Wuthering Heights
children upstairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep—he
would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case—I had come
down, and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom
candle for Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and
informed me that Mr. Heathcliff’s servant Joseph was at the door, and
wished to speak with the master.
“I shall ask him what he wants first,” I said, in considerable
trepidation. “A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the
instant they have returned from a long journey. I don’t think the
master can see him.”
Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and
now presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday
garments, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding
his hat in one hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean
his shoes on the mat.
“Good-evening, Joseph,” I said, coldly. “What business brings you here
to-night?”
“It’s Maister Linton I mun spake to,” he answered, waving me
disdainfully aside.
“Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to
say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,” I continued. “You had better sit
down in there, and entrust your message to me.”
“Which is his rahm?” pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed
doors.
I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I
went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor,
advising that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no
time to empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and,
pushing into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the
table, with his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began
in an elevated tone, as if anticipating opposition—
“Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn’t goa back ’bout him.”
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow
overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own
account; but, recalling Isabella’s hopes and fears, and anxious wishes
for her son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved
bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart
how it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of
any desire to keep him would have rendered the claimant more
peremptory: there was nothing left but to resign him. However, he was
not going to rouse him from his sleep.
“Tell Mr. Heathcliff,” he answered calmly, “that his son shall come to
Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the
distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired
him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is
very precarious.”
“Noa!” said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and
assuming an authoritative air. “Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks
noa ’count o’ t’ mother, nor ye norther; but he’ll hev his lad; und I
mun tak’ him—soa now ye knaw!”
“You shall not to-night!” answered Linton decisively. “Walk down stairs
at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him
down. Go—”
And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room
of him and closed the door.
“Varrah weell!” shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. “To-morn, he’s
come hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!”
CHAPTER XX
To obviate the danger of this threat being fulfilled, Mr. Linton
commissioned me to take the boy home early, on Catherine’s pony; and,
said he—“As we shall now have no influence over his destiny, good or
bad, you must say nothing of where he is gone to my daughter: she
cannot associate with him hereafter, and it is better for her to remain
in ignorance of his proximity; lest she should be restless, and anxious
to visit the Heights. Merely tell her his father sent for him suddenly,
and he has been obliged to leave us.”
Linton was very reluctant to be roused from his bed at five o’clock,
and astonished to be informed that he must prepare for further
travelling; but I softened off the matter by stating that he was going
to spend some time with his father, Mr. Heathcliff, who wished to see
him so much, he did not like to defer the pleasure till he should
recover from his late journey.
“My father!” he cried, in strange perplexity. “Mamma never told me I
had a father. Where does he live? I’d rather stay with uncle.”
“He lives a little distance from the Grange,” I replied; “just beyond
those hills: not so far, but you may walk over here when you get
hearty. And you should be glad to go home, and to see him. You must try
to love him, as you did your mother, and then he will love you.”
“But why have I not heard of him before?” asked Linton. “Why didn’t
mamma and he live together, as other people do?”
“He had business to keep him in the north,” I answered, “and your
mother’s health required her to reside in the south.”
“And why didn’t mamma speak to me about him?” persevered the child.
“She often talked of uncle, and I learnt to love him long ago. How am I
to love papa? I don’t know him.”
“Oh, all children love their parents,” I said. “Your mother, perhaps,
thought you would want to be with him if she mentioned him often to
you. Let us make haste. An early ride on such a beautiful morning is
much preferable to an hour’s more sleep.”
“Is _she_ to go with us,” he demanded, “the little girl I saw
yesterday?”
“Not now,” replied I.
“Is uncle?” he continued.
“No, I shall be your companion there,” I said.
Linton sank back on his pillow and fell into a brown study.
“I won’t go without uncle,” he cried at length: “I can’t tell where you
mean to take me.”
I attempted to persuade him of the naughtiness of showing reluctance to
meet his father; still he obstinately resisted any progress towards
dressing, and I had to call for my master’s assistance in coaxing him
out of bed. The poor thing was finally got off, with several delusive
assurances that his absence should be short: that Mr. Edgar and Cathy
would visit him, and other promises, equally ill-founded, which I
invented and reiterated at intervals throughout the way. The pure
heather-scented air, the bright sunshine, and the gentle canter of
Minny, relieved his despondency after a while. He began to put
questions concerning his new home, and its inhabitants, with greater
interest and liveliness.
“Is Wuthering Heights as pleasant a place as Thrushcross Grange?” he
inquired, turning to take a last glance into the valley, whence a light
mist mounted and formed a fleecy cloud on the skirts of the blue.
“It is not so buried in trees,” I replied, “and it is not quite so
large, but you can see the country beautifully all round; and the air
is healthier for you—fresher and drier. You will, perhaps, think the
building old and dark at first; though it is a respectable house: the
next best in the neighbourhood. And you will have such nice rambles on
the moors. Hareton Earnshaw—that is, Miss Cathy’s other cousin, and so
yours in a manner—will show you all the sweetest spots; and you can
bring a book in fine weather, and make a green hollow your study; and,
now and then, your uncle may join you in a walk: he does, frequently,
walk out on the hills.”
“And what is my father like?” he asked. “Is he as young and handsome as
uncle?”
“He’s as young,” said I; “but he has black hair and eyes, and looks
sterner; and he is taller and bigger altogether. He’ll not seem to you
so gentle and kind at first, perhaps, because it is not his way: still,
mind you, be frank and cordial with him; and naturally he’ll be fonder
of you than any uncle, for you are his own.”
“Black hair and eyes!” mused Linton. “I can’t fancy him. Then I am not
like him, am I?”
“Not much,” I answered: not a morsel, I thought, surveying with regret
the white complexion and slim frame of my companion, and his large
languid eyes—his mother’s eyes, save that, unless a morbid touchiness
kindled them a moment, they had not a vestige of her sparkling spirit.
“How strange that he should never come to see mamma and me!” he
murmured. “Has he ever seen me? If he has, I must have been a baby. I
remember not a single thing about him!”
“Why, Master Linton,” said I, “three hundred miles is a great distance;
and ten years seem very different in length to a grown-up person
compared with what they do to you. It is probable Mr. Heathcliff
proposed going from summer to summer, but never found a convenient
opportunity; and now it is too late. Don’t trouble him with questions
on the subject: it will disturb him, for no good.”
The boy was fully occupied with his own cogitations for the remainder
of the ride, till we halted before the farmhouse garden-gate. I watched
to catch his impressions in his countenance. He surveyed the carved
front and low-browed lattices, the straggling gooseberry-bushes and
crooked firs, with solemn intentness, and then shook his head: his
private feelings entirely disapproved of the exterior of his new abode.
But he had sense to postpone complaining: there might be compensation
within. Before he dismounted, I went and opened the door. It was
half-past six; the family had just finished breakfast: the servant was
clearing and wiping down the table. Joseph stood by his master’s chair
telling some tale concerning a lame horse; and Hareton was preparing
for the hayfield.
“Hallo, Nelly!” said Mr. Heathcliff, when he saw me. “I feared I should
have to come down and fetch my property myself. You’ve brought it, have
you? Let us see what we can make of it.”
He got up and strode to the door: Hareton and Joseph followed in gaping
curiosity. Poor Linton ran a frightened eye over the faces of the
three.
“Sure-ly,” said Joseph after a grave inspection, “he’s swopped wi’ ye,
Maister, an’ yon’s his lass!”
Heathcliff, having stared his son into an ague of confusion, uttered a
scornful laugh.
“God! what a beauty! what a lovely, charming thing!” he exclaimed.
“Hav’n’t they reared it on snails and sour milk, Nelly? Oh, damn my
soul! but that’s worse than I expected—and the devil knows I was not
sanguine!”
I bid the trembling and bewildered child get down, and enter. He did
not thoroughly comprehend the meaning of his father’s speech, or
whether it were intended for him: indeed, he was not yet certain that
the grim, sneering stranger was his father. But he clung to me with
growing trepidation; and on Mr. Heathcliff’s taking a seat and bidding
him “come hither” he hid his face on my shoulder and wept.
“Tut, tut!” said Heathcliff, stretching out a hand and dragging him
roughly between his knees, and then holding up his head by the chin.
“None of that nonsense! We’re not going to hurt thee, Linton—isn’t that
thy name? Thou art thy mother’s child, entirely! Where is _my_ share in
thee, puling chicken?”
He took off the boy’s cap and pushed back his thick flaxen curls, felt
his slender arms and his small fingers; during which examination Linton
ceased crying, and lifted his great blue eyes to inspect the inspector.
“Do you know me?” asked Heathcliff, having satisfied himself that the
limbs were all equally frail and feeble.
“No,” said Linton, with a gaze of vacant fear.
“You’ve heard of me, I daresay?”
“No,” he replied again.
“No! What a shame of your mother, never to waken your filial regard for
me! You are my son, then, I’ll tell you; and your mother was a wicked
slut to leave you in ignorance of the sort of father you possessed.
Now, don’t wince, and colour up! Though it _is_ something to see you
have not white blood. Be a good lad; and I’ll do for you. Nelly, if you
be tired you may sit down; if not, get home again. I guess you’ll
report what you hear and see to the cipher at the Grange; and this