Theophilus North by Thornton Wilder

it over and over again.”
    â€œMr. Wyckoff was a bad judge of men. His butler Harland was as crazy as they come. . . . Bill Owens said he was sent home every night at six o’clock when he’d finished his chores. But a few times he crept back to the house. The front rooms were brightly lighted, but the doors and windows of the dining room were hung with felt curtains—thick felt curtains. They couldn’t have their unholy goings-on down in the kitchen—oh, no! They were masters and had to use the master’s dining room. Owens said he used to hide in the cupboards and peek through the felt curtain. And he saw awful things. He’d been telling the crowds down on Thames Street that he’d seen banquets and people taking their clothes off and what he called ‘cannibals.’ ”
    â€œChief! You never used that word before!”
    â€œWell, he said it. I’m sure he didn’t see it, but he thought he did.”
    â€œOh, Lord in Heaven!” said Mrs. Cranston crossing herself.
    â€œWhen you see half-cooked meat eaten with their own hands , that’s what a boy of twelve would think he saw.”
    â€œGod save us all!” said Mrs. Cranston.
    â€œI’ve no idea what Mr. Wyckoff saw, but he saw the felt curtains and the raw meat stains all over the floor and beastliness in the faces of the servants, very likely. . . . Now pardon my language, but rumor is like a stink. It took about three years for Bill Owens’s stories to pass from Thames Street to Mrs. Turberville’s Employment Agency. And rumor always gets blacker and blacker. What do you think of it, Mr. North?”
    â€œWell, Chief, I think that there was no murder, and not even mayhem; there was just brutishness and somehow it got mixed up in the popular imagination with spooks.”
    â€œAnd now there’s nothing we can do about it. Remember, it never reached the police desk. The ravings of a man in delirium tremens are not a deposition. Owens shipped out of town and has not been heard from since. I’m glad to have met you, Mr. North.”
    I had got what I wanted. We parted with my usual dishonest assurances that I would share with him any further information that came to light. As far as I was concerned that problem was solved, but my imagination had been occupied for some time with a far more difficult problem: What way could be found to dispel the “malediction” that rested on the Wyckoff House? Explanations and appeals to reason have no power to efface deeply ingrained and even cherished dreads.
    I had glimpsed an idea.
    One afternoon when I had presented myself at the door for the accustomed reading, I found a barouche, a coachman, and a pair of what used to be called “spanking” horses waiting in the driveway. Miss Wyckoff met me in the hall, dressed to go out. She begged my pardon, saying that she had been called to visit an invalid friend; she would be back within half an hour. Her maid was standing beside her.
    â€œMiss Wyckoff, may I have permission to visit the rooms on the first floor? I greatly admire what I have seen of the house and would like to see some of the other rooms.”
    â€œOh, yes, indeed, Mr. North. Make yourself completely at home. Mrs. Delafield will be glad to answer any questions, I’m sure.”
    It was a beautiful spring afternoon. All the doors were open. I viewed the great hall from all sides; I saw the dining room and the library for the first time. Everywhere I was arrested by some felicity of detail, but above all I was held by the harmony of the entire structure. “This is Palladio,” I thought. “He himself was the heir of great masters and this is one of his descendants, just as Versailles is; but this is nearer the Italian source.” When I was returning through the great hall to my work table Mrs. Delafield said, “Years ago before the master started going on expeditions, they used to