Wuthering Heights
my arm, which he had seized: but she was almost at the door-stones
already, scampering round the brow at full speed. Her appointed
companion did not pretend to escort her: he shied off by the road-side,
and vanished.
“Mr. Heathcliff, it’s very wrong,” I continued: “you know you mean no
good. And there she’ll see Linton, and all will be told as soon as ever
we return; and I shall have the blame.”
“I want her to see Linton,” he answered; “he’s looking better these few
days; it’s not often he’s fit to be seen. And we’ll soon persuade her
to keep the visit secret: where is the harm of it?”
“The harm of it is, that her father would hate me if he found I
suffered her to enter your house; and I am convinced you have a bad
design in encouraging her to do so,” I replied.
“My design is as honest as possible. I’ll inform you of its whole
scope,” he said. “That the two cousins may fall in love, and get
married. I’m acting generously to your master: his young chit has no
expectations, and should she second my wishes she’ll be provided for at
once as joint successor with Linton.”
“If Linton died,” I answered, “and his life is quite uncertain,
Catherine would be the heir.”
“No, she would not,” he said. “There is no clause in the will to secure
it so: his property would go to me; but, to prevent disputes, I desire
their union, and am resolved to bring it about.”
“And I’m resolved she shall never approach your house with me again,” I
returned, as we reached the gate, where Miss Cathy waited our coming.
Heathcliff bade me be quiet; and, preceding us up the path, hastened to
open the door. My young lady gave him several looks, as if she could
not exactly make up her mind what to think of him; but now he smiled
when he met her eye, and softened his voice in addressing her; and I
was foolish enough to imagine the memory of her mother might disarm him
from desiring her injury. Linton stood on the hearth. He had been out
walking in the fields, for his cap was on, and he was calling to Joseph
to bring him dry shoes. He had grown tall of his age, still wanting
some months of sixteen. His features were pretty yet, and his eye and
complexion brighter than I remembered them, though with merely
temporary lustre borrowed from the salubrious air and genial sun.
“Now, who is that?” asked Mr. Heathcliff, turning to Cathy. “Can you
tell?”
“Your son?” she said, having doubtfully surveyed, first one and then
the other.
“Yes, yes,” answered he: “but is this the only time you have beheld
him? Think! Ah! you have a short memory. Linton, don’t you recall your
cousin, that you used to tease us so with wishing to see?”
“What, Linton!” cried Cathy, kindling into joyful surprise at the name.
“Is that little Linton? He’s taller than I am! Are you Linton?”
The youth stepped forward, and acknowledged himself: she kissed him
fervently, and they gazed with wonder at the change time had wrought in
the appearance of each. Catherine had reached her full height; her
figure was both plump and slender, elastic as steel, and her whole
aspect sparkling with health and spirits. Linton’s looks and movements
were very languid, and his form extremely slight; but there was a grace
in his manner that mitigated these defects, and rendered him not
unpleasing. After exchanging numerous marks of fondness with him, his
cousin went to Mr. Heathcliff, who lingered by the door, dividing his
attention between the objects inside and those that lay without:
pretending, that is, to observe the latter, and really noting the
former alone.
“And you are my uncle, then!” she cried, reaching up to salute him. “I
thought I liked you, though you were cross at first. Why don’t you
visit at the Grange with Linton? To live all these years such close
neighbours, and never see us, is odd: what have you done so for?”
“I visited it once or twice too often before you were born,” he
answered. “There—damn it! If you have any kisses to spare, give them to
Linton: they are thrown away on me.”
“Naughty Ellen!” exclaimed Catherine, flying to attack me next with her
lavish caresses. “Wicked Ellen! to try to hinder me from entering. But
I’ll take this walk every morning in future: may I, uncle? and
sometimes bring papa. Won’t you be glad to see us?”
“Of course,” replied the uncle, with a hardly suppressed grimace,
resulting from his deep aversion to both the proposed visitors. “But
stay,” he continued, turning towards the young lady. “Now I think of
it, I’d better tell you. Mr. Linton has a prejudice against me: we
quarrelled at one time of our lives, with unchristian ferocity; and, if
you mention coming here to him, he’ll put a veto on your visits
altogether. Therefore, you must not mention it, unless you be careless
of seeing your cousin hereafter: you may come, if you will, but you
must not mention it.”
“Why did you quarrel?” asked Catherine, considerably crestfallen.
“He thought me too poor to wed his sister,” answered Heathcliff, “and
was grieved that I got her: his pride was hurt, and he’ll never forgive
it.”
“That’s wrong!” said the young lady: “some time I’ll tell him so. But
Linton and I have no share in your quarrel. I’ll not come here, then;
he shall come to the Grange.”
“It will be too far for me,” murmured her cousin: “to walk four miles
would kill me. No, come here, Miss Catherine, now and then: not every
morning, but once or twice a week.”
The father launched towards his son a glance of bitter contempt.
“I am afraid, Nelly, I shall lose my labour,” he muttered to me. “Miss
Catherine, as the ninny calls her, will discover his value, and send
him to the devil. Now, if it had been Hareton!—Do you know that, twenty
times a day, I covet Hareton, with all his degradation? I’d have loved
the lad had he been some one else. But I think he’s safe from _her_
love. I’ll pit him against that paltry creature, unless it bestir
itself briskly. We calculate it will scarcely last till it is eighteen.
Oh, confound the vapid thing! He’s absorbed in drying his feet, and
never looks at her.—Linton!”
“Yes, father,” answered the boy.
“Have you nothing to show your cousin anywhere about, not even a rabbit
or a weasel’s nest? Take her into the garden, before you change your
shoes; and into the stable to see your horse.”
“Wouldn’t you rather sit here?” asked Linton, addressing Cathy in a
tone which expressed reluctance to move again.
“I don’t know,” she replied, casting a longing look to the door, and
evidently eager to be active.
He kept his seat, and shrank closer to the fire. Heathcliff rose, and
went into the kitchen, and from thence to the yard, calling out for
Hareton. Hareton responded, and presently the two re-entered. The young
man had been washing himself, as was visible by the glow on his cheeks
and his wetted hair.
“Oh, I’ll ask _you_, uncle,” cried Miss Cathy, recollecting the
housekeeper’s assertion. “That is not my cousin, is he?”
“Yes,” he replied, “your mother’s nephew. Don’t you like him?”
Catherine looked queer.
“Is he not a handsome lad?” he continued.
The uncivil little thing stood on tiptoe, and whispered a sentence in
Heathcliff’s ear. He laughed; Hareton darkened: I perceived he was very
sensitive to suspected slights, and had obviously a dim notion of his
inferiority. But his master or guardian chased the frown by exclaiming—
“You’ll be the favourite among us, Hareton! She says you are a—What was
it? Well, something very flattering. Here! you go with her round the
farm. And behave like a gentleman, mind! Don’t use any bad words; and
don’t stare when the young lady is not looking at you, and be ready to
hide your face when she is; and, when you speak, say your words slowly,
and keep your hands out of your pockets. Be off, and entertain her as
nicely as you can.”
He watched the couple walking past the window. Earnshaw had his
countenance completely averted from his companion. He seemed studying
the familiar landscape with a stranger’s and an artist’s interest.
Catherine took a sly look at him, expressing small admiration. She then
turned her attention to seeking out objects of amusement for herself,
and tripped merrily on, lilting a tune to supply the lack of
conversation.
“I’ve tied his tongue,” observed Heathcliff. “He’ll not venture a
single syllable all the time! Nelly, you recollect me at his age—nay,
some years younger. Did I ever look so stupid: so ‘gaumless,’ as Joseph
calls it?”
“Worse,” I replied, “because more sullen with it.”
“I’ve a pleasure in him,” he continued, reflecting aloud. “He has
satisfied my expectations. If he were a born fool I should not enjoy it
half so much. But he’s no fool; and I can sympathise with all his
feelings, having felt them myself. I know what he suffers now, for
instance, exactly: it is merely a beginning of what he shall suffer,
though. And he’ll never be able to emerge from his bathos of coarseness
and ignorance. I’ve got him faster than his scoundrel of a father
secured me, and lower; for he takes a pride in his brutishness. I’ve
taught him to scorn everything extra-animal as silly and weak. Don’t
you think Hindley would be proud of his son, if he could see him?
almost as proud as I am of mine. But there’s this difference; one is
gold put to the use of paving-stones, and the other is tin polished to
ape a service of silver. _Mine_ has nothing valuable about it; yet I
shall have the merit of making it go as far as such poor stuff can go.
_His_ had first-rate qualities, and they are lost: rendered worse than
unavailing. _I_ have nothing to regret; _he_ would have more than any,
but I, are aware of. And the best of it is, Hareton is damnably fond of
me! You’ll own that I’ve outmatched Hindley there. If the dead villain
could rise from his grave to abuse me for his offspring’s wrongs, I
should have the fun of seeing the said offspring fight him back again,
indignant that he should dare to rail at the one friend he has in the
world!”
Heathcliff chuckled a fiendish laugh at the idea. I made no reply,
because I saw that he expected none. Meantime, our young companion, who
sat too removed from us to hear what was said, began to evince symptoms
of uneasiness, probably repenting that he had denied himself the treat
of Catherine’s society for fear of a little fatigue. His father
remarked the restless glances wandering to the window, and the hand
irresolutely extended towards his cap.
“Get up, you idle boy!” he exclaimed, with assumed heartiness. “Away
after them! they are just at the corner, by the stand of hives.”
Linton gathered his energies, and left the hearth. The lattice was
open, and, as he stepped out, I heard Cathy inquiring of her unsociable
attendant what was that inscription over the door? Hareton stared up,
and scratched his head like a true clown.
“It’s some damnable writing,” he answered. “I cannot read it.”
“Can’t read it?” cried Catherine; “I can read it: it’s English. But I
want to know why it is there.”
Linton giggled: the first appearance of mirth he had exhibited.
“He does not know his letters,” he said to his cousin. “Could you
believe in the existence of such a colossal dunce?”
“Is he all as he should be?” asked Miss Cathy, seriously; “or is he
simple: not right? I’ve questioned him twice now, and each time he
looked so stupid I think he does not understand me. I can hardly
understand _him_, I’m sure!”
Linton repeated his laugh, and glanced at Hareton tauntingly; who
certainly did not seem quite clear of comprehension at that moment.
“There’s nothing the matter but laziness; is there, Earnshaw?” he said.
“My cousin fancies you are an idiot. There you experience the
consequence of scorning ‘book-larning,’ as you would say. Have you
noticed, Catherine, his frightful Yorkshire pronunciation?”