One night on my last year’s visit I particularly called to mind. Hanson and I were alone, and we sat almost silent while the light faded and the moon crept over the top of the wall and up the sky till it cleared the cathedral tower. It was then that he first told me of his friend Dr. Wallace—The Tundish—and I gained the impression that he would not be disappointed or surprised if Ethel and he were to make a match of it together. And now, only a few weeks ago, she had written to tell me that she was engaged to Kenneth Dane. He must have carried her off her feet pretty quickly, for I had seen the Hansons only a month or so before—I know them well—and until I received her letter I had never even heard his name.
As I sat dreaming and wondering what manner of man I should find him, the slight change in angle as the scorching sun moved round had caused the lights in the cathedral windows to flicker and fade away, and the color of the stonework to change from pale gold to a gold of a darker shade. I had dallied long enough, and, starting up my engine, I slipped in the clutch and set out on the few remaining miles that separated me from the end of my journey. The cathedral clock was chiming ten as I rounded the corner from the main road into Dalehouse Lane.
I found Ethel and two of her guests under the old cedar tree that gives grateful summer shade to one side of the lawn. Whatever her faults may be, and I could list several, beginning with a reference to a rather hasty little temper, she is entirely unaffected and honestly cordial. Indeed, I know of no one who can show at once so gaily and sincerely that she is pleased to see her friends, and as she met me I was gratified to feel that in spite of her engagement I still held my old place in her affections. She introduced me to Ralph Bennett and then to Kenneth Dane.
To paint a word picture of any human being is a hazardous undertaking, but in the case of Kenneth Dane I feel that the risk attached to the attempt is a little less than usual, for I summed him up at once, and my later experience proved me correct, as one of those downright souls who carry their character plainly written all over them for each and sundry to read. Black for him, I felt certain, was always black, and white was always white, and that there simply were no intervening shades of gray. No, there could be no subtle grays for Kenneth. Tall, his broad sloping shoulders made him appear of medium height until you stood against him. With fair brown hair of that close crisp wavy kind that it is a thousand pities providence does not keep exclusively for girls, eyes of a rather bright pale blue, a straight aggressive nose and a firm mouth and chin to match, he was a fine example of athletic British manhood. The grip he gave to my hand, nearly making me cry out, and his deep pleasant laugh as he acknowledged my congratulations, were both in keeping with his vigorous appearance.
In Ralph Bennett, his friend, I found an entirely different type. Slim and dark, with rather unusual dark brown eyes, you had only to see the two together—and I soon found that they were almost inseparable—to recognize that while Kenneth might be the better equipped with character and determination, Ralph was more than his match so far as brain power and intelligence were concerned. But he was so quiet and reserved that one almost overlooked him, and later I was often to wonder on what foundation their friendship had been built.
At Merchester play is scheduled to start at ten o’clock, and though they are lenient to a fault about such matters, it was agreed that Ethel and the two boys should go on to the club, leaving me to garage my car, change into flannels and follow them as soon as I could. I understood that Miss Hunter, my partner, had already left for the ground when I arrived. The doctor’s garage was occupied, for young Bennett, whose people were of considerable wealth, had brought a splendid Daimler with him that entirely filled it, and so I had to find accommodation for my car at the rear of a neighboring inn. It was already intensely hot and I felt dizzy on reaching my bedroom, which, although the blinds had been drawn against the sun, was like a baker’s oven.
Having rested for a short time, I bathed my face and changed and came down-stairs to meet Dr. Wallace at the bottom. How he came by his nickname of “The Tundish” I have never yet been able to fathom, but we introduced ourselves, no one being present to perform the ceremony for us. He was kindness itself in the way he questioned me about my cold, made me go back and pack up a couple of spare shirts, promise to change after each match, and vowed that when we returned in the evening he would take me in hand and not only have me fit to play next day, but able to enjoy myself as well.
Although I have no use for faith healing, or any buncombe of that description, there is no doubt that the personal equation does come into play where doctoring is concerned. When I had sat on my bed holding my head in my hands I had begun to think that Brenda had been right after all, and that I had been a fool for coming, but it needed only a few of the doctor’s short decisive sentences, when, hey presto! I was feeling a little better already, and there was nothing so very much amiss.
While I liked him from the outset, even at the beginning of our acquaintance I think I felt that he was not exactly abnormal, but that he possessed hidden qualities that differentiated him from the rest of us. Of medium height and a thick-set build, his black hair showed just a powdering of gray at the temples, while his pallid regular features seemed a mask through which his deep-set, twinkling eyes looked at you derisively—mocking you and defying you to guess what manner of man it really was that lay beneath.
He took me with him into the dispensary to get some capsules to take with me to the club. It lies to the left of the passage that runs along the garden side of the doctor’s wing. The consulting-room is at the end of the passage and both rooms have doors opening on to the little hall or lobby that forms the patients’ entrance from Dalehouse Lane. A further door connects the two rooms. Beyond the lobby is a small waiting-room.