PART TWO

Eleanor Vance was thirty-two years old when she came to Hill House. The only person in the world she

genuinely hated, now that her mother was dead, was her sister. She disliked her brother-in-law and her

five-year-old niece, and she had no friends. This was owing largely to the eleven years she had spent

caring for her invalid mother, which had left her with some proficiency as a nurse and an inability to face

strong sunlight without blinking. She could not remember ever being truly happy in her adult life; her years

with her mother had been built up devotedly around small guilts and small reproaches, constant

weariness, and unending despair. Without ever wanting to become reserved and shy, she had spent so

long alone, with no one to love, that it was difficult for her to talk, even casually, to another person

without self-consciousness and an awkward inability to find words. Her name had turned up on Dr.

Montague's list because one day, when she was twelve years old and her sister was eighteen, and their

father had been dead for not quite a month, showers of stones had fallen on their house, without any

warning or any indication of purpose or reason, dropping from the ceilings rolling loudly down the walls,

breaking windows and pattering maddeningly on the roof. The stones continued intermittently for three

days, during which time Eleanor and her sister were less unnerved by the stones than by the neighbors

and sightseers who gathered daily outside the front door, and by their mother's blind, hysterical insistence

that all of this was due to malicious, backbiting people on the block who had had it in for her ever since

she came. After three days Eleanor and her sister were removed to the house of a friend, and the stones

stopped falling, nor did they ever return, although Eleanor and her sister and her mother went back to

living in the house, and the feud with the entire neighborhood was never ended. The story had been

forgotten by everyone except the people Dr. Montague consulted; it had certainly been forgotten by

Eleanor and her sister, each of whom had supposed at the time that the other was responsible.

During the whole underside of her life, ever since her first memory, Eleanor had been waiting for

something like Hill House. Caring for her mother, lifting a cross old lady from her chair to her bed, setting

out endless little trays of soup and oatmeal, steeling herself to the filthy laundry, Eleanor had held fast to

the belief that someday something would happen. She had accepted the invitation to Hill House by return

mail, although her brother-in-law had insisted upon calling a couple of people to make sure that this

doctor fellow was not aiming to introduce Eleanor to savage rites not unconnected with matters Eleanor's

sister deemed it improper for an unmarried young woman to know. Perhaps, Eleanor's sister whispered

in the privacy of the marital bedroom, perhaps Dr. Montague—if that really was his name, after

all—perhaps this Dr. Montague Used these women for some—well—experiments.You know—

experiments, the way they do. Eleanor's sister dwelt richly upon experiments she had heard These Doctors did. Eleanor had no such ideas, or, having them, was not afraid. Eleanor, in short, would have

gone anywhere.

Theodora—that was as much name as she used; her sketches were signed "Theo" and on her apartment

door and the window of her shop and her telephone listing and her pale stationery and the bottom of the

lovely photograph of her which stood on the mantel, the name was always only Theodora—Theodora

was not at all like Eleanor. Duty and conscience were, for Theodora, attributes which belonged properly

to Girl Scouts. Theodora's world was one of delight and soft colors; she had come onto Dr. Montague's

list because—going laughing into the laboratory, bringing with her a rush of floral perfume—she had

somehow been able, amused and excited over her own incredible skill, to identify correctly eighteen

cards out of twenty, fifteen cards out of twenty, nineteen cards out of twenty, held up by an assistant out

of sight and hearing. The name of Theodora shone in the records of the laboratory and so came inevitably

to Dr. Montague's attention. Theodora had been entertained by Dr. Montague's first letter and answered

it out of curiosity (perhaps the wakened knowledge in Theodora which told her the names of symbols on

cards held out of sight urged her on her way toward Hill House), and yet fully intended to decline the

invitation. Yet—perhaps the stirring, urgent sense again—when Dr. Montague's confirming letter arrived,

Theodora had been tempted and had somehow plunged blindly, wantonly, into a violent quarrel with the

friend with whom she shared an apartment. Things were said on both sides which only time could

eradicate; Theodora had deliberately and heartlessly smashed the lovely little figurine her friend had

carved of her, and her friend had cruelly ripped to shreds the volume of Alfred de Musset which had

been a birthday present from Theodora, taking particular pains with the page which bore Theodora's

loving, teasing inscription. These acts were of course unforgettable, and before they could laugh over

them together time would have to go by; Theodora had written that night, accepting Dr. Montague's

invitation, and departed in cold silence the next day.

Luke Sanderson was a liar. He was also a thief. His aunt, who was the owner of Hill House, was fond of

pointing out that her nephew had the best education, the best clothes, the best taste, and the worst

companions of anyone she had ever known; she would have leaped at any chance to put him safely away

for a few weeks. The family lawyer was prevailed upon to persuade Dr. Montague that the house could

on no account be rented to him for his, purposes without the confining presence of a member of the

family during his stay, and perhaps at their first meeting the doctor perceived in Luke a kind of strength,

or catlike instinct for self-preservation, which made him almost as anxious as Mrs. Sanderson to have

Luke with him in the house. At any rate, Luke was amused, his aunt grateful, and Dr. Montague more

than satisfied. Mrs. Sanderson told the family lawyer that at any rate there was really nothing in the house

Luke could steal. The old silver there was of some value, she told the lawyer, but it represented an

almost insuperable difficulty for Luke: it required energy to steal it and transform it into money. Mrs.

Sanderson did Luke an injustice. Luke was not at all likely to make off with the family silver, or Dr.

Montague's watch, or Theodora's bracelet; his dishonesty was largely confined to taking petty cash from

his aunt's pocketbook and cheating at cards. He was also apt to sell the watches and cigarette cases

given him, fondly and with pretty blushes, by his aunt's friends. Someday Luke would inherit Hill House,

but he had never thought to find himself living in it.

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