Wuthering Heights
cousin: and I was never hired to serve you.”
“_He_ my cousin!” cried Cathy, with a scornful laugh.
“Yes, indeed,” responded her reprover.
“Oh, Ellen! don’t let them say such things,” she pursued in great
trouble. “Papa is gone to fetch my cousin from London: my cousin is a
gentleman’s son. That my—” she stopped, and wept outright; upset at the
bare notion of relationship with such a clown.
“Hush, hush!” I whispered; “people can have many cousins and of all
sorts, Miss Cathy, without being any the worse for it; only they
needn’t keep their company, if they be disagreeable and bad.”
“He’s not—he’s not my cousin, Ellen!” she went on, gathering fresh
grief from reflection, and flinging herself into my arms for refuge
from the idea.
I was much vexed at her and the servant for their mutual revelations;
having no doubt of Linton’s approaching arrival, communicated by the
former, being reported to Mr. Heathcliff; and feeling as confident that
Catherine’s first thought on her father’s return would be to seek an
explanation of the latter’s assertion concerning her rude-bred kindred.
Hareton, recovering from his disgust at being taken for a servant,
seemed moved by her distress; and, having fetched the pony round to the
door, he took, to propitiate her, a fine crooked-legged terrier whelp
from the kennel, and putting it into her hand, bid her whist! for he
meant nought. Pausing in her lamentations, she surveyed him with a
glance of awe and horror, then burst forth anew.
I could scarcely refrain from smiling at this antipathy to the poor
fellow; who was a well-made, athletic youth, good-looking in features,
and stout and healthy, but attired in garments befitting his daily
occupations of working on the farm and lounging among the moors after
rabbits and game. Still, I thought I could detect in his physiognomy a
mind owning better qualities than his father ever possessed. Good
things lost amid a wilderness of weeds, to be sure, whose rankness far
over-topped their neglected growth; yet, notwithstanding, evidence of a
wealthy soil, that might yield luxuriant crops under other and
favourable circumstances. Mr. Heathcliff, I believe, had not treated
him physically ill; thanks to his fearless nature, which offered no
temptation to that course of oppression: he had none of the timid
susceptibility that would have given zest to ill-treatment, in
Heathcliff’s judgment. He appeared to have bent his malevolence on
making him a brute: he was never taught to read or write; never rebuked
for any bad habit which did not annoy his keeper; never led a single
step towards virtue, or guarded by a single precept against vice. And
from what I heard, Joseph contributed much to his deterioration, by a
narrow-minded partiality which prompted him to flatter and pet him, as
a boy, because he was the head of the old family. And as he had been in
the habit of accusing Catherine Earnshaw and Heathcliff, when children,
of putting the master past his patience, and compelling him to seek
solace in drink by what he termed their “offald ways,” so at present he
laid the whole burden of Hareton’s faults on the shoulders of the
usurper of his property. If the lad swore, he wouldn’t correct him: nor
however culpably he behaved. It gave Joseph satisfaction, apparently,
to watch him go the worst lengths: he allowed that the lad was ruined:
that his soul was abandoned to perdition; but then he reflected that
Heathcliff must answer for it. Hareton’s blood would be required at his
hands; and there lay immense consolation in that thought. Joseph had
instilled into him a pride of name, and of his lineage; he would, had
he dared, have fostered hate between him and the present owner of the
Heights: but his dread of that owner amounted to superstition; and he
confined his feelings regarding him to muttered innuendoes and private
comminations. I don’t pretend to be intimately acquainted with the mode
of living customary in those days at Wuthering Heights: I only speak
from hearsay; for I saw little. The villagers affirmed Mr. Heathcliff
was _near_, and a cruel hard landlord to his tenants; but the house,
inside, had regained its ancient aspect of comfort under female
management, and the scenes of riot common in Hindley’s time were not
now enacted within its walls. The master was too gloomy to seek
companionship with any people, good or bad; and he is yet.
This, however, is not making progress with my story. Miss Cathy
rejected the peace-offering of the terrier, and demanded her own dogs,
Charlie and Phoenix. They came limping and hanging their heads; and we
set out for home, sadly out of sorts, every one of us. I could not
wring from my little lady how she had spent the day; except that, as I
supposed, the goal of her pilgrimage was Penistone Crags; and she
arrived without adventure to the gate of the farmhouse, when Hareton
happened to issue forth, attended by some canine followers, who
attacked her train. They had a smart battle, before their owners could
separate them: that formed an introduction. Catherine told Hareton who
she was, and where she was going; and asked him to show her the way:
finally, beguiling him to accompany her. He opened the mysteries of the
Fairy Cave, and twenty other queer places. But, being in disgrace, I
was not favoured with a description of the interesting objects she saw.
I could gather, however, that her guide had been a favourite till she
hurt his feelings by addressing him as a servant; and Heathcliff’s
housekeeper hurt hers by calling him her cousin. Then the language he
had held to her rankled in her heart; she who was always “love,” and
“darling,” and “queen,” and “angel,” with everybody at the Grange, to
be insulted so shockingly by a stranger! She did not comprehend it; and
hard work I had to obtain a promise that she would not lay the
grievance before her father. I explained how he objected to the whole
household at the Heights, and how sorry he would be to find she had
been there; but I insisted most on the fact, that if she revealed my
negligence of his orders, he would perhaps be so angry that I should
have to leave; and Cathy couldn’t bear that prospect: she pledged her
word, and kept it for my sake. After all, she was a sweet little girl.
CHAPTER XIX
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master’s return.
Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his
daughter, and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his
youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming
her father back; and indulged most sanguine anticipations of the
innumerable excellencies of her “real” cousin. The evening of their
expected arrival came. Since early morning she had been busy ordering
her own small affairs; and now attired in her new black frock—poor
thing! her aunt’s death impressed her with no definite sorrow—she
obliged me, by constant worrying, to walk with her down through the
grounds to meet them.
“Linton is just six months younger than I am,” she chattered, as we
strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under
shadow of the trees. “How delightful it will be to have him for a
playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it
was lighter than mine—more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it
carefully preserved in a little glass box; and I’ve often thought what
a pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy—and papa, dear,
dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.”
She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober
footsteps reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy
bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was
impossible: she couldn’t be still a minute.
“How long they are!” she exclaimed. “Ah, I see some dust on the
road—they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a
little way—half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say yes, to
that clump of birches at the turn!”
I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling
carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her
arms as soon as she caught her father’s face looking from the window.
He descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval
elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While
they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was
asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had
been winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been
taken for my master’s younger brother, so strong was the resemblance:
but there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton
never had. The latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised
me to close the door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had
fatigued him. Cathy would fain have taken one glance, but her father
told her to come, and they walked together up the park, while I
hastened before to prepare the servants.
“Now, darling,” said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they
halted at the bottom of the front steps: “your cousin is not so strong
or so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very
short time since; therefore, don’t expect him to play and run about
with you directly. And don’t harass him much by talking: let him be
quiet this evening, at least, will you?”
“Yes, yes, papa,” answered Catherine: “but I do want to see him; and he
hasn’t once looked out.”
The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the
ground by his uncle.
“This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,” he said, putting their little
hands together. “She’s fond of you already; and mind you don’t grieve
her by crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an
end, and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you
please.”
“Let me go to bed, then,” answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine’s
salute; and he put his fingers to his eyes to remove incipient tears.
“Come, come, there’s a good child,” I whispered, leading him in.
“You’ll make her weep too—see how sorry she is for you!”
I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as
sad a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three
entered, and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I
proceeded to remove Linton’s cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair
by the table; but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh.
My master inquired what was the matter.
“I can’t sit on a chair,” sobbed the boy.
“Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,” answered
his uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his
fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.
Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat
silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her
little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking
his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,
like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his
eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
“Oh, he’ll do very well,” said the master to me, after watching them a
minute. “Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child
of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for
strength he’ll gain it.”
“Ay, if we can keep him!” I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came
over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how
ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father
and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they’ll be. Our doubts were
presently decided—even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the