home, in stiff cardboard; the older girls had painted it in bright colors; and into all the little painted windows, they had stuck little flags on pins, with the names of the children written on them: Greta, Elsa, Bianca, Margot, Anna on one side; Louis, Willi, Otto, Franz, Peter on the other; and many others.

There was the usual flutter on the afternoon of the clinic. Everybody ran round to wait on Dr. Frederic, the visiting specialist. Diana supposed that, soon, she too would be one of the nurses smartening up a little extra for his benefit, working a little more efficiently, seeing him with some awe and respect. But when—almost an hour overdue—his clinic was finished, and he came out to find her waiting for him, his smile was friendly as ever, his manner courteous. Gerhardt had already loaded her luggage, and they drove to his house, arriving there not long before dinner time.

After dinner, at which they were joined by Anthea, getting very excited about her trip to Paris, the doctor excused himself, and went away to his study. In the drawing room, Anthea sat reading, while Diana pretended to read, but actually fidgeted restlessly, wanting desperately to have a few words with Dr. Frederic about her work at the children’s home, and afraid that she was missing her last opportunity of speaking to him alone. In the morning, he would probably be engaged, busy about his work, so that this evening might be her last chance. She hoped he would reappear, and when he did not, decided that she would tackle him in his study. Even then she hesitated, screwing her courage up to the point; and at last, murmuring to Anthea something about her packing, went out into the hall and crossed it to his study door.

Just as she was about to knock, the door was flung open and the doctor appeared; surprised to find her there, standing back at once so that she could enter the room.

“I was just coming to find you,” he said.

“Oh,” said Diana, thinking that she could have saved her pride if she had waited five more minutes. “I wondered if I could have a few words alone with you, and this may be the last opportunity.”

“I wanted a few words alone with you,” he said, offering her a chair, and taking the one at his big desk, swinging it round so that he faced her.

Good, thought Diana; he has done something about the work after all.

"Now,” he said, “suppose you begin. What did you want to talk about?”

“About the work at the children’s home,”
she
said. “We leave tomorrow, and I would like to feel that something was settled.”

“Ah,” he said thoughtfully.

“Have you arranged anything for me? Did you speak to Matron?”

“No,” he said. “No, I haven’t arranged anything.”

“Oh, Dr. Frederic,” she cried, “you said you would. You asked me to leave it to you. I could have asked for myself, and now it is too late."

“It isn’t too late,” he said. “But I did not think the work was quite suitable for you.”

She turned away from him in sudden flooding disappointment, rising from her chair and walking away to the other side of the room. She could hardly believe what
she
heard. She thought she had done so well in this last trying period at the children’s home. She had worked very hard, tried very hard, and had imagined that she had acquitted herself with some success. She had not looked forward to anything but this work here; had forborne to make any arrangements in London, hoping to be back here soon. And now he said to her, at the last possible moment, that he did not think the work quite suitable for her. While
she
had been imagining his approval, his kindly interest, he had been making up his mind in this direction.

He crossed the room to her side, taking her shoulders between his hands and turning her round to face him. He saw that her beautiful eyes were full of tears.

“Diana,” he said, “does it mean so much to you to work with these children?”

“Yes,” she cried out, “you know it does. I explained to you how I felt.”

“Actually,” he said slowly, “I had thought of another kind of job for you.”

“But this was the one I wanted to do.”

“More than anything?”

“More than anything.”

He let her go and turned back to his desk. “Perhaps, then, I made a mistake about you, after all,” he said.

“If you thought I would change my mind about working with the children, I am afraid you did.”

He stood by his desk, thinking; and it gave Diana time to think, too. He had said that he thought of another kind of job for her, and, rather belatedly, she wondered what it was. Was it possible that his secretary was leaving him? Perhaps she was to be married, and it was necessary for him to get a new secretary. She wished she had not been quite so hasty. She said:

“Please—what was the other kind of work?”

“It was less arduous, I think, than the other—but perhaps exasperating work: I don’t know.”

“Your secretary isn’t leaving you?”

“Himmel, no, I hope not. She is invaluable to me. I hope she will be with me for years.”

“Then what
is
it you think that I could do?”

He held out a hand to her.

“Come here, Diana,” he said.

She went close to hi
m
, but did not take his hand. He said:

“I wish I knew what you were thinking. I wish I knew what goes on in that mind of yours. Sometimes I am fairly sure that what I plan will meet with your approval; and at other times, you seem so amazingly self-sufficient that I tell myself I am building castles in the air.”

She looked at him in bewilderment.

“You don’t know what I am talking about?” he ask
e
d.

“No,” she admitted.

“Tell me, Diana, haven’t you felt at all my growing interest in you?”

“Oh well, perhaps, a little, just a little,” she said in sudden confusion.

“A little? And tell me this, Diana: haven’t you felt the same interest in me—the whole summer?”

She stared at him in wonder and disbelief. “What are you trying to say to me?” she asked.

“I’m trying to find out whether you had the slightest idea that the reason I wanted to talk to you alone, was to ask you to marry me.”

The wonder and disbelief that she had felt before was nothing to the amazed incredulity that swept her now.

“Obviously,” he said dryly, “you hadn’t.”

“Oh no,” she said.

“I was trying to find out what sort of answer I should receive; trying to discover what you feel about me, Diana.”

She pulled herself together and tried to smile. “Well,” she said, “what are you trying to find out at the moment?”

Their eyes met, and the look between them lasted long.

“Do you love me, Diana?”

It was still so impossible that these words could mean what they seemed to mean, that she still made an effort to save her pride.

“That seems,” she said, “rather the wrong way round.”

“Yes, perhaps it is. I love you, Diana, will you marry me?”

She shook her head.

“How can it make sense?” she asked. “You are going to marry Antoinette.”

“I? No, I assure you, not. What made you think so?”

“You told me yourself.”

“Never. When did I say so? Tell me when.”

Diana thought back.

“No, you didn’t mention her name. You said you were going to be married soon—Madame de Luzy said it was to Antoinette.”

“Oh, she has been trying to arrange that match for years. She should know better than to try to marry people who are not congenial.”

“Not congenial—but you have always said the nicest things about Antoinette.”

“Of course. Why not? She is my friend, she is lovely, we have known each other for years. But I would not want to marry Antoinette. She is too cool, too unfeeling for my wife. She thinks too much of what I call the superficial things in life; and too little of the things that I think really matter.”

“But you said just the other evening that you were going to be married quite soon.”

“Because your behavior encouraged me to think so.”

“You didn’t mean me?”

“Of course I meant you. I put out my arm for you, and you came to me as if it were the most natural thing in the world, as if you belonged in my arms. Of course I was encouraged.”

“I thought,” she said smiling, “it was a reward for a good girl.”

“A reward, Diana?”

“Yes,
a
reward.”

“You mean, it was something you liked and wanted?”

She smiled a little more.

“I mean just that,” she said, “and much, much more.”

“Say it,” he said.

“Darling,”
she
said, not moving an inch nearer.

“Not that,” he said. “Can’t you say it?”

“Yes. I expect so. But not like this—hold my hand.”

He put his arms round her
,
his cheek on her hair. “I love you desperately,” she said. “But I thought you were going to marry somebody else.”