Doctor's Orders (12 page)

Today marked the end of her period of freedom. Today Anthea was coming back, and Diana could not foretell in the least what sort of mood she would bring with her. It was quite possible that the brief return to London had unsettled her, and that she would resent coming back to the quiet of Morgenberg; in which case, she would be in the fractious mood in which they had started their journey in the first place, and Diana would have to begin her work all over again. It was also possible that she might have gained enough good sense to realize that the cure was succeeding, and therefore to be quite resigned to finishing it. Diana hoped this would be so. There was a third possibility, and Diana hardly liked to consider this one, which was that she was eager to come back again to see Hans, and to pick up that friendship again where she had had to leave it.

So it was with some interest and curiosity that Diana set out to meet her in the early evening. She found, somewhat to her surprise, that, although she had experienced relief at Anthea’s departure, she was quite looking forward to seeing her again. When they met, Anthea in new clothes and with her fair hair blowing back from her shoulders, they greeted each other warmly, Anthea leaning forward to touch Diana’s cheek with her own. Diana saw that she was looking very pretty, that her hair had been having expensive and expert treatment, and that she certainly showed no resentment at having to return.

They settled themselves in the car for the drive to the Kurkhaus.

“You had a good holiday, and the wedding went off successfully?” asked Diana.

“I had a wonderful time. The wedding was a great success—quite a beautiful wedding, and terrific publicity. I’m in all the glossy magazines—I brought them with me to show you. And every minute of every day seemed to be filled.”

“You feel a
ll
right after it?”

“Yes, I feel marvellous—only a bit tired. That doesn’t matter, I can rest here. Did you nearly die of boredom without me?”

“Not at all. I don’t have to die of boredom at any time. It was a lovely rest without you.”

“Diana, how mean of you. You might have said you missed me.”

“Actually—and surprisingly—I did.”

Anthea laughed at her.

“I must be growing on you—unless, of course, it was the kind of missing that you have when a raging toothache goes—a good miss.”

“Was your father pleased with your progress?”

“Enormously. I’m quite sure he was delighted with me, and not only with my health. He was pleased about that, of course, but he also let me see
quite plainly that he thought your influence was improving me in all directions. I can see that he likes you very much.”

She chattered on for a while, and then her tiredness overcame her, and she relapsed into silence, looking out at the landmarks that were becoming so familiar to her. Diana suggested that she should have dinner and go early to bed, to recover from her journey. Although she suddenly did feel very tired, she had no intention of going early to bed. Diana noticed that she had made no mention of Hans; but did not know if that was because he was too much in her mind, or not at all in her mind.

They had dinner as soon as they reached the hotel, but when Diana urged Anthea to go to bed, Anthea shook her head.

“I feel quite revived after my meal. I’ll sit here for a while and talk—I can see that Madame de Luzy is going to ask me all about London and the wedding. She will like to see the pictures in the magazines, but that can wait until tomorrow.”

Seeing Anthea settled with Madame de Luzy in a comfortable
corner
, and with various other hotel guests hovering round her to make enquiries about her holiday, Diana went upstairs to do some of Anthea’s unpacking. In spite of the shortness of the holiday, Anthea had managed to get some beautiful new clothes, and these Diana hung carefully and admiringly in the cupboards, or laid in the drawers. What a spoiled and pampered young woman she was, thought Diana; there was nothing she wanted that was not promptly given her.

Anthea, meanwhile, was soon tired of Madame de Luzy and the other hotel guests. She had not seen Hans, and it was Hans she wanted to see. She felt she could not possibly wait until morning, and had quite expected to see him around the hotel, waiting for her arrival. The fact that he had not yet appeared on the scene made her more anxious, more apprehensive. She had worked hard to win
Hans over in the first place, and it was possible he had had too long in her absence to think about their affair and its progress, and had made up his mind to shun her. She must see him before she went to bed, or she knew she would not sleep. So she excused herself to Madame de Luzy, saying she was tired, said a gracious goodnight to the other guests, and left the room by the door leading to the hall. She did not then go upstairs but turned towards the main entrance, walked through it on to the plateau, and made her way through the increasing darkness of the evening, towards the farm buildings. She did not know that Hans would be there. It was probable that he would not. There was nothing that he needed to do there at this hour, and he was more likely to be in the family living room; but she went on, feeling a desperate need of his presence.

As she reached the low door which led into the cooling room, where the little stream burbled and sang, Hans came through it, bending his head and shoulders, and then straightening to his full height. He did not see her, for it was getting too dark, but when she said “Hans” softly, he spun round at once towards her.

“Oh, Hans,” she said, and her desperate longing was plain for him to hear. He had thought of little else all day. She would return today, from the many friends that she had in London, and she would see him for the peasant he was, for the little mountain farmer wresting a poor living from a hard land. He had told himself that that would be a good thing. This was a suitable moment to make a clean break. But it had not eased his desire to see her again. He had missed her—he had counted the days to her return; but he would take his cue from her attitude.

Now here she was, in the darkness beside him, her hair glinting, her perfume spreading out on the evening air, her voice saying softly, urgently: “Oh, Hans.” She held out a hand to him, touching his arm. He took it in his own; then, next moment, he had thrown his arms around her, and she was folded
closely, tightly, against him; her cheek against the hard thudding of his heart, his hand in her silvery-blonde hair.

“Oh, Hans, Hans, Hans,” she said. “It seemed such a long time without you.”

“Yes,” he said, and she knew it had been a long time for him, too. That was enough. There was no need to say more. This was all she had come back for; this was what had drawn her across the Channel and all the long miles to the Morgenberg; to be in his arms, folded against his heart, to feel it beating so urgently for her, to feel his strong fingers in her hair. It had never been like this before. It had been light and challenging: it had been an amusing game of advance and retire; it hadn’t really mattered. Now it wasn’t light or amusing—now it was wonderful. His hand took her chin and turned her face up to his; his kiss wiped out all other kisses she had known, and was the only thing that mattered. She felt protected and cherished in the strong circle of his arms. “Darling Hans,” she said, holding herself closer and closer to him.

Diana, having finished the unpacking, thought that Anthea really should be in bed now, after her long journey, and went downstairs to find her.

“Have you seen Anthea, Madame de Luzy?” she asked.

“She went to bed some time ago,” replied that lady. “She was tired after her journey.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Diana, knowing very well that Anthea had not gone to bed.

“She seems very well, considering what a busy time she has had,” went on the old lady.

“Yes, I am glad to see it. Perhaps she is beginning to be more sensible about her health,” said Diana. But her mind was not on her words. She was thinking: I might have known. I might have known. For it was obvious that Anthea had gone in search of Hans; it was obvious now that she had not refrained from mentioning him because she had forgotten him, but because she was preoccupied with him. Oh dear, thought Diana, I suppose it was hoping for too much that it would turn out as simply as that. Here we are, back with the old problem again.

She went back to her room, waiting for Anthea; and in a short time, Anthea came upstairs and went into her own room. Diana went in to her, and it needed only a glance to see that Anthea was content, only a glance to see that she was wrapped about in an aura of happiness. Diana had never seen Anthea like this before, and her heart sank. If there had to be an affair, better that it should be a light one and mean little, than that it should become serious and intense and fraught with every possible difficulty.

She said:

“I have done all your unpacking, Anthea.”

“Thank you, Diana. You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“Who would bother if I didn’t? You have some lovely new things.”

“Yes, aren’t they pretty?” said Anthea, thinking that Hans would see her in her lovely new things. Diana thought she hardly seemed to be in this world at all; she was away off in some other world of whispered love words, of caresses and despairing kisses. A separation of less than two weeks had left them hungering and thirsting for each other, and apparently already they had flown together to satisfy this hunger and thirst. Diana said:

“Well, I’m sure you are tired. You had better get to bed. Goodnight, Anthea.”

“Goodnight, Diana.”

Diana went into her own room, conscious already of a growing concern for Anthea. The girl had not been back in the hotel more than a couple of hours, before Diana must once more be worried by a sharp anxiety for her. Peace of mind had gone again.

The next few days did little to restore it to her, for Anthea seemed to be completely bemused and bewitched. When she could not see Hans, she lazed about—on the plateau or on the mountain if it were fine, and in the hotel if it were not—daydreaming, looking away into space with a contented expression on her face that told Diana a great deal. When Hans had to go down into the valley, she went with him. Every evening after dinner she slipped on a coat and went out to meet him, and as the evenings grew darker earlier now, it was almost always in the dark. Diana decided she would have to speak to her, have to discover what was happening.

Even Hans realized that they could not go on indefinitely as they were.

“Anthea,” he said, “you should not go about looking so happy—you betray yourself.”

“I don’t care if I do. I don’t care who knows.”

“But I do.”

“Why? What does it matter?”

“Well, for many reasons. One is Katrina—whom I am to marry.”

Anthea was silent. Hans went on:

“And your people, if they knew, would not approve.”

“Well, they don’t know; and I’ve had other affairs before they would not approve of.”

That hurt him, that she should look upon him simply as an “affair,” even if his intention to marry Katrina put Anthea into the same position. He said: “We should stop this thing, Anthea—now, before it gets any stronger.”

“Oh no, Hans. I’m so happy.”

“But we both know it cannot go on.”

“Why can’t it?”

“It must end, anyway, when you return to London. By then, it may be very difficult and will have caused trouble with Katrina. It is better we end it now.”

“Could you end it now?”

“Of course. I would not like it, any more than you; but if I really make up my mind, I can do it.”

“Why must it end when I return to London? I feel I can never let you go.”

“But that is foolish—we both know it must end then.”

“I won’t go back, then.”

Hans rubbed his cheek on her hair. It was dark, quite late at night, and they were in the pine wood, talking softly.

“You are no more than an irresponsible child,” he said. “You know that our lives are very different.”

“I have never been so happy with anybody as I am with you.”

“For a little while, yes.”

“I could live happily with you for a long while, for ever.”

He laughed then, a short, rather bitter laugh.

“No. It would not take long for you to want your friends in London.”

“You could come to London to live.”

“Never. I choose to live in the mountains and I will never live away from them.”

“I could live in the mountains.”

“For three months? Six months? All through the winter snows, with nobody but the family up here? How long would you like that, Anthea?”

She knew she would not like it, and was silent.

“I,” he said, “am a mountain farmer. It is a rough life, a hard life, but one that I am suited for. Yours is a different life. I think of those pictures in the magazines; Miss Anthea Wellis looking like a fairy princess in a dress for a wedding, with flowers in her hair. A fairy princess is out of place in a mountain farm. You wear on your arm enough jewels to keep a family for a year in food and clothing. Every week, somebody must come to look after this hair, which is like golden silk in my fingers
...
”

He twisted the golden silk in his strong fingers and Anthea cried out. “I am sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.” She turned in his arms and put hers round his neck, kissing his cheek with soft little kisses.