PART FOUR

4

It was the first genuinely shining day of summer, a time of year which brought Eleanor always to aching

memories of her early childhood, when it had seemed to be summer all the time; she could not remember

a winter before her father's death on a cold wet day. She had taken to wondering lately, during these

swift counted years, what had been done with all those wasted summer days; how could she have spent

them so wantonly? I am foolish, she told herself early every summer, I am very foolish; I am grown up

now and know the values of things. Nothing is ever really wasted, she believed sensibly, even one's

childhood, and then each year, one summer morning, the warm wind would come down the city street

where she walked and she would be touched with the little cold thought: I have let more time go by. Yet

this morning, driving the little car which she and her sister owned together, apprehensive lest they might

still realize that she had come after all and just taken it away, going docilely along the street, following the

lines of traffic, stopping when she was bidden and turning when she could, she smiled out at the sunlight

slanting along the street and thought, I am going, I am going, I have finally taken a step.

Always before, when she had her sister's permission to drive the little car, she had gone cautiously,

moving with extreme care to avoid even the slightest scratch or mar which might irritate her sister, but

today, with her carton on the back seat and her suitcase on the floor, her gloves and pocketbook and

light coat on the seat beside her, the car belonged entirely to her, a little contained world all her own; I

am really going, she thought.

At the last traffic light in the city, before she turned to go onto the great highway out of town, she

stopped, waiting, and slid Dr. Montague's letter out of her pocketbook. I will not even need a map, she

thought; he must be a very careful man. "…Route 39 to Ashton," the letter said, "and then turn left onto

Route 5 going west. Follow this for a little less than thirty miles, and you will come to the small village of

Hillsdale. Go through Hillsdale to the corner with a gas station on the left and a church on the right, and

turn left here onto what seems to be a narrow country road; you will be going up into the hills and the

road is very poor. Follow this road to the end—about six miles—and you will come to the gates of Hill

House. I am making these directions so detailed because it is inadvisable to stop in Hillsdale to ask your

way. The people there are rude to strangers and openly hostile to anyone inquiring about Hill House.

"I am very happy that you will be joining us in Hill House, and will take great pleasure in making your

acquaintance on Thursday the twenty-first of June…"

The light changed; she turned onto the highway and was free of the city. No one, she thought, can catch

me now; they don't even know which way I'm going.

She had never driven far alone before. The notion of dividing her lovely journey into miles and hours was

silly; she saw it, bringing her car with precision between the line on the road and the line of trees beside

the road, as a passage of moments, each one new, carrying her along with them, taking her down a path

of incredible novelty to a new place. The journey itself was her positive action, her destination vague,

unimagined, perhaps nonexistent. She meant to savor each turn of her traveling, loving the road and the trees and the houses and the small ugly towns, teasing herself with the notion that she might take it into

her head to stop just anywhere and never leave again. She might pull her car to the side of the

highway—although that was not allowed, she told herself, she would be punished if she really did—and

leave it behind while she wandered off past the trees into the soft, welcoming country beyond. She might

wander till she was exhausted, chasing butterflies or following a stream, and then come at nightfall to the

hut of some poor woodcutter who would offer her shelter; she might make her home forever in East

Barrington or Desmond or the incorporated village of Berk; she might never leave the road at all, but just

hurry on and on until the wheels of the car were worn to nothing and she had come to the end of the

world.

And, she thought, I might just go along to Hill House, where I am expected and where I am being given

shelter and room and board and a small token salary in consideration of forsaking my commitments and

involvements in the city and running away to see the world. I wonder what Dr. Montague is like. I

wonder what Hill House is like. I wonder who else will be there.

She was well away from the city now, watching for the turning onto Route 39, that magic thread of road

Dr. Montague had chosen for her, out of all the roads in the world, to bring her safely to him and to Hill

House; no other road could lead her from where she was to where she wanted to be. Dr Montague was

confirmed, made infallible; under the sign which pointed the way to Route 39 was another sign saying:

ASHTON, 121 MILES.

The road, her intimate friend now, turned and dipped, going around turns where surprises waited—once

a cow, regarding her over a fence, once an incurious dog—down into hollows where small towns lay,

past fields and orchards. On the main street of one village she passed a vast house, pillared and walled,

with shutters over the windows and a pair of stone lions guarding the steps, and she thought that perhaps

she might live there, dusting the lions each morning and patting their heads good night. Time is beginning

this morning in June, she assured herself, but it is a time that is strangely new and of itself, in these few

seconds I have lived a lifetime in a house with two lions in front. Every morning I swept the porch and

dusted the lions, and every evening I patted their heads good night, and once a week I washed their faces

and manes and paws with warm water and soda and cleaned between their teeth with a swab. Inside the

house the rooms were tall and clear with shining floors and polished windows. A little dainty old lady

took care of me, moving star chily with a silver tea service on a tray and bringing me a glass of elderberry

wine each evening for my health's sake. I took my dinner alone in the long, quiet dining room at the

gleaming table, and between the tall windows the white paneling of the walls shone in the candlelight; I

dined upon a bird, and radishes from the garden, and homemade plum jam. When I slept it was under a

canopy of white organdy, and a nightlight guarded me from the hall. People bowed to me on the streets

of the town because everyone was very proud of my lions. When I died..

She had left the town far behind by now, and was going past dirty, closed lunch stands and torn signs.

There had been a fair somewhere near here once, long ago, with motorcycle races; the signs still carried

fragments of words. DARE, one of them read, and another, EVIL, and she laughed at herself, perceiving

how she sought out omens everywhere; the word is DAREDEVIL, Eleanor, daredevil drivers, and she

slowed her car because she was driving too fast and might reach Hill House too soon.

At one spot she stopped altogether beside the road to stare in disbelief and wonder. Along the road for

perhaps a quarter of a mile she had been passing and admiring a row of splendid tended oleanders,

blooming pink and white in a steady row. Now she had come to the gateway they protected, and past

the gateway the trees continued. The gateway was no more than a pair of ruined stone pillars, with a road

leading away between them into empty fields. She could see that the oleander trees cut away from the

road and ran up each side of a great square, and she could see all the way to the farther side of the

square, which was a line of oleander trees seemingly going along a little river. Inside the oleander squarethere was nothing, no house, no building, nothing but the straight road going across and ending at the

stream. Now what was here, she wondered, what was here and is gone, or what was going to be here

and never came? Was it going to be a house or a garden or an orchard; were they driven away forever

or are they coming back? Oleanders are poisonous, she remembered; could they be here guarding

something? Will I, she thought, will I get out of my car and go between the ruined gates and then, once I

am in the magic oleander square, find that I have wandered into a fairyland, protected poisonously from

the eyes of people passing? Once I have stepped between the magic gate posts, will I find myself through

the protective barrier, the spell broken? I will go into a sweet garden, with fountains and low benches and

roses trained over arbors, and find one path—jeweled, perhaps, with rubies and emeralds, soft enough

for a king's daughter to walk upon with her little sandaled feet—and it will lead me directly to the palace

which lies under a spell. I will walk up low stone steps past stone lions guarding and into a courtyard

where a fountain plays and the queen waits, weeping, for the princess to return. She will drop her

embroidery when she sees me, and cry out to the palace servants—stirring at last after their long

sleep—to prepare a great feast, because the enchantment is ended and the palace is itself again. And we

shall live happily ever after.

No, of course, she thought, turning to start her car again, once the palace becomes visible and the spell

is broken, the whole spell will be broken and all this countryside outside the oleanders will return to its

proper form, fading away, towns and signs and cows, into a soft green picture from a fairy tale. Then,

coming down from the hills there will be a prince riding, bright in green and silver with a hundred bowmen

riding behind him, pennants stirring, horses tossing, jewels flashing…

She laughed and turned to smile good-by at the magic oleanders. Another day, she told them, another

day I'll come back and break your spell.

She stopped for lunch after she had driven a hundred miles and a mile. She found a country restaurant

which advertised itself as an old mill and found herself seated, incredibly, upon a balcony over a dashing

stream, looking down upon wet rocks and the intoxicating sparkle of moving water, with a cut-glass bowl

of cottage cheese on the table before her, and corn sticks in a napkin. Because this was a time and a land

where enchantments were swiftly made and broken she wanted to linger over her lunch, knowing that Hill

House always waited for her at the end of her day. The only other people in the dining room were a

family party, a mother and father with a small boy and girl, and they talked to one another softly and

gently, and once the little girl turned and regarded Eleanor with frank curiosity and, after a minute, smiled.

The lights from the stream below touched the ceiling and the polished tables and glanced along the little

girl's curls, and the little girl's mother said,

"She wants her cup of stars."

Eleanor looked up, surprised; the little girl was sliding back in her chair, sullenly refusing her milk, while

her father frowned and her brother giggled and her mother said calmly, "She wants her cup of stars."

Indeed yes, Eleanor thought; indeed, so do I; a cup of stars, of course.

"Her little cup," the mother was explaining, smiling apologetically at the waitress, who was thunderstruck

at the thought that the mill's good country milk was not rich enough for the little girl.

"It has stars in the bottom, and she always drinks her milk from it at home. She calls it her cup of stars

because she can see the stars while she drinks her milk." The waitress nodded, unconvinced, and the

mother told the little girl, "You'll have your milk from your cup of stars tonight when we get home. But

just for now, just to be a very good little girl, will you take a little milk from this glass?"Don't do it, Eleanor told the little girl; insist on your cup of stars; once they have trapped you into being

like everyone else you will never see your cup of stars again; don't do it; and the little girl glanced at her,

and smiled a little subtle, dimpling, wholly comprehending smile[ and shook her head stubbornly at the

glass. Brave girl, Eleanor thought; wise, brave girl.

"You're spoiling her," the father said. "She ought not to be allowed these whims."

"Just this once," the mother said. She put down the glass of milk and touched the little girl gently on the

hand. "Eat your ice cream," she said.

When they left, the little girl waved good-by to Eleanor, and Eleanor waved back, sitting in joyful

loneliness to finish her coffee while the gay stream tumbled along below her. I have not very much, farther

to go, Eleanor thought; I am more than halfway there. Journey's end, she thought, and far back in her

mind, sparkling like the little stream, a tag end of a tune danced through her head, bringing distantly a

word or so; "In delay there lies no plenty," she thought, "in delay there lies no plenty."

She nearly stopped forever just outside Ashton, because she came to a tiny cottage buried in a garden. I

could live there all alone, she thought, slowing the car to look down the winding garden path to the small

blue front door with, perfectly, a white cat on the step. No one would ever find me there, either, behind

all those roses, and just to make sure I would plant oleanders by the road. I will light a fire in the cool

evenings and toast apples at my own hearth. I will raise white cats and sew white curtains for the

windows and sometimes come out of my door to go to the store to buy cinnamon and tea and thread.

People will come to me to have their fortunes told, and I will brew love potions for sad maidens; I will

have a robin…But the cottage was far behind, and it was time to look for her new road, so carefully

charted by Dr. Montague.

"Turn left onto Route 5 going west," his letter said, and, as efficiently and promptly as though he had

been guiding her from some spot far away, moving her car with controls in his hands, it was done; she

was On Route 5 going west, and her journey was nearly done. In spite of what he said, though, she

thought, I will stop in Hillsdale for a minute, just for a cup of coffee, because I cannot bear to have my

long trip end so soon. It was not really disobeying, anyway; the letter said it was inadvisable to stop in

Hillsdale to ask the way, not forbidden to stop for coffee, and perhaps if I don't mention Hill House I will

not be doing wrong. Anyway, she thought obscurely; it's my last chance.

Hillsdale was upon her before she knew it, a tangled, disorderly mess of dirty houses and crooked

streets. It was small; once she had come onto the main street she could see the corner at the end with the

gas station and the church. There seemed to be only one place to stop for coffee, and that was an

unattractive diner, but Eleanor was bound to stop in Hillsdale and so she brought her car to the broken

curb in front of the diner and got out. After a minute's thought, with a silent nod to Hillsdale, she locked

the car, mindful of her suitcase on the floor and the carton on the back seat. I will not spend long in

Hillsdale, she thought, looking up and down the street, which managed, even in the sunlight, to be dark

and ugly. A dog slept uneasily in the shade against a wall, a woman stood in a doorway across the street

and looked at Eleanor, and two young boys lounged against a fence, elaborately silent. Eleanor, who was

afraid of strange dogs and jeering women and young hoodlums, went quickly into the diner, clutching her

pocketbook and her car keys. Inside, she found a counter with a chinless, tired girl behind it, and a man

sitting at the end eating. She wondered briefly how hungry he must have been to come in here at all, when

she looked at the gray counter and the smeared glass bowl over a plate of doughnuts. "Coffee," she said

to the girl behind the counter, and the girl turned wearily and tumbled down a cup from the piles on the

shelves; I will have to drink this coffee because I said I was going to, Eleanor told herself sternly, but next

time I will listen to Dr. Montague.There was some elaborate joke going on between the man eating and the girl behind the counter; when

she set Eleanor's coffee down she glanced at him and half-smiled, and he shrugged, and then the girl

laughed. Eleanor looked up, but the girl was examining her fingernails and the man was wiping his plate

with bread. Perhaps Eleanor's coffee was poisoned; it certainly looked it. Determined to plumb the

village of Hillsdale to its lowest depths, Eleanor said to the girl, "I'll have one of those doughnuts too,

please," and the girl, glancing sideways at the man, slid one of the doughnuts onto a dish and set it down

in front of Eleanor and laughed when, she caught another look from the man.

"This is a pretty little town," Eleanor said to the girl. "What is it called?"

The girl stared at her; perhaps no one had ever before had the audacity to call Hillsdale a pretty little

town; after a moment the girl looked again at the man, as though calling for confirmation, and said,

"Hillsdale."

"Have you lived here long?" Eleanor asked. I'm not going to mention Hill House, she assured Dr.

Montague far away, I just want to waste a little time.

"Yeah," the girl said.

"It must be pleasant, living in a small town like this. I come from the city."

"Yeah?"

"Do you like it here?"

"It's all right," the girl said. She looked again at the man, who was listening carefully. "Not much to do."

"How large a town is it?"

"Pretty small. You want more coffee?" This was addressed to the man, who was rattling his cup against

his saucer, and Eleanor took a first, shuddering sip of her own coffee and wondered how he could

possibly want more.

"Do you have a lot of visitors around here?" she asked when the girl had filled the coffee cup and gone

back to lounge against the shelves. "Tourists, I mean?"

"What for?" For a minute the girl flashed at her, from what might have been an emptiness greater than

any Eleanor had ever known. "Why would anybody come here ?" She looked sullenly at the man and

added, "There's not even a movie.

"But the hills are so pretty. Mostly, with small out-of-the-way towns like this one, you'll find city people

who have come and built themselves homes up in the hills. For privacy."

The girl laughed shortly. "Not There they don't."

"Or remodeling old houses—"

"Privacy," the girl said, and laughed again.

"It just seems surprising," Eleanor said, feeling the man looking at her."Yeah," the girl said. "If they'd put in a movie, even."

"I thought," Eleanor said carefully, "that I might even look around. Old houses are usually cheap, you

know, and it's fun to make them over."

"Not around here," the girl said.

"Then," Eleanor said, "there are no old houses around here? Back in the hills?"

"Nope."

The man rose, taking change from his pocket, and spoke for the first time. "People Leave this town," he

said. "They don't come here."

When the door closed behind him the girl turned her flat eyes back to Eleanor, almost resentfully, as

though Eleanor with her chatter had driven the man away. "He was right," she said finally.

"They go away, the lucky ones."

"Why don't you run away?" Eleanor asked her, and the girl shrugged.

"Would I be any better off?" she asked. She took Eleanor's money without interest and returned the

change. Then, with another of her quick flashes, she glanced at the empty plates at the end of the counter

and almost smiled. "He comes in every day," she said. When Eleanor smiled back and started to speak,

the girl turned her back and busied herself with the cups on the shelves, and Eleanor, feeling herself

dismissed, rose gratefully from her coffee and took up her car keys and pocketbook. "Good-by,"

Eleanor said, and the girl, back still turned, said, "Good luck to you. I hope you find your house.

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