The Haunting of Hill House (26 page)

“It's all so motherly,” Luke said. “Everything so soft. Everything so padded. Great embracing chairs and sofas which turn out to be hard and unwelcome when you sit down, and reject you at once—”

“Theo?” Eleanor said softly, and Theodora looked at her and shook her head in bewilderment.

“—and hands everywhere. Little soft glass hands, curving out to you, beckoning—”

“Theo?” Eleanor said.

“No,” Theodora said. “I won't have you. And I don't want to talk about it any more.”

“Perhaps,” Luke said, watching them, “the single most repulsive aspect is the emphasis upon the globe. I ask you to regard impartially the lampshade made of tiny pieces of broken glass glued together, or the great round balls of the lights upon the stairs or the fluted iridescent candy jar at Theo's elbow. In the dining room there is a bowl of particularly filthy yellow glass resting upon the cupped hands of a child, and an Easter egg of sugar with a vision of shepherds dancing inside. A bosomy lady supports the stair-rail on her head, and under glass in the drawing room—”

“Nellie, leave me alone. Let's walk down to the brook or something.”

“—a child's face, done in cross-stitch. Nell, don't look so apprehensive; Theo has only suggested that you walk down to the brook. If you like, I will go along.”

“Anything,” Theodora said.

“To frighten away rabbits. If you like, I will carry a stick. If you like, I will not come at all. Theo has only to say the word.”

Theodora laughed. “Perhaps Nell would rather stay here and write on walls.”

“So unkind,” Luke said. “Callous of you, Theo.”

“I want to hear more about the shepherds dancing in the Easter egg,” Theodora said.

“A world contained in sugar. Six very tiny shepherds dancing, and a shepherdess in pink and blue reclining upon a mossy bank enjoying them; there are flowers and trees and sheep, and an old goatherd playing pipes. I would like to have been a goatherd, I think.”

“If you were not a bullfighter,” Theodora said.

“If I were not a bullfighter. Nell's affairs are the talk of the cafés, you will recall.”

“Pan,” Theodora said. “You should live in a hollow tree, Luke.”

“Nell,” Luke said, “you are not listening.”

“I think you frighten her, Luke.”

“Because Hill House will be mine someday, with its untold treasures and its cushions? I am not gentle with a house, Nell; I might take a fit of restlessness and smash the sugar Easter egg, or shatter the little child hands or go stomping and shouting up and down the stairs striking at glued-glass lamps with a cane and slashing at the bosomy lady with the staircase on her head; I might—”

“You see? You do frighten her.”

“I believe I do,” Luke said. “Nell, I am only talking nonsense.”

“I don't think he even owns a cane,” Theodora said.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Nell, I am
only
talking nonsense. What is she thinking about, Theo?”

Theodora said carefully, “She wants me to take her home with me after we leave Hill House, and I won't do it.”

Luke laughed. “Poor silly Nell,” he said. “Journeys end in lovers meeting. Let's go down to the brook.”

 

“A mother house,” Luke said, as they came down the steps from the veranda to the lawn, “a housemother, a headmistress, a housemistress. I am sure I will be a very poor housemaster, like our Arthur, when Hill House belongs to me.”

“I can't understand anyone wanting to own Hill House,” Theodora said, and Luke turned and looked back with amusement at the house.

“You never know what you are going to want until you see it clearly,” he said. “If I never had a chance of owning it I might feel very differently. What do people really want with each other, as Nell asked me once; what use are other people?”

“It was my fault my mother died,” Eleanor said. “She knocked on the wall and called me and called me and I never woke up. I ought to have brought her the medicine; I always did before. But this time she called me and I never woke up.”

“You should have forgotten all that by now,” Theodora said.

“I've wondered ever since if I did wake up. If I did wake up and hear her, and if I just went back to sleep. It would have been easy, and I've wondered about it.”

“Turn here,” Luke said. “If we're going to the brook.”

“You worry too much, Nell. You probably just
like
thinking it was your fault.”

“It was going to happen sooner or later, in any case,” Eleanor said. “But of course no matter when it happened it was going to be my fault.”

“If it hadn't happened you would never have come to Hill House.”

“We go single file along here,” Luke said. “Nell, go first.”

Smiling, Eleanor went on ahead, kicking her feet comfortably along the path. Now I know where I am going, she thought; I told her about my mother so
that's
all right; I will find a little house, or maybe an apartment like hers. I will see her every day, and we will go searching together for lovely things—goldtrimmed dishes, and a white cat, and a sugar Easter egg, and a cup of stars. I will not be frightened or alone any more; I will call myself just
Eleanor
. “Are you two talking about me?” she asked over her shoulder.

After a minute Luke answered politely, “A struggle between good and evil for the soul of Nell. I suppose I will have to be God, however.”

“But of course she can
not
trust either of us,” Theodora said, amused.

“Not me, certainly,” Luke said.

“Besides, Nell,” Theodora said, “we were not talking about you at all. As though I were the games mistress,” she said, half angry, to Luke.

I have waited such a long time, Eleanor was thinking; I have finally earned my happiness. She came, leading them, to the top of the hill and looked down to the slim line of trees they must pass through to get to the brook. They are lovely against the sky, she thought, so straight and free; Luke was wrong about the softness everywhere, because the trees are hard like wooden trees. They are still talking about me, talking about how I came to Hill House and found Theodora and now I will not let her go. Behind her she could hear the murmur of their voices, edged sometimes with malice, sometimes rising in mockery, sometimes touched with a laughter almost of kinship, and she walked on dreamily, hearing them come behind. She could tell when they entered the tall grass a minute after she did, because the grass moved hissingly beneath their feet and a startled grasshopper leaped wildly away.

I could help her in her shop, Eleanor thought; she loves beautiful things and I would go with her to find them. We could go anywhere we pleased, to the edge of the world if we liked, and come back when we wanted to. He is telling her now what he knows about me: that I am not easily taken in, that I had an oleander wall around me, and she is laughing because I am not going to be lonely any more. They are very much alike and they are very kind; I would not really have expected as much from them as they are giving me; I was very right to come because journeys end in lovers meeting.

She came under the hard branches of the trees and the shadows were pleasantly cool after the hot sun on the path; now she had to walk more carefully because the path led downhill and there were sometimes rocks and roots across her way. Behind her their voices went on, quick and sharp, and then more slowly and laughing; I will not look back, she thought happily, because then they would know what I am thinking; we will talk about it together someday, Theo and I, when we have plenty of time. How strange I feel, she thought, coming out of the trees onto the last steep part of the path going down to the brook; I am caught in a kind of wonder, I am still with joy. I will not look around until I am next to the brook, where she almost fell the day we came; I will remind her about the golden fish in the brook and about our picnic.

She sat down on the narrow green bank and put her chin on her knees; I will not forget this one moment in my life, she promised herself, listening to their voices and their footsteps coming slowly down the hill. “Hurry up,” she said, turning her head to look for Theodora. “I—” and was silent. There was no one on the hill, nothing but the footsteps coming clearly along the path and the faint mocking laughter.

“Who—?” she whispered. “Who?”

She could see the grass go down under the weight of the footsteps. She saw another grasshopper leap wildly away, and a pebble jar and roll. She heard clearly the brush of footsteps on the path and then, standing back hard against the bank, heard the laughter very close; “Eleanor, Eleanor,” and she heard it inside and outside her head; this was a call she had been listening for all her life. The footsteps stopped and she was caught in a movement of air so solid that she staggered and was held. “Eleanor, Eleanor,” she heard through the rushing of air past her ears, “Eleanor, Eleanor,” and she was held tight and safe. It is not cold at all, she thought, it is not cold at all. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the bank and thought, Don't let me go, and then, Stay, stay, as the firmness which held her slipped away, leaving her and fading; “Eleanor, Eleanor,” she heard once more and then she stood beside the brook, shivering as though the sun had gone, watching without surprise the vacant footsteps move across the water of the brook, sending small ripples going, and then over onto the grass on the other side, moving slowly and caressingly up and over the hill.

Come back, she almost said, standing shaking by the brook, and then she turned and ran madly up the hill, crying as she ran and calling, “Theo? Luke?”

She found them in the little group of trees, leaning against a tree trunk and talking softly and laughing; when she ran to them they turned, startled, and Theodora was almost angry. “What on earth do you want this time?” she said.

“I waited for you by the brook—”

“We decided to stay here where it was cool,” Theodora said. “We thought you heard us calling you. Didn't we, Luke?”

“Oh, yes,” said Luke, embarrassed. “We were sure you heard us calling.”

“Anyway,” Theodora said, “we were going to come along in a minute. Weren't we, Luke?”

“Yes,” said Luke, grinning. “Oh, yes.”

“Subterranean waters,” the doctor said, waving his fork.

“Nonsense. Does Mrs. Dudley do all your cooking? The asparagus is more than passable. Arthur, let that young man help you to asparagus.”

“My dear.” The doctor looked fondly upon his wife. “It has become our custom to rest for an hour or so after lunch; if you—”

“Certainly not. I have far too much to do while I am here. I must speak to your cook, I must see that my room is aired, I must ready planchette for another session this evening; Arthur must clean his revolver.”

“Mark of a fighting man,” Arthur conceded. “Firearms always in good order.”

“
You
and
these
young people may rest, of course. Perhaps you do not feel the urgency which I do, the terrible compulsion to aid whatever poor souls wander restlessly here; perhaps you find me foolish in my sympathy for them, perhaps I am even ludicrous in your eyes because I can spare a tear for a lost abandoned soul, left without any helping hand; pure love—”

“Croquet?” Luke said hastily. “Croquet, perhaps?” He looked eagerly from one to another. “Badminton?” he suggested. “Croquet?”

“Subterranean waters?” Theodora added helpfully.

“No fancy sauces for
me,
” Arthur said firmly. “Tell my fellows it's the mark of a cad.” He looked thoughtfully at Luke. “Mark of a cad. Fancy sauces, women waiting on you.
My
fellows wait on themselves. Mark of a man,” he said to Theodora.

“And what else do you teach them?” Theodora asked politely.

“Teach? You mean—do they learn anything, my fellows? You mean—algebra, like? Latin? Certainly.” Arthur sat back, pleased. “Leave all that kind of thing to the teachers,” he explained.

“And how many fellows are there in your school?” Theodora leaned forward, courteous, interested, making conversation with a guest, and Arthur basked; at the head of the table Mrs. Montague frowned and tapped her fingers impatiently.

“How many? How many. Got a crack tennis team, you know.” He beamed on Theodora. “Crack. Absolutely top-hole. Not counting milksops?”

“Not counting,” said Theodora, “milksops.”

“Oh. Tennis. Golf. Baseball. Track. Cricket.” He smiled slyly. “Didn't guess we played cricket, did you? Then there's swimming, and volleyball. Some fellows go out for everything, though,” he told her anxiously. “All-around types. Maybe seventy, altogether.”

“Arthur?” Mrs. Montague could contain herself no longer. “No shop talk, now. You're on vacation, remember.”

“Yes, silly of me.” Arthur smiled fondly. “Got to check the weapons,” he explained.

“It's two o'clock,” Mrs. Dudley said in the doorway. “I clear off at two.”

Theodora laughed, and Eleanor, hidden deep in the shadows behind the summerhouse, put her hands over her mouth to keep from speaking to let them know she was there; I've got to find out, she was thinking, I've got to find out.

“It's called ‘The Grattan Murders,' ” Luke was saying. “Lovely thing. I can even sing it if you prefer.”

“Mark of a cad.” Theodora laughed again. “Poor Luke; I would have said ‘scoundrel.' ”

“If you would rather be spending this brief hour with Arthur . . .”