Theophilus North (13 page)

“I'll write it up! You just wait and see!”

“But that's not all. Are you fond of music, Flora?”

“I adore music—all music except those crashing bores, Bach and Beethoven. And that other fellow, Mozetti.”

“What's the matter with him?”

“Mozetti? He had just
one
tune in his head and he wrote it over and over again.”

I wiped my forehead.

“Well, I told you how Paderewski burst into tears at the perfection of the acoustics in the great hall. He also asked the Wyckoffs if it would disturb the family if he stayed on an hour after the guests had gone home just to play to himself. After Dame Nellie Melba sang there she persuaded Thomas Alva Edison to come up to Newport and supervise the gramophone records she made in that hall. ‘The Last Rose of Summer'—it outsold all the records ever made until Caruso came along. Madame Schumann-Heink sang ‘The Rosary' in that hall and had to repeat it three times. Everybody was sobbing like babies. Your first article could be called ‘The House of Perfect Well-Being'; your second article you could call ‘The House of Heavenly Music.' Newport will
love
you.”

“Have you all those names down in these notes, Teddie?”

“But the third article is the best. Many years ago there was a sort of saint in this town. She was never admitted into any religious order because she couldn't read or write. She was only a lay-sister, but the working people called her ‘Sister Colomba.' All her days and nights were spent with the sick and the aged and the dying. She calmed the feverish, she visited the sickrooms of those with the worst contagious diseases and never caught a single one of them. A small boy in the Wyckoff home had diphtheria. She nursed him daily and he recovered—
miraculously
they believed. She lived in a little room across the hall from him. When her end approached, at a very great age, she asked that she be allowed to die in her old room. As I told you at dinner throngs silently kneel before the gates of the house—before Sister Colomba's room.”

Deeply moved, Flora put her hand on mine. “I'll have the sound of angel voices dimly heard by the faithful at midnight. I'll have perfumes. . . . Bellevue Avenue . . . What was her real name?”

“Mary Colomba O'Flaherty.”

“Wait until you see what I do with that!—Great Heavens! It's a quarter of one—my guests will be arriving for lunch. Give me those notes. I'm going to start working on them at once.”

Whatever one might think of Flora Deland, she was a diligent hard-working woman. Bees and ants could have taken lessons from her. My reading sessions with Miss Wyckoff were interrupted for two weeks during which she paid a visit to some old friends at their rustic camp on Squam Lake in New Hampshire. When she returned she invited me to tea at once. I made it a rule to accept no social invitations, but no rule could stand in the way of what I wished to learn about the progress of my
PLAN
.

Miss Wyckoff received me in a state of considerable agitation.

“Mr. North, the most extraordinary thing has happened. I'm at my wit's end. A newspaper woman has been publishing a series of articles about this house! Look at the piles of letters I've been getting! Architects want to visit the house and bring their students. Musicians want to see the house. People from all over the country want appointments when they may see the house. Droves of strangers are ringing the doorbell all day. . . .”

“What have you done about it, Miss Wyckoff?”

“I haven't answered a single letter. Mrs. Delafield had orders not to admit strangers. What do
you
think I should do?”

“Have you read that newspaper woman's articles?”

“Dozens of people have sent them to me.”

“Did they make you very angry?”

“I don't know where she got all that information. There's nothing horrid in them; but there are hundreds of things about this house that I never knew before and . . . this is my home. I spent a large part of my life here. I don't know if they're true or not.”

“Miss Wyckoff, I confess I read the articles and I was very surprised. But you can't deny that it's a very beautiful house. Fame is one of the consequences of excellence, Miss Wyckoff. The possession of a thing of exceptional beauty carries certain responsibilities. Have you ever visited Mount Vernon?”

“Yes. Mrs. Tucker asked us to tea.”

“Did you know that certain portions of the house were open to the public on certain hours of the week? I suggest that you engage a secretary to handle this matter. Have an entrance card engraved and let the secretary send it to all those who seem to be seriously interested, stating the hours at which they may view the Wyckoff House.”

“It frightens me, Mr. North. I wouldn't know how to answer the questions they might ask.”

“Oh, you won't be there. Your secretary will show them about and answer their questions only in a very superficial way.”

“Thank you. Thank you. I guess that's what I
must
do. But, Mr. North, there's something far more serious.” She lowered her voice: “People want to bring the sick here. . . . Whole companies from religious schools want to come and pray here! I never heard of this Sister Colomba. My dear brother I told you about was a very sickly child and I think I remember that we did have some nurses from the religious orders; but I don't remember
one
of them.”

“Miss Wyckoff, there's an old Greek saying,
‘Reject not the gifts of the gods.'
You said that a ‘malediction' hung over this house. It appears to me that that malediction is lifting. . . . I can tell you that all Newport is talking about the beauty and healthfulness of this house, and about the blessing that dwells here.”

“Oh, Mr. North, I'm frightened. I've done a wicked thing. Even my old friends who've come to tea with me for years now want to see the room where Sister Colomba died. What could I do? I told a lie. I chose a room near my poor brother's where a night nurse
probably
slept.”

“You foresee the next step, don't you, Miss Wyckoff?”

“Oh, dear! Oh, dear! What's the next step?”

“Servants will be clamoring to
live
in this house.”

She put her hand over her mouth and stared at me. “I never thought of that!”

I leaned forward and said in a low but very distinct voice: “
Miss Wyckoff requests the pleasure of your company for dinner on such-and-such a day. At the conclusion of dinner the Kneisel Quartet with an assisting guest violist will perform the last two string quintets of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart
.”

She stared at me. She rose and clasped her hands, saying, “My childhood! My beautiful childhood!”

“Nine Gables”

One of my first summonses to be interviewed came in the form of a note from Sarah Bosworth (Mrs. McHenry Bosworth), “Nine Gables,” such and such a number, Bellevue Avenue. The writer's father, Dr. James McHenry Bosworth, it said, had employed many readers, a number of whom had proved to be unsatisfactory. Could Mr. North present himself at the above address at eleven o'clock on Friday morning to be interviewed by Mrs. Bosworth on this matter? Kindly confirm the appointment by telephone, et cetera, et cetera! I telephoned my compliance and promptly visited the “People's Library” (as it was then called) to consult various reference books about this family.

The Honorable Dr. James McHenry Bosworth was seventy-four years old, a widower, father of six and grandfather of many. He had served his country as attaché, first secretary, minister, and ambassador to several countries on three continents. In addition he had published books on early American architecture, notably Newport's. Further inquiry revealed that he lived the year round in Newport and that several of his children maintained summer homes in the vicinity—in Portsmouth and Jamestown. Mrs. McHenry Bosworth was his daughter, divorced and childless, who had resumed her maiden name under this form.

On that Friday morning in late April—the first radiantly springlike day of the year—I drove my bicycle to the door and rang the bell. The house was neither a French château nor a Greek temple nor a Norman fortress but a long rambling cottage, under weather-silvered shingles, adorned with wide verandahs, turrets, and gables. It stood in extensive grounds ennobled by mighty and far-sought trees. Within the house there was nothing rustic whatever. Through the open but latched screen door I saw a platoon of men servants in striped waistcoats and maids in uniform with flying white sashes waxing the floors and polishing the furniture. I was to learn later that the furniture well rewarded this care; here was the largest collection outside a museum of Newport's notable eighteenth-century cabinetmakers.

A formidable butler in a red striped vest and a green apron appeared at the door. I announced my business. His eyes rested with a kind of outrage on my bicycle. “Err . . . You are Mr. North?” I waited. “In general, sir, this door is not used in the morning. You will find the garden door around the corner of the house at your left.”

I was willing to enter the house by the chimney or the coal cellar, but I didn't like the butler, his protruding eyes, his superfluous chins, and his tone of contempt. It was a beautiful morning. I felt fine. I didn't need the job as badly as that. I brushed my sleeve slowly and took my time. “Mrs. Bosworth asked me to call at this address at this hour.”

“
This
door is not generally used . . .”

I had learned from my youth up—and in the Army—that when you are confronted with self-important authority and browbeating the procedure is as follows: smile amiably, even deferentially, lower your voice, affect a partial deafness, and talk steadily, dragging in red herrings and bushy-tailed squirrels. The result is that Sir Pompous raises his voice, becomes distraught, and (above all) attracts others to the scene.

“Thank you, Mr. Gammage . . . Mr. Kammage. I assume that
you are expecting the piano-tuner, or
—”

“What?”

“Or the chiropodist. What a lovely day, Mr. Gammage! Kindly tell Mrs. Bosworth that I have called as she requested.”

“
My name is not . . 
. Sir, take your bicycle to the door I have indicated.”

“Good morning. I shall write Mrs. Bosworth that I called.
Irasci celerem tamen ut placabilis essem
.”

“Sir, are you deaf or insane?”

“Dr. Bosworth—I knew him well in Singapore—Raffles Hotel, you know. We used to play fan-tan.” I lowered my voice still further—”Temple bells and all that. Punkahs swaying from the ceiling—”

“I've . . . I've . . . ‘ad enough of you.
Go away
!”

It always works. Indeed, others had been drawn to the scene. The platoon of servants gazed open-mouthed. A handsome woman of middle age appeared in the distance. A young woman in a pale green linen dress (Persis, Persis herself!) had descended the great staircase. I came to think of “Nine Gables” as the house of hidden listening ears.

The lady in the distance called, “Willis, I am expecting Mr. North. . . . Persis, this is none of your affair. . . . Mr. North, will you follow me into my sitting room?”

The divine Persis glided between Mr. Willis and myself, lifted the latch without glancing to right or left, and disappeared. I thanked Mr. Willis (who had lost the power of speech) and advanced slowly down the long hall. Through an open door I saw in one of the sitting rooms a large painting, “The Three Bosworth Sisters,” perhaps by John Singer Sargent—three lovely girls, seated nonchalantly on a sofa, endowed with everything, including angelic dispositions. It was painted in 1899. Those sisters were Sarah, who had been briefly married to the Honorable Algernon De Bailly-Lewyss and was now Mrs. McHenry Bosworth; Mary, Mrs. Cassius Marcellus Leffingwell; and Theodora, Mrs. Terence On-slowe, long resident in Italy. Mrs. Bosworth, the eldest of the three, was in a rage also. “I am Mrs. Bosworth. Will you sit down, please.”

Gazing about I admired both the room and the lady. I noticed that a door at my left was ajar; every other door in sight was wide open. I suspected that the eminent Dr. Bosworth was probably overhearing this interview. Mrs. Bosworth had arranged three books beside her, each with a colorful book-marker between the pages. I suspected that
one
marked the page selected to eliminate the applicant.

“My father's eyes are easily tired. For one reason or another his readers have proved unsatisfactory. I know his tastes. In order to save your time, might I ask you to commence reading at the top of this page?”

“Certainly, Mrs. Bosworth.”

I kept her waiting. Well, well! It was the history by my old friend Mr. Gibbon. Things were going badly in the eastern Mediterranean, a mess of court intrigues, dozens of Byzantine names, jaw-breakers of all kinds; but bloodwarming. I read slowly and enjoyed myself.