I had almost forgotten Hosmer Appleby and his house. A good many years
had passed since our last meeting—seventeen years, I think; or maybe
eighteen. Then one day last spring I received a note inviting me to the
housewarming of Briar Farm, near Noroton, Connecticut; it was a very
cordial little note, and it was signed “Hosmer Appleby.” Then I knew
that he had attained his goal at last.
I went out to Briar Farm to the housewarming. The site was, indeed,
perfect; five acres or so of rolling land, with a view across Long
Island Sound; and the house itself was a gem. Hosmer Appleby,
white-haired now, but as bright-eyed and interested as ever, greeted me
warmly. He skipped from guest to guest, rubbing his hands, bowing
acknowledgments of the compliments they offered him on the perfection of
his house. Now and then he pointed out some perfections that might have
escaped our attention—that chair was from a sixteenth-century monastery
near Seville; that fireplace was his own design; the beams in that
ceiling he had discovered in an old manor house in Somersetshire; he
invented that especially efficient shower bath; and didn’t we think that
Matisse in his library rather good?
He took me to the library window, showed me gleefully how the patent
casement windows worked, and said: “You see that garden out there? It’s
to be a rose garden. There I’m going to spend the rest of my days; at
night I’ll read in this room. It’s been a long pull, I can tell you; but
here I am.”
“You’ve deserted the dolls?” I asked.
He made the face of one who has just taken unpleasant medicine.
“Don’t remind me of them,” he said. “I hope I’ll never see one of the
little brutes again. When I think of the years I spent worrying and
sweating over them—still they helped me attain my objective. I was
president of the company, you know, when I resigned.”
When I was leaving his house he said to me, “You must come up when the
roses are blooming. They ought to be beauties; I’ve been studying books
on rose growing for the last ten years.”
Three months later I was driving near Briar Farm, and I stopped in to
see Appleby and his house and the roses. I saw a figure in old clothes
pottering about in the garden. It seemed to me as I watched him that his
walk sagged. He would pick a rose bug from a leaf, look at it for a
whole minute or more, put it into a can, and then pick off another rose
bug. He saw me standing there and came slowly toward me. I thought he
seemed pale. He shook hands with me limply.
“How well the roses are getting on!” I said.
“Do you think so?” he said without enthusiasm.
We went into his living room—he had done it in old-Spanish style, after
all. I admired a venerable refectory table. Appleby shrugged his
shoulders. There were long silences in the course of our conversation,
during which Appleby would sit with head on chest, staring at a rug; and
yet I felt somehow that he did not see the rug.
“What a stunning lamp!” I said.
“Oh, it’ll do,” said Appleby; his tone seemed dull.
“Don’t you feel well, Appleby?” I asked.
“Not particularly,” he said in that same blunted voice.
A week later I heard through a mutual friend that Hosmer Appleby had
taken to his bed, and that his doctors were shaking their heads and
looking grave. I had it in mind to go out to see him, but business
called me suddenly to England for a flying trip. I was gone a month. I
came back to New York on the newest and largest of liners, the Steamship
_Gigantic_. We tied up at a New York pier, and while waiting for the
customs inspectors to delve into our baggage I decided to take a last
stroll about the vast ship.
I had penetrated into its depths and had come to the place where one
could peer down and see the mighty engines, great polished and black
giants crouching in their cave. As I stood there I became aware that a
man, at no small peril to his safety, was hanging out over the rail and
studying the engines with fascinated eyes. He was shaking his head and
muttering to himself as if he were in the midst of calculation or inner
debate. He heard my step and swung around. It was Appleby. He bounded
toward me and shook hands with me with a hearty violence. His face was
full of color, and I have never seen brighter eyes.
“Well, well, well!” he cried. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. And you?”
“Bully!” he said. “Bully!”
“But what are you doing here, Appleby?”
“I got a pass and came aboard just as soon as the boat docked,” he
explained. His manner was alert, almost jaunty, one would say. “You see,
I know the president of the line. I use his boats to export some of my
dolls.”
“Your dolls?” I exclaimed.
“Certainly. I’m back in the doll business. And I’ll bet you a good cigar
we’ll sell half a million dollars’ worth of dolls this year.”
His voice was brisk, his air determined.
“But your house in the country, Appleby.”
“Oh, I sold that. Tell me, how did these new oil-burning engines work on
the trip coming over? You see, I’m going to build myself a yacht. I’m
working like a beaver to earn the money. It’s going to be the finest
yacht that was ever built—the newest oil-burning engine, mahogany
decks, cabins for twenty or more, elevators——”