Wuthering Heights
On the day succeeding Isabella’s unexpected visit I had no opportunity
of speaking to my master: he shunned conversation, and was fit for
discussing nothing. When I could get him to listen, I saw it pleased
him that his sister had left her husband; whom he abhorred with an
intensity which the mildness of his nature would scarcely seem to
allow. So deep and sensitive was his aversion, that he refrained from
going anywhere where he was likely to see or hear of Heathcliff. Grief,
and that together, transformed him into a complete hermit: he threw up
his office of magistrate, ceased even to attend church, avoided the
village on all occasions, and spent a life of entire seclusion within
the limits of his park and grounds; only varied by solitary rambles on
the moors, and visits to the grave of his wife, mostly at evening, or
early morning before other wanderers were abroad. But he was too good
to be thoroughly unhappy long. _He_ didn’t pray for Catherine’s soul to
haunt him. Time brought resignation, and a melancholy sweeter than
common joy. He recalled her memory with ardent, tender love, and
hopeful aspiring to the better world; where he doubted not she was
gone.
And he had earthly consolation and affections also. For a few days, I
said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that
coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could
stammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot’s sceptre in his
heart. It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full,
as he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because
Heathcliff had a habit of doing so. The little one was always Cathy: it
formed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with
her; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than
from its being his own.
I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and
perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so
opposite in similar circumstances. They had both been fond husbands,
and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they
shouldn’t both have taken the same road, for good or evil. But, I
thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has
shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man. When his ship struck,
the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save
her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless
vessel. Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal
and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him. One hoped,
and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were
righteously doomed to endure them. But you’ll not want to hear my
moralising, Mr. Lockwood; you’ll judge, as well as I can, all these
things: at least, you’ll think you will, and that’s the same. The end
of Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his
sister’s: there were scarcely six months between them. We, at the
Grange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it;
all that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the
preparations for the funeral. Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to
my master.
“Well, Nelly,” said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not
to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, “it’s yours and
my turn to go into mourning at present. Who’s given us the slip now, do
you think?”
“Who?” I asked in a flurry.
“Why, guess!” he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a
hook by the door. “And nip up the corner of your apron: I’m certain
you’ll need it.”
“Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?” I exclaimed.
“What! would you have tears for him?” said the doctor. “No,
Heathcliff’s a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day. I’ve just
seen him. He’s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.”
“Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?” I repeated impatiently.
“Hindley Earnshaw! Your old friend Hindley,” he replied, “and my wicked
gossip: though he’s been too wild for me this long while. There! I said
we should draw water. But cheer up! He died true to his character:
drunk as a lord. Poor lad! I’m sorry, too. One can’t help missing an
old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man
imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn. He’s barely
twenty-seven, it seems; that’s your own age: who would have thought you
were born in one year?”
I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton’s
death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the
porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get
another servant to introduce him to the master. I could not hinder
myself from pondering on the question—“Had he had fair play?” Whatever
I did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious
that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and
assist in the last duties to the dead. Mr. Linton was extremely
reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless
condition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster-brother
had a claim on my services as strong as his own. Besides, I reminded
him that the child Hareton was his wife’s nephew, and, in the absence
of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and
must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of
his brother-in-law. He was unfit for attending to such matters then,
but he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go.
His lawyer had been Earnshaw’s also: I called at the village, and asked
him to accompany me. He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff
should be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would
be found little else than a beggar.
“His father died in debt,” he said; “the whole property is mortgaged,
and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity
of creating some interest in the creditor’s heart, that he may be
inclined to deal leniently towards him.”
When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see
everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient
distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence. Mr. Heathcliff said he
did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the
arrangements for the funeral, if I chose.
“Correctly,” he remarked, “that fool’s body should be buried at the
cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind. I happened to leave him ten
minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two
doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking
himself to death deliberately! We broke in this morning, for we heard
him snorting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle:
flaying and scalping would not have wakened him. I sent for Kenneth,
and he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was
both dead and cold, and stark; and so you’ll allow it was useless
making more stir about him!”
The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered:
“I’d rayther he’d goan hisseln for t’ doctor! I sud ha’ taen tent o’ t’
maister better nor him—and he warn’t deead when I left, naught o’ t’
soart!”
I insisted on the funeral being respectable. Mr. Heathcliff said I
might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that
the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket. He maintained a
hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if
anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult
work successfully executed. I observed once, indeed, something like
exultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the
coffin from the house. He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and
previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on
to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, “Now, my bonny lad, you
are _mine_! And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another,
with the same wind to twist it!” The unsuspecting thing was pleased at
this speech: he played with Heathcliff’s whiskers, and stroked his
cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, “That boy must
go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir. There is nothing in the
world less yours than he is!”
“Does Linton say so?” he demanded.
“Of course—he has ordered me to take him,” I replied.
“Well,” said the scoundrel, “we’ll not argue the subject now: but I
have a fancy to try my hand at rearing a young one; so intimate to your
master that I must supply the place of this with my own, if he attempt
to remove it. I don’t engage to let Hareton go undisputed; but I’ll be
pretty sure to make the other come! Remember to tell him.”
This hint was enough to bind our hands. I repeated its substance on my
return; and Edgar Linton, little interested at the commencement, spoke
no more of interfering. I’m not aware that he could have done it to any
purpose, had he been ever so willing.
The guest was now the master of Wuthering Heights: he held firm
possession, and proved to the attorney—who, in his turn, proved it to
Mr. Linton—that Earnshaw had mortgaged every yard of land he owned for
cash to supply his mania for gaming; and he, Heathcliff, was the
mortgagee. In that manner Hareton, who should now be the first
gentleman in the neighbourhood, was reduced to a state of complete
dependence on his father’s inveterate enemy; and lives in his own house
as a servant, deprived of the advantage of wages: quite unable to right
himself, because of his friendlessness, and his ignorance that he has
been wronged.
CHAPTER XVIII
The twelve years, continued Mrs. Dean, following that dismal period
were the happiest of my life: my greatest troubles in their passage
rose from our little lady’s trifling illnesses, which she had to
experience in common with all children, rich and poor. For the rest,
after the first six months, she grew like a larch, and could walk and
talk too, in her own way, before the heath blossomed a second time over
Mrs. Linton’s dust. She was the most winning thing that ever brought
sunshine into a desolate house: a real beauty in face, with the
Earnshaws’ handsome dark eyes, but the Lintons’ fair skin and small
features, and yellow curling hair. Her spirit was high, though not
rough, and qualified by a heart sensitive and lively to excess in its
affections. That capacity for intense attachments reminded me of her
mother: still she did not resemble her: for she could be soft and mild
as a dove, and she had a gentle voice and pensive expression: her anger
was never furious; her love never fierce: it was deep and tender.
However, it must be acknowledged, she had faults to foil her gifts. A
propensity to be saucy was one; and a perverse will, that indulged
children invariably acquire, whether they be good tempered or cross. If
a servant chanced to vex her, it was always—“I shall tell papa!” And if
he reproved her, even by a look, you would have thought it a
heart-breaking business: I don’t believe he ever did speak a harsh word
to her. He took her education entirely on himself, and made it an
amusement. Fortunately, curiosity and a quick intellect made her an apt
scholar: she learned rapidly and eagerly, and did honour to his
teaching.
Till she reached the age of thirteen she had not once been beyond the
range of the park by herself. Mr. Linton would take her with him a mile
or so outside, on rare occasions; but he trusted her to no one else.
Gimmerton was an unsubstantial name in her ears; the chapel, the only
building she had approached or entered, except her own home. Wuthering
Heights and Mr. Heathcliff did not exist for her: she was a perfect
recluse; and, apparently, perfectly contented. Sometimes, indeed, while