Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Charlotte, Emily, Anne Brontë (Illustrated) (306 page)

Isabella ceased speaking, and took a drink of tea; then she rose, and bidding me put on her bonnet, and a great shawl I had brought, and turning a deaf ear to my entreaties for her to remain another hour, she stepped on to a chair, kissed Edgar’s and Catherine’s portraits, bestowed a similar salute on me, and descended to the carriage, accompanied by Fanny, who yelped wild with joy at recovering her mistress.  She was driven away, never to revisit this neighbourhood: but a regular correspondence was established between her and my master when things were more settled.  I believe her new abode was in the south, near London; there she had a son born a few months subsequent to her escape.  He was christened Linton, and, from the first, she reported him to be an ailing, peevish creature.

Mr. Heathcliff, meeting me one day in the village, inquired where she lived.  I refused to tell.  He remarked that it was not of any moment, only she must beware of coming to her brother: she should not be with him, if he had to keep her himself.  Though I would give no information, he discovered, through some of the other servants, both her place of residence and the existence of the child.  Still, he didn’t molest her: for which forbearance she might thank his aversion, I suppose.  He often asked about the infant, when he saw me; and on hearing its name, smiled grimly, and observed: ‘They wish me to hate it too, do they?’

‘I don’t think they wish you to know anything about it,’ I answered.

‘But I’ll have it,’ he said, ‘when I want it.  They may reckon on that!’

Fortunately its mother died before the time arrived; some thirteen years after the decease of Catherine, when Linton was twelve, or a little more.

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 sporting 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 surveying the country from her nursery window, she would observe —

‘Ellen, how long will it be before I can walk to the top of those hills?  I wonder what lies on the other side — is it the sea?’

‘No, Miss Cathy,’ I would answer; ‘it is hills again, just like these.’

‘And what are those golden rocks like when you stand under them?’ she once asked.

The abrupt descent of Penistone Crags particularly attracted her notice; especially when the setting sun shone on it and the topmost heights, and the whole extent of landscape besides lay in shadow.  I explained that they were bare masses of stone, with hardly enough earth in their clefts to nourish a stunted tree.

‘And why are they bright so long after it is evening here?’ she pursued.

‘Because they are a great deal higher up than we are,’ replied I; ‘you could not climb them, they are too high and steep.  In winter the frost is always there before it comes to us; and deep into summer I have found snow under that black hollow on the north-east side!’

‘Oh, you have been on them!’ she cried gleefully.  ‘Then I can go, too, when I am a woman.  Has papa been, Ellen?’

‘Papa would tell you, Miss,’ I answered, hastily, ‘that they are not worth the trouble of visiting.  The moors, where you ramble with him, are much nicer; and Thrushcross Park is the finest place in the world.’

‘But I know the park, and I don’t know those,’ she murmured to herself.  ‘And I should delight to look round me from the brow of that tallest point: my little pony Minny shall take me some time.’

One of the maids mentioning the Fairy Cave, quite turned her head with a desire to fulfil this project: she teased Mr. Linton about it; and he promised she should have the journey when she got older.  But Miss Catherine measured her age by months, and, ‘Now, am I old enough to go to Penistone Crags?’ was the constant question in her mouth.  The road thither wound close by Wuthering Heights.  Edgar had not the heart to pass it; so she received as constantly the answer, ‘Not yet, love: not yet.’

I said Mrs. Heathcliff lived above a dozen years after quitting her husband.  Her family were of a delicate constitution: she and Edgar both lacked the ruddy health that you will generally meet in these parts.  What her last illness was, I am not certain: I conjecture, they died of the same thing, a kind of fever, slow at its commencement, but incurable, and rapidly consuming life towards the close.  She wrote to inform her brother of the probable conclusion of a four-months’ indisposition under which she had suffered, and entreated him to come to her, if possible; for she had much to settle, and she wished to bid him adieu, and deliver Linton safely into his hands.  Her hope was that Linton might be left with him, as he had been with her: his father, she would fain convince herself, had no desire to assume the burden of his maintenance or education.  My master hesitated not a moment in complying with her request: reluctant as he was to leave home at ordinary calls, he flew to answer this; commanding Catherine to my peculiar vigilance, in his absence, with reiterated orders that she must not wander out of the park, even under my escort he did not calculate on her going unaccompanied.

He was away three weeks.  The first day or two my charge sat in a corner of the library, too sad for either reading or playing: in that quiet state she caused me little trouble; but it was succeeded by an interval of impatient, fretful weariness; and being too busy, and too old then, to run up and down amusing her, I hit on a method by which she might entertain herself.  I used to send her on her travels round the grounds — now on foot, and now on a pony; indulging her with a patient audience of all her real and imaginary adventures when she returned.

The summer shone in full prime; and she took such a taste for this solitary rambling that she often contrived to remain out from breakfast till tea; and then the evenings were spent in recounting her fanciful tales.  I did not fear her breaking bounds; because the gates were generally locked, and I thought she would scarcely venture forth alone, if they had stood wide open.  Unluckily, my confidence proved misplaced.  Catherine came to me, one morning, at eight o’clock, and said she was that day an Arabian merchant, going to cross the Desert with his caravan; and I must give her plenty of provision for herself and beasts: a horse, and three camels, personated by a large hound and a couple of pointers.  I got together good store of dainties, and slung them in a basket on one side of the saddle; and she sprang up as gay as a fairy, sheltered by her wide-brimmed hat and gauze veil from the July sun, and trotted off with a merry laugh, mocking my cautious counsel to avoid galloping, and come back early.  The naughty thing never made her appearance at tea.  One traveller, the hound, being an old dog and fond of its ease, returned; but neither Cathy, nor the pony, nor the two pointers were visible in any direction: I despatched emissaries down this path, and that path, and at last went wandering in search of her myself.  There was a labourer working at a fence round a plantation, on the borders of the grounds.  I inquired of him if he had seen our young lady.

‘I saw her at morn,’ he replied: ‘she would have me to cut her a hazel switch, and then she leapt her Galloway over the hedge yonder, where it is lowest, and galloped out of sight.’

You may guess how I felt at hearing this news.  It struck me directly she must have started for Penistone Crags.  ‘What will become of her?’ I ejaculated, pushing through a gap which the man was repairing, and making straight to the high-road.  I walked as if for a wager, mile after mile, till a turn brought me in view of the Heights; but no Catherine could I detect, far or near.  The Crags lie about a mile and a half beyond Mr. Heathcliff’s place, and that is four from the Grange, so I began to fear night would fall ere I could reach them.  ‘And what if she should have slipped in clambering among them,’ I reflected, ‘and been killed, or broken some of her bones?’  My suspense was truly painful; and, at first, it gave me delightful relief to observe, in hurrying by the farmhouse, Charlie, the fiercest of the pointers, lying under a window, with swelled head and bleeding ear.  I opened the wicket and ran to the door, knocking vehemently for admittance.  A woman whom I knew, and who formerly lived at Gimmerton, answered: she had been servant there since the death of Mr. Earnshaw.

‘Ah,’ said she, ‘you are come a-seeking your little mistress!  Don’t be frightened.  She’s here safe: but I’m glad it isn’t the master.’

‘He is not at home then, is he?’ I panted, quite breathless with quick walking and alarm.

‘No, no,’ she replied: ‘both he and Joseph are off, and I think they won’t return this hour or more.  Step in and rest you a bit.’

I entered, and beheld my stray lamb seated on the hearth, rocking herself in a little chair that had been her mother’s when a child.  Her hat was hung against the wall, and she seemed perfectly at home, laughing and chattering, in the best spirits imaginable, to Hareton — now a great, strong lad of eighteen — who stared at her with considerable curiosity and astonishment: comprehending precious little of the fluent succession of remarks and questions which her tongue never ceased pouring forth.

‘Very well, Miss!’ I exclaimed, concealing my joy under an angry countenance.  ‘This is your last ride, till papa comes back.  I’ll not trust you over the threshold again, you naughty, naughty girl!’

‘Aha, Ellen!’ she cried, gaily, jumping up and running to my side.  ‘I shall have a pretty story to tell to-night; and so you’ve found me out.  Have you ever been here in your life before?’

‘Put that hat on, and home at once,’ said I.  ‘I’m dreadfully grieved at you, Miss Cathy: you’ve done extremely wrong!  It’s no use pouting and crying: that won’t repay the trouble I’ve had, scouring the country after you.  To think how Mr. Linton charged me to keep you in; and you stealing off so!  It shows you are a cunning little fox, and nobody will put faith in you any more.’

‘What have I done?’ sobbed she, instantly checked.  ‘Papa charged me nothing: he’ll not scold me, Ellen — he’s never cross, like you!’

‘Come, come!’ I repeated.  ‘I’ll tie the riband.  Now, let us have no petulance.  Oh, for shame!  You thirteen years old, and such a baby!’

This exclamation was caused by her pushing the hat from her head, and retreating to the chimney out of my reach.

‘Nay,’ said the servant, ‘don’t be hard on the bonny lass, Mrs. Dean.  We made her stop: she’d fain have ridden forwards, afeard you should be uneasy.  Hareton offered to go with her, and I thought he should: it’s a wild road over the hills.’

Hareton, during the discussion, stood with his hands in his pockets, too awkward to speak; though he looked as if he did not relish my intrusion.

‘How long am I to wait?’ I continued, disregarding the woman’s interference.  ‘It will be dark in ten minutes.  Where is the pony, Miss Cathy?  And where is Phoenix?  I shall leave you, unless you be quick; so please yourself.’

‘The pony is in the yard,’ she replied, ‘and Phoenix is shut in there.  He’s bitten — and so is Charlie.  I was going to tell you all about it; but you are in a bad temper, and don’t deserve to hear.’

I picked up her hat, and approached to reinstate it; but perceiving that the people of the house took her part, she commenced capering round the room; and on my giving chase, ran like a mouse over and under and behind the furniture, rendering it ridiculous for me to pursue.  Hareton and the woman laughed, and she joined them, and waxed more impertinent still; till I cried, in great irritation, — ‘Well, Miss Cathy, if you were aware whose house this is you’d be glad enough to get out.’

‘It’s
your
father’s, isn’t it?’ said she, turning to Hareton.

‘Nay,’ he replied, looking down, and blushing bashfully.

He could not stand a steady gaze from her eyes, though they were just his own.

‘Whose then — your master’s?’ she asked.

He coloured deeper, with a different feeling, muttered an oath, and turned away.

‘Who is his master?’ continued the tiresome girl, appealing to me.  ‘He talked about “our house,” and “our folk.”  I thought he had been the owner’s son.  And he never said Miss: he should have done, shouldn’t he, if he’s a servant?’

Hareton grew black as a thunder-cloud at this childish speech.  I silently shook my questioner, and at last succeeded in equipping her for departure.

‘Now, get my horse,’ she said, addressing her unknown kinsman as she would one of the stable-boys at the Grange.  ‘And you may come with me.  I want to see where the goblin-hunter rises in the marsh, and to hear about the
fairishes
, as you call them: but make haste!  What’s the matter?  Get my horse, I say.’