Wuthering Heights
strong enough to move from one to the other, leaning on Edgar’s arm.
Ah, I thought myself, she might recover, so waited on as she was. And
there was double cause to desire it, for on her existence depended that
of another: we cherished the hope that in a little while Mr. Linton’s
heart would be gladdened, and his lands secured from a stranger’s
gripe, by the birth of an heir.
I should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from
her departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff.
It appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil
an obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and
reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she
could not help it then, and being done, she had now no power to repeal
it. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more,
I got a long letter, which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a
bride just out of the honeymoon. I’ll read it: for I keep it yet. Any
relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
* * * * *
DEAR ELLEN, it begins,—I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and
heard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very
ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too
angry or too distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write
to somebody, and the only choice left me is you.
Inform Edgar that I’d give the world to see his face again—that my
heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left
it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and
Catherine! _I can’t follow it though_—(these words are underlined)—they
need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please;
taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or
deficient affection.
The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you
two questions: the first is,—How did you contrive to preserve the
common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot
recognise any sentiment which those around share with me.
The second question I have great interest in; it is this—Is Mr.
Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I
sha’n’t tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to
explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see
me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don’t write, but come, and
bring me something from Edgar.
Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am
led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell
on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my
thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and
dance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries,
and the rest was an unnatural dream!
The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I
judged it to be six o’clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to
inspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as
well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard
of the farmhouse, and your old fellow-servant, Joseph, issued out to
receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that
redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a
level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under-lip, and turn
away. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables;
reappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived
in an ancient castle.
Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen—a dingy,
untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it
was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb
and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his
mouth.
“This is Edgar’s legal nephew,” I reflected—“mine in a manner; I must
shake hands, and—yes—I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good
understanding at the beginning.”
I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said—“How do you
do, my dear?”
He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.
“Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?” was my next essay at
conversation.
An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not “frame off”
rewarded my perseverance.
“Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred
bull-dog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be ganging?” he
asked authoritatively.
Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to
wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible;
and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany
me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and
replied—“Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it?
Mincing un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?”
“I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, thinking
him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.
“None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and continued
his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and
countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I’m
sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.
I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at
which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant
might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall,
gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his
features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders;
and _his_ eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine’s with all their
beauty annihilated.
“What’s your business here?” he demanded, grimly. “Who are you?”
“My name _was_ Isabella Linton,” I replied. “You’ve seen me before,
sir. I’m lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here—I
suppose by your permission.”
“Is he come back, then?” asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.
“Yes—we came just now,” I said; “but he left me by the kitchen door;
and when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the
place, and frightened me off by the help of a bull-dog.”
“It’s well the hellish villain has kept his word!” growled my future
host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering
Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and
threats of what he would have done had the “fiend” deceived him.
I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined
to slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that
intention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened the door. There
was a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment,
whose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant
pewter-dishes, which used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook
of a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether
I might call the maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw
vouchsafed no answer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his
pockets, apparently quite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction
was evidently so deep, and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I
shrank from disturbing him again.
You’ll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless,
seated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and
remembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing
the only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the
Atlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass
them! I questioned with myself—where must I turn for comfort? and—mind
you don’t tell Edgar, or Catherine—above every sorrow beside, this rose
pre-eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally
against Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost
gladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone
with him; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not
fear their intermeddling.
I sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and
still my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and
perfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself
out at intervals. I listened to detect a woman’s voice in the house,
and filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations,
which, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I
was not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in
his measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly-awakened surprise.
Taking advantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed—“I’m tired
with my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid-servant?
Direct me to her, as she won’t come to me!”
“We have none,” he answered; “you must wait on yourself!”
“Where must I sleep, then?” I sobbed; I was beyond regarding
self-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness.
“Joseph will show you Heathcliff’s chamber,” said he; “open that
door—he’s in there.”
I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the
strangest tone—“Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your
bolt—don’t omit it!”
“Well!” I said. “But why, Mr. Earnshaw?” I did not relish the notion of
deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.
“Look here!” he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a
curiously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife
attached to the barrel. “That’s a great tempter to a desperate man, is
it not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his
door. If once I find it open he’s done for; I do it invariably, even
though the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that
should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own
schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long
as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall
save him!”
I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how
powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his
hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my
face assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was
covetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife,
and returned it to its concealment.
“I don’t care if you tell him,” said he. “Put him on his guard, and
watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not
shock you.”
“What has Heathcliff done to you?” I asked. “In what has he wronged
you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn’t it be wiser to bid him
quit the house?”
“No!” thundered Earnshaw; “should he offer to leave me, he’s a dead
man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose
_all_, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh,
damnation! I _will_ have it back; and I’ll have _his_ gold too; and
then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times
blacker with that guest than ever it was before!”
You’ve acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master’s habits. He is
clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I
shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant’s ill-bred
moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody
walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was
bending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it;
and a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents
of the pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the
bowl; I conjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper,
and, being hungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out