Agnes Grey
A NOVEL,
by ACTON BELL.
LONDON:
THOMAS CAUTLEY NEWBY, PUBLISHER,
72, MORTIMER ST., CAVENDISH SQ.
1847.
[Illustration: Birthplace of Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë,
Thornton]
Contents
I. THE PARSONAGE
II. FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
III. A FEW MORE LESSONS
IV. THE GRANDMAMMA
V. THE UNCLE
VI. THE PARSONAGE AGAIN
VII. HORTON LODGE
VIII. THE “COMING OUT”
IX. THE BALL
X. THE CHURCH
XI. THE COTTAGERS
XII. THE SHOWER
XIII. THE PRIMROSES
XIV. THE RECTOR
XV. THE WALK
XVI. THE SUBSTITUTION
XVII. CONFESSIONS
XVIII. MIRTH AND MOURNING
XIX. THE LETTER
XX. THE FAREWELL
XXI. THE SCHOOL
XXII. THE VISIT
XXIII. THE PARK
XXIV. THE SANDS
XXV. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I.
THE PARSONAGE
All true histories contain instruction; though, in some, the treasure
may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the
dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking
the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly
competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some,
and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself.
Shielded by my own obscurity, and by the lapse of years, and a few
fictitious names, I do not fear to venture; and will candidly lay
before the public what I would not disclose to the most intimate
friend.
My father was a clergyman of the north of England, who was deservedly
respected by all who knew him; and, in his younger days, lived pretty
comfortably on the joint income of a small incumbency and a snug little
property of his own. My mother, who married him against the wishes of
her friends, was a squire’s daughter, and a woman of spirit. In vain it
was represented to her, that if she became the poor parson’s wife, she
must relinquish her carriage and her lady’s-maid, and all the luxuries
and elegancies of affluence; which to her were little less than the
necessaries of life. A carriage and a lady’s-maid were great
conveniences; but, thank heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands
to minister to her own necessities. An elegant house and spacious
grounds were not to be despised; but she would rather live in a cottage
with Richard Grey than in a palace with any other man in the world.
Finding arguments of no avail, her father, at length, told the lovers
they might marry if they pleased; but, in so doing, his daughter would
forfeit every fraction of her fortune. He expected this would cool the
ardour of both; but he was mistaken. My father knew too well my
mother’s superior worth not to be sensible that she was a valuable
fortune in herself: and if she would but consent to embellish his
humble hearth he should be happy to take her on any terms; while she,
on her part, would rather labour with her own hands than be divided
from the man she loved, whose happiness it would be her joy to make,
and who was already one with her in heart and soul. So her fortune went
to swell the purse of a wiser sister, who had married a rich nabob; and
she, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew her, went
to bury herself in the homely village parsonage among the hills of ——.
And yet, in spite of all this, and in spite of my mother’s high spirit
and my father’s whims, I believe you might search all England through,
and fail to find a happier couple.
Of six children, my sister Mary and myself were the only two that
survived the perils of infancy and early childhood. I, being the
younger by five or six years, was always regarded as _the_ child, and
the pet of the family: father, mother, and sister, all combined to
spoil me—not by foolish indulgence, to render me fractious and
ungovernable, but by ceaseless kindness, to make me too helpless and
dependent—too unfit for buffeting with the cares and turmoils of life.
Mary and I were brought up in the strictest seclusion. My mother, being
at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment,
took the whole charge of our education on herself, with the exception
of Latin—which my father undertook to teach us—so that we never even
went to school; and, as there was no society in the neighbourhood, our
only intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea-party, now
and then, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity
(just to avoid being stigmatized as too proud to consort with our
neighbours), and an annual visit to our paternal grandfather’s; where
himself, our kind grandmamma, a maiden aunt, and two or three elderly
ladies and gentlemen, were the only persons we ever saw. Sometimes our
mother would amuse us with stories and anecdotes of her younger days,
which, while they entertained us amazingly, frequently awoke—in _me_,
at least—a secret wish to see a little more of the world.
I thought she must have been very happy: but she never seemed to regret
past times. My father, however, whose temper was neither tranquil nor
cheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of the
sacrifices his dear wife had made for him; and troubled his head with
revolving endless schemes for the augmentation of his little fortune,
for her sake and ours. In vain my mother assured him she was quite
satisfied; and if he would but lay by a little for the children, we
should all have plenty, both for time present and to come: but saving
was not my father’s forte. He would not run in debt (at least, my
mother took good care he should not), but while he had money he must
spend it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and
daughters well clothed, and well attended; and besides, he was
charitably disposed, and liked to give to the poor, according to his
means: or, as some might think, beyond them.
At length, however, a kind friend suggested to him a means of doubling
his private property at one stroke; and further increasing it,
hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend was a merchant, a man of
enterprising spirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened
in his mercantile pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed
to give my father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust
him with what he could spare; and he thought he might safely promise
that whatever sum the latter chose to put into his hands, it should
bring him in cent. per cent. The small patrimony was speedily sold, and
the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of the friendly
merchant; who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for
his voyage.
My father was delighted, so were we all, with our brightening
prospects. For the present, it is true, we were reduced to the narrow
income of the curacy; but my father seemed to think there was no
necessity for scrupulously restricting our expenditure to that; so,
with a standing bill at Mr. Jackson’s, another at Smith’s, and a third
at Hobson’s, we got along even more comfortably than before: though my
mother affirmed we had better keep within bounds, for our prospects of
wealth were but precarious, after all; and if my father would only
trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself
stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.
What happy hours Mary and I have passed while sitting at our work by
the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the
weeping birch (the only considerable tree in the garden), talking of
future happiness to ourselves and our parents, of what we would do, and
see, and possess; with no firmer foundation for our goodly
superstructure than the riches that were expected to flow in upon us
from the success of the worthy merchant’s speculations. Our father was
nearly as bad as ourselves; only that he affected not to be so much in
earnest: expressing his bright hopes and sanguine expectations in jests
and playful sallies, that always struck me as being exceedingly witty
and pleasant. Our mother laughed with delight to see him so hopeful and
happy: but still she feared he was setting his heart too much upon the
matter; and once I heard her whisper as she left the room, “God grant
he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it.”
Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap on
us all, that the vessel which contained our fortune had been wrecked,
and gone to the bottom with all its stores, together with several of
the crew, and the unfortunate merchant himself. I was grieved for him;
I was grieved for the overthrow of all our air-built castles: but, with
the elasticity of youth, I soon recovered the shock.
Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an inexperienced
girl like me. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something
exhilarating in the idea of being driven to straits, and thrown upon
our own resources. I only wished papa, mamma, and Mary were all of the
same mind as myself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities we
might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them; and the greater the
difficulties, the harder our present privations, the greater should be
our cheerfulness to endure the latter, and our vigour to contend
against the former.
Mary did not lament, but she brooded continually over the misfortune,
and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of mine could
rouse her. I could not possibly bring her to regard the matter on its
bright side as I did: and indeed I was so fearful of being charged with
childish frivolity, or stupid insensibility, that I carefully kept most
of my bright ideas and cheering notions to myself; well knowing they
could not be appreciated.
My mother thought only of consoling my father, and paying our debts and
retrenching our expenditure by every available means; but my father was
completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and spirits
sank beneath the blow, and he never wholly recovered them. In vain my
mother strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage,
to his affection for herself and us. That very affection was his
greatest torment: it was for our sakes he had so ardently longed to
increase his fortune—it was our interest that had lent such brightness
to his hopes, and that imparted such bitterness to his present
distress. He now tormented himself with remorse at having neglected my
mother’s advice; which would at least have saved him from the
additional burden of debt—he vainly reproached himself for having
brought her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her former
station to toil with him through the cares and toils of poverty. It was
gall and wormwood to his soul to see that splendid, highly-accomplished
woman, once so courted and admired, transformed into an active managing
housewife, with hands and head continually occupied with household
labours and household economy. The very willingness with which she
performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which she bore her
reverses, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the
smallest blame to him, were all perverted by this ingenious
self-tormentor into further aggravations of his sufferings. And thus
the mind preyed upon the body, and disordered the system of the nerves,
and they in turn increased the troubles of the mind, till by action and
reaction his health was seriously impaired; and not one of us could
convince him that the aspect of our affairs was not half so gloomy, so
utterly hopeless, as his morbid imagination represented it to be.
The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout, well-fed
pony—the old favourite that we had fully determined should end its days
in peace, and never pass from our hands; the little coach-house and
stable were let; the servant boy, and the more efficient (being the
more expensive) of the two maid-servants, were dismissed. Our clothes
were mended, turned, and darned to the utmost verge of decency; our
food, always plain, was now simplified to an unprecedented
degree—except my father’s favourite dishes; our coals and candles were
painfully economized—the pair of candles reduced to one, and that most
sparingly used; the coals carefully husbanded in the half-empty grate:
especially when my father was out on his parish duties, or confined to
bed through illness—then we sat with our feet on the fender, scraping
the perishing embers together from time to time, and occasionally
adding a slight scattering of the dust and fragments of coal, just to
keep them alive. As for our carpets, they in time were worn threadbare,
and patched and darned even to a greater extent than our garments. To
save the expense of a gardener, Mary and I undertook to keep the garden
in order; and all the cooking and household work that could not easily
be managed by one servant-girl, was done by my mother and sister, with
a little occasional help from me: only a little, because, though a
woman in my own estimation, I was still a child in theirs; and my
mother, like most active, managing women, was not gifted with very
active daughters: for this reason—that being so clever and diligent
herself, she was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but,
on the contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as for
number one; and whatever was the business in hand, she was apt to think
that no one could do it so well as herself: so that whenever I offered
to assist her, I received such an answer as—“No, love, you cannot
indeed—there’s nothing here you can do. Go and help your sister, or get
her to take a walk with you—tell her she must not sit so much, and stay
so constantly in the house as she does—she may well look thin and
dejected.”
“Mary, mamma says I’m to help you; or get you to take a walk with me;
she says you may well look thin and dejected, if you sit so constantly
in the house.”
“Help me you cannot, Agnes; and I cannot go out with _you_—I have far
too much to do.”
“Then let me help you.”
“You cannot, indeed, dear child. Go and practise your music, or play
with the kitten.”
There was always plenty of sewing on hand; but I had not been taught to
cut out a single garment, and except plain hemming and seaming, there
was little I could do, even in that line; for they both asserted that
it was far easier to do the work themselves than to prepare it for me:
and besides, they liked better to see me prosecuting my studies, or
amusing myself—it was time enough for me to sit bending over my work,
like a grave matron, when my favourite little pussy was become a steady
old cat. Under such circumstances, although I was not many degrees more
useful than the kitten, my idleness was not entirely without excuse.
Through all our troubles, I never but once heard my mother complain of
our want of money. As summer was coming on she observed to Mary and me,
“What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few weeks
at a watering-place. I am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene
would be of incalculable service to him. But then, you see, there’s no
money,” she added, with a sigh. We both wished exceedingly that the
thing might be done, and lamented greatly that it could not. “Well,
well!” said she, “it’s no use complaining. Possibly something might be
done to further the project after all. Mary, you are a beautiful
drawer. What do you say to doing a few more pictures in your best
style, and getting them framed, with the water-coloured drawings you
have already done, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal
picture-dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits?”
“Mamma, I should be delighted if you think they _could_ be sold; and
for anything worth while.”
“It’s worth while trying, however, my dear: do you procure the
drawings, and I’ll endeavour to find a purchaser.”
“I wish _I_ could do something,” said I.
“You, Agnes! well, who knows? You draw pretty well, too: if you choose
some simple piece for your subject, I daresay you will be able to
produce something we shall all be proud to exhibit.”
“But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had long, only I
did not like to mention it.”
“Indeed! pray tell us what it is.”
“I should like to be a governess.”
My mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and laughed. My sister
dropped her work in astonishment, exclaiming, “_You_ a governess,
Agnes! What can you be dreaming of?”
“Well! I don’t see anything so _very_ extraordinary in it. I do not
pretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could teach
little ones: and I should like it so much: I am so fond of children. Do
let me, mamma!”
“But, my love, you have not learned to take care of _yourself _yet: and
young children require more judgment and experience to manage than
elder ones.”
“But, mamma, I am above eighteen, and quite able to take care of
myself, and others too. You do not know half the wisdom and prudence I
possess, because I have never been tried.”
“Only think,” said Mary, “what would you do in a house full of
strangers, without me or mamma to speak and act for you—with a parcel
of children, besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for
advice? You would not even know what clothes to put on.”
“You think, because I always do as you bid me, I have no judgment of my
own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see what I can
do.”
At that moment my father entered and the subject of our discussion was
explained to him.
“What, my little Agnes a governess!” cried he, and, in spite of his
dejection, he laughed at the idea.
“Yes, papa, don’t _you_ say anything against it: I should like it so
much; and I am sure I could manage delightfully.”
“But, my darling, we could not spare you.” And a tear glistened in his
eye as he added—“No, no! afflicted as we are, surely we are not brought
to that pass yet.”
“Oh, no!” said my mother. “There is no necessity whatever for such a
step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you
naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave us, you know very
well we cannot part with _you_.”
I was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still I
did not wholly relinquish my darling scheme. Mary got her drawing
materials, and steadily set to work. I got mine too; but while I drew,
I thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a
governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act
for myself; to exercise my unused faculties; to try my unknown powers;
to earn my own maintenance, and something to comfort and help my
father, mother, and sister, besides exonerating them from the provision
of my food and clothing; to show papa what his little Agnes could do;
to convince mamma and Mary that I was not quite the helpless,
thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted
with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, I felt I
was fully competent to the task: the clear remembrance of my own
thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the
instructions of the most mature adviser. I had but to turn from my
little pupils to myself at their age, and I should know, at once, how
to win their confidence and affections: how to waken the contrition of
the erring; how to embolden the timid and console the afflicted; how to
make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion lovely and
comprehensible.
—Delightful task!
To teach the young idea how to shoot!
To train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day!
Influenced by so many inducements, I determined still to persevere;
though the fear of displeasing my mother, or distressing my father’s
feelings, prevented me from resuming the subject for several days. At
length, again, I mentioned it to my mother in private; and, with some
difficulty, got her to promise to assist me with her endeavours. My
father’s reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though Mary
still sighed her disapproval, my dear, kind mother began to look out
for a situation for me. She wrote to my father’s relations, and
consulted the newspaper advertisements—her own relations she had long
dropped all communication with: a formal interchange of occasional
letters was all she had ever had since her marriage, and she would not
at any time have applied to them in a case of this nature. But so long
and so entire had been my parents’ seclusion from the world, that many
weeks elapsed before a suitable situation could be procured. At last,
to my great joy, it was decreed that I should take charge of the young
family of a certain Mrs. Bloomfield; whom my kind, prim aunt Grey had
known in her youth, and asserted to be a very nice woman. Her husband
was a retired tradesman, who had realized a very comfortable fortune;
but could not be prevailed upon to give a greater salary than
twenty-five pounds to the instructress of his children. I, however, was
glad to accept this, rather than refuse the situation—which my parents
were inclined to think the better plan.
But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long,
how tedious those weeks appeared to me! Yet they were happy ones in the
main—full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With what peculiar
pleasure I assisted at the making of my new clothes, and, subsequently,
the packing of my trunks! But there was a feeling of bitterness
mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all
was ready for my departure on the morrow, and the last night at home
approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell my heart. My dear friends
looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that I could scarcely keep my
eyes from overflowing: but I still affected to be gay. I had taken my
last ramble with Mary on the moors, my last walk in the garden, and
round the house; I had fed, with her, our pet pigeons for the last
time—the pretty creatures that we had tamed to peck their food from our
hands: I had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they
crowded in my lap. I had tenderly kissed my own peculiar favourites,
the pair of snow-white fantails; I had played my last tune on the old
familiar piano, and sung my last song to papa: not the last, I hoped,
but the last for what appeared to me a very long time. And, perhaps,
when I did these things again it would be with different feelings:
circumstances might be changed, and this house might never be my
settled home again. My dear little friend, the kitten, would certainly
be changed: she was already growing a fine cat; and when I returned,
even for a hasty visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have forgotten
both her playmate and her merry pranks. I had romped with her for the
last time; and when I stroked her soft bright fur, while she lay
purring herself to sleep in my lap, it was with a feeling of sadness I
could not easily disguise. Then at bed-time, when I retired with Mary
to our quiet little chamber, where already my drawers were cleared out
and my share of the bookcase was empty—and where, hereafter, she would
have to sleep alone, in dreary solitude, as she expressed it—my heart
sank more than ever: I felt as if I had been selfish and wrong to
persist in leaving her; and when I knelt once more beside our little
bed, I prayed for a blessing on her and on my parents more fervently
than ever I had done before. To conceal my emotion, I buried my face in
my hands, and they were presently bathed in tears. I perceived, on
rising, that she had been crying too: but neither of us spoke; and in
silence we betook ourselves to our repose, creeping more closely
together from the consciousness that we were to part so soon.
But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. I was to depart
early; that the conveyance which took me (a gig, hired from Mr. Smith,
the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village) might return the
same day. I rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast,
received the fond embraces of my father, mother, and sister, kissed the
cat—to the great scandal of Sally, the maid—shook hands with her,
mounted the gig, drew my veil over my face, and then, but not till
then, burst into a flood of tears. The gig rolled on; I looked back; my
dear mother and sister were still standing at the door, looking after
me, and waving their adieux. I returned their salute, and prayed God to
bless them from my heart: we descended the hill, and I could see them
no more.
“It’s a coldish mornin’ for you, Miss Agnes,” observed Smith; “and a
darksome ’un too; but we’s happen get to yon spot afore there come much
rain to signify.”
“Yes, I hope so,” replied I, as calmly as I could.
“It’s comed a good sup last night too.”
“Yes.”
“But this cold wind will happen keep it off.”
“Perhaps it will.”
Here ended our colloquy. We crossed the valley, and began to ascend the
opposite hill. As we were toiling up, I looked back again; there was
the village spire, and the old grey parsonage beyond it, basking in a
slanting beam of sunshine—it was but a sickly ray, but the village and
surrounding hills were all in sombre shade, and I hailed the wandering
beam as a propitious omen to my home. With clasped hands I fervently
implored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for I
saw the sunshine was departing; and I carefully avoided another glance,
lest I should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the landscape.
CHAPTER II.
FIRST LESSONS IN THE ART OF INSTRUCTION
As we drove along, my spirits revived again, and I turned, with
pleasure, to the contemplation of the new life upon which I was
entering. But though it was not far past the middle of September, the
heavy clouds and strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day
extremely cold and dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for,
as Smith observed, the roads were “very heavy”; and certainly, his
horse was very heavy too: it crawled up the hills, and crept down them,
and only condescended to shake its sides in a trot where the road was
at a dead level or a very gentle slope, which was rarely the case in
those rugged regions; so that it was nearly one o’clock before we
reached the place of our destination. Yet, after all, when we entered
the lofty iron gateway, when we drove softly up the smooth, well-rolled
carriage-road, with the green lawn on each side, studded with young
trees, and approached the new but stately mansion of Wellwood, rising
above its mushroom poplar-groves, my heart failed me, and I wished it
were a mile or two farther off. For the first time in my life I must
stand alone: there was no retreating now. I must enter that house, and
introduce myself among its strange inhabitants. But how was it to be
done? True, I was near nineteen; but, thanks to my retired life and the
protecting care of my mother and sister, I well knew that many a girl
of fifteen, or under, was gifted with a more womanly address, and
greater ease and self-possession, than I was. Yet, if Mrs. Bloomfield
were a kind, motherly woman, I might do very well, after all; and the
children, of course, I should soon be at ease with them—and Mr.
Bloomfield, I hoped, I should have but little to do with.
“Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,” I said within myself; and truly I
kept this resolution so well, and was so fully occupied in steadying my
nerves and stifling the rebellious flutter of my heart, that when I was
admitted into the hall and ushered into the presence of Mrs.
Bloomfield, I almost forgot to answer her polite salutation; and it
afterwards struck me, that the little I did say was spoken in the tone
of one half-dead or half-asleep. The lady, too, was somewhat chilly in
her manner, as I discovered when I had time to reflect. She was a tall,
spare, stately woman, with thick black hair, cold grey eyes, and
extremely sallow complexion.
With due politeness, however, she showed me my bedroom, and left me
there to take a little refreshment. I was somewhat dismayed at my
appearance on looking in the glass: the cold wind had swelled and
reddened my hands, uncurled and entangled my hair, and dyed my face of
a pale purple; add to this my collar was horridly crumpled, my frock
splashed with mud, my feet clad in stout new boots, and as the trunks
were not brought up, there was no remedy; so having smoothed my hair as
well as I could, and repeatedly twitched my obdurate collar, I
proceeded to clomp down the two flights of stairs, philosophizing as I
went; and with some difficulty found my way into the room where Mrs.
Bloomfield awaited me.
She led me into the dining-room, where the family luncheon had been
laid out. Some beefsteaks and half-cold potatoes were set before me;
and while I dined upon these, she sat opposite, watching me (as I
thought) and endeavouring to sustain something like a
conversation—consisting chiefly of a succession of commonplace remarks,
expressed with frigid formality: but this might be more my fault than
hers, for I really could _not_ converse. In fact, my attention was
almost wholly absorbed in my dinner: not from ravenous appetite, but
from distress at the toughness of the beefsteaks, and the numbness of
my hands, almost palsied by their five-hours’ exposure to the bitter
wind. I would gladly have eaten the potatoes and let the meat alone,
but having got a large piece of the latter on to my plate, I could not
be so impolite as to leave it; so, after many awkward and unsuccessful
attempts to cut it with the knife, or tear it with the fork, or pull it
asunder between them, sensible that the awful lady was a spectator to
the whole transaction, I at last desperately grasped the knife and fork
in my fists, like a child of two years old, and fell to work with all
the little strength I possessed. But this needed some apology—with a
feeble attempt at a laugh, I said, “My hands are so benumbed with the
cold that I can scarcely handle my knife and fork.”
“I daresay you would find it cold,” replied she with a cool, immutable
gravity that did not serve to reassure me.
When the ceremony was concluded, she led me into the sitting-room
again, where she rang and sent for the children.
“You will find them not very far advanced in their attainments,” said
she, “for I have had so little time to attend to their education
myself, and we have thought them too young for a governess till now;
but I think they are clever children, and very apt to learn, especially
the little boy; he is, I think, the flower of the flock—a generous,
noble-spirited boy, one to be led, but not driven, and remarkable for
always speaking the truth. He seems to scorn deception” (this was good
news). “His sister Mary Ann will require watching,” continued she, “but
she is a very good girl upon the whole; though I wish her to be kept
out of the nursery as much as possible, as she is now almost six years
old, and might acquire bad habits from the nurses. I have ordered her
crib to be placed in your room, and if you will be so kind as to
overlook her washing and dressing, and take charge of her clothes, she
need have nothing further to do with the nursery maid.”
I replied I was quite willing to do so; and at that moment my young
pupils entered the apartment, with their two younger sisters. Master
Tom Bloomfield was a well-grown boy of seven, with a somewhat wiry
frame, flaxen hair, blue eyes, small turned-up nose, and fair
complexion. Mary Ann was a tall girl too, somewhat dark like her
mother, but with a round full face and a high colour in her cheeks. The
second sister was Fanny, a very pretty little girl; Mrs. Bloomfield
assured me she was a remarkably gentle child, and required
encouragement: she had not learned anything yet; but in a few days, she
would be four years old, and then she might take her first lesson in
the alphabet, and be promoted to the schoolroom. The remaining one was
Harriet, a little broad, fat, merry, playful thing of scarcely two,
that I coveted more than all the rest—but with her I had nothing to do.
I talked to my little pupils as well as I could, and tried to render
myself agreeable; but with little success I fear, for their mother’s
presence kept me under an unpleasant restraint. They, however, were
remarkably free from shyness. They seemed bold, lively children, and I
hoped I should soon be on friendly terms with them—the little boy
especially, of whom I had heard such a favourable character from his
mamma. In Mary Ann there was a certain affected simper, and a craving
for notice, that I was sorry to observe. But her brother claimed all my
attention to himself; he stood bolt upright between me and the fire,
with his hands behind his back, talking away like an orator,
occasionally interrupting his discourse with a sharp reproof to his
sisters when they made too much noise.
“Oh, Tom, what a darling you are!” exclaimed his mother. “Come and kiss
dear mamma; and then won’t you show Miss Grey your schoolroom, and your
nice new books?”
“I won’t kiss _you_, mamma; but I _will_ show Miss Grey my schoolroom,
and my new books.”
“And _my_ schoolroom, and _my_ new books, Tom,” said Mary Ann. “They’re
mine too.”
“They’re _mine_,” replied he decisively. “Come along, Miss Grey—I’ll
escort you.”
When the room and books had been shown, with some bickerings between
the brother and sister that I did my utmost to appease or mitigate,
Mary Ann brought me her doll, and began to be very loquacious on the
subject of its fine clothes, its bed, its chest of drawers, and other
appurtenances; but Tom told her to hold her clamour, that Miss Grey
might see his rocking-horse, which, with a most important bustle, he
dragged forth from its corner into the middle of the room, loudly
calling on me to attend to it. Then, ordering his sister to hold the
reins, he mounted, and made me stand for ten minutes, watching how
manfully he used his whip and spurs. Meantime, however, I admired Mary
Ann’s pretty doll, and all its possessions; and then told Master Tom he
was a capital rider, but I hoped he would not use his whip and spurs so
much when he rode a real pony.
“Oh, yes, I will!” said he, laying on with redoubled ardour. “I’ll cut
into him like smoke! Eeh! my word! but he shall sweat for it.”
This was very shocking; but I hoped in time to be able to work a
reformation.
“Now you must put on your bonnet and shawl,” said the little hero, “and
I’ll show you my garden.”
“And _mine_,” said Mary Ann.
Tom lifted his fist with a menacing gesture; she uttered a loud, shrill
scream, ran to the other side of me, and made a face at him.
“Surely, Tom, you would not strike your sister! I hope I shall _never_
see you do that.”
“You will sometimes: I’m obliged to do it now and then to keep her in
order.”
“But it is not your business to keep her in order, you know—that is
for—”
“Well, now go and put on your bonnet.”
“I don’t know—it is so very cloudy and cold, it seems likely to
rain;—and you know I have had a long drive.”
“No matter—you _must_ come; I shall allow of no excuses,” replied the
consequential little gentleman. And, as it was the first day of our
acquaintance, I thought I might as well indulge him. It was too cold
for Mary Ann to venture, so she stayed with her mamma, to the great
relief of her brother, who liked to have me all to himself.
The garden was a large one, and tastefully laid out; besides several
splendid dahlias, there were some other fine flowers still in bloom:
but my companion would not give me time to examine them: I must go with
him, across the wet grass, to a remote sequestered corner, the most
important place in the grounds, because it contained _his_ garden.
There were two round beds, stocked with a variety of plants. In one
there was a pretty little rose-tree. I paused to admire its lovely
blossoms.
“Oh, never mind that!” said he, contemptuously. “That’s only _Mary
Ann’s_ garden; look, THIS is mine.”
After I had observed every flower, and listened to a disquisition on
every plant, I was permitted to depart; but first, with great pomp, he
plucked a polyanthus and presented it to me, as one conferring a
prodigious favour. I observed, on the grass about his garden, certain
apparatus of sticks and corn, and asked what they were.
“Traps for birds.”
“Why do you catch them?”
“Papa says they do harm.”
“And what do you do with them when you catch them?”
“Different things. Sometimes I give them to the cat; sometimes I cut
them in pieces with my penknife; but the next, I mean to roast alive.”
“And why do you mean to do such a horrible thing?”
“For two reasons: first, to see how long it will live—and then, to see
what it will taste like.”
“But don’t you know it is extremely wicked to do such things? Remember,
the birds can feel as well as you; and think, how would you like it
yourself?”
“Oh, that’s nothing! I’m not a bird, and I can’t feel what I do to
them.”
“But you will have to feel it some time, Tom: you have heard where
wicked people go to when they die; and if you don’t leave off torturing
innocent birds, remember, you will have to go there, and suffer just
what you have made them suffer.”
“Oh, pooh! I shan’t. Papa knows how I treat them, and he never blames
me for it: he says it is just what _he_ used to do when _he_ was a boy.
Last summer, he gave me a nest full of young sparrows, and he saw me
pulling off their legs and wings, and heads, and never said anything;
except that they were nasty things, and I must not let them soil my
trousers: and Uncle Robson was there too, and he laughed, and said I
was a fine boy.”
“But what would your mamma say?”
“Oh, she doesn’t care! she says it’s a pity to kill the pretty singing
birds, but the naughty sparrows, and mice, and rats, I may do what I
like with. So now, Miss Grey, you see it is _not_ wicked.”
“I still think it is, Tom; and perhaps your papa and mamma would think
so too, if they thought much about it. However,” I internally added,
“they may say what they please, but I am determined you shall do
nothing of the kind, as long as I have power to prevent it.”
He next took me across the lawn to see his mole-traps, and then into
the stack-yard to see his weasel-traps: one of which, to his great joy,
contained a dead weasel; and then into the stable to see, not the fine
carriage-horses, but a little rough colt, which he informed me had been
bred on purpose for him, and he was to ride it as soon as it was
properly trained. I tried to amuse the little fellow, and listened to
all his chatter as complacently as I could; for I thought if he had any
affections at all, I would endeavour to win them; and then, in time, I
might be able to show him the error of his ways: but I looked in vain
for that generous, noble spirit his mother talked of; though I could
see he was not without a certain degree of quickness and penetration,
when he chose to exert it.
When we re-entered the house it was nearly tea-time. Master Tom told me
that, as papa was from home, he and I and Mary Ann were to have tea
with mamma, for a treat; for, on such occasions, she always dined at
luncheon-time with them, instead of at six o’clock. Soon after tea,
Mary Ann went to bed, but Tom favoured us with his company and
conversation till eight. After he was gone, Mrs. Bloomfield further
enlightened me on the subject of her children’s dispositions and
acquirements, and on what they were to learn, and how they were to be
managed, and cautioned me to mention their defects to no one but
herself. My mother had warned me before to mention them as little as
possible to _her_, for people did not like to be told of their
children’s faults, and so I concluded I was to keep silence on them
altogether. About half-past nine, Mrs. Bloomfield invited me to partake
of a frugal supper of cold meat and bread. I was glad when that was
over, and she took her bedroom candlestick and retired to rest; for
though I wished to be pleased with her, her company was extremely
irksome to me; and I could not help feeling that she was cold, grave,
and forbidding—the very opposite of the kind, warm-hearted matron my
hopes had depicted her to be.
CHAPTER III.
A FEW MORE LESSONS
I rose next morning with a feeling of hopeful exhilaration, in spite of
the disappointments already experienced; but I found the dressing of
Mary Ann was no light matter, as her abundant hair was to be smeared
with pomade, plaited in three long tails, and tied with bows of ribbon:
a task my unaccustomed fingers found great difficulty in performing.
She told me her nurse could do it in half the time, and, by keeping up
a constant fidget of impatience, contrived to render me still longer.
When all was done, we went into the schoolroom, where I met my other
pupil, and chatted with the two till it was time to go down to
breakfast. That meal being concluded, and a few civil words having been
exchanged with Mrs. Bloomfield, we repaired to the schoolroom again,
and commenced the business of the day. I found my pupils very backward,
indeed; but Tom, though averse to every species of mental exertion, was
not without abilities. Mary Ann could scarcely read a word, and was so
careless and inattentive that I could hardly get on with her at all.
However, by dint of great labour and patience, I managed to get
something done in the course of the morning, and then accompanied my
young charge out into the garden and adjacent grounds, for a little
recreation before dinner. There we got along tolerably together, except
that I found they had no notion of going with me: I must go with them,
wherever they chose to lead me. I must run, walk, or stand, exactly as
it suited their fancy. This, I thought, was reversing the order of
things; and I found it doubly disagreeable, as on this as well as
subsequent occasions, they seemed to prefer the dirtiest places and the
most dismal occupations. But there was no remedy; either I must follow
them, or keep entirely apart from them, and thus appear neglectful of
my charge. To-day, they manifested a particular attachment to a well at
the bottom of the lawn, where they persisted in dabbling with sticks
and pebbles for above half an hour. I was in constant fear that their
mother would see them from the window, and blame me for allowing them
thus to draggle their clothes and wet their feet and hands, instead of
taking exercise; but no arguments, commands, or entreaties could draw
them away. If _she_ did not see them, some one else did—a gentleman on
horseback had entered the gate and was proceeding up the road; at the
distance of a few paces from us he paused, and calling to the children
in a waspish penetrating tone, bade them “keep out of that water.”
“Miss Grey,” said he, “(I suppose it _is_ Miss Grey), I am surprised
that you should allow them to dirty their clothes in that manner! Don’t
you see how Miss Bloomfield has soiled her frock? and that Master
Bloomfield’s socks are quite wet? and both of them without gloves?
Dear, dear! Let me _request_ that in future you will keep them _decent_
at least!” so saying, he turned away, and continued his ride up to the
house. This was Mr. Bloomfield. I was surprised that he should nominate
his children Master and Miss Bloomfield; and still more so, that he
should speak so uncivilly to me, their governess, and a perfect
stranger to himself. Presently the bell rang to summon us in. I dined
with the children at one, while he and his lady took their luncheon at
the same table. His conduct there did not greatly raise him in my
estimation. He was a man of ordinary stature—rather below than
above—and rather thin than stout, apparently between thirty and forty
years of age: he had a large mouth, pale, dingy complexion, milky blue
eyes, and hair the colour of a hempen cord. There was a roast leg of
mutton before him: he helped Mrs. Bloomfield, the children, and me,
desiring me to cut up the children’s meat; then, after twisting about
the mutton in various directions, and eyeing it from different points,
he pronounced it not fit to be eaten, and called for the cold beef.
“What is the matter with the mutton, my dear?” asked his mate.
“It is quite overdone. Don’t you taste, Mrs. Bloomfield, that all the
goodness is roasted out of it? And can’t you see that all that nice,
red gravy is completely dried away?”
“Well, I think the _beef_ will suit you.”
The beef was set before him, and he began to carve, but with the most
rueful expressions of discontent.
“What is the matter with the _beef_, Mr. Bloomfield? I’m sure I thought
it was very nice.”
“And so it _was_ very nice. A nicer joint could not be; but it is
_quite_ spoiled,” replied he, dolefully.
“How so?”
“How so! Why, don’t you see how it is cut? Dear—dear! it is quite
shocking!”
“They must have cut it wrong in the kitchen, then, for I’m sure I
carved it quite properly here, yesterday.”
“No _doubt_ they cut it wrong in the kitchen—the savages! Dear—dear!
Did ever any one see such a fine piece of beef so completely ruined?
But remember that, in future, when a decent dish leaves this table,
they shall not _touch_ it in the kitchen. Remember _that_, Mrs.
Bloomfield!”
Notwithstanding the ruinous state of the beef, the gentleman managed to
cut himself some delicate slices, part of which he ate in silence. When
he next spoke, it was, in a less querulous tone, to ask what there was
for dinner.
“Turkey and grouse,” was the concise reply.
“And what besides?”
“Fish.”
“What kind of fish?”
“I don’t know.”
“_You don’t know_?” cried he, looking solemnly up from his plate, and
suspending his knife and fork in astonishment.
“No. I told the cook to get some fish—I did not particularize what.”
“Well, that beats everything! A lady professes to keep house, and
doesn’t even know what fish is for dinner! professes to order fish, and
doesn’t specify what!”
“Perhaps, Mr. Bloomfield, you will order dinner yourself in future.”
Nothing more was said; and I was very glad to get out of the room with
my pupils; for I never felt so ashamed and uncomfortable in my life for
anything that was not my own fault.
In the afternoon we applied to lessons again: then went out again; then
had tea in the schoolroom; then I dressed Mary Ann for dessert; and
when she and her brother had gone down to the dining-room, I took the
opportunity of beginning a letter to my dear friends at home: but the
children came up before I had half completed it. At seven I had to put
Mary Ann to bed; then I played with Tom till eight, when he, too, went;
and I finished my letter and unpacked my clothes, which I had hitherto
found no opportunity for doing, and, finally, went to bed myself.
But this is a very favourable specimen of a day’s proceedings.
My task of instruction and surveillance, instead of becoming easier as
my charges and I got better accustomed to each other, became more
arduous as their characters unfolded. The name of governess, I soon
found, was a mere mockery as applied to me: my pupils had no more
notion of obedience than a wild, unbroken colt. The habitual fear of
their father’s peevish temper, and the dread of the punishments he was
wont to inflict when irritated, kept them generally within bounds in
his immediate presence. The girls, too, had some fear of their mother’s
anger; and the boy might occasionally be bribed to do as she bid him by
the hope of reward; but I had no rewards to offer; and as for
punishments, I was given to understand, the parents reserved that
privilege to themselves; and yet they expected me to keep my pupils in
order. Other children might be guided by the fear of anger and the
desire of approbation; but neither the one nor the other had any effect
upon these.
Master Tom, not content with refusing to be ruled, must needs set up as
a ruler, and manifested a determination to keep, not only his sisters,
but his governess in order, by violent manual and pedal applications;
and, as he was a tall, strong boy of his years, this occasioned no
trifling inconvenience. A few sound boxes on the ear, on such
occasions, might have settled the matter easily enough: but as, in that
case, he might make up some story to his mother which she would be sure
to believe, as she had such unshaken faith in his veracity—though I had
already discovered it to be by no means unimpeachable—I determined to
refrain from striking him, even in self-defence; and, in his most
violent moods, my only resource was to throw him on his back and hold
his hands and feet till the frenzy was somewhat abated. To the
difficulty of preventing him from doing what he ought not, was added
that of forcing him to do what he ought. Often he would positively
refuse to learn, or to repeat his lessons, or even to look at his book.
Here, again, a good birch rod might have been serviceable; but, as my
powers were so limited, I must make the best use of what I had.
As there were no settled hours for study and play, I resolved to give
my pupils a certain task, which, with moderate attention, they could
perform in a short time; and till this was done, however weary I was,
or however perverse they might be, nothing short of parental
interference should induce me to suffer them to leave the schoolroom,
even if I should sit with my chair against the door to keep them in.
Patience, Firmness, and Perseverance were my only weapons; and these I
resolved to use to the utmost. I determined always strictly to fulfil
the threats and promises I made; and, to that end, I must be cautious
to threaten and promise nothing that I could not perform. Then, I would
carefully refrain from all useless irritability and indulgence of my
own ill-temper: when they behaved tolerably, I would be as kind and
obliging as it was in my power to be, in order to make the widest
possible distinction between good and bad conduct; I would reason with
them, too, in the simplest and most effective manner. When I reproved
them, or refused to gratify their wishes, after a glaring fault, it
should be more in sorrow than in anger: their little hymns and prayers
I would make plain and clear to their understanding; when they said
their prayers at night and asked pardon for their offences, I would
remind them of the sins of the past day, solemnly, but in perfect
kindness, to avoid raising a spirit of opposition; penitential hymns
should be said by the naughty, cheerful ones by the comparatively good;
and every kind of instruction I would convey to them, as much as
possible, by entertaining discourse—apparently with no other object
than their present amusement in view.
By these means I hoped in time both to benefit the children and to gain
the approbation of their parents; and also to convince my friends at
home that I was not so wanting in skill and prudence as they supposed.
I knew the difficulties I had to contend with were great; but I knew
(at least I believed) unremitting patience and perseverance could
overcome them; and night and morning I implored Divine assistance to
this end. But either the children were so incorrigible, the parents so
unreasonable, or myself so mistaken in my views, or so unable to carry
them out, that my best intentions and most strenuous efforts seemed
productive of no better result than sport to the children,
dissatisfaction to their parents, and torment to myself.
The task of instruction was as arduous for the body as the mind. I had
to run after my pupils to catch them, to carry or drag them to the
table, and often forcibly to hold them there till the lesson was done.
Tom I frequently put into a corner, seating myself before him in a
chair, with a book which contained the little task that must be said or
read, before he was released, in my hand. He was not strong enough to
push both me and the chair away, so he would stand twisting his body
and face into the most grotesque and singular contortions—laughable, no
doubt, to an unconcerned spectator, but not to me—and uttering loud
yells and doleful outcries, intended to represent weeping but wholly
without the accompaniment of tears. I knew this was done solely for the
purpose of annoying me; and, therefore, however I might inwardly
tremble with impatience and irritation, I manfully strove to suppress
all visible signs of molestation, and affected to sit with calm
indifference, waiting till it should please him to cease this pastime,
and prepare for a run in the garden, by casting his eye on the book and
reading or repeating the few words he was required to say. Sometimes he
was determined to do his writing badly; and I had to hold his hand to
prevent him from purposely blotting or disfiguring the paper.
Frequently I threatened that, if he did not do better, he should have
another line: then he would stubbornly refuse to write this line; and
I, to save my word, had finally to resort to the expedient of holding
his fingers upon the pen, and forcibly drawing his hand up and down,
till, in spite of his resistance, the line was in some sort completed.
Yet Tom was by no means the most unmanageable of my pupils: sometimes,
to my great joy, he would have the sense to see that his wisest policy
was to finish his tasks, and go out and amuse himself till I and his
sisters came to join him; which frequently was not at all, for Mary Ann
seldom followed his example in this particular: she apparently
preferred rolling on the floor to any other amusement: down she would
drop like a leaden weight; and when I, with great difficulty, had
succeeded in rooting her thence, I had still to hold her up with one
arm, while with the other I held the book from which she was to read or
spell her lesson. As the dead weight of the big girl of six became too
heavy for one arm to bear, I transferred it to the other; or, if both
were weary of the burden, I carried her into a corner, and told her she
might come out when she should find the use of her feet, and stand up:
but she generally preferred lying there like a log till dinner or
tea-time, when, as I could not deprive her of her meals, she must be
liberated, and would come crawling out with a grin of triumph on her
round, red face. Often she would stubbornly refuse to pronounce some
particular word in her lesson; and now I regret the lost labour I have
had in striving to conquer her obstinacy. If I had passed it over as a
matter of no consequence, it would have been better for both parties,
than vainly striving to overcome it as I did; but I thought it my
absolute duty to crush this vicious tendency in the bud: and so it was,
if I could have done it; and had my powers been less limited, I might
have enforced obedience; but, as it was, it was a trial of strength
between her and me, in which she generally came off victorious; and
every victory served to encourage and strengthen her for a future
contest. In vain I argued, coaxed, entreated, threatened, scolded; in
vain I kept her in from play, or, if obliged to take her out, refused
to play with her, or to speak kindly or have anything to do with her;
in vain I tried to set before her the advantages of doing as she was
bid, and being loved, and kindly treated in consequence, and the
disadvantages of persisting in her absurd perversity. Sometimes, when
she would ask me to do something for her, I would answer,—“Yes, I will,
Mary Ann, if you will only say that word. Come! you’d better say it at
once, and have no more trouble about it.”
“No.”
“Then, of course, I can do nothing for you.”
With me, at her age, or under, neglect and disgrace were the most
dreadful of punishments; but on her they made no impression. Sometimes,
exasperated to the utmost pitch, I would shake her violently by the
shoulder, or pull her long hair, or put her in the corner; for which
she punished me with loud, shrill, piercing screams, that went through
my head like a knife. She knew I hated this, and when she had shrieked
her utmost, would look into my face with an air of vindictive
satisfaction, exclaiming,—“_Now_, then! _that’s_ for you!” and then
shriek again and again, till I was forced to stop my ears. Often these
dreadful cries would bring Mrs. Bloomfield up to inquire what was the
matter?
“Mary Ann is a naughty girl, ma’am.”
“But what are these shocking screams?”
“She is screaming in a passion.”
“I never heard such a dreadful noise! You might be killing her. Why is
she not out with her brother?”
“I cannot get her to finish her lessons.”
“But Mary Ann must be a _good_ girl, and finish her lessons.” This was
blandly spoken to the child. “And I hope I shall _never_ hear such
terrible cries again!”
And fixing her cold, stony eyes upon me with a look that could not be
mistaken, she would shut the door, and walk away. Sometimes I would try
to take the little obstinate creature by surprise, and casually ask her
the word while she was thinking of something else; frequently she would
begin to say it, and then suddenly check herself, with a provoking look
that seemed to say, “Ah! I’m too sharp for you; you shan’t trick it out
of me, either.”
On another occasion, I pretended to forget the whole affair; and talked
and played with her as usual, till night, when I put her to bed; then
bending over her, while she lay all smiles and good humour, just before
departing, I said, as cheerfully and kindly as before—“Now, Mary Ann,
just tell me that word before I kiss you good-night. You are a good
girl now, and, of course, you will say it.”
“No, I won’t.”
“Then I can’t kiss you.”
“Well, I don’t care.”
In vain I expressed my sorrow; in vain I lingered for some symptom of
contrition; she really “didn’t care,” and I left her alone, and in
darkness, wondering most of all at this last proof of insensate
stubbornness. In _my_ childhood I could not imagine a more afflictive
punishment than for my mother to refuse to kiss me at night: the very
idea was terrible. More than the idea I never felt, for, happily, I
never committed a fault that was deemed worthy of such penalty; but
once I remember, for some transgression of my sister’s, our mother
thought proper to inflict it upon her: what _she_ felt, I cannot tell;
but my sympathetic tears and suffering for her sake I shall not soon
forget.
Another troublesome trait in Mary Ann was her incorrigible propensity
to keep running into the nursery, to play with her little sisters and
the nurse. This was natural enough, but, as it was against her mother’s
express desire, I, of course, forbade her to do so, and did my utmost
to keep her with me; but that only increased her relish for the
nursery, and the more I strove to keep her out of it, the oftener she
went, and the longer she stayed, to the great dissatisfaction of Mrs.
Bloomfield, who, I well knew, would impute all the blame of the matter
to me. Another of my trials was the dressing in the morning: at one
time she would not be washed; at another she would not be dressed,
unless she might wear some particular frock, that I knew her mother
would not like her to have; at another she would scream and run away if
I attempted to touch her hair. So that, frequently, when, after much
trouble and toil, I had, at length, succeeded in bringing her down, the
breakfast was nearly half over; and black looks from “mamma,” and testy
observations from “papa,” spoken at me, if not to me, were sure to be
my meed: for few things irritated the latter so much as want of
punctuality at meal times. Then, among the minor annoyances, was my
inability to satisfy Mrs. Bloomfield with her daughter’s dress; and the
child’s hair “was never fit to be seen.” Sometimes, as a powerful
reproach to me, she would perform the office of tire woman herself, and
then complain bitterly of the trouble it gave her.
When little Fanny came into the schoolroom, I hoped she would be mild
and inoffensive, at least; but a few days, if not a few hours, sufficed
to destroy the illusion: I found her a mischievous, intractable little
creature, given up to falsehood and deception, young as she was, and
alarmingly fond of exercising her two favourite weapons of offence and
defence: that of spitting in the faces of those who incurred her
displeasure, and bellowing like a bull when her unreasonable desires
were not gratified. As she, generally, was pretty quiet in her parents’
presence, and they were impressed with the notion of her being a
remarkably gentle child, her falsehoods were readily believed, and her
loud uproars led them to suspect harsh and injudicious treatment on my
part; and when, at length, her bad disposition became manifest even to
their prejudiced eyes, I felt that the whole was attributed to me.
“What a naughty girl Fanny is getting!” Mrs. Bloomfield would say to
her spouse. “Don’t you observe, my dear, how she is altered since she
entered the schoolroom? She will soon be as bad as the other two; and,
I am sorry to say, they have quite deteriorated of late.”
“You may say that,” was the answer. “I’ve been thinking that same
myself. I thought when we got them a governess they’d improve; but,
instead of that, they get worse and worse: I don’t know how it is with
their learning, but their habits, I know, make no sort of improvement;
they get rougher, and dirtier, and more unseemly every day.”
I knew this was all pointed at me; and these, and all similar
innuendoes, affected me far more deeply than any open accusations would
have done; for against the latter I should have been roused to speak in
my own defence: now I judged it my wisest plan to subdue every
resentful impulse, suppress every sensitive shrinking, and go on
perseveringly, doing my best; for, irksome as my situation was, I
earnestly wished to retain it. I thought, if I could struggle on with
unremitting firmness and integrity, the children would in time become
more humanized: every month would contribute to make them some little
wiser, and, consequently, more manageable; for a child of nine or ten
as frantic and ungovernable as these at six and seven would be a
maniac.
I flattered myself I was benefiting my parents and sister by my
continuance here; for small as the salary was, I still was earning
something, and with strict economy I could easily manage to have
something to spare for them, if they would favour me by taking it. Then
it was by my own will that I had got the place: I had brought all this
tribulation on myself, and I was determined to bear it; nay, more than
that, I did not even regret the step I had taken. I longed to show my
friends that, even now, I was competent to undertake the charge, and
able to acquit myself honourably to the end; and if ever I felt it
degrading to submit so quietly, or intolerable to toil so constantly, I
would turn towards my home, and say within myself—
They may crush, but they shall not subdue me!
’Tis of thee that I think, not of them.
About Christmas I was allowed to visit home; but my holiday was only of
a fortnight’s duration: “For,” said Mrs. Bloomfield, “I thought, as you
had seen your friends so lately, you would not care for a longer stay.”
I left her to think so still: but she little knew how long, how
wearisome those fourteen weeks of absence had been to me; how intensely
I had longed for my holidays, how greatly I was disappointed at their
curtailment. Yet she was not to blame in this. I had never told her my
feelings, and she could not be expected to divine them; I had not been
with her a full term, and she was justified in not allowing me a full
vacation.
CHAPTER IV.
THE GRANDMAMMA
I spare my readers the account of my delight on coming home, my
happiness while there—enjoying a brief space of rest and liberty in
that dear, familiar place, among the loving and the loved—and my sorrow
on being obliged to bid them, once more, a long adieu.
I returned, however, with unabated vigour to my work—a more arduous
task than anyone can imagine, who has not felt something like the
misery of being charged with the care and direction of a set of
mischievous, turbulent rebels, whom his utmost exertions cannot bind to
their duty; while, at the same time, he is responsible for their
conduct to a higher power, who exacts from him what cannot be achieved
without the aid of the superior’s more potent authority; which, either
from indolence, or the fear of becoming unpopular with the said
rebellious gang, the latter refuses to give. I can conceive few
situations more harassing than that wherein, however you may long for
success, however you may labour to fulfil your duty, your efforts are
baffled and set at nought by those beneath you, and unjustly censured
and misjudged by those above.
I have not enumerated half the vexatious propensities of my pupils, or
half the troubles resulting from my heavy responsibilities, for fear of
trespassing too much upon the reader’s patience; as, perhaps, I have
already done; but my design in writing the few last pages was not to
amuse, but to benefit those whom it might concern; he that has no
interest in such matters will doubtless have skipped them over with a
cursory glance, and, perhaps, a malediction against the prolixity of
the writer; but if a parent has, therefrom, gathered any useful hint,
or an unfortunate governess received thereby the slightest benefit, I
am well rewarded for my pains.
To avoid trouble and confusion, I have taken my pupils one by one, and
discussed their various qualities; but this can give no adequate idea
of being worried by the whole three together; when, as was often the
case, all were determined to “be naughty, and to tease Miss Grey, and
put her in a passion.”
Sometimes, on such occasions, the thought has suddenly occurred to
me—“If they could see me now!” meaning, of course, my friends at home;
and the idea of how they would pity me has made me pity myself—so
greatly that I have had the utmost difficulty to restrain my tears: but
I have restrained them, till my little tormentors were gone to dessert,
or cleared off to bed (my only prospects of deliverance), and then, in
all the bliss of solitude, I have given myself up to the luxury of an
unrestricted burst of weeping. But this was a weakness I did not often
indulge: my employments were too numerous, my leisure moments too
precious, to admit of much time being given to fruitless lamentations.
I particularly remember one wild, snowy afternoon, soon after my return
in January: the children had all come up from dinner, loudly declaring
that they meant “to be naughty;” and they had well kept their
resolution, though I had talked myself hoarse, and wearied every muscle
in my throat, in the vain attempt to reason them out of it. I had got
Tom pinned up in a corner, whence, I told him, he should not escape
till he had done his appointed task. Meantime, Fanny had possessed
herself of my work-bag, and was rifling its contents—and spitting into
it besides. I told her to let it alone, but to no purpose, of course.
“Burn it, Fanny!” cried Tom: and _this_ command she hastened to obey. I
sprang to snatch it from the fire, and Tom darted to the door. “Mary
Ann, throw her desk out of the window!” cried he: and my precious desk,
containing my letters and papers, my small amount of cash, and all my
valuables, was about to be precipitated from the three-storey window. I
flew to rescue it. Meanwhile Tom had left the room, and was rushing
down the stairs, followed by Fanny. Having secured my desk, I ran to
catch them, and Mary Ann came scampering after. All three escaped me,
and ran out of the house into the garden, where they plunged about in
the snow, shouting and screaming in exultant glee.
What must I do? If I followed them, I should probably be unable to
capture one, and only drive them farther away; if I did not, how was I
to get them in? And what would their parents think of me, if they saw
or heard the children rioting, hatless, bonnetless, gloveless, and
bootless, in the deep soft snow? While I stood in this perplexity, just
without the door, trying, by grim looks and angry words, to awe them
into subjection, I heard a voice behind me, in harshly piercing tones,
exclaiming,—
“Miss Grey! Is it possible? What, in the devil’s name, can you be
thinking about?”
“I can’t get them in, sir,” said I, turning round, and beholding Mr.
Bloomfield, with his hair on end, and his pale blue eyes bolting from
their sockets.
“But I INSIST upon their being got in!” cried he, approaching nearer,
and looking perfectly ferocious.
“Then, sir, you must call them yourself, if you please, for they won’t
listen to me,” I replied, stepping back.
“Come in with you, you filthy brats; or I’ll horsewhip you every one!”
roared he; and the children instantly obeyed. “There, you see!—they
come at the first word!”
“Yes, when _you_ speak.”
“And it’s very strange, that when you’ve the care of ’em you’ve no
better control over ’em than that!—Now, there they are—gone upstairs
with their nasty snowy feet! Do go after ’em and see them made decent,
for heaven’s sake!”
That gentleman’s mother was then staying in the house; and, as I
ascended the stairs and passed the drawing-room door, I had the
satisfaction of hearing the old lady declaiming aloud to her
daughter-in-law to this effect (for I could only distinguish the most
emphatic words)—
“Gracious heavens!—never in all my life—!—get their death as sure as—!
Do you think, my dear, she’s a _proper person_? Take my word for it—”
I heard no more; but that sufficed.
The senior Mrs. Bloomfield had been very attentive and civil to me; and
till now I had thought her a nice, kind-hearted, chatty old body. She
would often come to me and talk in a confidential strain; nodding and
shaking her head, and gesticulating with hands and eyes, as a certain
class of old ladies are wont to do; though I never knew one that
carried the peculiarity to so great an extent. She would even
sympathise with me for the trouble I had with the children, and express
at times, by half sentences, interspersed with nods and knowing winks,
her sense of the injudicious conduct of their mamma in so restricting
my power, and neglecting to support me with her authority. Such a mode
of testifying disapprobation was not much to my taste; and I generally
refused to take it in, or understand anything more than was openly
spoken; at least, I never went farther than an implied acknowledgment
that, if matters were otherwise ordered my task would be a less
difficult one, and I should be better able to guide and instruct my
charge; but now I must be doubly cautious. Hitherto, though I saw the
old lady had her defects (of which one was a proneness to proclaim her
perfections), I had always been wishful to excuse them, and to give her
credit for all the virtues she professed, and even imagine others yet
untold. Kindness, which had been the food of my life through so many
years, had lately been so entirely denied me, that I welcomed with
grateful joy the slightest semblance of it. No wonder, then, that my
heart warmed to the old lady, and always gladdened at her approach and
regretted her departure.
But now, the few words luckily or unluckily heard in passing had wholly
revolutionized my ideas respecting her: now I looked upon her as
hypocritical and insincere, a flatterer, and a spy upon my words and
deeds. Doubtless it would have been my interest still to meet her with
the same cheerful smile and tone of respectful cordiality as before;
but I could not, if I would: my manner altered with my feelings, and
became so cold and shy that she could not fail to notice it. She soon
did notice it, and _her_ manner altered too: the familiar nod was
changed to a stiff bow, the gracious smile gave place to a glare of
Gorgon ferocity; her vivacious loquacity was entirely transferred from
me to “the darling boy and girls,” whom she flattered and indulged more
absurdly than ever their mother had done.
I confess I was somewhat troubled at this change: I feared the
consequences of her displeasure, and even made some efforts to recover
the ground I had lost—and with better apparent success than I could
have anticipated. At one time, I, merely in common civility, asked
after her cough; immediately her long visage relaxed into a smile, and
she favoured me with a particular history of that and her other
infirmities, followed by an account of her pious resignation, delivered
in the usual emphatic, declamatory style, which no writing can portray.
“But there’s one remedy for all, my dear, and that’s resignation” (a
toss of the head), “resignation to the will of heaven!” (an uplifting
of the hands and eyes). “It has always supported me through all my
trials, and always will do” (a succession of nods). “But then, it isn’t
everybody that can say that” (a shake of the head); “but I’m one of the
pious ones, Miss Grey!” (a very significant nod and toss). “And, thank
heaven, I always was” (another nod), “and I glory in it!” (an emphatic
clasping of the hands and shaking of the head). And with several texts
of Scripture, misquoted or misapplied, and religious exclamations so
redolent of the ludicrous in the style of delivery and manner of
bringing in, if not in the expressions themselves, that I decline
repeating them, she withdrew; tossing her large head in high
good-humour—with herself at least—and left me hoping that, after all,
she was rather weak than wicked.
At her next visit to Wellwood House, I went so far as to say I was glad
to see her looking so well. The effect of this was magical: the words,
intended as a mark of civility, were received as a flattering
compliment; her countenance brightened up, and from that moment she
became as gracious and benign as heart could wish—in outward semblance
at least. From what I now saw of her, and what I heard from the
children, I know that, in order to gain her cordial friendship, I had
but to utter a word of flattery at each convenient opportunity: but
this was against my principles; and for lack of this, the capricious
old dame soon deprived me of her favour again, and I believe did me
much secret injury.
She could not greatly influence her daughter-in-law against me,
because, between that lady and herself there was a mutual
dislike—chiefly shown by her in secret detractions and calumniations;
by the other, in an excess of frigid formality in her demeanour; and no
fawning flattery of the elder could thaw away the wall of ice which the
younger interposed between them. But with her son, the old lady had
better success: he would listen to all she had to say, provided she
could soothe his fretful temper, and refrain from irritating him by her
own asperities; and I have reason to believe that she considerably
strengthened his prejudice against me. She would tell him that I
shamefully neglected the children, and even his wife did not attend to
them as she ought; and that he must look after them himself, or they
would all go to ruin.
Thus urged, he would frequently give himself the trouble of watching
them from the windows during their play; at times, he would follow them
through the grounds, and too often came suddenly upon them while they
were dabbling in the forbidden well, talking to the coachman in the
stables, or revelling in the filth of the farm-yard—and I, meanwhile,
wearily standing by, having previously exhausted my energy in vain
attempts to get them away. Often, too, he would unexpectedly pop his
head into the schoolroom while the young people were at meals, and find
them spilling their milk over the table and themselves, plunging their
fingers into their own or each other’s mugs, or quarrelling over their
victuals like a set of tiger’s cubs. If I were quiet at the moment, I
was conniving at their disorderly conduct; if (as was frequently the
case) I happened to be exalting my voice to enforce order, I was using
undue violence, and setting the girls a bad example by such
ungentleness of tone and language.
I remember one afternoon in spring, when, owing to the rain, they could
not go out; but, by some amazing good fortune, they had all finished
their lessons, and yet abstained from running down to tease their
parents—a trick that annoyed me greatly, but which, on rainy days, I
seldom could prevent their doing; because, below, they found novelty
and amusement—especially when visitors were in the house; and their
mother, though she bid me keep them in the schoolroom, would never
chide them for leaving it, or trouble herself to send them back. But
this day they appeared satisfied with their present abode, and what is
more wonderful still, seemed disposed to play together without
depending on me for amusement, and without quarrelling with each other.
Their occupation was a somewhat puzzling one: they were all squatted
together on the floor by the window, over a heap of broken toys and a
quantity of birds’ eggs—or rather egg-shells, for the contents had
luckily been abstracted. These shells they had broken up and were
pounding into small fragments, to what end I could not imagine; but so
long as they were quiet and not in positive mischief, I did not care;
and, with a feeling of unusual repose, I sat by the fire, putting the
finishing stitches to a frock for Mary Ann’s doll; intending, when that
was done, to begin a letter to my mother. Suddenly the door opened, and
the dingy head of Mr. Bloomfield looked in.
“All very quiet here! What are you doing?” said he. “No harm _to-day_,
at least,” thought I. But he was of a different opinion. Advancing to
the window, and seeing the children’s occupations, he testily
exclaimed—“What in the world are you about?”
“We’re grinding egg-shells, papa!” cried Tom.
“How _dare_ you make such a mess, you little devils? Don’t you see what
confounded work you’re making of the carpet?” (the carpet was a plain
brown drugget). “Miss Grey, did you know what they were doing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You knew it?”
“Yes.”
“You knew it! and you actually sat there and permitted them to go on
without a word of reproof!”
“I didn’t think they were doing any harm.”
“Any harm! Why, look there! Just look at that carpet, and see—was there
ever anything like it in a Christian house before? No wonder your room
is not fit for a pigsty—no wonder your pupils are worse than a litter
of pigs!—no wonder—oh! I declare, it puts me quite past my patience”
and he departed, shutting the door after him with a bang that made the
children laugh.
“It puts me quite past my patience too!” muttered I, getting up; and,
seizing the poker, I dashed it repeatedly into the cinders, and stirred
them up with unwonted energy; thus easing my irritation under pretence
of mending the fire.
After this, Mr. Bloomfield was continually looking in to see if the
schoolroom was in order; and, as the children were continually
littering the floor with fragments of toys, sticks, stones, stubble,
leaves, and other rubbish, which I could not prevent their bringing, or
oblige them to gather up, and which the servants refused to “clean
after them,” I had to spend a considerable portion of my valuable
leisure moments on my knees upon the floor, in painsfully reducing
things to order. Once I told them that they should not taste their
supper till they had picked up everything from the carpet; Fanny might
have hers when she had taken up a certain quantity, Mary Ann when she
had gathered twice as many, and Tom was to clear away the rest.
Wonderful to state, the girls did their part; but Tom was in such a
fury that he flew upon the table, scattered the bread and milk about
the floor, struck his sisters, kicked the coals out of the coal-pan,
attempted to overthrow the table and chairs, and seemed inclined to
make a Douglas-larder of the whole contents of the room: but I seized
upon him, and, sending Mary Ann to call her mamma, held him, in spite
of kicks, blows, yells, and execrations, till Mrs. Bloomfield made her
appearance.
“What is the matter with my boy?” said she.
And when the matter was explained to her, all she did was to send for
the nursery-maid to put the room in order, and bring Master Bloomfield
his supper.
“There now,” cried Tom, triumphantly, looking up from his viands with
his mouth almost too full for speech. “There now, Miss Grey! you see
I’ve got my supper in spite of you: and I haven’t picked up a single
thing!”
The only person in the house who had any real sympathy for me was the
nurse; for she had suffered like afflictions, though in a smaller
degree; as she had not the task of teaching, nor was she so responsible
for the conduct of her charge.
“Oh, Miss Grey!” she would say, “you have some trouble with them
childer!”
“I have, indeed, Betty; and I daresay you know what it is.”
“Ay, I do so! But I don’t vex myself o’er ’em as you do. And then, you
see, I hit ’em a slap sometimes: and them little ’uns—I gives ’em a
good whipping now and then: there’s nothing else will do for ’em, as
what they say. Howsoever, I’ve lost my place for it.”
“Have you, Betty? I heard you were going to leave.”
“Eh, bless you, yes! Missis gave me warning a three wik sin”. She told
me afore Christmas how it mud be, if I hit ’em again; but I couldn’t
hold my hand off ’em at nothing. I know not how _you_ do, for Miss Mary
Ann’s worse by the half nor her sisters!”
CHAPTER V.
THE UNCLE
Besides the old lady, there was another relative of the family, whose
visits were a great annoyance to me—this was “Uncle Robson,” Mrs.
Bloomfield’s brother; a tall, self-sufficient fellow, with dark hair
and sallow complexion like his sister, a nose that seemed to disdain
the earth, and little grey eyes, frequently half-closed, with a mixture
of real stupidity and affected contempt of all surrounding objects. He
was a thick-set, strongly-built man, but he had found some means of
compressing his waist into a remarkably small compass; and that,
together with the unnatural stillness of his form, showed that the
lofty-minded, manly Mr. Robson, the scorner of the female sex, was not
above the foppery of stays. He seldom deigned to notice me; and, when
he did, it was with a certain supercilious insolence of tone and manner
that convinced me he was no gentleman: though it was intended to have a
contrary effect. But it was not for that I disliked his coming, so much
as for the harm he did the children—encouraging all their evil
propensities, and undoing in a few minutes the little good it had taken
me months of labour to achieve.
Fanny and little Harriet he seldom condescended to notice; but Mary Ann
was something of a favourite. He was continually encouraging her
tendency to affectation (which I had done my utmost to crush), talking
about her pretty face, and filling her head with all manner of
conceited notions concerning her personal appearance (which I had
instructed her to regard as dust in the balance compared with the
cultivation of her mind and manners); and I never saw a child so
susceptible of flattery as she was. Whatever was wrong, in either her
or her brother, he would encourage by laughing at, if not by actually
praising: people little know the injury they do to children by laughing
at their faults, and making a pleasant jest of what their true friends
have endeavoured to teach them to hold in grave abhorrence.
Though not a positive drunkard, Mr. Robson habitually swallowed great
quantities of wine, and took with relish an occasional glass of brandy
and water. He taught his nephew to imitate him in this to the utmost of
his ability, and to believe that the more wine and spirits he could
take, and the better he liked them, the more he manifested his bold,
and manly spirit, and rose superior to his sisters. Mr. Bloomfield had
not much to say against it, for his favourite beverage was gin and
water; of which he took a considerable portion every day, by dint of
constant sipping—and to that I chiefly attributed his dingy complexion
and waspish temper.
Mr. Robson likewise encouraged Tom’s propensity to persecute the lower
creation, both by precept and example. As he frequently came to course
or shoot over his brother-in-law’s grounds, he would bring his
favourite dogs with him; and he treated them so brutally that, poor as
I was, I would have given a sovereign any day to see one of them bite
him, provided the animal could have done it with impunity. Sometimes,
when in a very complacent mood, he would go a-birds’-nesting with the
children, a thing that irritated and annoyed me exceedingly; as, by
frequent and persevering attempts, I flattered myself I had partly
shown them the evil of this pastime, and hoped, in time, to bring them
to some general sense of justice and humanity; but ten minutes’
birds’-nesting with uncle Robson, or even a laugh from him at some
relation of their former barbarities, was sufficient at once to destroy
the effect of my whole elaborate course of reasoning and persuasion.
Happily, however, during that spring, they never, but once, got
anything but empty nests, or eggs—being too impatient to leave them
till the birds were hatched; that once, Tom, who had been with his
uncle into the neighbouring plantation, came running in high glee into
the garden, with a brood of little callow nestlings in his hands. Mary
Ann and Fanny, whom I was just bringing out, ran to admire his spoils,
and to beg each a bird for themselves. “No, not one!” cried Tom.
“They’re all mine; uncle Robson gave them to me—one, two, three, four,
five—you shan’t touch one of them! no, not one, for your lives!”
continued he, exultingly; laying the nest on the ground, and standing
over it with his legs wide apart, his hands thrust into his
breeches-pockets, his body bent forward, and his face twisted into all
manner of contortions in the ecstasy of his delight.
“But you shall see me fettle ’em off. My word, but I _will_ wallop ’em?
See if I don’t now. By gum! but there’s rare sport for me in that
nest.”
“But, Tom,” said I, “I shall not allow you to torture those birds. They
must either be killed at once or carried back to the place you took
them from, that the old birds may continue to feed them.”
“But you don’t know where that is, Madam: it’s only me and uncle Robson
that knows that.”
“But if you don’t tell me, I shall kill them myself—much as I hate it.”
“You daren’t. You daren’t touch them for your life! because you know
papa and mamma, and uncle Robson, would be angry. Ha, ha! I’ve caught
you there, Miss!”
“I shall do what I think right in a case of this sort without
consulting any one. If your papa and mamma don’t happen to approve of
it, I shall be sorry to offend them; but your uncle Robson’s opinions,
of course, are nothing to me.”
So saying—urged by a sense of duty—at the risk of both making myself
sick and incurring the wrath of my employers—I got a large flat stone,
that had been reared up for a mouse-trap by the gardener; then, having
once more vainly endeavoured to persuade the little tyrant to let the
birds be carried back, I asked what he intended to do with them. With
fiendish glee he commenced a list of torments; and while he was busied
in the relation, I dropped the stone upon his intended victims and
crushed them flat beneath it. Loud were the outcries, terrible the
execrations, consequent upon this daring outrage; uncle Robson had been
coming up the walk with his gun, and was just then pausing to kick his
dog. Tom flew towards him, vowing he would make him kick me instead of
Juno. Mr. Robson leant upon his gun, and laughed excessively at the
violence of his nephew’s passion, and the bitter maledictions and
opprobrious epithets he heaped upon me. “Well, you _are_ a good ’un!”
exclaimed he, at length, taking up his weapon and proceeding towards
the house. “Damme, but the lad has some spunk in him, too. Curse me, if
ever I saw a nobler little scoundrel than that. He’s beyond petticoat
government already: by God! he defies mother, granny, governess, and
all! Ha, ha, ha! Never mind, Tom, I’ll get you another brood
to-morrow.”
“If you do, Mr. Robson, I shall kill them too,” said I.
“Humph!” replied he, and having honoured me with a broad stare—which,
contrary to his expectations, I sustained without flinching—he turned
away with an air of supreme contempt, and stalked into the house. Tom
next went to tell his mamma. It was not her way to say much on any
subject; but, when she next saw me, her aspect and demeanour were
doubly dark and chilled. After some casual remark about the weather,
she observed—“I am sorry, Miss Grey, you should think it necessary to
interfere with Master Bloomfield’s amusements; he was very much
distressed about your destroying the birds.”
“When Master Bloomfield’s amusements consist in injuring sentient
creatures,” I answered, “I think it my duty to interfere.”
“You seemed to have forgotten,” said she, calmly, “that the creatures
were all created for our convenience.”
I thought that doctrine admitted some doubt, but merely replied—“If
they were, we have no right to torment them for our amusement.”
“I think,” said she, “a child’s amusement is scarcely to be weighed
against the welfare of a soulless brute.”
“But, for the child’s own sake, it ought not to be encouraged to have
such amusements,” answered I, as meekly as I could, to make up for such
unusual pertinacity. “‘Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain
mercy.’”
“Oh! of course; but that refers to our conduct towards each other.”
“‘The merciful man shows mercy to his beast,’” I ventured to add.
“I think _you_ have not shown much mercy,” replied she, with a short,
bitter laugh; “killing the poor birds by wholesale in that shocking
manner, and putting the dear boy to such misery for a mere whim.”
I judged it prudent to say no more. This was the nearest approach to a
quarrel I ever had with Mrs. Bloomfield; as well as the greatest number
of words I ever exchanged with her at one time, since the day of my
first arrival.
But Mr. Robson and old Mrs. Bloomfield were not the only guests whose
coming to Wellwood House annoyed me; every visitor disturbed me more or
less; not so much because they neglected me (though I did feel their
conduct strange and disagreeable in that respect), as because I found
it impossible to keep my pupils away from them, as I was repeatedly
desired to do: Tom must talk to them, and Mary Ann must be noticed by
them. Neither the one nor the other knew what it was to feel any degree
of shamefacedness, or even common modesty. They would indecently and
clamorously interrupt the conversation of their elders, tease them with
the most impertinent questions, roughly collar the gentlemen, climb
their knees uninvited, hang about their shoulders or rifle their
pockets, pull the ladies’ gowns, disorder their hair, tumble their
collars, and importunately beg for their trinkets.
Mrs. Bloomfield had the sense to be shocked and annoyed at all this,
but she had not sense to prevent it: she expected me to prevent it. But
how could I—when the guests, with their fine clothes and new faces,
continually flattered and indulged them, out of complaisance to their
parents—how could I, with my homely garments, every-day face, and
honest words, draw them away? I strained every nerve to do so: by
striving to amuse them, I endeavoured to attract them to my side; by
the exertion of such authority as I possessed, and by such severity as
I dared to use, I tried to deter them from tormenting the guests; and
by reproaching their unmannerly conduct, to make them ashamed to repeat
it. But they knew no shame; they scorned authority which had no terrors
to back it; and as for kindness and affection, either they had no
hearts, or such as they had were so strongly guarded, and so well
concealed, that I, with all my efforts, had not yet discovered how to
reach them.
But soon my trials in this quarter came to a close—sooner than I either
expected or desired; for one sweet evening towards the close of May, as
I was rejoicing in the near approach of the holidays, and
congratulating myself upon having made some progress with my pupils (as
far as their learning went, at least, for I _had_ instilled _something_
into their heads, and I had, at length, brought them to be a little—a
very little—more rational about getting their lessons done in time to
leave some space for recreation, instead of tormenting themselves and
me all day long to no purpose), Mrs. Bloomfield sent for me, and calmly
told me that after Midsummer my services would be no longer required.
She assured me that my character and general conduct were
unexceptionable; but the children had made so little improvement since
my arrival that Mr. Bloomfield and she felt it their duty to seek some
other mode of instruction. Though superior to most children of their
years in abilities, they were decidedly behind them in attainments;
their manners were uncultivated, and their tempers unruly. And this she
attributed to a want of sufficient firmness, and diligent, persevering
care on my part.
Unshaken firmness, devoted diligence, unwearied perseverance, unceasing
care, were the very qualifications on which I had secretly prided
myself; and by which I had hoped in time to overcome all difficulties,
and obtain success at last. I wished to say something in my own
justification; but in attempting to speak, I felt my voice falter; and
rather than testify any emotion, or suffer the tears to overflow that
were already gathering in my eyes, I chose to keep silence, and bear
all like a self-convicted culprit.
Thus was I dismissed, and thus I sought my home. Alas! what would they
think of me? unable, after all my boasting, to keep my place, even for
a single year, as governess to three small children, whose mother was
asserted by my own aunt to be a “very nice woman.” Having been thus
weighed in the balance and found wanting, I need not hope they would be
willing to try me again. And this was an unwelcome thought; for vexed,
harassed, disappointed as I had been, and greatly as I had learned to
love and value my home, I was not yet weary of adventure, nor willing
to relax my efforts. I knew that all parents were not like Mr. and Mrs.
Bloomfield, and I was certain all children were not like theirs. The
next family must be different, and any change must be for the better. I
had been seasoned by adversity, and tutored by experience, and I longed
to redeem my lost honour in the eyes of those whose opinion was more
than that of all the world to me.
CHAPTER VI.
THE PARSONAGE AGAIN
For a few months I remained peaceably at home, in the quiet enjoyment
of liberty and rest, and genuine friendship, from all of which I had
fasted so long; and in the earnest prosecution of my studies, to
recover what I had lost during my stay at Wellwood House, and to lay in
new stores for future use. My father’s health was still very infirm,
but not materially worse than when I last saw him; and I was glad I had
it in my power to cheer him by my return, and to amuse him with singing
his favourite songs.
No one triumphed over my failure, or said I had better have taken his
or her advice, and quietly stayed at home. All were glad to have me
back again, and lavished more kindness than ever upon me, to make up
for the sufferings I had undergone; but not one would touch a shilling
of what I had so cheerfully earned and so carefully saved, in the hope
of sharing it with them. By dint of pinching here, and scraping there,
our debts were already nearly paid. Mary had had good success with her
drawings; but our father had insisted upon _her_ likewise keeping all
the produce of her industry to herself. All we could spare from the
supply of our humble wardrobe and our little casual expenses, he
directed us to put into the savings’-bank; saying, we knew not how soon
we might be dependent on that alone for support: for he felt he had not
long to be with us, and what would become of our mother and us when he
was gone, God only knew!
Dear papa! if he had troubled himself less about the afflictions that
threatened us in case of his death, I am convinced that dreaded event
would not have taken place so soon. My mother would never suffer him to
ponder on the subject if she could help it.
“Oh, Richard!” exclaimed she, on one occasion, “if you would but
dismiss such gloomy subjects from your mind, you would live as long as
any of us; at least you would live to see the girls married, and
yourself a happy grandfather, with a canty old dame for your
companion.”
My mother laughed, and so did my father: but his laugh soon perished in
a dreary sigh.
“_They_ married—poor penniless things!” said he; “who will take them I
wonder!”
“Why, nobody shall that isn’t thankful for them. Wasn’t I penniless
when you took me? and you _pretended_, at least, to be vastly pleased
with your acquisition. But it’s no matter whether they get married or
not: we can devise a thousand honest ways of making a livelihood. And I
wonder, Richard, you can think of bothering your head about our
_poverty_ in case of your death; as if _that_ would be anything
compared with the calamity of losing you—an affliction that you well
know would swallow up all others, and which you ought to do your utmost
to preserve us from: and there is nothing like a cheerful mind for
keeping the body in health.”
“I know, Alice, it is wrong to keep repining as I do, but I cannot help
it: you must bear with me.”
“I _won’t_ bear with you, if I can alter you,” replied my mother: but
the harshness of her words was undone by the earnest affection of her
tone and pleasant smile, that made my father smile again, less sadly
and less transiently than was his wont.
“Mamma,” said I, as soon as I could find an opportunity of speaking
with her alone, “my money is but little, and cannot last long; if I
could increase it, it would lessen papa’s anxiety, on one subject at
least. I cannot draw like Mary, and so the best thing I could do would
be to look out for another situation.”
“And so you would actually try again, Agnes?”
“Decidedly, I would.”
“Why, my dear, I should have thought you had had enough of it.”
“I know,” said I, “everybody is not like Mr. and Mrs. Bloomfield—”
“Some are worse,” interrupted my mother.
“But not many, I think,” replied I, “and I’m sure all children are not
like theirs; for I and Mary were not: we always did as you bid us,
didn’t we?”
“Generally: but then, I did not spoil you; and you were not perfect
angels after all: Mary had a fund of quiet obstinacy, and you were
somewhat faulty in regard to temper; but you were very good children on
the whole.”
“I know I was sulky sometimes, and I should have been glad to see these
children sulky sometimes too; for then I could have understood them:
but they never were, for they _could_ not be offended, nor hurt, nor
ashamed: they could not be unhappy in any way, except when they were in
a passion.”
“Well, if they _could_ not, it was not their fault: you cannot expect
stone to be as pliable as clay.”
“No, but still it is very unpleasant to live with such unimpressible,
incomprehensible creatures. You cannot love them; and if you could,
your love would be utterly thrown away: they could neither return it,
nor value, nor understand it. But, however, even if I should stumble on
such a family again, which is quite unlikely, I have all this
experience to begin with, and I should manage better another time; and
the end and aim of this preamble is, let me try again.”
“Well, my girl, you are not easily discouraged, I see: I am glad of
that. But, let me tell you, you are a good deal paler and thinner than
when you first left home; and we cannot have you undermining your
health to hoard up money either for yourself or others.”
“Mary tells me I am changed too; and I don’t much wonder at it, for I
was in a constant state of agitation and anxiety all day long: but next
time I am determined to take things coolly.”
After some further discussion, my mother promised once more to assist
me, provided I would wait and be patient; and I left her to broach the
matter to my father, when and how she deemed it most advisable: never
doubting her ability to obtain his consent. Meantime, I searched, with
great interest, the advertising columns of the newspapers, and wrote
answers to every “Wanted a Governess” that appeared at all eligible;
but all my letters, as well as the replies, when I got any, were
dutifully shown to my mother; and she, to my chagrin, made me reject
the situations one after another: these were low people, these were too
exacting in their demands, and these too niggardly in their
remuneration.
“Your talents are not such as every poor clergyman’s daughter
possesses, Agnes,” she would say, “and you must not throw them away.
Remember, you promised to be patient: there is no need of hurry: you
have plenty of time before you, and may have many chances yet.”
At length, she advised me to put an advertisement, myself, in the
paper, stating my qualifications, &c.
“Music, singing, drawing, French, Latin, and German,” said she, “are no
mean assemblage: many will be glad to have so much in one instructor;
and this time, you shall try your fortune in a somewhat higher
family—in that of some genuine, thoroughbred gentleman; for such are
far more likely to treat you with proper respect and consideration than
those purse-proud tradespeople and arrogant upstarts. I have known
several among the higher ranks who treated their governesses quite as
one of the family; though some, I allow, are as insolent and exacting
as any one else can be: for there are bad and good in all classes.”
The advertisement was quickly written and despatched. Of the two
parties who answered it, but one would consent to give me fifty pounds,
the sum my mother bade me name as the salary I should require; and
here, I hesitated about engaging myself, as I feared the children would
be too old, and their parents would require some one more showy, or
more experienced, if not more accomplished than I. But my mother
dissuaded me from declining it on that account: I should do vastly
well, she said, if I would only throw aside my diffidence, and acquire
a little more confidence in myself. I was just to give a plain, true
statement of my acquirements and qualifications, and name what
stipulations I chose to make, and then await the result. The only
stipulation I ventured to propose, was that I might be allowed two
months’ holidays during the year to visit my friends, at Midsummer and
Christmas. The unknown lady, in her reply, made no objection to this,
and stated that, as to my acquirements, she had no doubt I should be
able to give satisfaction; but in the engagement of governesses she
considered those things as but subordinate points; as being situated in
the neighbourhood of O——, she could get masters to supply any
deficiencies in that respect: but, in her opinion, next to
unimpeachable morality, a mild and cheerful temper and obliging
disposition were the most essential requisities.
My mother did not relish this at all, and now made many objections to
my accepting the situation; in which my sister warmly supported her:
but, unwilling to be balked again, I overruled them all; and, having
first obtained the consent of my father (who had, a short time
previously, been apprised of these transactions), I wrote a most
obliging epistle to my unknown correspondent, and, finally, the bargain
was concluded.
It was decreed that on the last day of January I was to enter upon my
new office as governess in the family of Mr. Murray, of Horton Lodge,
near O——, about seventy miles from our village: a formidable distance
to me, as I had never been above twenty miles from home in all the
course of my twenty years’ sojourn on earth; and as, moreover, every
individual in that family and in the neighbourhood was utterly unknown
to myself and all my acquaintances. But this rendered it only the more
piquant to me. I had now, in some measure, got rid of the _mauvaise
honte_ that had formerly oppressed me so much; there was a pleasing
excitement in the idea of entering these unknown regions, and making my
way alone among its strange inhabitants. I now flattered myself I was
going to see something in the world: Mr. Murray’s residence was near a
large town, and not in a manufacturing district, where the people had
nothing to do but to make money; his rank from what I could gather,
appeared to be higher than that of Mr. Bloomfield; and, doubtless, he
was one of those genuine thoroughbred gentry my mother spoke of, who
would treat his governess with due consideration as a respectable
well-educated lady, the instructor and guide of his children, and not a
mere upper servant. Then, my pupils being older, would be more
rational, more teachable, and less troublesome than the last; they
would be less confined to the schoolroom, and not require that constant
labour and incessant watching; and, finally, bright visions mingled
with my hopes, with which the care of children and the mere duties of a
governess had little or nothing to do. Thus, the reader will see that I
had no claim to be regarded as a martyr to filial piety, going forth to
sacrifice peace and liberty for the sole purpose of laying up stores
for the comfort and support of my parents: though certainly the comfort
of my father, and the future support of my mother, had a large share in
my calculations; and fifty pounds appeared to me no ordinary sum. I
must have decent clothes becoming my station; I must, it seemed, put
out my washing, and also pay for my four annual journeys between Horton
Lodge and home; but with strict attention to economy, surely twenty
pounds, or little more, would cover those expenses, and then there
would be thirty for the bank, or little less: what a valuable addition
to our stock! Oh, I must struggle to keep this situation, whatever it
might be! both for my own honour among my friends and for the solid
services I might render them by my continuance there.
CHAPTER VII.
HORTON LODGE
The 31st of January was a wild, tempestuous day: there was a strong
north wind, with a continual storm of snow drifting on the ground and
whirling through the air. My friends would have had me delay my
departure, but fearful of prejudicing my employers against me by such
want of punctuality at the commencement of my undertaking, I persisted
in keeping the appointment.
I will not inflict upon my readers an account of my leaving home on
that dark winter morning: the fond farewells, the long, long journey to
O——, the solitary waitings in inns for coaches or trains—for there were
some railways then—and, finally, the meeting at O—— with Mr. Murray’s
servant, who had been sent with the phaeton to drive me from thence to
Horton Lodge. I will just state that the heavy snow had thrown such
impediments in the way of both horses and steam-engines, that it was
dark some hours before I reached my journey’s end, and that a most
bewildering storm came on at last, which made the few miles’ space
between O—— and Horton Lodge a long and formidable passage. I sat
resigned, with the cold, sharp snow drifting through my veil and
filling my lap, seeing nothing, and wondering how the unfortunate horse
and driver could make their way even as well as they did; and indeed it
was but a toilsome, creeping style of progression, to say the best of
it. At length we paused; and, at the call of the driver, someone
unlatched and rolled back upon their creaking hinges what appeared to
be the park gates. Then we proceeded along a smoother road, whence,
occasionally, I perceived some huge, hoary mass gleaming through the
darkness, which I took to be a portion of a snow-clad tree. After a
considerable time we paused again, before the stately portico of a
large house with long windows descending to the ground.
I rose with some difficulty from under the superincumbent snowdrift,
and alighted from the carriage, expecting that a kind and hospitable
reception would indemnify me for the toils and hardships of the day. A
gentlemanly person in black opened the door, and admitted me into a
spacious hall, lighted by an amber-coloured lamp suspended from the
ceiling; he led me through this, along a passage, and opening the door
of a back room, told me that was the schoolroom. I entered, and found
two young ladies and two young gentlemen—my future pupils, I supposed.
After a formal greeting, the elder girl, who was trifling over a piece
of canvas and a basket of German wools, asked if I should like to go
upstairs. I replied in the affirmative, of course.
“Matilda, take a candle, and show her her room,” said she.
Miss Matilda, a strapping hoyden of about fourteen, with a short frock
and trousers, shrugged her shoulders and made a slight grimace, but
took a candle and proceeded before me up the back stairs (a long,
steep, double flight), and through a long, narrow passage, to a small
but tolerably comfortable room. She then asked me if I would take some
tea or coffee. I was about to answer No; but remembering that I had
taken nothing since seven o’clock that morning, and feeling faint in
consequence, I said I would take a cup of tea. Saying she would tell
“Brown,” the young lady departed; and by the time I had divested myself
of my heavy, wet cloak, shawl, bonnet, &c., a mincing damsel came to
say the young ladies desired to know whether I would take my tea up
there or in the schoolroom. Under the plea of fatigue I chose to take
it there. She withdrew; and, after a while, returned again with a small
tea-tray, and placed it on the chest of drawers, which served as a
dressing-table. Having civilly thanked her, I asked at what time I
should be expected to rise in the morning.
“The young ladies and gentlemen breakfast at half-past eight, ma’am,”
said she; “they rise early; but, as they seldom do any lessons before
breakfast, I should think it will do if you rise soon after seven.”
I desired her to be so kind as to call me at seven, and, promising to
do so, she withdrew. Then, having broken my long fast on a cup of tea
and a little thin bread and butter, I sat down beside the small,
smouldering fire, and amused myself with a hearty fit of crying; after
which, I said my prayers, and then, feeling considerably relieved,
began to prepare for bed. Finding that none of my luggage was brought
up, I instituted a search for the bell; and failing to discover any
signs of such a convenience in any corner of the room, I took my candle
and ventured through the long passage, and down the steep stairs, on a
voyage of discovery. Meeting a well-dressed female on the way, I told
her what I wanted; but not without considerable hesitation, as I was
not quite sure whether it was one of the upper servants, or Mrs. Murray
herself: it happened, however, to be the lady’s-maid. With the air of
one conferring an unusual favour, she vouchsafed to undertake the
sending up of my things; and when I had re-entered my room, and waited
and wondered a long time (greatly fearing that she had forgotten or
neglected to perform her promise, and doubting whether to keep waiting
or go to bed, or go down again), my hopes, at length, were revived by
the sound of voices and laughter, accompanied by the tramp of feet
along the passage; and presently the luggage was brought in by a
rough-looking maid and a man, neither of them very respectful in their
demeanour to me. Having shut the door upon their retiring footsteps,
and unpacked a few of my things, I betook myself to rest; gladly
enough, for I was weary in body and mind.
It was with a strange feeling of desolation, mingled with a strong
sense of the novelty of my situation, and a joyless kind of curiosity
concerning what was yet unknown, that I awoke the next morning; feeling
like one whirled away by enchantment, and suddenly dropped from the
clouds into a remote and unknown land, widely and completely isolated
from all he had ever seen or known before; or like a thistle-seed borne
on the wind to some strange nook of uncongenial soil, where it must lie
long enough before it can take root and germinate, extracting
nourishment from what appears so alien to its nature: if, indeed, it
ever can. But this gives no proper idea of my feelings at all; and no
one that has not lived such a retired, stationary life as mine, can
possibly imagine what they were: hardly even if he has known what it is
to awake some morning, and find himself in Port Nelson, in New Zealand,
with a world of waters between himself and all that knew him.
I shall not soon forget the peculiar feeling with which I raised my
blind and looked out upon the unknown world: a wide, white wilderness
was all that met my gaze; a waste of
Deserts tossed in snow,
And heavy laden groves.
I descended to the schoolroom with no remarkable eagerness to join my
pupils, though not without some feeling of curiosity respecting what a
further acquaintance would reveal. One thing, among others of more
obvious importance, I determined with myself—I must begin with calling
them Miss and Master. It seemed to me a chilling and unnatural piece of
punctilio between the children of a family and their instructor and
daily companion; especially where the former were in their early
childhood, as at Wellwood House; but even there, my calling the little
Bloomfields by their simple names had been regarded as an offensive
liberty: as their parents had taken care to show me, by carefully
designating them _Master_ and _Miss_ Bloomfield, &c., in speaking to
me. I had been very slow to take the hint, because the whole affair
struck me as so very absurd; but now I determined to be wiser, and
begin at once with as much form and ceremony as any member of the
family would be likely to require: and, indeed, the children being so
much older, there would be less difficulty; though the little words
Miss and Master seemed to have a surprising effect in repressing all
familiar, open-hearted kindness, and extinguishing every gleam of
cordiality that might arise between us.
As I cannot, like Dogberry, find it in my heart to bestow all my
tediousness upon the reader, I will not go on to bore him with a minute
detail of all the discoveries and proceedings of this and the following
day. No doubt he will be amply satisfied with a slight sketch of the
different members of the family, and a general view of the first year
or two of my sojourn among them.
To begin with the head: Mr. Murray was, by all accounts, a blustering,
roystering, country squire: a devoted fox-hunter, a skilful
horse-jockey and farrier, an active, practical farmer, and a hearty
_bon vivant_. By all accounts, I say; for, except on Sundays, when he
went to church, I never saw him from month to month: unless, in
crossing the hall or walking in the grounds, the figure of a tall,
stout gentleman, with scarlet cheeks and crimson nose, happened to come
across me; on which occasions, if he passed near enough to speak, an
unceremonious nod, accompanied by a “Morning, Miss Grey,” or some such
brief salutation, was usually vouchsafed. Frequently, indeed, his loud
laugh reached me from afar; and oftener still I heard him swearing and
blaspheming against the footmen, groom, coachman, or some other hapless
dependant.
Mrs. Murray was a handsome, dashing lady of forty, who certainly
required neither rouge nor padding to add to her charms; and whose
chief enjoyments were, or seemed to be, in giving or frequenting
parties, and in dressing at the very top of the fashion. I did not see
her till eleven o’clock on the morning after my arrival; when she
honoured me with a visit, just as my mother might step into the kitchen
to see a new servant-girl: yet not so, either, for my mother would have
seen her immediately after her arrival, and not waited till the next
day; and, moreover, she would have addressed her in a more kind and
friendly manner, and given her some words of comfort as well as a plain
exposition of her duties; but Mrs. Murray did neither the one nor the
other. She just stepped into the schoolroom on her return from ordering
dinner in the housekeeper’s room, bade me good-morning, stood for two
minutes by the fire, said a few words about the weather and the “rather
rough” journey I must have had yesterday; petted her youngest child—a
boy of ten—who had just been wiping his mouth and hands on her gown,
after indulging in some savoury morsel from the housekeeper’s store;
told me what a sweet, good boy he was; and then sailed out, with a
self-complacent smile upon her face: thinking, no doubt, that she had
done quite enough for the present, and had been delightfully
condescending into the bargain. Her children evidently held the same
opinion, and I alone thought otherwise.
After this she looked in upon me once or twice, during the absence of
my pupils, to enlighten me concerning my duties towards them. For the
girls she seemed anxious only to render them as superficially
attractive and showily accomplished as they could possibly be made,
without present trouble or discomfort to themselves; and I was to act
accordingly—to study and strive to amuse and oblige, instruct, refine,
and polish, with the least possible exertion on their part, and no
exercise of authority on mine. With regard to the two boys, it was much
the same; only instead of accomplishments, I was to get the greatest
possible quantity of Latin grammar and Valpy’s Delectus into their
heads, in order to fit them for school—the greatest possible quantity
at least _without_ trouble to themselves. John might be a “little
high-spirited,” and Charles might be a little “nervous and tedious—”
“But at all events, Miss Grey,” said she, “I hope _you_ will keep your
temper, and be mild and patient throughout; especially with the dear
little Charles; he is so extremely nervous and susceptible, and so
utterly unaccustomed to anything but the tenderest treatment. You will
excuse my naming these things to you; for the fact is, I have hitherto
found all the governesses, even the very best of them, faulty in this
particular. They wanted that meek and quiet spirit, which St. Matthew,
or some of them, says is better than the putting on of apparel—you will
know the passage to which I allude, for you are a clergyman’s daughter.
But I have no doubt you will give satisfaction in this respect as well
as the rest. And remember, on all occasions, when any of the young
people do anything improper, if persuasion and gentle remonstrance will
not do, let one of the others come and tell me; for I can speak to them
more plainly than it would be proper for you to do. And make them as
happy as you can, Miss Grey, and I dare say you will do very well.”
I observed that while Mrs. Murray was so extremely solicitous for the
comfort and happiness of her children, and continually talking about
it, she never once mentioned mine; though they were at home, surrounded
by friends, and I an alien among strangers; and I did not yet know
enough of the world, not to be considerably surprised at this anomaly.
Miss Murray, otherwise Rosalie, was about sixteen when I came, and
decidedly a very pretty girl; and in two years longer, as time more
completely developed her form and added grace to her carriage and
deportment, she became positively beautiful; and that in no common
degree. She was tall and slender, yet not thin; perfectly formed,
exquisitely fair, though not without a brilliant, healthy bloom; her
hair, which she wore in a profusion of long ringlets, was of a very
light brown inclining to yellow; her eyes were pale blue, but so clear
and bright that few would wish them darker; the rest of her features
were small, not quite regular, and not remarkably otherwise: but
altogether you could not hesitate to pronounce her a very lovely girl.
I wish I could say as much for mind and disposition as I can for her
form and face.
Yet think not I have any dreadful disclosures to make: she was lively,
light-hearted, and could be very agreeable, with those who did not
cross her will. Towards me, when I first came, she was cold and
haughty, then insolent and overbearing; but, on a further acquaintance,
she gradually laid aside her airs, and in time became as deeply
attached to me as it was possible for _her_ to be to one of my
character and position: for she seldom lost sight, for above half an
hour at a time, of the fact of my being a hireling and a poor curate’s
daughter. And yet, upon the whole, I believe she respected me more than
she herself was aware of; because I was the only person in the house
who steadily professed good principles, habitually spoke the truth, and
generally endeavoured to make inclination bow to duty; and this I say,
not, of course, in commendation of myself, but to show the unfortunate
state of the family to which my services were, for the present,
devoted. There was no member of it in whom I regretted this sad want of
principle so much as Miss Murray herself; not only because she had
taken a fancy to me, but because there was so much of what was pleasant
and prepossessing in herself, that, in spite of her failings, I really
liked her—when she did not rouse my indignation, or ruffle my temper by
_too_ great a display of her faults. These, however, I would fain
persuade myself were rather the effect of her education than her
disposition: she had never been perfectly taught the distinction
between right and wrong; she had, like her brothers and sisters, been
suffered, from infancy, to tyrannize over nurses, governesses, and
servants; she had not been taught to moderate her desires, to control
her temper or bridle her will, or to sacrifice her own pleasure for the
good of others. Her temper being naturally good, she was never violent
or morose, but from constant indulgence, and habitual scorn of reason,
she was often testy and capricious; her mind had never been cultivated:
her intellect, at best, was somewhat shallow; she possessed
considerable vivacity, some quickness of perception, and some talent
for music and the acquisition of languages, but till fifteen she had
troubled herself to acquire nothing;—then the love of display had
roused her faculties, and induced her to apply herself, but only to the
more showy accomplishments. And when I came it was the same: everything
was neglected but French, German, music, singing, dancing, fancy-work,
and a little drawing—such drawing as might produce the greatest show
with the smallest labour, and the principal parts of which were
generally done by me. For music and singing, besides my occasional
instructions, she had the attendance of the best master the country
afforded; and in these accomplishments, as well as in dancing, she
certainly attained great proficiency. To music, indeed, she devoted too
much of her time, as, governess though I was, I frequently told her;
but her mother thought that if _she_ liked it, she _could_ not give too
much time to the acquisition of so attractive an art. Of fancy-work I
knew nothing but what I gathered from my pupil and my own observation;
but no sooner was I initiated, than she made me useful in twenty
different ways: all the tedious parts of her work were shifted on to my
shoulders; such as stretching the frames, stitching in the canvas,
sorting the wools and silks, putting in the grounds, counting the
stitches, rectifying mistakes, and finishing the pieces she was tired
of.
At sixteen, Miss Murray was something of a romp, yet not more so than
is natural and allowable for a girl of that age, but at seventeen, that
propensity, like all other things, began to give way to the ruling
passion, and soon was swallowed up in the all-absorbing ambition to
attract and dazzle the other sex. But enough of her: now let us turn to
her sister.
Miss Matilda Murray was a veritable hoyden, of whom little need be
said. She was about two years and a half younger than her sister; her
features were larger, her complexion much darker. She might possibly
make a handsome woman; but she was far too big-boned and awkward ever
to be called a pretty girl, and at present she cared little about it.
Rosalie knew all her charms, and thought them even greater than they
were, and valued them more highly than she ought to have done, had they
been three times as great; Matilda thought she was well enough, but
cared little about the matter; still less did she care about the
cultivation of her mind, and the acquisition of ornamental
accomplishments. The manner in which she learnt her lessons and
practised her music was calculated to drive any governess to despair.
Short and easy as her tasks were, if done at all, they were slurred
over, at any time and in any way; but generally at the least convenient
times, and in the way least beneficial to herself, and least
satisfactory to me: the short half-hour of practising was horribly
strummed through; she, meantime, unsparingly abusing me, either for
interrupting her with corrections, or for not rectifying her mistakes
before they were made, or something equally unreasonable. Once or
twice, I ventured to remonstrate with her seriously for such irrational
conduct; but on each of those occasions, I received such reprehensive
expostulations from her mother, as convinced me that, if I wished to
keep the situation, I must even let Miss Matilda go on in her own way.
When her lessons were over, however, her ill-humour was generally over
too: while riding her spirited pony, or romping with the dogs or her
brothers and sister, but especially with her dear brother John, she was
as happy as a lark. As an animal, Matilda was all right, full of life,
vigour, and activity; as an intelligent being, she was barbarously
ignorant, indocile, careless and irrational; and, consequently, very
distressing to one who had the task of cultivating her understanding,
reforming her manners, and aiding her to acquire those ornamental
attainments which, unlike her sister, she despised as much as the rest.
Her mother was partly aware of her deficiencies, and gave me many a
lecture as to how I should try to form her tastes, and endeavour to
rouse and cherish her dormant vanity; and, by insinuating, skilful
flattery, to win her attention to the desired objects—which I would not
do; and how I should prepare and smooth the path of learning till she
could glide along it without the least exertion to herself: which I
could not, for nothing can be taught to any purpose without some little
exertion on the part of the learner.
As a moral agent, Matilda was reckless, headstrong, violent, and
unamenable to reason. One proof of the deplorable state of her mind
was, that from her father’s example she had learned to swear like a
trooper. Her mother was greatly shocked at the “unlady-like trick,” and
wondered “how she had picked it up.” “But you can soon break her of it,
Miss Grey,” said she: “it is only a habit; and if you will just gently
remind her every time she does so, I am sure she will soon lay it
aside.” I not only “gently reminded” her, I tried to impress upon her
how wrong it was, and how distressing to the ears of decent people: but
all in vain: I was only answered by a careless laugh, and, “Oh, Miss
Grey, how shocked you are! I’m so glad!” or, “Well! I can’t help it;
papa shouldn’t have taught me: I learned it all from him; and maybe a
bit from the coachman.”
Her brother John, _alias_ Master Murray, was about eleven when I came:
a fine, stout, healthy boy, frank and good-natured in the main, and
might have been a decent lad had he been properly educated; but now he
was as rough as a young bear, boisterous, unruly, unprincipled,
untaught, unteachable—at least, for a governess under his mother’s eye.
His masters at school might be able to manage him better—for to school
he was sent, greatly to my relief, in the course of a year; in a state,
it is true, of scandalous ignorance as to Latin, as well as the more
useful though more neglected things: and this, doubtless, would all be
laid to the account of his education having been entrusted to an
ignorant female teacher, who had presumed to take in hand what she was
wholly incompetent to perform. I was not delivered from his brother
till full twelve months after, when he also was despatched in the same
state of disgraceful ignorance as the former.
Master Charles was his mother’s peculiar darling. He was little more
than a year younger than John, but much smaller, paler, and less active
and robust; a pettish, cowardly, capricious, selfish little fellow,
only active in doing mischief, and only clever in inventing falsehoods:
not simply to hide his faults, but, in mere malicious wantonness, to
bring odium upon others. In fact, Master Charles was a very great
nuisance to me: it was a trial of patience to live with him peaceably;
to watch over him was worse; and to teach him, or pretend to teach him,
was inconceivable. At ten years old, he could not read correctly the
easiest line in the simplest book; and as, according to his mother’s
principle, he was to be told every word, before he had time to hesitate
or examine its orthography, and never even to be informed, as a
stimulant to exertion, that other boys were more forward than he, it is
not surprising that he made but little progress during the two years I
had charge of his education. His minute portions of Latin grammar, &c.,
were to be repeated over to him, till he chose to say he knew them, and
then he was to be helped to say them; if he made mistakes in his little
easy sums in arithmetic, they were to be shown him at once, and the sum
done for him, instead of his being left to exercise his faculties in
finding them out himself; so that, of course, he took no pains to avoid
mistakes, but frequently set down his figures at random, without any
calculation at all.
I did not invariably confine myself to these rules: it was against my
conscience to do so; but I seldom could venture to deviate from them in
the slightest degree, without incurring the wrath of my little pupil,
and subsequently of his mamma; to whom he would relate my
transgressions maliciously exaggerated, or adorned with embellishments
of his own; and often, in consequence, was I on the point of losing or
resigning my situation. But, for their sakes at home, I smothered my
pride and suppressed my indignation, and managed to struggle on till my
little tormentor was despatched to school; his father declaring that
home education was “no go for him, it was plain; his mother spoiled him
outrageously, and his governess could make no hand of him at all.”
A few more observations about Horton Lodge and its ongoings, and I have
done with dry description for the present. The house was a very
respectable one; superior to Mr. Bloomfield’s, both in age, size, and
magnificence: the garden was not so tastefully laid out; but instead of
the smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded by palings, the grove
of upstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park,
stocked with deer, and beautified by fine old trees. The surrounding
country itself was pleasant, as far as fertile fields, flourishing
trees, quiet green lanes, and smiling hedges with wild-flowers
scattered along their banks, could make it; but it was depressingly
flat to one born and nurtured among the rugged hills of ——.
We were situated nearly two miles from the village church, and,
consequently, the family carriage was put in requisition every Sunday
morning, and sometimes oftener. Mr. and Mrs. Murray generally thought
it sufficient to show themselves at church once in the course of the
day; but frequently the children preferred going a second time to
wandering about the grounds all the day with nothing to do. If some of
my pupils chose to walk and take me with them, it was well for me; for
otherwise my position in the carriage was to be crushed into the corner
farthest from the open window, and with my back to the horses: a
position which invariably made me sick; and if I were not actually
obliged to leave the church in the middle of the service, my devotions
were disturbed with a feeling of languor and sickliness, and the
tormenting fear of its becoming worse: and a depressing headache was
generally my companion throughout the day, which would otherwise have
been one of welcome rest, and holy, calm enjoyment.
“It’s very odd, Miss Grey, that the carriage should always make you
sick: it never makes _me_,” remarked Miss Matilda,
“Nor me either,” said her sister; “but I dare say it would, if I sat
where she does—such a nasty, horrid place, Miss Grey; I wonder how you
can bear it!”
“I am obliged to bear it, since no choice is left me,”—I might have
answered; but in tenderness for their feelings I only replied,—“Oh! it
is but a short way, and if I am not sick in church, I don’t mind it.”
If I were called upon to give a description of the usual divisions and
arrangements of the day, I should find it a very difficult matter. I
had all my meals in the schoolroom with my pupils, at such times as
suited their fancy: sometimes they would ring for dinner before it was
half cooked; sometimes they would keep it waiting on the table for
above an hour, and then be out of humour because the potatoes were
cold, and the gravy covered with cakes of solid fat; sometimes they
would have tea at four; frequently, they would storm at the servants
because it was not in precisely at five; and when these orders were
obeyed, by way of encouragement to punctuality, they would keep it on
the table till seven or eight.
Their hours of study were managed in much the same way; my judgment or
convenience was never once consulted. Sometimes Matilda and John would
determine “to get all the plaguy business over before breakfast,” and
send the maid to call me up at half-past five, without any scruple or
apology; sometimes, I was told to be ready precisely at six, and,
having dressed in a hurry, came down to an empty room, and after
waiting a long time in suspense, discovered that they had changed their
minds, and were still in bed; or, perhaps, if it were a fine summer
morning, Brown would come to tell me that the young ladies and
gentlemen had taken a holiday, and were gone out; and then I was kept
waiting for breakfast till I was almost ready to faint: they having
fortified themselves with something before they went.
Often they would do their lessons in the open air; which I had nothing
to say against: except that I frequently caught cold by sitting on the
damp grass, or from exposure to the evening dew, or some insidious
draught, which seemed to have no injurious effect on them. It was quite
right that they should be hardy; yet, surely, they might have been
taught some consideration for others who were less so. But I must not
blame them for what was, perhaps, my own fault; for I never made any
particular objections to sitting where they pleased; foolishly choosing
to risk the consequences, rather than trouble them for my convenience.
Their indecorous manner of doing their lessons was quite as remarkable
as the caprice displayed in their choice of time and place. While
receiving my instructions, or repeating what they had learned, they
would lounge upon the sofa, lie on the rug, stretch, yawn, talk to each
other, or look out of the window; whereas, I could not so much as stir
the fire, or pick up the handkerchief I had dropped, without being
rebuked for inattention by one of my pupils, or told that “mamma would
not like me to be so careless.”
The servants, seeing in what little estimation the governess was held
by both parents and children, regulated their behaviour by the same
standard. I have frequently stood up for them, at the risk of some
injury to myself, against the tyranny and injustice of their young
masters and mistresses; and I always endeavoured to give them as little
trouble as possible: but they entirely neglected my comfort, despised
my requests, and slighted my directions. All servants, I am convinced,
would not have done so; but domestics in general, being ignorant and
little accustomed to reason and reflection, are too easily corrupted by
the carelessness and bad example of those above them; and these, I
think, were not of the best order to begin with.
I sometimes felt myself degraded by the life I led, and ashamed of
submitting to so many indignities; and sometimes I thought myself a
fool for caring so much about them, and feared I must be sadly wanting
in Christian humility, or that charity which “suffereth long and is
kind, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, beareth all things,
endureth all things.”
But, with time and patience, matters began to be slightly ameliorated:
slowly, it is true, and almost imperceptibly; but I got rid of my male
pupils (that was no trifling advantage), and the girls, as I intimated
before concerning one of them, became a little less insolent, and began
to show some symptoms of esteem. “Miss Grey was a queer creature: she
never flattered, and did not praise them half enough; but whenever she
did speak favourably of them, or anything belonging to them, they could
be quite sure her approbation was sincere. She was very obliging,
quiet, and peaceable in the main, but there were some things that put
her out of temper: they did not much care for that, to be sure, but
still it was better to keep her in tune; as when she was in a good
humour she would talk to them, and be very agreeable and amusing
sometimes, in her way; which was quite different to mamma’s, but still
very well for a change. She had her own opinions on every subject, and
kept steadily to them—very tiresome opinions they often were; as she
was always thinking of what was right and what was wrong, and had a
strange reverence for matters connected with religion, and an
unaccountable liking to good people.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE “COMING OUT”
At eighteen, Miss Murray was to emerge from the quiet obscurity of the
schoolroom into the full blaze of the fashionable world—as much of it,
at least, as could be had out of London; for her papa could not be
persuaded to leave his rural pleasures and pursuits, even for a few
weeks’ residence in town. She was to make her _débût_ on the third of
January, at a magnificent ball, which her mamma proposed to give to all
the nobility and choice gentry of O—— and its neighbourhood for twenty
miles round. Of course, she looked forward to it with the wildest
impatience, and the most extravagant anticipations of delight.
“Miss Grey,” said she, one evening, a month before the all-important
day, as I was perusing a long and extremely interesting letter of my
sister’s—which I had just glanced at in the morning to see that it
contained no very bad news, and kept till now, unable before to find a
quiet moment for reading it,—“Miss Grey, do put away that dull, stupid
letter, and listen to me! I’m sure my talk must be far more amusing
than that.”
She seated herself on the low stool at my feet; and I, suppressing a
sigh of vexation, began to fold up the epistle.
“You should tell the good people at home not to bore you with such long
letters,” said she; “and, above all, do bid them write on proper
note-paper, and not on those great vulgar sheets. You should see the
charming little lady-like notes mamma writes to her friends.”
“The good people at home,” replied I, “know very well that the longer
their letters are, the better I like them. I should be very sorry to
receive a charming little lady-like note from any of them; and I
thought you were too much of a lady yourself, Miss Murray, to talk
about the ‘vulgarity’ of writing on a large sheet of paper.”
“Well, I only said it to tease you. But now I want to talk about the
ball; and to tell you that you positively must put off your holidays
till it is over.”
“Why so?—I shall not be present at the ball.”
“No, but you will see the rooms decked out before it begins, and hear
the music, and, above all, see me in my splendid new dress. I shall be
so charming, you’ll be ready to worship me—you really must stay.”
“I should like to see you very much; but I shall have many
opportunities of seeing you equally charming, on the occasion of some
of the numberless balls and parties that are to be, and I cannot
disappoint my friends by postponing my return so long.”
“Oh, never mind your friends! Tell them we won’t let you go.”
“But, to say the truth, it would be a disappointment to myself: I long
to see them as much as they to see me—perhaps more.”
“Well, but it is such a short time.”
“Nearly a fortnight by my computation; and, besides, I cannot bear the
thoughts of a Christmas spent from home: and, moreover, my sister is
going to be married.”
“Is she—when?”
“Not till next month; but I want to be there to assist her in making
preparations, and to make the best of her company while we have her.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I’ve only got the news in this letter, which you stigmatize as dull
and stupid, and won’t let me read.”
“To whom is she to be married?”
“To Mr. Richardson, the vicar of a neighbouring parish.”
“Is he rich?”
“No; only comfortable.”
“Is he handsome?”
“No; only decent.”
“Young?”
“No; only middling.”
“Oh, mercy! what a wretch! What sort of a house is it?”
“A quiet little vicarage, with an ivy-clad porch, an old-fashioned
garden, and—”
“Oh, stop!—you’ll make me sick. How _can_ she bear it?”
“I expect she’ll not only be able to bear it, but to be very happy. You
did not ask me if Mr. Richardson were a good, wise, or amiable man; I
could have answered Yes, to all these questions—at least so Mary
thinks, and I hope she will not find herself mistaken.”
“But—miserable creature! how can she think of spending her life there,
cooped up with that nasty old man; and no hope of change?”
“He is not old: he’s only six or seven and thirty; and she herself is
twenty-eight, and as sober as if she were fifty.”
“Oh! that’s better then—they’re well matched; but do they call him the
‘worthy vicar’?”
“I don’t know; but if they do, I believe he merits the epithet.”
“Mercy, how shocking! and will she wear a white apron and make pies and
puddings?”
“I don’t know about the white apron, but I dare say she will make pies
and puddings now and then; but that will be no great hardship, as she
has done it before.”
“And will she go about in a plain shawl, and a large straw bonnet,
carrying tracts and bone soup to her husband’s poor parishioners?”
“I’m not clear about that; but I dare say she will do her best to make
them comfortable in body and mind, in accordance with our mother’s
example.”
CHAPTER IX.
THE BALL
“Now, Miss Grey,” exclaimed Miss Murray, immediately I entered the
schoolroom, after having taken off my outdoor garments, upon returning
from my four weeks’ recreation, “Now—shut the door, and sit down, and
I’ll tell you all about the ball.”
“No—damn it, no!” shouted Miss Matilda. “Hold your tongue, can’t ye?
and let me tell her about my new mare—_such_ a splendour, Miss Grey! a
fine blood mare—”
“Do be quiet, Matilda; and let me tell my news first.”
“No, no, Rosalie; you’ll be such a damned long time over it—she shall
hear me first—I’ll be hanged if she doesn’t!”
“I’m sorry to hear, Miss Matilda, that you’ve not got rid of that
shocking habit yet.”
“Well, I can’t help it: but I’ll never say a wicked word again, if
you’ll only listen to me, and tell Rosalie to hold her confounded
tongue.”
Rosalie remonstrated, and I thought I should have been torn in pieces
between them; but Miss Matilda having the loudest voice, her sister at
length gave in, and suffered her to tell her story first: so I was
doomed to hear a long account of her splendid mare, its breeding and
pedigree, its paces, its action, its spirit, &c., and of her own
amazing skill and courage in riding it; concluding with an assertion
that she could clear a five-barred gate “like winking,” that papa said
she might hunt the next time the hounds met, and mamma had ordered a
bright scarlet hunting-habit for her.
“Oh, Matilda! what stories you are telling!” exclaimed her sister.
“Well,” answered she, no whit abashed, “I know I _could_ clear a
five-barred gate, if I tried, and papa _will_ say I may hunt, and mamma
_will_ order the habit when I ask it.”
“Well, now get along,” replied Miss Murray; “and do, dear Matilda, try
to be a little more lady-like. Miss Grey, I wish you would tell her not
to use such shocking words; she will call her horse a mare: it is so
inconceivably shocking! and then she uses such dreadful expressions in
describing it: she must have learned it from the grooms. It nearly puts
me into fits when she begins.”
“I learned it from papa, you ass! and his jolly friends,” said the
young lady, vigorously cracking a hunting-whip, which she habitually
carried in her hand. “I’m as good judge of horseflesh as the best of
’m.”
“Well, now get along, you shocking girl! I really shall take a fit if
you go on in such a way. And now, Miss Grey, attend to me; I’m going to
tell you about the ball. You must be dying to hear about it, I know.
Oh, _such_ a ball! You never saw or heard, or read, or dreamt of
anything like it in all your life. The decorations, the entertainment,
the supper, the music were indescribable! and then the guests! There
were two noblemen, three baronets, and five titled ladies, and other
ladies and gentlemen innumerable. The ladies, of course, were of no
consequence to me, except to put me in a good humour with myself, by
showing how ugly and awkward most of them were; and the best, mamma
told me,—the most transcendent beauties among them, were nothing to me.
As for me, Miss Grey—I’m so _sorry_ you didn’t see me! I was
_charming_—wasn’t I, Matilda?”
“Middling.”
“No, but I really was—at least so mamma said—and Brown and Williamson.
Brown said she was sure no gentleman could set eyes on me without
falling in love that minute; and so I may be allowed to be a little
vain. I know you think me a shocking, conceited, frivolous girl; but
then, you know, I don’t attribute it _all_ to my personal attractions:
I give some praise to the hairdresser, and some to my exquisitely
lovely dress—you must see it to-morrow—white gauze over pink satin—and
so _sweetly_ made! and a necklace and bracelet of beautiful, large
pearls!”
“I have no doubt you looked very charming: but should that delight you
so very much?”
“Oh, no!—not that alone: but, then, I was so much admired; and I made
so _many_ conquests in that one night—you’d be astonished to hear—”
“But what good will they do you?”
“What good! Think of any woman asking that!”
“Well, I should think one conquest would be enough; and too much,
unless the subjugation were mutual.”
“Oh, but you know I never agree with you on those points. Now, wait a
bit, and I’ll tell you my principal admirers—those who made themselves
very conspicuous that night and after: for I’ve been to two parties
since. Unfortunately the two noblemen, Lord G—— and Lord F——, were
married, or I might have condescended to be particularly gracious to
_them_; as it was, I did not: though Lord F——, who hates his wife, was
evidently much struck with me. He asked me to dance with him twice—he
is a charming dancer, by-the-by, and so am I: you can’t think how well
I did—I was astonished at myself. My lord was very complimentary
too—rather too much so in fact—and I thought proper to be a little
haughty and repellent; but I had the pleasure of seeing his nasty,
cross wife ready to perish with spite and vexation—”
“Oh, Miss Murray! you don’t mean to say that such a thing could really
give you pleasure? However cross or—”
“Well, I know it’s very wrong;—but never mind! I mean to be good some
time—only don’t preach now, there’s a good creature. I haven’t told you
half yet. Let me see. Oh! I was going to tell you how many
unmistakeable admirers I had:—Sir Thomas Ashby was one,—Sir Hugh
Meltham and Sir Broadley Wilson are old codgers, only fit companions
for papa and mamma. Sir Thomas is young, rich, and gay; but an ugly
beast, nevertheless: however, mamma says I should not mind that after a
few months’ acquaintance. Then, there was Henry Meltham, Sir Hugh’s
younger son; rather good-looking, and a pleasant fellow to flirt with:
but _being_ a younger son, that is all he is good for; then there was
young Mr. Green, rich enough, but of no family, and a great stupid
fellow, a mere country booby! and then, our good rector, Mr. Hatfield:
an _humble_ admirer he ought to consider himself; but I fear he has
forgotten to number humility among his stock of Christian virtues.”
“Was Mr. Hatfield at the ball?”
“Yes, to be sure. Did you think he was too good to go?”
“I thought be might consider it unclerical.”
“By no means. He did not profane his cloth by dancing; but it was with
difficulty he could refrain, poor man: he looked as if he were dying to
ask my hand just for _one_ set; and—oh! by-the-by—he’s got a new
curate: that seedy old fellow Mr. Bligh has got his long-wished-for
living at last, and is gone.”
“And what is the new one like?”
“Oh, _such_ a beast! Weston his name is. I can give you his description
in three words—an insensate, ugly, stupid blockhead. That’s four, but
no matter—enough of _him_ now.”
Then she returned to the ball, and gave me a further account of her
deportment there, and at the several parties she had since attended;
and further particulars respecting Sir Thomas Ashby and Messrs.
Meltham, Green, and Hatfield, and the ineffaceable impression she had
wrought upon each of them.
“Well, which of the four do you like best?” said I, suppressing my
third or fourth yawn.
“I detest them all!” replied she, shaking her bright ringlets in
vivacious scorn.
“That means, I suppose, ‘I like them all’—but which most?”
“No, I really detest them all; but Harry Meltham is the handsomest and
most amusing, and Mr. Hatfield the cleverest, Sir Thomas the wickedest,
and Mr. Green the most stupid. But the one I’m to have, I suppose, if
I’m doomed to have any of them, is Sir Thomas Ashby.”
“Surely not, if he’s so wicked, and if you dislike him?”
“Oh, I don’t mind his being wicked: he’s all the better for that; and
as for disliking him—I shouldn’t greatly object to being Lady Ashby of
Ashby Park, if I must marry. But if I could be always young, I would be
always single. I should like to enjoy myself thoroughly, and coquet
with all the world, till I am on the verge of being called an old maid;
and then, to escape the infamy of that, after having made ten thousand
conquests, to break all their hearts save one, by marrying some
high-born, rich, indulgent husband, whom, on the other hand, fifty
ladies were dying to have.”
“Well, as long as you entertain these views, keep single by all means,
and never marry at all: not even to escape the infamy of
old-maidenhood.”
CHAPTER X.
THE CHURCH
“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of the new curate?” asked Miss
Murray, on our return from church the Sunday after the recommencement
of our duties.
“I can scarcely tell,” was my reply: “I have not even heard him
preach.”
“Well, but you saw him, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I cannot pretend to judge of a man’s character by a single
cursory glance at his face.”
“But isn’t he ugly?”
“He did not strike me as being particularly so; I don’t dislike that
cast of countenance: but the only thing I particularly noticed about
him was his style of reading; which appeared to me good—infinitely
better, at least, than Mr. Hatfield’s. He read the Lessons as if he
were bent on giving full effect to every passage; it seemed as if the
most careless person could not have helped attending, nor the most
ignorant have failed to understand; and the prayers he read as if he
were not reading at all, but praying earnestly and sincerely from his
own heart.”
“Oh, yes, that’s all he is good for: he can plod through the service
well enough; but he has not a single idea beyond it.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh! I know perfectly well; I am an excellent judge in such matters.
Did you see how he went out of church? stumping along—as if there were
nobody there but himself—never looking to the right hand or the left,
and evidently thinking of nothing but just getting out of the church,
and, perhaps, home to his dinner: his great stupid head could contain
no other idea.”
“I suppose you would have had him cast a glance into the squire’s pew,”
said I, laughing at the vehemence of her hostility.
“Indeed! I should have been highly indignant if he had dared to do such
a thing!” replied she, haughtily tossing her head; then, after a
moment’s reflection, she added—“Well, well! I suppose he’s good enough
for his place: but I’m glad I’m not dependent on _him_ for
amusement—that’s all. Did you see how Mr. Hatfield hurried out to get a
bow from me, and be in time to put us into the carriage?”
“Yes,” answered I; internally adding, “and I thought it somewhat
derogatory to his dignity as a clergyman to come flying from the pulpit
in such eager haste to shake hands with the squire, and hand his wife
and daughters into their carriage: and, moreover, I owe him a grudge
for nearly shutting me out of it”; for, in fact, though I was standing
before his face, close beside the carriage steps, waiting to get in, he
would persist in putting them up and closing the door, till one of the
family stopped him by calling out that the governess was not in yet;
then, without a word of apology, he departed, wishing them
good-morning, and leaving the footman to finish the business.
_Nota bene_.—Mr. Hatfield never spoke to me, neither did Sir Hugh or
Lady Meltham, nor Mr. Harry or Miss Meltham, nor Mr. Green or his
sisters, nor any other lady or gentleman who frequented that church:
nor, in fact, any one that visited at Horton Lodge.
Miss Murray ordered the carriage again, in the afternoon, for herself
and her sister: she said it was too cold for them to enjoy themselves
in the garden; and besides, she believed Harry Meltham would be at
church. “For,” said she, smiling slyly at her own fair image in the
glass, “he has been a most exemplary attendant at church these last few
Sundays: you would think he was quite a good Christian. And you may go
with us, Miss Grey: I want you to see him; he is so greatly improved
since he returned from abroad—you can’t think! And besides, then you
will have an opportunity of seeing the beautiful Mr. Weston again, and
of hearing him preach.”
I did hear him preach, and was decidedly pleased with the evangelical
truth of his doctrine, as well as the earnest simplicity of his manner,
and the clearness and force of his style. It was truly refreshing to
hear such a sermon, after being so long accustomed to the dry, prosy
discourses of the former curate, and the still less edifying harangues
of the rector. Mr. Hatfield would come sailing up the aisle, or rather
sweeping along like a whirlwind, with his rich silk gown flying behind
him and rustling against the pew doors, mount the pulpit like a
conqueror ascending his triumphal car; then, sinking on the velvet
cushion in an attitude of studied grace, remain in silent prostration
for a certain time; then mutter over a Collect, and gabble through the
Lord’s Prayer, rise, draw off one bright lavender glove, to give the
congregation the benefit of his sparkling rings, lightly pass his
fingers through his well-curled hair, flourish a cambric handkerchief,
recite a very short passage, or, perhaps, a mere phrase of Scripture,
as a head-piece to his discourse, and, finally, deliver a composition
which, as a composition, might be considered good, though far too
studied and too artificial to be pleasing to me: the propositions were
well laid down, the arguments logically conducted; and yet, it was
sometimes hard to listen quietly throughout, without some slight
demonstrations of disapproval or impatience.
His favourite subjects were church discipline, rites and ceremonies,
apostolical succession, the duty of reverence and obedience to the
clergy, the atrocious criminality of dissent, the absolute necessity of
observing all the forms of godliness, the reprehensible presumption of
individuals who attempted to think for themselves in matters connected
with religion, or to be guided by their own interpretations of
Scripture, and, occasionally (to please his wealthy parishioners) the
necessity of deferential obedience from the poor to the rich—supporting
his maxims and exhortations throughout with quotations from the
Fathers: with whom he appeared to be far better acquainted than with
the Apostles and Evangelists, and whose importance he seemed to
consider at least equal to theirs. But now and then he gave us a sermon
of a different order—what some would call a very good one; but sunless
and severe: representing the Deity as a terrible taskmaster rather than
a benevolent father. Yet, as I listened, I felt inclined to think the
man was sincere in all he said: he must have changed his views, and
become decidedly religious, gloomy and austere, yet still devout. But
such illusions were usually dissipated, on coming out of church, by
hearing his voice in jocund colloquy with some of the Melthams or
Greens, or, perhaps, the Murrays themselves; probably laughing at his
own sermon, and hoping that he had given the rascally people something
to think about; perchance, exulting in the thought that old Betty
Holmes would now lay aside the sinful indulgence of her pipe, which had
been her daily solace for upwards of thirty years: that George Higgins
would be frightened out of his Sabbath evening walks, and Thomas
Jackson would be sorely troubled in his conscience, and shaken in his
sure and certain hope of a joyful resurrection at the last day.
Thus, I could not but conclude that Mr. Hatfield was one of those who
“bind heavy burdens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them upon men’s
shoulders, while they themselves will not move them with one of their
fingers”; and who “make the word of God of none effect by their
traditions, teaching for doctrines the commandments of men.” I was well
pleased to observe that the new curate resembled him, as far as I could
see, in none of these particulars.
“Well, Miss Grey, what do you think of him now?” said Miss Murray, as
we took our places in the carriage after service.
“No harm still,” replied I.
“No harm!” repeated she in amazement. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, I think no worse of him than I did before.”
“No worse! I should think not indeed—quite the contrary! Is he not
greatly improved?”
“Oh, yes; very much indeed,” replied I; for I had now discovered that
it was Harry Meltham she meant, not Mr. Weston. That gentleman had
eagerly come forward to speak to the young ladies: a thing he would
hardly have ventured to do had their mother been present; he had
likewise politely handed them into the carriage. He had not attempted
to shut me out, like Mr. Hatfield; neither, of course, had he offered
me his assistance (I should not have accepted it, if he had), but as
long as the door remained open he had stood smirking and chatting with
them, and then lifted his hat and departed to his own abode: but I had
scarcely noticed him all the time. My companions, however, had been
more observant; and, as we rolled along, they discussed between them
not only his looks, words, and actions, but every feature of his face,
and every article of his apparel.
“You shan’t have him all to yourself, Rosalie,” said Miss Matilda at
the close of this discussion; “I like him: I know he’d make a nice,
jolly companion for me.”
“Well, you’re quite welcome to him, Matilda,” replied her sister, in a
tone of affected indifference.
“And I’m sure,” continued the other, “he admires me quite as much as he
does you; doesn’t he, Miss Grey?”
“I don’t know; I’m not acquainted with his sentiments.”
“Well, but he _does_ though.”
“My _dear_ Matilda! nobody will ever admire you till you get rid of
your rough, awkward manners.”
“Oh, stuff! Harry Meltham likes such manners; and so do papa’s
friends.”
“Well, you _may_ captivate old men, and younger sons; but nobody else,
I am sure, will ever take a fancy to you.”
“I don’t care: I’m not always grabbing after money, like you and mamma.
If my husband is able to keep a few good horses and dogs, I shall be
quite satisfied; and all the rest may go to the devil!”
“Well, if you use such shocking expressions, I’m sure no real gentleman
will ever venture to come near you. Really, Miss Grey, you should not
let her do so.”
“I can’t possibly prevent it, Miss Murray.”
“And you’re quite mistaken, Matilda, in supposing that Harry Meltham
admires you: I assure you he does nothing of the kind.”
Matilda was beginning an angry reply; but, happily, our journey was now
at an end; and the contention was cut short by the footman opening the
carriage-door, and letting down the steps for our descent.
CHAPTER XI.
THE COTTAGERS
As I had now only one regular pupil—though she contrived to give me as
much trouble as three or four ordinary ones, and though her sister
still took lessons in German and drawing—I had considerably more time
at my own disposal than I had ever been blessed with before, since I
had taken upon me the governess’s yoke; which time I devoted partly to
correspondence with my friends, partly to reading, study, and the
practice of music, singing, &c., partly to wandering in the grounds or
adjacent fields, with my pupils if they wanted me, alone if they did
not.
Often, when they had no more agreeable occupation at hand, the Misses
Murray would amuse themselves with visiting the poor cottagers on their
father’s estate, to receive their flattering homage, or to hear the old
stories or gossiping news of the garrulous old women; or, perhaps, to
enjoy the purer pleasure of making the poor people happy with their
cheering presence and their occasional gifts, so easily bestowed, so
thankfully received. Sometimes, I was called upon to accompany one or
both of the sisters in these visits; and sometimes I was desired to go
alone, to fulfil some promise which they had been more ready to make
than to perform; to carry some small donation, or read to one who was
sick or seriously disposed: and thus I made a few acquaintances among
the cottagers; and, occasionally, I went to see them on my own account.
I generally had more satisfaction in going alone than with either of
the young ladies; for they, chiefly owing to their defective education,
comported themselves towards their inferiors in a manner that was
highly disagreeable for me to witness. They never, in thought,
exchanged places with them; and, consequently, had no consideration for
their feelings, regarding them as an order of beings entirely different
from themselves. They would watch the poor creatures at their meals,
making uncivil remarks about their food, and their manner of eating;
they would laugh at their simple notions and provincial expressions,
till some of them scarcely durst venture to speak; they would call the
grave elderly men and women old fools and silly old blockheads to their
faces: and all this without meaning to offend. I could see that the
people were often hurt and annoyed by such conduct, though their fear
of the “grand ladies” prevented them from testifying any resentment;
but _they_ never perceived it. They thought that, as these cottagers
were poor and untaught, they must be stupid and brutish; and as long as
they, their superiors, condescended to talk to them, and to give them
shillings and half-crowns, or articles of clothing, they had a right to
amuse themselves, even at their expense; and the people must adore them
as angels of light, condescending to minister to their necessities, and
enlighten their humble dwellings.
I made many and various attempts to deliver my pupils from these
delusive notions without alarming their pride—which was easily
offended, and not soon appeased—but with little apparent result; and I
know not which was the more reprehensible of the two: Matilda was more
rude and boisterous; but from Rosalie’s womanly age and lady-like
exterior better things were expected: yet she was as provokingly
careless and inconsiderate as a giddy child of twelve.
One bright day in the last week of February, I was walking in the park,
enjoying the threefold luxury of solitude, a book, and pleasant
weather; for Miss Matilda had set out on her daily ride, and Miss
Murray was gone in the carriage with her mamma to pay some morning
calls. But it struck me that I ought to leave these selfish pleasures,
and the park with its glorious canopy of bright blue sky, the west wind
sounding through its yet leafless branches, the snow-wreaths still
lingering in its hollows, but melting fast beneath the sun, and the
graceful deer browsing on its moist herbage already assuming the
freshness and verdure of spring—and go to the cottage of one Nancy
Brown, a widow, whose son was at work all day in the fields, and who
was afflicted with an inflammation in the eyes; which had for some time
incapacitated her from reading: to her own great grief, for she was a
woman of a serious, thoughtful turn of mind. I accordingly went, and
found her alone, as usual, in her little, close, dark cottage, redolent
of smoke and confined air, but as tidy and clean as she could make it.
She was seated beside her little fire (consisting of a few red cinders
and a bit of stick), busily knitting, with a small sackcloth cushion at
her feet, placed for the accommodation of her gentle friend the cat,
who was seated thereon, with her long tail half encircling her velvet
paws, and her half-closed eyes dreamily gazing on the low, crooked
fender.
“Well, Nancy, how are you to-day?”
“Why, middling, Miss, i’ myseln—my eyes is no better, but I’m a deal
easier i’ my mind nor I have been,” replied she, rising to welcome me
with a contented smile; which I was glad to see, for Nancy had been
somewhat afflicted with religious melancholy. I congratulated her upon
the change. She agreed that it was a great blessing, and expressed
herself “right down thankful for it”; adding, “If it please God to
spare my sight, and make me so as I can read my Bible again, I think I
shall be as happy as a queen.”
“I hope He will, Nancy,” replied I; “and, meantime, I’ll come and read
to you now and then, when I have a little time to spare.”
With expressions of grateful pleasure, the poor woman moved to get me a
chair; but, as I saved her the trouble, she busied herself with
stirring the fire, and adding a few more sticks to the decaying embers;
and then, taking her well-used Bible from the shelf, dusted it
carefully, and gave it me. On my asking if there was any particular
part she should like me to read, she answered—
“Well, Miss Grey, if it’s all the same to you, I should like to hear
that chapter in the First Epistle of St. John, that says, ‘God is love,
and he that dwelleth in love dwelleth in God, and God in him.’”
With a little searching, I found these words in the fourth chapter.
When I came to the seventh verse she interrupted me, and, with needless
apologies for such a liberty, desired me to read it very slowly, that
she might take it all in, and dwell on every word; hoping I would
excuse her, as she was but a “simple body.”
“The wisest person,” I replied, “might think over each of these verses
for an hour, and be all the better for it; and I would rather read them
slowly than not.”
Accordingly, I finished the chapter as slowly as need be, and at the
same time as impressively as I could; my auditor listened most
attentively all the while, and sincerely thanked me when I had done. I
sat still about half a minute to give her time to reflect upon it;
when, somewhat to my surprise, she broke the pause by asking me how I
liked Mr. Weston?
“I don’t know,” I replied, a little startled by the suddenness of the
question; “I think he preaches very well.”
“Ay, he does so; and talks well too.”
“Does he?”
“He does. Maybe, you haven’t seen him—not to talk to him much, yet?”
“No, I never see any one to talk to—except the young ladies of the
Hall.”
“Ah; they’re nice, kind young ladies; but they can’t talk as he does.”
“Then he comes to see you, Nancy?”
“He does, Miss; and I’se thankful for it. He comes to see all us poor
bodies a deal ofter nor Maister Bligh, or th’ Rector ever did; an’ it’s
well he does, for he’s always welcome: we can’t say as much for th’
Rector—there is “at says they’re fair feared on him. When he comes into
a house, they say he’s sure to find summut wrong, and begin a-calling
’em as soon as he crosses th’ doorstuns: but maybe he thinks it his
duty like to tell ’em what’s wrong. And very oft he comes o’ purpose to
reprove folk for not coming to church, or not kneeling an’ standing
when other folk does, or going to the Methody chapel, or summut o’ that
sort: but I can’t say ’at he ever fund much fault wi’ me. He came to
see me once or twice, afore Maister Weston come, when I was so ill
troubled in my mind; and as I had only very poor health besides, I made
bold to send for him—and he came right enough. I was sore distressed,
Miss Grey—thank God, it’s owered now—but when I took my Bible, I could
get no comfort of it at all. That very chapter “at you’ve just been
reading troubled me as much as aught—‘He that loveth not, knoweth not
God.’ It seemed fearsome to me; for I felt that I loved neither God nor
man as I should do, and could not, if I tried ever so. And th’ chapter
afore, where it says,—‘He that is born of God cannot commit sin.’ And
another place where it says,—‘Love is the fulfilling of the Law.’ And
many, many others, Miss: I should fair weary you out, if I was to tell
them all. But all seemed to condemn me, and to show me “at I was not in
the right way; and as I knew not how to get into it, I sent our Bill to
beg Maister Hatfield to be as kind as look in on me some day and when
he came, I telled him all my troubles.”
“And what did he say, Nancy?”
“Why, Miss, he seemed to scorn me. I might be mista’en—but he like gave
a sort of a whistle, and I saw a bit of a smile on his face; and he
said, ‘Oh, it’s all stuff! You’ve been among the Methodists, my good
woman.’ But I telled him I’d never been near the Methodies. And then he
said,—‘Well,’ says he, ‘you must come to church, where you’ll hear the
Scriptures properly explained, instead of sitting poring over your
Bible at home.’
“But I telled him I always used coming to church when I had my health;
but this very cold winter weather I hardly durst venture so far—and me
so bad wi’ th’ rheumatic and all.
“But he says, ‘It’ll do your rheumatiz good to hobble to church:
there’s nothing like exercise for the rheumatiz. You can walk about the
house well enough; why can’t you walk to church? The fact is,’ says he,
‘you’re getting too fond of your ease. It’s always easy to find excuses
for shirking one’s duty.’
“But then, you know, Miss Grey, it wasn’t so. However, I telled him I’d
try. ‘But please, sir,’ says I, ‘if I do go to church, what the better
shall I be? I want to have my sins blotted out, and to feel that they
are remembered no more against me, and that the love of God is shed
abroad in my heart; and if I can get no good by reading my Bible an’
saying my prayers at home, what good shall I get by going to church?’”
“‘The church,’ says he, ‘is the place appointed by God for His worship.
It’s your duty to go there as often as you can. If you want comfort,
you must seek it in the path of duty,’—an’ a deal more he said, but I
cannot remember all his fine words. However, it all came to this, that
I was to come to church as oft as ever I could, and bring my
prayer-book with me, an’ read up all the sponsers after the clerk, an’
stand, an’ kneel, an’ sit, an’ do all as I should, and take the Lord’s
Supper at every opportunity, an’ hearken his sermons, and Maister
Bligh’s, an’ it ’ud be all right: if I went on doing my duty, I should
get a blessing at last.
“‘But if you get no comfort that way,’ says he, ‘it’s all up.’
“‘Then, sir,’ says I, ‘should you think I’m a reprobate?’
“‘Why,’ says he—he says, ‘if you do your best to get to heaven and
can’t manage it, you must be one of those that seek to enter in at the
strait gate and shall not be able.’
“An’ then he asked me if I’d seen any of the ladies o’ th’ Hall about
that mornin’; so I telled him where I had seen the young misses go on
th’ Moss Lane;—an’ he kicked my poor cat right across th’ floor, an’
went after ’em as gay as a lark: but I was very sad. That last word o’
his fair sunk into my heart, an’ lay there like a lump o’ lead, till I
was weary to bear it.
“Howsever, I follered his advice: I thought he meant it all for th’
best, though he _had_ a queer way with him. But you know, Miss, he’s
rich an’ young, and such like cannot right understand the thoughts of a
poor old woman such as me. But, howsever, I did my best to do all as he
bade me—but maybe I’m plaguing you, Miss, wi’ my chatter.”
“Oh, no, Nancy! Go on, and tell me all.”
“Well, my rheumatiz got better—I know not whether wi’ going to church
or not, but one frosty Sunday I got this cold i’ my eyes. Th’
inflammation didn’t come on all at once like, but bit by bit—but I
wasn’t going to tell you about my eyes, I was talking about my trouble
o’ mind;—and to tell the truth, Miss Grey, I don’t think it was anyways
eased by coming to church—nought to speak on, at least: I like got my
health better; but that didn’t mend my soul. I hearkened and hearkened
the ministers, and read an’ read at my prayer-book; but it was all like
sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal: the sermons I couldn’t
understand, an’ th’ prayer-book only served to show me how wicked I
was, that I could read such good words an’ never be no better for it,
and oftens feel it a sore labour an’ a heavy task beside, instead of a
blessing and a privilege as all good Christians does. It seemed like as
all were barren an’ dark to me. And then, them dreadful words, ‘Many
shall seek to enter in, and shall not be able.’ They like as they fair
dried up my sperrit.
“But one Sunday, when Maister Hatfield gave out about the sacrament, I
noticed where he said, ‘If there be any of you that cannot quiet his
own conscience, but requireth further comfort or counsel, let him come
to me, or some other discreet and learned minister of God’s word, and
open his grief!’ So next Sunday morning, afore service, I just looked
into the vestry, an’ began a-talking to th’ Rector again. I hardly
could fashion to take such a liberty, but I thought when my soul was at
stake I shouldn’t stick at a trifle. But he said he hadn’t time to
attend to me then.
“‘And, indeed,’ says he, ‘I’ve nothing to say to you but what I’ve said
before. Take the sacrament, of course, and go on doing your duty; and
if that won’t serve you, nothing will. So don’t bother me any more.’
“So then, I went away. But I heard Maister Weston—Maister Weston was
there, Miss—this was his first Sunday at Horton, you know, an’ he was
i’ th’ vestry in his surplice, helping th’ Rector on with his gown—”
“Yes, Nancy.”
“And I heard him ask Maister Hatfield who I was, an’ he says, ‘Oh,
she’s a canting old fool.’
“And I was very ill grieved, Miss Grey; but I went to my seat, and I
tried to do my duty as aforetime: but I like got no peace. An’ I even
took the sacrament; but I felt as though I were eating and drinking to
my own damnation all th’ time. So I went home, sorely troubled.
“But next day, afore I’d gotten fettled up—for indeed, Miss, I’d no
heart to sweeping an’ fettling, an’ washing pots; so I sat me down i’
th’ muck—who should come in but Maister Weston! I started siding stuff
then, an’ sweeping an’ doing; and I expected he’d begin a-calling me
for my idle ways, as Maister Hatfield would a’ done; but I was
mista’en: he only bid me good-mornin’ like, in a quiet dacent way. So I
dusted him a chair, an’ fettled up th’ fireplace a bit; but I hadn’t
forgotten th’ Rector’s words, so says I, ‘I wonder, sir, you should
give yourself that trouble, to come so far to see a “canting old fool,”
such as me.’
“He seemed taken aback at that; but he would fain persuade me “at the
Rector was only in jest; and when that wouldn’t do, he says, ‘Well,
Nancy, you shouldn’t think so much about it: Mr. Hatfield was a little
out of humour just then: you know we’re none of us perfect—even Moses
spoke unadvisedly with his lips. But now sit down a minute, if you can
spare the time, and tell me all your doubts and fears; and I’ll try to
remove them.’
“So I sat me down anent him. He was quite a stranger, you know, Miss
Grey, and even _younger_ nor Maister Hatfield, I believe; and I had
thought him not so pleasant-looking as him, and rather a bit crossish,
at first, to look at; but he spake so civil like—and when th’ cat, poor
thing, jumped on to his knee, he only stroked her, and gave a bit of a
smile: so I thought that was a good sign; for once, when she did so to
th’ Rector, he knocked her off, like as it might be in scorn and anger,
poor thing. But you can’t expect a cat to know manners like a
Christian, you know, Miss Grey.”
“No; of course not, Nancy. But what did Mr. Weston say then?”
“He said nought; but he listened to me as steady an’ patient as could
be, an’ never a bit o’ scorn about him; so I went on, an’ telled him
all, just as I’ve telled you—an’ more too.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘Mr. Hatfield was quite right in telling you to
persevere in doing your duty; but in advising you to go to church and
attend to the service, and so on, he didn’t mean that was the whole of
a Christian’s duty: he only thought you might there learn what more was
to be done, and be led to take delight in those exercises, instead of
finding them a task and a burden. And if you had asked him to explain
those words that trouble you so much, I think he would have told you,
that if many shall seek to enter in at the strait gate and shall not be
able, it is their own sins that hinder them; just as a man with a large
sack on his back might wish to pass through a narrow doorway, and find
it impossible to do so unless he would leave his sack behind him. But
you, Nancy, I dare say, have no sins that you would not gladly throw
aside, if you knew how?’
“‘Indeed, sir, you speak truth,’ said I.
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘you know the first and great commandment—and the
second, which is like unto it—on which two commandments hang all the
law and the prophets? You say you cannot love God; but it strikes me
that if you rightly consider who and what He is, you cannot help it. He
is your father, your best friend: every blessing, everything good,
pleasant, or useful, comes from Him; and everything evil, everything
you have reason to hate, to shun, or to fear, comes from Satan—_His_
enemy as well as ours. And for _this_ cause was God manifest in the
flesh, that He might destroy the works of the Devil: in one word, God
is LOVE; and the more of love we have within us, the nearer we are to
Him and the more of His spirit we possess.’
“‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘if I can always think on these things, I think I
might well love God: but how can I love my neighbours, when they vex
me, and be so contrary and sinful as some on ’em is?’
“‘It may seem a hard matter,’ says he, ‘to love our neighbours, who
have so much of what is evil about them, and whose faults so often
awaken the evil that lingers within ourselves; but remember that _He_
made them, and _He_ loves them; and whosoever loveth him that begat,
loveth him that is begotten also. And if God so loveth us, that He gave
His only begotten Son to die for us, we ought also to love one another.
But if you cannot feel positive affection for those who do not care for
you, you can at least try to do to them as you would they should do
unto you: you can endeavour to pity their failings and excuse their
offences, and to do all the good you can to those about you. And if you
accustom yourself to this, Nancy, the very effort itself will make you
love them in some degree—to say nothing of the goodwill your kindness
would beget in them, though they might have little else that is good
about them. If we love God and wish to serve Him, let us try to be like
Him, to do His work, to labour for His glory—which is the good of
man—to hasten the coming of His kingdom, which is the peace and
happiness of all the world: however powerless we may seem to be, in
doing all the good we can through life, the humblest of us may do much
towards it: and let us dwell in love, that He may dwell in us and we in
Him. The more happiness we bestow, the more we shall receive, even
here; and the greater will be our reward in heaven when we rest from
our labours.’ I believe, Miss, them is his very words, for I’ve thought
’em ower many a time. An’ then he took that Bible, an’ read bits here
and there, an’ explained ’em as clear as the day: and it seemed like as
a new light broke in on my soul; an’ I felt fair aglow about my heart,
an’ only wished poor Bill an’ all the world could ha’ been there, an’
heard it all, and rejoiced wi’ me.
“After he was gone, Hannah Rogers, one o’ th’ neighbours, came in and
wanted me to help her to wash. I telled her I couldn’t just then, for I
hadn’t set on th’ potaties for th’ dinner, nor washed up th’ breakfast
stuff yet. So then she began a-calling me for my nasty idle ways. I was
a little bit vexed at first, but I never said nothing wrong to her: I
only telled her like all in a quiet way, ’at I’d had th’ new parson to
see me; but I’d get done as quick as ever I could, an’ then come an’
help her. So then she softened down; and my heart like as it warmed
towards her, an’ in a bit we was very good friends. An’ so it is, Miss
Grey, ‘a soft answer turneth away wrath; but grievous words stir up
anger.’ It isn’t only in them you speak to, but in yourself.”
“Very true, Nancy, if we could always remember it.”
“Ay, if we could!”
“And did Mr. Weston ever come to see you again?”
“Yes, many a time; and since my eyes has been so bad, he’s sat an’ read
to me by the half-hour together: but you know, Miss, he has other folks
to see, and other things to do—God bless him! An’ that next Sunday he
preached _such_ a sermon! His text was, ‘Come unto me all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest,’ and them two
blessed verses that follows. You wasn’t there, Miss, you was with your
friends then—but it made me _so_ happy! And I _am_ happy now, thank
God! an’ I take a pleasure, now, in doing little bits o’ jobs for my
neighbours—such as a poor old body ’at’s half blind can do; and they
take it kindly of me, just as he said. You see, Miss, I’m knitting a
pair o’ stockings now;—they’re for Thomas Jackson: he’s a queerish old
body, an’ we’ve had many a bout at threaping, one anent t’other; an’ at
times we’ve differed sorely. So I thought I couldn’t do better nor knit
him a pair o’ warm stockings; an’ I’ve felt to like him a deal better,
poor old man, sin’ I began. It’s turned out just as Maister Weston
said.”
“Well, I’m very glad to see you so happy, Nancy, and so wise: but I
must go now; I shall be wanted at the Hall,” said I; and bidding her
good-bye, I departed, promising to come again when I had time, and
feeling nearly as happy as herself.
At another time I went to read to a poor labourer who was in the last
stage of consumption. The young ladies had been to see him, and somehow
a promise of reading had been extracted from them; but it was too much
trouble, so they begged me to do it instead. I went, willingly enough;
and there too I was gratified with the praises of Mr. Weston, both from
the sick man and his wife. The former told me that he derived great
comfort and benefit from the visits of the new parson, who frequently
came to see him, and was “another guess sort of man” to Mr. Hatfield;
who, before the other’s arrival at Horton, had now and then paid him a
visit; on which occasions he would always insist upon having the
cottage-door kept open, to admit the fresh air for his own convenience,
without considering how it might injure the sufferer; and having opened
his prayer-book and hastily read over a part of the Service for the
Sick, would hurry away again: if he did not stay to administer some
harsh rebuke to the afflicted wife, or to make some thoughtless, not to
say heartless, observation, rather calculated to increase than diminish
the troubles of the suffering pair.
“Whereas,” said the man, “Maister Weston ’ull pray with me quite in a
different fashion, an’ talk to me as kind as owt; an’ oft read to me
too, an’ sit beside me just like a brother.”
“Just for all the world!” exclaimed his wife; “an’ about a three wik
sin’, when he seed how poor Jem shivered wi’ cold, an’ what pitiful
fires we kept, he axed if wer stock of coals was nearly done. I telled
him it was, an’ we was ill set to get more: but you know, mum, I didn’t
think o’ him helping us; but, howsever, he sent us a sack o’ coals next
day; an’ we’ve had good fires ever sin’: and a great blessing it is,
this winter time. But that’s his way, Miss Grey: when he comes into a
poor body’s house a-seein’ sick folk, he like notices what they most
stand i’ need on; an’ if he thinks they can’t readily get it therseln,
he never says nowt about it, but just gets it for ’em. An’ it isn’t
everybody ’at ’ud do that, ’at has as little as he has: for you know,
mum, he’s nowt at all to live on but what he gets fra’ th’ Rector, an’
that’s little enough they say.”
I remembered then, with a species of exultation, that he had frequently
been styled a vulgar brute by the amiable Miss Murray, because he wore
a silver watch, and clothes not quite so bright and fresh as Mr.
Hatfield’s.
In returning to the Lodge I felt very happy, and thanked God that I had
now something to think about; something to dwell on as a relief from
the weary monotony, the lonely drudgery, of my present life: for I
_was_ lonely. Never, from month to month, from year to year, except
during my brief intervals of rest at home, did I see one creature to
whom I could open my heart, or freely speak my thoughts with any hope
of sympathy, or even comprehension: never one, unless it were poor
Nancy Brown, with whom I could enjoy a single moment of real social
intercourse, or whose conversation was calculated to render me better,
wiser, or happier than before; or who, as far as I could see, could be
greatly benefited by mine. My only companions had been unamiable
children, and ignorant, wrong-headed girls; from whose fatiguing folly,
unbroken solitude was often a relief most earnestly desired and dearly
prized. But to be restricted to such associates was a serious evil,
both in its immediate effects and the consequences that were likely to
ensue. Never a new idea or stirring thought came to me from without;
and such as rose within me were, for the most part, miserably crushed
at once, or doomed to sicken or fade away, because they could not see
the light.
Habitual associates are known to exercise a great influence over each
other’s minds and manners. Those whose actions are for ever before our
eyes, whose words are ever in our ears, will naturally lead us, albeit
against our will, slowly, gradually, imperceptibly, perhaps, to act and
speak as they do. I will not presume to say how far this irresistible
power of assimilation extends; but if one civilised man were doomed to
pass a dozen years amid a race of intractable savages, unless he had
power to improve them, I greatly question whether, at the close of that
period, he would not have become, at least, a barbarian himself. And I,
as I could not make my young companions better, feared exceedingly that
they would make me worse—would gradually bring my feelings, habits,
capacities, to the level of their own; without, however, imparting to
me their lightheartedness and cheerful vivacity.
Already, I seemed to feel my intellect deteriorating, my heart
petrifying, my soul contracting; and I trembled lest my very moral
perceptions should become deadened, my distinctions of right and wrong
confounded, and all my better faculties be sunk, at last, beneath the
baneful influence of such a mode of life. The gross vapours of earth
were gathering around me, and closing in upon my inward heaven; and
thus it was that Mr. Weston rose at length upon me, appearing like the
morning star in my horizon, to save me from the fear of utter darkness;
and I rejoiced that I had now a subject for contemplation that was
above me, not beneath. I was glad to see that all the world was not
made up of Bloomfields, Murrays, Hatfields, Ashbys, &c.; and that human
excellence was not a mere dream of the imagination. When we hear a
little good and no harm of a person, it is easy and pleasant to imagine
more: in short, it is needless to analyse all my thoughts; but Sunday
was now become a day of peculiar delight to me (I was now almost
broken-in to the back corner in the carriage), for I liked to hear
him—and I liked to see him, too; though I knew he was not handsome, or
even what is called agreeable, in outward aspect; but, certainly, he
was not ugly.
In stature he was a little, a very little, above the middle size; the
outline of his face would be pronounced too square for beauty, but to
me it announced decision of character; his dark brown hair was not
carefully curled, like Mr. Hatfield’s, but simply brushed aside over a
broad white forehead; the eyebrows, I suppose, were too projecting, but
from under those dark brows there gleamed an eye of singular power,
brown in colour, not large, and somewhat deep-set, but strikingly
brilliant, and full of expression; there was character, too, in the
mouth, something that bespoke a man of firm purpose and an habitual
thinker; and when he smiled—but I will not speak of that yet, for, at
the time I mention, I had never seen him smile: and, indeed, his
general appearance did not impress me with the idea of a man given to
such a relaxation, nor of such an individual as the cottagers described
him. I had early formed my opinion of him; and, in spite of Miss
Murray’s objurgations: was fully convinced that he was a man of strong
sense, firm faith, and ardent piety, but thoughtful and stern: and when
I found that, to his other good qualities, was added that of true
benevolence and gentle, considerate kindness, the discovery, perhaps,
delighted me the more, as I had not been prepared to expect it.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SHOWER
The next visit I paid to Nancy Brown was in the second week in March:
for, though I had many spare minutes during the day, I seldom could
look upon an hour as entirely my own; since, where everything was left
to the caprices of Miss Matilda and her sister, there could be no order
or regularity. Whatever occupation I chose, when not actually busied
about them or their concerns, I had, as it were, to keep my loins
girded, my shoes on my feet, and my staff in my hand; for not to be
immediately forthcoming when called for, was regarded as a grave and
inexcusable offence: not only by my pupils and their mother, but by the
very servant, who came in breathless haste to call me, exclaiming,
“You’re to go to the schoolroom _directly_, mum, the young ladies is
WAITING!!” Climax of horror! actually waiting for their governess!!!
But this time I was pretty sure of an hour or two to myself; for
Matilda was preparing for a long ride, and Rosalie was dressing for a
dinner-party at Lady Ashby’s: so I took the opportunity of repairing to
the widow’s cottage, where I found her in some anxiety about her cat,
which had been absent all day. I comforted her with as many anecdotes
of that animal’s roving propensities as I could recollect. “I’m feared
o’ th’ gamekeepers,” said she: “that’s all ’at I think on. If th’ young
gentlemen had been at home, I should a’ thought they’d been setting
their dogs at her, an’ worried her, poor thing, as they did _many_ a
poor thing’s cat; but I haven’t that to be feared on now.” Nancy’s eyes
were better, but still far from well: she had been trying to make a
Sunday shirt for her son, but told me she could only bear to do a
little bit at it now and then, so that it progressed but slowly, though
the poor lad wanted it sadly. So I proposed to help her a little, after
I had read to her, for I had plenty of time that evening, and need not
return till dusk. She thankfully accepted the offer. “An’ you’ll be a
bit o’ company for me too, Miss,” said she; “I like as I feel lonesome
without my cat.” But when I had finished reading, and done the half of
a seam, with Nancy’s capacious brass thimble fitted on to my finger by
means of a roll of paper, I was disturbed by the entrance of Mr.
Weston, with the identical cat in his arms. I now saw that he could
smile, and very pleasantly too.
“I’ve done you a piece of good service, Nancy,” he began: then seeing
me, he acknowledged my presence by a slight bow. I should have been
invisible to Hatfield, or any other gentleman of those parts. “I’ve
delivered your cat,” he continued, “from the hands, or rather the gun,
of Mr. Murray’s gamekeeper.”
“God bless you, sir!” cried the grateful old woman, ready to weep for
joy as she received her favourite from his arms.
“Take care of it,” said he, “and don’t let it go near the
rabbit-warren, for the gamekeeper swears he’ll shoot it if he sees it
there again: he would have done so to-day, if I had not been in time to
stop him. I believe it is raining, Miss Grey,” added he, more quietly,
observing that I had put aside my work, and was preparing to depart.
“Don’t let me disturb you—I shan’t stay two minutes.”
“You’ll _both_ stay while this shower gets owered,” said Nancy, as she
stirred the fire, and placed another chair beside it; “what! there’s
room for all.”
“I can see better here, thank you, Nancy,” replied I, taking my work to
the window, where she had the goodness to suffer me to remain
unmolested, while she got a brush to remove the cat’s hairs from Mr.
Weston’s coat, carefully wiped the rain from his hat, and gave the cat
its supper, busily talking all the time: now thanking her clerical
friend for what he had done; now wondering how the cat had found out
the warren; and now lamenting the probable consequences of such a
discovery. He listened with a quiet, good-natured smile, and at length
took a seat in compliance with her pressing invitations, but repeated
that he did not mean to stay.
“I have another place to go to,” said he, “and I see” (glancing at the
book on the table) “someone else has been reading to you.”
“Yes, sir; Miss Grey has been as kind as read me a chapter; an’ now
she’s helping me with a shirt for our Bill—but I’m feared she’ll be
cold there. Won’t you come to th’ fire, Miss?”
“No, thank you, Nancy, I’m quite warm. I must go as soon as this shower
is over.”
“Oh, Miss! You said you could stop while dusk!” cried the provoking old
woman, and Mr. Weston seized his hat.
“Nay, sir,” exclaimed she, “pray don’t go now, while it rains so fast.”
“But it strikes me I’m keeping your visitor away from the fire.”
“No, you’re not, Mr. Weston,” replied I, hoping there was no harm in a
falsehood of that description.
“No, sure!” cried Nancy. “What, there’s lots o’ room!”
“Miss Grey,” said he, half-jestingly, as if he felt it necessary to
change the present subject, whether he had anything particular to say
or not, “I wish you would make my peace with the squire, when you see
him. He was by when I rescued Nancy’s cat, and did not quite approve of
the deed. I told him I thought he might better spare all his rabbits
than she her cat, for which audacious assertion he treated me to some
rather ungentlemanly language; and I fear I retorted a trifle too
warmly.”
“Oh, lawful sir! I hope you didn’t fall out wi’ th’ maister for sake o’
my cat! he cannot bide answering again—can th’ maister.”
“Oh! it’s no matter, Nancy: I don’t care about it, really; I said
nothing _very_ uncivil; and I suppose Mr. Murray is accustomed to use
rather strong language when he’s heated.”
“Ay, sir: it’s a pity.”
“And now, I really must go. I have to visit a place a mile beyond this;
and you would not have me to return in the dark: besides, it has nearly
done raining now—so good-evening, Nancy. Good-evening, Miss Grey.”
“Good-evening, Mr. Weston; but don’t depend upon me for making your
peace with Mr. Murray, for I never see him—to speak to.”
“Don’t you; it can’t be helped then,” replied he, in dolorous
resignation: then, with a peculiar half-smile, he added, “But never
mind; I imagine the squire has more to apologise for than I;” and left
the cottage.
I went on with my sewing as long as I could see, and then bade Nancy
good-evening; checking her too lively gratitude by the undeniable
assurance that I had only done for her what she would have done for me,
if she had been in my place and I in hers. I hastened back to Horton
Lodge, where, having entered the schoolroom, I found the tea-table all
in confusion, the tray flooded with slops, and Miss Matilda in a most
ferocious humour.
“Miss Grey, whatever have you been about? I’ve had tea half an hour
ago, and had to make it myself, and drink it all alone! I wish you
would come in sooner!”
“I’ve been to see Nancy Brown. I thought you would not be back from
your ride.”
“How could I ride in the rain, I should like to know. That damned
pelting shower was vexatious enough—coming on when I was just in full
swing: and then to come and find nobody in to tea! and you know I can’t
make the tea as I like it.”
“I didn’t think of the shower,” replied I (and, indeed, the thought of
its driving her home had never entered my head).
“No, of course; you were under shelter yourself, and you never thought
of other people.”
I bore her coarse reproaches with astonishing equanimity, even with
cheerfulness; for I was sensible that I had done more good to Nancy
Brown than harm to her: and perhaps some other thoughts assisted to
keep up my spirits, and impart a relish to the cup of cold, overdrawn
tea, and a charm to the otherwise unsightly table; and—I had almost
said—to Miss Matilda’s unamiable face. But she soon betook herself to
the stables, and left me to the quiet enjoyment of my solitary meal.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE PRIMROSES
Miss Murray now always went twice to church, for she so loved
admiration that she could not bear to lose a single opportunity of
obtaining it; and she was so sure of it wherever she showed herself,
that, whether Harry Meltham and Mr. Green were there or not, there was
certain to be somebody present who would not be insensible to her
charms, besides the Rector, whose official capacity generally obliged
him to attend. Usually, also, if the weather permitted, both she and
her sister would walk home; Matilda, because she hated the confinement
of the carriage; she, because she disliked the privacy of it, and
enjoyed the company that generally enlivened the first mile of the
journey in walking from the church to Mr. Green’s park-gates: near
which commenced the private road to Horton Lodge, which lay in the
opposite direction, while the highway conducted in a straightforward
course to the still more distant mansion of Sir Hugh Meltham. Thus
there was always a chance of being accompanied, so far, either by Harry
Meltham, with or without Miss Meltham, or Mr. Green, with perhaps one
or both of his sisters, and any gentlemen visitors they might have.
Whether I walked with the young ladies or rode with their parents,
depended upon their own capricious will: if they chose to “take” me, I
went; if, for reasons best known to themselves, they chose to go alone,
I took my seat in the carriage. I liked walking better, but a sense of
reluctance to obtrude my presence on anyone who did not desire it,
always kept me passive on these and similar occasions; and I never
inquired into the causes of their varying whims. Indeed, this was the
best policy—for to submit and oblige was the governess’s part, to
consult their own pleasure was that of the pupils. But when I did walk,
the first half of journey was generally a great nuisance to me. As none
of the before-mentioned ladies and gentlemen ever noticed me, it was
disagreeable to walk beside them, as if listening to what they said, or
wishing to be thought one of them, while they talked over me, or
across; and if their eyes, in speaking, chanced to fall on me, it
seemed as if they looked on vacancy—as if they either did not see me,
or were very desirous to make it appear so. It was disagreeable, too,
to walk behind, and thus appear to acknowledge my own inferiority; for,
in truth, I considered myself pretty nearly as good as the best of
them, and wished them to know that I did so, and not to imagine that I
looked upon myself as a mere domestic, who knew her own place too well
to walk beside such fine ladies and gentlemen as they were—though her
young ladies might choose to have her with them, and even condescend to
converse with her when no better company were at hand. Thus—I am almost
ashamed to confess it—but indeed I gave myself no little trouble in my
endeavours (if I did keep up with them) to appear perfectly unconscious
or regardless of their presence, as if I were wholly absorbed in my own
reflections, or the contemplation of surrounding objects; or, if I
lingered behind, it was some bird or insect, some tree or flower, that
attracted my attention, and having duly examined that, I would pursue
my walk alone, at a leisurely pace, until my pupils had bidden adieu to
their companions and turned off into the quiet private road.
One such occasion I particularly well remember; it was a lovely
afternoon about the close of March; Mr. Green and his sisters had sent
their carriage back empty, in order to enjoy the bright sunshine and
balmy air in a sociable walk home along with their visitors, Captain
Somebody and Lieutenant Somebody-else (a couple of military fops), and
the Misses Murray, who, of course, contrived to join them. Such a party
was highly agreeable to Rosalie; but not finding it equally suitable to
my taste, I presently fell back, and began to botanise and entomologise
along the green banks and budding hedges, till the company was
considerably in advance of me, and I could hear the sweet song of the
happy lark; then my spirit of misanthropy began to melt away beneath
the soft, pure air and genial sunshine; but sad thoughts of early
childhood, and yearnings for departed joys, or for a brighter future
lot, arose instead. As my eyes wandered over the steep banks covered
with young grass and green-leaved plants, and surmounted by budding
hedges, I longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall
the woody dales or green hill-sides of home: the brown moorlands, of
course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would make my eyes
gush out with water, no doubt; but that was one of my greatest
enjoyments now. At length I descried, high up between the twisted roots
of an oak, three lovely primroses, peeping so sweetly from their
hiding-place that the tears already started at the sight; but they grew
so high above me, that I tried in vain to gather one or two, to dream
over and to carry with me: I could not reach them unless I climbed the
bank, which I was deterred from doing by hearing a footstep at that
moment behind me, and was, therefore, about to turn away, when I was
startled by the words, “Allow me to gather them for you, Miss Grey,”
spoken in the grave, low tones of a well-known voice. Immediately the
flowers were gathered, and in my hand. It was Mr. Weston, of course—who
else would trouble himself to do so much for _me_?
“I thanked him; whether warmly or coldly, I cannot tell: but certain I
am that I did not express half the gratitude I felt. It was foolish,
perhaps, to feel any gratitude at all; but it seemed to me, at that
moment, as if this were a remarkable instance of his good-nature: an
act of kindness, which I could not repay, but never should forget: so
utterly unaccustomed was I to receive such civilities, so little
prepared to expect them from anyone within fifty miles of Horton Lodge.
Yet this did not prevent me from feeling a little uncomfortable in his
presence; and I proceeded to follow my pupils at a much quicker pace
than before; though, perhaps, if Mr. Weston had taken the hint, and let
me pass without another word, I might have repeated it an hour after:
but he did not. A somewhat rapid walk for me was but an ordinary pace
for him.
“Your young ladies have left you alone,” said he.
“Yes, they are occupied with more agreeable company.”
“Then don’t trouble yourself to overtake them.” I slackened my pace;
but next moment regretted having done so: my companion did not speak;
and I had nothing in the world to say, and feared he might be in the
same predicament. At length, however, he broke the pause by asking,
with a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself, if I liked
flowers.
“Yes; very much,” I answered, “wild-flowers especially.”
“_I_ like wild-flowers,” said he; “others I don’t care about, because I
have no particular associations connected with them—except one or two.
What are your favourite flowers?”
“Primroses, bluebells, and heath-blossoms.”
“Not violets?”
“No; because, as you say, I have no particular associations connected
with them; for there are no sweet violets among the hills and valleys
round my home.”
“It must be a great consolation to you to have a home, Miss Grey,”
observed my companion after a short pause: “however remote, or however
seldom visited, still it is something to look to.”
“It is so much that I think I could not live without it,” replied I,
with an enthusiasm of which I immediately repented; for I thought it
must have sounded essentially silly.
“Oh, yes, you could,” said he, with a thoughtful smile. “The ties that
bind us to life are tougher than you imagine, or than anyone can who
has not felt how roughly they may be pulled without breaking. You might
be miserable without a home, but even _you_ could live; and not so
miserably as you suppose. The human heart is like india-rubber; a
little swells it, but a great deal will not burst it. If ‘little more
than nothing will disturb it, little less than all things will suffice’
to break it. As in the outer members of our frame, there is a vital
power inherent in itself that strengthens it against external violence.
Every blow that shakes it will serve to harden it against a future
stroke; as constant labour thickens the skin of the hand, and
strengthens its muscles instead of wasting them away: so that a day of
arduous toil, that might excoriate a lady’s palm, would make no
sensible impression on that of a hardy ploughman.
“I speak from experience—partly my own. There was a time when I thought
as you do—at least, I was fully persuaded that home and its affections
were the only things that made life tolerable: that, if deprived of
these, existence would become a burden hard to be endured; but now I
have no home—unless you would dignify my two hired rooms at Horton by
such a name;—and not twelve months ago I lost the last and dearest of
my early friends; and yet, not only I live, but I am not wholly
destitute of hope and comfort, even for this life: though I must
acknowledge that I can seldom enter even an humble cottage at the close
of day, and see its inhabitants peaceably gathered around their
cheerful hearth, without a feeling _almost_ of envy at their domestic
enjoyment.”
“You don’t know what happiness lies before you yet,” said I: “you are
now only in the commencement of your journey.”
“The best of happiness,” replied he, “is mine already—the power and the
will to be useful.”
We now approached a stile communicating with a footpath that conducted
to a farm-house, where, I suppose, Mr. Weston purposed to make himself
“useful;” for he presently took leave of me, crossed the stile, and
traversed the path with his usual firm, elastic tread, leaving me to
ponder his words as I continued my course alone. I had heard before
that he had lost his mother not many months before he came. She then
was the last and dearest of his early friends; and he had _no home_. I
pitied him from my heart: I almost wept for sympathy. And this, I
thought, accounted for the shade of premature thoughtfulness that so
frequently clouded his brow, and obtained for him the reputation of a
morose and sullen disposition with the charitable Miss Murray and all
her kin. “But,” thought I, “he is not so miserable as I should be under
such a deprivation: he leads an active life; and a wide field for
useful exertion lies before him. He can _make_ friends; and he can make
a home too, if he pleases; and, doubtless, he will please some time.
God grant the partner of that home may be worthy of his choice, and
make it a happy one—such a home as he deserves to have! And how
delightful it would be to—” But no matter what I thought.
I began this book with the intention of concealing nothing; that those
who liked might have the benefit of perusing a fellow-creature’s heart:
but we have some thoughts that all the angels in heaven are welcome to
behold, but not our brother-men—not even the best and kindest amongst
them.
By this time the Greens had taken themselves to their own abode, and
the Murrays had turned down the private road, whither I hastened to
follow them. I found the two girls warm in an animated discussion on
the respective merits of the two young officers; but on seeing me
Rosalie broke off in the middle of a sentence to exclaim, with
malicious glee—
“Oh-ho, Miss Grey! you’re come at last, are you? No _wonder_ you
lingered so long behind; and no _wonder_ you always stand up so
vigorously for Mr. Weston when I abuse him. Ah-ha! I see it all now!”
“Now, come, Miss Murray, don’t be foolish,” said I, attempting a
good-natured laugh; “you know such nonsense can make no impression on
me.”
But she still went on talking such intolerable stuff—her sister helping
her with appropriate fiction coined for the occasion—that I thought it
necessary to say something in my own justification.
“What folly all this is!” I exclaimed. “If Mr. Weston’s road happened
to be the same as mine for a few yards, and if he chose to exchange a
word or two in passing, what is there so remarkable in that? I assure
you, I never spoke to him before: except once.”
“Where? where? and when?” cried they eagerly.
“In Nancy’s cottage.”
“Ah-ha! you’ve met him there, have you?” exclaimed Rosalie, with
exultant laughter. “Ah! now, Matilda, I’ve found out why she’s so fond
of going to Nancy Brown’s! She goes there to flirt with Mr. Weston.”
“Really, that is not worth contradicting—I only saw him there once, I
tell you—and how could I know he was coming?”
Irritated as I was at their foolish mirth and vexatious imputations,
the uneasiness did not continue long: when they had had their laugh
out, they returned again to the captain and lieutenant; and, while they
disputed and commented upon them, my indignation rapidly cooled; the
cause of it was quickly forgotten, and I turned my thoughts into a
pleasanter channel. Thus we proceeded up the park, and entered the
hall; and as I ascended the stairs to my own chamber, I had but one
thought within me: my heart was filled to overflowing with one single
earnest wish. Having entered the room, and shut the door, I fell upon
my knees and offered up a fervent but not impetuous prayer: “Thy will
be done,” I strove to say throughout; but, “Father, all things are
possible with Thee, and may it be Thy will,” was sure to follow. That
wish—that prayer—both men and women would have scorned me for—“But,
Father, _Thou_ wilt _not_ despise!” I said, and felt that it was true.
It seemed to me that another’s welfare was at least as ardently
implored for as my own; nay, even _that_ was the principal object of my
heart’s desire. I might have been deceiving myself; but that idea gave
me confidence to ask, and power to hope I did not ask in vain. As for
the primroses, I kept two of them in a glass in my room until they were
completely withered, and the housemaid threw them out; and the petals
of the other I pressed between the leaves of my Bible—I have them
still, and mean to keep them always.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE RECTOR
The following day was as fine as the preceding one. Soon after
breakfast Miss Matilda, having galloped and blundered through a few
unprofitable lessons, and vengeably thumped the piano for an hour, in a
terrible humour with both me and it, because her mamma would not give
her a holiday, had betaken herself to her favourite places of resort,
the yards, the stables, and the dog-kennels; and Miss Murray was gone
forth to enjoy a quiet ramble with a new fashionable novel for her
companion, leaving me in the schoolroom hard at work upon a
water-colour drawing which I had promised to do for her, and which she
insisted upon my finishing that day.
At my feet lay a little rough terrier. It was the property of Miss
Matilda; but she hated the animal, and intended to sell it, alleging
that it was quite spoiled. It was really an excellent dog of its kind;
but she affirmed it was fit for nothing, and had not even the sense to
know its own mistress.
The fact was she had purchased it when but a small puppy, insisting at
first that no one should touch it but herself; but soon becoming tired
of so helpless and troublesome a nursling, she had gladly yielded to my
entreaties to be allowed to take charge of it; and I, by carefully
nursing the little creature from infancy to adolescence, of course, had
obtained its affections: a reward I should have greatly valued, and
looked upon as far outweighing all the trouble I had had with it, had
not poor Snap’s grateful feelings exposed him to many a harsh word and
many a spiteful kick and pinch from his owner, and were he not now in
danger of being “put away” in consequence, or transferred to some
rough, stony-hearted master. But how could I help it? I could not make
the dog hate me by cruel treatment, and she would not propitiate him by
kindness.
However, while I thus sat, working away with my pencil, Mrs. Murray
came, half-sailing, half-bustling, into the room.
“Miss Grey,” she began,—“dear! how can you sit at your drawing such a
day as this?” (She thought I was doing it for my own pleasure.) “I
_wonder_ you don’t put on your bonnet and go out with the young
ladies.”
“I think, ma’am, Miss Murray is reading; and Miss Matilda is amusing
herself with her dogs.”
“If you would try to amuse Miss Matilda yourself a little more, I think
she would not be driven to seek amusement in the companionship of dogs
and horses and grooms, so much as she is; and if you would be a little
more cheerful and conversable with Miss Murray, she would not so often
go wandering in the fields with a book in her hand. However, I don’t
want to vex you,” added she, seeing, I suppose, that my cheeks burned
and my hand trembled with some unamiable emotion. “Do, pray, try not to
be so touchy—there’s no speaking to you else. And tell me if you know
where Rosalie is gone: and why she likes to be so much alone?”
“She says she likes to be alone when she has a new book to read.”
“But why can’t she read it in the park or the garden?—why should she go
into the fields and lanes? And how is it that that Mr. Hatfield so
often finds her out? She told me last week he’d walked his horse by her
side all up Moss Lane; and now I’m sure it was he I saw, from my
dressing-room window, walking so briskly past the park-gates, and on
towards the field where she so frequently goes. I wish you would go and
see if she is there; and just gently remind her that it is not proper
for a young lady of her rank and prospects to be wandering about by
herself in that manner, exposed to the attentions of anyone that
presumes to address her; like some poor neglected girl that has no park
to walk in, and no friends to take care of her: and tell her that her
papa would be extremely angry if he knew of her treating Mr. Hatfield
in the familiar manner that I fear she does; and—oh! if you—if _any_
governess had but half a mother’s watchfulness—half a mother’s anxious
care, I should be saved this trouble; and you would see at once the
necessity of keeping your eye upon her, and making your company
agreeable to— Well, go—go; there’s no time to be lost,” cried she,
seeing that I had put away my drawing materials, and was waiting in the
doorway for the conclusion of her address.
According to her prognostications, I found Miss Murray in her favourite
field just without the park; and, unfortunately, not alone; for the
tall, stately figure of Mr. Hatfield was slowly sauntering by her side.
Here was a poser for me. It was my duty to interrupt the _tête-à-tête_:
but how was it to be done? Mr. Hatfield could not to be driven away by
so insignificant person as I; and to go and place myself on the other
side of Miss Murray, and intrude my unwelcome presence upon her without
noticing her companion, was a piece of rudeness I could not be guilty
of: neither had I the courage to cry aloud from the top of the field
that she was wanted elsewhere. So I took the intermediate course of
walking slowly but steadily towards them; resolving, if my approach
failed to scare away the beau, to pass by and tell Miss Murray her
mamma wanted her.
She certainly looked very charming as she strolled, lingering along
under the budding horse-chestnut trees that stretched their long arms
over the park-palings; with her closed book in one hand, and in the
other a graceful sprig of myrtle, which served her as a very pretty
plaything; her bright ringlets escaping profusely from her little
bonnet, and gently stirred by the breeze, her fair cheek flushed with
gratified vanity, her smiling blue eyes, now slyly glancing towards her
admirer, now gazing downward at her myrtle sprig. But Snap, running
before me, interrupted her in the midst of some half-pert, half-playful
repartee, by catching hold of her dress and vehemently tugging thereat;
till Mr. Hatfield, with his cane, administered a resounding thwack upon
the animal’s skull, and sent it yelping back to me with a clamorous
outcry that afforded the reverend gentleman great amusement: but seeing
me so near, he thought, I suppose, he might as well be taking his
departure; and, as I stooped to caress the dog, with ostentatious pity
to show my disapproval of his severity, I heard him say: “When shall I
see you again, Miss Murray?”
“At church, I suppose,” replied she, “unless your business chances to
bring you here again at the precise moment when I happen to be walking
by.”
“I could always manage to have business here, if I knew precisely when
and where to find you.”
“But if I would, I could not inform you, for I am so immethodical, I
never can tell to-day what I shall do to-morrow.”
“Then give me that, meantime, to comfort me,” said he, half jestingly
and half in earnest, extending his hand for the sprig of myrtle.
“No, indeed, I shan’t.”
“Do! _pray_ do! I shall be the most miserable of men if you don’t. You
cannot be so cruel as to deny me a favour so easily granted and yet so
highly prized!” pleaded he as ardently as if his life depended on it.
By this time I stood within a very few yards of them, impatiently
waiting his departure.
“There then! take it and go,” said Rosalie.
He joyfully received the gift, murmured something that made her blush
and toss her head, but with a little laugh that showed her displeasure
was entirely affected; and then with a courteous salutation withdrew.
“Did you ever see such a man, Miss Grey?” said she, turning to me; “I’m
so _glad_ you came! I thought I never _should_ get rid of him; and I
was so terribly afraid of papa seeing him.”
“Has he been with you long?”
“No, not long, but he’s so extremely impertinent: and he’s always
hanging about, pretending his business or his clerical duties require
his attendance in these parts, and really watching for poor me, and
pouncing upon me wherever he sees me.”
“Well, your mamma thinks you ought not to go beyond the park or garden
without some discreet, matronly person like me to accompany you, and
keep off all intruders. She descried Mr. Hatfield hurrying past the
park-gates, and forthwith despatched me with instructions to seek you
up and to take care of you, and likewise to warn—”
“Oh, mamma’s so tiresome! As if I couldn’t take care of myself. She
bothered me before about Mr. Hatfield; and I told her she might trust
me: I never should forget my rank and station for the most delightful
man that ever breathed. I wish he would go down on his knees to-morrow,
and implore me to be his wife, that I might just show her how mistaken
she is in supposing that I could ever—Oh, it provokes me so! To think
that I could be such a fool as to fall in _love_! It is quite beneath
the dignity of a woman to do such a thing. Love! I detest the word! As
applied to one of our sex, I think it a perfect insult. A preference I
_might_ acknowledge; but never for one like poor Mr. Hatfield, who has
not seven hundred a year to bless himself with. I like to talk to him,
because he’s so clever and amusing—I wish Sir Thomas Ashby were half as
nice; besides, I must have _somebody_ to flirt with, and no one else
has the sense to come here; and when we go out, mamma won’t let me
flirt with anybody but Sir Thomas—if he’s there; and if he’s _not_
there, I’m bound hand and foot, for fear somebody should go and make up
some exaggerated story, and put it into his head that I’m engaged, or
likely to be engaged, to somebody else; or, what is more probable, for
fear his nasty old mother should see or hear of my ongoings, and
conclude that I’m not a fit wife for her excellent son: as if the said
son were not the greatest scamp in Christendom; and as if any woman of
common decency were not a world too good for him.”
“Is it really so, Miss Murray? and does your mamma know it, and yet
wish you to marry him?”
“To be sure, she does! She knows more against him than I do, I believe:
she keeps it from me lest I should be discouraged; not knowing how
little I care about such things. For it’s no great matter, really:
he’ll be all right when he’s married, as mamma says; and reformed rakes
make the best husbands, _everybody_ knows. I only wish he were not so
ugly—_that’s_ all _I_ think about: but then there’s no choice here in
the country; and papa _will not_ let us go to London—”
“But I should think Mr. Hatfield would be far better.”
“And so he would, if he were lord of Ashby Park—there’s not a doubt of
it: but the fact is, I _must_ have Ashby Park, whoever shares it with
me.”
“But Mr. Hatfield thinks you like him all this time; you don’t consider
how bitterly he will be disappointed when he finds himself mistaken.”
“_No_, indeed! It will be a proper punishment for his presumption—for
ever _daring_ to think I could like him. I should enjoy nothing so much
as lifting the veil from his eyes.”
“The sooner you do it the better then.”
“No; I tell you, I like to amuse myself with him. Besides, he doesn’t
really think I like him. I take good care of that: you don’t know how
cleverly I manage. He may presume to think he can induce me to like
him; for which I shall punish him as he deserves.”
“Well, mind you don’t give too much reason for such presumption—that’s
all,” replied I.
But all my exhortations were in vain: they only made her somewhat more
solicitous to disguise her wishes and her thoughts from me. She talked
no more to me about the Rector; but I could see that her mind, if not
her heart, was fixed upon him still, and that she was intent upon
obtaining another interview: for though, in compliance with her
mother’s request, I was now constituted the companion of her rambles
for a time, she still persisted in wandering in the fields and lanes
that lay in the nearest proximity to the road; and, whether she talked
to me or read the book she carried in her hand, she kept continually
pausing to look round her, or gaze up the road to see if anyone was
coming; and if a horseman trotted by, I could tell by her unqualified
abuse of the poor equestrian, whoever he might be, that she hated him
_because_ he was not Mr. Hatfield.
“Surely,” thought I, “she is not so indifferent to him as she believes
herself to be, or would have others to believe her; and her mother’s
anxiety is not so wholly causeless as she affirms.”
Three days passed away, and he did not make his appearance. On the
afternoon of the fourth, as we were walking beside the park-palings in
the memorable field, each furnished with a book (for I always took care
to provide myself with something to be doing when she did not require
me to talk), she suddenly interrupted my studies by exclaiming—
“Oh, Miss Grey! do be so kind as to go and see Mark Wood, and take his
wife half-a-crown from me—I should have given or sent it a week ago,
but quite forgot. There!” said she, throwing me her purse, and speaking
very fast—“Never mind getting it out now, but take the purse and give
them what you like; I would go with you, but I want to finish this
volume. I’ll come and meet you when I’ve done it. Be quick, will
you—and—oh, wait; hadn’t you better read to him a bit? Run to the house
and get some sort of a good book. Anything will do.”
I did as I was desired; but, suspecting something from her hurried
manner and the suddenness of the request, I just glanced back before I
quitted the field, and there was Mr. Hatfield about to enter at the
gate below. By sending me to the house for a book, she had just
prevented my meeting him on the road.
“Never mind!” thought I, “there’ll be no great harm done. Poor Mark
will be glad of the half-crown, and perhaps of the good book too; and
if the Rector does steal Miss Rosalie’s heart, it will only humble her
pride a little; and if they do get married at last, it will only save
her from a worse fate; and she will be quite a good enough partner for
him, and he for her.”
Mark Wood was the consumptive labourer whom I mentioned before. He was
now rapidly wearing away. Miss Murray, by her liberality, obtained
literally the blessing of him that was ready to perish; for though the
half-crown could be of very little service to him, he was glad of it
for the sake of his wife and children, so soon to be widowed and
fatherless. After I had sat a few minutes, and read a little for the
comfort and edification of himself and his afflicted wife, I left them;
but I had not proceeded fifty yards before I encountered Mr. Weston,
apparently on his way to the same abode. He greeted me in his usual
quiet, unaffected way, stopped to inquire about the condition of the
sick man and his family, and with a sort of unconscious, brotherly
disregard to ceremony took from my hand the book out of which I had
been reading, turned over its pages, made a few brief but very sensible
remarks, and restored it; then told me about some poor sufferer he had
just been visiting, talked a little about Nancy Brown, made a few
observations upon my little rough friend the terrier, that was frisking
at his feet, and finally upon the beauty of the weather, and departed.
I have omitted to give a detail of his words, from a notion that they
would not interest the reader as they did me, and not because I have
forgotten them. No; I remember them well; for I thought them over and
over again in the course of that day and many succeeding ones, I know
not how often; and recalled every intonation of his deep, clear voice,
every flash of his quick, brown eye, and every gleam of his pleasant,
but too transient smile. Such a confession will look very absurd, I
fear: but no matter: I have written it: and they that read it will not
know the writer.
While I was walking along, happy within, and pleased with all around,
Miss Murray came hastening to meet me; her buoyant step, flushed cheek,
and radiant smiles showing that she, too, was happy, in her own way.
Running up to me, she put her arm through mine, and without waiting to
recover breath, began—“Now, Miss Grey, think yourself highly honoured,
for I’m come to tell you my news before I’ve breathed a word of it to
anyone else.”
“Well, what is it?”
“Oh, _such_ news! In the first place, you must know that Mr. Hatfield
came upon me just after you were gone. I was in such a way for fear
papa or mamma should see him; but you know I couldn’t call you back
again, and so!—oh, dear! I can’t tell you all about it now, for there’s
Matilda, I see, in the park, and I must go and open my budget to her.
But, however, Hatfield was most uncommonly audacious, unspeakably
complimentary, and unprecedentedly tender—tried to be so, at least—he
didn’t succeed very well in _that_, because it’s not his vein. I’ll
tell you all he said another time.”
“But what did _you_ say—I’m more interested in that?”
“I’ll tell you that, too, at some future period. I happened to be in a
very good humour just then; but, though I was complaisant and gracious
enough, I took care not to compromise myself in any possible way. But,
however, the conceited wretch chose to interpret my amiability of
temper his own way, and at length presumed upon my indulgence so
far—what do you think?—he actually made me an offer!”
“And you—”
“I proudly drew myself up, and with the greatest coolness expressed my
astonishment at such an occurrence, and hoped he had seen nothing in my
conduct to justify his expectations. You should have _seen_ how his
countenance fell! He went perfectly white in the face. I assured him
that I esteemed him and all that, but could not possibly accede to his
proposals; and if I did, papa and mamma could never be brought to give
their consent.”
“‘But if they could,’ said he, ‘would yours be wanting?’
“‘Certainly, Mr. Hatfield,’ I replied, with a cool decision which
quelled all hope at once. Oh, if you had seen how dreadfully mortified
he was—how crushed to the earth by his disappointment! really, I almost
pitied him myself.
“One more desperate attempt, however, he made. After a silence of
considerable duration, during which he struggled to be calm, and I to
be grave—for I felt a strong propensity to laugh—which would have
ruined all—he said, with the ghost of a smile—‘But tell me plainly,
Miss Murray, if I had the wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham, or the prospects
of his eldest son, would you still refuse me? Answer me truly, upon
your honour.’
“‘Certainly,’ said I. ‘That would make no difference whatever.’
“It was a great lie, but he looked so confident in his own attractions
still, that I determined not to leave him one stone upon another. He
looked me full in the face; but I kept my countenance so well that he
could not imagine I was saying anything more than the actual truth.
“‘Then it’s all over, I suppose,’ he said, looking as if he could have
died on the spot with vexation and the intensity of his despair. But he
was angry as well as disappointed. There was he, suffering so
unspeakably, and there was I, the pitiless cause of it all, so utterly
impenetrable to all the artillery of his looks and words, so calmly
cold and proud, he could not but feel some resentment; and with
singular bitterness he began—‘I certainly did not expect this, Miss
Murray. I might say something about your past conduct, and the hopes
you have led me to foster, but I forbear, on condition—’
“‘No conditions, Mr. Hatfield!’ said I, now truly indignant at his
insolence.
“‘Then let me beg it as a favour,’ he replied, lowering his voice at
once, and taking a humbler tone: ‘let me entreat that you will not
mention this affair to anyone whatever. If you will keep silence about
it, there need be no unpleasantness on either side—nothing, I mean,
beyond what is quite unavoidable: for my own feelings I will endeavour
to keep to myself, if I cannot annihilate them—I will try to forgive,
if I cannot forget the cause of my sufferings. I will not suppose, Miss
Murray, that you know how deeply you have injured me. I would not have
you aware of it; but if, in addition to the injury you have already
done me—pardon me, but, whether innocently or not, you _have_ done
it—and if you add to it by giving publicity to this unfortunate affair,
or naming it _at all_, you will find that I too can speak, and though
you scorned my love, you will hardly scorn my—’
“He stopped, but he bit his bloodless lip, and looked so terribly
fierce that I was quite frightened. However, my pride upheld me still,
and I answered disdainfully; ‘I do not know what motive you suppose I
could have for naming it to anyone, Mr. Hatfield; but if I were
disposed to do so, you would not deter me by threats; and it is
scarcely the part of a gentleman to attempt it.’
“‘Pardon me, Miss Murray,’ said he, ‘I have loved you so intensely—I do
still adore you so deeply, that I would not willingly offend you; but
though I never have loved, and never _can_ love any woman as I have
loved you, it is equally certain that I never was so ill-treated by
any. On the contrary, I have always found your sex the kindest and most
tender and obliging of God’s creation, till now.’ (Think of the
conceited fellow saying that!) ‘And the novelty and harshness of the
lesson you have taught me to-day, and the bitterness of being
disappointed in the only quarter on which the happiness of my life
depended, must excuse any appearance of asperity. If my presence is
disagreeable to you, Miss Murray,’ he said (for I was looking about me
to show how little I cared for him, so he thought I was tired of him, I
suppose)—‘if my presence is disagreeable to you, Miss Murray, you have
only to promise me the favour I named, and I will relieve you at once.
There are many ladies—some even in this parish—who would be delighted
to accept what you have so scornfully trampled under your feet. They
would be naturally inclined to hate one whose surpassing loveliness has
so completely estranged my heart from them and blinded me to their
attractions; and a single hint of the truth from me to one of these
would be sufficient to raise such a talk against you as would seriously
injure your prospects, and diminish your chance of success with any
other gentleman you or your mamma might design to entangle.’
“‘What do your mean, sir?’ said I, ready to stamp with passion.
“‘I mean that this affair from beginning to end appears to me like a
case of arrant flirtation, to say the least of it—such a case as you
would find it rather inconvenient to have blazoned through the world:
especially with the additions and exaggerations of your female rivals,
who would be too glad to publish the matter, if I only gave them a
handle to it. But I promise you, on the faith of a gentleman, that no
word or syllable that could tend to your prejudice shall ever escape my
lips, provided you will—’
“‘Well, well, I won’t mention it,’ said I. ‘You may rely upon my
silence, if that can afford you any consolation.’
“‘You promise it?’
“‘Yes,’ I answered; for I wanted to get rid of him now.
“‘Farewell, then!’ said he, in a most doleful, heart-sick tone; and
with a look where pride vainly struggled against despair, he turned and
went away: longing, no doubt, to get home, that he might shut himself
up in his study and cry—if he doesn’t burst into tears before he gets
there.”
“But you have broken your promise already,” said I, truly horrified at
her perfidy.
“Oh! it’s only to you; I know you won’t repeat it.”
“Certainly, I shall not: but you say you are going to tell your sister;
and she will tell your brothers when they come home, and Brown
immediately, if you do not tell her yourself; and Brown will blazon it,
or be the means of blazoning it, throughout the country.”
“No, indeed, she won’t. We shall not tell her at all, unless it be
under the promise of the strictest secrecy.”
“But how can you expect her to keep her promises better than her more
enlightened mistress?”
“Well, well, she shan’t hear it then,” said Miss Murray, somewhat
snappishly.
“But you will tell your mamma, of course,” pursued I; “and she will
tell your papa.”
“Of course I shall tell mamma—that is the very thing that pleases me so
much. I shall now be able to convince her how mistaken she was in her
fears about me.”
“Oh, _that’s_ it, is it? I was wondering what it was that delighted you
so much.”
“Yes; and another thing is, that I’ve humbled Mr. Hatfield so
charmingly; and another—why, you must allow me some share of female
vanity: I don’t pretend to be without that most essential attribute of
our sex—and if you had seen poor Hatfield’s intense eagerness in making
his ardent declaration and his flattering proposal, and his agony of
mind, that no effort of pride could conceal, on being refused, you
would have allowed I had some cause to be gratified.”
“The greater his agony, I should think, the less your cause for
gratification.”
“Oh, nonsense!” cried the young lady, shaking herself with vexation.
“You either can’t understand me, or you won’t. If I had not confidence
in your magnanimity, I should think you envied me. But you will,
perhaps, comprehend this cause of pleasure—which is as great as
any—namely, that I am delighted with myself for my prudence, my
self-command, my heartlessness, if you please. I was not a bit taken by
surprise, not a bit confused, or awkward, or foolish; I just acted and
spoke as I ought to have done, and was completely my own mistress
throughout. And here was a man, decidedly good-looking—Jane and Susan
Green call him bewitchingly handsome—I suppose they’re two of the
ladies he pretends would be so glad to have him; but, however, he was
certainly a very clever, witty, agreeable companion—not what you call
clever, but just enough to make him entertaining; and a man one needn’t
be ashamed of anywhere, and would not soon grow tired of; and to
confess the truth, I rather liked him—better even, of late, than Harry
Meltham—and he evidently idolised me; and yet, though he came upon me
all alone and unprepared, I had the wisdom, and the pride, and the
strength to refuse him—and so scornfully and coolly as I did: I have
good reason to be proud of that.”
“And are you equally proud of having told him that his having the
wealth of Sir Hugh Meltham would make no difference to you, when that
was not the case; and of having promised to tell no one of his
misadventure, apparently without the slightest intention of keeping
your promise?”
“Of course! what else could I do? You would not have had me—but I see,
Miss Grey, you’re not in a good temper. Here’s Matilda; I’ll see what
she and mamma have to say about it.”
She left me, offended at my want of sympathy, and thinking, no doubt,
that I envied her. I did not—at least, I firmly believed I did not. I
was sorry for her; I was amazed, disgusted at her heartless vanity; I
wondered why so much beauty should be given to those who made so bad a
use of it, and denied to some who would make it a benefit to both
themselves and others.
But, God knows best, I concluded. There are, I suppose, some men as
vain, as selfish, and as heartless as she is, and, perhaps, such women
may be useful to punish them.
CHAPTER XV.
THE WALK
“Oh, dear! I wish Hatfield had not been so precipitate!” said Rosalie
next day at four P.M., as, with a portentous yawn, she laid down her
worsted-work and looked listlessly towards the window. “There’s no
inducement to go out now; and nothing to look forward to. The days will
be so long and dull when there are no parties to enliven them; and
there are none this week, or next either, that I know of.”
“Pity you were so cross to him,” observed Matilda, to whom this
lamentation was addressed. “He’ll never come again: and I suspect you
liked him after all. I hoped you would have taken him for your beau,
and left dear Harry to me.”
“Humph! my beau must be an Adonis indeed, Matilda, the admired of all
beholders, if I am to be contented with him alone. I’m sorry to lose
Hatfield, I confess; but the first decent man, or number of men, that
come to supply his place, will be more than welcome. It’s Sunday
to-morrow—I do wonder how he’ll look, and whether he’ll be able to go
through the service. Most likely he’ll pretend he’s got a cold, and
make Mr. Weston do it all.”
“Not he!” exclaimed Matilda, somewhat contemptuously. “Fool as he is,
he’s not so soft as that comes to.”
Her sister was slightly offended; but the event proved Matilda was
right: the disappointed lover performed his pastoral duties as usual.
Rosalie, indeed, affirmed he looked very pale and dejected: he might be
a little paler; but the difference, if any, was scarcely perceptible.
As for his dejection, I certainly did not hear his laugh ringing from
the vestry as usual, nor his voice loud in hilarious discourse; though
I did hear it uplifted in rating the sexton in a manner that made the
congregation stare; and, in his transits to and from the pulpit and the
communion-table, there was more of solemn pomp, and less of that
irreverent, self-confident, or rather self-delighted imperiousness with
which he usually swept along—that air that seemed to say, “You all
reverence and adore me, I know; but if anyone does not, I defy him to
the teeth!” But the most remarkable change was, that he never once
suffered his eyes to wander in the direction of Mr. Murray’s pew, and
did not leave the church till we were gone.
Mr. Hatfield had doubtless received a very severe blow; but his pride
impelled him to use every effort to conceal the effects of it. He had
been disappointed in his certain hope of obtaining not only a
beautiful, and, to him, highly attractive wife, but one whose rank and
fortune might give brilliance to far inferior charms: he was likewise,
no doubt, intensely mortified by his repulse, and deeply offended at
the conduct of Miss Murray throughout. It would have given him no
little consolation to have known how disappointed she was to find him
apparently so little moved, and to see that he was able to refrain from
casting a single glance at her throughout both services; though, she
declared, it showed he was thinking of her all the time, or his eyes
would have fallen upon her, if it were only by chance: but if they had
so chanced to fall, she would have affirmed it was because they could
not resist the attraction. It might have pleased him, too, in some
degree, to have seen how dull and dissatisfied she was throughout that
week (the greater part of it, at least), for lack of her usual source
of excitement; and how often she regretted having “used him up so
soon,” like a child that, having devoured its plumcake too hastily,
sits sucking its fingers, and vainly lamenting its greediness.
At length I was called upon, one fine morning, to accompany her in a
walk to the village. Ostensibly she went to get some shades of Berlin
wool, at a tolerably respectable shop that was chiefly supported by the
ladies of the vicinity: really—I trust there is no breach of charity in
supposing that she went with the idea of meeting either with the Rector
himself, or some other admirer by the way; for as we went along, she
kept wondering “what Hatfield would do or say, if we met him,” &c. &c.;
as we passed Mr. Green’s park-gates, she “wondered whether he was at
home—great stupid blockhead”; as Lady Meltham’s carriage passed us, she
“wondered what Mr. Harry was doing this fine day”; and then began to
abuse his elder brother for being “such a fool as to get married and go
and live in London.”
“Why,” said I, “I thought you wanted to live in London yourself.”
“Yes, because it’s so dull here: but then he makes it still duller by
taking himself off: and if he were not married I might have him instead
of that odious Sir Thomas.”
Then, observing the prints of a horse’s feet on the somewhat miry road,
she “wondered whether it was a gentleman’s horse,” and finally
concluded it was, for the impressions were too small to have been made
by a “great clumsy cart-horse”; and then she “wondered who the rider
could be,” and whether we should meet him coming back, for she was sure
he had only passed that morning; and lastly, when we entered the
village and saw only a few of its humble inhabitants moving about, she
“wondered why the stupid people couldn’t keep in their houses; she was
sure she didn’t want to see their ugly faces, and dirty, vulgar
clothes—it wasn’t for that she came to Horton!”
Amid all this, I confess, I wondered, too, in secret, whether we should
meet, or catch a glimpse of somebody else; and as we passed his
lodgings, I even went so far as to wonder whether he was at the window.
On entering the shop, Miss Murray desired me to stand in the doorway
while she transacted her business, and tell her if anyone passed. But
alas! there was no one visible besides the villagers, except Jane and
Susan Green coming down the single street, apparently returning from a
walk.
“Stupid things!” muttered she, as she came out after having concluded
her bargain. “Why couldn’t they have their dolt of a brother with them?
even he would be better than nothing.”
She greeted them, however, with a cheerful smile, and protestations of
pleasure at the happy meeting equal to their own. They placed
themselves one on each side of her, and all three walked away chatting
and laughing as young ladies do when they get together, if they be but
on tolerably intimate terms. But I, feeling myself to be one too many,
left them to their merriment and lagged behind, as usual on such
occasions: I had no relish for walking beside Miss Green or Miss Susan
like one deaf and dumb, who could neither speak nor be spoken to.
But this time I was not long alone. It struck me, first, as very odd,
that just as I was thinking about Mr. Weston he should come up and
accost me; but afterwards, on due reflection, I thought there was
nothing odd about it, unless it were the fact of his speaking to me;
for on such a morning and so near his own abode, it was natural enough
that he should be about; and as for my thinking of him, I had been
doing that, with little intermission, ever since we set out on our
journey; so there was nothing remarkable in that.
“You are alone again, Miss Grey,” said he.
“Yes.”
“What kind of people are those ladies—the Misses Green?”
“I really don’t know.”
“That’s strange—when you live so near and see them so often!”
“Well, I suppose they are lively, good-tempered girls; but I imagine
you must know them better than I do, yourself, for I never exchanged a
word with either of them.”
“Indeed? They don’t strike me as being particularly reserved.”
“Very likely they are not so to people of their own class; but they
consider themselves as moving in quite a different sphere from me!”
He made no reply to this: but after a short pause, he said,—“I suppose
it’s these things, Miss Grey, that make you think you could not live
without a home?”
“Not exactly. The fact is I am too socially disposed to be able to live
contentedly without a friend; and as the only friends I have, or am
likely to have, are at home, if it—or rather, if they were gone—I will
not say I could not live—but I would rather not live in such a desolate
world.”
“But why do you say the only friends you are likely to have? Are you so
unsociable that you cannot make friends?”
“No, but I never made one yet; and in my present position there is no
possibility of doing so, or even of forming a common acquaintance. The
fault may be partly in myself, but I hope not altogether.”
“The fault is partly in society, and partly, I should think, in your
immediate neighbours: and partly, too, in yourself; for many ladies, in
your position, would make themselves be noticed and accounted of. But
your pupils should be companions for you in some degree; they cannot be
many years younger than yourself.”
“Oh, yes, they are good company sometimes; but I cannot call them
friends, nor would they think of bestowing such a name on me—they have
other companions better suited to their tastes.”
“Perhaps you are too wise for them. How do you amuse yourself when
alone—do you read much?”
“Reading is my favourite occupation, when I have leisure for it and
books to read.”
From speaking of books in general, he passed to different books in
particular, and proceeded by rapid transitions from topic to topic,
till several matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed
considerably within the space of half an hour, but without the
embellishment of many observations from himself; he being evidently
less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections, than
on discovering mine. He had not the tact, or the art, to effect such a
purpose by skilfully drawing out my sentiments or ideas through the
real or apparent statement of his own, or leading the conversation by
imperceptible gradations to such topics as he wished to advert to: but
such gentle abruptness, and such single-minded straightforwardness,
could not possibly offend me.
“And why should he interest himself at all in my moral and intellectual
capacities: what is it to him what I think or feel?” I asked myself.
And my heart throbbed in answer to the question.
But Jane and Susan Green soon reached their home. As they stood
parleying at the park-gates, attempting to persuade Miss Murray to come
in, I wished Mr. Weston would go, that she might not see him with me
when she turned round; but, unfortunately, his business, which was to
pay one more visit to poor Mark Wood, led him to pursue the same path
as we did, till nearly the close of our journey. When, however, he saw
that Rosalie had taken leave of her friends and I was about to join
her, he would have left me and passed on at a quicker pace; but, as he
civilly lifted his hat in passing her, to my surprise, instead of
returning the salute with a stiff, ungracious bow, she accosted him
with one of her sweetest smiles, and, walking by his side, began to
talk to him with all imaginable cheerfulness and affability; and so we
proceeded all three together.
After a short pause in the conversation, Mr. Weston made some remark
addressed particularly to me, as referring to something we had been
talking of before; but before I could answer, Miss Murray replied to
the observation and enlarged upon it: he rejoined; and, from thence to
the close of the interview, she engrossed him entirely to herself. It
might be partly owing to my own stupidity, my want of tact and
assurance: but I felt myself wronged: I trembled with apprehension; and
I listened with envy to her easy, rapid flow of utterance, and saw with
anxiety the bright smile with which she looked into his face from time
to time: for she was walking a little in advance, for the purpose (as I
judged) of being seen as well as heard. If her conversation was light
and trivial, it was amusing, and she was never at a loss for something
to say, or for suitable words to express it in. There was nothing pert
or flippant in her manner now, as when she walked with Mr. Hatfield,
there was only a gentle, playful kind of vivacity, which I thought must
be peculiarly pleasing to a man of Mr. Weston’s disposition and
temperament.
When he was gone she began to laugh, and muttered to herself, “I
thought I could do it!”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Fix that man.”
“What in the world do you mean?”
“I mean that he will go home and dream of me. I have shot him through
the heart!”
“How do you know?”
“By many infallible proofs: more especially the look he gave me when he
went away. It was not an impudent look—I exonerate him from that—it was
a look of reverential, tender adoration. Ha, ha! he’s not quite such a
stupid blockhead as I thought him!”
I made no answer, for my heart was in my throat, or something like it,
and I could not trust myself to speak. “O God, avert it!” I cried,
internally—“for his sake, not for mine!”
Miss Murray made several trivial observations as we passed up the park,
to which (in spite of my reluctance to let one glimpse of my feelings
appear) I could only answer by monosyllables. Whether she intended to
torment me, or merely to amuse herself, I could not tell—and did not
much care; but I thought of the poor man and his one lamb, and the rich
man with his thousand flocks; and I dreaded I knew not what for Mr.
Weston, independently of my own blighted hopes.
Right glad was I to get into the house, and find myself alone once more
in my own room. My first impulse was to sink into the chair beside the
bed; and laying my head on the pillow, to seek relief in a passionate
burst of tears: there was an imperative craving for such an indulgence;
but, alas! I must restrain and swallow back my feelings still: there
was the bell—the odious bell for the schoolroom dinner; and I must go
down with a calm face, and smile, and laugh, and talk nonsense—yes, and
eat, too, if possible, as if all was right, and I was just returned
from a pleasant walk.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE SUBSTITUTION
Next Sunday was one of the gloomiest of April days—a day of thick, dark
clouds, and heavy showers. None of the Murrays were disposed to attend
church in the afternoon, excepting Rosalie: she was bent upon going as
usual; so she ordered the carriage, and I went with her: nothing loth,
of course, for at church I might look without fear of scorn or censure
upon a form and face more pleasing to me than the most beautiful of
God’s creations; I might listen without disturbance to a voice more
charming than the sweetest music to my ears; I might seem to hold
communion with that soul in which I felt so deeply interested, and
imbibe its purest thoughts and holiest aspirations, with no alloy to
such felicity except the secret reproaches of my conscience, which
would too often whisper that I was deceiving my own self, and mocking
God with the service of a heart more bent upon the creature than the
Creator.
Sometimes, such thoughts would give me trouble enough; but sometimes I
could quiet them with thinking—it is not the man, it is his goodness
that I love. “Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely,
whatsoever things are honest and of good report, think on these
things.” We do well to worship God in His works; and I know none of
them in which so many of His attributes—so much of His own spirit
shines, as in this His faithful servant; whom to know and not to
appreciate, were obtuse insensibility in me, who have so little else to
occupy my heart.
Almost immediately after the conclusion of the service, Miss Murray
left the church. We had to stand in the porch, for it was raining, and
the carriage was not yet come. I wondered at her coming forth so
hastily, for neither young Meltham nor Squire Green was there; but I
soon found it was to secure an interview with Mr. Weston as he came
out, which he presently did. Having saluted us both, he would have
passed on, but she detained him; first with observations upon the
disagreeable weather, and then with asking if he would be so kind as to
come some time to-morrow to see the granddaughter of the old woman who
kept the porter’s lodge, for the girl was ill of a fever, and wished to
see him. He promised to do so.
“And at what time will you be most likely to come, Mr. Weston? The old
woman will like to know when to expect you—you know such people think
more about having their cottages in order when decent people come to
see them than we are apt to suppose.”
Here was a wonderful instance of consideration from the thoughtless
Miss Murray. Mr. Weston named an hour in the morning at which he would
endeavour to be there. By this time the carriage was ready, and the
footman was waiting, with an open umbrella, to escort Miss Murray
through the churchyard. I was about to follow; but Mr. Weston had an
umbrella too, and offered me the benefit of its shelter, for it was
raining heavily.
“No, thank you, I don’t mind the rain,” I said. I always lacked common
sense when taken by surprise.
“But you don’t _like_ it, I suppose?—an umbrella will do you no harm at
any rate,” he replied, with a smile that showed he was not offended; as
a man of worse temper or less penetration would have been at such a
refusal of his aid. I could not deny the truth of his assertion, and so
went with him to the carriage; he even offered me his hand on getting
in: an unnecessary piece of civility, but I accepted that too, for fear
of giving offence. One glance he gave, one little smile at parting—it
was but for a moment; but therein I read, or thought I read, a meaning
that kindled in my heart a brighter flame of hope than had ever yet
arisen.
“I would have sent the footman back for you, Miss Grey, if you’d waited
a moment—you needn’t have taken Mr. Weston’s umbrella,” observed
Rosalie, with a very unamiable cloud upon her pretty face.
“I would have come without an umbrella, but Mr. Weston offered me the
benefit of his, and I could not have refused it more than I did without
offending him,” replied I, smiling placidly; for my inward happiness
made that amusing, which would have wounded me at another time.
The carriage was now in motion. Miss Murray bent forwards, and looked
out of the window as we were passing Mr. Weston. He was pacing
homewards along the causeway, and did not turn his head.
“Stupid ass!” cried she, throwing herself back again in the seat. “You
don’t know what you’ve lost by not looking this way!”
“What has he lost?”
“A bow from me, that would have raised him to the seventh heaven!”
I made no answer. I saw she was out of humour, and I derived a secret
gratification from the fact, not that she was vexed, but that she
thought she had reason to be so. It made me think my hopes were not
entirely the offspring of my wishes and imagination.
“I mean to take up Mr. Weston instead of Mr. Hatfield,” said my
companion, after a short pause, resuming something of her usual
cheerfulness. “The ball at Ashby Park takes place on Tuesday, you know;
and mamma thinks it very likely that Sir Thomas will propose to me
then: such things are often done in the privacy of the ball-room, when
gentlemen are most easily ensnared, and ladies most enchanting. But if
I am to be married so soon, I must make the best of the present time: I
am determined Hatfield shall not be the only man who shall lay his
heart at my feet, and implore me to accept the worthless gift in vain.”
“If you mean Mr. Weston to be one of your victims,” said I, with
affected indifference, “you will have to make such overtures yourself
that you will find it difficult to draw back when he asks you to fulfil
the expectations you have raised.”
“I don’t suppose he will ask me to marry him, nor should I desire it:
that would be rather too much presumption! but I intend him to feel my
power. He has felt it already, indeed: but he shall _acknowledge_ it
too; and what visionary hopes he may have, he must keep to himself, and
only amuse me with the result of them—for a time.”
“Oh! that some kind spirit would whisper those words in his ear,” I
inwardly exclaimed. I was far too indignant to hazard a reply to her
observation aloud; and nothing more was said about Mr. Weston that day,
by me or in my hearing. But next morning, soon after breakfast, Miss
Murray came into the schoolroom, where her sister was employed at her
studies, or rather her lessons, for studies they were not, and said,
“Matilda, I want you to take a walk with me about eleven o’clock.”
“Oh, I can’t, Rosalie! I have to give orders about my new bridle and
saddle-cloth, and speak to the rat-catcher about his dogs: Miss Grey
must go with you.”
“No, I want you,” said Rosalie; and calling her sister to the window,
she whispered an explanation in her ear; upon which the latter
consented to go.
I remembered that eleven was the hour at which Mr. Weston proposed to
come to the porter’s lodge; and remembering that, I beheld the whole
contrivance. Accordingly, at dinner, I was entertained with a long
account of how Mr. Weston had overtaken them as they were walking along
the road; and how they had had a long walk and talk with him, and
really found him quite an agreeable companion; and how he must have
been, and evidently was, delighted with them and their amazing
condescension, &c. &c.
CHAPTER XVII.
CONFESSIONS
As I am in the way of confessions I may as well acknowledge that, about
this time, I paid more attention to dress than ever I had done before.
This is not saying much—for hitherto I had been a little neglectful in
that particular; but now, also, it was no uncommon thing to spend as
much as two minutes in the contemplation of my own image in the glass;
though I never could derive any consolation from such a study. I could
discover no beauty in those marked features, that pale hollow cheek,
and ordinary dark brown hair; there might be intellect in the forehead,
there might be expression in the dark grey eyes, but what of that?—a
low Grecian brow, and large black eyes devoid of sentiment would be
esteemed far preferable. It is foolish to wish for beauty. Sensible
people never either desire it for themselves or care about it in
others. If the mind be but well cultivated, and the heart well
disposed, no one ever cares for the exterior. So said the teachers of
our childhood; and so say we to the children of the present day. All
very judicious and proper, no doubt; but are such assertions supported
by actual experience?
We are naturally disposed to love what gives us pleasure, and what more
pleasing than a beautiful face—when we know no harm of the possessor at
least? A little girl loves her bird—Why? Because it lives and feels;
because it is helpless and harmless? A toad, likewise, lives and feels,
and is equally helpless and harmless; but though she would not hurt a
toad, she cannot love it like the bird, with its graceful form, soft
feathers, and bright, speaking eyes. If a woman is fair and amiable,
she is praised for both qualities, but especially the former, by the
bulk of mankind: if, on the other hand, she is disagreeable in person
and character, her plainness is commonly inveighed against as her
greatest crime, because, to common observers, it gives the greatest
offence; while, if she is plain and good, provided she is a person of
retired manners and secluded life, no one ever knows of her goodness,
except her immediate connections. Others, on the contrary, are disposed
to form unfavourable opinions of her mind, and disposition, if it be
but to excuse themselves for their instinctive dislike of one so
unfavoured by nature; and _vice versâ_ with her whose angel form
conceals a vicious heart, or sheds a false, deceitful charm over
defects and foibles that would not be tolerated in another. They that
have beauty, let them be thankful for it, and make a good use of it,
like any other talent; they that have it not, let them console
themselves, and do the best they can without it: certainly, though
liable to be over-estimated, it is a gift of God, and not to be
despised. Many will feel this who have felt that they could love, and
whose hearts tell them that they are worthy to be loved again; while
yet they are debarred, by the lack of this or some such seeming trifle,
from giving and receiving that happiness they seem almost made to feel
and to impart. As well might the humble glowworm despise that power of
giving light without which the roving fly might pass her and repass her
a thousand times, and never rest beside her: she might hear her winged
darling buzzing over and around her; he vainly seeking her, she longing
to be found, but with no power to make her presence known, no voice to
call him, no wings to follow his flight;—the fly must seek another
mate, the worm must live and die alone.
Such were some of my reflections about this period. I might go on
prosing more and more, I might dive much deeper, and disclose other
thoughts, propose questions the reader might be puzzled to answer, and
deduce arguments that might startle his prejudices, or, perhaps,
provoke his ridicule, because he could not comprehend them; but I
forbear.
Now, therefore, let us return to Miss Murray. She accompanied her mamma
to the ball on Tuesday; of course splendidly attired, and delighted
with her prospects and her charms. As Ashby Park was nearly ten miles
distant from Horton Lodge, they had to set out pretty early, and I
intended to have spent the evening with Nancy Brown, whom I had not
seen for a long time; but my kind pupil took care I should spend it
neither there nor anywhere else beyond the limits of the schoolroom, by
giving me a piece of music to copy, which kept me closely occupied till
bed-time. About eleven next morning, as soon as she had left her room,
she came to tell me her news. Sir Thomas had indeed proposed to her at
the ball; an event which reflected great credit on her mamma’s
sagacity, if not upon her skill in contrivance. I rather incline to the
belief that she had first laid her plans, and then predicted their
success. The offer had been accepted, of course, and the bridegroom
elect was coming that day to settle matters with Mr. Murray.
Rosalie was pleased with the thoughts of becoming mistress of Ashby
Park; she was elated with the prospect of the bridal ceremony and its
attendant splendour and éclat, the honeymoon spent abroad, and the
subsequent gaieties she expected to enjoy in London and elsewhere; she
appeared pretty well pleased too, for the time being, with Sir Thomas
himself, because she had so lately seen him, danced with him, and been
flattered by him; but, after all, she seemed to shrink from the idea of
being so soon united: she wished the ceremony to be delayed some
months, at least; and I wished it too. It seemed a horrible thing to
hurry on the inauspicious match, and not to give the poor creature time
to think and reason on the irrevocable step she was about to take. I
made no pretension to “a mother’s watchful, anxious care,” but I was
amazed and horrified at Mrs. Murray’s heartlessness, or want of thought
for the real good of her child; and by my unheeded warnings and
exhortations, I vainly strove to remedy the evil. Miss Murray only
laughed at what I said; and I soon found that her reluctance to an
immediate union arose chiefly from a desire to do what execution she
could among the young gentlemen of her acquaintance, before she was
incapacitated from further mischief of the kind. It was for this cause
that, before confiding to me the secret of her engagement, she had
extracted a promise that I would not mention a word on the subject to
any one. And when I saw this, and when I beheld her plunge more
recklessly than ever into the depths of heartless coquetry, I had no
more pity for her. “Come what will,” I thought, “she deserves it. Sir
Thomas cannot be too bad for her; and the sooner she is incapacitated
from deceiving and injuring others the better.”
The wedding was fixed for the first of June. Between that and the
critical ball was little more than six weeks; but, with Rosalie’s
accomplished skill and resolute exertion, much might be done, even
within that period; especially as Sir Thomas spent most of the interim
in London; whither he went up, it was said, to settle affairs with his
lawyer, and make other preparations for the approaching nuptials. He
endeavoured to supply the want of his presence by a pretty constant
fire of billets-doux; but these did not attract the neighbours’
attention, and open their eyes, as personal visits would have done; and
old Lady Ashby’s haughty, sour spirit of reserve withheld her from
spreading the news, while her indifferent health prevented her coming
to visit her future daughter-in-law; so that, altogether, this affair
was kept far closer than such things usually are.
Rosalie would sometimes show her lover’s epistles to me, to convince me
what a kind, devoted husband he would make. She showed me the letters
of another individual, too, the unfortunate Mr. Green, who had not the
courage, or, as she expressed it, the “spunk,” to plead his cause in
person, but whom one denial would not satisfy: he must write again and
again. He would not have done so if he could have seen the grimaces his
fair idol made over his moving appeals to her feelings, and heard her
scornful laughter, and the opprobrious epithets she heaped upon him for
his perseverance.
“Why don’t you tell him, at once, that you are engaged?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t want him to know that,” replied she. “If he knew it, his
sisters and everybody would know it, and then there would be an end of
my—ahem! And, besides, if I told him that, he would think my engagement
was the only obstacle, and that I would have him if I were free; which
I could not bear that any man should think, and he, of all others, at
least. Besides, I don’t care for his letters,” she added,
contemptuously; “he may write as often as he pleases, and look as great
a calf as he likes when I meet him; it only amuses me.”
Meantime, young Meltham was pretty frequent in his visits to the house
or transits past it; and, judging by Matilda’s execrations and
reproaches, her sister paid more attention to him than civility
required; in other words, she carried on as animated a flirtation as
the presence of her parents would admit. She made some attempts to
bring Mr. Hatfield once more to her feet; but finding them
unsuccessful, she repaid his haughty indifference with still loftier
scorn, and spoke of him with as much disdain and detestation as she had
formerly done of his curate. But, amid all this, she never for a moment
lost sight of Mr. Weston. She embraced every opportunity of meeting
him, tried every art to fascinate him, and pursued him with as much
perseverance as if she really loved him and no other, and the happiness
of her life depended upon eliciting a return of affection. Such conduct
was completely beyond my comprehension. Had I seen it depicted in a
novel, I should have thought it unnatural; had I heard it described by
others, I should have deemed it a mistake or an exaggeration; but when
I saw it with my own eyes, and suffered from it too, I could only
conclude that excessive vanity, like drunkenness, hardens the heart,
enslaves the faculties, and perverts the feelings; and that dogs are
not the only creatures which, when gorged to the throat, will yet gloat
over what they cannot devour, and grudge the smallest morsel to a
starving brother.
She now became extremely beneficent to the poor cottagers. Her
acquaintance among them was more widely extended, her visits to their
humble dwellings were more frequent and excursive than they had ever
been before. Hereby, she earned among them the reputation of a
condescending and very charitable young lady; and their encomiums were
sure to be repeated to Mr. Weston: whom also she had thus a daily
chance of meeting in one or other of their abodes, or in her transits
to and fro; and often, likewise, she could gather, through their
gossip, to what places he was likely to go at such and such a time,
whether to baptize a child, or to visit the aged, the sick, the sad, or
the dying; and most skilfully she laid her plans accordingly. In these
excursions she would sometimes go with her sister—whom, by some means,
she had persuaded or bribed to enter into her schemes—sometimes alone,
never, now, with me; so that I was debarred the pleasure of seeing Mr.
Weston, or hearing his voice even in conversation with another: which
would certainly have been a very great pleasure, however hurtful or
however fraught with pain. I could not even see him at church: for Miss
Murray, under some trivial pretext, chose to take possession of that
corner in the family pew which had been mine ever since I came; and,
unless I had the presumption to station myself between Mr. and Mrs.
Murray, I must sit with my back to the pulpit, which I accordingly did.
Now, also, I never walked home with my pupils: they said their mamma
thought it did not look well to see three people out of the family
walking, and only two going in the carriage; and, as they greatly
preferred walking in fine weather, I should be honoured by going with
the seniors. “And besides,” said they, “you can’t walk as fast as we
do; you know you’re always lagging behind.” I knew these were false
excuses, but I made no objections, and never contradicted such
assertions, well knowing the motives which dictated them. And in the
afternoons, during those six memorable weeks, I never went to church at
all. If I had a cold, or any slight indisposition, they took advantage
of that to make me stay at home; and often they would tell me they were
not going again that day, themselves, and then pretend to change their
minds, and set off without telling me: so managing their departure that
I never discovered the change of purpose till too late. Upon their
return home, on one of these occasions, they entertained me with an
animated account of a conversation they had had with Mr. Weston as they
came along. “And he asked if you were ill, Miss Grey,” said Matilda;
“but we told him you were quite well, only you didn’t want to come to
church—so he’ll think you’re turned wicked.”
All chance meetings on week-days were likewise carefully prevented;
for, lest I should go to see poor Nancy Brown or any other person, Miss
Murray took good care to provide sufficient employment for all my
leisure hours. There was always some drawing to finish, some music to
copy, or some work to do, sufficient to incapacitate me from indulging
in anything beyond a short walk about the grounds, however she or her
sister might be occupied.
One morning, having sought and waylaid Mr. Weston, they returned in
high glee to give me an account of their interview. “And he asked after
you again,” said Matilda, in spite of her sister’s silent but
imperative intimation that she should hold her tongue. “He wondered why
you were never with us, and thought you must have delicate health, as
you came out so seldom.”
“He didn’t Matilda—what nonsense you’re talking!”
“Oh, Rosalie, what a lie! He did, you know; and you said—Don’t,
Rosalie—hang it!—I won’t be pinched so! And, Miss Grey, Rosalie told
him you were quite well, but you were always so buried in your books
that you had no pleasure in anything else.”
“What an idea he must have of me!” I thought.
“And,” I asked, “does old Nancy ever inquire about me?”
“Yes; and we tell her you are so fond of reading and drawing that you
can do nothing else.”
“That is not the case though; if you had told her I was so busy I could
not come to see her, it would have been nearer the truth.”
“I don’t think it would,” replied Miss Murray, suddenly kindling up;
“I’m sure you have plenty of time to yourself now, when you have so
little teaching to do.”
It was no use beginning to dispute with such indulged, unreasoning
creatures: so I held my peace. I was accustomed, now, to keeping
silence when things distasteful to my ear were uttered; and now, too, I
was used to wearing a placid smiling countenance when my heart was
bitter within me. Only those who have felt the like can imagine my
feelings, as I sat with an assumption of smiling indifference,
listening to the accounts of those meetings and interviews with Mr.
Weston, which they seemed to find such pleasure in describing to me;
and hearing things asserted of him which, from the character of the
man, I knew to be exaggerations and perversions of the truth, if not
entirely false—things derogatory to him, and flattering to
them—especially to Miss Murray—which I burned to contradict, or, at
least, to show my doubts about, but dared not; lest, in expressing my
disbelief, I should display my interest too. Other things I heard,
which I felt or feared were indeed too true: but I must still conceal
my anxiety respecting him, my indignation against them, beneath a
careless aspect; others, again, mere hints of something said or done,
which I longed to hear more of, but could not venture to inquire. So
passed the weary time. I could not even comfort myself with saying,
“She will soon be married; and then there may be hope.”
Soon after her marriage the holidays would come; and when I returned
from home, most likely, Mr. Weston would be gone, for I was told that
he and the Rector could not agree (the Rector’s fault, of course), and
he was about to remove to another place.
No—besides my hope in God, my only consolation was in thinking that,
though he know it not, I was more worthy of his love than Rosalie
Murray, charming and engaging as she was; for I could appreciate his
excellence, which she could not: I would devote my life to the
promotion of his happiness; she would destroy his happiness for the
momentary gratification of her own vanity. “Oh, if he could but know
the difference!” I would earnestly exclaim. “But no! I would not have
him see my heart: yet, if he could but know her hollowness, her
worthless, heartless frivolity, he would then be safe, and I should
be—_almost_ happy, though I might never see him more!”
I fear, by this time, the reader is well nigh disgusted with the folly
and weakness I have so freely laid before him. I never disclosed it
then, and would not have done so had my own sister or my mother been
with me in the house. I was a close and resolute dissembler—in this one
case at least. My prayers, my tears, my wishes, fears, and
lamentations, were witnessed by myself and heaven alone.
When we are harassed by sorrows or anxieties, or long oppressed by any
powerful feelings which we must keep to ourselves, for which we can
obtain and seek no sympathy from any living creature, and which yet we
cannot, or will not wholly crush, we often naturally seek relief in
poetry—and often find it, too—whether in the effusions of others, which
seem to harmonize with our existing case, or in our own attempts to
give utterance to those thoughts and feelings in strains less musical,
perchance, but more appropriate, and therefore more penetrating and
sympathetic, and, for the time, more soothing, or more powerful to
rouse and to unburden the oppressed and swollen heart. Before this
time, at Wellwood House and here, when suffering from home-sick
melancholy, I had sought relief twice or thrice at this secret source
of consolation; and now I flew to it again, with greater avidity than
ever, because I seemed to need it more. I still preserve those relics
of past sufferings and experience, like pillars of witness set up in
travelling through the vale of life, to mark particular occurrences.
The footsteps are obliterated now; the face of the country may be
changed; but the pillar is still there, to remind me how all things
were when it was reared. Lest the reader should be curious to see any
of these effusions, I will favour him with one short specimen: cold and
languid as the lines may seem, it was almost a passion of grief to
which they owed their being:—
Oh, they have robbed me of the hope
My spirit held so dear;
They will not let me hear that voice
My soul delights to hear.
They will not let me see that face
I so delight to see;
And they have taken all thy smiles,
And all thy love from me.
Well, let them seize on all they can;—
One treasure still is mine,—
A heart that loves to think on thee,
And feels the worth of thine.
Yes, at least, they could not deprive me of that: I could think of him
day and night; and I could feel that he was worthy to be thought of.
Nobody knew him as I did; nobody could appreciate him as I did; nobody
could love him as I—could, if I might: but there was the evil. What
business had I to think so much of one that never thought of me? Was it
not foolish? was it not wrong? Yet, if I found such deep delight in
thinking of him, and if I kept those thoughts to myself, and troubled
no one else with them, where was the harm of it? I would ask myself.
And such reasoning prevented me from making any sufficient effort to
shake off my fetters.
But, if those thoughts brought delight, it was a painful, troubled
pleasure, too near akin to anguish; and one that did me more injury
than I was aware of. It was an indulgence that a person of more wisdom
or more experience would doubtless have denied herself. And yet, how
dreary to turn my eyes from the contemplation of that bright object and
force them to dwell on the dull, grey, desolate prospect around: the
joyless, hopeless, solitary path that lay before me. It was wrong to be
so joyless, so desponding; I should have made God my friend, and to do
His will the pleasure and the business of my life; but faith was weak,
and passion was too strong.
In this time of trouble I had two other causes of affliction. The first
may seem a trifle, but it cost me many a tear: Snap, my little dumb,
rough-visaged, but bright-eyed, warm-hearted companion, the only thing
I had to love me, was taken away, and delivered over to the tender
mercies of the village rat-catcher, a man notorious for his brutal
treatment of his canine slaves. The other was serious enough; my
letters from home gave intimation that my father’s health was worse. No
boding fears were expressed, but I was grown timid and despondent, and
could not help fearing that some dreadful calamity awaited us there. I
seemed to see the black clouds gathering round my native hills, and to
hear the angry muttering of a storm that was about to burst, and
desolate our hearth.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MIRTH AND MOURNING
The 1st of June arrived at last: and Rosalie Murray was transmuted into
Lady Ashby. Most splendidly beautiful she looked in her bridal costume.
Upon her return from church, after the ceremony, she came flying into
the schoolroom, flushed with excitement, and laughing, half in mirth,
and half in reckless desperation, as it seemed to me.
“Now, Miss Grey, I’m Lady Ashby!” she exclaimed. “It’s done, my fate is
sealed: there’s no drawing back now. I’m come to receive your
congratulations and bid you good-by; and then I’m off for Paris, Rome,
Naples, Switzerland, London—oh, dear! what a deal I shall see and hear
before I come back again. But don’t forget me: I shan’t forget you,
though I’ve been a naughty girl. Come, why don’t you congratulate me?”
“I cannot congratulate you,” I replied, “till I know whether this
change is really for the better: but I sincerely hope it is; and I wish
you true happiness and the best of blessings.”
“Well, good-by, the carriage is waiting, and they’re calling me.”
She gave me a hasty kiss, and was hurrying away; but, suddenly
returning, embraced me with more affection than I thought her capable
of evincing, and departed with tears in her eyes. Poor girl! I really
loved her then; and forgave her from my heart all the injury she had
done me—and others also: she had not half known it, I was sure; and I
prayed God to pardon her too.
During the remainder of that day of festal sadness, I was left to my
own devices. Being too much unhinged for any steady occupation, I
wandered about with a book in my hand for several hours, more thinking
than reading, for I had many things to think about. In the evening, I
made use of my liberty to go and see my old friend Nancy once again; to
apologize for my long absence (which must have seemed so neglectful and
unkind) by telling her how busy I had been; and to talk, or read, or
work for her, whichever might be most acceptable, and also, of course,
to tell her the news of this important day: and perhaps to obtain a
little information from her in return, respecting Mr. Weston’s expected
departure. But of this she seemed to know nothing, and I hoped, as she
did, that it was all a false report. She was very glad to see me; but,
happily, her eyes were now so nearly well that she was almost
independent of my services. She was deeply interested in the wedding;
but while I amused her with the details of the festive day, the
splendours of the bridal party and of the bride herself, she often
sighed and shook her head, and wished good might come of it; she
seemed, like me, to regard it rather as a theme for sorrow than
rejoicing. I sat a long time talking to her about that and other
things—but no one came.
Shall I confess that I sometimes looked towards the door with a
half-expectant wish to see it open and give entrance to Mr. Weston, as
had happened once before? and that, returning through the lanes and
fields, I often paused to look round me, and walked more slowly than
was at all necessary—for, though a fine evening, it was not a hot
one—and, finally, felt a sense of emptiness and disappointment at
having reached the house without meeting or even catching a distant
glimpse of any one, except a few labourers returning from their work?
Sunday, however, was approaching: I should see him then: for now that
Miss Murray was gone, I could have my old corner again. I should see
him, and by look, speech, and manner, I might judge whether the
circumstance of her marriage had very much afflicted him. Happily I
could perceive no shadow of a difference: he wore the same aspect as he
had worn two months ago—voice, look, manner, all alike unchanged: there
was the same keen-sighted, unclouded truthfulness in his discourse, the
same forcible clearness in his style, the same earnest simplicity in
all he said and did, that made itself, not marked by the eye and ear,
but felt upon the hearts of his audience.
I walked home with Miss Matilda; but _he did not join us_. Matilda was
now sadly at a loss for amusement, and wofully in want of a companion:
her brothers at school, her sister married and gone, she too young to
be admitted into society; for which, from Rosalie’s example, she was in
some degree beginning to acquire a taste—a taste at least for the
company of certain classes of gentlemen; at this dull time of year—no
hunting going on, no shooting even—for, though she might not join in
that, it was _something_ to see her father or the gamekeeper go out
with the dogs, and to talk with them on their return, about the
different birds they had bagged. Now, also, she was denied the solace
which the companionship of the coachman, grooms, horses, greyhounds,
and pointers might have afforded; for her mother having,
notwithstanding the disadvantages of a country life, so satisfactorily
disposed of her elder daughter, the pride of her heart had begun
seriously to turn her attention to the younger; and, being truly
alarmed at the roughness of her manners, and thinking it high time to
work a reform, had been roused at length to exert her authority, and
prohibited entirely the yards, stables, kennels, and coach-house. Of
course, she was not implicitly obeyed; but, indulgent as she had
hitherto been, when once her spirit was roused, her temper was not so
gentle as she required that of her governesses to be, and her will was
not to be thwarted with impunity. After many a scene of contention
between mother and daughter, many a violent outbreak which I was
ashamed to witness, in which the father’s authority was often called in
to confirm with oaths and threats the mother’s slighted
prohibitions—for even _he_ could see that “Tilly, though she would have
made a fine lad, was not quite what a young lady ought to be”—Matilda
at length found that her easiest plan was to keep clear of the
forbidden regions; unless she could now and then steal a visit without
her watchful mother’s knowledge.
Amid all this, let it not be imagined that I escaped without many a
reprimand, and many an implied reproach, that lost none of its sting
from not being openly worded; but rather wounded the more deeply,
because, from that very reason, it seemed to preclude self-defence.
Frequently, I was told to amuse Miss Matilda with other things, and to
remind her of her mother’s precepts and prohibitions. I did so to the
best of my power: but she would not be amused against her will, and
could not against her taste; and though I went beyond mere reminding,
such gentle remonstrances as I could use were utterly ineffectual.
“_Dear_ Miss Grey! it is the _strangest_ thing. I suppose you can’t
help it, if it’s not in your nature—but I _wonder_ you can’t win the
confidence of that girl, and make your society at _least_ as agreeable
to her as that of Robert or Joseph!”
“They can talk the best about the things in which she is most
interested,” I replied.
“Well! that is a strange confession, _however_, to come from her
_governess_! Who is to form a young lady’s tastes, I wonder, if the
governess doesn’t do it? I have known governesses who have so
completely identified themselves with the reputation of their young
ladies for elegance and propriety in mind and manners, that they would
blush to speak a word against them; and to hear the slightest blame
imputed to their pupils was worse than to be censured in their own
persons—and I really think it very natural, for my part.”
“Do you, ma’am?”
“Yes, of course: the young lady’s proficiency and elegance is of more
consequence to the governess than her own, as well as to the world. If
she wishes to prosper in her vocation she must devote all her energies
to her business: all her ideas and all her ambition will tend to the
accomplishment of that one object. When we wish to decide upon the
merits of a governess, we naturally look at the young ladies she
professes to have educated, and judge accordingly. The _judicious_
governess knows this: she knows that, while she lives in obscurity
herself, her pupils’ virtues and defects will be open to every eye; and
that, unless she loses sight of herself in their cultivation, she need
not hope for success. You see, Miss Grey, it is just the same as any
other trade or profession: they that wish to prosper must devote
themselves body and soul to their calling; and if they begin to yield
to indolence or self-indulgence they are speedily distanced by wiser
competitors: there is little to choose between a person that ruins her
pupils by neglect, and one that corrupts them by her example. You will
excuse my dropping these little hints: you know it is all for your own
good. Many ladies would speak to you much more strongly; and many would
not trouble themselves to speak at all, but quietly look out for a
substitute. That, of course, would be the _easiest_ plan: but I know
the advantages of a place like this to a person in your situation; and
I have no desire to part with you, as I am sure you would do very well
if you will only think of these things and try to exert yourself a
_little_ more: then, I am convinced, you would _soon_ acquire that
delicate tact which alone is wanting to give you a proper influence
over the mind of your pupil.”
I was about to give the lady some idea of the fallacy of her
expectations; but she sailed away as soon as she had concluded her
speech. Having said what she wished, it was no part of her plan to
await my answer: it was my business to hear, and not to speak.
However, as I have said, Matilda at length yielded in some degree to
her mother’s authority (pity it had not been exerted before); and being
thus deprived of almost every source of amusement, there was nothing
for it but to take long rides with the groom and long walks with the
governess, and to visit the cottages and farmhouses on her father’s
estate, to kill time in chatting with the old men and women that
inhabited them. In one of these walks, it was our chance to meet Mr.
Weston. This was what I had long desired; but now, for a moment, I
wished either he or I were away: I felt my heart throb so violently
that I dreaded lest some outward signs of emotion should appear; but I
think he hardly glanced at me, and I was soon calm enough. After a
brief salutation to both, he asked Matilda if she had lately heard from
her sister.
“Yes,” replied she. “She was at Paris when she wrote, and very well,
and very happy.”
She spoke the last word emphatically, and with a glance impertinently
sly. He did not seem to notice it, but replied, with equal emphasis,
and very seriously—
“I hope she will continue to be so.”
“Do you think it likely?” I ventured to inquire: for Matilda had
started off in pursuit of her dog, that was chasing a leveret.
“I cannot tell,” replied he. “Sir Thomas may be a better man than I
suppose; but, from all I have heard and seen, it seems a pity that one
so young and gay, and—and interesting, to express many things by one
word—whose greatest, if not her only fault, appears to be
thoughtlessness—no trifling fault to be sure, since it renders the
possessor liable to almost every other, and exposes him to so many
temptations—but it seems a pity that she should be thrown away on such
a man. It was her mother’s wish, I suppose?”
“Yes; and her own too, I think, for she always laughed at my attempts
to dissuade her from the step.”
“You did attempt it? Then, at least, you will have the satisfaction of
knowing that it is no fault of yours, if any harm should come of it. As
for Mrs. Murray, I don’t know how she can justify her conduct: if I had
sufficient acquaintance with her, I’d ask her.”
“It seems unnatural: but some people think rank and wealth the chief
good; and, if they can secure that for their children, they think they
have done their duty.”
“True: but is it not strange that persons of experience, who have been
married themselves, should judge so falsely?” Matilda now came panting
back, with the lacerated body of the young hare in her hand.
“Was it your intention to kill that hare, or to save it, Miss Murray?”
asked Mr. Weston, apparently puzzled at her gleeful countenance.
“I pretended to want to save it,” she answered, honestly enough, “as it
was so glaringly out of season; but I was better pleased to see it
lolled. However, you can both witness that I couldn’t help it: Prince
was determined to have her; and he clutched her by the back, and killed
her in a minute! Wasn’t it a noble chase?”
“Very! for a young lady after a leveret.”
There was a quiet sarcasm in the tone of his reply which was not lost
upon her; she shrugged her shoulders, and, turning away with a
significant “Humph!” asked me how I had enjoyed the fun. I replied that
I saw no fun in the matter; but admitted that I had not observed the
transaction very narrowly.
“Didn’t you see how it doubled—just like an old hare? and didn’t you
hear it scream?”
“I’m happy to say I did not.”
“It cried out just like a child.”
“Poor little thing! What will you do with it?”
“Come along—I shall leave it in the first house we come to. I don’t
want to take it home, for fear papa should scold me for letting the dog
kill it.”
Mr. Weston was now gone, and we too went on our way; but as we
returned, after having deposited the hare in a farm-house, and
demolished some spice-cake and currant-wine in exchange, we met him
returning also from the execution of his mission, whatever it might be.
He carried in his hand a cluster of beautiful bluebells, which he
offered to me; observing, with a smile, that though he had seen so
little of me for the last two months, he had not forgotten that
bluebells were numbered among my favourite flowers. It was done as a
simple act of goodwill, without compliment or remarkable courtesy, or
any look that could be construed into “reverential, tender adoration”
(_vide_ Rosalie Murray); but still, it was something to find my
unimportant saying so well remembered: it was something that he had
noticed so accurately the time I had ceased to be visible.
“I was told,” said he, “that you were a perfect bookworm, Miss Grey: so
completely absorbed in your studies that you were lost to every other
pleasure.”
“Yes, and it’s quite true!” cried Matilda.
“No, Mr. Weston: don’t believe it: it’s a scandalous libel. These young
ladies are too fond of making random assertions at the expense of their
friends; and you ought to be careful how you listen to them.”
“I hope _this_ assertion is groundless, at any rate.”
“Why? Do you particularly object to ladies studying?”
“No; but I object to anyone so devoting himself or herself to study, as
to lose sight of everything else. Except under peculiar circumstances,
I consider very close and constant study as a waste of time, and an
injury to the mind as well as the body.”
“Well, I have neither the time nor the inclination for such
transgressions.”
We parted again.
Well! what is there remarkable in all this? Why have I recorded it?
Because, reader, it was important enough to give me a cheerful evening,
a night of pleasing dreams, and a morning of felicitous hopes.
Shallow-brained cheerfulness, foolish dreams, unfounded hopes, you
would say; and I will not venture to deny it: suspicions to that effect
arose too frequently in my own mind. But our wishes are like tinder:
the flint and steel of circumstances are continually striking out
sparks, which vanish immediately, unless they chance to fall upon the
tinder of our wishes; then, they instantly ignite, and the flame of
hope is kindled in a moment.
But alas! that very morning, my flickering flame of hope was dismally
quenched by a letter from my mother, which spoke so seriously of my
father’s increasing illness, that I feared there was little or no
chance of his recovery; and, close at hand as the holidays were, I
almost trembled lest they should come too late for me to meet him in
this world. Two days after, a letter from Mary told me his life was
despaired of, and his end seemed fast approaching. Then, immediately, I
sought permission to anticipate the vacation, and go without delay.
Mrs. Murray stared, and wondered at the unwonted energy and boldness
with which I urged the request, and thought there was no occasion to
hurry; but finally gave me leave: stating, however, that there was “no
need to be in such agitation about the matter—it might prove a false
alarm after all; and if not—why, it was only in the common course of
nature: we must all die some time; and I was not to suppose myself the
only afflicted person in the world;” and concluding with saying I might
have the phaeton to take me to O——. “And instead of _repining_, Miss
Grey, be thankful for the _privileges_ you enjoy. There’s many a poor
clergyman whose family would be plunged into ruin by the event of his
death; but you, you see, have influential friends ready to continue
their patronage, and to show you every consideration.”
I thanked her for her “consideration,” and flew to my room to make some
hurried preparations for my departure. My bonnet and shawl being on,
and a few things hastily crammed into my largest trunk, I descended.
But I might have done the work more leisurely, for no one else was in a
hurry; and I had still a considerable time to wait for the phaeton. At
length it came to the door, and I was off: but, oh, what a dreary
journey was that! how utterly different from my former passages
homewards! Being too late for the last coach to ——, I had to hire a cab
for ten miles, and then a car to take me over the rugged hills.
It was half-past ten before I reached home. They were not in bed.
My mother and sister both met me in the passage—sad—silent—pale! I was
so much shocked and terror-stricken that I could not speak, to ask the
information I so much longed yet dreaded to obtain.
“Agnes!” said my mother, struggling to repress some strong emotion.
“Oh, Agnes!” cried Mary, and burst into tears.
“How is he?” I asked, gasping for the answer.
“Dead!”
It was the reply I had anticipated: but the shock seemed none the less
tremendous.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE LETTER
My father’s mortal remains had been consigned to the tomb; and we, with
sad faces and sombre garments, sat lingering over the frugal
breakfast-table, revolving plans for our future life. My mother’s
strong mind had not given way beneath even this affliction: her spirit,
though crushed, was not broken. Mary’s wish was that I should go back
to Horton Lodge, and that our mother should come and live with her and
Mr. Richardson at the vicarage: she affirmed that he wished it no less
than herself, and that such an arrangement could not fail to benefit
all parties; for my mother’s society and experience would be of
inestimable value to them, and they would do all they could to make her
happy. But no arguments or entreaties could prevail: my mother was
determined not to go. Not that she questioned, for a moment, the kind
wishes and intentions of her daughter; but she affirmed that so long as
God spared her health and strength, she would make use of them to earn
her own livelihood, and be chargeable to no one; whether her dependence
would be felt as a burden or not. If she could afford to reside as a
lodger in —— vicarage, she would choose that house before all others as
the place of her abode; but not being so circumstanced, she would never
come under its roof, except as an occasional visitor: unless sickness
or calamity should render her assistance really needful, or until age
or infirmity made her incapable of maintaining herself.
“No, Mary,” said she, “if Richardson and you have anything to spare,
you must lay it aside for your family; and Agnes and I must gather
honey for ourselves. Thanks to my having had daughters to educate, I
have not forgotten my accomplishments. God willing, I will check this
vain repining,” she said, while the tears coursed one another down her
cheeks in spite of her efforts; but she wiped them away, and resolutely
shaking back her head, continued, “I will exert myself, and look out
for a small house, commodiously situated in some populous but healthy
district, where we will take a few young ladies to board and educate—if
we can get them—and as many day pupils as will come, or as we can
manage to instruct. Your father’s relations and old friends will be
able to send us some pupils, or to assist us with their
recommendations, no doubt: I shall not apply to my own. What say you to
it, Agnes? will you be willing to leave your present situation and
try?”
“Quite willing, mamma; and the money I have saved will do to furnish
the house. It shall be taken from the bank directly.”
“When it is wanted: we must get the house, and settle on preliminaries
first.”
Mary offered to lend the little she possessed; but my mother declined
it, saying that we must begin on an economical plan; and she hoped that
the whole or part of mine, added to what we could get by the sale of
the furniture, and what little our dear papa had contrived to lay aside
for her since the debts were paid, would be sufficient to last us till
Christmas; when, it was hoped, something would accrue from our united
labours. It was finally settled that this should be our plan; and that
inquiries and preparations should immediately be set on foot; and while
my mother busied herself with these, I should return to Horton Lodge at
the close of my four weeks’ vacation, and give notice for my final
departure when things were in train for the speedy commencement of our
school.
We were discussing these affairs on the morning I have mentioned, about
a fortnight after my father’s death, when a letter was brought in for
my mother, on beholding which the colour mounted to her face—lately
pale enough with anxious watchings and excessive sorrow. “From my
father!” murmured she, as she hastily tore off the cover. It was many
years since she had heard from any of her own relations before.
Naturally wondering what the letter might contain, I watched her
countenance while she read it, and was somewhat surprised to see her
bite her lip and knit her brows as if in anger. When she had done, she
somewhat irreverently cast it on the table, saying with a scornful
smile,—
“Your grandpapa has been so kind as to write to me. He says he has no
doubt I have long repented of my ‘unfortunate marriage,’ and if I will
only acknowledge this, and confess I was wrong in neglecting his
advice, and that I have justly suffered for it, he will make a lady of
me once again—if that be possible after my long degradation—and
remember my girls in his will. Get my desk, Agnes, and send these
things away: I will answer the letter directly. But first, as I may be
depriving you both of a legacy, it is just that I should tell you what
I mean to say. I shall say that he is mistaken in supposing that I can
regret the birth of my daughters (who have been the pride of my life,
and are likely to be the comfort of my old age), or the thirty years I
have passed in the company of my best and dearest friend;—that, had our
misfortunes been three times as great as they were (unless they had
been of my bringing on), I should still the more rejoice to have shared
them with your father, and administered what consolation I was able;
and, had his sufferings in illness been ten times what they were, I
could not regret having watched over and laboured to relieve
them;—that, if he had married a richer wife, misfortunes and trials
would no doubt have come upon him still; while I am egotist enough to
imagine that no other woman could have cheered him through them so
well: not that I am superior to the rest, but I was made for him, and
he for me; and I can no more repent the hours, days, years of happiness
we have spent together, and which neither could have had without the
other, than I can the privilege of having been his nurse in sickness,
and his comfort in affliction.
“Will this do, children?—or shall I say we are all very sorry for what
has happened during the last thirty years, and my daughters wish they
had never been born; but since they have had that misfortune, they will
be thankful for any trifle their grandpapa will be kind enough to
bestow?”
Of course, we both applauded our mother’s resolution; Mary cleared away
the breakfast things; I brought the desk; the letter was quickly
written and despatched; and, from that day, we heard no more of our
grandfather, till we saw his death announced in the newspaper a
considerable time after—all his worldly possessions, of course, being
left to our wealthy unknown cousins.
CHAPTER XX.
THE FAREWELL
A house in A——, the fashionable watering-place, was hired for our
seminary; and a promise of two or three pupils was obtained to commence
with. I returned to Horton Lodge about the middle of July, leaving my
mother to conclude the bargain for the house, to obtain more pupils, to
sell off the furniture of our old abode, and to fit out the new one.
We often pity the poor, because they have no leisure to mourn their
departed relatives, and necessity obliges them to labour through their
severest afflictions: but is not active employment the best remedy for
overwhelming sorrow—the surest antidote for despair? It may be a rough
comforter: it may seem hard to be harassed with the cares of life when
we have no relish for its enjoyments; to be goaded to labour when the
heart is ready to break, and the vexed spirit implores for rest only to
weep in silence: but is not labour better than the rest we covet? and
are not those petty, tormenting cares less hurtful than a continual
brooding over the great affliction that oppresses us? Besides, we
cannot have cares, and anxieties, and toil, without hope—if it be but
the hope of fulfilling our joyless task, accomplishing some needful
project, or escaping some further annoyance. At any rate, I was glad my
mother had so much employment for every faculty of her action-loving
frame. Our kind neighbours lamented that she, once so exalted in wealth
and station, should be reduced to such extremity in her time of sorrow;
but I am persuaded that she would have suffered thrice as much had she
been left in affluence, with liberty to remain in that house, the scene
of her early happiness and late affliction, and no stern necessity to
prevent her from incessantly brooding over and lamenting her
bereavement.
I will not dilate upon the feelings with which I left the old house,
the well-known garden, the little village church—then doubly dear to
me, because my father, who, for thirty years, had taught and prayed
within its walls, lay slumbering now beneath its flags—and the old bare
hills, delightful in their very desolation, with the narrow vales
between, smiling in green wood and sparkling water—the house where I
was born, the scene of all my early associations, the place where
throughout life my earthly affections had been centred;—and left them
to return no more! True, I was going back to Horton Lodge, where, amid
many evils, one source of pleasure yet remained: but it was pleasure
mingled with excessive pain; and my stay, alas! was limited to six
weeks. And even of that precious time, day after day slipped by and I
did not see him: except at church, I never saw him for a fortnight
after my return. It seemed a long time to me: and, as I was often out
with my rambling pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and
disappointments would ensue; and then, I would say to my own heart,
“Here is a convincing proof—if you would but have the sense to see it,
or the candour to acknowledge it—that he does not care for you. If he
only thought _half_ as much about you as you do about him, he would
have contrived to meet you many times ere this: you must know that, by
consulting your own feelings. Therefore, have done with this nonsense:
you have no ground for hope: dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts
and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your own duty, and the
dull blank life that lies before you. You might have known such
happiness was not for you.”
But I saw him at last. He came suddenly upon me as I was crossing a
field in returning from a visit to Nancy Brown, which I had taken the
opportunity of paying while Matilda Murray was riding her matchless
mare. He must have heard of the heavy loss I had sustained: he
expressed no sympathy, offered no condolence: but almost the first
words he uttered were,—“How is your mother?” And this was no
matter-of-course question, for I never told him that I had a mother: he
must have learned the fact from others, if he knew it at all; and,
besides, there was sincere goodwill, and even deep, touching,
unobtrusive sympathy in the tone and manner of the inquiry. I thanked
him with due civility, and told him she was as well as could be
expected. “What will she do?” was the next question. Many would have
deemed it an impertinent one, and given an evasive reply; but such an
idea never entered my head, and I gave a brief but plain statement of
my mother’s plans and prospects.
“Then you will leave this place shortly?” said he.
“Yes, in a month.”
He paused a minute, as if in thought. When he spoke again, I hoped it
would be to express his concern at my departure; but it was only to
say,—“I should think you will be willing enough to go?”
“Yes—for some things,” I replied.
“For _some_ things only—I wonder what should make you regret it?”
I was annoyed at this in some degree; because it embarrassed me: I had
only one reason for regretting it; and that was a profound secret,
which he had no business to trouble me about.
“Why,” said I—“why should you suppose that I dislike the place?”
“You told me so yourself,” was the decisive reply. “You said, at least,
that you could not live contentedly, without a friend; and that you had
no friend here, and no possibility of making one—and, besides, I know
you _must_ dislike it.”
“But if you remember rightly, I said, or meant to say, I could not live
contentedly without a friend in the world: I was not so unreasonable as
to require one always near me. I think I could be happy in a house full
of enemies, if—” but no; that sentence must not be continued—I paused,
and hastily added,—“And, besides, we cannot well leave a place where we
have lived for two or three years, without some feeling of regret.”
“Will you regret to part with Miss Murray, your sole remaining pupil
and companion?”
“I dare say I shall in some degree: it was not without sorrow I parted
with her sister.”
“I can imagine that.”
“Well, Miss Matilda is quite as good—better in one respect.”
“What is that?”
“She’s honest.”
“And the other is not?”
“I should not call her _dis_honest; but it must be confessed she’s a
little artful.”
“_Artful_ is she?—I saw she was giddy and vain—and now,” he added,
after a pause, “I can well believe she was artful too; but so
excessively so as to assume an aspect of extreme simplicity and
unguarded openness. Yes,” continued he, musingly, “that accounts for
some little things that puzzled me a trifle before.”
After that, he turned the conversation to more general subjects. He did
not leave me till we had nearly reached the park-gates: he had
certainly stepped a little out of his way to accompany me so far, for
he now went back and disappeared down Moss Lane, the entrance of which
we had passed some time before. Assuredly I did not regret this
circumstance: if sorrow had any place in my heart, it was that he was
gone at last—that he was no longer walking by my side, and that that
short interval of delightful intercourse was at an end. He had not
breathed a word of love, or dropped one hint of tenderness or
affection, and yet I had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear
him talk as he did talk, and to feel that he thought me worthy to be so
spoken to—capable of understanding and duly appreciating such
discourse—was enough.
“Yes, Edward Weston, I could indeed be happy in a house full of
enemies, if I had but one friend, who truly, deeply, and faithfully
loved me; and if that friend were you—though we might be far
apart—seldom to hear from each other, still more seldom to meet—though
toil, and trouble, and vexation might surround me, still—it would be
too much happiness for me to dream of! Yet who can tell,” said I within
myself, as I proceeded up the park,—“who can tell what this one month
may bring forth? I have lived nearly three-and-twenty years, and I have
suffered much, and tasted little pleasure yet; is it likely my life all
through will be so clouded? Is it not possible that God may hear my
prayers, disperse these gloomy shadows, and grant me some beams of
heaven’s sunshine yet? Will He entirely deny to me those blessings
which are so freely given to others, who neither ask them nor
acknowledge them when received? May I not still hope and trust? I did
hope and trust for a while: but, alas, alas! the time ebbed away: one
week followed another, and, excepting one distant glimpse and two
transient meetings—during which scarcely anything was said—while I was
walking with Miss Matilda, I saw nothing of him: except, of course, at
church.
And now, the last Sunday was come, and the last service. I was often on
the point of melting into tears during the sermon—the last I was to
hear from him: the best I should hear from anyone, I was well assured.
It was over—the congregation were departing; and I must follow. I had
then seen him, and heard his voice, too, probably for the last time. In
the churchyard, Matilda was pounced upon by the two Misses Green. They
had many inquiries to make about her sister, and I know not what
besides. I only wished they would have done, that we might hasten back
to Horton Lodge: I longed to seek the retirement of my own room, or
some sequestered nook in the grounds, that I might deliver myself up to
my feelings—to weep my last farewell, and lament my false hopes and
vain delusions. Only this once, and then adieu to fruitless
dreaming—thenceforth, only sober, solid, sad reality should occupy my
mind. But while I thus resolved, a low voice close beside me said—“I
suppose you are going this week, Miss Grey?” “Yes,” I replied. I was
very much startled; and had I been at all hysterically inclined, I
certainly should have committed myself in some way then. Thank God, I
was not.
“Well,” said Mr. Weston, “I want to bid you good-bye—it is not likely I
shall see you again before you go.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Weston,” I said. Oh, how I struggled to say it calmly! I
gave him my hand. He retained it a few seconds in his.
“It is possible we may meet again,” said he; “will it be of any
consequence to you whether we do or not?”
“Yes, I should be very glad to see you again.”
I _could_ say no less. He kindly pressed my hand, and went. Now, I was
happy again—though more inclined to burst into tears than ever. If I
had been forced to speak at that moment, a succession of sobs would
have inevitably ensued; and as it was, I could not keep the water out
of my eyes. I walked along with Miss Murray, turning aside my face, and
neglecting to notice several successive remarks, till she bawled out
that I was either deaf or stupid; and then (having recovered my
self-possession), as one awakened from a fit of abstraction, I suddenly
looked up and asked what she had been saying.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE SCHOOL
I left Horton Lodge, and went to join my mother in our new abode at
A——. I found her well in health, resigned in spirit, and even cheerful,
though subdued and sober, in her general demeanour. We had only three
boarders and half a dozen day-pupils to commence with; but by due care
and diligence we hoped ere long to increase the number of both.
I set myself with befitting energy to discharge the duties of this new
mode of life. I call it _new_, for there was, indeed, a considerable
difference between working with my mother in a school of our own, and
working as a hireling among strangers, despised and trampled upon by
old and young; and for the first few weeks I was by no means unhappy.
“It is possible we may meet again,” and “will it be of any consequence
to you whether we do or not?”—Those words still rang in my ear and
rested on my heart: they were my secret solace and support. “I shall
see him again.—He will come; or he will write.” No promise, in fact,
was too bright or too extravagant for Hope to whisper in my ear. I did
not believe half of what she told me: I pretended to laugh at it all;
but I was far more credulous than I myself supposed; otherwise, why did
my heart leap up when a knock was heard at the front door, and the
maid, who opened it, came to tell my mother a gentleman wished to see
her? and why was I out of humour for the rest of the day, because it
proved to be a music-master come to offer his services to our school?
and what stopped my breath for a moment, when the postman having
brought a couple of letters, my mother said, “Here, Agnes, this is for
you,” and threw one of them to me? and what made the hot blood rush
into my face when I saw it was directed in a gentleman’s hand? and
why—oh! why did that cold, sickening sense of disappointment fall upon
me, when I had torn open the cover and found it was _only_ a letter
from Mary, which, for some reason or other, her husband had directed
for her?
Was it then come to this—that I should be _disappointed_ to receive a
letter from my only sister: and because it was not written by a
comparative stranger? Dear Mary! and she had written it so kindly—and
thinking I should be so pleased to have it!—I was not worthy to read
it! And I believe, in my indignation against myself, I should have put
it aside till I had schooled myself into a better frame of mind, and
was become more deserving of the honour and privilege of its perusal:
but there was my mother looking on, and wishful to know what news it
contained; so I read it and delivered it to her, and then went into the
schoolroom to attend to the pupils: but amidst the cares of copies and
sums—in the intervals of correcting errors here, and reproving
derelictions of duty there, I was inwardly taking myself to task with
far sterner severity. “What a fool you must be,” said my head to my
heart, or my sterner to my softer self;—“how could you ever dream that
he would write to you? What grounds have you for such a hope—or that he
will see you, or give himself any trouble about you—or even think of
you again?” “What grounds?”—and then Hope set before me that last,
short interview, and repeated the words I had so faithfully treasured
in my memory. “Well, and what was there in that?—Who ever hung his
hopes upon so frail a twig? What was there in those words that any
common acquaintance might not say to another? Of course, it was
possible you might meet again: he might have said so if you had been
going to New Zealand; but that did not imply any _intention_ of seeing
you—and then, as to the question that followed, anyone might ask that:
and how did you answer?—Merely with a stupid, commonplace reply, such
as you would have given to Master Murray, or anyone else you had been
on tolerably civil terms with.” “But, then,” persisted Hope, “the tone
and manner in which he spoke.” “Oh, that is nonsense! he always speaks
impressively; and at that moment there were the Greens and Miss Matilda
Murray just before, and other people passing by, and he was obliged to
stand close beside you, and to speak very low, unless he wished
everybody to hear what he said, which—though it was nothing at all
particular—of course, he would rather not.” But then, above all, that
emphatic, yet gentle pressure of the hand, which seemed to say,
“_Trust_ me;” and many other things besides—too delightful, almost too
flattering, to be repeated even to one’s self. “Egregious folly—too
absurd to require contradiction—mere inventions of the imagination,
which you ought to be ashamed of. If you would but consider your own
unattractive exterior, your unamiable reserve, your foolish
diffidence—which must make you appear cold, dull, awkward, and perhaps
ill-tempered too;—if you had but rightly considered these from the
beginning, you would never have harboured such presumptuous thoughts:
and now that you have been so foolish, pray repent and amend, and let
us have no more of it!”
I cannot say that I implicitly obeyed my own injunctions: but such
reasoning as this became more and more effective as time wore on, and
nothing was seen or heard of Mr. Weston; until, at last, I gave up
hoping, for even my heart acknowledged it was all in vain. But still, I
would think of him: I would cherish his image in my mind; and treasure
every word, look, and gesture that my memory could retain; and brood
over his excellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all I had
seen, heard, or imagined respecting him.
“Agnes, this sea air and change of scene do you no good, I think: I
never saw you look so wretched. It must be that you sit too much, and
allow the cares of the schoolroom to worry you. You must learn to take
things easy, and to be more active and cheerful; you must take exercise
whenever you can get it, and leave the most tiresome duties to me: they
will only serve to exercise my patience, and, perhaps, try my temper a
little.”
So said my mother, as we sat at work one morning during the Easter
holidays. I assured her that my employments were not at all oppressive;
that I was well; or, if there was anything amiss, it would be gone as
soon as the trying months of spring were over: when summer came I
should be as strong and hearty as she could wish to see me: but
inwardly her observation startled me. I knew my strength was declining,
my appetite had failed, and I was grown listless and desponding;—and
if, indeed, he could never care for me, and I could never see him
more—if I was forbidden to minister to his happiness—forbidden, for
ever, to taste the joys of love, to bless, and to be blessed—then, life
must be a burden, and if my heavenly Father would call me away, I
should be glad to rest. But it would not do to die and leave my mother.
Selfish, unworthy daughter, to forget her for a moment! Was not her
happiness committed in a great measure to my charge?—and the welfare of
our young pupils too? Should I shrink from the work that God had set
before me, because it was not fitted to my taste? Did not He know best
what I should do, and where I ought to labour?—and should I long to
quit His service before I had finished my task, and expect to enter
into His rest without having laboured to earn it? “No; by His help I
will arise and address myself diligently to my appointed duty. If
happiness in this world is not for me, I will endeavour to promote the
welfare of those around me, and my reward shall be hereafter.” So said
I in my heart; and from that hour I only permitted my thoughts to
wander to Edward Weston—or at least to dwell upon him now and then—as a
treat for rare occasions: and, whether it was really the approach of
summer or the effect of these good resolutions, or the lapse of time,
or all together, tranquillity of mind was soon restored; and bodily
health and vigour began likewise, slowly, but surely, to return.
Early in June, I received a letter from Lady Ashby, late Miss Murray.
She had written to me twice or thrice before, from the different stages
of her bridal tour, always in good spirits, and professing to be very
happy. I wondered every time that she had not forgotten me, in the
midst of so much gaiety and variety of scene. At length, however, there
was a pause; and it seemed she had forgotten me, for upwards of seven
months passed away and no letter. Of course, I did not break my heart
about _that_, though I often wondered how she was getting on; and when
this last epistle so unexpectedly arrived, I was glad enough to receive
it. It was dated from Ashby Park, where she was come to settle down at
last, having previously divided her time between the continent and the
metropolis. She made many apologies for having neglected me so long,
assured me she had not forgotten me, and had often intended to write,
&c. &c., but had always been prevented by something. She acknowledged
that she had been leading a very dissipated life, and I should think
her very wicked and very thoughtless; but, notwithstanding that, she
thought a great deal, and, among other things, that she should vastly
like to see me. “We have been several days here already,” wrote she.
“We have not a single friend with us, and are likely to be very dull.
You know I never had a fancy for living with my husband like two
turtles in a nest, were he the most delightful creature that ever wore
a coat; so do take pity upon me and come. I suppose your Midsummer
holidays commence in June, the same as other people’s; therefore you
cannot plead want of time; and you must and shall come—in fact, I shall
die if you don’t. I want you to visit me as a friend, and stay a long
time. There is nobody with me, as I told you before, but Sir Thomas and
old Lady Ashby: but you needn’t mind them—they’ll trouble us but little
with their company. And you shall have a room to yourself, whenever you
like to retire to it, and plenty of books to read when my company is
not sufficiently amusing. I forget whether you like babies; if you do,
you may have the pleasure of seeing mine—the most charming child in the
world, no doubt; and all the more so, that I am not troubled with
nursing it—I was determined I wouldn’t be bothered with that.
Unfortunately, it is a girl, and Sir Thomas has never forgiven me: but,
however, if you will only come, I promise you shall be its governess as
soon as it can speak; and you shall bring it up in the way it should
go, and make a better woman of it than its mamma. And you shall see my
poodle, too: a splendid little charmer imported from Paris: and two
fine Italian paintings of great value—I forget the artist. Doubtless
you will be able to discover prodigious beauties in them, which you
must point out to me, as I only admire by hearsay; and many elegant
curiosities besides, which I purchased at Rome and elsewhere; and,
finally, you shall see my new home—the splendid house and grounds I
used to covet so greatly. Alas! how far the promise of anticipation
exceeds the pleasure of possession! There’s a fine sentiment! I assure
you I am become quite a grave old matron: pray come, if it be only to
witness the wonderful change. Write by return of post, and tell me when
your vacation commences, and say that you will come the day after, and
stay till the day before it closes—in mercy to
“Yours affectionately,
“ROSALIE ASHBY.”
I showed this strange epistle to my mother, and consulted her on what I
ought to do. She advised me to go; and I went—willing enough to see
Lady Ashby, and her baby, too, and to do anything I could to benefit
her, by consolation or advice; for I imagined she must be unhappy, or
she would not have applied to me thus—but feeling, as may readily be
conceived, that, in accepting the invitation, I made a great sacrifice
for her, and did violence to my feelings in many ways, instead of being
delighted with the honourable distinction of being entreated by the
baronet’s lady to visit her as a friend. However, I determined my visit
should be only for a few days at most; and I will not deny that I
derived some consolation from the idea that, as Ashby Park was not very
far from Horton, I might possibly see Mr. Weston, or, at least, hear
something about him.
CHAPTER XXII.
THE VISIT
Ashby Park was certainly a very delightful residence. The mansion was
stately without, commodious and elegant within; the park was spacious
and beautiful, chiefly on account of its magnificent old trees, its
stately herds of deer, its broad sheet of water, and the ancient woods
that stretched beyond it: for there was no broken ground to give
variety to the landscape, and but very little of that undulating swell
which adds so greatly to the charm of park scenery. And so, this was
the place Rosalie Murray had so longed to call her own, that she must
have a share of it, on whatever terms it might be offered—whatever
price was to be paid for the title of mistress, and whoever was to be
her partner in the honour and bliss of such a possession! Well I am not
disposed to censure her now.
She received me very kindly; and, though I was a poor clergyman’s
daughter, a governess, and a schoolmistress, she welcomed me with
unaffected pleasure to her home; and—what surprised me rather—took some
pains to make my visit agreeable. I could see, it is true, that she
expected me to be greatly struck with the magnificence that surrounded
her; and, I confess, I was rather annoyed at her evident efforts to
reassure me, and prevent me from being overwhelmed by so much
grandeur—too much awed at the idea of encountering her husband and
mother-in-law, or too much ashamed of my own humble appearance. I was
not ashamed of it at all; for, though plain, I had taken good care not
to be shabby or mean, and should have been pretty considerably at my
ease, if my condescending hostess had not taken such manifest pains to
make me so; and, as for the magnificence that surrounded her, nothing
that met my eyes struck me or affected me half so much as her own
altered appearance. Whether from the influence of fashionable
dissipation, or some other evil, a space of little more than twelve
months had had the effect that might be expected from as many years, in
reducing the plumpness of her form, the freshness of her complexion,
the vivacity of her movements, and the exuberance of her spirits.
I wished to know if she was unhappy; but I felt it was not my province
to inquire: I might endeavour to win her confidence; but, if she chose
to conceal her matrimonial cares from me, I would trouble her with no
obtrusive questions. I, therefore, at first, confined myself to a few
general inquiries about her health and welfare, and a few commendations
on the beauty of the park, and of the little girl that should have been
a boy: a small delicate infant of seven or eight weeks old, whom its
mother seemed to regard with no remarkable degree of interest or
affection, though full as much as I expected her to show.
Shortly after my arrival, she commissioned her maid to conduct me to my
room and see that I had everything I wanted; it was a small,
unpretending, but sufficiently comfortable apartment. When I descended
thence—having divested myself of all travelling encumbrances, and
arranged my toilet with due consideration for the feelings of my lady
hostess, she conducted me herself to the room I was to occupy when I
chose to be alone, or when she was engaged with visitors, or obliged to
be with her mother-in-law, or otherwise prevented, as she said, from
enjoying the pleasure of my society. It was a quiet, tidy little
sitting-room; and I was not sorry to be provided with such a harbour of
refuge.
“And some time,” said she, “I will show you the library: I never
examined its shelves, but, I daresay, it is full of wise books; and you
may go and burrow among them whenever you please. And now you shall
have some tea—it will soon be dinner-time, but I thought, as you were
accustomed to dine at one, you would perhaps like better to have a cup
of tea about this time, and to dine when we lunch: and then, you know,
you can have your tea in this room, and that will save you from having
to dine with Lady Ashby and Sir Thomas: which would be rather
awkward—at least, not awkward, but rather—a—you know what I mean. I
thought you mightn’t like it so well—especially as we may have other
ladies and gentlemen to dine with us occasionally.”
“Certainly,” said I, “I would much rather have it as you say, and, if
you have no objection, I should prefer having all my meals in this
room.”
“Why so?”
“Because, I imagine, it would be more agreeable to Lady Ashby and Sir
Thomas.”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“At any rate it would be more agreeable to me.”
She made some faint objections, but soon conceded; and I could see that
the proposal was a considerable relief to her.
“Now, come into the drawing-room,” said she. “There’s the dressing
bell; but I won’t go yet: it’s no use dressing when there’s no one to
see you; and I want to have a little discourse.”
The drawing-room was certainly an imposing apartment, and very
elegantly furnished; but I saw its young mistress glance towards me as
we entered, as if to notice how I was impressed by the spectacle, and
accordingly I determined to preserve an aspect of stony indifference,
as if I saw nothing at all remarkable. But this was only for a moment:
immediately conscience whispered, “Why should I disappoint her to save
my pride? No—rather let me sacrifice my pride to give her a little
innocent gratification.” And I honestly looked round, and told her it
was a noble room, and very tastefully furnished. She said little, but I
saw she was pleased.
She showed me her fat French poodle, that lay curled up on a silk
cushion, and the two fine Italian paintings: which, however, she would
not give me time to examine, but, saying I must look at them some other
day, insisted upon my admiring the little jewelled watch she had
purchased in Geneva; and then she took me round the room to point out
sundry articles of _vertu_ she had brought from Italy: an elegant
little timepiece, and several busts, small graceful figures, and vases,
all beautifully carved in white marble. She spoke of these with
animation, and heard my admiring comments with a smile of pleasure:
that soon, however, vanished, and was followed by a melancholy sigh; as
if in consideration of the insufficiency of all such baubles to the
happiness of the human heart, and their woeful inability to supply its
insatiate demands.
Then, stretching herself upon a couch, she motioned me to a capacious
easy-chair that stood opposite—not before the fire, but before a wide
open window; for it was summer, be it remembered; a sweet, warm evening
in the latter half of June. I sat for a moment in silence, enjoying the
still, pure air, and the delightful prospect of the park that lay
before me, rich in verdure and foliage, and basking in yellow sunshine,
relieved by the long shadows of declining day. But I must take
advantage of this pause: I had inquiries to make, and, like the
substance of a lady’s postscript, the most important must come last. So
I began with asking after Mr. and Mrs. Murray, and Miss Matilda and the
young gentlemen.
I was told that papa had the gout, which made him very ferocious; and
that he would not give up his choice wines, and his substantial dinners
and suppers, and had quarrelled with his physician, because the latter
had dared to say that no medicine could cure him while he lived so
freely; that mamma and the rest were well. Matilda was still wild and
reckless, but she had got a fashionable governess, and was considerably
improved in her manners, and soon to be introduced to the world; and
John and Charles (now at home for the holidays) were, by all accounts,
“fine, bold, unruly, mischievous boys.”
“And how are the other people getting on?” said I—“the Greens, for
instance?”
“Ah! Mr. Green is heart-broken, you know,” replied she, with a languid
smile: “he hasn’t got over his disappointment yet, and never will, I
suppose. He’s doomed to be an old bachelor; and his sisters are doing
their best to get married.”
“And the Melthams?”
“Oh, they’re jogging on as usual, I suppose: but I know very little
about any of them—except Harry,” said she, blushing slightly, and
smiling again. “I saw a great deal of him while we were in London; for,
as soon as he heard we were there, he came up under pretence of
visiting his brother, and either followed me, like a shadow, wherever I
went, or met me, like a reflection, at every turn. You needn’t look so
shocked, Miss Grey; I was very discreet, I assure you, but, you know,
one can’t help being admired. Poor fellow! He was not my only
worshipper; though he was certainly the most conspicuous, and, I think,
the most devoted among them all. And that detestable—ahem—and Sir
Thomas chose to take offence at him—or my profuse expenditure, or
something—I don’t exactly know what—and hurried me down to the country
at a moment’s notice; where I’m to play the hermit, I suppose, for
life.”
And she bit her lip, and frowned vindictively upon the fair domain she
had once so coveted to call her own.
“And Mr. Hatfield,” said I, “what is become of him?”
Again she brightened up, and answered gaily—“Oh! he made up to an
elderly spinster, and married her, not long since; weighing her heavy
purse against her faded charms, and expecting to find that solace in
gold which was denied him in love—ha, ha!”
“Well, and I think that’s all—except Mr. Weston: what is he doing?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. He’s gone from Horton.”
“How long since? and where is he gone to?”
“I know nothing about him,” replied she, yawning—“except that he went
about a month ago—I never asked where”(I would have asked whether it
was to a living or merely another curacy, but thought it better not);
“and the people made a great rout about his leaving,” continued she,
“much to Mr. Hatfield’s displeasure; for Hatfield didn’t like him,
because he had too much influence with the common people, and because
he was not sufficiently tractable and submissive to him—and for some
other unpardonable sins, I don’t know what. But now I positively must
go and dress: the second bell will ring directly, and if I come to
dinner in this guise, I shall never hear the end of it from Lady Ashby.
It’s a strange thing one can’t be mistress in one’s own house! Just
ring the bell, and I’ll send for my maid, and tell them to get you some
tea. Only think of that intolerable woman—”
“Who—your maid?”
“No;—my mother-in-law—and my unfortunate mistake! Instead of letting
her take herself off to some other house, as she offered to do when I
married, I was fool enough to ask her to live here still, and direct
the affairs of the house for me; because, in the first place, I hoped
we should spend the greater part of the year, in town, and in the
second place, being so young and inexperienced, I was frightened at the
idea of having a houseful of servants to manage, and dinners to order,
and parties to entertain, and all the rest of it, and I thought she
might assist me with her experience; never dreaming she would prove a
usurper, a tyrant, an incubus, a spy, and everything else that’s
detestable. I wish she was dead!”
She then turned to give her orders to the footman, who had been
standing bolt upright within the door for the last half minute, and had
heard the latter part of her animadversions; and, of course, made his
own reflections upon them, notwithstanding the inflexible, wooden
countenance he thought proper to preserve in the drawing-room. On my
remarking afterwards that he must have heard her, she replied—“Oh, no
matter! I never care about the footmen; they’re mere automatons: it’s
nothing to them what their superiors say or do; they won’t dare to
repeat it; and as to what they think—if they presume to think at all—of
course, nobody cares for that. It would be a pretty thing indeed, it we
were to be tongue-tied by our servants!”
So saying, she ran off to make her hasty toilet, leaving me to pilot my
way back to my sitting-room, where, in due time, I was served with a
cup of tea. After that, I sat musing on Lady Ashby’s past and present
condition; and on what little information I had obtained respecting Mr.
Weston, and the small chance there was of ever seeing or hearing
anything more of him throughout my quiet, drab-colour life: which,
henceforth, seemed to offer no alternative between positive rainy days,
and days of dull grey clouds without downfall. At length, however, I
began to weary of my thoughts, and to wish I knew where to find the
library my hostess had spoken of; and to wonder whether I was to remain
there doing nothing till bed-time.
As I was not rich enough to possess a watch, I could not tell how time
was passing, except by observing the slowly lengthening shadows from
the window; which presented a side view, including a corner of the
park, a clump of trees whose topmost branches had been colonized by an
innumerable company of noisy rooks, and a high wall with a massive
wooden gate: no doubt communicating with the stable-yard, as a broad
carriage-road swept up to it from the park. The shadow of this wall
soon took possession of the whole of the ground as far as I could see,
forcing the golden sunlight to retreat inch by inch, and at last take
refuge in the very tops of the trees. Ere long, even they were left in
shadow—the shadow of the distant hills, or of the earth itself; and, in
sympathy for the busy citizens of the rookery, I regretted to see their
habitation, so lately bathed in glorious light, reduced to the sombre,
work-a-day hue of the lower world, or of my own world within. For a
moment, such birds as soared above the rest might still receive the
lustre on their wings, which imparted to their sable plumage the hue
and brilliance of deep red gold; at last, that too departed. Twilight
came stealing on; the rooks became more quiet; I became more weary, and
wished I were going home to-morrow. At length it grew dark; and I was
thinking of ringing for a candle, and betaking myself to bed, when my
hostess appeared, with many apologies for having neglected me so long,
and laying all the blame upon that “nasty old woman,” as she called her
mother-in-law.
“If I didn’t sit with her in the drawing-room while Sir Thomas is
taking his wine,” said she, “she would never forgive me; and then, if I
leave the room the instant he comes—as I have done once or twice—it is
an unpardonable offence against her dear Thomas. _She_ never showed
such disrespect to _her_ husband: and as for affection, wives never
think of that now-a-days, she supposes: but things were different in
_her_ time—as if there was any good to be done by staying in the room,
when he does nothing but grumble and scold when he’s in a bad humour,
talk disgusting nonsense when he’s in a good one, and go to sleep on
the sofa when he’s too stupid for either; which is most frequently the
case now, when he has nothing to do but to sot over his wine.”
“But could you not try to occupy his mind with something better; and
engage him to give up such habits? I’m sure you have powers of
persuasion, and qualifications for amusing a gentleman, which many
ladies would be glad to possess.”
“And so you think I would lay myself out for his amusement! No: that’s
not _my_ idea of a wife. It’s the husband’s part to please the wife,
not hers to please him; and if he isn’t satisfied with her as she
is—and thankful to possess her too—he isn’t worthy of her, that’s all.
And as for persuasion, I assure you I shan’t trouble myself with that:
I’ve enough to do to bear with him as he is, without attempting to work
a reform. But I’m sorry I left you so long alone, Miss Grey. How have
you passed the time?”
“Chiefly in watching the rooks.”
“Mercy, how dull you must have been! I really must show you the
library; and you must ring for everything you want, just as you would
in an inn, and make yourself comfortable. I have selfish reasons for
wishing to make you happy, because I want you to stay with me, and not
fulfil your horrid threat of running away in a day or two.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you out of the drawing-room any longer
to-night, for at present I am tired and wish to go to bed.”
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE PARK
I came down a little before eight, next morning, as I knew by the
striking of a distant clock. There was no appearance of breakfast. I
waited above an hour before it came, still vainly longing for access to
the library; and, after that lonely repast was concluded, I waited
again about an hour and a half in great suspense and discomfort,
uncertain what to do. At length Lady Ashby came to bid me good-morning.
She informed me she had only just breakfasted, and now wanted me to
take an early walk with her in the park. She asked how long I had been
up, and on receiving my answer, expressed the deepest regret, and again
promised to show me the library. I suggested she had better do so at
once, and then there would be no further trouble either with
remembering or forgetting. She complied, on condition that I would not
think of reading, or bothering with the books now; for she wanted to
show me the gardens, and take a walk in the park with me, before it
became too hot for enjoyment; which, indeed, was nearly the case
already. Of course I readily assented; and we took our walk
accordingly.
As we were strolling in the park, talking of what my companion had seen
and heard during her travelling experience, a gentleman on horseback
rode up and passed us. As he turned, in passing, and stared me full in
the face, I had a good opportunity of seeing what he was like. He was
tall, thin, and wasted, with a slight stoop in the shoulders, a pale
face, but somewhat blotchy, and disagreeably red about the eyelids,
plain features, and a general appearance of languor and flatness,
relieved by a sinister expression in the mouth and the dull, soulless
eyes.
“I detest that man!” whispered Lady Ashby, with bitter emphasis, as he
slowly trotted by.
“Who is it?” I asked, unwilling to suppose that she should so speak of
her husband.
“Sir Thomas Ashby,” she replied, with dreary composure.
“And do you _detest_ him, Miss Murray?” said I, for I was too much
shocked to remember her name at the moment.
“Yes, I do, Miss Grey, and despise him too; and if you knew him you
would not blame me.”
“But you knew what he was before you married him.”
“No; I only thought so: I did not half know him really. I know you
warned me against it, and I wish I had listened to you: but it’s too
late to regret that now. And besides, mamma ought to have known better
than either of us, and she never said anything against it—quite the
contrary. And then I thought he adored me, and would let me have my own
way: he did pretend to do so at first, but now he does not care a bit
about me. Yet I should not care for that: he might do as he pleased, if
I might only be free to amuse myself and to stay in London, or have a
few friends down here: but _he will_ do as he pleases, and I must be a
prisoner and a slave. The moment he saw I could enjoy myself without
him, and that others knew my value better than himself, the selfish
wretch began to accuse me of coquetry and extravagance; and to abuse
Harry Meltham, whose shoes he was not worthy to clean. And then he must
needs have me down in the country, to lead the life of a nun, lest I
should dishonour him or bring him to ruin; as if he had not been ten
times worse every way, with his betting-book, and his gaming-table, and
his opera-girls, and his Lady This and Mrs. That—yes, and his bottles
of wine, and glasses of brandy-and-water too! Oh, I would give ten
thousand worlds to be Miss Murray again! It is _too_ bad to feel life,
health, and beauty wasting away, unfelt and unenjoyed, for such a brute
as that!” exclaimed she, fairly bursting into tears in the bitterness
of her vexation.
Of course, I pitied her exceedingly; as well for her false idea of
happiness and disregard of duty, as for the wretched partner with whom
her fate was linked. I said what I could to comfort her, and offered
such counsels as I thought she most required: advising her, first, by
gentle reasoning, by kindness, example, and persuasion, to try to
ameliorate her husband; and then, when she had done all she could, if
she still found him incorrigible, to endeavour to abstract herself from
him—to wrap herself up in her own integrity, and trouble herself as
little about him as possible. I exhorted her to seek consolation in
doing her duty to God and man, to put her trust in Heaven, and solace
herself with the care and nurture of her little daughter; assuring her
she would be amply rewarded by witnessing its progress in strength and
wisdom, and receiving its genuine affection.
“But I can’t devote myself entirely to a child,” said she; “it may
die—which is not at all improbable.”
“But, with care, many a delicate infant has become a strong man or
woman.”
“But it may grow so intolerably like its father that I shall hate it.”
“That is not likely; it is a little girl, and strongly resembles its
mother.”
“No matter; I should like it better if it were a boy—only that its
father will leave it no inheritance that he can possibly squander away.
What pleasure can I have in seeing a girl grow up to eclipse me, and
enjoy those pleasures that I am for ever debarred from? But supposing I
could be so generous as to take delight in this, still it is _only_ a
child; and I can’t centre all my hopes in a child: that is only one
degree better than devoting oneself to a dog. And as for all the wisdom
and goodness you have been trying to instil into me—that is all very
right and proper, I daresay, and if I were some twenty years older, I
might fructify by it: but people must enjoy themselves when they are
young; and if others won’t let them—why, they must hate them for it!”
“The best way to enjoy yourself is to do what is right and hate nobody.
The end of Religion is not to teach us how to die, but how to live; and
the earlier you become wise and good, the more of happiness you secure.
And now, Lady Ashby, I have one more piece of advice to offer you,
which is, that you will not make an enemy of your mother-in-law. Don’t
get into the way of holding her at arms’ length, and regarding her with
jealous distrust. I never saw her, but I have heard good as well as
evil respecting her; and I imagine that, though cold and haughty in her
general demeanour, and even exacting in her requirements, she has
strong affections for those who can reach them; and, though so blindly
attached to her son, she is not without good principles, or incapable
of hearing reason. If you would but conciliate her a little, and adopt
a friendly, open manner—and even confide your grievances to her—real
grievances, such as you have a right to complain of—it is my firm
belief that she would, in time, become your faithful friend, and a
comfort and support to you, instead of the incubus you describe her.”
But I fear my advice had little effect upon the unfortunate young lady;
and, finding I could render myself so little serviceable, my residence
at Ashby Park became doubly painful. But still, I must stay out that
day and the following one, as I had promised to do so: though,
resisting all entreaties and inducements to prolong my visit further, I
insisted upon departing the next morning; affirming that my mother
would be lonely without me, and that she impatiently expected my
return. Nevertheless, it was with a heavy heart that I bade adieu to
poor Lady Ashby, and left her in her princely home. It was no slight
additional proof of her unhappiness, that she should so cling to the
consolation of my presence, and earnestly desire the company of one
whose general tastes and ideas were so little congenial to her own—whom
she had completely forgotten in her hour of prosperity, and whose
presence would be rather a nuisance than a pleasure, if she could but
have half her heart’s desire.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE SANDS
Our school was not situated in the heart of the town: on entering A——
from the north-west there is a row of respectable-looking houses, on
each side of the broad, white road, with narrow slips of garden-ground
before them, Venetian blinds to the windows, and a flight of steps
leading to each trim, brass-handled door. In one of the largest of
these habitations dwelt my mother and I, with such young ladies as our
friends and the public chose to commit to our charge. Consequently, we
were a considerable distance from the sea, and divided from it by a
labyrinth of streets and houses. But the sea was my delight; and I
would often gladly pierce the town to obtain the pleasure of a walk
beside it, whether with the pupils, or alone with my mother during the
vacations. It was delightful to me at all times and seasons, but
especially in the wild commotion of a rough sea-breeze, and in the
brilliant freshness of a summer morning.
I awoke early on the third morning after my return from Ashby Park—the
sun was shining through the blind, and I thought how pleasant it would
be to pass through the quiet town and take a solitary ramble on the
sands while half the world was in bed. I was not long in forming the
resolution, nor slow to act upon it. Of course I would not disturb my
mother, so I stole noiselessly downstairs, and quietly unfastened the
door. I was dressed and out, when the church clock struck a quarter to
six. There was a feeling of freshness and vigour in the very streets;
and when I got free of the town, when my foot was on the sands and my
face towards the broad, bright bay, no language can describe the effect
of the deep, clear azure of the sky and ocean, the bright morning
sunshine on the semicircular barrier of craggy cliffs surmounted by
green swelling hills, and on the smooth, wide sands, and the low rocks
out at sea—looking, with their clothing of weeds and moss, like little
grass-grown islands—and above all, on the brilliant, sparkling waves.
And then, the unspeakable purity—and freshness of the air! There was
just enough heat to enhance the value of the breeze, and just enough
wind to keep the whole sea in motion, to make the waves come bounding
to the shore, foaming and sparkling, as if wild with glee. Nothing else
was stirring—no living creature was visible besides myself. My
footsteps were the first to press the firm, unbroken sands;—nothing
before had trampled them since last night’s flowing tide had
obliterated the deepest marks of yesterday, and left them fair and
even, except where the subsiding water had left behind it the traces of
dimpled pools and little running streams.
Refreshed, delighted, invigorated, I walked along, forgetting all my
cares, feeling as if I had wings to my feet, and could go at least
forty miles without fatigue, and experiencing a sense of exhilaration
to which I had been an entire stranger since the days of early youth.
About half-past six, however, the grooms began to come down to air
their masters’ horses—first one, and then another, till there were some
dozen horses and five or six riders: but that need not trouble me, for
they would not come as far as the low rocks which I was now
approaching. When I had reached these, and walked over the moist,
slippery sea-weed (at the risk of floundering into one of the numerous
pools of clear, salt water that lay between them), to a little mossy
promontory with the sea splashing round it, I looked back again to see
who next was stirring. Still, there were only the early grooms with
their horses, and one gentleman with a little dark speck of a dog
running before him, and one water-cart coming out of the town to get
water for the baths. In another minute or two, the distant bathing
machines would begin to move, and then the elderly gentlemen of regular
habits and sober quaker ladies would be coming to take their salutary
morning walks. But however interesting such a scene might be, I could
not wait to witness it, for the sun and the sea so dazzled my eyes in
that direction, that I could but afford one glance; and then I turned
again to delight myself with the sight and the sound of the sea,
dashing against my promontory—with no prodigious force, for the swell
was broken by the tangled sea-weed and the unseen rocks beneath;
otherwise I should soon have been deluged with spray. But the tide was
coming in; the water was rising; the gulfs and lakes were filling; the
straits were widening: it was time to seek some safer footing; so I
walked, skipped, and stumbled back to the smooth, wide sands, and
resolved to proceed to a certain bold projection in the cliffs, and
then return.
Presently, I heard a snuffling sound behind me and then a dog came
frisking and wriggling to my feet. It was my own Snap—the little dark,
wire-haired terrier! When I spoke his name, he leapt up in my face and
yelled for joy. Almost as much delighted as himself, I caught the
little creature in my arms, and kissed him repeatedly. But how came he
to be there? He could not have dropped from the sky, or come all that
way alone: it must be either his master, the rat-catcher, or somebody
else that had brought him; so, repressing my extravagant caresses, and
endeavouring to repress his likewise, I looked round, and beheld—Mr.
Weston!
“Your dog remembers you well, Miss Grey,” said he, warmly grasping the
hand I offered him without clearly knowing what I was about. “You rise
early.”
“Not often so early as this,” I replied, with amazing composure,
considering all the circumstances of the case.
“How far do you purpose to extend your walk?”
“I was thinking of returning—it must be almost time, I think.”
He consulted his watch—a gold one now—and told me it was only five
minutes past seven.
“But, doubtless, you have had a long enough walk,” said he, turning
towards the town, to which I now proceeded leisurely to retrace my
steps; and he walked beside me.
“In what part of the town do you live?” asked he. “I never could
discover.”
Never could discover? Had he endeavoured to do so then? I told him the
place of our abode. He asked how we prospered in our affairs. I told
him we were doing very well—that we had had a considerable addition to
our pupils after the Christmas vacation, and expected a still further
increase at the close of this.
“You must be an accomplished instructor,” he observed.
“No, it is my mother,” I replied; “she manages things so well, and is
so active, and clever, and kind.”
“I should like to know your mother. Will you introduce me to her some
time, if I call?”
“Yes, willingly.”
“And will you allow me the privilege of an old friend, of looking in
upon you now and then?”
“Yes, if—I suppose so.”
This was a very foolish answer, but the truth was, I considered that I
had no right to invite anyone to my mother’s house without her
knowledge; and if I had said, “Yes, if my mother does not object,” it
would appear as if by his question I understood more than was expected;
so, _supposing_ she would not, I added, “I suppose so:” but of course I
should have said something more sensible and more polite, if I had had
my wits about me. We continued our walk for a minute in silence; which,
however, was shortly relieved (no small relief to me) by Mr. Weston
commenting upon the brightness of the morning and the beauty of the
bay, and then upon the advantages A—— possessed over many other
fashionable places of resort.
“You don’t ask what brings me to A——” said he. “You can’t suppose I’m
rich enough to come for my own pleasure.”
“I heard you had left Horton.”
“You didn’t hear, then, that I had got the living of F——?”
F—— was a village about two miles distant from A——.
“No,” said I; “we live so completely out of the world, even here, that
news seldom reaches me through any quarter; except through the medium
of the —— _Gazette_. But I hope you like your new parish; and that I
may congratulate you on the acquisition?”
“I expect to like my parish better a year or two hence, when I have
worked certain reforms I have set my heart upon—or, at least,
progressed some steps towards such an achievement. But you may
congratulate me now; for I find it very agreeable to _have_ a parish
all to myself, with nobody to interfere with me—to thwart my plans or
cripple my exertions: and besides, I have a respectable house in a
rather pleasant neighbourhood, and three hundred pounds a year; and, in
fact, I have nothing but solitude to complain of, and nothing but a
companion to wish for.”
He looked at me as he concluded: and the flash of his dark eyes seemed
to set my face on fire; greatly to my own discomfiture, for to evince
confusion at such a juncture was intolerable. I made an effort,
therefore, to remedy the evil, and disclaim all personal application of
the remark by a hasty, ill-expressed reply, to the effect that, if he
waited till he was well known in the neighbourhood, he might have
numerous opportunities for supplying his want among the residents of
F—— and its vicinity, or the visitors of A——, if he required so ample a
choice: not considering the compliment implied by such an assertion,
till his answer made me aware of it.
“I am not so presumptuous as to believe that,” said he, “though you
tell it me; but if it were so, I am rather particular in my notions of
a companion for life, and perhaps I might not find one to suit me among
the ladies you mention.”
“If you require perfection, you never will.”
“I do not—I have no right to require it, as being so far from perfect
myself.”
Here the conversation was interrupted by a water-cart lumbering past
us, for we were now come to the busy part of the sands; and, for the
next eight or ten minutes, between carts and horses, and asses, and
men, there was little room for social intercourse, till we had turned
our backs upon the sea, and begun to ascend the precipitous road
leading into the town. Here my companion offered me his arm, which I
accepted, though not with the intention of using it as a support.
“You don’t often come on to the sands, I think,” said he, “for I have
walked there many times, both morning and evening, since I came, and
never seen you till now; and several times, in passing through the
town, too, I have looked about for your school—but I did not think of
the —— Road; and once or twice I made inquiries, but without obtaining
the requisite information.”
When we had surmounted the acclivity, I was about to withdraw my arm
from his, but by a slight tightening of the elbow was tacitly informed
that such was not his will, and accordingly desisted. Discoursing on
different subjects, we entered the town, and passed through several
streets. I saw that he was going out of his way to accompany me,
notwithstanding the long walk that was yet before him; and, fearing
that he might be inconveniencing himself from motives of politeness, I
observed—“I fear I am taking you out of your way, Mr. Weston—I believe
the road to F—— lies quite in another direction.”
“I’ll leave you at the end of the next street,” said he.
“And when will you come to see mamma?”
“To-morrow—God willing.”
The end of the next street was nearly the conclusion of my journey. He
stopped there, however, bid me good-morning, and called Snap, who
seemed a little doubtful whether to follow his old mistress or his new
master, but trotted away upon being summoned by the latter.
“I won’t offer to restore him to you, Miss Grey,” said Mr. Weston,
smiling, “because I like him.”
“Oh, I don’t want him,” replied I, “now that he has a good master; I’m
quite satisfied.”
“You take it for granted that I am a good one, then?”
The man and the dog departed, and I returned home, full of gratitude to
heaven for so much bliss, and praying that my hopes might not again be
crushed.
CHAPTER XXV.
CONCLUSION
“Well, Agnes, you must not take such long walks again before
breakfast,” said my mother, observing that I drank an extra cup of
coffee and ate nothing—pleading the heat of the weather, and the
fatigue of my long walk as an excuse. I certainly did feel feverish and
tired too.
“You always do things by extremes: now, if you had taken a _short_ walk
every morning, and would continue to do so, it would do you good.”
“Well, mamma, I will.”
“But this is worse than lying in bed or bending over your books: you
have quite put yourself into a fever.”
“I won’t do it again,” said I.
I was racking my brains with thinking how to tell her about Mr. Weston,
for she must know he was coming to-morrow. However, I waited till the
breakfast things were removed, and I was more calm and cool; and then,
having sat down to my drawing, I began—“I met an old friend on the
sands to-day, mamma.”
“An old friend! Who could it be?”
“Two old friends, indeed. One was a dog;” and then I reminded her of
Snap, whose history I had recounted before, and related the incident of
his sudden appearance and remarkable recognition; “and the other,”
continued I, “was Mr. Weston, the curate of Horton.”
“Mr. Weston! I never heard of him before.”
“Yes, you have: I’ve mentioned him several times, I believe: but you
don’t remember.”
“I’ve heard you speak of Mr. Hatfield.”
“Mr. Hatfield was the rector, and Mr. Weston the curate: I used to
mention him sometimes in contradistinction to Mr. Hatfield, as being a
more efficient clergyman. However, he was on the sands this morning
with the dog—he had bought it, I suppose, from the rat-catcher; and he
knew me as well as it did—probably through its means: and I had a
little conversation with him, in the course of which, as he asked about
our school, I was led to say something about you, and your good
management; and he said he should like to know you, and asked if I
would introduce him to you, if he should take the liberty of calling
to-morrow; so I said I would. Was I right?”
“Of course. What kind of a man is he?”
“A very _respectable_ man, I think: but you will see him to-morrow. He
is the new vicar of F——, and as he has only been there a few weeks, I
suppose he has made no friends yet, and wants a little society.”
The morrow came. What a fever of anxiety and expectation I was in from
breakfast till noon—at which time he made his appearance! Having
introduced him to my mother, I took my work to the window, and sat down
to await the result of the interview. They got on extremely well
together—greatly to my satisfaction, for I had felt very anxious about
what my mother would think of him. He did not stay long that time: but
when he rose to take leave, she said she should be happy to see him,
whenever he might find it convenient to call again; and when he was
gone, I was gratified by hearing her say,—“Well! I think he’s a very
sensible man. But why did you sit back there, Agnes,” she added, “and
talk so little?”
“Because you talked so well, mamma, I thought you required no
assistance from me: and, besides, he was your visitor, not mine.”
After that, he often called upon us—several times in the course of a
week. He generally addressed most of his conversation to my mother: and
no wonder, for she could converse. I almost envied the unfettered,
vigorous fluency of her discourse, and the strong sense evinced by
everything she said—and yet, I did not; for, though I occasionally
regretted my own deficiencies for his sake, it gave me very great
pleasure to sit and hear the two beings I loved and honoured above
every one else in the world, discoursing together so amicably, so
wisely, and so well. I was not always silent, however; nor was I at all
neglected. I was quite as much noticed as I would wish to be: there was
no lack of kind words and kinder looks, no end of delicate attentions,
too fine and subtle to be grasped by words, and therefore
indescribable—but deeply felt at heart.
Ceremony was quickly dropped between us: Mr. Weston came as an expected
guest, welcome at all times, and never deranging the economy of our
household affairs. He even called me “Agnes:” the name had been timidly
spoken at first, but, finding it gave no offence in any quarter, he
seemed greatly to prefer that appellation to “Miss Grey;” and so did I.
How tedious and gloomy were those days in which he did not come! And
yet not miserable; for I had still the remembrance of the last visit
and the hope of the next to cheer me. But when two or three days passed
without my seeing him, I certainly felt very anxious—absurdly,
unreasonably so; for, of course, he had his own business and the
affairs of his parish to attend to. And I dreaded the close of the
holidays, when _my_ business also would begin, and I should be
sometimes unable to see him, and sometimes—when my mother was in the
schoolroom—obliged to be with him alone: a position I did not at all
desire, in the house; though to meet him out of doors, and walk beside
him, had proved by no means disagreeable.
One evening, however, in the last week of the vacation, he
arrived—unexpectedly: for a heavy and protracted thunder-shower during
the afternoon had almost destroyed my hopes of seeing him that day; but
now the storm was over, and the sun was shining brightly.
“A beautiful evening, Mrs. Grey!” said he, as he entered. “Agnes, I
want you to take a walk with me to ——” (he named a certain part of the
coast—a bold hill on the land side, and towards the sea a steep
precipice, from the summit of which a glorious view is to be had). “The
rain has laid the dust, and cooled and cleared the air, and the
prospect will be magnificent. Will you come?”
“Can I go, mamma?”
“Yes; to be sure.”
I went to get ready, and was down again in a few minutes; though, of
course, I took a little more pains with my attire than if I had merely
been going out on some shopping expedition alone. The thunder-shower
had certainly had a most beneficial effect upon the weather, and the
evening was most delightful. Mr. Weston would have me to take his arm;
he said little during our passage through the crowded streets, but
walked very fast, and appeared grave and abstracted. I wondered what
was the matter, and felt an indefinite dread that something unpleasant
was on his mind; and vague surmises, concerning what it might be,
troubled me not a little, and made me grave and silent enough. But
these fantasies vanished upon reaching the quiet outskirts of the town;
for as soon as we came within sight of the venerable old church, and
the —— hill, with the deep blue beyond it, I found my companion was
cheerful enough.
“I’m afraid I’ve been walking too fast for you, Agnes,” said he: “in my
impatience to be rid of the town, I forgot to consult your convenience;
but now we’ll walk as slowly as you please. I see, by those light
clouds in the west, there will be a brilliant sunset, and we shall be
in time to witness its effect upon the sea, at the most moderate rate
of progression.”
When we had got about half-way up the hill, we fell into silence again;
which, as usual, he was the first to break.
“My house is desolate yet, Miss Grey,” he smilingly observed, “and I am
acquainted now with all the ladies in my parish, and several in this
town too; and many others I know by sight and by report; but not one of
them will suit me for a companion; in fact, there is only one person in
the world that will: and that is yourself; and I want to know your
decision?”
“Are you in earnest, Mr. Weston?”
“In earnest! How could you think I should jest on such a subject?”
He laid his hand on mine, that rested on his arm: he must have felt it
tremble—but it was no great matter now.
“I hope I have not been too precipitate,” he said, in a serious tone.
“You must have known that it was not my way to flatter and talk soft
nonsense, or even to speak the admiration that I felt; and that a
single word or glance of mine meant more than the honied phrases and
fervent protestations of most other men.”
I said something about not liking to leave my mother, and doing nothing
without her consent.
“I settled everything with Mrs. Grey, while you were putting on your
bonnet,” replied he. “She said I might have her consent, if I could
obtain yours; and I asked her, in case I should be so happy, to come
and live with us—for I was sure you would like it better. But she
refused, saying she could now afford to employ an assistant, and would
continue the school till she could purchase an annuity sufficient to
maintain her in comfortable lodgings; and, meantime, she would spend
her vacations alternately with us and your sister, and should be quite
contented if you were happy. And so now I have overruled your
objections on her account. Have you any other?”
“No—none.”
“You love me then?” said he, fervently pressing my hand.
“Yes.”
Here I pause. My Diary, from which I have compiled these pages, goes
but little further. I could go on for years, but I will content myself
with adding, that I shall never forget that glorious summer evening,
and always remember with delight that steep hill, and the edge of the
precipice where we stood together, watching the splendid sunset
mirrored in the restless world of waters at our feet—with hearts filled
with gratitude to heaven, and happiness, and love—almost too full for
speech.
A few weeks after that, when my mother had supplied herself with an
assistant, I became the wife of Edward Weston; and never have found
cause to repent it, and am certain that I never shall. We have had
trials, and we know that we must have them again; but we bear them well
together, and endeavour to fortify ourselves and each other against the
final separation—that greatest of all afflictions to the survivor. But,
if we keep in mind the glorious heaven beyond, where both may meet
again, and sin and sorrow are unknown, surely that too may be borne;
and, meantime, we endeavour to live to the glory of Him who has
scattered so many blessings in our path.
Edward, by his strenuous exertions, has worked surprising reforms in
his parish, and is esteemed and loved by its inhabitants—as he
deserves; for whatever his faults may be as a man (and no one is
entirely without), I defy anybody to blame him as a pastor, a husband,
or a father.
Our children, Edward, Agnes, and little Mary, promise well; their
education, for the time being, is chiefly committed to me; and they
shall want no good thing that a mother’s care can give. Our modest
income is amply sufficient for our requirements: and by practising the
economy we learnt in harder times, and never attempting to imitate our
richer neighbours, we manage not only to enjoy comfort and contentment
ourselves, but to have every year something to lay by for our children,
and something to give to those who need it.
And now I think I have said sufficient.
_Spottiswode & Co. Ltd._, _Printers_, _London_. _Colchester and Eton_.
Wuthering Heights
by Emily Brontë
CHAPTER I
1801—I have just returned from a visit to my landlord—the solitary
neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is certainly a beautiful
country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a
situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect
misanthropist’s Heaven—and Mr. Heathcliff and I are such a suitable
pair to divide the desolation between us. A capital fellow! He little
imagined how my heart warmed towards him when I beheld his black eyes
withdraw so suspiciously under their brows, as I rode up, and when his
fingers sheltered themselves, with a jealous resolution, still further
in his waistcoat, as I announced my name.
“Mr. Heathcliff?” I said.
A nod was the answer.
“Mr. Lockwood, your new tenant, sir. I do myself the honour of calling
as soon as possible after my arrival, to express the hope that I have
not inconvenienced you by my perseverance in soliciting the occupation
of Thrushcross Grange: I heard yesterday you had had some thoughts—”
“Thrushcross Grange is my own, sir,” he interrupted, wincing. “I should
not allow any one to inconvenience me, if I could hinder it—walk in!”
The “walk in” was uttered with closed teeth, and expressed the
sentiment, “Go to the Deuce!” even the gate over which he leant
manifested no sympathising movement to the words; and I think that
circumstance determined me to accept the invitation: I felt interested
in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself.
When he saw my horse’s breast fairly pushing the barrier, he did put
out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up the
causeway, calling, as we entered the court,—“Joseph, take Mr.
Lockwood’s horse; and bring up some wine.”
“Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose,” was the
reflection suggested by this compound order. “No wonder the grass grows
up between the flags, and cattle are the only hedge-cutters.”
Joseph was an elderly, nay, an old man, very old, perhaps, though hale
and sinewy. “The Lord help us!” he soliloquised in an undertone of
peevish displeasure, while relieving me of my horse: looking, meantime,
in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of
divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no
reference to my unexpected advent.
Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. “Wuthering”
being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the
atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather.
Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there at all times, indeed:
one may guess the power of the north wind, blowing over the edge, by
the excessive slant of a few stunted firs at the end of the house; and
by a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if
craving alms of the sun. Happily, the architect had foresight to build
it strong: the narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the
corners defended with large jutting stones.
Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of
grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the
principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins
and shameless little boys, I detected the date “1500,” and the name
“Hareton Earnshaw.” I would have made a few comments, and requested a
short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at
the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure,
and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting
the penetralium.
One stop brought us into the family sitting-room, without any
introductory lobby or passage: they call it here “the house”
pre-eminently. It includes kitchen and parlour, generally; but I
believe at Wuthering Heights the kitchen is forced to retreat
altogether into another quarter: at least I distinguished a chatter of
tongues, and a clatter of culinary utensils, deep within; and I
observed no signs of roasting, boiling, or baking, about the huge
fireplace; nor any glitter of copper saucepans and tin cullenders on
the walls. One end, indeed, reflected splendidly both light and heat
from ranks of immense pewter dishes, interspersed with silver jugs and
tankards, towering row after row, on a vast oak dresser, to the very
roof. The latter had never been under-drawn: its entire anatomy lay
bare to an inquiring eye, except where a frame of wood laden with
oatcakes and clusters of legs of beef, mutton, and ham, concealed it.
Above the chimney were sundry villainous old guns, and a couple of
horse-pistols: and, by way of ornament, three gaudily-painted canisters
disposed along its ledge. The floor was of smooth, white stone; the
chairs, high-backed, primitive structures, painted green: one or two
heavy black ones lurking in the shade. In an arch under the dresser
reposed a huge, liver-coloured bitch pointer, surrounded by a swarm of
squealing puppies; and other dogs haunted other recesses.
The apartment and furniture would have been nothing extraordinary as
belonging to a homely, northern farmer, with a stubborn countenance,
and stalwart limbs set out to advantage in knee-breeches and gaiters.
Such an individual seated in his arm-chair, his mug of ale frothing on
the round table before him, is to be seen in any circuit of five or six
miles among these hills, if you go at the right time after dinner. But
Mr. Heathcliff forms a singular contrast to his abode and style of
living. He is a dark-skinned gipsy in aspect, in dress and manners a
gentleman: that is, as much a gentleman as many a country squire:
rather slovenly, perhaps, yet not looking amiss with his negligence,
because he has an erect and handsome figure; and rather morose.
Possibly, some people might suspect him of a degree of under-bred
pride; I have a sympathetic chord within that tells me it is nothing of
the sort: I know, by instinct, his reserve springs from an aversion to
showy displays of feeling—to manifestations of mutual kindliness. He’ll
love and hate equally under cover, and esteem it a species of
impertinence to be loved or hated again. No, I’m running on too fast: I
bestow my own attributes over-liberally on him. Mr. Heathcliff may have
entirely dissimilar reasons for keeping his hand out of the way when he
meets a would-be acquaintance, to those which actuate me. Let me hope
my constitution is almost peculiar: my dear mother used to say I should
never have a comfortable home; and only last summer I proved myself
perfectly unworthy of one.
While enjoying a month of fine weather at the sea-coast, I was thrown
into the company of a most fascinating creature: a real goddess in my
eyes, as long as she took no notice of me. I “never told my love”
vocally; still, if looks have language, the merest idiot might have
guessed I was over head and ears: she understood me at last, and looked
a return—the sweetest of all imaginable looks. And what did I do? I
confess it with shame—shrunk icily into myself, like a snail; at every
glance retired colder and farther; till finally the poor innocent was
led to doubt her own senses, and, overwhelmed with confusion at her
supposed mistake, persuaded her mamma to decamp.
By this curious turn of disposition I have gained the reputation of
deliberate heartlessness; how undeserved, I alone can appreciate.
I took a seat at the end of the hearthstone opposite that towards which
my landlord advanced, and filled up an interval of silence by
attempting to caress the canine mother, who had left her nursery, and
was sneaking wolfishly to the back of my legs, her lip curled up, and
her white teeth watering for a snatch. My caress provoked a long,
guttural gnarl.
“You’d better let the dog alone,” growled Mr. Heathcliff in unison,
checking fiercer demonstrations with a punch of his foot. “She’s not
accustomed to be spoiled—not kept for a pet.” Then, striding to a side
door, he shouted again, “Joseph!”
Joseph mumbled indistinctly in the depths of the cellar, but gave no
intimation of ascending; so his master dived down to him, leaving me
_vis-à-vis_ the ruffianly bitch and a pair of grim shaggy sheep-dogs,
who shared with her a jealous guardianship over all my movements. Not
anxious to come in contact with their fangs, I sat still; but,
imagining they would scarcely understand tacit insults, I unfortunately
indulged in winking and making faces at the trio, and some turn of my
physiognomy so irritated madam, that she suddenly broke into a fury and
leapt on my knees. I flung her back, and hastened to interpose the
table between us. This proceeding aroused the whole hive: half-a-dozen
four-footed fiends, of various sizes and ages, issued from hidden dens
to the common centre. I felt my heels and coat-laps peculiar subjects
of assault; and parrying off the larger combatants as effectually as I
could with the poker, I was constrained to demand, aloud, assistance
from some of the household in re-establishing peace.
Mr. Heathcliff and his man climbed the cellar steps with vexatious
phlegm: I don’t think they moved one second faster than usual, though
the hearth was an absolute tempest of worrying and yelping. Happily, an
inhabitant of the kitchen made more dispatch; a lusty dame, with
tucked-up gown, bare arms, and fire-flushed cheeks, rushed into the
midst of us flourishing a frying-pan: and used that weapon, and her
tongue, to such purpose, that the storm subsided magically, and she
only remained, heaving like a sea after a high wind, when her master
entered on the scene.
“What the devil is the matter?” he asked, eyeing me in a manner that I
could ill endure, after this inhospitable treatment.
“What the devil, indeed!” I muttered. “The herd of possessed swine
could have had no worse spirits in them than those animals of yours,
sir. You might as well leave a stranger with a brood of tigers!”
“They won’t meddle with persons who touch nothing,” he remarked,
putting the bottle before me, and restoring the displaced table. “The
dogs do right to be vigilant. Take a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you.”
“Not bitten, are you?”
“If I had been, I would have set my signet on the biter.” Heathcliff’s
countenance relaxed into a grin.
“Come, come,” he said, “you are flurried, Mr. Lockwood. Here, take a
little wine. Guests are so exceedingly rare in this house that I and my
dogs, I am willing to own, hardly know how to receive them. Your
health, sir?”
I bowed and returned the pledge; beginning to perceive that it would be
foolish to sit sulking for the misbehaviour of a pack of curs; besides,
I felt loth to yield the fellow further amusement at my expense; since
his humour took that turn. He—probably swayed by prudential
consideration of the folly of offending a good tenant—relaxed a little
in the laconic style of chipping off his pronouns and auxiliary verbs,
and introduced what he supposed would be a subject of interest to me,—a
discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of my present place of
retirement. I found him very intelligent on the topics we touched; and
before I went home, I was encouraged so far as to volunteer another
visit to-morrow. He evidently wished no repetition of my intrusion. I
shall go, notwithstanding. It is astonishing how sociable I feel myself
compared with him.
CHAPTER II
Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend
it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to
Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine
between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly lady, taken
as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend
my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with
this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl
on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles, and raising an
infernal dust as she extinguished the flames with heaps of cinders.
This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a
four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff’s garden-gate just in time to
escape the first feathery flakes of a snow shower.
On that bleak hill top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the
air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the
chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered
with straggling gooseberry-bushes, knocked vainly for admittance, till
my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.
“Wretched inmates!” I ejaculated, mentally, “you deserve perpetual
isolation from your species for your churlish inhospitality. At least,
I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will
get in!” So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently.
Vinegar-faced Joseph projected his head from a round window of the
barn.
“What are ye for?” he shouted. “T’ maister’s down i’ t’ fowld. Go round
by th’ end o’ t’ laith, if ye went to spake to him.”
“Is there nobody inside to open the door?” I hallooed, responsively.
“There’s nobbut t’ missis; and shoo’ll not oppen ’t an ye mak’ yer
flaysome dins till neeght.”
“Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?”
“Nor-ne me! I’ll hae no hend wi’t,” muttered the head, vanishing.
The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another
trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork,
appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after
marching through a wash-house, and a paved area containing a coal-shed,
pump, and pigeon-cot, we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful
apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the
radiance of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and
near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to
observe the “missis,” an individual whose existence I had never
previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me
take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained
motionless and mute.
“Rough weather!” I remarked. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door
must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had
hard work to make them hear me.”
She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she
kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly
embarrassing and disagreeable.
“Sit down,” said the young man, gruffly. “He’ll be in soon.”
I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno, who deigned, at this
second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of
owning my acquaintance.
“A beautiful animal!” I commenced again. “Do you intend parting with
the little ones, madam?”
“They are not mine,” said the amiable hostess, more repellingly than
Heathcliff himself could have replied.
“Ah, your favourites are among these?” I continued, turning to an
obscure cushion full of something like cats.
“A strange choice of favourites!” she observed scornfully.
Unluckily, it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew
closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness of the
evening.
“You should not have come out,” she said, rising and reaching from the
chimney-piece two of the painted canisters.
Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct
view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and
apparently scarcely past girlhood: an admirable form, and the most
exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding;
small features, very fair; flaxen ringlets, or rather golden, hanging
loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in
expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my
susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced hovered between
scorn and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected
there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to
aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted
to assist him in counting his gold.
“I don’t want your help,” she snapped; “I can get them for myself.”
“I beg your pardon!” I hastened to reply.
“Were you asked to tea?” she demanded, tying an apron over her neat
black frock, and standing with a spoonful of the leaf poised over the
pot.
“I shall be glad to have a cup,” I answered.
“Were you asked?” she repeated.
“No,” I said, half smiling. “You are the proper person to ask me.”
She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet;
her forehead corrugated, and her red under-lip pushed out, like a
child’s ready to cry.
Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby
upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on
me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some
mortal feud unavenged between us. I began to doubt whether he were a
servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of
the superiority observable in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown
curls were rough and uncultivated, his whiskers encroached bearishly
over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned like those of a common
labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty, and he showed
none of a domestic’s assiduity in attending on the lady of the house.
In the absence of clear proofs of his condition, I deemed it best to
abstain from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes
afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure,
from my uncomfortable state.
“You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!” I exclaimed, assuming
the cheerful; “and I fear I shall be weather-bound for half an hour, if
you can afford me shelter during that space.”
“Half an hour?” he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; “I
wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble about in.
Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People
familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I
can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.”
“Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the
Grange till morning—could you spare me one?”
“No, I could not.”
“Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity.”
“Umph!”
“Are you going to mak’ the tea?” demanded he of the shabby coat,
shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.
“Is _he_ to have any?” she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.
“Get it ready, will you?” was the answer, uttered so savagely that I
started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad
nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow.
When the preparations were finished, he invited me with—“Now, sir,
bring forward your chair.” And we all, including the rustic youth, drew
round the table: an austere silence prevailing while we discussed our
meal.
I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort
to dispel it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it
was impossible, however ill-tempered they might be, that the universal
scowl they wore was their every-day countenance.
“It is strange,” I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea
and receiving another—“it is strange how custom can mould our tastes
and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life
of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff;
yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with
your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—”
“My amiable lady!” he interrupted, with an almost diabolical sneer on
his face. “Where is she—my amiable lady?”
“Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.”
“Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of
ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights, even
when her body is gone. Is that it?”
Perceiving myself in a blunder, I attempted to correct it. I might have
seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to
make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a
period of mental vigour at which men seldom cherish the delusion of
being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace
of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.
Then it flashed upon me—“The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea
out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her
husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being
buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor from sheer
ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how
I cause her to regret her choice.” The last reflection may seem
conceited; it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on
repulsive; I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably attractive.
“Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law,” said Heathcliff, corroborating
my surmise. He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar look in her direction: a
look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles
that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of
his soul.
“Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor of the
beneficent fairy,” I remarked, turning to my neighbour.
This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched his
fist, with every appearance of a meditated assault. But he seemed to
recollect himself presently, and smothered the storm in a brutal curse,
muttered on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.
“Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,” observed my host; “we neither of us
have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said
she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.”
“And this young man is—”
“Not my son, assuredly.”
Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest to
attribute the paternity of that bear to him.
“My name is Hareton Earnshaw,” growled the other; “and I’d counsel you
to respect it!”
“I’ve shown no disrespect,” was my reply, laughing internally at the
dignity with which he announced himself.
He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for
fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity
audible. I began to feel unmistakably out of place in that pleasant
family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than
neutralised, the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to
be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.
The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of
sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A
sorrowful sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and
hills mingled in one bitter whirl of wind and suffocating snow.
“I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,” I
could not help exclaiming. “The roads will be buried already; and, if
they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.”
“Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be
covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,”
said Heathcliff.
“How must I do?” I continued, with rising irritation.
There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only
Joseph bringing in a pail of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff
leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of
matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the
tea-canister to its place. The former, when he had deposited his
burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated
out—“Aw wonder how yah can faishion to stand thear i’ idleness un war,
when all on ’ems goan out! Bud yah’re a nowt, and it’s no use
talking—yah’ll niver mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight to t’ divil,
like yer mother afore ye!”
I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence was addressed to
me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal with an
intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however,
checked me by her answer.
“You scandalous old hypocrite!” she replied. “Are you not afraid of
being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I
warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a
special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,” she continued, taking a long,
dark book from a shelf; “I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the
Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The
red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism can hardly be
reckoned among providential visitations!”
“Oh, wicked, wicked!” gasped the elder; “may the Lord deliver us from
evil!”
“No, reprobate! you are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously!
I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes
the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but,
you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!”
The little witch put a mock malignity into her beautiful eyes, and
Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and
ejaculating “wicked” as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted
by a species of dreary fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured
to interest her in my distress.
“Mrs. Heathcliff,” I said earnestly, “you must excuse me for troubling
you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being
good-hearted. Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way
home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to
get to London!”
“Take the road you came,” she answered, ensconcing herself in a chair,
with a candle, and the long book open before her. “It is brief advice,
but as sound as I can give.”
“Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full
of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?”
“How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn’t let me go to the end of the
garden wall.”
“_You_! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my
convenience, on such a night,” I cried. “I want you to tell me my way,
not to _show_ it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a
guide.”
“Who? There is himself, Earnshaw, Zillah, Joseph and I. Which would you
have?”
“Are there no boys at the farm?”
“No; those are all.”
“Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.”
“That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.”
“I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on
these hills,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance.
“As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must
share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.”
“I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied.
“No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit
me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!” said
the unmannerly wretch.
With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of
disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in
my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and,
as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour
amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend
me.
“I’ll go with him as far as the park,” he said.
“You’ll go with him to hell!” exclaimed his master, or whatever
relation he bore. “And who is to look after the horses, eh?”
“A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the
horses: somebody must go,” murmured Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I
expected.
“Not at your command!” retorted Hareton. “If you set store on him,
you’d better be quiet.”
“Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will
never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,” she answered,
sharply.
“Hearken, hearken, shoo’s cursing on ’em!” muttered Joseph, towards
whom I had been steering.
He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern,
which I seized unceremoniously, and, calling out that I would send it
back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern.
“Maister, maister, he’s staling t’ lanthern!” shouted the ancient,
pursuing my retreat. “Hey, Gnasher! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld him,
holld him!”
On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat,
bearing me down, and extinguishing the light; while a mingled guffaw
from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone on my rage and
humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching
their paws, and yawning, and flourishing their tails, than devouring me
alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie
till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless and
trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants to let me out—on their
peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of
retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency, smacked of
King Lear.
The vehemence of my agitation brought on a copious bleeding at the
nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded. I don’t know
what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at
hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my
entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued
forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar. She thought that some
of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack
her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger
scoundrel.
“Well, Mr. Earnshaw,” she cried, “I wonder what you’ll have agait next?
Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones? I see this house
will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht,
wisht; you mun’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now,
hold ye still.”
With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my
neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his
accidental merriment expiring quickly in his habitual moroseness.
I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled
perforce to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a
glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she
condoled with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders,
whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.
CHAPTER III
While leading the way upstairs, she recommended that I should hide the
candle, and not make a noise; for her master had an odd notion about
the chamber she would put me in, and never let anybody lodge there
willingly. I asked the reason. She did not know, she answered: she had
only lived there a year or two; and they had so many queer goings on,
she could not begin to be curious.
Too stupefied to be curious myself, I fastened my door and glanced
round for the bed. The whole furniture consisted of a chair, a
clothes-press, and a large oak case, with squares cut out near the top
resembling coach windows. Having approached this structure, I looked
inside, and perceived it to be a singular sort of old-fashioned couch,
very conveniently designed to obviate the necessity for every member of
the family having a room to himself. In fact, it formed a little
closet, and the ledge of a window, which it enclosed, served as a
table.
I slid back the panelled sides, got in with my light, pulled them
together again, and felt secure against the vigilance of Heathcliff,
and every one else.
The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up
in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint.
This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of
characters, large and small—_Catherine Earnshaw_, here and there varied
to _Catherine Heathcliff_, and then again to _Catherine Linton_.
In vapid listlessness I leant my head against the window, and continued
spelling over Catherine Earnshaw—Heathcliff—Linton, till my eyes
closed; but they had not rested five minutes when a glare of white
letters started from the dark, as vivid as spectres—the air swarmed
with Catherines; and rousing myself to dispel the obtrusive name, I
discovered my candle-wick reclining on one of the antique volumes, and
perfuming the place with an odour of roasted calf-skin.
I snuffed it off, and, very ill at ease under the influence of cold and
lingering nausea, sat up and spread open the injured tome on my knee.
It was a Testament, in lean type, and smelling dreadfully musty: a
fly-leaf bore the inscription—“Catherine Earnshaw, her book,” and a
date some quarter of a century back.
I shut it, and took up another and another, till I had examined all.
Catherine’s library was select, and its state of dilapidation proved it
to have been well used, though not altogether for a legitimate purpose:
scarcely one chapter had escaped a pen-and-ink commentary—at least the
appearance of one—covering every morsel of blank that the printer had
left. Some were detached sentences; other parts took the form of a
regular diary, scrawled in an unformed, childish hand. At the top of an
extra page (quite a treasure, probably, when first lighted on) I was
greatly amused to behold an excellent caricature of my friend
Joseph,—rudely, yet powerfully sketched. An immediate interest kindled
within me for the unknown Catherine, and I began forthwith to decipher
her faded hieroglyphics.
“An awful Sunday,” commenced the paragraph beneath. “I wish my father
were back again. Hindley is a detestable substitute—his conduct to
Heathcliff is atrocious—H. and I are going to rebel—we took our
initiatory step this evening.
“All day had been flooding with rain; we could not go to church, so
Joseph must needs get up a congregation in the garret; and, while
Hindley and his wife basked downstairs before a comfortable fire—doing
anything but reading their Bibles, I’ll answer for it—Heathcliff,
myself, and the unhappy ploughboy were commanded to take our
prayer-books, and mount: we were ranged in a row, on a sack of corn,
groaning and shivering, and hoping that Joseph would shiver too, so
that he might give us a short homily for his own sake. A vain idea! The
service lasted precisely three hours; and yet my brother had the face
to exclaim, when he saw us descending, ‘What, done already?’ On Sunday
evenings we used to be permitted to play, if we did not make much
noise; now a mere titter is sufficient to send us into corners.
“‘You forget you have a master here,’ says the tyrant. ‘I’ll demolish
the first who puts me out of temper! I insist on perfect sobriety and
silence. Oh, boy! was that you? Frances darling, pull his hair as you
go by: I heard him snap his fingers.’ Frances pulled his hair heartily,
and then went and seated herself on her husband’s knee, and there they
were, like two babies, kissing and talking nonsense by the hour—foolish
palaver that we should be ashamed of. We made ourselves as snug as our
means allowed in the arch of the dresser. I had just fastened our
pinafores together, and hung them up for a curtain, when in comes
Joseph, on an errand from the stables. He tears down my handiwork,
boxes my ears, and croaks:
“‘T’ maister nobbut just buried, and Sabbath not o’ered, und t’ sound
o’ t’ gospel still i’ yer lugs, and ye darr be laiking! Shame on ye!
sit ye down, ill childer! there’s good books eneugh if ye’ll read ’em:
sit ye down, and think o’ yer sowls!’
“Saying this, he compelled us so to square our positions that we might
receive from the far-off fire a dull ray to show us the text of the
lumber he thrust upon us. I could not bear the employment. I took my
dingy volume by the scroop, and hurled it into the dog-kennel, vowing I
hated a good book. Heathcliff kicked his to the same place. Then there
was a hubbub!
“‘Maister Hindley!’ shouted our chaplain. ‘Maister, coom hither! Miss
Cathy’s riven th’ back off “Th’ Helmet o’ Salvation,” un’ Heathcliff’s
pawsed his fit into t’ first part o’ “T’ Brooad Way to Destruction!”
It’s fair flaysome that ye let ’em go on this gait. Ech! th’ owd man
wad ha’ laced ’em properly—but he’s goan!’
“Hindley hurried up from his paradise on the hearth, and seizing one of
us by the collar, and the other by the arm, hurled both into the
back-kitchen; where, Joseph asseverated, ‘owd Nick’ would fetch us as
sure as we were living: and, so comforted, we each sought a separate
nook to await his advent. I reached this book, and a pot of ink from a
shelf, and pushed the house-door ajar to give me light, and I have got
the time on with writing for twenty minutes; but my companion is
impatient, and proposes that we should appropriate the dairywoman’s
cloak, and have a scamper on the moors, under its shelter. A pleasant
suggestion—and then, if the surly old man come in, he may believe his
prophecy verified—we cannot be damper, or colder, in the rain than we
are here.”
* * * * * *
I suppose Catherine fulfilled her project, for the next sentence took
up another subject: she waxed lachrymose.
“How little did I dream that Hindley would ever make me cry so!” she
wrote. “My head aches, till I cannot keep it on the pillow; and still I
can’t give over. Poor Heathcliff! Hindley calls him a vagabond, and
won’t let him sit with us, nor eat with us any more; and, he says, he
and I must not play together, and threatens to turn him out of the
house if we break his orders. He has been blaming our father (how dared
he?) for treating H. too liberally; and swears he will reduce him to
his right place—”
* * * * * *
I began to nod drowsily over the dim page: my eye wandered from
manuscript to print. I saw a red ornamented title—“Seventy Times Seven,
and the First of the Seventy-First. A Pious Discourse delivered by the
Reverend Jabez Branderham, in the Chapel of Gimmerden Sough.” And while
I was, half-consciously, worrying my brain to guess what Jabez
Branderham would make of his subject, I sank back in bed, and fell
asleep. Alas, for the effects of bad tea and bad temper! What else
could it be that made me pass such a terrible night? I don’t remember
another that I can at all compare with it since I was capable of
suffering.
I began to dream, almost before I ceased to be sensible of my locality.
I thought it was morning; and I had set out on my way home, with Joseph
for a guide. The snow lay yards deep in our road; and, as we floundered
on, my companion wearied me with constant reproaches that I had not
brought a pilgrim’s staff: telling me that I could never get into the
house without one, and boastfully flourishing a heavy-headed cudgel,
which I understood to be so denominated. For a moment I considered it
absurd that I should need such a weapon to gain admittance into my own
residence. Then a new idea flashed across me. I was not going there: we
were journeying to hear the famous Jabez Branderham preach, from the
text—“Seventy Times Seven;” and either Joseph, the preacher, or I had
committed the “First of the Seventy-First,” and were to be publicly
exposed and excommunicated.
We came to the chapel. I have passed it really in my walks, twice or
thrice; it lies in a hollow, between two hills: an elevated hollow,
near a swamp, whose peaty moisture is said to answer all the purposes
of embalming on the few corpses deposited there. The roof has been kept
whole hitherto; but as the clergyman’s stipend is only twenty pounds
per annum, and a house with two rooms, threatening speedily to
determine into one, no clergyman will undertake the duties of pastor:
especially as it is currently reported that his flock would rather let
him starve than increase the living by one penny from their own
pockets. However, in my dream, Jabez had a full and attentive
congregation; and he preached—good God! what a sermon; divided into
_four hundred and ninety_ parts, each fully equal to an ordinary
address from the pulpit, and each discussing a separate sin! Where he
searched for them, I cannot tell. He had his private manner of
interpreting the phrase, and it seemed necessary the brother should sin
different sins on every occasion. They were of the most curious
character: odd transgressions that I never imagined previously.
Oh, how weary I grow. How I writhed, and yawned, and nodded, and
revived! How I pinched and pricked myself, and rubbed my eyes, and
stood up, and sat down again, and nudged Joseph to inform me if he
would _ever_ have done. I was condemned to hear all out: finally, he
reached the “_First of the Seventy-First_.” At that crisis, a sudden
inspiration descended on me; I was moved to rise and denounce Jabez
Branderham as the sinner of the sin that no Christian need pardon.
“Sir,” I exclaimed, “sitting here within these four walls, at one
stretch, I have endured and forgiven the four hundred and ninety heads
of your discourse. Seventy times seven times have I plucked up my hat
and been about to depart—Seventy times seven times have you
preposterously forced me to resume my seat. The four hundred and
ninety-first is too much. Fellow-martyrs, have at him! Drag him down,
and crush him to atoms, that the place which knows him may know him no
more!”
“_Thou art the Man!_” cried Jabez, after a solemn pause, leaning over
his cushion. “Seventy times seven times didst thou gapingly contort thy
visage—seventy times seven did I take counsel with my soul—Lo, this is
human weakness: this also may be absolved! The First of the
Seventy-First is come. Brethren, execute upon him the judgment written.
Such honour have all His saints!”
With that concluding word, the whole assembly, exalting their pilgrim’s
staves, rushed round me in a body; and I, having no weapon to raise in
self-defence, commenced grappling with Joseph, my nearest and most
ferocious assailant, for his. In the confluence of the multitude,
several clubs crossed; blows, aimed at me, fell on other sconces.
Presently the whole chapel resounded with rappings and counter
rappings: every man’s hand was against his neighbour; and Branderham,
unwilling to remain idle, poured forth his zeal in a shower of loud
taps on the boards of the pulpit, which responded so smartly that, at
last, to my unspeakable relief, they woke me. And what was it that had
suggested the tremendous tumult? What had played Jabez’s part in the
row? Merely the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the
blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I
listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and
dozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than
before.
This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard
distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also,
the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right
cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if
possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the
casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance
observed by me when awake, but forgotten. “I must stop it,
nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and
stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of
which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my
arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,
“Let me in—let me in!”
“Who are you?” I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself.
“Catherine Linton,” it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of
_Linton_? I had read _Earnshaw_ twenty times for Linton)—“I’m come
home: I’d lost my way on the moor!”
As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the
window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt
shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and
rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes:
still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious grip, almost
maddening me with fear.
“How can I!” I said at length. “Let _me_ go, if you want me to let you
in!”
The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled
the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude
the lamentable prayer.
I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the
instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!
“Begone!” I shouted. “I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty
years.”
“It is twenty years,” mourned the voice: “twenty years. I’ve been a
waif for twenty years!”
Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved
as if thrust forward.
I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in
a frenzy of fright.
To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps
approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous
hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed.
I sat shuddering, yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead:
the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself.
At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,
“Is any one here?”
I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff’s
accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet.
With this intention, I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon
forget the effect my action produced.
Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a
candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall
behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric
shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and
his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.
“It is only your guest, sir,” I called out, desirous to spare him the
humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. “I had the misfortune to
scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I’m sorry I
disturbed you.”
“Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were at the—” commenced
my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible
to hold it steady. “And who showed you up into this room?” he
continued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to
subdue the maxillary convulsions. “Who was it? I’ve a good mind to turn
them out of the house this moment?”
“It was your servant Zillah,” I replied, flinging myself on to the
floor, and rapidly resuming my garments. “I should not care if you did,
Mr. Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she wanted to
get another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it
is—swarming with ghosts and goblins! You have reason in shutting it up,
I assure you. No one will thank you for a doze in such a den!”
“What do you mean?” asked Heathcliff, “and what are you doing? Lie down
and finish out the night, since you _are_ here; but, for Heaven’s sake!
don’t repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you
were having your throat cut!”
“If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have
strangled me!” I returned. “I’m not going to endure the persecutions of
your hospitable ancestors again. Was not the Reverend Jabez Branderham
akin to you on the mother’s side? And that minx, Catherine Linton, or
Earnshaw, or however she was called—she must have been a
changeling—wicked little soul! She told me she had been walking the
earth these twenty years: a just punishment for her mortal
transgressions, I’ve no doubt!”
Scarcely were these words uttered when I recollected the association of
Heathcliff’s with Catherine’s name in the book, which had completely
slipped from my memory, till thus awakened. I blushed at my
inconsideration: but, without showing further consciousness of the
offence, I hastened to add—“The truth is, sir, I passed the first part
of the night in—” Here I stopped afresh—I was about to say “perusing
those old volumes,” then it would have revealed my knowledge of their
written, as well as their printed, contents; so, correcting myself, I
went on—“in spelling over the name scratched on that window-ledge. A
monotonous occupation, calculated to set me asleep, like counting, or—”
“What _can_ you mean by talking in this way to _me!_” thundered
Heathcliff with savage vehemence. “How—how _dare_ you, under my
roof?—God! he’s mad to speak so!” And he struck his forehead with rage.
I did not know whether to resent this language or pursue my
explanation; but he seemed so powerfully affected that I took pity and
proceeded with my dreams; affirming I had never heard the appellation
of “Catherine Linton” before, but reading it often over produced an
impression which personified itself when I had no longer my imagination
under control. Heathcliff gradually fell back into the shelter of the
bed, as I spoke; finally sitting down almost concealed behind it. I
guessed, however, by his irregular and intercepted breathing, that he
struggled to vanquish an excess of violent emotion. Not liking to show
him that I had heard the conflict, I continued my toilette rather
noisily, looked at my watch, and soliloquised on the length of the
night: “Not three o’clock yet! I could have taken oath it had been six.
Time stagnates here: we must surely have retired to rest at eight!”
“Always at nine in winter, and rise at four,” said my host, suppressing
a groan: and, as I fancied, by the motion of his arm’s shadow, dashing
a tear from his eyes. “Mr. Lockwood,” he added, “you may go into my
room: you’ll only be in the way, coming downstairs so early: and your
childish outcry has sent sleep to the devil for me.”
“And for me, too,” I replied. “I’ll walk in the yard till daylight, and
then I’ll be off; and you need not dread a repetition of my intrusion.
I’m now quite cured of seeking pleasure in society, be it country or
town. A sensible man ought to find sufficient company in himself.”
“Delightful company!” muttered Heathcliff. “Take the candle, and go
where you please. I shall join you directly. Keep out of the yard,
though, the dogs are unchained; and the house—Juno mounts sentinel
there, and—nay, you can only ramble about the steps and passages. But,
away with you! I’ll come in two minutes!”
I obeyed, so far as to quit the chamber; when, ignorant where the
narrow lobbies led, I stood still, and was witness, involuntarily, to a
piece of superstition on the part of my landlord which belied, oddly,
his apparent sense. He got on to the bed, and wrenched open the
lattice, bursting, as he pulled at it, into an uncontrollable passion
of tears. “Come in! come in!” he sobbed. “Cathy, do come. Oh, do—_once_
more! Oh! my heart’s darling! hear me _this_ time, Catherine, at last!”
The spectre showed a spectre’s ordinary caprice: it gave no sign of
being; but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching my
station, and blowing out the light.
There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied this
raving, that my compassion made me overlook its folly, and I drew off,
half angry to have listened at all, and vexed at having related my
ridiculous nightmare, since it produced that agony; though _why_ was
beyond my comprehension. I descended cautiously to the lower regions,
and landed in the back-kitchen, where a gleam of fire, raked compactly
together, enabled me to rekindle my candle. Nothing was stirring except
a brindled, grey cat, which crept from the ashes, and saluted me with a
querulous mew.
Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the
hearth; on one of these I stretched myself, and Grimalkin mounted the
other. We were both of us nodding ere any one invaded our retreat, and
then it was Joseph, shuffling down a wooden ladder that vanished in the
roof, through a trap: the ascent to his garret, I suppose. He cast a
sinister look at the little flame which I had enticed to play between
the ribs, swept the cat from its elevation, and bestowing himself in
the vacancy, commenced the operation of stuffing a three-inch pipe with
tobacco. My presence in his sanctum was evidently esteemed a piece of
impudence too shameful for remark: he silently applied the tube to his
lips, folded his arms, and puffed away. I let him enjoy the luxury
unannoyed; and after sucking out his last wreath, and heaving a
profound sigh, he got up, and departed as solemnly as he came.
A more elastic footstep entered next; and now I opened my mouth for a
“good-morning,” but closed it again, the salutation unachieved; for
Hareton Earnshaw was performing his orison _sotto voce_, in a series of
curses directed against every object he touched, while he rummaged a
corner for a spade or shovel to dig through the drifts. He glanced over
the back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, and thought as little of
exchanging civilities with me as with my companion the cat. I guessed,
by his preparations, that egress was allowed, and, leaving my hard
couch, made a movement to follow him. He noticed this, and thrust at an
inner door with the end of his spade, intimating by an inarticulate
sound that there was the place where I must go, if I changed my
locality.
It opened into the house, where the females were already astir; Zillah
urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows; and Mrs.
Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, reading a book by the aid of the
blaze. She held her hand interposed between the furnace-heat and her
eyes, and seemed absorbed in her occupation; desisting from it only to
chide the servant for covering her with sparks, or to push away a dog,
now and then, that snoozled its nose overforwardly into her face. I was
surprised to see Heathcliff there also. He stood by the fire, his back
towards me, just finishing a stormy scene with poor Zillah; who ever
and anon interrupted her labour to pluck up the corner of her apron,
and heave an indignant groan.
“And you, you worthless—” he broke out as I entered, turning to his
daughter-in-law, and employing an epithet as harmless as duck, or
sheep, but generally represented by a dash—. “There you are, at your
idle tricks again! The rest of them do earn their bread—you live on my
charity! Put your trash away, and find something to do. You shall pay
me for the plague of having you eternally in my sight—do you hear,
damnable jade?”
“I’ll put my trash away, because you can make me if I refuse,” answered
the young lady, closing her book, and throwing it on a chair. “But I’ll
not do anything, though you should swear your tongue out, except what I
please!”
Heathcliff lifted his hand, and the speaker sprang to a safer distance,
obviously acquainted with its weight. Having no desire to be
entertained by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if
eager to partake the warmth of the hearth, and innocent of any
knowledge of the interrupted dispute. Each had enough decorum to
suspend further hostilities: Heathcliff placed his fists, out of
temptation, in his pockets; Mrs. Heathcliff curled her lip, and walked
to a seat far off, where she kept her word by playing the part of a
statue during the remainder of my stay. That was not long. I declined
joining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took an
opportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear, and still, and
cold as impalpable ice.
My landlord halloed for me to stop ere I reached the bottom of the
garden, and offered to accompany me across the moor. It was well he
did, for the whole hill-back was one billowy, white ocean; the swells
and falls not indicating corresponding rises and depressions in the
ground: many pits, at least, were filled to a level; and entire ranges
of mounds, the refuse of the quarries, blotted from the chart which my
yesterday’s walk left pictured in my mind. I had remarked on one side
of the road, at intervals of six or seven yards, a line of upright
stones, continued through the whole length of the barren: these were
erected and daubed with lime on purpose to serve as guides in the dark,
and also when a fall, like the present, confounded the deep swamps on
either hand with the firmer path: but, excepting a dirty dot pointing
up here and there, all traces of their existence had vanished: and my
companion found it necessary to warn me frequently to steer to the
right or left, when I imagined I was following, correctly, the windings
of the road.
We exchanged little conversation, and he halted at the entrance of
Thrushcross Park, saying, I could make no error there. Our adieux were
limited to a hasty bow, and then I pushed forward, trusting to my own
resources; for the porter’s lodge is untenanted as yet. The distance
from the gate to the grange is two miles; I believe I managed to make
it four, what with losing myself among the trees, and sinking up to the
neck in snow: a predicament which only those who have experienced it
can appreciate. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock
chimed twelve as I entered the house; and that gave exactly an hour for
every mile of the usual way from Wuthering Heights.
My human fixture and her satellites rushed to welcome me; exclaiming,
tumultuously, they had completely given me up: everybody conjectured
that I perished last night; and they were wondering how they must set
about the search for my remains. I bid them be quiet, now that they saw
me returned, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged upstairs;
whence, after putting on dry clothes, and pacing to and fro thirty or
forty minutes, to restore the animal heat, I adjourned to my study,
feeble as a kitten: almost too much so to enjoy the cheerful fire and
smoking coffee which the servant had prepared for my refreshment.
CHAPTER IV
What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself
independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at
length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable—I,
weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits
and solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under
pretence of gaining information concerning the necessities of my
establishment, I desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit
down while I ate it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip,
and either rouse me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.
“You have lived here a considerable time,” I commenced; “did you not
say sixteen years?”
“Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her;
after she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper.”
“Indeed.”
There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her
own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having
studied for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of
meditation over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated—“Ah, times are
greatly changed since then!”
“Yes,” I remarked, “you’ve seen a good many alterations, I suppose?”
“I have: and troubles too,” she said.
“Oh, I’ll turn the talk on my landlord’s family!” I thought to myself.
“A good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I should like to
know her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is
more probable, an exotic that the surly _indigenae_ will not recognise
for kin.” With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let
Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence
so much inferior. “Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good
order?” I inquired.
“Rich, sir!” she returned. “He has nobody knows what money, and every
year it increases. Yes, yes, he’s rich enough to live in a finer house
than this: but he’s very near—close-handed; and, if he had meant to
flit to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he
could not have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more.
It is strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the
world!”
“He had a son, it seems?”
“Yes, he had one—he is dead.”
“And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she come from originally?”
“Why, sir, she is my late master’s daughter: Catherine Linton was her
maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would
remove here, and then we might have been together again.”
“What! Catherine Linton?” I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute’s
reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. “Then,” I
continued, “my predecessor’s name was Linton?”
“It was.”
“And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr.
Heathcliff? Are they relations?”
“No; he is the late Mrs. Linton’s nephew.”
“The young lady’s cousin, then?”
“Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother’s, the
other on the father’s side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton’s sister.”
“I see the house at Wuthering Heights has ‘Earnshaw’ carved over the
front door. Are they an old family?”
“Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is
of us—I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg
pardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is!”
“Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I
think, not very happy.”
“Oh dear, I don’t wonder! And how did you like the master?”
“A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character?
“Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with
him the better.”
“He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl.
Do you know anything of his history?”
“It’s a cuckoo’s, sir—I know all about it: except where he was born,
and who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And
Hareton has been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate
lad is the only one in all this parish that does not guess how he has
been cheated.”
“Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of
my neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good
enough to sit and chat an hour.”
“Oh, certainly, sir! I’ll just fetch a little sewing, and then I’ll sit
as long as you please. But you’ve caught cold: I saw you shivering, and
you must have some gruel to drive it out.”
The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head
felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to
a pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to
feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious
effects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She returned
presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having
placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to
find me so companionable.
Before I came to live here, she commenced—waiting no farther invitation
to her story—I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my
mother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton’s father, and
I got used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped
to make hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody
would set me to. One fine summer morning—it was the beginning of
harvest, I remember—Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came downstairs,
dressed for a journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be
done during the day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me—for I sat
eating my porridge with them—and he said, speaking to his son, “Now, my
bonny man, I’m going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you? You
may choose what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there
and back: sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!” Hindley named a
fiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but
she could ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did
not forget me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe
sometimes. He promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and
then he kissed his children, said good-bye, and set off.
It seemed a long while to us all—the three days of his absence—and
often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw
expected him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal
off hour after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at
last the children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then
it grew dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to
be allowed to stay up; and, just about eleven o’clock, the door-latch
was raised quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a
chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was
nearly killed—he would not have such another walk for the three
kingdoms.
“And at the end of it to be flighted to death!” he said, opening his
great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. “See here, wife! I
was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e’en take it
as a gift of God; though it’s as dark almost as if it came from the
devil.”
We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy’s head I had a peep at a dirty,
ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed,
its face looked older than Catherine’s; yet when it was set on its
feet, it only stared round, and repeated over and over again some
gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs.
Earnshaw was ready to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how
he could fashion to bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had
their own bairns to feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and
whether he were mad? The master tried to explain the matter; but he was
really half dead with fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst
her scolding, was a tale of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and
as good as dumb, in the streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and
inquired for its owner. Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said;
and his money and time being both limited, he thought it better to take
it home with him at once, than run into vain expenses there: because he
was determined he would not leave it as he found it. Well, the
conclusion was, that my mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr.
Earnshaw told me to wash it, and give it clean things, and let it sleep
with the children.
Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till
peace was restored: then, both began searching their father’s pockets
for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of
fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to
morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she
learned the master had lost her whip in attending on the stranger,
showed her humour by grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing;
earning for her pains a sound blow from her father, to teach her
cleaner manners. They entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or
even in their room; and I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing
of the stairs, hoping it might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or
else attracted by hearing his voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw’s door,
and there he found it on quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as
to how it got there; I was obliged to confess, and in recompense for my
cowardice and inhumanity was sent out of the house.
This was Heathcliff’s first introduction to the family. On coming back
a few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual),
I found they had christened him “Heathcliff”: it was the name of a son
who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for
Christian and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but
Hindley hated him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued
and went on with him shamefully: for I wasn’t reasonable enough to feel
my injustice, and the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when
she saw him wronged.
He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment:
he would stand Hindley’s blows without winking or shedding a tear, and
my pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if
he had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This
endurance made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son
persecuting the poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to
Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said
precious little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above
Cathy, who was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.
So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at
Mrs. Earnshaw’s death, which happened in less than two years after, the
young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather
than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent’s affections
and his privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these
injuries. I sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the
measles, and I had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at
once, I changed my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he
lay at the worst he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose
he felt I did a good deal for him, and he hadn’t wit to guess that I
was compelled to do it. However, I will say this, he was the quietest
child that ever nurse watched over. The difference between him and the
others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me
terribly: he was as uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not
gentleness, made him give little trouble.
He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing
to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and
softened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus
Hindley lost his last ally: still I couldn’t dote on Heathcliff, and I
wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy;
who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of
gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply
insensible; though knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and
conscious he had only to speak and all the house would be obliged to
bend to his wishes. As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought
a couple of colts at the parish fair, and gave the lads each one.
Heathcliff took the handsomest, but it soon fell lame, and when he
discovered it, he said to Hindley—
“You must exchange horses with me: I don’t like mine; and if you won’t
I shall tell your father of the three thrashings you’ve given me this
week, and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder.” Hindley put
out his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears. “You’d better do it at
once,” he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable):
“you will have to: and if I speak of these blows, you’ll get them again
with interest.” “Off, dog!” cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron
weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. “Throw it,” he replied,
standing still, “and then I’ll tell how you boasted that you would turn
me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn
you out directly.” Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and
down he fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and,
had not I prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and
got full revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who
had caused it. “Take my colt, Gipsy, then!” said young Earnshaw. “And I
pray that he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, you beggarly
interloper! and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards
show him what you are, imp of Satan.—And take that, I hope he’ll kick
out your brains!”
Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall;
he was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking
him under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes
were fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to
witness how coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his
intention; exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a
bundle of hay to overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned,
before he entered the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the
blame of his bruises on the horse: he minded little what tale was told
since he had what he wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such
stirs as these, that I really thought him not vindictive: I was
deceived completely, as you will hear.
CHAPTER V
In the course of time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active
and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and when he was
confined to the chimney-corner he grew grievously irritable. A nothing
vexed him; and suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into
fits. This was especially to be remarked if any one attempted to impose
upon, or domineer over, his favourite: he was painfully jealous lest a
word should be spoken amiss to him; seeming to have got into his head
the notion that, because he liked Heathcliff, all hated, and longed to
do him an ill-turn. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder
among us did not wish to fret the master, so we humoured his
partiality; and that humouring was rich nourishment to the child’s
pride and black tempers. Still it became in a manner necessary; twice,
or thrice, Hindley’s manifestation of scorn, while his father was near,
roused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and
shook with rage that he could not do it.
At last, our curate (we had a curate then who made the living answer by
teaching the little Lintons and Earnshaws, and farming his bit of land
himself) advised that the young man should be sent to college; and Mr.
Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said—“Hindley was
nought, and would never thrive as where he wandered.”
I hoped heartily we should have peace now. It hurt me to think the
master should be made uncomfortable by his own good deed. I fancied the
discontent of age and disease arose from his family disagreements; as
he would have it that it did: really, you know, sir, it was in his
sinking frame. We might have got on tolerably, notwithstanding, but for
two people—Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant: you saw him, I daresay,
up yonder. He was, and is yet most likely, the wearisomest
self-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to rake the
promises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. By his
knack of sermonising and pious discoursing, he contrived to make a
great impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master
became, the more influence he gained. He was relentless in worrying him
about his soul’s concerns, and about ruling his children rigidly. He
encouraged him to regard Hindley as a reprobate; and, night after
night, he regularly grumbled out a long string of tales against
Heathcliff and Catherine: always minding to flatter Earnshaw’s weakness
by heaping the heaviest blame on the latter.
Certainly she had ways with her such as I never saw a child take up
before; and she put all of us past our patience fifty times and oftener
in a day: from the hour she came downstairs till the hour she went to
bed, we had not a minute’s security that she wouldn’t be in mischief.
Her spirits were always at high-water mark, her tongue always
going—singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody who would not do the
same. A wild, wicked slip she was—but she had the bonniest eye, the
sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I
believe she meant no harm; for when once she made you cry in good
earnest, it seldom happened that she would not keep you company, and
oblige you to be quiet that you might comfort her. She was much too
fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent for her was
to keep her separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us
on his account. In play, she liked exceedingly to act the little
mistress; using her hands freely, and commanding her companions: she
did so to me, but I would not bear slapping and ordering; and so I let
her know.
Now, Mr. Earnshaw did not understand jokes from his children: he had
always been strict and grave with them; and Catherine, on her part, had
no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient in his ailing
condition than he was in his prime. His peevish reproofs wakened in her
a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we
were all scolding her at once, and she defying us with her bold, saucy
look, and her ready words; turning Joseph’s religious curses into
ridicule, baiting me, and doing just what her father hated most—showing
how her pretended insolence, which he thought real, had more power over
Heathcliff than his kindness: how the boy would do _her_ bidding in
anything, and _his_ only when it suited his own inclination. After
behaving as badly as possible all day, she sometimes came fondling to
make it up at night. “Nay, Cathy,” the old man would say, “I cannot
love thee, thou’rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child,
and ask God’s pardon. I doubt thy mother and I must rue that we ever
reared thee!” That made her cry, at first; and then being repulsed
continually hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was
sorry for her faults, and beg to be forgiven.
But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw’s troubles on
earth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the
fire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the
chimney: it sounded wild and stormy, yet it was not cold, and we were
all together—I, a little removed from the hearth, busy at my knitting,
and Joseph reading his Bible near the table (for the servants generally
sat in the house then, after their work was done). Miss Cathy had been
sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father’s knee, and
Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember
the master, before he fell into a doze, stroking her bonny hair—it
pleased him rarely to see her gentle—and saying, “Why canst thou not
always be a good lass, Cathy?” And she turned her face up to his, and
laughed, and answered, “Why cannot you always be a good man, father?”
But as soon as she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said
she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his
fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told
her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him. We all kept as
mute as mice a full half-hour, and should have done so longer, only
Joseph, having finished his chapter, got up and said that he must rouse
the master for prayers and bed. He stepped forward, and called him by
name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the
candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set
down the light; and seizing the children each by an arm, whispered them
to “frame upstairs, and make little din—they might pray alone that
evening—he had summut to do.”
“I shall bid father good-night first,” said Catherine, putting her arms
round his neck, before we could hinder her. The poor thing discovered
her loss directly—she screamed out—“Oh, he’s dead, Heathcliff! he’s
dead!” And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.
I joined my wail to theirs, loud and bitter; but Joseph asked what we
could be thinking of to roar in that way over a saint in heaven. He
told me to put on my cloak and run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the
parson. I could not guess the use that either would be of, then.
However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought one, the doctor,
back with me; the other said he would come in the morning. Leaving
Joseph to explain matters, I ran to the children’s room: their door was
ajar, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but
they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls
were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit
on: no parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they
did, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could
not help wishing we were all there safe together.
CHAPTER VI
Mr. Hindley came home to the funeral; and—a thing that amazed us, and
set the neighbours gossiping right and left—he brought a wife with him.
What she was, and where she was born, he never informed us: probably,
she had neither money nor name to recommend her, or he would scarcely
have kept the union from his father.
She was not one that would have disturbed the house much on her own
account. Every object she saw, the moment she crossed the threshold,
appeared to delight her; and every circumstance that took place about
her: except the preparing for the burial, and the presence of the
mourners. I thought she was half silly, from her behaviour while that
went on: she ran into her chamber, and made me come with her, though I
should have been dressing the children: and there she sat shivering and
clasping her hands, and asking repeatedly—“Are they gone yet?” Then she
began describing with hysterical emotion the effect it produced on her
to see black; and started, and trembled, and, at last, fell
a-weeping—and when I asked what was the matter, answered, she didn’t
know; but she felt so afraid of dying! I imagined her as little likely
to die as myself. She was rather thin, but young, and
fresh-complexioned, and her eyes sparkled as bright as diamonds. I did
remark, to be sure, that mounting the stairs made her breathe very
quick; that the least sudden noise set her all in a quiver, and that
she coughed troublesomely sometimes: but I knew nothing of what these
symptoms portended, and had no impulse to sympathise with her. We don’t
in general take to foreigners here, Mr. Lockwood, unless they take to
us first.
Young Earnshaw was altered considerably in the three years of his
absence. He had grown sparer, and lost his colour, and spoke and
dressed quite differently; and, on the very day of his return, he told
Joseph and me we must thenceforth quarter ourselves in the
back-kitchen, and leave the house for him. Indeed, he would have
carpeted and papered a small spare room for a parlour; but his wife
expressed such pleasure at the white floor and huge glowing fireplace,
at the pewter dishes and delf-case, and dog-kennel, and the wide space
there was to move about in where they usually sat, that he thought it
unnecessary to her comfort, and so dropped the intention.
She expressed pleasure, too, at finding a sister among her new
acquaintance; and she prattled to Catherine, and kissed her, and ran
about with her, and gave her quantities of presents, at the beginning.
Her affection tired very soon, however, and when she grew peevish,
Hindley became tyrannical. A few words from her, evincing a dislike to
Heathcliff, were enough to rouse in him all his old hatred of the boy.
He drove him from their company to the servants, deprived him of the
instructions of the curate, and insisted that he should labour out of
doors instead; compelling him to do so as hard as any other lad on the
farm.
Heathcliff bore his degradation pretty well at first, because Cathy
taught him what she learnt, and worked or played with him in the
fields. They both promised fair to grow up as rude as savages; the
young master being entirely negligent how they behaved, and what they
did, so they kept clear of him. He would not even have seen after their
going to church on Sundays, only Joseph and the curate reprimanded his
carelessness when they absented themselves; and that reminded him to
order Heathcliff a flogging, and Catherine a fast from dinner or
supper. But it was one of their chief amusements to run away to the
moors in the morning and remain there all day, and the after punishment
grew a mere thing to laugh at. The curate might set as many chapters as
he pleased for Catherine to get by heart, and Joseph might thrash
Heathcliff till his arm ached; they forgot everything the minute they
were together again: at least the minute they had contrived some
naughty plan of revenge; and many a time I’ve cried to myself to watch
them growing more reckless daily, and I not daring to speak a syllable,
for fear of losing the small power I still retained over the unfriended
creatures. One Sunday evening, it chanced that they were banished from
the sitting-room, for making a noise, or a light offence of the kind;
and when I went to call them to supper, I could discover them nowhere.
We searched the house, above and below, and the yard and stables; they
were invisible: and, at last, Hindley in a passion told us to bolt the
doors, and swore nobody should let them in that night. The household
went to bed; and I, too anxious to lie down, opened my lattice and put
my head out to hearken, though it rained: determined to admit them in
spite of the prohibition, should they return. In a while, I
distinguished steps coming up the road, and the light of a lantern
glimmered through the gate. I threw a shawl over my head and ran to
prevent them from waking Mr. Earnshaw by knocking. There was
Heathcliff, by himself: it gave me a start to see him alone.
“Where is Miss Catherine?” I cried hurriedly. “No accident, I hope?”
“At Thrushcross Grange,” he answered; “and I would have been there too,
but they had not the manners to ask me to stay.” “Well, you will catch
it!” I said: “you’ll never be content till you’re sent about your
business. What in the world led you wandering to Thrushcross Grange?”
“Let me get off my wet clothes, and I’ll tell you all about it, Nelly,”
he replied. I bid him beware of rousing the master, and while he
undressed and I waited to put out the candle, he continued—“Cathy and I
escaped from the wash-house to have a ramble at liberty, and getting a
glimpse of the Grange lights, we thought we would just go and see
whether the Lintons passed their Sunday evenings standing shivering in
corners, while their father and mother sat eating and drinking, and
singing and laughing, and burning their eyes out before the fire. Do
you think they do? Or reading sermons, and being catechised by their
manservant, and set to learn a column of Scripture names, if they don’t
answer properly?” “Probably not,” I responded. “They are good children,
no doubt, and don’t deserve the treatment you receive, for your bad
conduct.” “Don’t cant, Nelly,” he said: “nonsense! We ran from the top
of the Heights to the park, without stopping—Catherine completely
beaten in the race, because she was barefoot. You’ll have to seek for
her shoes in the bog to-morrow. We crept through a broken hedge, groped
our way up the path, and planted ourselves on a flower-plot under the
drawing-room window. The light came from thence; they had not put up
the shutters, and the curtains were only half closed. Both of us were
able to look in by standing on the basement, and clinging to the ledge,
and we saw—ah! it was beautiful—a splendid place carpeted with crimson,
and crimson-covered chairs and tables, and a pure white ceiling
bordered by gold, a shower of glass-drops hanging in silver chains from
the centre, and shimmering with little soft tapers. Old Mr. and Mrs.
Linton were not there; Edgar and his sisters had it entirely to
themselves. Shouldn’t they have been happy? We should have thought
ourselves in heaven! And now, guess what your good children were doing?
Isabella—I believe she is eleven, a year younger than Cathy—lay
screaming at the farther end of the room, shrieking as if witches were
running red-hot needles into her. Edgar stood on the hearth weeping
silently, and in the middle of the table sat a little dog, shaking its
paw and yelping; which, from their mutual accusations, we understood
they had nearly pulled in two between them. The idiots! That was their
pleasure! to quarrel who should hold a heap of warm hair, and each
begin to cry because both, after struggling to get it, refused to take
it. We laughed outright at the petted things; we did despise them! When
would you catch me wishing to have what Catherine wanted? or find us by
ourselves, seeking entertainment in yelling, and sobbing, and rolling
on the ground, divided by the whole room? I’d not exchange, for a
thousand lives, my condition here, for Edgar Linton’s at Thrushcross
Grange—not if I might have the privilege of flinging Joseph off the
highest gable, and painting the house-front with Hindley’s blood!”
“Hush, hush!” I interrupted. “Still you have not told me, Heathcliff,
how Catherine is left behind?”
“I told you we laughed,” he answered. “The Lintons heard us, and with
one accord they shot like arrows to the door; there was silence, and
then a cry, ‘Oh, mamma, mamma! Oh, papa! Oh, mamma, come here. Oh,
papa, oh!’ They really did howl out something in that way. We made
frightful noises to terrify them still more, and then we dropped off
the ledge, because somebody was drawing the bars, and we felt we had
better flee. I had Cathy by the hand, and was urging her on, when all
at once she fell down. ‘Run, Heathcliff, run!’ she whispered. ‘They
have let the bull-dog loose, and he holds me!’ The devil had seized her
ankle, Nelly: I heard his abominable snorting. She did not yell out—no!
she would have scorned to do it, if she had been spitted on the horns
of a mad cow. I did, though: I vociferated curses enough to annihilate
any fiend in Christendom; and I got a stone and thrust it between his
jaws, and tried with all my might to cram it down his throat. A beast
of a servant came up with a lantern, at last, shouting—‘Keep fast,
Skulker, keep fast!’ He changed his note, however, when he saw
Skulker’s game. The dog was throttled off; his huge, purple tongue
hanging half a foot out of his mouth, and his pendent lips streaming
with bloody slaver. The man took Cathy up; she was sick: not from fear,
I’m certain, but from pain. He carried her in; I followed, grumbling
execrations and vengeance. ‘What prey, Robert?’ hallooed Linton from
the entrance. ‘Skulker has caught a little girl, sir,’ he replied; ‘and
there’s a lad here,’ he added, making a clutch at me, ‘who looks an
out-and-outer! Very like the robbers were for putting them through the
window to open the doors to the gang after all were asleep, that they
might murder us at their ease. Hold your tongue, you foul-mouthed
thief, you! you shall go to the gallows for this. Mr. Linton, sir,
don’t lay by your gun.’ ‘No, no, Robert,’ said the old fool. ‘The
rascals knew that yesterday was my rent-day: they thought to have me
cleverly. Come in; I’ll furnish them a reception. There, John, fasten
the chain. Give Skulker some water, Jenny. To beard a magistrate in his
stronghold, and on the Sabbath, too! Where will their insolence stop?
Oh, my dear Mary, look here! Don’t be afraid, it is but a boy—yet the
villain scowls so plainly in his face; would it not be a kindness to
the country to hang him at once, before he shows his nature in acts as
well as features?’ He pulled me under the chandelier, and Mrs. Linton
placed her spectacles on her nose and raised her hands in horror. The
cowardly children crept nearer also, Isabella lisping—‘Frightful thing!
Put him in the cellar, papa. He’s exactly like the son of the
fortune-teller that stole my tame pheasant. Isn’t he, Edgar?’
“While they examined me, Cathy came round; she heard the last speech,
and laughed. Edgar Linton, after an inquisitive stare, collected
sufficient wit to recognise her. They see us at church, you know,
though we seldom meet them elsewhere. ‘That’s Miss Earnshaw?’ he
whispered to his mother, ‘and look how Skulker has bitten her—how her
foot bleeds!’
“‘Miss Earnshaw? Nonsense!’ cried the dame; ‘Miss Earnshaw scouring the
country with a gipsy! And yet, my dear, the child is in mourning—surely
it is—and she may be lamed for life!’
“‘What culpable carelessness in her brother!’ exclaimed Mr. Linton,
turning from me to Catherine. ‘I’ve understood from Shielders’” (that
was the curate, sir) “‘that he lets her grow up in absolute heathenism.
But who is this? Where did she pick up this companion? Oho! I declare
he is that strange acquisition my late neighbour made, in his journey
to Liverpool—a little Lascar, or an American or Spanish castaway.’
“‘A wicked boy, at all events,’ remarked the old lady, ‘and quite unfit
for a decent house! Did you notice his language, Linton? I’m shocked
that my children should have heard it.’
“I recommenced cursing—don’t be angry, Nelly—and so Robert was ordered
to take me off. I refused to go without Cathy; he dragged me into the
garden, pushed the lantern into my hand, assured me that Mr. Earnshaw
should be informed of my behaviour, and, bidding me march directly,
secured the door again. The curtains were still looped up at one
corner, and I resumed my station as spy; because, if Catherine had
wished to return, I intended shattering their great glass panes to a
million of fragments, unless they let her out. She sat on the sofa
quietly. Mrs. Linton took off the grey cloak of the dairy-maid which we
had borrowed for our excursion, shaking her head and expostulating with
her, I suppose: she was a young lady, and they made a distinction
between her treatment and mine. Then the woman-servant brought a basin
of warm water, and washed her feet; and Mr. Linton mixed a tumbler of
negus, and Isabella emptied a plateful of cakes into her lap, and Edgar
stood gaping at a distance. Afterwards, they dried and combed her
beautiful hair, and gave her a pair of enormous slippers, and wheeled
her to the fire; and I left her, as merry as she could be, dividing her
food between the little dog and Skulker, whose nose she pinched as he
ate; and kindling a spark of spirit in the vacant blue eyes of the
Lintons—a dim reflection from her own enchanting face. I saw they were
full of stupid admiration; she is so immeasurably superior to them—to
everybody on earth, is she not, Nelly?”
“There will more come of this business than you reckon on,” I answered,
covering him up and extinguishing the light. “You are incurable,
Heathcliff; and Mr. Hindley will have to proceed to extremities, see if
he won’t.” My words came truer than I desired. The luckless adventure
made Earnshaw furious. And then Mr. Linton, to mend matters, paid us a
visit himself on the morrow, and read the young master such a lecture
on the road he guided his family, that he was stirred to look about
him, in earnest. Heathcliff received no flogging, but he was told that
the first word he spoke to Miss Catherine should ensure a dismissal;
and Mrs. Earnshaw undertook to keep her sister-in-law in due restraint
when she returned home; employing art, not force: with force she would
have found it impossible.
CHAPTER VII
Cathy stayed at Thrushcross Grange five weeks: till Christmas. By that
time her ankle was thoroughly cured, and her manners much improved. The
mistress visited her often in the interval, and commenced her plan of
reform by trying to raise her self-respect with fine clothes and
flattery, which she took readily; so that, instead of a wild, hatless
little savage jumping into the house, and rushing to squeeze us all
breathless, there “lighted from a handsome black pony a very dignified
person, with brown ringlets falling from the cover of a feathered
beaver, and a long cloth habit, which she was obliged to hold up with
both hands that she might sail in. Hindley lifted her from her horse,
exclaiming delightedly, “Why, Cathy, you are quite a beauty! I should
scarcely have known you: you look like a lady now. Isabella Linton is
not to be compared with her, is she, Frances?” “Isabella has not her
natural advantages,” replied his wife: “but she must mind and not grow
wild again here. Ellen, help Miss Catherine off with her things—Stay,
dear, you will disarrange your curls—let me untie your hat.”
I removed the habit, and there shone forth beneath a grand plaid silk
frock, white trousers, and burnished shoes; and, while her eyes
sparkled joyfully when the dogs came bounding up to welcome her, she
dared hardly touch them lest they should fawn upon her splendid
garments. She kissed me gently: I was all flour making the Christmas
cake, and it would not have done to give me a hug; and then she looked
round for Heathcliff. Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw watched anxiously their
meeting; thinking it would enable them to judge, in some measure, what
grounds they had for hoping to succeed in separating the two friends.
Heathcliff was hard to discover, at first. If he were careless, and
uncared for, before Catherine’s absence, he had been ten times more so
since. Nobody but I even did him the kindness to call him a dirty boy,
and bid him wash himself, once a week; and children of his age seldom
have a natural pleasure in soap and water. Therefore, not to mention
his clothes, which had seen three months’ service in mire and dust, and
his thick uncombed hair, the surface of his face and hands was dismally
beclouded. He might well skulk behind the settle, on beholding such a
bright, graceful damsel enter the house, instead of a rough-headed
counterpart of himself, as he expected. “Is Heathcliff not here?” she
demanded, pulling off her gloves, and displaying fingers wonderfully
whitened with doing nothing and staying indoors.
“Heathcliff, you may come forward,” cried Mr. Hindley, enjoying his
discomfiture, and gratified to see what a forbidding young blackguard
he would be compelled to present himself. “You may come and wish Miss
Catherine welcome, like the other servants.”
Cathy, catching a glimpse of her friend in his concealment, flew to
embrace him; she bestowed seven or eight kisses on his cheek within the
second, and then stopped, and drawing back, burst into a laugh,
exclaiming, “Why, how very black and cross you look! and how—how funny
and grim! But that’s because I’m used to Edgar and Isabella Linton.
Well, Heathcliff, have you forgotten me?”
She had some reason to put the question, for shame and pride threw
double gloom over his countenance, and kept him immovable.
“Shake hands, Heathcliff,” said Mr. Earnshaw, condescendingly; “once in
a way that is permitted.”
“I shall not,” replied the boy, finding his tongue at last; “I shall
not stand to be laughed at. I shall not bear it!” And he would have
broken from the circle, but Miss Cathy seized him again.
“I did not mean to laugh at you,” she said; “I could not hinder myself:
Heathcliff, shake hands at least! What are you sulky for? It was only
that you looked odd. If you wash your face and brush your hair, it will
be all right: but you are so dirty!”
She gazed concernedly at the dusky fingers she held in her own, and
also at her dress; which she feared had gained no embellishment from
its contact with his.
“You needn’t have touched me!” he answered, following her eye and
snatching away his hand. “I shall be as dirty as I please: and I like
to be dirty, and I will be dirty.”
With that he dashed headforemost out of the room, amid the merriment of
the master and mistress, and to the serious disturbance of Catherine;
who could not comprehend how her remarks should have produced such an
exhibition of bad temper.
After playing lady’s-maid to the new-comer, and putting my cakes in the
oven, and making the house and kitchen cheerful with great fires,
befitting Christmas-eve, I prepared to sit down and amuse myself by
singing carols, all alone; regardless of Joseph’s affirmations that he
considered the merry tunes I chose as next door to songs. He had
retired to private prayer in his chamber, and Mr. and Mrs. Earnshaw
were engaging Missy’s attention by sundry gay trifles bought for her to
present to the little Lintons, as an acknowledgment of their kindness.
They had invited them to spend the morrow at Wuthering Heights, and the
invitation had been accepted, on one condition: Mrs. Linton begged that
her darlings might be kept carefully apart from that “naughty swearing
boy.”
Under these circumstances I remained solitary. I smelt the rich scent
of the heating spices; and admired the shining kitchen utensils, the
polished clock, decked in holly, the silver mugs ranged on a tray ready
to be filled with mulled ale for supper; and above all, the speckless
purity of my particular care—the scoured and well-swept floor. I gave
due inward applause to every object, and then I remembered how old
Earnshaw used to come in when all was tidied, and call me a cant lass,
and slip a shilling into my hand as a Christmas-box; and from that I
went on to think of his fondness for Heathcliff, and his dread lest he
should suffer neglect after death had removed him: and that naturally
led me to consider the poor lad’s situation now, and from singing I
changed my mind to crying. It struck me soon, however, there would be
more sense in endeavouring to repair some of his wrongs than shedding
tears over them: I got up and walked into the court to seek him. He was
not far; I found him smoothing the glossy coat of the new pony in the
stable, and feeding the other beasts, according to custom.
“Make haste, Heathcliff!” I said, “the kitchen is so comfortable; and
Joseph is upstairs: make haste, and let me dress you smart before Miss
Cathy comes out, and then you can sit together, with the whole hearth
to yourselves, and have a long chatter till bedtime.”
He proceeded with his task, and never turned his head towards me.
“Come—are you coming?” I continued. “There’s a little cake for each of
you, nearly enough; and you’ll need half-an-hour’s donning.”
I waited five minutes, but getting no answer left him. Catherine supped
with her brother and sister-in-law: Joseph and I joined at an
unsociable meal, seasoned with reproofs on one side and sauciness on
the other. His cake and cheese remained on the table all night for the
fairies. He managed to continue work till nine o’clock, and then
marched dumb and dour to his chamber. Cathy sat up late, having a world
of things to order for the reception of her new friends: she came into
the kitchen once to speak to her old one; but he was gone, and she only
stayed to ask what was the matter with him, and then went back. In the
morning he rose early; and, as it was a holiday, carried his ill-humour
on to the moors; not re-appearing till the family were departed for
church. Fasting and reflection seemed to have brought him to a better
spirit. He hung about me for a while, and having screwed up his
courage, exclaimed abruptly—“Nelly, make me decent, I’m going to be
good.”
“High time, Heathcliff,” I said; “you _have_ grieved Catherine: she’s
sorry she ever came home, I daresay! It looks as if you envied her,
because she is more thought of than you.”
The notion of _envying_ Catherine was incomprehensible to him, but the
notion of grieving her he understood clearly enough.
“Did she say she was grieved?” he inquired, looking very serious.
“She cried when I told her you were off again this morning.”
“Well, _I_ cried last night,” he returned, “and I had more reason to
cry than she.”
“Yes: you had the reason of going to bed with a proud heart and an
empty stomach,” said I. “Proud people breed sad sorrows for themselves.
But, if you be ashamed of your touchiness, you must ask pardon, mind,
when she comes in. You must go up and offer to kiss her, and say—you
know best what to say; only do it heartily, and not as if you thought
her converted into a stranger by her grand dress. And now, though I
have dinner to get ready, I’ll steal time to arrange you so that Edgar
Linton shall look quite a doll beside you: and that he does. You are
younger, and yet, I’ll be bound, you are taller and twice as broad
across the shoulders; you could knock him down in a twinkling; don’t
you feel that you could?”
Heathcliff’s face brightened a moment; then it was overcast afresh, and
he sighed.
“But, Nelly, if I knocked him down twenty times, that wouldn’t make him
less handsome or me more so. I wish I had light hair and a fair skin,
and was dressed and behaved as well, and had a chance of being as rich
as he will be!”
“And cried for mamma at every turn,” I added, “and trembled if a
country lad heaved his fist against you, and sat at home all day for a
shower of rain. Oh, Heathcliff, you are showing a poor spirit! Come to
the glass, and I’ll let you see what you should wish. Do you mark those
two lines between your eyes; and those thick brows, that, instead of
rising arched, sink in the middle; and that couple of black fiends, so
deeply buried, who never open their windows boldly, but lurk glinting
under them, like devil’s spies? Wish and learn to smooth away the surly
wrinkles, to raise your lids frankly, and change the fiends to
confident, innocent angels, suspecting and doubting nothing, and always
seeing friends where they are not sure of foes. Don’t get the
expression of a vicious cur that appears to know the kicks it gets are
its dessert, and yet hates all the world, as well as the kicker, for
what it suffers.”
“In other words, I must wish for Edgar Linton’s great blue eyes and
even forehead,” he replied. “I do—and that won’t help me to them.”
“A good heart will help you to a bonny face, my lad,” I continued, “if
you were a regular black; and a bad one will turn the bonniest into
something worse than ugly. And now that we’ve done washing, and
combing, and sulking—tell me whether you don’t think yourself rather
handsome? I’ll tell you, I do. You’re fit for a prince in disguise. Who
knows but your father was Emperor of China, and your mother an Indian
queen, each of them able to buy up, with one week’s income, Wuthering
Heights and Thrushcross Grange together? And you were kidnapped by
wicked sailors and brought to England. Were I in your place, I would
frame high notions of my birth; and the thoughts of what I was should
give me courage and dignity to support the oppressions of a little
farmer!”
So I chattered on; and Heathcliff gradually lost his frown and began to
look quite pleasant, when all at once our conversation was interrupted
by a rumbling sound moving up the road and entering the court. He ran
to the window and I to the door, just in time to behold the two Lintons
descend from the family carriage, smothered in cloaks and furs, and the
Earnshaws dismount from their horses: they often rode to church in
winter. Catherine took a hand of each of the children, and brought them
into the house and set them before the fire, which quickly put colour
into their white faces.
I urged my companion to hasten now and show his amiable humour, and he
willingly obeyed; but ill luck would have it that, as he opened the
door leading from the kitchen on one side, Hindley opened it on the
other. They met, and the master, irritated at seeing him clean and
cheerful, or, perhaps, eager to keep his promise to Mrs. Linton, shoved
him back with a sudden thrust, and angrily bade Joseph “keep the fellow
out of the room—send him into the garret till dinner is over. He’ll be
cramming his fingers in the tarts and stealing the fruit, if left alone
with them a minute.”
“Nay, sir,” I could not avoid answering, “he’ll touch nothing, not he:
and I suppose he must have his share of the dainties as well as we.”
“He shall have his share of my hand, if I catch him downstairs till
dark,” cried Hindley. “Begone, you vagabond! What! you are attempting
the coxcomb, are you? Wait till I get hold of those elegant locks—see
if I won’t pull them a bit longer!”
“They are long enough already,” observed Master Linton, peeping from
the doorway; “I wonder they don’t make his head ache. It’s like a
colt’s mane over his eyes!”
He ventured this remark without any intention to insult; but
Heathcliff’s violent nature was not prepared to endure the appearance
of impertinence from one whom he seemed to hate, even then, as a rival.
He seized a tureen of hot apple sauce (the first thing that came under
his grip) and dashed it full against the speaker’s face and neck; who
instantly commenced a lament that brought Isabella and Catherine
hurrying to the place. Mr. Earnshaw snatched up the culprit directly
and conveyed him to his chamber; where, doubtless, he administered a
rough remedy to cool the fit of passion, for he appeared red and
breathless. I got the dishcloth, and rather spitefully scrubbed Edgar’s
nose and mouth, affirming it served him right for meddling. His sister
began weeping to go home, and Cathy stood by confounded, blushing for
all.
“You should not have spoken to him!” she expostulated with Master
Linton. “He was in a bad temper, and now you’ve spoilt your visit; and
he’ll be flogged: I hate him to be flogged! I can’t eat my dinner. Why
did you speak to him, Edgar?”
“I didn’t,” sobbed the youth, escaping from my hands, and finishing the
remainder of the purification with his cambric pocket-handkerchief. “I
promised mamma that I wouldn’t say one word to him, and I didn’t.”
“Well, don’t cry,” replied Catherine, contemptuously; “you’re not
killed. Don’t make more mischief; my brother is coming: be quiet! Hush,
Isabella! Has anybody hurt you?”
“There, there, children—to your seats!” cried Hindley, bustling in.
“That brute of a lad has warmed me nicely. Next time, Master Edgar,
take the law into your own fists—it will give you an appetite!”
The little party recovered its equanimity at sight of the fragrant
feast. They were hungry after their ride, and easily consoled, since no
real harm had befallen them. Mr. Earnshaw carved bountiful platefuls,
and the mistress made them merry with lively talk. I waited behind her
chair, and was pained to behold Catherine, with dry eyes and an
indifferent air, commence cutting up the wing of a goose before her.
“An unfeeling child,” I thought to myself; “how lightly she dismisses
her old playmate’s troubles. I could not have imagined her to be so
selfish.” She lifted a mouthful to her lips: then she set it down
again: her cheeks flushed, and the tears gushed over them. She slipped
her fork to the floor, and hastily dived under the cloth to conceal her
emotion. I did not call her unfeeling long; for I perceived she was in
purgatory throughout the day, and wearying to find an opportunity of
getting by herself, or paying a visit to Heathcliff, who had been
locked up by the master: as I discovered, on endeavouring to introduce
to him a private mess of victuals.
In the evening we had a dance. Cathy begged that he might be liberated
then, as Isabella Linton had no partner: her entreaties were vain, and
I was appointed to supply the deficiency. We got rid of all gloom in
the excitement of the exercise, and our pleasure was increased by the
arrival of the Gimmerton band, mustering fifteen strong: a trumpet, a
trombone, clarionets, bassoons, French horns, and a bass viol, besides
singers. They go the rounds of all the respectable houses, and receive
contributions every Christmas, and we esteemed it a first-rate treat to
hear them. After the usual carols had been sung, we set them to songs
and glees. Mrs. Earnshaw loved the music, and so they gave us plenty.
Catherine loved it too: but she said it sounded sweetest at the top of
the steps, and she went up in the dark: I followed. They shut the house
door below, never noting our absence, it was so full of people. She
made no stay at the stairs’-head, but mounted farther, to the garret
where Heathcliff was confined, and called him. He stubbornly declined
answering for a while: she persevered, and finally persuaded him to
hold communion with her through the boards. I let the poor things
converse unmolested, till I supposed the songs were going to cease, and
the singers to get some refreshment: then I clambered up the ladder to
warn her. Instead of finding her outside, I heard her voice within. The
little monkey had crept by the skylight of one garret, along the roof,
into the skylight of the other, and it was with the utmost difficulty I
could coax her out again. When she did come, Heathcliff came with her,
and she insisted that I should take him into the kitchen, as my
fellow-servant had gone to a neighbour’s, to be removed from the sound
of our “devil’s psalmody,” as it pleased him to call it. I told them I
intended by no means to encourage their tricks: but as the prisoner had
never broken his fast since yesterday’s dinner, I would wink at his
cheating Mr. Hindley that once. He went down: I set him a stool by the
fire, and offered him a quantity of good things: but he was sick and
could eat little, and my attempts to entertain him were thrown away. He
leant his two elbows on his knees, and his chin on his hands and
remained rapt in dumb meditation. On my inquiring the subject of his
thoughts, he answered gravely—“I’m trying to settle how I shall pay
Hindley back. I don’t care how long I wait, if I can only do it at
last. I hope he will not die before I do!”
“For shame, Heathcliff!” said I. “It is for God to punish wicked
people; we should learn to forgive.”
“No, God won’t have the satisfaction that I shall,” he returned. “I
only wish I knew the best way! Let me alone, and I’ll plan it out:
while I’m thinking of that I don’t feel pain.”
“But, Mr. Lockwood, I forget these tales cannot divert you. I’m annoyed
how I should dream of chattering on at such a rate; and your gruel
cold, and you nodding for bed! I could have told Heathcliff’s history,
all that you need hear, in half a dozen words.”
* * * * *
Thus interrupting herself, the housekeeper rose, and proceeded to lay
aside her sewing; but I felt incapable of moving from the hearth, and I
was very far from nodding. “Sit still, Mrs. Dean,” I cried; “do sit
still another half-hour. You’ve done just right to tell the story
leisurely. That is the method I like; and you must finish it in the
same style. I am interested in every character you have mentioned, more
or less.”
“The clock is on the stroke of eleven, sir.”
“No matter—I’m not accustomed to go to bed in the long hours. One or
two is early enough for a person who lies till ten.”
“You shouldn’t lie till ten. There’s the very prime of the morning gone
long before that time. A person who has not done one-half his day’s
work by ten o’clock, runs a chance of leaving the other half undone.”
“Nevertheless, Mrs. Dean, resume your chair; because to-morrow I intend
lengthening the night till afternoon. I prognosticate for myself an
obstinate cold, at least.”
“I hope not, sir. Well, you must allow me to leap over some three
years; during that space Mrs. Earnshaw—”
“No, no, I’ll allow nothing of the sort! Are you acquainted with the
mood of mind in which, if you were seated alone, and the cat licking
its kitten on the rug before you, you would watch the operation so
intently that puss’s neglect of one ear would put you seriously out of
temper?”
“A terribly lazy mood, I should say.”
“On the contrary, a tiresomely active one. It is mine, at present; and,
therefore, continue minutely. I perceive that people in these regions
acquire over people in towns the value that a spider in a dungeon does
over a spider in a cottage, to their various occupants; and yet the
deepened attraction is not entirely owing to the situation of the
looker-on. They _do_ live more in earnest, more in themselves, and less
in surface, change, and frivolous external things. I could fancy a love
for life here almost possible; and I was a fixed unbeliever in any love
of a year’s standing. One state resembles setting a hungry man down to
a single dish, on which he may concentrate his entire appetite and do
it justice; the other, introducing him to a table laid out by French
cooks: he can perhaps extract as much enjoyment from the whole; but
each part is a mere atom in his regard and remembrance.”
“Oh! here we are the same as anywhere else, when you get to know us,”
observed Mrs. Dean, somewhat puzzled at my speech.
“Excuse me,” I responded; “you, my good friend, are a striking evidence
against that assertion. Excepting a few provincialisms of slight
consequence, you have no marks of the manners which I am habituated to
consider as peculiar to your class. I am sure you have thought a great
deal more than the generality of servants think. You have been
compelled to cultivate your reflective faculties for want of occasions
for frittering your life away in silly trifles.”
Mrs. Dean laughed.
“I certainly esteem myself a steady, reasonable kind of body,” she
said; “not exactly from living among the hills and seeing one set of
faces, and one series of actions, from year’s end to year’s end; but I
have undergone sharp discipline, which has taught me wisdom; and then,
I have read more than you would fancy, Mr. Lockwood. You could not open
a book in this library that I have not looked into, and got something
out of also: unless it be that range of Greek and Latin, and that of
French; and those I know one from another: it is as much as you can
expect of a poor man’s daughter. However, if I am to follow my story in
true gossip’s fashion, I had better go on; and instead of leaping three
years, I will be content to pass to the next summer—the summer of 1778,
that is nearly twenty-three years ago.”
CHAPTER VIII
On the morning of a fine June day my first bonny little nursling, and
the last of the ancient Earnshaw stock, was born. We were busy with the
hay in a far-away field, when the girl that usually brought our
breakfasts came running an hour too soon across the meadow and up the
lane, calling me as she ran.
“Oh, such a grand bairn!” she panted out. “The finest lad that ever
breathed! But the doctor says missis must go: he says she’s been in a
consumption these many months. I heard him tell Mr. Hindley: and now
she has nothing to keep her, and she’ll be dead before winter. You must
come home directly. You’re to nurse it, Nelly: to feed it with sugar
and milk, and take care of it day and night. I wish I were you, because
it will be all yours when there is no missis!”
“But is she very ill?” I asked, flinging down my rake and tying my
bonnet.
“I guess she is; yet she looks bravely,” replied the girl, “and she
talks as if she thought of living to see it grow a man. She’s out of
her head for joy, it’s such a beauty! If I were her I’m certain I
should not die: I should get better at the bare sight of it, in spite
of Kenneth. I was fairly mad at him. Dame Archer brought the cherub
down to master, in the house, and his face just began to light up, when
the old croaker steps forward, and says he—‘Earnshaw, it’s a blessing
your wife has been spared to leave you this son. When she came, I felt
convinced we shouldn’t keep her long; and now, I must tell you, the
winter will probably finish her. Don’t take on, and fret about it too
much: it can’t be helped. And besides, you should have known better
than to choose such a rush of a lass!’”
“And what did the master answer?” I inquired.
“I think he swore: but I didn’t mind him, I was straining to see the
bairn,” and she began again to describe it rapturously. I, as zealous
as herself, hurried eagerly home to admire, on my part; though I was
very sad for Hindley’s sake. He had room in his heart only for two
idols—his wife and himself: he doted on both, and adored one, and I
couldn’t conceive how he would bear the loss.
When we got to Wuthering Heights, there he stood at the front door;
and, as I passed in, I asked, “how was the baby?”
“Nearly ready to run about, Nell!” he replied, putting on a cheerful
smile.
“And the mistress?” I ventured to inquire; “the doctor says she’s—”
“Damn the doctor!” he interrupted, reddening. “Frances is quite right:
she’ll be perfectly well by this time next week. Are you going
upstairs? will you tell her that I’ll come, if she’ll promise not to
talk. I left her because she would not hold her tongue; and she
must—tell her Mr. Kenneth says she must be quiet.”
I delivered this message to Mrs. Earnshaw; she seemed in flighty
spirits, and replied merrily, “I hardly spoke a word, Ellen, and there
he has gone out twice, crying. Well, say I promise I won’t speak: but
that does not bind me not to laugh at him!”
Poor soul! Till within a week of her death that gay heart never failed
her; and her husband persisted doggedly, nay, furiously, in affirming
her health improved every day. When Kenneth warned him that his
medicines were useless at that stage of the malady, and he needn’t put
him to further expense by attending her, he retorted, “I know you need
not—she’s well—she does not want any more attendance from you! She
never was in a consumption. It was a fever; and it is gone: her pulse
is as slow as mine now, and her cheek as cool.”
He told his wife the same story, and she seemed to believe him; but one
night, while leaning on his shoulder, in the act of saying she thought
she should be able to get up to-morrow, a fit of coughing took her—a
very slight one—he raised her in his arms; she put her two hands about
his neck, her face changed, and she was dead.
As the girl had anticipated, the child Hareton fell wholly into my
hands. Mr. Earnshaw, provided he saw him healthy and never heard him
cry, was contented, as far as regarded him. For himself, he grew
desperate: his sorrow was of that kind that will not lament. He neither
wept nor prayed; he cursed and defied: execrated God and man, and gave
himself up to reckless dissipation. The servants could not bear his
tyrannical and evil conduct long: Joseph and I were the only two that
would stay. I had not the heart to leave my charge; and besides, you
know, I had been his foster-sister, and excused his behaviour more
readily than a stranger would. Joseph remained to hector over tenants
and labourers; and because it was his vocation to be where he had
plenty of wickedness to reprove.
The master’s bad ways and bad companions formed a pretty example for
Catherine and Heathcliff. His treatment of the latter was enough to
make a fiend of a saint. And, truly, it appeared as if the lad _were_
possessed of something diabolical at that period. He delighted to
witness Hindley degrading himself past redemption; and became daily
more notable for savage sullenness and ferocity. I could not half tell
what an infernal house we had. The curate dropped calling, and nobody
decent came near us, at last; unless Edgar Linton’s visits to Miss
Cathy might be an exception. At fifteen she was the queen of the
country-side; she had no peer; and she did turn out a haughty,
headstrong creature! I own I did not like her, after infancy was past;
and I vexed her frequently by trying to bring down her arrogance: she
never took an aversion to me, though. She had a wondrous constancy to
old attachments: even Heathcliff kept his hold on her affections
unalterably; and young Linton, with all his superiority, found it
difficult to make an equally deep impression. He was my late master:
that is his portrait over the fireplace. It used to hang on one side,
and his wife’s on the other; but hers has been removed, or else you
might see something of what she was. Can you make that out?
Mrs. Dean raised the candle, and I discerned a soft-featured face,
exceedingly resembling the young lady at the Heights, but more pensive
and amiable in expression. It formed a sweet picture. The long light
hair curled slightly on the temples; the eyes were large and serious;
the figure almost too graceful. I did not marvel how Catherine Earnshaw
could forget her first friend for such an individual. I marvelled much
how he, with a mind to correspond with his person, could fancy my idea
of Catherine Earnshaw.
“A very agreeable portrait,” I observed to the house-keeper. “Is it
like?”
“Yes,” she answered; “but he looked better when he was animated; that
is his everyday countenance: he wanted spirit in general.”
Catherine had kept up her acquaintance with the Lintons since her
five-weeks’ residence among them; and as she had no temptation to show
her rough side in their company, and had the sense to be ashamed of
being rude where she experienced such invariable courtesy, she imposed
unwittingly on the old lady and gentleman by her ingenious cordiality;
gained the admiration of Isabella, and the heart and soul of her
brother: acquisitions that flattered her from the first—for she was
full of ambition—and led her to adopt a double character without
exactly intending to deceive any one. In the place where she heard
Heathcliff termed a “vulgar young ruffian,” and “worse than a brute,”
she took care not to act like him; but at home she had small
inclination to practise politeness that would only be laughed at, and
restrain an unruly nature when it would bring her neither credit nor
praise.
Mr. Edgar seldom mustered courage to visit Wuthering Heights openly. He
had a terror of Earnshaw’s reputation, and shrunk from encountering
him; and yet he was always received with our best attempts at civility:
the master himself avoided offending him, knowing why he came; and if
he could not be gracious, kept out of the way. I rather think his
appearance there was distasteful to Catherine; she was not artful,
never played the coquette, and had evidently an objection to her two
friends meeting at all; for when Heathcliff expressed contempt of
Linton in his presence, she could not half coincide, as she did in his
absence; and when Linton evinced disgust and antipathy to Heathcliff,
she dared not treat his sentiments with indifference, as if
depreciation of her playmate were of scarcely any consequence to her.
I’ve had many a laugh at her perplexities and untold troubles, which
she vainly strove to hide from my mockery. That sounds ill-natured: but
she was so proud it became really impossible to pity her distresses,
till she should be chastened into more humility. She did bring herself,
finally, to confess, and to confide in me: there was not a soul else
that she might fashion into an adviser.
Mr. Hindley had gone from home one afternoon, and Heathcliff presumed
to give himself a holiday on the strength of it. He had reached the age
of sixteen then, I think, and without having bad features, or being
deficient in intellect, he contrived to convey an impression of inward
and outward repulsiveness that his present aspect retains no traces of.
In the first place, he had by that time lost the benefit of his early
education: continual hard work, begun soon and concluded late, had
extinguished any curiosity he once possessed in pursuit of knowledge,
and any love for books or learning. His childhood’s sense of
superiority, instilled into him by the favours of old Mr. Earnshaw, was
faded away. He struggled long to keep up an equality with Catherine in
her studies, and yielded with poignant though silent regret: but he
yielded completely; and there was no prevailing on him to take a step
in the way of moving upward, when he found he must, necessarily, sink
beneath his former level. Then personal appearance sympathised with
mental deterioration: he acquired a slouching gait and ignoble look;
his naturally reserved disposition was exaggerated into an almost
idiotic excess of unsociable moroseness; and he took a grim pleasure,
apparently, in exciting the aversion rather than the esteem of his few
acquaintances.
Catherine and he were constant companions still at his seasons of
respite from labour; but he had ceased to express his fondness for her
in words, and recoiled with angry suspicion from her girlish caresses,
as if conscious there could be no gratification in lavishing such marks
of affection on him. On the before-named occasion he came into the
house to announce his intention of doing nothing, while I was assisting
Miss Cathy to arrange her dress: she had not reckoned on his taking it
into his head to be idle; and imagining she would have the whole place
to herself, she managed, by some means, to inform Mr. Edgar of her
brother’s absence, and was then preparing to receive him.
“Cathy, are you busy this afternoon?” asked Heathcliff. “Are you going
anywhere?”
“No, it is raining,” she answered.
“Why have you that silk frock on, then?” he said. “Nobody coming here,
I hope?”
“Not that I know of,” stammered Miss: “but you should be in the field
now, Heathcliff. It is an hour past dinnertime: I thought you were
gone.”
“Hindley does not often free us from his accursed presence,” observed
the boy. “I’ll not work any more to-day: I’ll stay with you.”
“Oh, but Joseph will tell,” she suggested; “you’d better go!”
“Joseph is loading lime on the further side of Penistone Crags; it will
take him till dark, and he’ll never know.”
So saying, he lounged to the fire, and sat down. Catherine reflected
an instant, with knitted brows—she found it needful to smooth the way
for an intrusion. “Isabella and Edgar Linton talked of calling this
afternoon,” she said, at the conclusion of a minute’s silence. “As it
rains, I hardly expect them; but they may come, and if they do, you run
the risk of being scolded for no good.”
“Order Ellen to say you are engaged, Cathy,” he persisted; “don’t turn
me out for those pitiful, silly friends of yours! I’m on the point,
sometimes, of complaining that they—but I’ll not—”
“That they what?” cried Catherine, gazing at him with a troubled
countenance. “Oh, Nelly!” she added petulantly, jerking her head away
from my hands, “you’ve combed my hair quite out of curl! That’s enough;
let me alone. What are you on the point of complaining about,
Heathcliff?”
“Nothing—only look at the almanack on that wall;” he pointed to a
framed sheet hanging near the window, and continued, “The crosses are
for the evenings you have spent with the Lintons, the dots for those
spent with me. Do you see? I’ve marked every day.”
“Yes—very foolish: as if I took notice!” replied Catherine, in a
peevish tone. “And where is the sense of that?”
“To show that I _do_ take notice,” said Heathcliff.
“And should I always be sitting with you?” she demanded, growing more
irritated. “What good do I get? What do you talk about? You might be
dumb, or a baby, for anything you say to amuse me, or for anything you
do, either!”
“You never told me before that I talked too little, or that you
disliked my company, Cathy!” exclaimed Heathcliff, in much agitation.
“It’s no company at all, when people know nothing and say nothing,” she
muttered.
Her companion rose up, but he hadn’t time to express his feelings
further, for a horse’s feet were heard on the flags, and having knocked
gently, young Linton entered, his face brilliant with delight at the
unexpected summon he had received. Doubtless Catherine marked the
difference between her friends, as one came in and the other went out.
The contrast resembled what you see in exchanging a bleak, hilly, coal
country for a beautiful fertile valley; and his voice and greeting were
as opposite as his aspect. He had a sweet, low manner of speaking, and
pronounced his words as you do: that’s less gruff than we talk here,
and softer.
“I’m not come too soon, am I?” he said, casting a look at me: I had
begun to wipe the plate, and tidy some drawers at the far end in the
dresser.
“No,” answered Catherine. “What are you doing there, Nelly?”
“My work, Miss,” I replied. (Mr. Hindley had given me directions to
make a third party in any private visits Linton chose to pay.)
She stepped behind me and whispered crossly, “Take yourself and your
dusters off; when company are in the house, servants don’t commence
scouring and cleaning in the room where they are!”
“It’s a good opportunity, now that master is away,” I answered aloud:
“he hates me to be fidgeting over these things in his presence. I’m
sure Mr. Edgar will excuse me.”
“I hate you to be fidgeting in _my_ presence,” exclaimed the young lady
imperiously, not allowing her guest time to speak: she had failed to
recover her equanimity since the little dispute with Heathcliff.
“I’m sorry for it, Miss Catherine,” was my response; and I proceeded
assiduously with my occupation.
She, supposing Edgar could not see her, snatched the cloth from my
hand, and pinched me, with a prolonged wrench, very spitefully on the
arm. I’ve said I did not love her, and rather relished mortifying her
vanity now and then: besides, she hurt me extremely; so I started up
from my knees, and screamed out, “Oh, Miss, that’s a nasty trick! You
have no right to nip me, and I’m not going to bear it.”
“I didn’t touch you, you lying creature!” cried she, her fingers
tingling to repeat the act, and her ears red with rage. She never had
power to conceal her passion, it always set her whole complexion in a
blaze.
“What’s that, then?” I retorted, showing a decided purple witness to
refute her.
She stamped her foot, wavered a moment, and then, irresistibly impelled
by the naughty spirit within her, slapped me on the cheek: a stinging
blow that filled both eyes with water.
“Catherine, love! Catherine!” interposed Linton, greatly shocked at the
double fault of falsehood and violence which his idol had committed.
“Leave the room, Ellen!” she repeated, trembling all over.
Little Hareton, who followed me everywhere, and was sitting near me on
the floor, at seeing my tears commenced crying himself, and sobbed out
complaints against “wicked aunt Cathy,” which drew her fury on to his
unlucky head: she seized his shoulders, and shook him till the poor
child waxed livid, and Edgar thoughtlessly laid hold of her hands to
deliver him. In an instant one was wrung free, and the astonished young
man felt it applied over his own ear in a way that could not be
mistaken for jest. He drew back in consternation. I lifted Hareton in
my arms, and walked off to the kitchen with him, leaving the door of
communication open, for I was curious to watch how they would settle
their disagreement. The insulted visitor moved to the spot where he had
laid his hat, pale and with a quivering lip.
“That’s right!” I said to myself. “Take warning and begone! It’s a
kindness to let you have a glimpse of her genuine disposition.”
“Where are you going?” demanded Catherine, advancing to the door.
He swerved aside, and attempted to pass.
“You must not go!” she exclaimed, energetically.
“I must and shall!” he replied in a subdued voice.
“No,” she persisted, grasping the handle; “not yet, Edgar Linton: sit
down; you shall not leave me in that temper. I should be miserable all
night, and I won’t be miserable for you!”
“Can I stay after you have struck me?” asked Linton.
Catherine was mute.
“You’ve made me afraid and ashamed of you,” he continued; “I’ll not
come here again!”
Her eyes began to glisten and her lids to twinkle.
“And you told a deliberate untruth!” he said.
“I didn’t!” she cried, recovering her speech; “I did nothing
deliberately. Well, go, if you please—get away! And now I’ll cry—I’ll
cry myself sick!”
She dropped down on her knees by a chair, and set to weeping in serious
earnest. Edgar persevered in his resolution as far as the court; there
he lingered. I resolved to encourage him.
“Miss is dreadfully wayward, sir,” I called out. “As bad as any marred
child: you’d better be riding home, or else she will be sick, only to
grieve us.”
The soft thing looked askance through the window: he possessed the
power to depart as much as a cat possesses the power to leave a mouse
half killed, or a bird half eaten. Ah, I thought, there will be no
saving him: he’s doomed, and flies to his fate! And so it was: he
turned abruptly, hastened into the house again, shut the door behind
him; and when I went in a while after to inform them that Earnshaw had
come home rabid drunk, ready to pull the whole place about our ears
(his ordinary frame of mind in that condition), I saw the quarrel had
merely effected a closer intimacy—had broken the outworks of youthful
timidity, and enabled them to forsake the disguise of friendship, and
confess themselves lovers.
Intelligence of Mr. Hindley’s arrival drove Linton speedily to his
horse, and Catherine to her chamber. I went to hide little Hareton, and
to take the shot out of the master’s fowling-piece, which he was fond
of playing with in his insane excitement, to the hazard of the lives of
any who provoked, or even attracted his notice too much; and I had hit
upon the plan of removing it, that he might do less mischief if he did
go the length of firing the gun.
CHAPTER IX
He entered, vociferating oaths dreadful to hear; and caught me in the
act of stowing his son away in the kitchen cupboard. Hareton was
impressed with a wholesome terror of encountering either his wild
beast’s fondness or his madman’s rage; for in one he ran a chance of
being squeezed and kissed to death, and in the other of being flung
into the fire, or dashed against the wall; and the poor thing remained
perfectly quiet wherever I chose to put him.
“There, I’ve found it out at last!” cried Hindley, pulling me back by
the skin of my neck, like a dog. “By heaven and hell, you’ve sworn
between you to murder that child! I know how it is, now, that he is
always out of my way. But, with the help of Satan, I shall make you
swallow the carving-knife, Nelly! You needn’t laugh; for I’ve just
crammed Kenneth, head-downmost, in the Black-horse marsh; and two is
the same as one—and I want to kill some of you: I shall have no rest
till I do!”
“But I don’t like the carving-knife, Mr. Hindley,” I answered; “it has
been cutting red herrings. I’d rather be shot, if you please.”
“You’d rather be damned!” he said; “and so you shall. No law in England
can hinder a man from keeping his house decent, and mine’s abominable!
Open your mouth.” He held the knife in his hand, and pushed its point
between my teeth: but, for my part, I was never much afraid of his
vagaries. I spat out, and affirmed it tasted detestably—I would not
take it on any account.
“Oh!” said he, releasing me, “I see that hideous little villain is not
Hareton: I beg your pardon, Nell. If it be, he deserves flaying alive
for not running to welcome me, and for screaming as if I were a goblin.
Unnatural cub, come hither! I’ll teach thee to impose on a
good-hearted, deluded father. Now, don’t you think the lad would be
handsomer cropped? It makes a dog fiercer, and I love something
fierce—get me a scissors—something fierce and trim! Besides, it’s
infernal affectation—devilish conceit it is, to cherish our ears—we’re
asses enough without them. Hush, child, hush! Well then, it is my
darling! wisht, dry thy eyes—there’s a joy; kiss me. What! it won’t?
Kiss me, Hareton! Damn thee, kiss me! By God, as if I would rear such a
monster! As sure as I’m living, I’ll break the brat’s neck.”
Poor Hareton was squalling and kicking in his father’s arms with all
his might, and redoubled his yells when he carried him upstairs and
lifted him over the banister. I cried out that he would frighten the
child into fits, and ran to rescue him. As I reached them, Hindley
leant forward on the rails to listen to a noise below; almost
forgetting what he had in his hands. “Who is that?” he asked, hearing
some one approaching the stairs’-foot. I leant forward also, for the
purpose of signing to Heathcliff, whose step I recognised, not to come
further; and, at the instant when my eye quitted Hareton, he gave a
sudden spring, delivered himself from the careless grasp that held him,
and fell.
There was scarcely time to experience a thrill of horror before we saw
that the little wretch was safe. Heathcliff arrived underneath just at
the critical moment; by a natural impulse he arrested his descent, and
setting him on his feet, looked up to discover the author of the
accident. A miser who has parted with a lucky lottery ticket for five
shillings, and finds next day he has lost in the bargain five thousand
pounds, could not show a blanker countenance than he did on beholding
the figure of Mr. Earnshaw above. It expressed, plainer than words
could do, the intensest anguish at having made himself the instrument
of thwarting his own revenge. Had it been dark, I daresay he would have
tried to remedy the mistake by smashing Hareton’s skull on the steps;
but, we witnessed his salvation; and I was presently below with my
precious charge pressed to my heart. Hindley descended more leisurely,
sobered and abashed.
“It is your fault, Ellen,” he said; “you should have kept him out of
sight: you should have taken him from me! Is he injured anywhere?”
“Injured!” I cried angrily; “if he is not killed, he’ll be an idiot!
Oh! I wonder his mother does not rise from her grave to see how you use
him. You’re worse than a heathen—treating your own flesh and blood in
that manner!” He attempted to touch the child, who, on finding himself
with me, sobbed off his terror directly. At the first finger his father
laid on him, however, he shrieked again louder than before, and
struggled as if he would go into convulsions.
“You shall not meddle with him!” I continued. “He hates you—they all
hate you—that’s the truth! A happy family you have; and a pretty state
you’re come to!”
“I shall come to a prettier, yet, Nelly,” laughed the misguided man,
recovering his hardness. “At present, convey yourself and him away. And
hark you, Heathcliff! clear you too quite from my reach and hearing. I
wouldn’t murder you to-night; unless, perhaps, I set the house on fire:
but that’s as my fancy goes.”
While saying this he took a pint bottle of brandy from the dresser, and
poured some into a tumbler.
“Nay, don’t!” I entreated. “Mr. Hindley, do take warning. Have mercy on
this unfortunate boy, if you care nothing for yourself!”
“Any one will do better for him than I shall,” he answered.
“Have mercy on your own soul!” I said, endeavouring to snatch the glass
from his hand.
“Not I! On the contrary, I shall have great pleasure in sending it to
perdition to punish its Maker,” exclaimed the blasphemer. “Here’s to
its hearty damnation!”
He drank the spirits and impatiently bade us go; terminating his
command with a sequel of horrid imprecations too bad to repeat or
remember.
“It’s a pity he cannot kill himself with drink,” observed Heathcliff,
muttering an echo of curses back when the door was shut. “He’s doing
his very utmost; but his constitution defies him. Mr. Kenneth says he
would wager his mare that he’ll outlive any man on this side Gimmerton,
and go to the grave a hoary sinner; unless some happy chance out of the
common course befall him.”
I went into the kitchen, and sat down to lull my little lamb to sleep.
Heathcliff, as I thought, walked through to the barn. It turned out
afterwards that he only got as far as the other side the settle, when
he flung himself on a bench by the wall, removed from the fire and
remained silent.
I was rocking Hareton on my knee, and humming a song that began,—
It was far in the night, and the bairnies grat,
The mither beneath the mools heard that,
when Miss Cathy, who had listened to the hubbub from her room, put her
head in, and whispered,—“Are you alone, Nelly?”
“Yes, Miss,” I replied.
She entered and approached the hearth. I, supposing she was going to
say something, looked up. The expression of her face seemed disturbed
and anxious. Her lips were half asunder, as if she meant to speak, and
she drew a breath; but it escaped in a sigh instead of a sentence. I
resumed my song; not having forgotten her recent behaviour.
“Where’s Heathcliff?” she said, interrupting me.
“About his work in the stable,” was my answer.
He did not contradict me; perhaps he had fallen into a doze. There
followed another long pause, during which I perceived a drop or two
trickle from Catherine’s cheek to the flags. Is she sorry for her
shameful conduct?—I asked myself. That will be a novelty: but she may
come to the point—as she will—I sha’n’t help her! No, she felt small
trouble regarding any subject, save her own concerns.
“Oh, dear!” she cried at last. “I’m very unhappy!”
“A pity,” observed I. “You’re hard to please; so many friends and so
few cares, and can’t make yourself content!”
“Nelly, will you keep a secret for me?” she pursued, kneeling down by
me, and lifting her winsome eyes to my face with that sort of look
which turns off bad temper, even when one has all the right in the
world to indulge it.
“Is it worth keeping?” I inquired, less sulkily.
“Yes, and it worries me, and I must let it out! I want to know what I
should do. To-day, Edgar Linton has asked me to marry him, and I’ve
given him an answer. Now, before I tell you whether it was a consent or
denial, you tell me which it ought to have been.”
“Really, Miss Catherine, how can I know?” I replied. “To be sure,
considering the exhibition you performed in his presence this
afternoon, I might say it would be wise to refuse him: since he asked
you after that, he must either be hopelessly stupid or a venturesome
fool.”
“If you talk so, I won’t tell you any more,” she returned, peevishly
rising to her feet. “I accepted him, Nelly. Be quick, and say whether I
was wrong!”
“You accepted him! Then what good is it discussing the matter? You have
pledged your word, and cannot retract.”
“But say whether I should have done so—do!” she exclaimed in an
irritated tone; chafing her hands together, and frowning.
“There are many things to be considered before that question can be
answered properly,” I said, sententiously. “First and foremost, do you
love Mr. Edgar?”
“Who can help it? Of course I do,” she answered.
Then I put her through the following catechism: for a girl of
twenty-two it was not injudicious.
“Why do you love him, Miss Cathy?”
“Nonsense, I do—that’s sufficient.”
“By no means; you must say why?”
“Well, because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with.”
“Bad!” was my commentary.
“And because he is young and cheerful.”
“Bad, still.”
“And because he loves me.”
“Indifferent, coming there.”
“And he will be rich, and I shall like to be the greatest woman of the
neighbourhood, and I shall be proud of having such a husband.”
“Worst of all. And now, say how you love him?”
“As everybody loves—You’re silly, Nelly.”
“Not at all—Answer.”
“I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and
everything he touches, and every word he says. I love all his looks,
and all his actions, and him entirely and altogether. There now!”
“And why?”
“Nay; you are making a jest of it: it is exceedingly ill-natured! It’s
no jest to me!” said the young lady, scowling, and turning her face to
the fire.
“I’m very far from jesting, Miss Catherine,” I replied. “You love Mr.
Edgar because he is handsome, and young, and cheerful, and rich, and
loves you. The last, however, goes for nothing: you would love him
without that, probably; and with it you wouldn’t, unless he possessed
the four former attractions.”
“No, to be sure not: I should only pity him—hate him, perhaps, if he
were ugly, and a clown.”
“But there are several other handsome, rich young men in the world:
handsomer, possibly, and richer than he is. What should hinder you from
loving them?”
“If there be any, they are out of my way: I’ve seen none like Edgar.”
“You may see some; and he won’t always be handsome, and young, and may
not always be rich.”
“He is now; and I have only to do with the present. I wish you would
speak rationally.”
“Well, that settles it: if you have only to do with the present, marry
Mr. Linton.”
“I don’t want your permission for that—I _shall_ marry him: and yet you
have not told me whether I’m right.”
“Perfectly right; if people be right to marry only for the present. And
now, let us hear what you are unhappy about. Your brother will be
pleased; the old lady and gentleman will not object, I think; you will
escape from a disorderly, comfortless home into a wealthy, respectable
one; and you love Edgar, and Edgar loves you. All seems smooth and
easy: where is the obstacle?”
“_Here_! and _here_!” replied Catherine, striking one hand on her
forehead, and the other on her breast: “in whichever place the soul
lives. In my soul and in my heart, I’m convinced I’m wrong!”
“That’s very strange! I cannot make it out.”
“It’s my secret. But if you will not mock at me, I’ll explain it: I
can’t do it distinctly; but I’ll give you a feeling of how I feel.”
She seated herself by me again: her countenance grew sadder and graver,
and her clasped hands trembled.
“Nelly, do you never dream queer dreams?” she said, suddenly, after
some minutes’ reflection.
“Yes, now and then,” I answered.
“And so do I. I’ve dreamt in my life dreams that have stayed with me
ever after, and changed my ideas: they’ve gone through and through me,
like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this is
one: I’m going to tell it—but take care not to smile at any part of
it.”
“Oh! don’t, Miss Catherine!” I cried. “We’re dismal enough without
conjuring up ghosts and visions to perplex us. Come, come, be merry and
like yourself! Look at little Hareton! _he’s_ dreaming nothing dreary.
How sweetly he smiles in his sleep!”
“Yes; and how sweetly his father curses in his solitude! You remember
him, I daresay, when he was just such another as that chubby thing:
nearly as young and innocent. However, Nelly, I shall oblige you to
listen: it’s not long; and I’ve no power to be merry to-night.”
“I won’t hear it, I won’t hear it!” I repeated, hastily.
I was superstitious about dreams then, and am still; and Catherine had
an unusual gloom in her aspect, that made me dread something from which
I might shape a prophecy, and foresee a fearful catastrophe. She was
vexed, but she did not proceed. Apparently taking up another subject,
she recommenced in a short time.
“If I were in heaven, Nelly, I should be extremely miserable.”
“Because you are not fit to go there,” I answered. “All sinners would
be miserable in heaven.”
“But it is not for that. I dreamt once that I was there.”
“I tell you I won’t hearken to your dreams, Miss Catherine! I’ll go to
bed,” I interrupted again.
She laughed, and held me down; for I made a motion to leave my chair.
“This is nothing,” cried she: “I was only going to say that heaven did
not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back
to earth; and the angels were so angry that they flung me out into the
middle of the heath on the top of Wuthering Heights; where I woke
sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the
other. I’ve no more business to marry Edgar Linton than I have to be in
heaven; and if the wicked man in there had not brought Heathcliff so
low, I shouldn’t have thought of it. It would degrade me to marry
Heathcliff now; so he shall never know how I love him: and that, not
because he’s handsome, Nelly, but because he’s more myself than I am.
Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton’s
is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire.”
Ere this speech ended I became sensible of Heathcliff’s presence.
Having noticed a slight movement, I turned my head, and saw him rise
from the bench, and steal out noiselessly. He had listened till he
heard Catherine say it would degrade her to marry him, and then he
stayed to hear no further. My companion, sitting on the ground, was
prevented by the back of the settle from remarking his presence or
departure; but I started, and bade her hush!
“Why?” she asked, gazing nervously round.
“Joseph is here,” I answered, catching opportunely the roll of his
cartwheels up the road; “and Heathcliff will come in with him. I’m not
sure whether he were not at the door this moment.”
“Oh, he couldn’t overhear me at the door!” said she. “Give me Hareton,
while you get the supper, and when it is ready ask me to sup with you.
I want to cheat my uncomfortable conscience, and be convinced that
Heathcliff has no notion of these things. He has not, has he? He does
not know what being in love is!”
“I see no reason that he should not know, as well as you,” I returned;
“and if you are his choice, he’ll be the most unfortunate creature that
ever was born! As soon as you become Mrs. Linton, he loses friend, and
love, and all! Have you considered how you’ll bear the separation, and
how he’ll bear to be quite deserted in the world? Because, Miss
Catherine—”
“He quite deserted! we separated!” she exclaimed, with an accent of
indignation. “Who is to separate us, pray? They’ll meet the fate of
Milo! Not as long as I live, Ellen: for no mortal creature. Every
Linton on the face of the earth might melt into nothing before I could
consent to forsake Heathcliff. Oh, that’s not what I intend—that’s not
what I mean! I shouldn’t be Mrs. Linton were such a price demanded!
He’ll be as much to me as he has been all his lifetime. Edgar must
shake off his antipathy, and tolerate him, at least. He will, when he
learns my true feelings towards him. Nelly, I see now you think me a
selfish wretch; but did it never strike you that if Heathcliff and I
married, we should be beggars? whereas, if I marry Linton I can aid
Heathcliff to rise, and place him out of my brother’s power.”
“With your husband’s money, Miss Catherine?” I asked. “You’ll find him
not so pliable as you calculate upon: and, though I’m hardly a judge, I
think that’s the worst motive you’ve given yet for being the wife of
young Linton.”
“It is not,” retorted she; “it is the best! The others were the
satisfaction of my whims: and for Edgar’s sake, too, to satisfy him.
This is for the sake of one who comprehends in his person my feelings
to Edgar and myself. I cannot express it; but surely you and everybody
have a notion that there is or should be an existence of yours beyond
you. What were the use of my creation, if I were entirely contained
here? My great miseries in this world have been Heathcliff’s miseries,
and I watched and felt each from the beginning: my great thought in
living is himself. If all else perished, and _he_ remained, _I_ should
still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were
annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not
seem a part of it.—My love for Linton is like the foliage in the woods:
time will change it, I’m well aware, as winter changes the trees. My
love for Heathcliff resembles the eternal rocks beneath: a source of
little visible delight, but necessary. Nelly, I _am_ Heathcliff! He’s
always, always in my mind: not as a pleasure, any more than I am always
a pleasure to myself, but as my own being. So don’t talk of our
separation again: it is impracticable; and—”
She paused, and hid her face in the folds of my gown; but I jerked it
forcibly away. I was out of patience with her folly!
“If I can make any sense of your nonsense, Miss,” I said, “it only goes
to convince me that you are ignorant of the duties you undertake in
marrying; or else that you are a wicked, unprincipled girl. But trouble
me with no more secrets: I’ll not promise to keep them.”
“You’ll keep that?” she asked, eagerly.
“No, I’ll not promise,” I repeated.
She was about to insist, when the entrance of Joseph finished our
conversation; and Catherine removed her seat to a corner, and nursed
Hareton, while I made the supper. After it was cooked, my
fellow-servant and I began to quarrel who should carry some to Mr.
Hindley; and we didn’t settle it till all was nearly cold. Then we came
to the agreement that we would let him ask, if he wanted any; for we
feared particularly to go into his presence when he had been some time
alone.
“And how isn’t that nowt comed in fro’ th’ field, be this time? What is
he about? girt idle seeght!” demanded the old man, looking round for
Heathcliff.
“I’ll call him,” I replied. “He’s in the barn, I’ve no doubt.”
I went and called, but got no answer. On returning, I whispered to
Catherine that he had heard a good part of what she said, I was sure;
and told how I saw him quit the kitchen just as she complained of her
brother’s conduct regarding him. She jumped up in a fine fright, flung
Hareton on to the settle, and ran to seek for her friend herself; not
taking leisure to consider why she was so flurried, or how her talk
would have affected him. She was absent such a while that Joseph
proposed we should wait no longer. He cunningly conjectured they were
staying away in order to avoid hearing his protracted blessing. They
were “ill eneugh for ony fahl manners,” he affirmed. And on their
behalf he added that night a special prayer to the usual
quarter-of-an-hour’s supplication before meat, and would have tacked
another to the end of the grace, had not his young mistress broken in
upon him with a hurried command that he must run down the road, and,
wherever Heathcliff had rambled, find and make him re-enter directly!
“I want to speak to him, and I _must_, before I go upstairs,” she said.
“And the gate is open: he is somewhere out of hearing; for he would not
reply, though I shouted at the top of the fold as loud as I could.”
Joseph objected at first; she was too much in earnest, however, to
suffer contradiction; and at last he placed his hat on his head, and
walked grumbling forth. Meantime, Catherine paced up and down the
floor, exclaiming—“I wonder where he is—I wonder where he can be! What
did I say, Nelly? I’ve forgotten. Was he vexed at my bad humour this
afternoon? Dear! tell me what I’ve said to grieve him? I do wish he’d
come. I do wish he would!”
“What a noise for nothing!” I cried, though rather uneasy myself. “What
a trifle scares you! It’s surely no great cause of alarm that
Heathcliff should take a moonlight saunter on the moors, or even lie
too sulky to speak to us in the hay-loft. I’ll engage he’s lurking
there. See if I don’t ferret him out!”
I departed to renew my search; its result was disappointment, and
Joseph’s quest ended in the same.
“Yon lad gets war und war!” observed he on re-entering. “He’s left th’
gate at t’ full swing, and Miss’s pony has trodden dahn two rigs o’
corn, and plottered through, raight o’er into t’ meadow! Hahsomdiver,
t’ maister “ull play t’ devil to-morn, and he’ll do weel. He’s patience
itsseln wi’ sich careless, offald craters—patience itsseln he is! Bud
he’ll not be soa allus—yah’s see, all on ye! Yah mun’n’t drive him out
of his heead for nowt!”
“Have you found Heathcliff, you ass?” interrupted Catherine. “Have you
been looking for him, as I ordered?”
“I sud more likker look for th’ horse,” he replied. “It ’ud be to more
sense. Bud I can look for norther horse nur man of a neeght loike
this—as black as t’ chimbley! und Heathcliff’s noan t’ chap to coom at
_my_ whistle—happen he’ll be less hard o’ hearing wi’ _ye_!”
It _was_ a very dark evening for summer: the clouds appeared inclined
to thunder, and I said we had better all sit down; the approaching rain
would be certain to bring him home without further trouble. However,
Catherine would not be persuaded into tranquillity. She kept wandering
to and fro, from the gate to the door, in a state of agitation which
permitted no repose; and at length took up a permanent situation on one
side of the wall, near the road: where, heedless of my expostulations
and the growling thunder, and the great drops that began to plash
around her, she remained, calling at intervals, and then listening, and
then crying outright. She beat Hareton, or any child, at a good
passionate fit of crying.
About midnight, while we still sat up, the storm came rattling over the
Heights in full fury. There was a violent wind, as well as thunder, and
either one or the other split a tree off at the corner of the building:
a huge bough fell across the roof, and knocked down a portion of the
east chimney-stack, sending a clatter of stones and soot into the
kitchen-fire. We thought a bolt had fallen in the middle of us; and
Joseph swung on to his knees, beseeching the Lord to remember the
patriarchs Noah and Lot, and, as in former times, spare the righteous,
though he smote the ungodly. I felt some sentiment that it must be a
judgment on us also. The Jonah, in my mind, was Mr. Earnshaw; and I
shook the handle of his den that I might ascertain if he were yet
living. He replied audibly enough, in a fashion which made my companion
vociferate, more clamorously than before, that a wide distinction might
be drawn between saints like himself and sinners like his master. But
the uproar passed away in twenty minutes, leaving us all unharmed;
excepting Cathy, who got thoroughly drenched for her obstinacy in
refusing to take shelter, and standing bonnetless and shawlless to
catch as much water as she could with her hair and clothes. She came in
and lay down on the settle, all soaked as she was, turning her face to
the back, and putting her hands before it.
“Well, Miss!” I exclaimed, touching her shoulder; “you are not bent on
getting your death, are you? Do you know what o’clock it is? Half-past
twelve. Come, come to bed! there’s no use waiting any longer on that
foolish boy: he’ll be gone to Gimmerton, and he’ll stay there now. He
guesses we shouldn’t wait for him till this late hour: at least, he
guesses that only Mr. Hindley would be up; and he’d rather avoid having
the door opened by the master.”
“Nay, nay, he’s noan at Gimmerton,” said Joseph. “I’s niver wonder but
he’s at t’ bothom of a bog-hoile. This visitation worn’t for nowt, and
I wod hev’ ye to look out, Miss—yah muh be t’ next. Thank Hivin for
all! All warks togither for gooid to them as is chozzen, and piked out
fro’ th’ rubbidge! Yah knaw whet t’ Scripture ses.” And he began
quoting several texts, referring us to chapters and verses where we
might find them.
I, having vainly begged the wilful girl to rise and remove her wet
things, left him preaching and her shivering, and betook myself to bed
with little Hareton, who slept as fast as if everyone had been sleeping
round him. I heard Joseph read on a while afterwards; then I
distinguished his slow step on the ladder, and then I dropped asleep.
Coming down somewhat later than usual, I saw, by the sunbeams piercing
the chinks of the shutters, Miss Catherine still seated near the
fireplace. The house-door was ajar, too; light entered from its
unclosed windows; Hindley had come out, and stood on the kitchen
hearth, haggard and drowsy.
“What ails you, Cathy?” he was saying when I entered: “you look as
dismal as a drowned whelp. Why are you so damp and pale, child?”
“I’ve been wet,” she answered reluctantly, “and I’m cold, that’s all.”
“Oh, she is naughty!” I cried, perceiving the master to be tolerably
sober. “She got steeped in the shower of yesterday evening, and there
she has sat the night through, and I couldn’t prevail on her to stir.”
Mr. Earnshaw stared at us in surprise. “The night through,” he
repeated. “What kept her up? not fear of the thunder, surely? That was
over hours since.”
Neither of us wished to mention Heathcliff’s absence, as long as we
could conceal it; so I replied, I didn’t know how she took it into her
head to sit up; and she said nothing. The morning was fresh and cool; I
threw back the lattice, and presently the room filled with sweet scents
from the garden; but Catherine called peevishly to me, “Ellen, shut the
window. I’m starving!” And her teeth chattered as she shrank closer to
the almost extinguished embers.
“She’s ill,” said Hindley, taking her wrist; “I suppose that’s the
reason she would not go to bed. Damn it! I don’t want to be troubled
with more sickness here. What took you into the rain?”
“Running after t’ lads, as usuald!” croaked Joseph, catching an
opportunity from our hesitation to thrust in his evil tongue. “If I war
yah, maister, I’d just slam t’ boards i’ their faces all on ’em, gentle
and simple! Never a day ut yah’re off, but yon cat o’ Linton comes
sneaking hither; and Miss Nelly, shoo’s a fine lass! shoo sits watching
for ye i’ t’ kitchen; and as yah’re in at one door, he’s out at
t’other; and, then, wer grand lady goes a-courting of her side! It’s
bonny behaviour, lurking amang t’ fields, after twelve o’ t’ night, wi’
that fahl, flaysome divil of a gipsy, Heathcliff! They think _I’m_
blind; but I’m noan: nowt ut t’ soart!—I seed young Linton boath coming
and going, and I seed _yah_” (directing his discourse to me), “yah
gooid fur nowt, slattenly witch! nip up and bolt into th’ house, t’
minute yah heard t’ maister’s horse-fit clatter up t’ road.”
“Silence, eavesdropper!” cried Catherine; “none of your insolence
before me! Edgar Linton came yesterday by chance, Hindley; and it was
_I_ who told him to be off: because I knew you would not like to have
met him as you were.”
“You lie, Cathy, no doubt,” answered her brother, “and you are a
confounded simpleton! But never mind Linton at present: tell me, were
you not with Heathcliff last night? Speak the truth, now. You need not
be afraid of harming him: though I hate him as much as ever, he did me
a good turn a short time since that will make my conscience tender of
breaking his neck. To prevent it, I shall send him about his business
this very morning; and after he’s gone, I’d advise you all to look
sharp: I shall only have the more humour for you.”
“I never saw Heathcliff last night,” answered Catherine, beginning to
sob bitterly: “and if you do turn him out of doors, I’ll go with him.
But, perhaps, you’ll never have an opportunity: perhaps, he’s gone.”
Here she burst into uncontrollable grief, and the remainder of her
words were inarticulate.
Hindley lavished on her a torrent of scornful abuse, and bade her get
to her room immediately, or she shouldn’t cry for nothing! I obliged
her to obey; and I shall never forget what a scene she acted when we
reached her chamber: it terrified me. I thought she was going mad, and
I begged Joseph to run for the doctor. It proved the commencement of
delirium: Mr. Kenneth, as soon as he saw her, pronounced her
dangerously ill; she had a fever. He bled her, and he told me to let
her live on whey and water-gruel, and take care she did not throw
herself downstairs or out of the window; and then he left: for he had
enough to do in the parish, where two or three miles was the ordinary
distance between cottage and cottage.
Though I cannot say I made a gentle nurse, and Joseph and the master
were no better, and though our patient was as wearisome and headstrong
as a patient could be, she weathered it through. Old Mrs. Linton paid
us several visits, to be sure, and set things to rights, and scolded
and ordered us all; and when Catherine was convalescent, she insisted
on conveying her to Thrushcross Grange: for which deliverance we were
very grateful. But the poor dame had reason to repent of her kindness:
she and her husband both took the fever, and died within a few days of
each other.
Our young lady returned to us saucier and more passionate, and
haughtier than ever. Heathcliff had never been heard of since the
evening of the thunder-storm; and, one day, I had the misfortune, when
she had provoked me exceedingly, to lay the blame of his disappearance
on her: where indeed it belonged, as she well knew. From that period,
for several months, she ceased to hold any communication with me, save
in the relation of a mere servant. Joseph fell under a ban also: he
would speak his mind, and lecture her all the same as if she were a
little girl; and she esteemed herself a woman, and our mistress, and
thought that her recent illness gave her a claim to be treated with
consideration. Then the doctor had said that she would not bear
crossing much; she ought to have her own way; and it was nothing less
than murder in her eyes for any one to presume to stand up and
contradict her. From Mr. Earnshaw and his companions she kept aloof;
and tutored by Kenneth, and serious threats of a fit that often
attended her rages, her brother allowed her whatever she pleased to
demand, and generally avoided aggravating her fiery temper. He was
rather too indulgent in humouring her caprices; not from affection, but
from pride: he wished earnestly to see her bring honour to the family
by an alliance with the Lintons, and as long as she let him alone she
might trample on us like slaves, for aught he cared! Edgar Linton, as
multitudes have been before and will be after him, was infatuated: and
believed himself the happiest man alive on the day he led her to
Gimmerton Chapel, three years subsequent to his father’s death.
Much against my inclination, I was persuaded to leave Wuthering Heights
and accompany her here. Little Hareton was nearly five years old, and I
had just begun to teach him his letters. We made a sad parting; but
Catherine’s tears were more powerful than ours. When I refused to go,
and when she found her entreaties did not move me, she went lamenting
to her husband and brother. The former offered me munificent wages; the
latter ordered me to pack up: he wanted no women in the house, he said,
now that there was no mistress; and as to Hareton, the curate should
take him in hand, by-and-by. And so I had but one choice left: to do as
I was ordered. I told the master he got rid of all decent people only
to run to ruin a little faster; I kissed Hareton, said good-by; and
since then he has been a stranger: and it’s very queer to think it, but
I’ve no doubt he has completely forgotten all about Ellen Dean, and
that he was ever more than all the world to her and she to him!
* * * * *
At this point of the housekeeper’s story she chanced to glance towards
the time-piece over the chimney; and was in amazement on seeing the
minute-hand measure half-past one. She would not hear of staying a
second longer: in truth, I felt rather disposed to defer the sequel of
her narrative myself. And now that she is vanished to her rest, and I
have meditated for another hour or two, I shall summon courage to go
also, in spite of aching laziness of head and limbs.
CHAPTER X
A charming introduction to a hermit’s life! Four weeks’ torture,
tossing, and sickness! Oh, these bleak winds and bitter northern skies,
and impassable roads, and dilatory country surgeons! And oh, this
dearth of the human physiognomy! and, worse than all, the terrible
intimation of Kenneth that I need not expect to be out of doors till
spring!
Mr. Heathcliff has just honoured me with a call. About seven days ago
he sent me a brace of grouse—the last of the season. Scoundrel! He is
not altogether guiltless in this illness of mine; and that I had a
great mind to tell him. But, alas! how could I offend a man who was
charitable enough to sit at my bedside a good hour, and talk on some
other subject than pills and draughts, blisters and leeches? This is
quite an easy interval. I am too weak to read; yet I feel as if I could
enjoy something interesting. Why not have up Mrs. Dean to finish her
tale? I can recollect its chief incidents, as far as she had gone. Yes:
I remember her hero had run off, and never been heard of for three
years; and the heroine was married. I’ll ring: she’ll be delighted to
find me capable of talking cheerfully. Mrs. Dean came.
“It wants twenty minutes, sir, to taking the medicine,” she commenced.
“Away, away with it!” I replied; “I desire to have—”
“The doctor says you must drop the powders.”
“With all my heart! Don’t interrupt me. Come and take your seat here.
Keep your fingers from that bitter phalanx of vials. Draw your knitting
out of your pocket—that will do—now continue the history of Mr.
Heathcliff, from where you left off, to the present day. Did he finish
his education on the Continent, and come back a gentleman? or did he
get a sizar’s place at college, or escape to America, and earn honours
by drawing blood from his foster-country? or make a fortune more
promptly on the English highways?”
“He may have done a little in all these vocations, Mr. Lockwood; but I
couldn’t give my word for any. I stated before that I didn’t know how
he gained his money; neither am I aware of the means he took to raise
his mind from the savage ignorance into which it was sunk: but, with
your leave, I’ll proceed in my own fashion, if you think it will amuse
and not weary you. Are you feeling better this morning?”
“Much.”
“That’s good news.”
* * * * *
I got Miss Catherine and myself to Thrushcross Grange; and, to my
agreeable disappointment, she behaved infinitely better than I dared to
expect. She seemed almost over-fond of Mr. Linton; and even to his
sister she showed plenty of affection. They were both very attentive to
her comfort, certainly. It was not the thorn bending to the
honeysuckles, but the honeysuckles embracing the thorn. There were no
mutual concessions: one stood erect, and the others yielded: and who
can be ill-natured and bad-tempered when they encounter neither
opposition nor indifference? I observed that Mr. Edgar had a
deep-rooted fear of ruffling her humour. He concealed it from her; but
if ever he heard me answer sharply, or saw any other servant grow
cloudy at some imperious order of hers, he would show his trouble by a
frown of displeasure that never darkened on his own account. He many a
time spoke sternly to me about my pertness; and averred that the stab
of a knife could not inflict a worse pang than he suffered at seeing
his lady vexed. Not to grieve a kind master, I learned to be less
touchy; and, for the space of half a year, the gunpowder lay as
harmless as sand, because no fire came near to explode it. Catherine
had seasons of gloom and silence now and then: they were respected with
sympathising silence by her husband, who ascribed them to an alteration
in her constitution, produced by her perilous illness; as she was never
subject to depression of spirits before. The return of sunshine was
welcomed by answering sunshine from him. I believe I may assert that
they were really in possession of deep and growing happiness.
It ended. Well, we _must_ be for ourselves in the long run; the mild
and generous are only more justly selfish than the domineering; and it
ended when circumstances caused each to feel that the one’s interest
was not the chief consideration in the other’s thoughts. On a mellow
evening in September, I was coming from the garden with a heavy basket
of apples which I had been gathering. It had got dusk, and the moon
looked over the high wall of the court, causing undefined shadows to
lurk in the corners of the numerous projecting portions of the
building. I set my burden on the house-steps by the kitchen-door, and
lingered to rest, and drew in a few more breaths of the soft, sweet
air; my eyes were on the moon, and my back to the entrance, when I
heard a voice behind me say,—“Nelly, is that you?”
It was a deep voice, and foreign in tone; yet there was something in
the manner of pronouncing my name which made it sound familiar. I
turned about to discover who spoke, fearfully; for the doors were shut,
and I had seen nobody on approaching the steps. Something stirred in
the porch; and, moving nearer, I distinguished a tall man dressed in
dark clothes, with dark face and hair. He leant against the side, and
held his fingers on the latch as if intending to open for himself. “Who
can it be?” I thought. “Mr. Earnshaw? Oh, no! The voice has no
resemblance to his.”
“I have waited here an hour,” he resumed, while I continued staring;
“and the whole of that time all round has been as still as death. I
dared not enter. You do not know me? Look, I’m not a stranger!”
A ray fell on his features; the cheeks were sallow, and half covered
with black whiskers; the brows lowering, the eyes deep-set and
singular. I remembered the eyes.
“What!” I cried, uncertain whether to regard him as a worldly visitor,
and I raised my hands in amazement. “What! you come back? Is it really
you? Is it?”
“Yes, Heathcliff,” he replied, glancing from me up to the windows,
which reflected a score of glittering moons, but showed no lights from
within. “Are they at home? where is she? Nelly, you are not glad! you
needn’t be so disturbed. Is she here? Speak! I want to have one word
with her—your mistress. Go, and say some person from Gimmerton desires
to see her.”
“How will she take it?” I exclaimed. “What will she do? The surprise
bewilders me—it will put her out of her head! And you _are_ Heathcliff!
But altered! Nay, there’s no comprehending it. Have you been for a
soldier?”
“Go and carry my message,” he interrupted, impatiently. “I’m in hell
till you do!”
He lifted the latch, and I entered; but when I got to the parlour where
Mr. and Mrs. Linton were, I could not persuade myself to proceed. At
length I resolved on making an excuse to ask if they would have the
candles lighted, and I opened the door.
They sat together in a window whose lattice lay back against the wall,
and displayed, beyond the garden trees, and the wild green park, the
valley of Gimmerton, with a long line of mist winding nearly to its top
(for very soon after you pass the chapel, as you may have noticed, the
sough that runs from the marshes joins a beck which follows the bend of
the glen). Wuthering Heights rose above this silvery vapour; but our
old house was invisible; it rather dips down on the other side. Both
the room and its occupants, and the scene they gazed on, looked
wondrously peaceful. I shrank reluctantly from performing my errand;
and was actually going away leaving it unsaid, after having put my
question about the candles, when a sense of my folly compelled me to
return, and mutter, “A person from Gimmerton wishes to see you ma’am.”
“What does he want?” asked Mrs. Linton.
“I did not question him,” I answered.
“Well, close the curtains, Nelly,” she said; “and bring up tea. I’ll be
back again directly.”
She quitted the apartment; Mr. Edgar inquired, carelessly, who it was.
“Some one mistress does not expect,” I replied. “That Heathcliff—you
recollect him, sir—who used to live at Mr. Earnshaw’s.”
“What! the gipsy—the ploughboy?” he cried. “Why did you not say so to
Catherine?”
“Hush! you must not call him by those names, master,” I said. “She’d be
sadly grieved to hear you. She was nearly heartbroken when he ran off.
I guess his return will make a jubilee to her.”
Mr. Linton walked to a window on the other side of the room that
overlooked the court. He unfastened it, and leant out. I suppose they
were below, for he exclaimed quickly: “Don’t stand there, love! Bring
the person in, if it be anyone particular.” Ere long, I heard the click
of the latch, and Catherine flew upstairs, breathless and wild; too
excited to show gladness: indeed, by her face, you would rather have
surmised an awful calamity.
“Oh, Edgar, Edgar!” she panted, flinging her arms round his neck. “Oh,
Edgar darling! Heathcliff’s come back—he is!” And she tightened her
embrace to a squeeze.
“Well, well,” cried her husband, crossly, “don’t strangle me for that!
He never struck me as such a marvellous treasure. There is no need to
be frantic!”
“I know you didn’t like him,” she answered, repressing a little the
intensity of her delight. “Yet, for my sake, you must be friends now.
Shall I tell him to come up?”
“Here,” he said, “into the parlour?”
“Where else?” she asked.
He looked vexed, and suggested the kitchen as a more suitable place for
him. Mrs. Linton eyed him with a droll expression—half angry, half
laughing at his fastidiousness.
“No,” she added, after a while; “I cannot sit in the kitchen. Set two
tables here, Ellen: one for your master and Miss Isabella, being
gentry; the other for Heathcliff and myself, being of the lower orders.
Will that please you, dear? Or must I have a fire lighted elsewhere? If
so, give directions. I’ll run down and secure my guest. I’m afraid the
joy is too great to be real!”
She was about to dart off again; but Edgar arrested her.
“_You_ bid him step up,” he said, addressing me; “and, Catherine, try
to be glad, without being absurd. The whole household need not witness
the sight of your welcoming a runaway servant as a brother.”
I descended, and found Heathcliff waiting under the porch, evidently
anticipating an invitation to enter. He followed my guidance without
waste of words, and I ushered him into the presence of the master and
mistress, whose flushed cheeks betrayed signs of warm talking. But the
lady’s glowed with another feeling when her friend appeared at the
door: she sprang forward, took both his hands, and led him to Linton;
and then she seized Linton’s reluctant fingers and crushed them into
his. Now, fully revealed by the fire and candlelight, I was amazed,
more than ever, to behold the transformation of Heathcliff. He had
grown a tall, athletic, well-formed man; beside whom my master seemed
quite slender and youth-like. His upright carriage suggested the idea
of his having been in the army. His countenance was much older in
expression and decision of feature than Mr. Linton’s; it looked
intelligent, and retained no marks of former degradation. A
half-civilised ferocity lurked yet in the depressed brows and eyes full
of black fire, but it was subdued; and his manner was even dignified:
quite divested of roughness, though stern for grace. My master’s
surprise equalled or exceeded mine: he remained for a minute at a loss
how to address the ploughboy, as he had called him. Heathcliff dropped
his slight hand, and stood looking at him coolly till he chose to
speak.
“Sit down, sir,” he said, at length. “Mrs. Linton, recalling old times,
would have me give you a cordial reception; and, of course, I am
gratified when anything occurs to please her.”
“And I also,” answered Heathcliff, “especially if it be anything in
which I have a part. I shall stay an hour or two willingly.”
He took a seat opposite Catherine, who kept her gaze fixed on him as if
she feared he would vanish were she to remove it. He did not raise his
to her often: a quick glance now and then sufficed; but it flashed
back, each time more confidently, the undisguised delight he drank from
hers. They were too much absorbed in their mutual joy to suffer
embarrassment. Not so Mr. Edgar: he grew pale with pure annoyance: a
feeling that reached its climax when his lady rose, and stepping across
the rug, seized Heathcliff’s hands again, and laughed like one beside
herself.
“I shall think it a dream to-morrow!” she cried. “I shall not be able
to believe that I have seen, and touched, and spoken to you once more.
And yet, cruel Heathcliff! you don’t deserve this welcome. To be absent
and silent for three years, and never to think of me!”
“A little more than you have thought of me,” he murmured. “I heard of
your marriage, Cathy, not long since; and, while waiting in the yard
below, I meditated this plan—just to have one glimpse of your face, a
stare of surprise, perhaps, and pretended pleasure; afterwards settle
my score with Hindley; and then prevent the law by doing execution on
myself. Your welcome has put these ideas out of my mind; but beware of
meeting me with another aspect next time! Nay, you’ll not drive me off
again. You were really sorry for me, were you? Well, there was cause.
I’ve fought through a bitter life since I last heard your voice; and
you must forgive me, for I struggled only for you!”
“Catherine, unless we are to have cold tea, please to come to the
table,” interrupted Linton, striving to preserve his ordinary tone, and
a due measure of politeness. “Mr. Heathcliff will have a long walk,
wherever he may lodge to-night; and I’m thirsty.”
She took her post before the urn; and Miss Isabella came, summoned by
the bell; then, having handed their chairs forward, I left the room.
The meal hardly endured ten minutes. Catherine’s cup was never filled:
she could neither eat nor drink. Edgar had made a slop in his saucer,
and scarcely swallowed a mouthful. Their guest did not protract his
stay that evening above an hour longer. I asked, as he departed, if he
went to Gimmerton?
“No, to Wuthering Heights,” he answered: “Mr. Earnshaw invited me, when
I called this morning.”
Mr. Earnshaw invited _him_! and _he_ called on Mr. Earnshaw! I pondered
this sentence painfully, after he was gone. Is he turning out a bit of
a hypocrite, and coming into the country to work mischief under a
cloak? I mused: I had a presentiment in the bottom of my heart that he
had better have remained away.
About the middle of the night, I was wakened from my first nap by Mrs.
Linton gliding into my chamber, taking a seat on my bedside, and
pulling me by the hair to rouse me.
“I cannot rest, Ellen,” she said, by way of apology. “And I want some
living creature to keep me company in my happiness! Edgar is sulky,
because I’m glad of a thing that does not interest him: he refuses to
open his mouth, except to utter pettish, silly speeches; and he
affirmed I was cruel and selfish for wishing to talk when he was so
sick and sleepy. He always contrives to be sick at the least cross! I
gave a few sentences of commendation to Heathcliff, and he, either for
a headache or a pang of envy, began to cry: so I got up and left him.”
“What use is it praising Heathcliff to him?” I answered. “As lads they
had an aversion to each other, and Heathcliff would hate just as much
to hear him praised: it’s human nature. Let Mr. Linton alone about him,
unless you would like an open quarrel between them.”
“But does it not show great weakness?” pursued she. “I’m not envious: I
never feel hurt at the brightness of Isabella’s yellow hair and the
whiteness of her skin, at her dainty elegance, and the fondness all the
family exhibit for her. Even you, Nelly, if we have a dispute
sometimes, you back Isabella at once; and I yield like a foolish
mother: I call her a darling, and flatter her into a good temper. It
pleases her brother to see us cordial, and that pleases me. But they
are very much alike: they are spoiled children, and fancy the world was
made for their accommodation; and though I humour both, I think a smart
chastisement might improve them all the same.”
“You’re mistaken, Mrs. Linton,” said I. “They humour you: I know what
there would be to do if they did not. You can well afford to indulge
their passing whims as long as their business is to anticipate all your
desires. You may, however, fall out, at last, over something of equal
consequence to both sides; and then those you term weak are very
capable of being as obstinate as you.”
“And then we shall fight to the death, sha’n’t we, Nelly?” she
returned, laughing. “No! I tell you, I have such faith in Linton’s
love, that I believe I might kill him, and he wouldn’t wish to
retaliate.”
I advised her to value him the more for his affection.
“I do,” she answered, “but he needn’t resort to whining for trifles. It
is childish and, instead of melting into tears because I said that
Heathcliff was now worthy of anyone’s regard, and it would honour the
first gentleman in the country to be his friend, he ought to have said
it for me, and been delighted from sympathy. He must get accustomed to
him, and he may as well like him: considering how Heathcliff has reason
to object to him, I’m sure he behaved excellently!”
“What do you think of his going to Wuthering Heights?” I inquired. “He
is reformed in every respect, apparently: quite a Christian: offering
the right hand of fellowship to his enemies all around!”
“He explained it,” she replied. “I wonder as much as you. He said he
called to gather information concerning me from you, supposing you
resided there still; and Joseph told Hindley, who came out and fell to
questioning him of what he had been doing, and how he had been living;
and finally, desired him to walk in. There were some persons sitting at
cards; Heathcliff joined them; my brother lost some money to him, and,
finding him plentifully supplied, he requested that he would come again
in the evening: to which he consented. Hindley is too reckless to
select his acquaintance prudently: he doesn’t trouble himself to
reflect on the causes he might have for mistrusting one whom he has
basely injured. But Heathcliff affirms his principal reason for
resuming a connection with his ancient persecutor is a wish to install
himself in quarters at walking distance from the Grange, and an
attachment to the house where we lived together; and likewise a hope
that I shall have more opportunities of seeing him there than I could
have if he settled in Gimmerton. He means to offer liberal payment for
permission to lodge at the Heights; and doubtless my brother’s
covetousness will prompt him to accept the terms: he was always greedy;
though what he grasps with one hand he flings away with the other.”
“It’s a nice place for a young man to fix his dwelling in!” said I.
“Have you no fear of the consequences, Mrs. Linton?”
“None for my friend,” she replied: “his strong head will keep him from
danger; a little for Hindley: but he can’t be made morally worse than
he is; and I stand between him and bodily harm. The event of this
evening has reconciled me to God and humanity! I had risen in angry
rebellion against Providence. Oh, I’ve endured very, very bitter
misery, Nelly! If that creature knew how bitter, he’d be ashamed to
cloud its removal with idle petulance. It was kindness for him which
induced me to bear it alone: had I expressed the agony I frequently
felt, he would have been taught to long for its alleviation as ardently
as I. However, it’s over, and I’ll take no revenge on his folly; I can
afford to suffer anything hereafter! Should the meanest thing alive
slap me on the cheek, I’d not only turn the other, but I’d ask pardon
for provoking it; and, as a proof, I’ll go make my peace with Edgar
instantly. Good-night! I’m an angel!”
In this self-complacent conviction she departed; and the success of her
fulfilled resolution was obvious on the morrow: Mr. Linton had not only
abjured his peevishness (though his spirits seemed still subdued by
Catherine’s exuberance of vivacity), but he ventured no objection to
her taking Isabella with her to Wuthering Heights in the afternoon; and
she rewarded him with such a summer of sweetness and affection in
return as made the house a paradise for several days; both master and
servants profiting from the perpetual sunshine.
Heathcliff—Mr. Heathcliff I should say in future—used the liberty of
visiting at Thrushcross Grange cautiously, at first: he seemed
estimating how far its owner would bear his intrusion. Catherine, also,
deemed it judicious to moderate her expressions of pleasure in
receiving him; and he gradually established his right to be expected.
He retained a great deal of the reserve for which his boyhood was
remarkable; and that served to repress all startling demonstrations of
feeling. My master’s uneasiness experienced a lull, and further
circumstances diverted it into another channel for a space.
His new source of trouble sprang from the not anticipated misfortune of
Isabella Linton evincing a sudden and irresistible attraction towards
the tolerated guest. She was at that time a charming young lady of
eighteen; infantile in manners, though possessed of keen wit, keen
feelings, and a keen temper, too, if irritated. Her brother, who loved
her tenderly, was appalled at this fantastic preference. Leaving aside
the degradation of an alliance with a nameless man, and the possible
fact that his property, in default of heirs male, might pass into such
a one’s power, he had sense to comprehend Heathcliff’s disposition: to
know that, though his exterior was altered, his mind was unchangeable
and unchanged. And he dreaded that mind: it revolted him: he shrank
forebodingly from the idea of committing Isabella to its keeping. He
would have recoiled still more had he been aware that her attachment
rose unsolicited, and was bestowed where it awakened no reciprocation
of sentiment; for the minute he discovered its existence he laid the
blame on Heathcliff’s deliberate designing.
We had all remarked, during some time, that Miss Linton fretted and
pined over something. She grew cross and wearisome; snapping at and
teasing Catherine continually, at the imminent risk of exhausting her
limited patience. We excused her, to a certain extent, on the plea of
ill-health: she was dwindling and fading before our eyes. But one day,
when she had been peculiarly wayward, rejecting her breakfast,
complaining that the servants did not do what she told them; that the
mistress would allow her to be nothing in the house, and Edgar
neglected her; that she had caught a cold with the doors being left
open, and we let the parlour fire go out on purpose to vex her, with a
hundred yet more frivolous accusations, Mrs. Linton peremptorily
insisted that she should get to bed; and, having scolded her heartily,
threatened to send for the doctor. Mention of Kenneth caused her to
exclaim, instantly, that her health was perfect, and it was only
Catherine’s harshness which made her unhappy.
“How can you say I am harsh, you naughty fondling?” cried the mistress,
amazed at the unreasonable assertion. “You are surely losing your
reason. When have I been harsh, tell me?”
“Yesterday,” sobbed Isabella, “and now!”
“Yesterday!” said her sister-in-law. “On what occasion?”
“In our walk along the moor: you told me to ramble where I pleased,
while you sauntered on with Mr. Heathcliff!”
“And that’s your notion of harshness?” said Catherine, laughing. “It
was no hint that your company was superfluous: we didn’t care whether
you kept with us or not; I merely thought Heathcliff’s talk would have
nothing entertaining for your ears.”
“Oh, no,” wept the young lady; “you wished me away, because you knew I
liked to be there!”
“Is she sane?” asked Mrs. Linton, appealing to me. “I’ll repeat our
conversation, word for word, Isabella; and you point out any charm it
could have had for you.”
“I don’t mind the conversation,” she answered: “I wanted to be with—”
“Well?” said Catherine, perceiving her hesitate to complete the
sentence.
“With him: and I won’t be always sent off!” she continued, kindling up.
“You are a dog in the manger, Cathy, and desire no one to be loved but
yourself!”
“You are an impertinent little monkey!” exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in
surprise. “But I’ll not believe this idiocy! It is impossible that you
can covet the admiration of Heathcliff—that you consider him an
agreeable person! I hope I have misunderstood you, Isabella?”
“No, you have not,” said the infatuated girl. “I love him more than
ever you loved Edgar, and he might love me, if you would let him!”
“I wouldn’t be you for a kingdom, then!” Catherine declared,
emphatically: and she seemed to speak sincerely. “Nelly, help me to
convince her of her madness. Tell her what Heathcliff is: an
unreclaimed creature, without refinement, without cultivation; an arid
wilderness of furze and whinstone. I’d as soon put that little canary
into the park on a winter’s day, as recommend you to bestow your heart
on him! It is deplorable ignorance of his character, child, and nothing
else, which makes that dream enter your head. Pray, don’t imagine that
he conceals depths of benevolence and affection beneath a stern
exterior! He’s not a rough diamond—a pearl-containing oyster of a
rustic: he’s a fierce, pitiless, wolfish man. I never say to him, ‘Let
this or that enemy alone, because it would be ungenerous or cruel to
harm them;’ I say, ‘Let them alone, because _I_ should hate them to be
wronged:’ and he’d crush you like a sparrow’s egg, Isabella, if he
found you a troublesome charge. I know he couldn’t love a Linton; and
yet he’d be quite capable of marrying your fortune and expectations:
avarice is growing with him a besetting sin. There’s my picture: and
I’m his friend—so much so, that had he thought seriously to catch you,
I should, perhaps, have held my tongue, and let you fall into his
trap.”
Miss Linton regarded her sister-in-law with indignation.
“For shame! for shame!” she repeated, angrily. “You are worse than
twenty foes, you poisonous friend!”
“Ah! you won’t believe me, then?” said Catherine. “You think I speak
from wicked selfishness?”
“I’m certain you do,” retorted Isabella; “and I shudder at you!”
“Good!” cried the other. “Try for yourself, if that be your spirit: I
have done, and yield the argument to your saucy insolence.”—
“And I must suffer for her egotism!” she sobbed, as Mrs. Linton left
the room. “All, all is against me: she has blighted my single
consolation. But she uttered falsehoods, didn’t she? Mr. Heathcliff is
not a fiend: he has an honourable soul, and a true one, or how could he
remember her?”
“Banish him from your thoughts, Miss,” I said. “He’s a bird of bad
omen: no mate for you. Mrs. Linton spoke strongly, and yet I can’t
contradict her. She is better acquainted with his heart than I, or any
one besides; and she never would represent him as worse than he is.
Honest people don’t hide their deeds. How has he been living? how has
he got rich? why is he staying at Wuthering Heights, the house of a man
whom he abhors? They say Mr. Earnshaw is worse and worse since he came.
They sit up all night together continually, and Hindley has been
borrowing money on his land, and does nothing but play and drink: I
heard only a week ago—it was Joseph who told me—I met him at Gimmerton:
‘Nelly,’ he said, ‘we’s hae a crowner’s ’quest enow, at ahr folks’. One
on ’em ’s a’most getten his finger cut off wi’ hauding t’ other fro’
stickin’ hisseln loike a cawlf. That’s maister, yeah knaw, ’at ’s soa
up o’ going tuh t’ grand ’sizes. He’s noan feared o’ t’ bench o’
judges, norther Paul, nur Peter, nur John, nur Matthew, nor noan on
’em, not he! He fair likes—he langs to set his brazened face agean ’em!
And yon bonny lad Heathcliff, yah mind, he’s a rare ’un. He can girn a
laugh as well ’s onybody at a raight divil’s jest. Does he niver say
nowt of his fine living amang us, when he goes to t’ Grange? This is t’
way on ’t:—up at sun-down: dice, brandy, cloised shutters, und
can’le-light till next day at noon: then, t’fooil gangs banning und
raving to his cham’er, makking dacent fowks dig thur fingers i’ thur
lugs fur varry shame; un’ the knave, why he can caint his brass, un’
ate, un’ sleep, un’ off to his neighbour’s to gossip wi’ t’ wife. I’
course, he tells Dame Catherine how her fathur’s goold runs into his
pocket, and her fathur’s son gallops down t’ broad road, while he flees
afore to oppen t’ pikes!’ Now, Miss Linton, Joseph is an old rascal,
but no liar; and, if his account of Heathcliff’s conduct be true, you
would never think of desiring such a husband, would you?”
“You are leagued with the rest, Ellen!” she replied. “I’ll not listen
to your slanders. What malevolence you must have to wish to convince me
that there is no happiness in the world!”
Whether she would have got over this fancy if left to herself, or
persevered in nursing it perpetually, I cannot say: she had little time
to reflect. The day after, there was a justice-meeting at the next
town; my master was obliged to attend; and Mr. Heathcliff, aware of his
absence, called rather earlier than usual. Catherine and Isabella were
sitting in the library, on hostile terms, but silent: the latter
alarmed at her recent indiscretion, and the disclosure she had made of
her secret feelings in a transient fit of passion; the former, on
mature consideration, really offended with her companion; and, if she
laughed again at her pertness, inclined to make it no laughing matter
to her. She did laugh as she saw Heathcliff pass the window. I was
sweeping the hearth, and I noticed a mischievous smile on her lips.
Isabella, absorbed in her meditations, or a book, remained till the
door opened; and it was too late to attempt an escape, which she would
gladly have done had it been practicable.
“Come in, that’s right!” exclaimed the mistress, gaily, pulling a chair
to the fire. “Here are two people sadly in need of a third to thaw the
ice between them; and you are the very one we should both of us choose.
Heathcliff, I’m proud to show you, at last, somebody that dotes on you
more than myself. I expect you to feel flattered. Nay, it’s not Nelly;
don’t look at her! My poor little sister-in-law is breaking her heart
by mere contemplation of your physical and moral beauty. It lies in
your own power to be Edgar’s brother! No, no, Isabella, you sha’n’t run
off,” she continued, arresting, with feigned playfulness, the
confounded girl, who had risen indignantly. “We were quarrelling like
cats about you, Heathcliff; and I was fairly beaten in protestations of
devotion and admiration: and, moreover, I was informed that if I would
but have the manners to stand aside, my rival, as she will have herself
to be, would shoot a shaft into your soul that would fix you for ever,
and send my image into eternal oblivion!”
“Catherine!” said Isabella, calling up her dignity, and disdaining to
struggle from the tight grasp that held her, “I’d thank you to adhere
to the truth and not slander me, even in joke! Mr. Heathcliff, be kind
enough to bid this friend of yours release me: she forgets that you and
I are not intimate acquaintances; and what amuses her is painful to me
beyond expression.”
As the guest answered nothing, but took his seat, and looked thoroughly
indifferent what sentiments she cherished concerning him, she turned
and whispered an earnest appeal for liberty to her tormentor.
“By no means!” cried Mrs. Linton in answer. “I won’t be named a dog in
the manger again. You _shall_ stay: now then! Heathcliff, why don’t you
evince satisfaction at my pleasant news? Isabella swears that the love
Edgar has for me is nothing to that she entertains for you. I’m sure
she made some speech of the kind; did she not, Ellen? And she has
fasted ever since the day before yesterday’s walk, from sorrow and rage
that I despatched her out of your society under the idea of its being
unacceptable.”
“I think you belie her,” said Heathcliff, twisting his chair to face
them. “She wishes to be out of my society now, at any rate!”
And he stared hard at the object of discourse, as one might do at a
strange repulsive animal: a centipede from the Indies, for instance,
which curiosity leads one to examine in spite of the aversion it
raises. The poor thing couldn’t bear that; she grew white and red in
rapid succession, and, while tears beaded her lashes, bent the strength
of her small fingers to loosen the firm clutch of Catherine; and
perceiving that as fast as she raised one finger off her arm another
closed down, and she could not remove the whole together, she began to
make use of her nails; and their sharpness presently ornamented the
detainer’s with crescents of red.
“There’s a tigress!” exclaimed Mrs. Linton, setting her free, and
shaking her hand with pain. “Begone, for God’s sake, and hide your
vixen face! How foolish to reveal those talons to him. Can’t you fancy
the conclusions he’ll draw? Look, Heathcliff! they are instruments that
will do execution—you must beware of your eyes.”
“I’d wrench them off her fingers, if they ever menaced me,” he
answered, brutally, when the door had closed after her. “But what did
you mean by teasing the creature in that manner, Cathy? You were not
speaking the truth, were you?”
“I assure you I was,” she returned. “She has been dying for your sake
several weeks, and raving about you this morning, and pouring forth a
deluge of abuse, because I represented your failings in a plain light,
for the purpose of mitigating her adoration. But don’t notice it
further: I wished to punish her sauciness, that’s all. I like her too
well, my dear Heathcliff, to let you absolutely seize and devour her
up.”
“And I like her too ill to attempt it,” said he, “except in a very
ghoulish fashion. You’d hear of odd things if I lived alone with that
mawkish, waxen face: the most ordinary would be painting on its white
the colours of the rainbow, and turning the blue eyes black, every day
or two: they detestably resemble Linton’s.”
“Delectably!” observed Catherine. “They are dove’s eyes—angel’s!”
“She’s her brother’s heir, is she not?” he asked, after a brief
silence.
“I should be sorry to think so,” returned his companion. “Half a dozen
nephews shall erase her title, please heaven! Abstract your mind from
the subject at present: you are too prone to covet your neighbour’s
goods; remember _this_ neighbour’s goods are mine.”
“If they were _mine_, they would be none the less that,” said
Heathcliff; “but though Isabella Linton may be silly, she is scarcely
mad; and, in short, we’ll dismiss the matter, as you advise.”
From their tongues they did dismiss it; and Catherine, probably, from
her thoughts. The other, I felt certain, recalled it often in the
course of the evening. I saw him smile to himself—grin rather—and lapse
into ominous musing whenever Mrs. Linton had occasion to be absent from
the apartment.
I determined to watch his movements. My heart invariably cleaved to the
master’s, in preference to Catherine’s side: with reason I imagined,
for he was kind, and trustful, and honourable; and she—she could not be
called _opposite_, yet she seemed to allow herself such wide latitude,
that I had little faith in her principles, and still less sympathy for
her feelings. I wanted something to happen which might have the effect
of freeing both Wuthering Heights and the Grange of Mr. Heathcliff
quietly; leaving us as we had been prior to his advent. His visits were
a continual nightmare to me; and, I suspected, to my master also. His
abode at the Heights was an oppression past explaining. I felt that God
had forsaken the stray sheep there to its own wicked wanderings, and an
evil beast prowled between it and the fold, waiting his time to spring
and destroy.
CHAPTER XI
Sometimes, while meditating on these things in solitude, I’ve got up in
a sudden terror, and put on my bonnet to go see how all was at the
farm. I’ve persuaded my conscience that it was a duty to warn him how
people talked regarding his ways; and then I’ve recollected his
confirmed bad habits, and, hopeless of benefiting him, have flinched
from re-entering the dismal house, doubting if I could bear to be taken
at my word.
One time I passed the old gate, going out of my way, on a journey to
Gimmerton. It was about the period that my narrative has reached: a
bright frosty afternoon; the ground bare, and the road hard and dry. I
came to a stone where the highway branches off on to the moor at your
left hand; a rough sand-pillar, with the letters W. H. cut on its north
side, on the east, G., and on the south-west, T. G. It serves as a
guide-post to the Grange, the Heights, and village. The sun shone
yellow on its grey head, reminding me of summer; and I cannot say why,
but all at once a gush of child’s sensations flowed into my heart.
Hindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed
long at the weather-worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole
near the bottom still full of snail-shells and pebbles, which we were
fond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as
reality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the
withered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand
scooping out the earth with a piece of slate. “Poor Hindley!” I
exclaimed, involuntarily. I started: my bodily eye was cheated into a
momentary belief that the child lifted its face and stared straight
into mine! It vanished in a twinkling; but immediately I felt an
irresistible yearning to be at the Heights. Superstition urged me to
comply with this impulse: supposing he should be dead! I thought—or
should die soon!—supposing it were a sign of death! The nearer I got to
the house the more agitated I grew; and on catching sight of it I
trembled in every limb. The apparition had outstripped me: it stood
looking through the gate. That was my first idea on observing an
elf-locked, brown-eyed boy setting his ruddy countenance against the
bars. Further reflection suggested this must be Hareton, _my_ Hareton,
not altered greatly since I left him, ten months since.
“God bless thee, darling!” I cried, forgetting instantaneously my
foolish fears. “Hareton, it’s Nelly! Nelly, thy nurse.”
He retreated out of arm’s length, and picked up a large flint.
“I am come to see thy father, Hareton,” I added, guessing from the
action that Nelly, if she lived in his memory at all, was not
recognised as one with me.
He raised his missile to hurl it; I commenced a soothing speech, but
could not stay his hand: the stone struck my bonnet; and then ensued,
from the stammering lips of the little fellow, a string of curses,
which, whether he comprehended them or not, were delivered with
practised emphasis, and distorted his baby features into a shocking
expression of malignity. You may be certain this grieved more than
angered me. Fit to cry, I took an orange from my pocket, and offered it
to propitiate him. He hesitated, and then snatched it from my hold; as
if he fancied I only intended to tempt and disappoint him. I showed
another, keeping it out of his reach.
“Who has taught you those fine words, my bairn?” I inquired. “The
curate?”
“Damn the curate, and thee! Gie me that,” he replied.
“Tell us where you got your lessons, and you shall have it,” said I.
“Who’s your master?”
“Devil daddy,” was his answer.
“And what do you learn from daddy?” I continued.
He jumped at the fruit; I raised it higher. “What does he teach you?” I
asked.
“Naught,” said he, “but to keep out of his gait. Daddy cannot bide me,
because I swear at him.”
“Ah! and the devil teaches you to swear at daddy?” I observed.
“Ay—nay,” he drawled.
“Who, then?”
“Heathcliff.”
“I asked if he liked Mr. Heathcliff.”
“Ay!” he answered again.
Desiring to have his reasons for liking him, I could only gather the
sentences—“I known’t: he pays dad back what he gies to me—he curses
daddy for cursing me. He says I mun do as I will.”
“And the curate does not teach you to read and write, then?” I pursued.
“No, I was told the curate should have his —— teeth dashed down his ——
throat, if he stepped over the threshold—Heathcliff had promised that!”
I put the orange in his hand, and bade him tell his father that a woman
called Nelly Dean was waiting to speak with him, by the garden gate. He
went up the walk, and entered the house; but, instead of Hindley,
Heathcliff appeared on the door-stones; and I turned directly and ran
down the road as hard as ever I could race, making no halt till I
gained the guide-post, and feeling as scared as if I had raised a
goblin. This is not much connected with Miss Isabella’s affair: except
that it urged me to resolve further on mounting vigilant guard, and
doing my utmost to check the spread of such bad influence at the
Grange: even though I should wake a domestic storm, by thwarting Mrs.
Linton’s pleasure.
The next time Heathcliff came my young lady chanced to be feeding some
pigeons in the court. She had never spoken a word to her sister-in-law
for three days; but she had likewise dropped her fretful complaining,
and we found it a great comfort. Heathcliff had not the habit of
bestowing a single unnecessary civility on Miss Linton, I knew. Now, as
soon as he beheld her, his first precaution was to take a sweeping
survey of the house-front. I was standing by the kitchen-window, but I
drew out of sight. He then stepped across the pavement to her, and said
something: she seemed embarrassed, and desirous of getting away; to
prevent it, he laid his hand on her arm. She averted her face: he
apparently put some question which she had no mind to answer. There was
another rapid glance at the house, and supposing himself unseen, the
scoundrel had the impudence to embrace her.
“Judas! Traitor!” I ejaculated. “You are a hypocrite, too, are you? A
deliberate deceiver.”
“Who is, Nelly?” said Catherine’s voice at my elbow: I had been
over-intent on watching the pair outside to mark her entrance.
“Your worthless friend!” I answered, warmly: “the sneaking rascal
yonder. Ah, he has caught a glimpse of us—he is coming in! I wonder
will he have the heart to find a plausible excuse for making love to
Miss, when he told you he hated her?”
Mrs. Linton saw Isabella tear herself free, and run into the garden;
and a minute after, Heathcliff opened the door. I couldn’t withhold
giving some loose to my indignation; but Catherine angrily insisted on
silence, and threatened to order me out of the kitchen, if I dared to
be so presumptuous as to put in my insolent tongue.
“To hear you, people might think you were the mistress!” she cried.
“You want setting down in your right place! Heathcliff, what are you
about, raising this stir? I said you must let Isabella alone!—I beg you
will, unless you are tired of being received here, and wish Linton to
draw the bolts against you!”
“God forbid that he should try!” answered the black villain. I detested
him just then. “God keep him meek and patient! Every day I grow madder
after sending him to heaven!”
“Hush!” said Catherine, shutting the inner door. “Don’t vex me. Why
have you disregarded my request? Did she come across you on purpose?”
“What is it to you?” he growled. “I have a right to kiss her, if she
chooses; and you have no right to object. I am not _your_ husband:
_you_ needn’t be jealous of me!”
“I’m not jealous of you,” replied the mistress; “I’m jealous for you.
Clear your face: you sha’n’t scowl at me! If you like Isabella, you
shall marry her. But do you like her? Tell the truth, Heathcliff!
There, you won’t answer. I’m certain you don’t.”
“And would Mr. Linton approve of his sister marrying that man?” I
inquired.
“Mr. Linton should approve,” returned my lady, decisively.
“He might spare himself the trouble,” said Heathcliff: “I could do as
well without his approbation. And as to you, Catherine, I have a mind
to speak a few words now, while we are at it. I want you to be aware
that I _know_ you have treated me infernally—infernally! Do you hear?
And if you flatter yourself that I don’t perceive it, you are a fool;
and if you think I can be consoled by sweet words, you are an idiot:
and if you fancy I’ll suffer unrevenged, I’ll convince you of the
contrary, in a very little while! Meantime, thank you for telling me
your sister-in-law’s secret: I swear I’ll make the most of it. And
stand you aside!”
“What new phase of his character is this?” exclaimed Mrs. Linton, in
amazement. “I’ve treated you infernally—and you’ll take your revenge!
How will you take it, ungrateful brute? How have I treated you
infernally?”
“I seek no revenge on you,” replied Heathcliff, less vehemently.
“That’s not the plan. The tyrant grinds down his slaves and they don’t
turn against him; they crush those beneath them. You are welcome to
torture me to death for your amusement, only allow me to amuse myself a
little in the same style, and refrain from insult as much as you are
able. Having levelled my palace, don’t erect a hovel and complacently
admire your own charity in giving me that for a home. If I imagined you
really wished me to marry Isabel, I’d cut my throat!”
“Oh, the evil is that I am _not_ jealous, is it?” cried Catherine.
“Well, I won’t repeat my offer of a wife: it is as bad as offering
Satan a lost soul. Your bliss lies, like his, in inflicting misery. You
prove it. Edgar is restored from the ill-temper he gave way to at your
coming; I begin to be secure and tranquil; and you, restless to know us
at peace, appear resolved on exciting a quarrel. Quarrel with Edgar, if
you please, Heathcliff, and deceive his sister: you’ll hit on exactly
the most efficient method of revenging yourself on me.”
The conversation ceased. Mrs. Linton sat down by the fire, flushed and
gloomy. The spirit which served her was growing intractable: she could
neither lay nor control it. He stood on the hearth with folded arms,
brooding on his evil thoughts; and in this position I left them to seek
the master, who was wondering what kept Catherine below so long.
“Ellen,” said he, when I entered, “have you seen your mistress?”
“Yes; she’s in the kitchen, sir,” I answered. “She’s sadly put out by
Mr. Heathcliff’s behaviour: and, indeed, I do think it’s time to
arrange his visits on another footing. There’s harm in being too soft,
and now it’s come to this—.” And I related the scene in the court, and,
as near as I dared, the whole subsequent dispute. I fancied it could
not be very prejudicial to Mrs. Linton; unless she made it so
afterwards, by assuming the defensive for her guest. Edgar Linton had
difficulty in hearing me to the close. His first words revealed that he
did not clear his wife of blame.
“This is insufferable!” he exclaimed. “It is disgraceful that she
should own him for a friend, and force his company on me! Call me two
men out of the hall, Ellen. Catherine shall linger no longer to argue
with the low ruffian—I have humoured her enough.”
He descended, and bidding the servants wait in the passage, went,
followed by me, to the kitchen. Its occupants had recommenced their
angry discussion: Mrs. Linton, at least, was scolding with renewed
vigour; Heathcliff had moved to the window, and hung his head, somewhat
cowed by her violent rating apparently. He saw the master first, and
made a hasty motion that she should be silent; which she obeyed,
abruptly, on discovering the reason of his intimation.
“How is this?” said Linton, addressing her; “what notion of propriety
must you have to remain here, after the language which has been held to
you by that blackguard? I suppose, because it is his ordinary talk you
think nothing of it: you are habituated to his baseness, and, perhaps,
imagine I can get used to it too!”
“Have you been listening at the door, Edgar?” asked the mistress, in a
tone particularly calculated to provoke her husband, implying both
carelessness and contempt of his irritation. Heathcliff, who had raised
his eyes at the former speech, gave a sneering laugh at the latter; on
purpose, it seemed, to draw Mr. Linton’s attention to him. He
succeeded; but Edgar did not mean to entertain him with any high
flights of passion.
“I’ve been so far forbearing with you, sir,” he said quietly; “not that
I was ignorant of your miserable, degraded character, but I felt you
were only partly responsible for that; and Catherine wishing to keep up
your acquaintance, I acquiesced—foolishly. Your presence is a moral
poison that would contaminate the most virtuous: for that cause, and to
prevent worse consequences, I shall deny you hereafter admission into
this house, and give notice now that I require your instant departure.
Three minutes’ delay will render it involuntary and ignominious.'
Heathcliff measured the height and breadth of the speaker with an eye
full of derision.
“Cathy, this lamb of yours threatens like a bull!” he said. “It is in
danger of splitting its skull against my knuckles. By God! Mr. Linton,
I’m mortally sorry that you are not worth knocking down!”
My master glanced towards the passage, and signed me to fetch the men:
he had no intention of hazarding a personal encounter. I obeyed the
hint; but Mrs. Linton, suspecting something, followed; and when I
attempted to call them, she pulled me back, slammed the door to, and
locked it.
“Fair means!” she said, in answer to her husband’s look of angry
surprise. “If you have not courage to attack him, make an apology, or
allow yourself to be beaten. It will correct you of feigning more
valour than you possess. No, I’ll swallow the key before you shall get
it! I’m delightfully rewarded for my kindness to each! After constant
indulgence of one’s weak nature, and the other’s bad one, I earn for
thanks two samples of blind ingratitude, stupid to absurdity! Edgar, I
was defending you and yours; and I wish Heathcliff may flog you sick,
for daring to think an evil thought of me!”
It did not need the medium of a flogging to produce that effect on the
master. He tried to wrest the key from Catherine’s grasp, and for
safety she flung it into the hottest part of the fire; whereupon Mr.
Edgar was taken with a nervous trembling, and his countenance grew
deadly pale. For his life he could not avert that excess of emotion:
mingled anguish and humiliation overcame him completely. He leant on
the back of a chair, and covered his face.
“Oh, heavens! In old days this would win you knighthood!” exclaimed
Mrs. Linton. “We are vanquished! we are vanquished! Heathcliff would as
soon lift a finger at you as the king would march his army against a
colony of mice. Cheer up! you sha’n’t be hurt! Your type is not a lamb,
it’s a sucking leveret.”
“I wish you joy of the milk-blooded coward, Cathy!” said her friend. “I
compliment you on your taste. And that is the slavering, shivering
thing you preferred to me! I would not strike him with my fist, but I’d
kick him with my foot, and experience considerable satisfaction. Is he
weeping, or is he going to faint for fear?”
The fellow approached and gave the chair on which Linton rested a push.
He’d better have kept his distance: my master quickly sprang erect, and
struck him full on the throat a blow that would have levelled a
slighter man. It took his breath for a minute; and while he choked, Mr.
Linton walked out by the back door into the yard, and from thence to
the front entrance.
“There! you’ve done with coming here,” cried Catherine. “Get away, now;
he’ll return with a brace of pistols and half-a-dozen assistants. If he
did overhear us, of course he’d never forgive you. You’ve played me an
ill turn, Heathcliff! But go—make haste! I’d rather see Edgar at bay
than you.”
“Do you suppose I’m going with that blow burning in my gullet?” he
thundered. “By hell, no! I’ll crush his ribs in like a rotten hazel-nut
before I cross the threshold! If I don’t floor him now, I shall murder
him some time; so, as you value his existence, let me get at him!”
“He is not coming,” I interposed, framing a bit of a lie. “There’s the
coachman and the two gardeners; you’ll surely not wait to be thrust
into the road by them! Each has a bludgeon; and master will, very
likely, be watching from the parlour-windows to see that they fulfil
his orders.”
The gardeners and coachman were there: but Linton was with them. They
had already entered the court. Heathcliff, on the second thoughts,
resolved to avoid a struggle against three underlings: he seized the
poker, smashed the lock from the inner door, and made his escape as
they tramped in.
Mrs. Linton, who was very much excited, bade me accompany her upstairs.
She did not know my share in contributing to the disturbance, and I was
anxious to keep her in ignorance.
“I’m nearly distracted, Nelly!” she exclaimed, throwing herself on the
sofa. “A thousand smiths’ hammers are beating in my head! Tell Isabella
to shun me; this uproar is owing to her; and should she or any one else
aggravate my anger at present, I shall get wild. And, Nelly, say to
Edgar, if you see him again to-night, that I’m in danger of being
seriously ill. I wish it may prove true. He has startled and distressed
me shockingly! I want to frighten him. Besides, he might come and begin
a string of abuse or complainings; I’m certain I should recriminate,
and God knows where we should end! Will you do so, my good Nelly? You
are aware that I am no way blamable in this matter. What possessed him
to turn listener? Heathcliff’s talk was outrageous, after you left us;
but I could soon have diverted him from Isabella, and the rest meant
nothing. Now all is dashed wrong; by the fool’s craving to hear evil of
self, that haunts some people like a demon! Had Edgar never gathered
our conversation, he would never have been the worse for it. Really,
when he opened on me in that unreasonable tone of displeasure after I
had scolded Heathcliff till I was hoarse for him, I did not care hardly
what they did to each other; especially as I felt that, however the
scene closed, we should all be driven asunder for nobody knows how
long! Well, if I cannot keep Heathcliff for my friend—if Edgar will be
mean and jealous, I’ll try to break their hearts by breaking my own.
That will be a prompt way of finishing all, when I am pushed to
extremity! But it’s a deed to be reserved for a forlorn hope; I’d not
take Linton by surprise with it. To this point he has been discreet in
dreading to provoke me; you must represent the peril of quitting that
policy, and remind him of my passionate temper, verging, when kindled,
on frenzy. I wish you could dismiss that apathy out of that
countenance, and look rather more anxious about me.”
The stolidity with which I received these instructions was, no doubt,
rather exasperating: for they were delivered in perfect sincerity; but
I believed a person who could plan the turning of her fits of passion
to account, beforehand, might, by exerting her will, manage to control
herself tolerably, even while under their influence; and I did not wish
to “frighten” her husband, as she said, and multiply his annoyances for
the purpose of serving her selfishness. Therefore I said nothing when I
met the master coming towards the parlour; but I took the liberty of
turning back to listen whether they would resume their quarrel
together. He began to speak first.
“Remain where you are, Catherine,” he said; without any anger in his
voice, but with much sorrowful despondency. “I shall not stay. I am
neither come to wrangle nor be reconciled; but I wish just to learn
whether, after this evening’s events, you intend to continue your
intimacy with—”
“Oh, for mercy’s sake,” interrupted the mistress, stamping her foot,
“for mercy’s sake, let us hear no more of it now! Your cold blood
cannot be worked into a fever: your veins are full of ice-water; but
mine are boiling, and the sight of such chillness makes them dance.”
“To get rid of me, answer my question,” persevered Mr. Linton. “You
must answer it; and that violence does not alarm me. I have found that
you can be as stoical as anyone, when you please. Will you give up
Heathcliff hereafter, or will you give up me? It is impossible for you
to be _my_ friend and _his_ at the same time; and I absolutely
_require_ to know which you choose.”
“I require to be let alone!” exclaimed Catherine, furiously. “I demand
it! Don’t you see I can scarcely stand? Edgar, you—you leave me!”
She rang the bell till it broke with a twang; I entered leisurely. It
was enough to try the temper of a saint, such senseless, wicked rages!
There she lay dashing her head against the arm of the sofa, and
grinding her teeth, so that you might fancy she would crash them to
splinters! Mr. Linton stood looking at her in sudden compunction and
fear. He told me to fetch some water. She had no breath for speaking. I
brought a glass full; and as she would not drink, I sprinkled it on her
face. In a few seconds she stretched herself out stiff, and turned up
her eyes, while her cheeks, at once blanched and livid, assumed the
aspect of death. Linton looked terrified.
“There is nothing in the world the matter,” I whispered. I did not want
him to yield, though I could not help being afraid in my heart.
“She has blood on her lips!” he said, shuddering.
“Never mind!” I answered, tartly. And I told him how she had resolved,
previous to his coming, on exhibiting a fit of frenzy. I incautiously
gave the account aloud, and she heard me; for she started up—her hair
flying over her shoulders, her eyes flashing, the muscles of her neck
and arms standing out preternaturally. I made up my mind for broken
bones, at least; but she only glared about her for an instant, and then
rushed from the room. The master directed me to follow; I did, to her
chamber-door: she hindered me from going further by securing it against
me.
As she never offered to descend to breakfast next morning, I went to
ask whether she would have some carried up. “No!” she replied,
peremptorily. The same question was repeated at dinner and tea; and
again on the morrow after, and received the same answer. Mr. Linton, on
his part, spent his time in the library, and did not inquire concerning
his wife’s occupations. Isabella and he had had an hour’s interview,
during which he tried to elicit from her some sentiment of proper
horror for Heathcliff’s advances: but he could make nothing of her
evasive replies, and was obliged to close the examination
unsatisfactorily; adding, however, a solemn warning, that if she were
so insane as to encourage that worthless suitor, it would dissolve all
bonds of relationship between herself and him.
CHAPTER XII
While Miss Linton moped about the park and garden, always silent, and
almost always in tears; and her brother shut himself up among books
that he never opened—wearying, I guessed, with a continual vague
expectation that Catherine, repenting her conduct, would come of her
own accord to ask pardon, and seek a reconciliation—and _she_ fasted
pertinaciously, under the idea, probably, that at every meal Edgar was
ready to choke for her absence, and pride alone held him from running
to cast himself at her feet; I went about my household duties,
convinced that the Grange had but one sensible soul in its walls, and
that lodged in my body. I wasted no condolences on Miss, nor any
expostulations on my mistress; nor did I pay much attention to the
sighs of my master, who yearned to hear his lady’s name, since he might
not hear her voice. I determined they should come about as they pleased
for me; and though it was a tiresomely slow process, I began to rejoice
at length in a faint dawn of its progress: as I thought at first.
Mrs. Linton, on the third day, unbarred her door, and having finished
the water in her pitcher and decanter, desired a renewed supply, and a
basin of gruel, for she believed she was dying. That I set down as a
speech meant for Edgar’s ears; I believed no such thing, so I kept it
to myself and brought her some tea and dry toast. She ate and drank
eagerly, and sank back on her pillow again, clenching her hands and
groaning. “Oh, I will die,” she exclaimed, “since no one cares anything
about me. I wish I had not taken that.” Then a good while after I heard
her murmur, “No, I’ll not die—he’d be glad—he does not love me at
all—he would never miss me!”
“Did you want anything, ma’am?” I inquired, still preserving my
external composure, in spite of her ghastly countenance and strange,
exaggerated manner.
“What is that apathetic being doing?” she demanded, pushing the thick
entangled locks from her wasted face. “Has he fallen into a lethargy,
or is he dead?”
“Neither,” replied I; “if you mean Mr. Linton. He’s tolerably well, I
think, though his studies occupy him rather more than they ought: he is
continually among his books, since he has no other society.”
I should not have spoken so if I had known her true condition, but I
could not get rid of the notion that she acted a part of her disorder.
“Among his books!” she cried, confounded. “And I dying! I on the brink
of the grave! My God! does he know how I’m altered?” continued she,
staring at her reflection in a mirror hanging against the opposite
wall. “Is that Catherine Linton? He imagines me in a pet—in play,
perhaps. Cannot you inform him that it is frightful earnest? Nelly, if
it be not too late, as soon as I learn how he feels, I’ll choose
between these two: either to starve at once—that would be no punishment
unless he had a heart—or to recover, and leave the country. Are you
speaking the truth about him now? Take care. Is he actually so utterly
indifferent for my life?”
“Why, ma’am,” I answered, “the master has no idea of your being
deranged; and of course he does not fear that you will let yourself die
of hunger.”
“You think not? Cannot you tell him I will?” she returned. “Persuade
him! speak of your own mind: say you are certain I will!”
“No, you forget, Mrs. Linton,” I suggested, “that you have eaten some
food with a relish this evening, and to-morrow you will perceive its
good effects.”
“If I were only sure it would kill him,” she interrupted, “I’d kill
myself directly! These three awful nights I’ve never closed my lids—and
oh, I’ve been tormented! I’ve been haunted, Nelly! But I begin to fancy
you don’t like me. How strange! I thought, though everybody hated and
despised each other, they could not avoid loving me. And they have all
turned to enemies in a few hours: they have, I’m positive; the people
here. How dreary to meet death, surrounded by their cold faces!
Isabella, terrified and repelled, afraid to enter the room, it would be
so dreadful to watch Catherine go. And Edgar standing solemnly by to
see it over; then offering prayers of thanks to God for restoring peace
to his house, and going back to his _books_! What in the name of all
that feels has he to do with _books_, when I am dying?”
She could not bear the notion which I had put into her head of Mr.
Linton’s philosophical resignation. Tossing about, she increased her
feverish bewilderment to madness, and tore the pillow with her teeth;
then raising herself up all burning, desired that I would open the
window. We were in the middle of winter, the wind blew strong from the
north-east, and I objected. Both the expressions flitting over her
face, and the changes of her moods, began to alarm me terribly; and
brought to my recollection her former illness, and the doctor’s
injunction that she should not be crossed. A minute previously she was
violent; now, supported on one arm, and not noticing my refusal to obey
her, she seemed to find childish diversion in pulling the feathers from
the rents she had just made, and ranging them on the sheet according to
their different species: her mind had strayed to other associations.
“That’s a turkey’s,” she murmured to herself; “and this is a wild
duck’s; and this is a pigeon’s. Ah, they put pigeons’ feathers in the
pillows—no wonder I couldn’t die! Let me take care to throw it on the
floor when I lie down. And here is a moor-cock’s; and this—I should
know it among a thousand—it’s a lapwing’s. Bonny bird; wheeling over
our heads in the middle of the moor. It wanted to get to its nest, for
the clouds had touched the swells, and it felt rain coming. This
feather was picked up from the heath, the bird was not shot: we saw its
nest in the winter, full of little skeletons. Heathcliff set a trap
over it, and the old ones dared not come. I made him promise he’d never
shoot a lapwing after that, and he didn’t. Yes, here are more! Did he
shoot my lapwings, Nelly? Are they red, any of them? Let me look.”
“Give over with that baby-work!” I interrupted, dragging the pillow
away, and turning the holes towards the mattress, for she was removing
its contents by handfuls. “Lie down and shut your eyes: you’re
wandering. There’s a mess! The down is flying about like snow.”
I went here and there collecting it.
“I see in you, Nelly,” she continued dreamily, “an aged woman: you have
grey hair and bent shoulders. This bed is the fairy cave under
Penistone Crags, and you are gathering elf-bolts to hurt our heifers;
pretending, while I am near, that they are only locks of wool. That’s
what you’ll come to fifty years hence: I know you are not so now. I’m
not wandering: you’re mistaken, or else I should believe you really
_were_ that withered hag, and I should think I _was_ under Penistone
Crags; and I’m conscious it’s night, and there are two candles on the
table making the black press shine like jet.”
“The black press? where is that?” I asked. “You are talking in your
sleep!”
“It’s against the wall, as it always is,” she replied. “It _does_
appear odd—I see a face in it!”
“There’s no press in the room, and never was,” said I, resuming my
seat, and looping up the curtain that I might watch her.
“Don’t _you_ see that face?” she inquired, gazing earnestly at the
mirror.
And say what I could, I was incapable of making her comprehend it to be
her own; so I rose and covered it with a shawl.
“It’s behind there still!” she pursued, anxiously. “And it stirred. Who
is it? I hope it will not come out when you are gone! Oh! Nelly, the
room is haunted! I’m afraid of being alone!”
I took her hand in mine, and bid her be composed; for a succession of
shudders convulsed her frame, and she would keep straining her gaze
towards the glass.
“There’s nobody here!” I insisted. “It was _yourself_, Mrs. Linton: you
knew it a while since.”
“Myself!” she gasped, “and the clock is striking twelve! It’s true,
then! that’s dreadful!”
Her fingers clutched the clothes, and gathered them over her eyes. I
attempted to steal to the door with an intention of calling her
husband; but I was summoned back by a piercing shriek—the shawl had
dropped from the frame.
“Why, what is the matter?” cried I. “Who is coward now? Wake up! That
is the glass—the mirror, Mrs. Linton; and you see yourself in it, and
there am I too by your side.”
Trembling and bewildered, she held me fast, but the horror gradually
passed from her countenance; its paleness gave place to a glow of
shame.
“Oh, dear! I thought I was at home,” she sighed. “I thought I was lying
in my chamber at Wuthering Heights. Because I’m weak, my brain got
confused, and I screamed unconsciously. Don’t say anything; but stay
with me. I dread sleeping: my dreams appal me.”
“A sound sleep would do you good, ma’am,” I answered: “and I hope this
suffering will prevent your trying starving again.”
“Oh, if I were but in my own bed in the old house!” she went on
bitterly, wringing her hands. “And that wind sounding in the firs by
the lattice. Do let me feel it—it comes straight down the moor—do let
me have one breath!” To pacify her I held the casement ajar a few
seconds. A cold blast rushed through; I closed it, and returned to my
post. She lay still now, her face bathed in tears. Exhaustion of body
had entirely subdued her spirit: our fiery Catherine was no better than
a wailing child.
“How long is it since I shut myself in here?” she asked, suddenly
reviving.
“It was Monday evening,” I replied, “and this is Thursday night, or
rather Friday morning, at present.”
“What! of the same week?” she exclaimed. “Only that brief time?”
“Long enough to live on nothing but cold water and ill-temper,”
observed I.
“Well, it seems a weary number of hours,” she muttered doubtfully: “it
must be more. I remember being in the parlour after they had
quarrelled, and Edgar being cruelly provoking, and me running into this
room desperate. As soon as ever I had barred the door, utter blackness
overwhelmed me, and I fell on the floor. I couldn’t explain to Edgar
how certain I felt of having a fit, or going raging mad, if he
persisted in teasing me! I had no command of tongue, or brain, and he
did not guess my agony, perhaps: it barely left me sense to try to
escape from him and his voice. Before I recovered sufficiently to see
and hear, it began to be dawn, and, Nelly, I’ll tell you what I
thought, and what has kept recurring and recurring till I feared for my
reason. I thought as I lay there, with my head against that table leg,
and my eyes dimly discerning the grey square of the window, that I was
enclosed in the oak-panelled bed at home; and my heart ached with some
great grief which, just waking, I could not recollect. I pondered, and
worried myself to discover what it could be, and, most strangely, the
whole last seven years of my life grew a blank! I did not recall that
they had been at all. I was a child; my father was just buried, and my
misery arose from the separation that Hindley had ordered between me
and Heathcliff. I was laid alone, for the first time; and, rousing from
a dismal doze after a night of weeping, I lifted my hand to push the
panels aside: it struck the table-top! I swept it along the carpet, and
then memory burst in: my late anguish was swallowed in a paroxysm of
despair. I cannot say why I felt so wildly wretched: it must have been
temporary derangement; for there is scarcely cause. But, supposing at
twelve years old I had been wrenched from the Heights, and every early
association, and my all in all, as Heathcliff was at that time, and
been converted at a stroke into Mrs. Linton, the lady of Thrushcross
Grange, and the wife of a stranger: an exile, and outcast, thenceforth,
from what had been my world. You may fancy a glimpse of the abyss where
I grovelled! Shake your head as you will, Nelly, you have helped to
unsettle me! You should have spoken to Edgar, indeed you should, and
compelled him to leave me quiet! Oh, I’m burning! I wish I were out of
doors! I wish I were a girl again, half savage and hardy, and free; and
laughing at injuries, not maddening under them! Why am I so changed?
why does my blood rush into a hell of tumult at a few words? I’m sure I
should be myself were I once among the heather on those hills. Open the
window again wide: fasten it open! Quick, why don’t you move?”
“Because I won’t give you your death of cold,” I answered.
“You won’t give me a chance of life, you mean,” she said, sullenly.
“However, I’m not helpless yet; I’ll open it myself.”
And sliding from the bed before I could hinder her, she crossed the
room, walking very uncertainly, threw it back, and bent out, careless
of the frosty air that cut about her shoulders as keen as a knife. I
entreated, and finally attempted to force her to retire. But I soon
found her delirious strength much surpassed mine (she was delirious, I
became convinced by her subsequent actions and ravings). There was no
moon, and everything beneath lay in misty darkness: not a light gleamed
from any house, far or near all had been extinguished long ago: and
those at Wuthering Heights were never visible—still she asserted she
caught their shining.
“Look!” she cried eagerly, “that’s my room with the candle in it, and
the trees swaying before it; and the other candle is in Joseph’s
garret. Joseph sits up late, doesn’t he? He’s waiting till I come home
that he may lock the gate. Well, he’ll wait a while yet. It’s a rough
journey, and a sad heart to travel it; and we must pass by Gimmerton
Kirk to go that journey! We’ve braved its ghosts often together, and
dared each other to stand among the graves and ask them to come. But,
Heathcliff, if I dare you now, will you venture? If you do, I’ll keep
you. I’ll not lie there by myself: they may bury me twelve feet deep,
and throw the church down over me, but I won’t rest till you are with
me. I never will!”
She paused, and resumed with a strange smile. “He’s considering—he’d
rather I’d come to him! Find a way, then! not through that kirkyard.
You are slow! Be content, you always followed me!”
Perceiving it vain to argue against her insanity, I was planning how I
could reach something to wrap about her, without quitting my hold of
herself (for I could not trust her alone by the gaping lattice), when,
to my consternation, I heard the rattle of the door-handle, and Mr.
Linton entered. He had only then come from the library; and, in passing
through the lobby, had noticed our talking and been attracted by
curiosity, or fear, to examine what it signified, at that late hour.
“Oh, sir!” I cried, checking the exclamation risen to his lips at the
sight which met him, and the bleak atmosphere of the chamber. “My poor
mistress is ill, and she quite masters me: I cannot manage her at all;
pray, come and persuade her to go to bed. Forget your anger, for she’s
hard to guide any way but her own.”
“Catherine ill?” he said, hastening to us. “Shut the window, Ellen!
Catherine! why—”
He was silent. The haggardness of Mrs. Linton’s appearance smote him
speechless, and he could only glance from her to me in horrified
astonishment.
“She’s been fretting here,” I continued, “and eating scarcely anything,
and never complaining: she would admit none of us till this evening,
and so we couldn’t inform you of her state, as we were not aware of it
ourselves; but it is nothing.”
I felt I uttered my explanations awkwardly; the master frowned. “It is
nothing, is it, Ellen Dean?” he said sternly. “You shall account more
clearly for keeping me ignorant of this!” And he took his wife in his
arms, and looked at her with anguish.
At first she gave him no glance of recognition: he was invisible to her
abstracted gaze. The delirium was not fixed, however; having weaned her
eyes from contemplating the outer darkness, by degrees she centred her
attention on him, and discovered who it was that held her.
“Ah! you are come, are you, Edgar Linton?” she said, with angry
animation. “You are one of those things that are ever found when least
wanted, and when you are wanted, never! I suppose we shall have plenty
of lamentations now—I see we shall—but they can’t keep me from my
narrow home out yonder: my resting-place, where I’m bound before spring
is over! There it is: not among the Lintons, mind, under the
chapel-roof, but in the open air, with a head-stone; and you may please
yourself whether you go to them or come to me!”
“Catherine, what have you done?” commenced the master. “Am I nothing to
you any more? Do you love that wretch Heath—”
“Hush!” cried Mrs. Linton. “Hush, this moment! You mention that name
and I end the matter instantly by a spring from the window! What you
touch at present you may have; but my soul will be on that hill top
before you lay hands on me again. I don’t want you, Edgar: I’m past
wanting you. Return to your books. I’m glad you possess a consolation,
for all you had in me is gone.”
“Her mind wanders, sir,” I interposed. “She has been talking nonsense
the whole evening; but let her have quiet, and proper attendance, and
she’ll rally. Hereafter, we must be cautious how we vex her.”
“I desire no further advice from you,” answered Mr. Linton. “You knew
your mistress’s nature, and you encouraged me to harass her. And not to
give me one hint of how she has been these three days! It was
heartless! Months of sickness could not cause such a change!”
I began to defend myself, thinking it too bad to be blamed for
another’s wicked waywardness. “I knew Mrs. Linton’s nature to be
headstrong and domineering,” cried I: “but I didn’t know that you
wished to foster her fierce temper! I didn’t know that, to humour her,
I should wink at Mr. Heathcliff. I performed the duty of a faithful
servant in telling you, and I have got a faithful servant’s wages!
Well, it will teach me to be careful next time. Next time you may
gather intelligence for yourself!”
“The next time you bring a tale to me you shall quit my service, Ellen
Dean,” he replied.
“You’d rather hear nothing about it, I suppose, then, Mr. Linton?” said
I. “Heathcliff has your permission to come a-courting to Miss, and to
drop in at every opportunity your absence offers, on purpose to poison
the mistress against you?”
Confused as Catherine was, her wits were alert at applying our
conversation.
“Ah! Nelly has played traitor,” she exclaimed, passionately. “Nelly is
my hidden enemy. You witch! So you do seek elf-bolts to hurt us! Let me
go, and I’ll make her rue! I’ll make her howl a recantation!”
A maniac’s fury kindled under her brows; she struggled desperately to
disengage herself from Linton’s arms. I felt no inclination to tarry
the event; and, resolving to seek medical aid on my own responsibility,
I quitted the chamber.
In passing the garden to reach the road, at a place where a bridle hook
is driven into the wall, I saw something white moved irregularly,
evidently by another agent than the wind. Notwithstanding my hurry, I
stayed to examine it, lest ever after I should have the conviction
impressed on my imagination that it was a creature of the other world.
My surprise and perplexity were great on discovering, by touch more
than vision, Miss Isabella’s springer, Fanny, suspended by a
handkerchief, and nearly at its last gasp. I quickly released the
animal, and lifted it into the garden. I had seen it follow its
mistress upstairs when she went to bed; and wondered much how it could
have got out there, and what mischievous person had treated it so.
While untying the knot round the hook, it seemed to me that I
repeatedly caught the beat of horses’ feet galloping at some distance;
but there were such a number of things to occupy my reflections that I
hardly gave the circumstance a thought: though it was a strange sound,
in that place, at two o’clock in the morning.
Mr. Kenneth was fortunately just issuing from his house to see a
patient in the village as I came up the street; and my account of
Catherine Linton’s malady induced him to accompany me back immediately.
He was a plain rough man; and he made no scruple to speak his doubts of
her surviving this second attack; unless she were more submissive to
his directions than she had shown herself before.
“Nelly Dean,” said he, “I can’t help fancying there’s an extra cause
for this. What has there been to do at the Grange? We’ve odd reports up
here. A stout, hearty lass like Catherine does not fall ill for a
trifle; and that sort of people should not either. It’s hard work
bringing them through fevers, and such things. How did it begin?”
“The master will inform you,” I answered; “but you are acquainted with
the Earnshaws’ violent dispositions, and Mrs. Linton caps them all. I
may say this; it commenced in a quarrel. She was struck during a
tempest of passion with a kind of fit. That’s her account, at least:
for she flew off in the height of it, and locked herself up.
Afterwards, she refused to eat, and now she alternately raves and
remains in a half dream; knowing those about her, but having her mind
filled with all sorts of strange ideas and illusions.”
“Mr. Linton will be sorry?” observed Kenneth, interrogatively.
“Sorry? he’ll break his heart should anything happen!” I replied.
“Don’t alarm him more than necessary.”
“Well, I told him to beware,” said my companion; “and he must bide the
consequences of neglecting my warning! Hasn’t he been intimate with Mr.
Heathcliff lately?”
“Heathcliff frequently visits at the Grange,” answered I, “though more
on the strength of the mistress having known him when a boy, than
because the master likes his company. At present he’s discharged from
the trouble of calling; owing to some presumptuous aspirations after
Miss Linton which he manifested. I hardly think he’ll be taken in
again.”
“And does Miss Linton turn a cold shoulder on him?” was the doctor’s
next question.
“I’m not in her confidence,” returned I, reluctant to continue the
subject.
“No, she’s a sly one,” he remarked, shaking his head. “She keeps her
own counsel! But she’s a real little fool. I have it from good
authority that last night (and a pretty night it was!) she and
Heathcliff were walking in the plantation at the back of your house
above two hours; and he pressed her not to go in again, but just mount
his horse and away with him! My informant said she could only put him
off by pledging her word of honour to be prepared on their first
meeting after that: when it was to be he didn’t hear; but you urge Mr.
Linton to look sharp!”
This news filled me with fresh fears; I outstripped Kenneth, and ran
most of the way back. The little dog was yelping in the garden yet. I
spared a minute to open the gate for it, but instead of going to the
house door, it coursed up and down snuffing the grass, and would have
escaped to the road, had I not seized it and conveyed it in with me. On
ascending to Isabella’s room, my suspicions were confirmed: it was
empty. Had I been a few hours sooner Mrs. Linton’s illness might have
arrested her rash step. But what could be done now? There was a bare
possibility of overtaking them if pursued instantly. _I_ could not
pursue them, however; and I dared not rouse the family, and fill the
place with confusion; still less unfold the business to my master,
absorbed as he was in his present calamity, and having no heart to
spare for a second grief! I saw nothing for it but to hold my tongue,
and suffer matters to take their course; and Kenneth being arrived, I
went with a badly composed countenance to announce him. Catherine lay
in a troubled sleep: her husband had succeeded in soothing the excess
of frenzy; he now hung over her pillow, watching every shade and every
change of her painfully expressive features.
The doctor, on examining the case for himself, spoke hopefully to him
of its having a favourable termination, if we could only preserve
around her perfect and constant tranquillity. To me, he signified the
threatening danger was not so much death, as permanent alienation of
intellect.
I did not close my eyes that night, nor did Mr. Linton: indeed, we
never went to bed; and the servants were all up long before the usual
hour, moving through the house with stealthy tread, and exchanging
whispers as they encountered each other in their vocations. Every one
was active but Miss Isabella; and they began to remark how sound she
slept: her brother, too, asked if she had risen, and seemed impatient
for her presence, and hurt that she showed so little anxiety for her
sister-in-law. I trembled lest he should send me to call her; but I was
spared the pain of being the first proclaimant of her flight. One of
the maids, a thoughtless girl, who had been on an early errand to
Gimmerton, came panting upstairs, open-mouthed, and dashed into the
chamber, crying: “Oh, dear, dear! What mun we have next? Master,
master, our young lady—”
“Hold your noise!” cried I hastily, enraged at her clamorous manner.
“Speak lower, Mary—What is the matter?” said Mr. Linton. “What ails
your young lady?”
“She’s gone, she’s gone! Yon’ Heathcliff’s run off wi’ her!” gasped the
girl.
“That is not true!” exclaimed Linton, rising in agitation. “It cannot
be: how has the idea entered your head? Ellen Dean, go and seek her. It
is incredible: it cannot be.”
As he spoke he took the servant to the door, and then repeated his
demand to know her reasons for such an assertion.
“Why, I met on the road a lad that fetches milk here,” she stammered,
“and he asked whether we weren’t in trouble at the Grange. I thought he
meant for missis’s sickness, so I answered, yes. Then says he, ‘There’s
somebody gone after ’em, I guess?’ I stared. He saw I knew nought about
it, and he told how a gentleman and lady had stopped to have a horse’s
shoe fastened at a blacksmith’s shop, two miles out of Gimmerton, not
very long after midnight! and how the blacksmith’s lass had got up to
spy who they were: she knew them both directly. And she noticed the
man—Heathcliff it was, she felt certain: nob’dy could mistake him,
besides—put a sovereign in her father’s hand for payment. The lady had
a cloak about her face; but having desired a sup of water, while she
drank it fell back, and she saw her very plain. Heathcliff held both
bridles as they rode on, and they set their faces from the village, and
went as fast as the rough roads would let them. The lass said nothing
to her father, but she told it all over Gimmerton this morning.”
I ran and peeped, for form’s sake, into Isabella’s room; confirming,
when I returned, the servant’s statement. Mr. Linton had resumed his
seat by the bed; on my re-entrance, he raised his eyes, read the
meaning of my blank aspect, and dropped them without giving an order,
or uttering a word.
“Are we to try any measures for overtaking and bringing her back,” I
inquired. “How should we do?”
“She went of her own accord,” answered the master; “she had a right to
go if she pleased. Trouble me no more about her. Hereafter she is only
my sister in name: not because I disown her, but because she has
disowned me.”
And that was all he said on the subject: he did not make single inquiry
further, or mention her in any way, except directing me to send what
property she had in the house to her fresh home, wherever it was, when
I knew it.
CHAPTER XIII
For two months the fugitives remained absent; in those two months, Mrs.
Linton encountered and conquered the worst shock of what was
denominated a brain fever. No mother could have nursed an only child
more devotedly than Edgar tended her. Day and night he was watching,
and patiently enduring all the annoyances that irritable nerves and a
shaken reason could inflict; and, though Kenneth remarked that what he
saved from the grave would only recompense his care by forming the
source of constant future anxiety—in fact, that his health and strength
were being sacrificed to preserve a mere ruin of humanity—he knew no
limits in gratitude and joy when Catherine’s life was declared out of
danger; and hour after hour he would sit beside her, tracing the
gradual return to bodily health, and flattering his too sanguine hopes
with the illusion that her mind would settle back to its right balance
also, and she would soon be entirely her former self.
The first time she left her chamber was at the commencement of the
following March. Mr. Linton had put on her pillow, in the morning, a
handful of golden crocuses; her eye, long stranger to any gleam of
pleasure, caught them in waking, and shone delighted as she gathered
them eagerly together.
“These are the earliest flowers at the Heights,” she exclaimed. “They
remind me of soft thaw winds, and warm sunshine, and nearly melted
snow. Edgar, is there not a south wind, and is not the snow almost
gone?”
“The snow is quite gone down here, darling,” replied her husband; “and
I only see two white spots on the whole range of moors: the sky is
blue, and the larks are singing, and the becks and brooks are all brim
full. Catherine, last spring at this time, I was longing to have you
under this roof; now, I wish you were a mile or two up those hills: the
air blows so sweetly, I feel that it would cure you.”
“I shall never be there but once more,” said the invalid; “and then
you’ll leave me, and I shall remain for ever. Next spring you’ll long
again to have me under this roof, and you’ll look back and think you
were happy to-day.”
Linton lavished on her the kindest caresses, and tried to cheer her by
the fondest words; but, vaguely regarding the flowers, she let the
tears collect on her lashes and stream down her cheeks unheeding. We
knew she was really better, and, therefore, decided that long
confinement to a single place produced much of this despondency, and it
might be partially removed by a change of scene. The master told me to
light a fire in the many-weeks’ deserted parlour, and to set an
easy-chair in the sunshine by the window; and then he brought her down,
and she sat a long while enjoying the genial heat, and, as we expected,
revived by the objects round her: which, though familiar, were free
from the dreary associations investing her hated sick chamber. By
evening she seemed greatly exhausted; yet no arguments could persuade
her to return to that apartment, and I had to arrange the parlour sofa
for her bed, till another room could be prepared. To obviate the
fatigue of mounting and descending the stairs, we fitted up this, where
you lie at present—on the same floor with the parlour; and she was soon
strong enough to move from one to the other, leaning on Edgar’s arm.
Ah, I thought myself, she might recover, so waited on as she was. And
there was double cause to desire it, for on her existence depended that
of another: we cherished the hope that in a little while Mr. Linton’s
heart would be gladdened, and his lands secured from a stranger’s grip,
by the birth of an heir.
I should mention that Isabella sent to her brother, some six weeks from
her departure, a short note, announcing her marriage with Heathcliff.
It appeared dry and cold; but at the bottom was dotted in with pencil
an obscure apology, and an entreaty for kind remembrance and
reconciliation, if her proceeding had offended him: asserting that she
could not help it then, and being done, she had now no power to repeal
it. Linton did not reply to this, I believe; and, in a fortnight more,
I got a long letter, which I considered odd, coming from the pen of a
bride just out of the honeymoon. I’ll read it: for I keep it yet. Any
relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.
* * * * *
DEAR ELLEN, it begins,—I came last night to Wuthering Heights, and
heard, for the first time, that Catherine has been, and is yet, very
ill. I must not write to her, I suppose, and my brother is either too
angry or too distressed to answer what I sent him. Still, I must write
to somebody, and the only choice left me is you.
Inform Edgar that I’d give the world to see his face again—that my
heart returned to Thrushcross Grange in twenty-four hours after I left
it, and is there at this moment, full of warm feelings for him, and
Catherine! _I can’t follow it though_—(these words are underlined)—they
need not expect me, and they may draw what conclusions they please;
taking care, however, to lay nothing at the door of my weak will or
deficient affection.
The remainder of the letter is for yourself alone. I want to ask you
two questions: the first is,—How did you contrive to preserve the
common sympathies of human nature when you resided here? I cannot
recognise any sentiment which those around share with me.
The second question I have great interest in; it is this—Is Mr.
Heathcliff a man? If so, is he mad? And if not, is he a devil? I
sha’n’t tell my reasons for making this inquiry; but I beseech you to
explain, if you can, what I have married: that is, when you call to see
me; and you must call, Ellen, very soon. Don’t write, but come, and
bring me something from Edgar.
Now, you shall hear how I have been received in my new home, as I am
led to imagine the Heights will be. It is to amuse myself that I dwell
on such subjects as the lack of external comforts: they never occupy my
thoughts, except at the moment when I miss them. I should laugh and
dance for joy, if I found their absence was the total of my miseries,
and the rest was an unnatural dream!
The sun set behind the Grange as we turned on to the moors; by that, I
judged it to be six o’clock; and my companion halted half an hour, to
inspect the park, and the gardens, and, probably, the place itself, as
well as he could; so it was dark when we dismounted in the paved yard
of the farm-house, and your old fellow-servant, Joseph, issued out to
receive us by the light of a dip candle. He did it with a courtesy that
redounded to his credit. His first act was to elevate his torch to a
level with my face, squint malignantly, project his under-lip, and turn
away. Then he took the two horses, and led them into the stables;
reappearing for the purpose of locking the outer gate, as if we lived
in an ancient castle.
Heathcliff stayed to speak to him, and I entered the kitchen—a dingy,
untidy hole; I daresay you would not know it, it is so changed since it
was in your charge. By the fire stood a ruffianly child, strong in limb
and dirty in garb, with a look of Catherine in his eyes and about his
mouth.
“This is Edgar’s legal nephew,” I reflected—“mine in a manner; I must
shake hands, and—yes—I must kiss him. It is right to establish a good
understanding at the beginning.”
I approached, and, attempting to take his chubby fist, said—“How do you
do, my dear?”
He replied in a jargon I did not comprehend.
“Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?” was my next essay at
conversation.
An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not “frame off”
rewarded my perseverance.
“Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred
bull-dog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be ganging?” he
asked authoritatively.
Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to
wait till the others should enter. Mr. Heathcliff was nowhere visible;
and Joseph, whom I followed to the stables, and requested to accompany
me in, after staring and muttering to himself, screwed up his nose and
replied—“Mim! mim! mim! Did iver Christian body hear aught like it?
Mincing un’ munching! How can I tell whet ye say?”
“I say, I wish you to come with me into the house!” I cried, thinking
him deaf, yet highly disgusted at his rudeness.
“None o’ me! I getten summut else to do,” he answered, and continued
his work; moving his lantern jaws meanwhile, and surveying my dress and
countenance (the former a great deal too fine, but the latter, I’m
sure, as sad as he could desire) with sovereign contempt.
I walked round the yard, and through a wicket, to another door, at
which I took the liberty of knocking, in hopes some more civil servant
might show himself. After a short suspense, it was opened by a tall,
gaunt man, without neckerchief, and otherwise extremely slovenly; his
features were lost in masses of shaggy hair that hung on his shoulders;
and _his_ eyes, too, were like a ghostly Catherine’s with all their
beauty annihilated.
“What’s your business here?” he demanded, grimly. “Who are you?”
“My name was Isabella Linton,” I replied. “You’ve seen me before, sir.
I’m lately married to Mr. Heathcliff, and he has brought me here—I
suppose, by your permission.”
“Is he come back, then?” asked the hermit, glaring like a hungry wolf.
“Yes—we came just now,” I said; “but he left me by the kitchen door;
and when I would have gone in, your little boy played sentinel over the
place, and frightened me off by the help of a bull-dog.”
“It’s well the hellish villain has kept his word!” growled my future
host, searching the darkness beyond me in expectation of discovering
Heathcliff; and then he indulged in a soliloquy of execrations, and
threats of what he would have done had the “fiend” deceived him.
I repented having tried this second entrance, and was almost inclined
to slip away before he finished cursing, but ere I could execute that
intention, he ordered me in, and shut and re-fastened the door. There
was a great fire, and that was all the light in the huge apartment,
whose floor had grown a uniform grey; and the once brilliant
pewter-dishes, which used to attract my gaze when I was a girl, partook
of a similar obscurity, created by tarnish and dust. I inquired whether
I might call the maid, and be conducted to a bedroom! Mr. Earnshaw
vouchsafed no answer. He walked up and down, with his hands in his
pockets, apparently quite forgetting my presence; and his abstraction
was evidently so deep, and his whole aspect so misanthropical, that I
shrank from disturbing him again.
You’ll not be surprised, Ellen, at my feeling particularly cheerless,
seated in worse than solitude on that inhospitable hearth, and
remembering that four miles distant lay my delightful home, containing
the only people I loved on earth; and there might as well be the
Atlantic to part us, instead of those four miles: I could not overpass
them! I questioned with myself—where must I turn for comfort? and—mind
you don’t tell Edgar, or Catherine—above every sorrow beside, this rose
pre-eminent: despair at finding nobody who could or would be my ally
against Heathcliff! I had sought shelter at Wuthering Heights, almost
gladly, because I was secured by that arrangement from living alone
with him; but he knew the people we were coming amongst, and he did not
fear their intermeddling.
I sat and thought a doleful time: the clock struck eight, and nine, and
still my companion paced to and fro, his head bent on his breast, and
perfectly silent, unless a groan or a bitter ejaculation forced itself
out at intervals. I listened to detect a woman’s voice in the house,
and filled the interim with wild regrets and dismal anticipations,
which, at last, spoke audibly in irrepressible sighing and weeping. I
was not aware how openly I grieved, till Earnshaw halted opposite, in
his measured walk, and gave me a stare of newly-awakened surprise.
Taking advantage of his recovered attention, I exclaimed—“I’m tired
with my journey, and I want to go to bed! Where is the maid-servant?
Direct me to her, as she won’t come to me!”
“We have none,” he answered; “you must wait on yourself!”
“Where must I sleep, then?” I sobbed; I was beyond regarding
self-respect, weighed down by fatigue and wretchedness.
“Joseph will show you Heathcliff’s chamber,” said he; “open that
door—he’s in there.”
I was going to obey, but he suddenly arrested me, and added in the
strangest tone—“Be so good as to turn your lock, and draw your
bolt—don’t omit it!”
“Well!” I said. “But why, Mr. Earnshaw?” I did not relish the notion of
deliberately fastening myself in with Heathcliff.
“Look here!” he replied, pulling from his waistcoat a
curiously-constructed pistol, having a double-edged spring knife
attached to the barrel. “That’s a great tempter to a desperate man, is
it not? I cannot resist going up with this every night, and trying his
door. If once I find it open he’s done for; I do it invariably, even
though the minute before I have been recalling a hundred reasons that
should make me refrain: it is some devil that urges me to thwart my own
schemes by killing him. You fight against that devil for love as long
as you may; when the time comes, not all the angels in heaven shall
save him!”
I surveyed the weapon inquisitively. A hideous notion struck me: how
powerful I should be possessing such an instrument! I took it from his
hand, and touched the blade. He looked astonished at the expression my
face assumed during a brief second: it was not horror, it was
covetousness. He snatched the pistol back, jealously; shut the knife,
and returned it to its concealment.
“I don’t care if you tell him,” said he. “Put him on his guard, and
watch for him. You know the terms we are on, I see: his danger does not
shock you.”
“What has Heathcliff done to you?” I asked. “In what has he wronged
you, to warrant this appalling hatred? Wouldn’t it be wiser to bid him
quit the house?”
“No!” thundered Earnshaw; “should he offer to leave me, he’s a dead
man: persuade him to attempt it, and you are a murderess! Am I to lose
_all_, without a chance of retrieval? Is Hareton to be a beggar? Oh,
damnation! I _will_ have it back; and I’ll have _his_ gold too; and
then his blood; and hell shall have his soul! It will be ten times
blacker with that guest than ever it was before!”
You’ve acquainted me, Ellen, with your old master’s habits. He is
clearly on the verge of madness: he was so last night at least. I
shuddered to be near him, and thought on the servant’s ill-bred
moroseness as comparatively agreeable. He now recommenced his moody
walk, and I raised the latch, and escaped into the kitchen. Joseph was
bending over the fire, peering into a large pan that swung above it;
and a wooden bowl of oatmeal stood on the settle close by. The contents
of the pan began to boil, and he turned to plunge his hand into the
bowl; I conjectured that this preparation was probably for our supper,
and, being hungry, I resolved it should be eatable; so, crying out
sharply, “_I’ll_ make the porridge!” I removed the vessel out of his
reach, and proceeded to take off my hat and riding-habit. “Mr.
Earnshaw,” I continued, “directs me to wait on myself: I will. I’m not
going to act the lady among you, for fear I should starve.”
“Gooid Lord!” he muttered, sitting down, and stroking his ribbed
stockings from the knee to the ankle. “If there’s to be fresh
ortherings—just when I getten used to two maisters, if I mun hev’ a
_mistress_ set o’er my heead, it’s like time to be flitting. I niver
_did_ think to see t’ day that I mud lave th’ owld place—but I doubt
it’s nigh at hand!”
This lamentation drew no notice from me: I went briskly to work,
sighing to remember a period when it would have been all merry fun; but
compelled speedily to drive off the remembrance. It racked me to recall
past happiness and the greater peril there was of conjuring up its
apparition, the quicker the thible ran round, and the faster the
handfuls of meal fell into the water. Joseph beheld my style of cookery
with growing indignation.
“Thear!” he ejaculated. “Hareton, thou willn’t sup thy porridge
to-neeght; they’ll be naught but lumps as big as my neive. Thear,
agean! I’d fling in bowl un’ all, if I wer ye! There, pale t’ guilp
off, un’ then ye’ll hae done wi’t. Bang, bang. It’s a mercy t’ bothom
isn’t deaved out!”
It _was_ rather a rough mess, I own, when poured into the basins; four
had been provided, and a gallon pitcher of new milk was brought from
the dairy, which Hareton seized and commenced drinking and spilling
from the expansive lip. I expostulated, and desired that he should have
his in a mug; affirming that I could not taste the liquid treated so
dirtily. The old cynic chose to be vastly offended at this nicety;
assuring me, repeatedly, that “the barn was every bit as good” as I,
“and every bit as wollsome,” and wondering how I could fashion to be so
conceited. Meanwhile, the infant ruffian continued sucking; and
glowered up at me defyingly, as he slavered into the jug.
“I shall have my supper in another room,” I said. “Have you no place
you call a parlour?”
“_Parlour_!” he echoed, sneeringly, “_parlour_! Nay, we’ve noa
_parlours_. If yah dunnut loike wer company, there’s maister’s; un’ if
yah dunnut loike maister, there’s us.”
“Then I shall go upstairs,” I answered; “show me a chamber.”
I put my basin on a tray, and went myself to fetch some more milk. With
great grumblings, the fellow rose, and preceded me in my ascent: we
mounted to the garrets; he opened a door, now and then, to look into
the apartments we passed.
“Here’s a rahm,” he said, at last, flinging back a cranky board on
hinges. “It’s weel eneugh to ate a few porridge in. There’s a pack o’
corn i’ t’ corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye’re feared o’ muckying
yer grand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o’ t’ top on’t.”
The “rahm” was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt and grain;
various sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare
space in the middle.
“Why, man,” I exclaimed, facing him angrily, “this is not a place to
sleep in. I wish to see my bed-room.”
“_Bed-rume_!” he repeated, in a tone of mockery. “Yah’s see all t’
_bed-rumes_ thear is—yon’s mine.”
He pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in
being more naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless
bed, with an indigo-coloured quilt, at one end.
“What do I want with yours?” I retorted. “I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does
not lodge at the top of the house, does he?”
“Oh! it’s Maister _Hathecliff’s_ ye’re wanting?” cried he, as if making
a new discovery. “Couldn’t ye ha’ said soa, at onst? un’ then, I mud
ha’ telled ye, baht all this wark, that that’s just one ye cannut
see—he allas keeps it locked, un’ nob’dy iver mells on’t but hisseln.”
“You’ve a nice house, Joseph,” I could not refrain from observing, “and
pleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the
madness in the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my
fate with theirs! However, that is not to the present purpose—there are
other rooms. For heaven’s sake be quick, and let me settle somewhere!”
He made no reply to this adjuration; only plodding doggedly down the
wooden steps, and halting, before an apartment which, from that halt
and the superior quality of its furniture, I conjectured to be the best
one. There was a carpet—a good one, but the pattern was obliterated by
dust; a fireplace hung with cut-paper, dropping to pieces; a handsome
oak-bedstead with ample crimson curtains of rather expensive material
and modern make; but they had evidently experienced rough usage: the
vallances hung in festoons, wrenched from their rings, and the iron rod
supporting them was bent in an arc on one side, causing the drapery to
trail upon the floor. The chairs were also damaged, many of them
severely; and deep indentations deformed the panels of the walls. I was
endeavouring to gather resolution for entering and taking possession,
when my fool of a guide announced,—“This here is t’ maister’s.” My
supper by this time was cold, my appetite gone, and my patience
exhausted. I insisted on being provided instantly with a place of
refuge, and means of repose.
“Whear the divil?” began the religious elder. “The Lord bless us! The
Lord forgie us! Whear the _hell_ wold ye gang? ye marred, wearisome
nowt! Ye’ve seen all but Hareton’s bit of a cham’er. There’s not
another hoile to lig down in i’ th’ hahse!”
I was so vexed, I flung my tray and its contents on the ground; and
then seated myself at the stairs’-head, hid my face in my hands, and
cried.
“Ech! ech!” exclaimed Joseph. “Weel done, Miss Cathy! weel done, Miss
Cathy! Howsiver, t’ maister sall just tum’le o’er them brooken pots;
un’ then we’s hear summut; we’s hear how it’s to be. Gooid-for-naught
madling! ye desarve pining fro’ this to Chrustmas, flinging t’ precious
gifts o’God under fooit i’ yer flaysome rages! But I’m mista’en if ye
shew yer sperrit lang. Will Hathecliff bide sich bonny ways, think ye?
I nobbut wish he may catch ye i’ that plisky. I nobbut wish he may.”
And so he went on scolding to his den beneath, taking the candle with
him; and I remained in the dark. The period of reflection succeeding
this silly action compelled me to admit the necessity of smothering my
pride and choking my wrath, and bestirring myself to remove its
effects. An unexpected aid presently appeared in the shape of
Throttler, whom I now recognised as a son of our old Skulker: it had
spent its whelphood at the Grange, and was given by my father to Mr.
Hindley. I fancy it knew me: it pushed its nose against mine by way of
salute, and then hastened to devour the porridge; while I groped from
step to step, collecting the shattered earthenware, and drying the
spatters of milk from the banister with my pocket-handkerchief. Our
labours were scarcely over when I heard Earnshaw’s tread in the
passage; my assistant tucked in his tail, and pressed to the wall; I
stole into the nearest doorway. The dog’s endeavour to avoid him was
unsuccessful; as I guessed by a scutter downstairs, and a prolonged,
piteous yelping. I had better luck: he passed on, entered his chamber,
and shut the door. Directly after Joseph came up with Hareton, to put
him to bed. I had found shelter in Hareton’s room, and the old man, on
seeing me, said,—“They’s rahm for boath ye un’ yer pride, now, I sud
think i’ the hahse. It’s empty; ye may hev’ it all to yerseln, un’ Him
as allus maks a third, i’ sich ill company!”
Gladly did I take advantage of this intimation; and the minute I flung
myself into a chair, by the fire, I nodded, and slept. My slumber was
deep and sweet, though over far too soon. Mr. Heathcliff awoke me; he
had just come in, and demanded, in his loving manner, what I was doing
there? I told him the cause of my staying up so late—that he had the
key of our room in his pocket. The adjective _our_ gave mortal offence.
He swore it was not, nor ever should be, mine; and he’d—but I’ll not
repeat his language, nor describe his habitual conduct: he is ingenious
and unresting in seeking to gain my abhorrence! I sometimes wonder at
him with an intensity that deadens my fear: yet, I assure you, a tiger
or a venomous serpent could not rouse terror in me equal to that which
he wakens. He told me of Catherine’s illness, and accused my brother of
causing it promising that I should be Edgar’s proxy in suffering, till
he could get hold of him.
I do hate him—I am wretched—I have been a fool! Beware of uttering one
breath of this to any one at the Grange. I shall expect you every
day—don’t disappoint me!—ISABELLA.
CHAPTER XIV
As soon as I had perused this epistle I went to the master, and
informed him that his sister had arrived at the Heights, and sent me a
letter expressing her sorrow for Mrs. Linton’s situation, and her
ardent desire to see him; with a wish that he would transmit to her, as
early as possible, some token of forgiveness by me.
“Forgiveness!” said Linton. “I have nothing to forgive her, Ellen. You
may call at Wuthering Heights this afternoon, if you like, and say that
I am not angry, but I’m sorry to have lost her; especially as I can
never think she’ll be happy. It is out of the question my going to see
her, however: we are eternally divided; and should she really wish to
oblige me, let her persuade the villain she has married to leave the
country.”
“And you won’t write her a little note, sir?” I asked, imploringly.
“No,” he answered. “It is needless. My communication with Heathcliff’s
family shall be as sparing as his with mine. It shall not exist!”
Mr. Edgar’s coldness depressed me exceedingly; and all the way from the
Grange I puzzled my brains how to put more heart into what he said,
when I repeated it; and how to soften his refusal of even a few lines
to console Isabella. I daresay she had been on the watch for me since
morning: I saw her looking through the lattice as I came up the garden
causeway, and I nodded to her; but she drew back, as if afraid of being
observed. I entered without knocking. There never was such a dreary,
dismal scene as the formerly cheerful house presented! I must confess,
that if I had been in the young lady’s place, I would, at least, have
swept the hearth, and wiped the tables with a duster. But she already
partook of the pervading spirit of neglect which encompassed her. Her
pretty face was wan and listless; her hair uncurled: some locks hanging
lankly down, and some carelessly twisted round her head. Probably she
had not touched her dress since yester evening. Hindley was not there.
Mr. Heathcliff sat at a table, turning over some papers in his
pocket-book; but he rose when I appeared, asked me how I did, quite
friendly, and offered me a chair. He was the only thing there that
seemed decent; and I thought he never looked better. So much had
circumstances altered their positions, that he would certainly have
struck a stranger as a born and bred gentleman; and his wife as a
thorough little slattern! She came forward eagerly to greet me, and
held out one hand to take the expected letter. I shook my head. She
wouldn’t understand the hint, but followed me to a sideboard, where I
went to lay my bonnet, and importuned me in a whisper to give her
directly what I had brought. Heathcliff guessed the meaning of her
manoeuvres, and said—“If you have got anything for Isabella (as no
doubt you have, Nelly), give it to her. You needn’t make a secret of
it: we have no secrets between us.”
“Oh, I have nothing,” I replied, thinking it best to speak the truth at
once. “My master bid me tell his sister that she must not expect either
a letter or a visit from him at present. He sends his love, ma’am, and
his wishes for your happiness, and his pardon for the grief you have
occasioned; but he thinks that after this time his household and the
household here should drop intercommunication, as nothing could come of
keeping it up.”
Mrs. Heathcliff’s lip quivered slightly, and she returned to her seat
in the window. Her husband took his stand on the hearthstone, near me,
and began to put questions concerning Catherine. I told him as much as
I thought proper of her illness, and he extorted from me, by
cross-examination, most of the facts connected with its origin. I
blamed her, as she deserved, for bringing it all on herself; and ended
by hoping that he would follow Mr. Linton’s example and avoid future
interference with his family, for good or evil.
“Mrs. Linton is now just recovering,” I said; “she’ll never be like she
was, but her life is spared; and if you really have a regard for her,
you’ll shun crossing her way again: nay, you’ll move out of this
country entirely; and that you may not regret it, I’ll inform you
Catherine Linton is as different now from your old friend Catherine
Earnshaw, as that young lady is different from me. Her appearance is
changed greatly, her character much more so; and the person who is
compelled, of necessity, to be her companion, will only sustain his
affection hereafter by the remembrance of what she once was, by common
humanity, and a sense of duty!”
“That is quite possible,” remarked Heathcliff, forcing himself to seem
calm: “quite possible that your master should have nothing but common
humanity and a sense of duty to fall back upon. But do you imagine that
I shall leave Catherine to his _duty_ and _humanity_? and can you
compare my feelings respecting Catherine to his? Before you leave this
house, I must exact a promise from you that you’ll get me an interview
with her: consent, or refuse, I _will_ see her! What do you say?”
“I say, Mr. Heathcliff,” I replied, “you must not: you never shall,
through my means. Another encounter between you and the master would
kill her altogether.”
“With your aid that may be avoided,” he continued; “and should there be
danger of such an event—should he be the cause of adding a single
trouble more to her existence—why, I think I shall be justified in
going to extremes! I wish you had sincerity enough to tell me whether
Catherine would suffer greatly from his loss: the fear that she would
restrains me. And there you see the distinction between our feelings:
had he been in my place, and I in his, though I hated him with a hatred
that turned my life to gall, I never would have raised a hand against
him. You may look incredulous, if you please! I never would have
banished him from her society as long as she desired his. The moment
her regard ceased, I would have torn his heart out, and drunk his
blood! But, till then—if you don’t believe me, you don’t know me—till
then, I would have died by inches before I touched a single hair of his
head!”
“And yet,” I interrupted, “you have no scruples in completely ruining
all hopes of her perfect restoration, by thrusting yourself into her
remembrance now, when she has nearly forgotten you, and involving her
in a new tumult of discord and distress.”
“You suppose she has nearly forgotten me?” he said. “Oh, Nelly! you
know she has not! You know as well as I do, that for every thought she
spends on Linton she spends a thousand on me! At a most miserable
period of my life, I had a notion of the kind: it haunted me on my
return to the neighbourhood last summer; but only her own assurance
could make me admit the horrible idea again. And then, Linton would be
nothing, nor Hindley, nor all the dreams that ever I dreamt. Two words
would comprehend my future—_death_ and _hell_: existence, after losing
her, would be hell. Yet I was a fool to fancy for a moment that she
valued Edgar Linton’s attachment more than mine. If he loved with all
the powers of his puny being, he couldn’t love as much in eighty years
as I could in a day. And Catherine has a heart as deep as I have: the
sea could be as readily contained in that horse-trough as her whole
affection be monopolised by him. Tush! He is scarcely a degree dearer
to her than her dog, or her horse. It is not in him to be loved like
me: how can she love in him what he has not?”
“Catherine and Edgar are as fond of each other as any two people can
be,” cried Isabella, with sudden vivacity. “No one has a right to talk
in that manner, and I won’t hear my brother depreciated in silence!”
“Your brother is wondrous fond of you too, isn’t he?” observed
Heathcliff, scornfully. “He turns you adrift on the world with
surprising alacrity.”
“He is not aware of what I suffer,” she replied. “I didn’t tell him
that.”
“You have been telling him something, then: you have written, have
you?”
“To say that I was married, I did write—you saw the note.”
“And nothing since?”
“No.”
“My young lady is looking sadly the worse for her change of condition,”
I remarked. “Somebody’s love comes short in her case, obviously; whose,
I may guess; but, perhaps, I shouldn’t say.”
“I should guess it was her own,” said Heathcliff. “She degenerates into
a mere slut! She is tired of trying to please me uncommonly early.
You’d hardly credit it, but the very morrow of our wedding she was
weeping to go home. However, she’ll suit this house so much the better
for not being over nice, and I’ll take care she does not disgrace me by
rambling abroad.”
“Well, sir,” returned I, “I hope you’ll consider that Mrs. Heathcliff
is accustomed to be looked after and waited on; and that she has been
brought up like an only daughter, whom every one was ready to serve.
You must let her have a maid to keep things tidy about her, and you
must treat her kindly. Whatever be your notion of Mr. Edgar, you cannot
doubt that she has a capacity for strong attachments, or she wouldn’t
have abandoned the elegancies, and comforts, and friends of her former
home, to fix contentedly, in such a wilderness as this, with you.”
“She abandoned them under a delusion,” he answered; “picturing in me a
hero of romance, and expecting unlimited indulgences from my chivalrous
devotion. I can hardly regard her in the light of a rational creature,
so obstinately has she persisted in forming a fabulous notion of my
character and acting on the false impressions she cherished. But, at
last, I think she begins to know me: I don’t perceive the silly smiles
and grimaces that provoked me at first; and the senseless incapability
of discerning that I was in earnest when I gave her my opinion of her
infatuation and herself. It was a marvellous effort of perspicacity to
discover that I did not love her. I believed, at one time, no lessons
could teach her that! And yet it is poorly learnt; for this morning she
announced, as a piece of appalling intelligence, that I had actually
succeeded in making her hate me! A positive labour of Hercules, I
assure you! If it be achieved, I have cause to return thanks. Can I
trust your assertion, Isabella? Are you sure you hate me? If I let you
alone for half a day, won’t you come sighing and wheedling to me again?
I daresay she would rather I had seemed all tenderness before you: it
wounds her vanity to have the truth exposed. But I don’t care who knows
that the passion was wholly on one side: and I never told her a lie
about it. She cannot accuse me of showing one bit of deceitful
softness. The first thing she saw me do, on coming out of the Grange,
was to hang up her little dog; and when she pleaded for it, the first
words I uttered were a wish that I had the hanging of every being
belonging to her, except one: possibly she took that exception for
herself. But no brutality disgusted her: I suppose she has an innate
admiration of it, if only her precious person were secure from injury!
Now, was it not the depth of absurdity—of genuine idiocy, for that
pitiful, slavish, mean-minded brach to dream that I could love her?
Tell your master, Nelly, that I never, in all my life, met with such an
abject thing as she is. She even disgraces the name of Linton; and I’ve
sometimes relented, from pure lack of invention, in my experiments on
what she could endure, and still creep shamefully cringing back! But
tell him, also, to set his fraternal and magisterial heart at ease:
that I keep strictly within the limits of the law. I have avoided, up
to this period, giving her the slightest right to claim a separation;
and, what’s more, she’d thank nobody for dividing us. If she desired to
go, she might: the nuisance of her presence outweighs the gratification
to be derived from tormenting her!”
“Mr. Heathcliff,” said I, “this is the talk of a madman; your wife,
most likely, is convinced you are mad; and, for that reason, she has
borne with you hitherto: but now that you say she may go, she’ll
doubtless avail herself of the permission. You are not so bewitched,
ma’am, are you, as to remain with him of your own accord?”
“Take care, Ellen!” answered Isabella, her eyes sparkling irefully;
there was no misdoubting by their expression the full success of her
partner’s endeavours to make himself detested. “Don’t put faith in a
single word he speaks. He’s a lying fiend! a monster, and not a human
being! I’ve been told I might leave him before; and I’ve made the
attempt, but I dare not repeat it! Only, Ellen, promise you’ll not
mention a syllable of his infamous conversation to my brother or
Catherine. Whatever he may pretend, he wishes to provoke Edgar to
desperation: he says he has married me on purpose to obtain power over
him; and he sha’n’t obtain it—I’ll die first! I just hope, I pray, that
he may forget his diabolical prudence and kill me! The single pleasure
I can imagine is to die, or to see him dead!”
“There—that will do for the present!” said Heathcliff. “If you are
called upon in a court of law, you’ll remember her language, Nelly! And
take a good look at that countenance: she’s near the point which would
suit me. No; you’re not fit to be your own guardian, Isabella, now; and
I, being your legal protector, must retain you in my custody, however
distasteful the obligation may be. Go upstairs; I have something to say
to Ellen Dean in private. That’s not the way: upstairs, I tell you!
Why, this is the road upstairs, child!”
He seized, and thrust her from the room; and returned muttering—“I have
no pity! I have no pity! The more the worms writhe, the more I yearn to
crush out their entrails! It is a moral teething; and I grind with
greater energy in proportion to the increase of pain.”
“Do you understand what the word pity means?” I said, hastening to
resume my bonnet. “Did you ever feel a touch of it in your life?”
“Put that down!” he interrupted, perceiving my intention to depart.
“You are not going yet. Come here now, Nelly: I must either persuade or
compel you to aid me in fulfilling my determination to see Catherine,
and that without delay. I swear that I meditate no harm: I don’t desire
to cause any disturbance, or to exasperate or insult Mr. Linton; I only
wish to hear from herself how she is, and why she has been ill; and to
ask if anything that I could do would be of use to her. Last night I
was in the Grange garden six hours, and I’ll return there to-night; and
every night I’ll haunt the place, and every day, till I find an
opportunity of entering. If Edgar Linton meets me, I shall not hesitate
to knock him down, and give him enough to insure his quiescence while I
stay. If his servants oppose me, I shall threaten them off with these
pistols. But wouldn’t it be better to prevent my coming in contact with
them, or their master? And you could do it so easily. I’d warn you when
I came, and then you might let me in unobserved, as soon as she was
alone, and watch till I departed, your conscience quite calm: you would
be hindering mischief.”
I protested against playing that treacherous part in my employer’s
house: and, besides, I urged the cruelty and selfishness of his
destroying Mrs. Linton’s tranquillity for his satisfaction. “The
commonest occurrence startles her painfully,” I said. “She’s all
nerves, and she couldn’t bear the surprise, I’m positive. Don’t
persist, sir! or else I shall be obliged to inform my master of your
designs; and he’ll take measures to secure his house and its inmates
from any such unwarrantable intrusions!”
“In that case I’ll take measures to secure you, woman!” exclaimed
Heathcliff; “you shall not leave Wuthering Heights till to-morrow
morning. It is a foolish story to assert that Catherine could not bear
to see me; and as to surprising her, I don’t desire it: you must
prepare her—ask her if I may come. You say she never mentions my name,
and that I am never mentioned to her. To whom should she mention me if
I am a forbidden topic in the house? She thinks you are all spies for
her husband. Oh, I’ve no doubt she’s in hell among you! I guess by her
silence, as much as anything, what she feels. You say she is often
restless, and anxious-looking: is that a proof of tranquillity? You
talk of her mind being unsettled. How the devil could it be otherwise
in her frightful isolation? And that insipid, paltry creature attending
her from _duty_ and _humanity_! From _pity_ and _charity_! He might as
well plant an oak in a flower-pot, and expect it to thrive, as imagine
he can restore her to vigour in the soil of his shallow cares? Let us
settle it at once: will you stay here, and am I to fight my way to
Catherine over Linton and his footman? Or will you be my friend, as you
have been hitherto, and do what I request? Decide! because there is no
reason for my lingering another minute, if you persist in your stubborn
ill-nature!”
Well, Mr. Lockwood, I argued and complained, and flatly refused him
fifty times; but in the long run he forced me to an agreement. I
engaged to carry a letter from him to my mistress; and should she
consent, I promised to let him have intelligence of Linton’s next
absence from home, when he might come, and get in as he was able: I
wouldn’t be there, and my fellow-servants should be equally out of the
way. Was it right or wrong? I fear it was wrong, though expedient. I
thought I prevented another explosion by my compliance; and I thought,
too, it might create a favourable crisis in Catherine’s mental illness:
and then I remembered Mr. Edgar’s stern rebuke of my carrying tales;
and I tried to smooth away all disquietude on the subject, by
affirming, with frequent iteration, that that betrayal of trust, if it
merited so harsh an appellation, should be the last. Notwithstanding,
my journey homeward was sadder than my journey thither; and many
misgivings I had, ere I could prevail on myself to put the missive into
Mrs. Linton’s hand.
But here is Kenneth; I’ll go down, and tell him how much better you
are. My history is _dree_, as we say, and will serve to while away
another morning.
Dree, and dreary! I reflected as the good woman descended to receive
the doctor: and not exactly of the kind which I should have chosen to
amuse me. But never mind! I’ll extract wholesome medicines from Mrs.
Dean’s bitter herbs; and firstly, let me beware of the fascination that
lurks in Catherine Heathcliff’s brilliant eyes. I should be in a
curious taking if I surrendered my heart to that young person, and the
daughter turned out a second edition of the mother.
CHAPTER XV
Another week over—and I am so many days nearer health, and spring! I
have now heard all my neighbour’s history, at different sittings, as
the housekeeper could spare time from more important occupations. I’ll
continue it in her own words, only a little condensed. She is, on the
whole, a very fair narrator, and I don’t think I could improve her
style.
In the evening, she said, the evening of my visit to the Heights, I
knew, as well as if I saw him, that Mr. Heathcliff was about the place;
and I shunned going out, because I still carried his letter in my
pocket, and didn’t want to be threatened or teased any more. I had made
up my mind not to give it till my master went somewhere, as I could not
guess how its receipt would affect Catherine. The consequence was, that
it did not reach her before the lapse of three days. The fourth was
Sunday, and I brought it into her room after the family were gone to
church. There was a manservant left to keep the house with me, and we
generally made a practice of locking the doors during the hours of
service; but on that occasion the weather was so warm and pleasant that
I set them wide open, and, to fulfil my engagement, as I knew who would
be coming, I told my companion that the mistress wished very much for
some oranges, and he must run over to the village and get a few, to be
paid for on the morrow. He departed, and I went upstairs.
Mrs. Linton sat in a loose white dress, with a light shawl over her
shoulders, in the recess of the open window, as usual. Her thick, long
hair had been partly removed at the beginning of her illness, and now
she wore it simply combed in its natural tresses over her temples and
neck. Her appearance was altered, as I had told Heathcliff; but when
she was calm, there seemed unearthly beauty in the change. The flash of
her eyes had been succeeded by a dreamy and melancholy softness; they
no longer gave the impression of looking at the objects around her:
they appeared always to gaze beyond, and far beyond—you would have said
out of this world. Then, the paleness of her face—its haggard aspect
having vanished as she recovered flesh—and the peculiar expression
arising from her mental state, though painfully suggestive of their
causes, added to the touching interest which she awakened;
and—invariably to me, I know, and to any person who saw her, I should
think—refuted more tangible proofs of convalescence, and stamped her as
one doomed to decay.
A book lay spread on the sill before her, and the scarcely perceptible
wind fluttered its leaves at intervals. I believe Linton had laid it
there: for she never endeavoured to divert herself with reading, or
occupation of any kind, and he would spend many an hour in trying to
entice her attention to some subject which had formerly been her
amusement. She was conscious of his aim, and in her better moods
endured his efforts placidly, only showing their uselessness by now and
then suppressing a wearied sigh, and checking him at last with the
saddest of smiles and kisses. At other times, she would turn petulantly
away, and hide her face in her hands, or even push him off angrily; and
then he took care to let her alone, for he was certain of doing no
good.
Gimmerton chapel bells were still ringing; and the full, mellow flow of
the beck in the valley came soothingly on the ear. It was a sweet
substitute for the yet absent murmur of the summer foliage, which
drowned that music about the Grange when the trees were in leaf. At
Wuthering Heights it always sounded on quiet days following a great
thaw or a season of steady rain. And of Wuthering Heights Catherine was
thinking as she listened: that is, if she thought or listened at all;
but she had the vague, distant look I mentioned before, which expressed
no recognition of material things either by ear or eye.
“There’s a letter for you, Mrs. Linton,” I said, gently inserting it in
one hand that rested on her knee. “You must read it immediately,
because it wants an answer. Shall I break the seal?” “Yes,” she
answered, without altering the direction of her eyes. I opened it—it
was very short. “Now,” I continued, “read it.” She drew away her hand,
and let it fall. I replaced it in her lap, and stood waiting till it
should please her to glance down; but that movement was so long delayed
that at last I resumed—“Must I read it, ma’am? It is from Mr.
Heathcliff.”
There was a start and a troubled gleam of recollection, and a struggle
to arrange her ideas. She lifted the letter, and seemed to peruse it;
and when she came to the signature she sighed: yet still I found she
had not gathered its import, for, upon my desiring to hear her reply,
she merely pointed to the name, and gazed at me with mournful and
questioning eagerness.
“Well, he wishes to see you,” said I, guessing her need of an
interpreter. “He’s in the garden by this time, and impatient to know
what answer I shall bring.”
As I spoke, I observed a large dog lying on the sunny grass beneath
raise its ears as if about to bark, and then smoothing them back,
announce, by a wag of the tail, that some one approached whom it did
not consider a stranger. Mrs. Linton bent forward, and listened
breathlessly. The minute after a step traversed the hall; the open
house was too tempting for Heathcliff to resist walking in: most likely
he supposed that I was inclined to shirk my promise, and so resolved to
trust to his own audacity. With straining eagerness Catherine gazed
towards the entrance of her chamber. He did not hit the right room
directly: she motioned me to admit him, but he found it out ere I could
reach the door, and in a stride or two was at her side, and had her
grasped in his arms.
He neither spoke nor loosed his hold for some five minutes, during
which period he bestowed more kisses than ever he gave in his life
before, I daresay: but then my mistress had kissed him first, and I
plainly saw that he could hardly bear, for downright agony, to look
into her face! The same conviction had stricken him as me, from the
instant he beheld her, that there was no prospect of ultimate recovery
there—she was fated, sure to die.
“Oh, Cathy! Oh, my life! how can I bear it?” was the first sentence he
uttered, in a tone that did not seek to disguise his despair. And now
he stared at her so earnestly that I thought the very intensity of his
gaze would bring tears into his eyes; but they burned with anguish:
they did not melt.
“What now?” said Catherine, leaning back, and returning his look with a
suddenly clouded brow: her humour was a mere vane for constantly
varying caprices. “You and Edgar have broken my heart, Heathcliff! And
you both come to bewail the deed to me, as if you were the people to be
pitied! I shall not pity you, not I. You have killed me—and thriven on
it, I think. How strong you are! How many years do you mean to live
after I am gone?”
Heathcliff had knelt on one knee to embrace her; he attempted to rise,
but she seized his hair, and kept him down.
“I wish I could hold you,” she continued, bitterly, “till we were both
dead! I shouldn’t care what you suffered. I care nothing for your
sufferings. Why shouldn’t you suffer? I do! Will you forget me? Will
you be happy when I am in the earth? Will you say twenty years hence,
‘That’s the grave of Catherine Earnshaw? I loved her long ago, and was
wretched to lose her; but it is past. I’ve loved many others since: my
children are dearer to me than she was; and, at death, I shall not
rejoice that I am going to her: I shall be sorry that I must leave
them!’ Will you say so, Heathcliff?”
“Don’t torture me till I’m as mad as yourself,” cried he, wrenching his
head free, and grinding his teeth.
The two, to a cool spectator, made a strange and fearful picture. Well
might Catherine deem that heaven would be a land of exile to her,
unless with her mortal body she cast away her moral character also. Her
present countenance had a wild vindictiveness in its white cheek, and a
bloodless lip and scintillating eye; and she retained in her closed
fingers a portion of the locks she had been grasping. As to her
companion, while raising himself with one hand, he had taken her arm
with the other; and so inadequate was his stock of gentleness to the
requirements of her condition, that on his letting go I saw four
distinct impressions left blue in the colourless skin.
“Are you possessed with a devil,” he pursued, savagely, “to talk in
that manner to me when you are dying? Do you reflect that all those
words will be branded in my memory, and eating deeper eternally after
you have left me? You know you lie to say I have killed you: and,
Catherine, you know that I could as soon forget you as my existence! Is
it not sufficient for your infernal selfishness, that while you are at
peace I shall writhe in the torments of hell?”
“I shall not be at peace,” moaned Catherine, recalled to a sense of
physical weakness by the violent, unequal throbbing of her heart, which
beat visibly and audibly under this excess of agitation. She said
nothing further till the paroxysm was over; then she continued, more
kindly—
“I’m not wishing you greater torment than I have, Heathcliff. I only
wish us never to be parted: and should a word of mine distress you
hereafter, think I feel the same distress underground, and for my own
sake, forgive me! Come here and kneel down again! You never harmed me
in your life. Nay, if you nurse anger, that will be worse to remember
than my harsh words! Won’t you come here again? Do!”
Heathcliff went to the back of her chair, and leant over, but not so
far as to let her see his face, which was livid with emotion. She bent
round to look at him; he would not permit it: turning abruptly, he
walked to the fireplace, where he stood, silent, with his back towards
us. Mrs. Linton’s glance followed him suspiciously: every movement woke
a new sentiment in her. After a pause and a prolonged gaze, she
resumed; addressing me in accents of indignant disappointment:—
“Oh, you see, Nelly, he would not relent a moment to keep me out of the
grave. _That_ is how I’m loved! Well, never mind. That is not _my_
Heathcliff. I shall love mine yet; and take him with me: he’s in my
soul. And,” added she musingly, “the thing that irks me most is this
shattered prison, after all. I’m tired of being enclosed here. I’m
wearying to escape into that glorious world, and to be always there:
not seeing it dimly through tears, and yearning for it through the
walls of an aching heart: but really with it, and in it. Nelly, you
think you are better and more fortunate than I; in full health and
strength: you are sorry for me—very soon that will be altered. I shall
be sorry for _you_. I shall be incomparably beyond and above you all. I
_wonder_ he won’t be near me!” She went on to herself. “I thought he
wished it. Heathcliff, dear! you should not be sullen now. Do come to
me, Heathcliff.”
In her eagerness she rose and supported herself on the arm of the
chair. At that earnest appeal he turned to her, looking absolutely
desperate. His eyes, wide and wet, at last flashed fiercely on her; his
breast heaved convulsively. An instant they held asunder, and then how
they met I hardly saw, but Catherine made a spring, and he caught her,
and they were locked in an embrace from which I thought my mistress
would never be released alive: in fact, to my eyes, she seemed directly
insensible. He flung himself into the nearest seat, and on my
approaching hurriedly to ascertain if she had fainted, he gnashed at
me, and foamed like a mad dog, and gathered her to him with greedy
jealousy. I did not feel as if I were in the company of a creature of
my own species: it appeared that he would not understand, though I
spoke to him; so I stood off, and held my tongue, in great perplexity.
A movement of Catherine’s relieved me a little presently: she put up
her hand to clasp his neck, and bring her cheek to his as he held her;
while he, in return, covering her with frantic caresses, said wildly—
“You teach me now how cruel you’ve been—cruel and false. _Why_ did you
despise me? _Why_ did you betray your own heart, Cathy? I have not one
word of comfort. You deserve this. You have killed yourself. Yes, you
may kiss me, and cry; and wring out my kisses and tears: they’ll blight
you—they’ll damn you. You loved me—then what _right_ had you to leave
me? What right—answer me—for the poor fancy you felt for Linton?
Because misery and degradation, and death, and nothing that God or
Satan could inflict would have parted us, _you_, of your own will, did
it. I have not broken your heart—_you_ have broken it; and in breaking
it, you have broken mine. So much the worse for me that I am strong. Do
I want to live? What kind of living will it be when you—oh, God! would
_you_ like to live with your soul in the grave?”
“Let me alone. Let me alone,” sobbed Catherine. “If I’ve done wrong,
I’m dying for it. It is enough! You left me too: but I won’t upbraid
you! I forgive you. Forgive me!”
“It is hard to forgive, and to look at those eyes, and feel those
wasted hands,” he answered. “Kiss me again; and don’t let me see your
eyes! I forgive what you have done to me. I love _my_ murderer—but
_yours_! How can I?”
They were silent—their faces hid against each other, and washed by each
other’s tears. At least, I suppose the weeping was on both sides; as it
seemed Heathcliff could weep on a great occasion like this.
I grew very uncomfortable, meanwhile; for the afternoon wore fast away,
the man whom I had sent off returned from his errand, and I could
distinguish, by the shine of the western sun up the valley, a concourse
thickening outside Gimmerton chapel porch.
“Service is over,” I announced. “My master will be here in half an
hour.”
Heathcliff groaned a curse, and strained Catherine closer: she never
moved.
Ere long I perceived a group of the servants passing up the road
towards the kitchen wing. Mr. Linton was not far behind; he opened the
gate himself and sauntered slowly up, probably enjoying the lovely
afternoon that breathed as soft as summer.
“Now he is here,” I exclaimed. “For heaven’s sake, hurry down! You’ll
not meet any one on the front stairs. Do be quick; and stay among the
trees till he is fairly in.”
“I must go, Cathy,” said Heathcliff, seeking to extricate himself from
his companion’s arms. “But if I live, I’ll see you again before you are
asleep. I won’t stray five yards from your window.”
“You must not go!” she answered, holding him as firmly as her strength
allowed. “You _shall_ not, I tell you.”
“For one hour,” he pleaded earnestly.
“Not for one minute,” she replied.
“I _must_—Linton will be up immediately,” persisted the alarmed
intruder.
He would have risen, and unfixed her fingers by the act—she clung fast,
gasping: there was mad resolution in her face.
“No!” she shrieked. “Oh, don’t, don’t go. It is the last time! Edgar
will not hurt us. Heathcliff, I shall die! I shall die!”
“Damn the fool! There he is,” cried Heathcliff, sinking back into his
seat. “Hush, my darling! Hush, hush, Catherine! I’ll stay. If he shot
me so, I’d expire with a blessing on my lips.”
And there they were fast again. I heard my master mounting the
stairs—the cold sweat ran from my forehead: I was horrified.
“Are you going to listen to her ravings?” I said, passionately. “She
does not know what she says. Will you ruin her, because she has not wit
to help herself? Get up! You could be free instantly. That is the most
diabolical deed that ever you did. We are all done for—master,
mistress, and servant.”
I wrung my hands, and cried out; and Mr. Linton hastened his step at
the noise. In the midst of my agitation, I was sincerely glad to
observe that Catherine’s arms had fallen relaxed, and her head hung
down.
“She’s fainted, or dead,” I thought: “so much the better. Far better
that she should be dead, than lingering a burden and a misery-maker to
all about her.”
Edgar sprang to his unbidden guest, blanched with astonishment and
rage. What he meant to do I cannot tell; however, the other stopped all
demonstrations, at once, by placing the lifeless-looking form in his
arms.
“Look there!” he said. “Unless you be a fiend, help her first—then you
shall speak to me!”
He walked into the parlour, and sat down. Mr. Linton summoned me, and
with great difficulty, and after resorting to many means, we managed to
restore her to sensation; but she was all bewildered; she sighed, and
moaned, and knew nobody. Edgar, in his anxiety for her, forgot her
hated friend. I did not. I went, at the earliest opportunity, and
besought him to depart; affirming that Catherine was better, and he
should hear from me in the morning how she passed the night.
“I shall not refuse to go out of doors,” he answered; “but I shall stay
in the garden: and, Nelly, mind you keep your word to-morrow. I shall
be under those larch-trees. Mind! or I pay another visit, whether
Linton be in or not.”
He sent a rapid glance through the half-open door of the chamber, and,
ascertaining that what I stated was apparently true, delivered the
house of his luckless presence.
CHAPTER XVI
About twelve o’clock that night was born the Catherine you saw at
Wuthering Heights: a puny, seven-months’ child; and two hours after the
mother died, having never recovered sufficient consciousness to miss
Heathcliff, or know Edgar. The latter’s distraction at his bereavement
is a subject too painful to be dwelt on; its after-effects showed how
deep the sorrow sunk. A great addition, in my eyes, was his being left
without an heir. I bemoaned that, as I gazed on the feeble orphan; and
I mentally abused old Linton for (what was only natural partiality) the
securing his estate to his own daughter, instead of his son’s. An
unwelcomed infant it was, poor thing! It might have wailed out of life,
and nobody cared a morsel, during those first hours of existence. We
redeemed the neglect afterwards; but its beginning was as friendless as
its end is likely to be.
Next morning—bright and cheerful out of doors—stole softened in through
the blinds of the silent room, and suffused the couch and its occupant
with a mellow, tender glow. Edgar Linton had his head laid on the
pillow, and his eyes shut. His young and fair features were almost as
deathlike as those of the form beside him, and almost as fixed: but
_his_ was the hush of exhausted anguish, and _hers_ of perfect peace.
Her brow smooth, her lids closed, her lips wearing the expression of a
smile; no angel in heaven could be more beautiful than she appeared.
And I partook of the infinite calm in which she lay: my mind was never
in a holier frame than while I gazed on that untroubled image of Divine
rest. I instinctively echoed the words she had uttered a few hours
before: “Incomparably beyond and above us all! Whether still on earth
or now in heaven, her spirit is at home with God!”
I don’t know if it be a peculiarity in me, but I am seldom otherwise
than happy while watching in the chamber of death, should no frenzied
or despairing mourner share the duty with me. I see a repose that
neither earth nor hell can break, and I feel an assurance of the
endless and shadowless hereafter—the Eternity they have entered—where
life is boundless in its duration, and love in its sympathy, and joy in
its fulness. I noticed on that occasion how much selfishness there is
even in a love like Mr. Linton’s, when he so regretted Catherine’s
blessed release! To be sure, one might have doubted, after the wayward
and impatient existence she had led, whether she merited a haven of
peace at last. One might doubt in seasons of cold reflection; but not
then, in the presence of her corpse. It asserted its own tranquillity,
which seemed a pledge of equal quiet to its former inhabitant.
Do you believe such people are happy in the other world, sir? I’d give
a great deal to know.
I declined answering Mrs. Dean’s question, which struck me as something
heterodox. She proceeded:
Retracing the course of Catherine Linton, I fear we have no right to
think she is; but we’ll leave her with her Maker.
The master looked asleep, and I ventured soon after sunrise to quit the
room and steal out to the pure refreshing air. The servants thought me
gone to shake off the drowsiness of my protracted watch; in reality, my
chief motive was seeing Mr. Heathcliff. If he had remained among the
larches all night, he would have heard nothing of the stir at the
Grange; unless, perhaps, he might catch the gallop of the messenger
going to Gimmerton. If he had come nearer, he would probably be aware,
from the lights flitting to and fro, and the opening and shutting of
the outer doors, that all was not right within. I wished, yet feared,
to find him. I felt the terrible news must be told, and I longed to get
it over; but how to do it I did not know. He was there—at least, a few
yards further in the park; leant against an old ash-tree, his hat off,
and his hair soaked with the dew that had gathered on the budded
branches, and fell pattering round him. He had been standing a long
time in that position, for I saw a pair of ousels passing and repassing
scarcely three feet from him, busy in building their nest, and
regarding his proximity no more than that of a piece of timber. They
flew off at my approach, and he raised his eyes and spoke:—“She’s
dead!” he said; “I’ve not waited for you to learn that. Put your
handkerchief away—don’t snivel before me. Damn you all! she wants none
of your tears!”
I was weeping as much for him as her: we do sometimes pity creatures
that have none of the feeling either for themselves or others. When I
first looked into his face, I perceived that he had got intelligence of
the catastrophe; and a foolish notion struck me that his heart was
quelled and he prayed, because his lips moved and his gaze was bent on
the ground.
“Yes, she’s dead!” I answered, checking my sobs and drying my cheeks.
“Gone to heaven, I hope; where we may, every one, join her, if we take
due warning and leave our evil ways to follow good!”
“Did _she_ take due warning, then?” asked Heathcliff, attempting a
sneer. “Did she die like a saint? Come, give me a true history of the
event. How did—?”
He endeavoured to pronounce the name, but could not manage it; and
compressing his mouth he held a silent combat with his inward agony,
defying, meanwhile, my sympathy with an unflinching, ferocious stare.
“How did she die?” he resumed, at last—fain, notwithstanding his
hardihood, to have a support behind him; for, after the struggle, he
trembled, in spite of himself, to his very finger-ends.
“Poor wretch!” I thought; “you have a heart and nerves the same as your
brother men! Why should you be anxious to conceal them? Your pride
cannot blind God! You tempt him to wring them, till he forces a cry of
humiliation.”
“Quietly as a lamb!” I answered, aloud. “She drew a sigh, and stretched
herself, like a child reviving, and sinking again to sleep; and five
minutes after I felt one little pulse at her heart, and nothing more!”
“And—did she ever mention me?” he asked, hesitating, as if he dreaded
the answer to his question would introduce details that he could not
bear to hear.
“Her senses never returned: she recognised nobody from the time you
left her,” I said. “She lies with a sweet smile on her face; and her
latest ideas wandered back to pleasant early days. Her life closed in a
gentle dream—may she wake as kindly in the other world!”
“May she wake in torment!” he cried, with frightful vehemence, stamping
his foot, and groaning in a sudden paroxysm of ungovernable passion.
“Why, she’s a liar to the end! Where is she? Not _there_—not in
heaven—not perished—where? Oh! you said you cared nothing for my
sufferings! And I pray one prayer—I repeat it till my tongue
stiffens—Catherine Earnshaw, may you not rest as long as I am living;
you said I killed you—haunt me, then! The murdered _do_ haunt their
murderers, I believe. I know that ghosts _have_ wandered on earth. Be
with me always—take any form—drive me mad! only _do_ not leave me in
this abyss, where I cannot find you! Oh, God! it is unutterable! I
_cannot_ live without my life! I _cannot_ live without my soul!”
He dashed his head against the knotted trunk; and, lifting up his eyes,
howled, not like a man, but like a savage beast being goaded to death
with knives and spears. I observed several splashes of blood about the
bark of the tree, and his hand and forehead were both stained; probably
the scene I witnessed was a repetition of others acted during the
night. It hardly moved my compassion—it appalled me: still, I felt
reluctant to quit him so. But the moment he recollected himself enough
to notice me watching, he thundered a command for me to go, and I
obeyed. He was beyond my skill to quiet or console!
Mrs. Linton’s funeral was appointed to take place on the Friday
following her decease; and till then her coffin remained uncovered, and
strewn with flowers and scented leaves, in the great drawing-room.
Linton spent his days and nights there, a sleepless guardian; and—a
circumstance concealed from all but me—Heathcliff spent his nights, at
least, outside, equally a stranger to repose. I held no communication
with him: still, I was conscious of his design to enter, if he could;
and on the Tuesday, a little after dark, when my master, from sheer
fatigue, had been compelled to retire a couple of hours, I went and
opened one of the windows; moved by his perseverance to give him a
chance of bestowing on the faded image of his idol one final adieu. He
did not omit to avail himself of the opportunity, cautiously and
briefly; too cautiously to betray his presence by the slightest noise.
Indeed, I shouldn’t have discovered that he had been there, except for
the disarrangement of the drapery about the corpse’s face, and for
observing on the floor a curl of light hair, fastened with a silver
thread; which, on examination, I ascertained to have been taken from a
locket hung round Catherine’s neck. Heathcliff had opened the trinket
and cast out its contents, replacing them by a black lock of his own. I
twisted the two, and enclosed them together.
Mr. Earnshaw was, of course, invited to attend the remains of his
sister to the grave; he sent no excuse, but he never came; so that,
besides her husband, the mourners were wholly composed of tenants and
servants. Isabella was not asked.
The place of Catherine’s interment, to the surprise of the villagers,
was neither in the chapel under the carved monument of the Lintons, nor
yet by the tombs of her own relations, outside. It was dug on a green
slope in a corner of the kirk-yard, where the wall is so low that heath
and bilberry-plants have climbed over it from the moor; and peat-mould
almost buries it. Her husband lies in the same spot now; and they have
each a simple headstone above, and a plain grey block at their feet, to
mark the graves.
CHAPTER XVII
That Friday made the last of our fine days for a month. In the evening
the weather broke: the wind shifted from south to north-east, and
brought rain first, and then sleet and snow. On the morrow one could
hardly imagine that there had been three weeks of summer: the primroses
and crocuses were hidden under wintry drifts; the larks were silent,
the young leaves of the early trees smitten and blackened. And dreary,
and chill, and dismal, that morrow did creep over! My master kept his
room; I took possession of the lonely parlour, converting it into a
nursery: and there I was, sitting with the moaning doll of a child laid
on my knee; rocking it to and fro, and watching, meanwhile, the still
driving flakes build up the uncurtained window, when the door opened,
and some person entered, out of breath and laughing! My anger was
greater than my astonishment for a minute. I supposed it one of the
maids, and I cried—“Have done! How dare you show your giddiness here?
What would Mr. Linton say if he heard you?”
“Excuse me!” answered a familiar voice; “but I know Edgar is in bed,
and I cannot stop myself.”
With that the speaker came forward to the fire, panting and holding her
hand to her side.
“I have run the whole way from Wuthering Heights!” she continued, after
a pause; “except where I’ve flown. I couldn’t count the number of falls
I’ve had. Oh, I’m aching all over! Don’t be alarmed! There shall be an
explanation as soon as I can give it; only just have the goodness to
step out and order the carriage to take me on to Gimmerton, and tell a
servant to seek up a few clothes in my wardrobe.”
The intruder was Mrs. Heathcliff. She certainly seemed in no laughing
predicament: her hair streamed on her shoulders, dripping with snow and
water; she was dressed in the girlish dress she commonly wore,
befitting her age more than her position: a low frock with short
sleeves, and nothing on either head or neck. The frock was of light
silk, and clung to her with wet, and her feet were protected merely by
thin slippers; add to this a deep cut under one ear, which only the
cold prevented from bleeding profusely, a white face scratched and
bruised, and a frame hardly able to support itself through fatigue; and
you may fancy my first fright was not much allayed when I had had
leisure to examine her.
“My dear young lady,” I exclaimed, “I’ll stir nowhere, and hear
nothing, till you have removed every article of your clothes, and put
on dry things; and certainly you shall not go to Gimmerton to-night, so
it is needless to order the carriage.”
“Certainly I shall,” she said; “walking or riding: yet I’ve no
objection to dress myself decently. And—ah, see how it flows down my
neck now! The fire does make it smart.”
She insisted on my fulfilling her directions, before she would let me
touch her; and not till after the coachman had been instructed to get
ready, and a maid set to pack up some necessary attire, did I obtain
her consent for binding the wound and helping to change her garments.
“Now, Ellen,” she said, when my task was finished and she was seated in
an easy-chair on the hearth, with a cup of tea before her, “you sit
down opposite me, and put poor Catherine’s baby away: I don’t like to
see it! You mustn’t think I care little for Catherine, because I
behaved so foolishly on entering: I’ve cried, too, bitterly—yes, more
than any one else has reason to cry. We parted unreconciled, you
remember, and I sha’n’t forgive myself. But, for all that, I was not
going to sympathise with him—the brute beast! Oh, give me the poker!
This is the last thing of his I have about me:” she slipped the gold
ring from her third finger, and threw it on the floor. “I’ll smash it!”
she continued, striking it with childish spite, “and then I’ll burn
it!” and she took and dropped the misused article among the coals.
“There! he shall buy another, if he gets me back again. He’d be capable
of coming to seek me, to tease Edgar. I dare not stay, lest that notion
should possess his wicked head! And besides, Edgar has not been kind,
has he? And I won’t come suing for his assistance; nor will I bring him
into more trouble. Necessity compelled me to seek shelter here; though,
if I had not learned he was out of the way, I’d have halted at the
kitchen, washed my face, warmed myself, got you to bring what I wanted,
and departed again to anywhere out of the reach of my accursed—of that
incarnate goblin! Ah, he was in such a fury! If he had caught me! It’s
a pity Earnshaw is not his match in strength: I wouldn’t have run till
I’d seen him all but demolished, had Hindley been able to do it!”
“Well, don’t talk so fast, Miss!” I interrupted; “you’ll disorder the
handkerchief I have tied round your face, and make the cut bleed again.
Drink your tea, and take breath, and give over laughing: laughter is
sadly out of place under this roof, and in your condition!”
“An undeniable truth,” she replied. “Listen to that child! It maintains
a constant wail—send it out of my hearing for an hour; I sha’n’t stay
any longer.”
I rang the bell, and committed it to a servant’s care; and then I
inquired what had urged her to escape from Wuthering Heights in such an
unlikely plight, and where she meant to go, as she refused remaining
with us.
“I ought, and I wished to remain,” answered she, “to cheer Edgar and
take care of the baby, for two things, and because the Grange is my
right home. But I tell you he wouldn’t let me! Do you think he could
bear to see me grow fat and merry—could bear to think that we were
tranquil, and not resolve on poisoning our comfort? Now, I have the
satisfaction of being sure that he detests me, to the point of its
annoying him seriously to have me within ear-shot or eyesight: I
notice, when I enter his presence, the muscles of his countenance are
involuntarily distorted into an expression of hatred; partly arising
from his knowledge of the good causes I have to feel that sentiment for
him, and partly from original aversion. It is strong enough to make me
feel pretty certain that he would not chase me over England, supposing
I contrived a clear escape; and therefore I must get quite away. I’ve
recovered from my first desire to be killed by him: I’d rather he’d
kill himself! He has extinguished my love effectually, and so I’m at my
ease. I can recollect yet how I loved him; and can dimly imagine that I
could still be loving him, if—no, no! Even if he had doted on me, the
devilish nature would have revealed its existence somehow. Catherine
had an awfully perverted taste to esteem him so dearly, knowing him so
well. Monster! would that he could be blotted out of creation, and out
of my memory!”
“Hush, hush! He’s a human being,” I said. “Be more charitable: there
are worse men than he is yet!”
“He’s not a human being,” she retorted; “and he has no claim on my
charity. I gave him my heart, and he took and pinched it to death, and
flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, Ellen: and since he
has destroyed mine, I have not power to feel for him: and I would not,
though he groaned from this to his dying day, and wept tears of blood
for Catherine! No, indeed, indeed, I wouldn’t!” And here Isabella began
to cry; but, immediately dashing the water from her lashes, she
recommenced. “You asked, what has driven me to flight at last? I was
compelled to attempt it, because I had succeeded in rousing his rage a
pitch above his malignity. Pulling out the nerves with red hot pincers
requires more coolness than knocking on the head. He was worked up to
forget the fiendish prudence he boasted of, and proceeded to murderous
violence. I experienced pleasure in being able to exasperate him: the
sense of pleasure woke my instinct of self-preservation, so I fairly
broke free; and if ever I come into his hands again he is welcome to a
signal revenge.
“Yesterday, you know, Mr. Earnshaw should have been at the funeral. He
kept himself sober for the purpose—tolerably sober: not going to bed
mad at six o’clock and getting up drunk at twelve. Consequently, he
rose, in suicidal low spirits, as fit for the church as for a dance;
and instead, he sat down by the fire and swallowed gin or brandy by
tumblerfuls.
“Heathcliff—I shudder to name him! has been a stranger in the house
from last Sunday till to-day. Whether the angels have fed him, or his
kin beneath, I cannot tell; but he has not eaten a meal with us for
nearly a week. He has just come home at dawn, and gone upstairs to his
chamber; locking himself in—as if anybody dreamt of coveting his
company! There he has continued, praying like a Methodist: only the
deity he implored is senseless dust and ashes; and God, when addressed,
was curiously confounded with his own black father! After concluding
these precious orisons—and they lasted generally till he grew hoarse
and his voice was strangled in his throat—he would be off again; always
straight down to the Grange! I wonder Edgar did not send for a
constable, and give him into custody! For me, grieved as I was about
Catherine, it was impossible to avoid regarding this season of
deliverance from degrading oppression as a holiday.
“I recovered spirits sufficient to bear Joseph’s eternal lectures
without weeping, and to move up and down the house less with the foot
of a frightened thief than formerly. You wouldn’t think that I should
cry at anything Joseph could say; but he and Hareton are detestable
companions. I’d rather sit with Hindley, and hear his awful talk, than
with ‘t’ little maister’ and his staunch supporter, that odious old
man! When Heathcliff is in, I’m often obliged to seek the kitchen and
their society, or starve among the damp uninhabited chambers; when he
is not, as was the case this week, I establish a table and chair at one
corner of the house fire, and never mind how Mr. Earnshaw may occupy
himself; and he does not interfere with my arrangements. He is quieter
now than he used to be, if no one provokes him: more sullen and
depressed, and less furious. Joseph affirms he’s sure he’s an altered
man: that the Lord has touched his heart, and he is saved ‘so as by
fire.’ I’m puzzled to detect signs of the favourable change: but it is
not my business.
“Yester-evening I sat in my nook reading some old books till late on
towards twelve. It seemed so dismal to go upstairs, with the wild snow
blowing outside, and my thoughts continually reverting to the kirk-yard
and the new-made grave! I dared hardly lift my eyes from the page
before me, that melancholy scene so instantly usurped its place.
Hindley sat opposite, his head leant on his hand; perhaps meditating on
the same subject. He had ceased drinking at a point below
irrationality, and had neither stirred nor spoken during two or three
hours. There was no sound through the house but the moaning wind, which
shook the windows every now and then, the faint crackling of the coals,
and the click of my snuffers as I removed at intervals the long wick of
the candle. Hareton and Joseph were probably fast asleep in bed. It was
very, very sad: and while I read I sighed, for it seemed as if all joy
had vanished from the world, never to be restored.
“The doleful silence was broken at length by the sound of the kitchen
latch: Heathcliff had returned from his watch earlier than usual;
owing, I suppose, to the sudden storm. That entrance was fastened, and
we heard him coming round to get in by the other. I rose with an
irrepressible expression of what I felt on my lips, which induced my
companion, who had been staring towards the door, to turn and look at
me.
“‘I’ll keep him out five minutes,’ he exclaimed. ‘You won’t object?’
“‘No, you may keep him out the whole night for me,’ I answered. ‘Do!
put the key in the lock, and draw the bolts.’
“Earnshaw accomplished this ere his guest reached the front; he then
came and brought his chair to the other side of my table, leaning over
it, and searching in my eyes for a sympathy with the burning hate that
gleamed from his: as he both looked and felt like an assassin, he
couldn’t exactly find that; but he discovered enough to encourage him
to speak.
“‘You, and I,’ he said, ‘have each a great debt to settle with the man
out yonder! If we were neither of us cowards, we might combine to
discharge it. Are you as soft as your brother? Are you willing to
endure to the last, and not once attempt a repayment?’
“‘I’m weary of enduring now,’ I replied; ‘and I’d be glad of a
retaliation that wouldn’t recoil on myself; but treachery and violence
are spears pointed at both ends; they wound those who resort to them
worse than their enemies.’
“‘Treachery and violence are a just return for treachery and violence!’
cried Hindley. ‘Mrs. Heathcliff, I’ll ask you to do nothing; but sit
still and be dumb. Tell me now, can you? I’m sure you would have as
much pleasure as I in witnessing the conclusion of the fiend’s
existence; he’ll be _your_ death unless you overreach him; and he’ll be
_my_ ruin. Damn the hellish villain! He knocks at the door as if he
were master here already! Promise to hold your tongue, and before that
clock strikes—it wants three minutes of one—you’re a free woman!’
“He took the implements which I described to you in my letter from his
breast, and would have turned down the candle. I snatched it away,
however, and seized his arm.
“‘I’ll not hold my tongue!’ I said; ‘you mustn’t touch him. Let the
door remain shut, and be quiet!’
“‘No! I’ve formed my resolution, and by God I’ll execute it!’ cried the
desperate being. ‘I’ll do you a kindness in spite of yourself, and
Hareton justice! And you needn’t trouble your head to screen me;
Catherine is gone. Nobody alive would regret me, or be ashamed, though
I cut my throat this minute—and it’s time to make an end!’
“I might as well have struggled with a bear, or reasoned with a
lunatic. The only resource left me was to run to a lattice and warn his
intended victim of the fate which awaited him.
“‘You’d better seek shelter somewhere else to-night!’ I exclaimed, in
rather a triumphant tone. ‘Mr. Earnshaw has a mind to shoot you, if you
persist in endeavouring to enter.’
“‘You’d better open the door, you—’ he answered, addressing me by some
elegant term that I don’t care to repeat.
“‘I shall not meddle in the matter,’ I retorted again. ‘Come in and get
shot, if you please. I’ve done my duty.’
“With that I shut the window and returned to my place by the fire;
having too small a stock of hypocrisy at my command to pretend any
anxiety for the danger that menaced him. Earnshaw swore passionately at
me: affirming that I loved the villain yet; and calling me all sorts of
names for the base spirit I evinced. And I, in my secret heart (and
conscience never reproached me), thought what a blessing it would be
for _him_ should Heathcliff put him out of misery; and what a blessing
for _me_ should he send Heathcliff to his right abode! As I sat nursing
these reflections, the casement behind me was banged on to the floor by
a blow from the latter individual, and his black countenance looked
blightingly through. The stanchions stood too close to suffer his
shoulders to follow, and I smiled, exulting in my fancied security. His
hair and clothes were whitened with snow, and his sharp cannibal teeth,
revealed by cold and wrath, gleamed through the dark.
“‘Isabella, let me in, or I’ll make you repent!’ he ‘girned,’ as Joseph
calls it.
“‘I cannot commit murder,’ I replied. ‘Mr. Hindley stands sentinel with
a knife and loaded pistol.’
“‘Let me in by the kitchen door,’ he said.
“‘Hindley will be there before me,’ I answered: ‘and that’s a poor love
of yours that cannot bear a shower of snow! We were left at peace in
our beds as long as the summer moon shone, but the moment a blast of
winter returns, you must run for shelter! Heathcliff, if I were you,
I’d go stretch myself over her grave and die like a faithful dog. The
world is surely not worth living in now, is it? You had distinctly
impressed on me the idea that Catherine was the whole joy of your life:
I can’t imagine how you think of surviving her loss.’
“‘He’s there, is he?’ exclaimed my companion, rushing to the gap. ‘If I
can get my arm out I can hit him!’
“I’m afraid, Ellen, you’ll set me down as really wicked; but you don’t
know all, so don’t judge. I wouldn’t have aided or abetted an attempt
on even _his_ life for anything. Wish that he were dead, I must; and
therefore I was fearfully disappointed, and unnerved by terror for the
consequences of my taunting speech, when he flung himself on Earnshaw’s
weapon and wrenched it from his grasp.
“The charge exploded, and the knife, in springing back, closed into its
owner’s wrist. Heathcliff pulled it away by main force, slitting up the
flesh as it passed on, and thrust it dripping into his pocket. He then
took a stone, struck down the division between two windows, and sprang
in. His adversary had fallen senseless with excessive pain and the flow
of blood, that gushed from an artery or a large vein. The ruffian
kicked and trampled on him, and dashed his head repeatedly against the
flags, holding me with one hand, meantime, to prevent me summoning
Joseph. He exerted preterhuman self-denial in abstaining from finishing
him completely; but getting out of breath, he finally desisted, and
dragged the apparently inanimate body on to the settle. There he tore
off the sleeve of Earnshaw’s coat, and bound up the wound with brutal
roughness; spitting and cursing during the operation as energetically
as he had kicked before. Being at liberty, I lost no time in seeking
the old servant; who, having gathered by degrees the purport of my
hasty tale, hurried below, gasping, as he descended the steps two at
once.
“‘What is ther to do, now? what is ther to do, now?’
“‘There’s this to do,’ thundered Heathcliff, ‘that your master’s mad;
and should he last another month, I’ll have him to an asylum. And how
the devil did you come to fasten me out, you toothless hound? Don’t
stand muttering and mumbling there. Come, I’m not going to nurse him.
Wash that stuff away; and mind the sparks of your candle—it is more
than half brandy!’
“‘And so ye’ve been murthering on him?’ exclaimed Joseph, lifting his
hands and eyes in horror. ‘If iver I seed a seeght loike this! May the
Lord—’
“Heathcliff gave him a push on to his knees in the middle of the blood,
and flung a towel to him; but instead of proceeding to dry it up, he
joined his hands and began a prayer, which excited my laughter from its
odd phraseology. I was in the condition of mind to be shocked at
nothing: in fact, I was as reckless as some malefactors show themselves
at the foot of the gallows.
“‘Oh, I forgot you,’ said the tyrant. ‘You shall do that. Down with
you. And you conspire with him against me, do you, viper? There, that
is work fit for you!’
“He shook me till my teeth rattled, and pitched me beside Joseph, who
steadily concluded his supplications, and then rose, vowing he would
set off for the Grange directly. Mr. Linton was a magistrate, and
though he had fifty wives dead, he should inquire into this. He was so
obstinate in his resolution, that Heathcliff deemed it expedient to
compel from my lips a recapitulation of what had taken place; standing
over me, heaving with malevolence, as I reluctantly delivered the
account in answer to his questions. It required a great deal of labour
to satisfy the old man that Heathcliff was not the aggressor;
especially with my hardly-wrung replies. However, Mr. Earnshaw soon
convinced him that he was alive still; Joseph hastened to administer a
dose of spirits, and by their succour his master presently regained
motion and consciousness. Heathcliff, aware that his opponent was
ignorant of the treatment received while insensible, called him
deliriously intoxicated; and said he should not notice his atrocious
conduct further, but advised him to get to bed. To my joy, he left us,
after giving this judicious counsel, and Hindley stretched himself on
the hearthstone. I departed to my own room, marvelling that I had
escaped so easily.
“This morning, when I came down, about half an hour before noon, Mr.
Earnshaw was sitting by the fire, deadly sick; his evil genius, almost
as gaunt and ghastly, leant against the chimney. Neither appeared
inclined to dine, and, having waited till all was cold on the table, I
commenced alone. Nothing hindered me from eating heartily, and I
experienced a certain sense of satisfaction and superiority, as, at
intervals, I cast a look towards my silent companions, and felt the
comfort of a quiet conscience within me. After I had done, I ventured
on the unusual liberty of drawing near the fire, going round Earnshaw’s
seat, and kneeling in the corner beside him.
“Heathcliff did not glance my way, and I gazed up, and contemplated his
features almost as confidently as if they had been turned to stone. His
forehead, that I once thought so manly, and that I now think so
diabolical, was shaded with a heavy cloud; his basilisk eyes were
nearly quenched by sleeplessness, and weeping, perhaps, for the lashes
were wet then: his lips devoid of their ferocious sneer, and sealed in
an expression of unspeakable sadness. Had it been another, I would have
covered my face in the presence of such grief. In _his_ case, I was
gratified; and, ignoble as it seems to insult a fallen enemy, I
couldn’t miss this chance of sticking in a dart: his weakness was the
only time when I could taste the delight of paying wrong for wrong.”
“Fie, fie, Miss!” I interrupted. “One might suppose you had never
opened a Bible in your life. If God afflict your enemies, surely that
ought to suffice you. It is both mean and presumptuous to add your
torture to his!”
“In general I’ll allow that it would be, Ellen,” she continued; “but
what misery laid on Heathcliff could content me, unless I have a hand
in it? I’d rather he suffered less, if I might cause his sufferings and
he might _know_ that I was the cause. Oh, I owe him so much. On only
one condition can I hope to forgive him. It is, if I may take an eye
for an eye, a tooth for a tooth; for every wrench of agony return a
wrench: reduce him to my level. As he was the first to injure, make him
the first to implore pardon; and then—why then, Ellen, I might show you
some generosity. But it is utterly impossible I can ever be revenged,
and therefore I cannot forgive him. Hindley wanted some water, and I
handed him a glass, and asked him how he was.
“‘Not as ill as I wish,’ he replied. ‘But leaving out my arm, every
inch of me is as sore as if I had been fighting with a legion of imps!’
“‘Yes, no wonder,’ was my next remark. ‘Catherine used to boast that
she stood between you and bodily harm: she meant that certain persons
would not hurt you for fear of offending her. It’s well people don’t
_really_ rise from their grave, or, last night, she might have
witnessed a repulsive scene! Are not you bruised, and cut over your
chest and shoulders?’
“‘I can’t say,’ he answered, ‘but what do you mean? Did he dare to
strike me when I was down?’
“‘He trampled on and kicked you, and dashed you on the ground,’ I
whispered. ‘And his mouth watered to tear you with his teeth; because
he’s only half man: not so much, and the rest fiend.’
“Mr. Earnshaw looked up, like me, to the countenance of our mutual foe;
who, absorbed in his anguish, seemed insensible to anything around him:
the longer he stood, the plainer his reflections revealed their
blackness through his features.
“‘Oh, if God would but give me strength to strangle him in my last
agony, I’d go to hell with joy,’ groaned the impatient man, writhing to
rise, and sinking back in despair, convinced of his inadequacy for the
struggle.
“‘Nay, it’s enough that he has murdered one of you,’ I observed aloud.
‘At the Grange, every one knows your sister would have been living now
had it not been for Mr. Heathcliff. After all, it is preferable to be
hated than loved by him. When I recollect how happy we were—how happy
Catherine was before he came—I’m fit to curse the day.’
“Most likely, Heathcliff noticed more the truth of what was said, than
the spirit of the person who said it. His attention was roused, I saw,
for his eyes rained down tears among the ashes, and he drew his breath
in suffocating sighs. I stared full at him, and laughed scornfully. The
clouded windows of hell flashed a moment towards me; the fiend which
usually looked out, however, was so dimmed and drowned that I did not
fear to hazard another sound of derision.
“‘Get up, and begone out of my sight,’ said the mourner.
“I guessed he uttered those words, at least, though his voice was
hardly intelligible.
“‘I beg your pardon,’ I replied. ‘But I loved Catherine too; and her
brother requires attendance, which, for her sake, I shall supply. Now
that she’s dead, I see her in Hindley: Hindley has exactly her eyes, if
you had not tried to gouge them out, and made them black and red; and
her—’
“‘Get up, wretched idiot, before I stamp you to death!’ he cried,
making a movement that caused me to make one also.
“‘But then,’ I continued, holding myself ready to flee, ‘if poor
Catherine had trusted you, and assumed the ridiculous, contemptible,
degrading title of Mrs. Heathcliff, she would soon have presented a
similar picture! _She_ wouldn’t have borne your abominable behaviour
quietly: her detestation and disgust must have found voice.’
“The back of the settle and Earnshaw’s person interposed between me and
him; so instead of endeavouring to reach me, he snatched a dinner-knife
from the table and flung it at my head. It struck beneath my ear, and
stopped the sentence I was uttering; but, pulling it out, I sprang to
the door and delivered another; which I hope went a little deeper than
his missile. The last glimpse I caught of him was a furious rush on his
part, checked by the embrace of his host; and both fell locked together
on the hearth. In my flight through the kitchen I bid Joseph speed to
his master; I knocked over Hareton, who was hanging a litter of puppies
from a chair-back in the doorway; and, blessed as a soul escaped from
purgatory, I bounded, leaped, and flew down the steep road; then,
quitting its windings, shot direct across the moor, rolling over banks,
and wading through marshes: precipitating myself, in fact, towards the
beacon-light of the Grange. And far rather would I be condemned to a
perpetual dwelling in the infernal regions than, even for one night,
abide beneath the roof of Wuthering Heights again.”
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.”
“I’ll see thee damned before I be _thy_ servant!” growled the lad.
“You’ll see me _what_!” asked Catherine in surprise.
“Damned—thou saucy witch!” he replied.
“There, Miss Cathy! you see you have got into pretty company,” I
interposed. “Nice words to be used to a young lady! Pray don’t begin to
dispute with him. Come, let us seek for Minny ourselves, and begone.”
“But, Ellen,” cried she, staring fixed in astonishment, “how dare he
speak so to me? Mustn’t he be made to do as I ask him? You wicked
creature, I shall tell papa what you said.—Now, then!”
Hareton did not appear to feel this threat; so the tears sprang into
her eyes with indignation. “You bring the pony,” she exclaimed, turning
to the woman, “and let my dog free this moment!”
“Softly, Miss,” answered she addressed; “you’ll lose nothing by being
civil. Though Mr. Hareton, there, be not the master’s son, he’s your
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 farm-house, 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 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
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 heu’ 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 thing won’t
be settled while you linger about it.”
“Well,” replied I, “I hope you’ll be kind to the boy, Mr. Heathcliff,
or you’ll not keep him long; and he’s all you have akin in the wide
world, that you will ever know—remember.”
“I’ll be very kind to him, you needn’t fear,” he said, laughing. “Only
nobody else must be kind to him: I’m jealous of monopolising his
affection. And, to begin my kindness, Joseph, bring the lad some
breakfast. Hareton, you infernal calf, begone to your work. Yes, Nell,”
he added, when they had departed, “my son is prospective owner of your
place, and I should not wish him to die till I was certain of being his
successor. Besides, he’s _mine_, and I want the triumph of seeing _my_
descendant fairly lord of their estates; my child hiring their children
to till their fathers’ lands for wages. That is the sole consideration
which can make me endure the whelp: I despise him for himself, and hate
him for the memories he revives! But that consideration is sufficient:
he’s as safe with me, and shall be tended as carefully as your master
tends his own. I have a room upstairs, furnished for him in handsome
style; I’ve engaged a tutor, also, to come three times a week, from
twenty miles’ distance, to teach him what he pleases to learn. I’ve
ordered Hareton to obey him: and in fact I’ve arranged everything with
a view to preserve the superior and the gentleman in him, above his
associates. I do regret, however, that he so little deserves the
trouble: if I wished any blessing in the world, it was to find him a
worthy object of pride; and I’m bitterly disappointed with the
whey-faced, whining wretch!”
While he was speaking, Joseph returned bearing a basin of
milk-porridge, and placed it before Linton: who stirred round the
homely mess with a look of aversion, and affirmed he could not eat it.
I saw the old man-servant shared largely in his master’s scorn of the
child; though he was compelled to retain the sentiment in his heart,
because Heathcliff plainly meant his underlings to hold him in honour.
“Cannot ate it?” repeated he, peering in Linton’s face, and subduing
his voice to a whisper, for fear of being overheard. “But Maister
Hareton nivir ate naught else, when he wer a little ’un; and what wer
gooid enough for him’s gooid enough for ye, I’s rayther think!”
“I _sha’n’t_ eat it!” answered Linton, snappishly. “Take it away.”
Joseph snatched up the food indignantly, and brought it to us.
“Is there aught ails th’ victuals?” he asked, thrusting the tray under
Heathcliff’s nose.
“What should ail them?” he said.
“Wah!” answered Joseph, “yon dainty chap says he cannut ate ’em. But I
guess it’s raight! His mother wer just soa—we wer a’most too mucky to
sow t’ corn for makking her breead.”
“Don’t mention his mother to me,” said the master, angrily. “Get him
something that he can eat, that’s all. What is his usual food, Nelly?”
I suggested boiled milk or tea; and the housekeeper received
instructions to prepare some. Come, I reflected, his father’s
selfishness may contribute to his comfort. He perceives his delicate
constitution, and the necessity of treating him tolerably. I’ll console
Mr. Edgar by acquainting him with the turn Heathcliff’s humour has
taken. Having no excuse for lingering longer, I slipped out, while
Linton was engaged in timidly rebuffing the advances of a friendly
sheep-dog. But he was too much on the alert to be cheated: as I closed
the door, I heard a cry, and a frantic repetition of the words—
“Don’t leave me! I’ll not stay here! I’ll not stay here!”
Then the latch was raised and fell: they did not suffer him to come
forth. I mounted Minny, and urged her to a trot; and so my brief
guardianship ended.
CHAPTER XXI
We had sad work with little Cathy that day: she rose in high glee,
eager to join her cousin, and such passionate tears and lamentations
followed the news of his departure that Edgar himself was obliged to
soothe her, by affirming he should come back soon: he added, however,
“if I can get him”; and there were no hopes of that. This promise
poorly pacified her; but time was more potent; and though still at
intervals she inquired of her father when Linton would return, before
she did see him again his features had waxed so dim in her memory that
she did not recognise him.
When I chanced to encounter the housekeeper of Wuthering Heights, in
paying business visits to Gimmerton, I used to ask how the young master
got on; for he lived almost as secluded as Catherine herself, and was
never to be seen. I could gather from her that he continued in weak
health, and was a tiresome inmate. She said Mr. Heathcliff seemed to
dislike him ever longer and worse, though he took some trouble to
conceal it: he had an antipathy to the sound of his voice, and could
not do at all with his sitting in the same room with him many minutes
together. There seldom passed much talk between them: Linton learnt his
lessons and spent his evenings in a small apartment they called the
parlour: or else lay in bed all day: for he was constantly getting
coughs, and colds, and aches, and pains of some sort.
“And I never knew such a fainthearted creature,” added the woman; “nor
one so careful of hisseln. He _will_ go on, if I leave the window open
a bit late in the evening. Oh! it’s killing, a breath of night air! And
he must have a fire in the middle of summer; and Joseph’s bacca-pipe is
poison; and he must always have sweets and dainties, and always milk,
milk for ever—heeding naught how the rest of us are pinched in winter;
and there he’ll sit, wrapped in his furred cloak in his chair by the
fire, with some toast and water or other slop on the hob to sip at; and
if Hareton, for pity, comes to amuse him—Hareton is not bad-natured,
though he’s rough—they’re sure to part, one swearing and the other
crying. I believe the master would relish Earnshaw’s thrashing him to a
mummy, if he were not his son; and I’m certain he would be fit to turn
him out of doors, if he knew half the nursing he gives hisseln. But
then he won’t go into danger of temptation: he never enters the
parlour, and should Linton show those ways in the house where he is, he
sends him upstairs directly.”
I divined, from this account, that utter lack of sympathy had rendered
young Heathcliff selfish and disagreeable, if he were not so
originally; and my interest in him, consequently, decayed: though still
I was moved with a sense of grief at his lot, and a wish that he had
been left with us. Mr. Edgar encouraged me to gain information: he
thought a great deal about him, I fancy, and would have run some risk
to see him; and he told me once to ask the housekeeper whether he ever
came into the village? She said he had only been twice, on horseback,
accompanying his father; and both times he pretended to be quite
knocked up for three or four days afterwards. That housekeeper left, if
I recollect rightly, two years after he came; and another, whom I did
not know, was her successor; she lives there still.
Time wore on at the Grange in its former pleasant way till Miss Cathy
reached sixteen. On the anniversary of her birth we never manifested
any signs of rejoicing, because it was also the anniversary of my late
mistress’s death. Her father invariably spent that day alone in the
library; and walked, at dusk, as far as Gimmerton kirkyard, where he
would frequently prolong his stay beyond midnight. Therefore Catherine
was thrown on her own resources for amusement. This twentieth of March
was a beautiful spring day, and when her father had retired, my young
lady came down dressed for going out, and said she asked to have a
ramble on the edge of the moor with me: Mr. Linton had given her leave,
if we went only a short distance and were back within the hour.
“So make haste, Ellen!” she cried. “I know where I wish to go; where a
colony of moor-game are settled: I want to see whether they have made
their nests yet.”
“That must be a good distance up,” I answered; “they don’t breed on the
edge of the moor.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “I’ve gone very near with papa.”
I put on my bonnet and sallied out, thinking nothing more of the
matter. She bounded before me, and returned to my side, and was off
again like a young greyhound; and, at first, I found plenty of
entertainment in listening to the larks singing far and near, and
enjoying the sweet, warm sunshine; and watching her, my pet and my
delight, with her golden ringlets flying loose behind, and her bright
cheek, as soft and pure in its bloom as a wild rose, and her eyes
radiant with cloudless pleasure. She was a happy creature, and an
angel, in those days. It’s a pity she could not be content.
“Well,” said I, “where are your moor-game, Miss Cathy? We should be at
them: the Grange park-fence is a great way off now.”
“Oh, a little further—only a little further, Ellen,” was her answer,
continually. “Climb to that hillock, pass that bank, and by the time
you reach the other side I shall have raised the birds.”
But there were so many hillocks and banks to climb and pass, that, at
length, I began to be weary, and told her we must halt, and retrace our
steps. I shouted to her, as she had outstripped me a long way; she
either did not hear or did not regard, for she still sprang on, and I
was compelled to follow. Finally, she dived into a hollow; and before I
came in sight of her again, she was two miles nearer Wuthering Heights
than her own home; and I beheld a couple of persons arrest her, one of
whom I felt convinced was Mr. Heathcliff himself.
Cathy had been caught in the fact of plundering, or, at least, hunting
out the nests of the grouse. The Heights were Heathcliff’s land, and he
was reproving the poacher.
“I’ve neither taken any nor found any,” she said, as I toiled to them,
expanding her hands in corroboration of the statement. “I didn’t mean
to take them; but papa told me there were quantities up here, and I
wished to see the eggs.”
Heathcliff glanced at me with an ill-meaning smile, expressing his
acquaintance with the party, and, consequently, his malevolence towards
it, and demanded who “papa” was?
“Mr. Linton of Thrushcross Grange,” she replied. “I thought you did not
know me, or you wouldn’t have spoken in that way.”
“You suppose papa is highly esteemed and respected, then?” he said,
sarcastically.
“And what are you?” inquired Catherine, gazing curiously on the
speaker. “That man I’ve seen before. Is he your son?”
She pointed to Hareton, the other individual, who had gained nothing
but increased bulk and strength by the addition of two years to his
age: he seemed as awkward and rough as ever.
“Miss Cathy,” I interrupted, “it will be three hours instead of one
that we are out, presently. We really must go back.”
“No, that man is not my son,” answered Heathcliff, pushing me aside.
“But I have one, and you have seen him before too; and, though your
nurse is in a hurry, I think both you and she would be the better for a
little rest. Will you just turn this nab of heath, and walk into my
house? You’ll get home earlier for the ease; and you shall receive a
kind welcome.”
I whispered Catherine that she mustn’t, on any account, accede to the
proposal: it was entirely out of the question.
“Why?” she asked, aloud. “I’m tired of running, and the ground is dewy:
I can’t sit here. Let us go, Ellen. Besides, he says I have seen his
son. He’s mistaken, I think; but I guess where he lives: at the
farmhouse I visited in coming from Penistone Crags. Don’t you?”
“I do. Come, Nelly, hold your tongue—it will be a treat for her to look
in on us. Hareton, get forwards with the lass. You shall walk with me,
Nelly.”
“No, she’s not going to any such place,” I cried, struggling to release
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?”
“Why, where the devil is the use on’t?” growled Hareton, more ready in
answering his daily companion. He was about to enlarge further, but the
two youngsters broke into a noisy fit of merriment: my giddy miss being
delighted to discover that she might turn his strange talk to matter of
amusement.
“Where is the use of the devil in that sentence?” tittered Linton.
“Papa told you not to say any bad words, and you can’t open your mouth
without one. Do try to behave like a gentleman, now do!”
“If thou weren’t more a lass than a lad, I’d fell thee this minute, I
would; pitiful lath of a crater!” retorted the angry boor, retreating,
while his face burnt with mingled rage and mortification; for he was
conscious of being insulted, and embarrassed how to resent it.
Mr. Heathcliff having overheard the conversation, as well as I, smiled
when he saw him go; but immediately afterwards cast a look of singular
aversion on the flippant pair, who remained chattering in the door-way:
the boy finding animation enough while discussing Hareton’s faults and
deficiencies, and relating anecdotes of his goings on; and the girl
relishing his pert and spiteful sayings, without considering the
ill-nature they evinced. I began to dislike, more than to compassionate
Linton, and to excuse his father in some measure for holding him cheap.
We stayed till afternoon: I could not tear Miss Cathy away sooner; but
happily my master had not quitted his apartment, and remained ignorant
of our prolonged absence. As we walked home, I would fain have
enlightened my charge on the characters of the people we had quitted:
but she got it into her head that I was prejudiced against them.
“Aha!” she cried, “you take papa’s side, Ellen: you are partial I know;
or else you wouldn’t have cheated me so many years into the notion that
Linton lived a long way from here. I’m really extremely angry; only I’m
so pleased I can’t show it! But you must hold your tongue about _my_
uncle; he’s my uncle, remember; and I’ll scold papa for quarrelling
with him.”
And so she ran on, till I relinquished the endeavour to convince her of
her mistake. She did not mention the visit that night, because she did
not see Mr. Linton. Next day it all came out, sadly to my chagrin; and
still I was not altogether sorry: I thought the burden of directing and
warning would be more efficiently borne by him than me. But he was too
timid in giving satisfactory reasons for his wish that she should shun
connection with the household of the Heights, and Catherine liked good
reasons for every restraint that harassed her petted will.
“Papa!” she exclaimed, after the morning’s salutations, “guess whom I
saw yesterday, in my walk on the moors. Ah, papa, you started! you’ve
not done right, have you, now? I saw—but listen, and you shall hear how
I found you out; and Ellen, who is in league with you, and yet
pretended to pity me so, when I kept hoping, and was always
disappointed about Linton’s coming back!”
She gave a faithful account of her excursion and its consequences; and
my master, though he cast more than one reproachful look at me, said
nothing till she had concluded. Then he drew her to him, and asked if
she knew why he had concealed Linton’s near neighbourhood from her?
Could she think it was to deny her a pleasure that she might harmlessly
enjoy?
“It was because you disliked Mr. Heathcliff,” she answered.
“Then you believe I care more for my own feelings than yours, Cathy?”
he said. “No, it was not because I disliked Mr. Heathcliff, but because
Mr. Heathcliff dislikes me; and is a most diabolical man, delighting to
wrong and ruin those he hates, if they give him the slightest
opportunity. I knew that you could not keep up an acquaintance with
your cousin without being brought into contact with him; and I knew he
would detest you on my account; so for your own good, and nothing else,
I took precautions that you should not see Linton again. I meant to
explain this some time as you grew older, and I’m sorry I delayed it.”
“But Mr. Heathcliff was quite cordial, papa,” observed Catherine, not
at all convinced; “and _he_ didn’t object to our seeing each other: he
said I might come to his house when I pleased; only I must not tell
you, because you had quarrelled with him, and would not forgive him for
marrying aunt Isabella. And you won’t. _You_ are the one to be blamed:
he is willing to let _us_ be friends, at least; Linton and I; and you
are not.”
My master, perceiving that she would not take his word for her
uncle-in-law’s evil disposition, gave a hasty sketch of his conduct to
Isabella, and the manner in which Wuthering Heights became his
property. He could not bear to discourse long upon the topic; for
though he spoke little of it, he still felt the same horror and
detestation of his ancient enemy that had occupied his heart ever since
Mrs. Linton’s death. “She might have been living yet, if it had not
been for him!” was his constant bitter reflection; and, in his eyes,
Heathcliff seemed a murderer. Miss Cathy—conversant with no bad deeds
except her own slight acts of disobedience, injustice, and passion,
arising from hot temper and thoughtlessness, and repented of on the day
they were committed—was amazed at the blackness of spirit that could
brood on and cover revenge for years, and deliberately prosecute its
plans without a visitation of remorse. She appeared so deeply impressed
and shocked at this new view of human nature—excluded from all her
studies and all her ideas till now—that Mr. Edgar deemed it unnecessary
to pursue the subject. He merely added: “You will know hereafter,
darling, why I wish you to avoid his house and family; now return to
your old employments and amusements, and think no more about them.”
Catherine kissed her father, and sat down quietly to her lessons for a
couple of hours, according to custom; then she accompanied him into the
grounds, and the whole day passed as usual: but in the evening, when
she had retired to her room, and I went to help her to undress, I found
her crying, on her knees by the bedside.
“Oh, fie, silly child!” I exclaimed. “If you had any real griefs you’d
be ashamed to waste a tear on this little contrariety. You never had
one shadow of substantial sorrow, Miss Catherine. Suppose, for a
minute, that master and I were dead, and you were by yourself in the
world: how would you feel, then? Compare the present occasion with such
an affliction as that, and be thankful for the friends you have,
instead of coveting more.”
“I’m not crying for myself, Ellen,” she answered, “it’s for him. He
expected to see me again to-morrow, and there he’ll be so disappointed:
and he’ll wait for me, and I sha’n’t come!”
“Nonsense!” said I, “do you imagine he has thought as much of you as
you have of him? Hasn’t he Hareton for a companion? Not one in a
hundred would weep at losing a relation they had just seen twice, for
two afternoons. Linton will conjecture how it is, and trouble himself
no further about you.”
“But may I not write a note to tell him why I cannot come?” she asked,
rising to her feet. “And just send those books I promised to lend him?
His books are not as nice as mine, and he wanted to have them
extremely, when I told him how interesting they were. May I not,
Ellen?”
“No, indeed! no, indeed!” replied I with decision. “Then he would write
to you, and there’d never be an end of it. No, Miss Catherine, the
acquaintance must be dropped entirely: so papa expects, and I shall see
that it is done.”
“But how can one little note—?” she recommenced, putting on an
imploring countenance.
“Silence!” I interrupted. “We’ll not begin with your little notes. Get
into bed.”
She threw at me a very naughty look, so naughty that I would not kiss
her good-night at first: I covered her up, and shut her door, in great
displeasure; but, repenting half-way, I returned softly, and lo! there
was Miss standing at the table with a bit of blank paper before her and
a pencil in her hand, which she guiltily slipped out of sight on my
entrance.
“You’ll get nobody to take that, Catherine,” I said, “if you write it;
and at present I shall put out your candle.”
I set the extinguisher on the flame, receiving as I did so a slap on my
hand and a petulant “cross thing!” I then quitted her again, and she
drew the bolt in one of her worst, most peevish humours. The letter was
finished and forwarded to its destination by a milk-fetcher who came
from the village; but that I didn’t learn till some time afterwards.
Weeks passed on, and Cathy recovered her temper; though she grew
wondrous fond of stealing off to corners by herself and often, if I
came near her suddenly while reading, she would start and bend over the
book, evidently desirous to hide it; and I detected edges of loose
paper sticking out beyond the leaves. She also got a trick of coming
down early in the morning and lingering about the kitchen, as if she
were expecting the arrival of something; and she had a small drawer in
a cabinet in the library, which she would trifle over for hours, and
whose key she took special care to remove when she left it.
One day, as she inspected this drawer, I observed that the playthings
and trinkets which recently formed its contents were transmuted into
bits of folded paper. My curiosity and suspicions were roused; I
determined to take a peep at her mysterious treasures; so, at night, as
soon as she and my master were safe upstairs, I searched, and readily
found among my house keys one that would fit the lock. Having opened, I
emptied the whole contents into my apron, and took them with me to
examine at leisure in my own chamber. Though I could not but suspect, I
was still surprised to discover that they were a mass of
correspondence—daily almost, it must have been—from Linton Heathcliff:
answers to documents forwarded by her. The earlier dated were
embarrassed and short; gradually, however, they expanded into copious
love-letters, foolish, as the age of the writer rendered natural, yet
with touches here and there which I thought were borrowed from a more
experienced source. Some of them struck me as singularly odd compounds
of ardour and flatness; commencing in strong feeling, and concluding in
the affected, wordy style that a schoolboy might use to a fancied,
incorporeal sweetheart. Whether they satisfied Cathy I don’t know; but
they appeared very worthless trash to me. After turning over as many as
I thought proper, I tied them in a handkerchief and set them aside,
relocking the vacant drawer.
Following her habit, my young lady descended early, and visited the
kitchen: I watched her go to the door, on the arrival of a certain
little boy; and, while the dairymaid filled his can, she tucked
something into his jacket pocket, and plucked something out. I went
round by the garden, and laid wait for the messenger; who fought
valorously to defend his trust, and we spilt the milk between us; but I
succeeded in abstracting the epistle; and, threatening serious
consequences if he did not look sharp home, I remained under the wall
and perused Miss Cathy’s affectionate composition. It was more simple
and more eloquent than her cousin’s: very pretty and very silly. I
shook my head, and went meditating into the house. The day being wet,
she could not divert herself with rambling about the park; so, at the
conclusion of her morning studies, she resorted to the solace of the
drawer. Her father sat reading at the table; and I, on purpose, had
sought a bit of work in some unripped fringes of the window-curtain,
keeping my eye steadily fixed on her proceedings. Never did any bird
flying back to a plundered nest, which it had left brimful of chirping
young ones, express more complete despair, in its anguished cries and
flutterings, than she by her single “Oh!” and the change that
transfigured her late happy countenance. Mr. Linton looked up.
“What is the matter, love? Have you hurt yourself?” he said.
His tone and look assured her _he_ had not been the discoverer of the
hoard.
“No, papa!” she gasped. “Ellen! Ellen! come upstairs—I’m sick!”
I obeyed her summons, and accompanied her out.
“Oh, Ellen! you have got them,” she commenced immediately, dropping on
her knees, when we were enclosed alone. “Oh, give them to me, and I’ll
never, never do so again! Don’t tell papa. You have not told papa,
Ellen? say you have not? I’ve been exceedingly naughty, but I won’t do
it any more!”
With a grave severity in my manner I bade her stand up.
“So,” I exclaimed, “Miss Catherine, you are tolerably far on, it seems:
you may well be ashamed of them! A fine bundle of trash you study in
your leisure hours, to be sure: why, it’s good enough to be printed!
And what do you suppose the master will think when I display it before
him? I hav’n’t shown it yet, but you needn’t imagine I shall keep your
ridiculous secrets. For shame! and you must have led the way in writing
such absurdities: he would not have thought of beginning, I’m certain.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t!” sobbed Cathy, fit to break her heart. “I didn’t
once think of loving him till—”
“_Loving_!” cried I, as scornfully as I could utter the word.
“_Loving_! Did anybody ever hear the like! I might just as well talk of
loving the miller who comes once a year to buy our corn. Pretty loving,
indeed! and both times together you have seen Linton hardly four hours
in your life! Now here is the babyish trash. I’m going with it to the
library; and we’ll see what your father says to such _loving_.”
She sprang at her precious epistles, but I held them above my head; and
then she poured out further frantic entreaties that I would burn
them—do anything rather than show them. And being really fully as much
inclined to laugh as scold—for I esteemed it all girlish vanity—I at
length relented in a measure, and asked,—“If I consent to burn them,
will you promise faithfully neither to send nor receive a letter again,
nor a book (for I perceive you have sent him books), nor locks of hair,
nor rings, nor playthings?”
“We don’t send playthings,” cried Catherine, her pride overcoming her
shame.
“Nor anything at all, then, my lady?” I said. “Unless you will, here I
go.”
“I promise, Ellen!” she cried, catching my dress. “Oh, put them in the
fire, do, do!”
But when I proceeded to open a place with the poker the sacrifice was
too painful to be borne. She earnestly supplicated that I would spare
her one or two.
“One or two, Ellen, to keep for Linton’s sake!”
I unknotted the handkerchief, and commenced dropping them in from an
angle, and the flame curled up the chimney.
“I will have one, you cruel wretch!” she screamed, darting her hand
into the fire, and drawing forth some half-consumed fragments, at the
expense of her fingers.
“Very well—and I will have some to exhibit to papa!” I answered,
shaking back the rest into the bundle, and turning anew to the door.
She emptied her blackened pieces into the flames, and motioned me to
finish the immolation. It was done; I stirred up the ashes, and
interred them under a shovelful of coals; and she mutely, and with a
sense of intense injury, retired to her private apartment. I descended
to tell my master that the young lady’s qualm of sickness was almost
gone, but I judged it best for her to lie down a while. She wouldn’t
dine; but she reappeared at tea, pale, and red about the eyes, and
marvellously subdued in outward aspect. Next morning I answered the
letter by a slip of paper, inscribed, “Master Heathcliff is requested
to send no more notes to Miss Linton, as she will not receive them.”
And, henceforth, the little boy came with vacant pockets.
CHAPTER XXII
Summer drew to an end, and early autumn: it was past Michaelmas, but
the harvest was late that year, and a few of our fields were still
uncleared. Mr. Linton and his daughter would frequently walk out among
the reapers; at the carrying of the last sheaves they stayed till dusk,
and the evening happening to be chill and damp, my master caught a bad
cold, that settled obstinately on his lungs, and confined him indoors
throughout the whole of the winter, nearly without intermission.
Poor Cathy, frightened from her little romance, had been considerably
sadder and duller since its abandonment; and her father insisted on her
reading less, and taking more exercise. She had his companionship no
longer; I esteemed it a duty to supply its lack, as much as possible,
with mine: an inefficient substitute; for I could only spare two or
three hours, from my numerous diurnal occupations, to follow her
footsteps, and then my society was obviously less desirable than his.
On an afternoon in October, or the beginning of November—a fresh watery
afternoon, when the turf and paths were rustling with moist, withered
leaves, and the cold blue sky was half hidden by clouds—dark grey
streamers, rapidly mounting from the west, and boding abundant rain—I
requested my young lady to forego her ramble, because I was certain of
showers. She refused; and I unwillingly donned a cloak, and took my
umbrella to accompany her on a stroll to the bottom of the park: a
formal walk which she generally affected if low-spirited—and that she
invariably was when Mr. Edgar had been worse than ordinary, a thing
never known from his confession, but guessed both by her and me from
his increased silence and the melancholy of his countenance. She went
sadly on: there was no running or bounding now, though the chill wind
might well have tempted her to race. And often, from the side of my
eye, I could detect her raising a hand, and brushing something off her
cheek. I gazed round for a means of diverting her thoughts. On one side
of the road rose a high, rough bank, where hazels and stunted oaks,
with their roots half exposed, held uncertain tenure: the soil was too
loose for the latter; and strong winds had blown some nearly
horizontal. In summer Miss Catherine delighted to climb along these
trunks, and sit in the branches, swinging twenty feet above the ground;
and I, pleased with her agility and her light, childish heart, still
considered it proper to scold every time I caught her at such an
elevation, but so that she knew there was no necessity for descending.
From dinner to tea she would lie in her breeze-rocked cradle, doing
nothing except singing old songs—my nursery lore—to herself, or
watching the birds, joint tenants, feed and entice their young ones to
fly: or nestling with closed lids, half thinking, half dreaming,
happier than words can express.
“Look, Miss!” I exclaimed, pointing to a nook under the roots of one
twisted tree. “Winter is not here yet. There’s a little flower up
yonder, the last bud from the multitude of bluebells that clouded those
turf steps in July with a lilac mist. Will you clamber up, and pluck it
to show to papa?” Cathy stared a long time at the lonely blossom
trembling in its earthy shelter, and replied, at length—“No, I’ll not
touch it: but it looks melancholy, does it not, Ellen?”
“Yes,” I observed, “about as starved and suckless as you: your cheeks
are bloodless; let us take hold of hands and run. You’re so low, I
daresay I shall keep up with you.”
“No,” she repeated, and continued sauntering on, pausing at intervals
to muse over a bit of moss, or a tuft of blanched grass, or a fungus
spreading its bright orange among the heaps of brown foliage; and, ever
and anon, her hand was lifted to her averted face.
“Catherine, why are you crying, love?” I asked, approaching and putting
my arm over her shoulder. “You mustn’t cry because papa has a cold; be
thankful it is nothing worse.”
She now put no further restraint on her tears; her breath was stifled
by sobs.
“Oh, it will be something worse,” she said. “And what shall I do when
papa and you leave me, and I am by myself? I can’t forget your words,
Ellen; they are always in my ear. How life will be changed, how dreary
the world will be, when papa and you are dead.”
“None can tell whether you won’t die before us,” I replied. “It’s wrong
to anticipate evil. We’ll hope there are years and years to come before
any of us go: master is young, and I am strong, and hardly forty-five.
My mother lived till eighty, a canty dame to the last. And suppose Mr.
Linton were spared till he saw sixty, that would be more years than you
have counted, Miss. And would it not be foolish to mourn a calamity
above twenty years beforehand?”
“But Aunt Isabella was younger than papa,” she remarked, gazing up with
timid hope to seek further consolation.
“Aunt Isabella had not you and me to nurse her,” I replied. “She wasn’t
as happy as Master: she hadn’t as much to live for. All you need do, is
to wait well on your father, and cheer him by letting him see you
cheerful; and avoid giving him anxiety on any subject: mind that,
Cathy! I’ll not disguise but you might kill him if you were wild and
reckless, and cherished a foolish, fanciful affection for the son of a
person who would be glad to have him in his grave; and allowed him to
discover that you fretted over the separation he has judged it
expedient to make.”
“I fret about nothing on earth except papa’s illness,” answered my
companion. “I care for nothing in comparison with papa. And I’ll
never—never—oh, never, while I have my senses, do an act or say a word
to vex him. I love him better than myself, Ellen; and I know it by
this: I pray every night that I may live after him; because I would
rather be miserable than that he should be: that proves I love him
better than myself.”
“Good words,” I replied. “But deeds must prove it also; and after he is
well, remember you don’t forget resolutions formed in the hour of
fear.”
As we talked, we neared a door that opened on the road; and my young
lady, lightening into sunshine again, climbed up and seated herself on
the top of the wall, reaching over to gather some hips that bloomed
scarlet on the summit branches of the wild-rose trees shadowing the
highway side: the lower fruit had disappeared, but only birds could
touch the upper, except from Cathy’s present station. In stretching to
pull them, her hat fell off; and as the door was locked, she proposed
scrambling down to recover it. I bid her be cautious lest she got a
fall, and she nimbly disappeared. But the return was no such easy
matter: the stones were smooth and neatly cemented, and the rose-bushes
and black-berry stragglers could yield no assistance in re-ascending.
I, like a fool, didn’t recollect that, till I heard her laughing and
exclaiming—“Ellen! you’ll have to fetch the key, or else I must run
round to the porter’s lodge. I can’t scale the ramparts on this side!”
“Stay where you are,” I answered; “I have my bundle of keys in my
pocket: perhaps I may manage to open it; if not, I’ll go.”
Catherine amused herself with dancing to and fro before the door, while
I tried all the large keys in succession. I had applied the last, and
found that none would do; so, repeating my desire that she would remain
there, I was about to hurry home as fast as I could, when an
approaching sound arrested me. It was the trot of a horse; Cathy’s
dance stopped also.
“Who is that?” I whispered.
“Ellen, I wish you could open the door,” whispered back my companion,
anxiously.
“Ho, Miss Linton!” cried a deep voice (the rider’s), “I’m glad to meet
you. Don’t be in haste to enter, for I have an explanation to ask and
obtain.”
“I sha’n’t speak to you, Mr. Heathcliff,” answered Catherine. “Papa
says you are a wicked man, and you hate both him and me; and Ellen says
the same.”
“That is nothing to the purpose,” said Heathcliff. (He it was.) “I
don’t hate my son, I suppose; and it is concerning him that I demand
your attention. Yes; you have cause to blush. Two or three months
since, were you not in the habit of writing to Linton? making love in
play, eh? You deserved, both of you, flogging for that! You especially,
the elder; and less sensitive, as it turns out. I’ve got your letters,
and if you give me any pertness I’ll send them to your father. I
presume you grew weary of the amusement and dropped it, didn’t you?
Well, you dropped Linton with it into a Slough of Despond. He was in
earnest: in love, really. As true as I live, he’s dying for you;
breaking his heart at your fickleness: not figuratively, but actually.
Though Hareton has made him a standing jest for six weeks, and I have
used more serious measures, and attempted to frighten him out of his
idiocy, he gets worse daily; and he’ll be under the sod before summer,
unless you restore him!”
“How can you lie so glaringly to the poor child?” I called from the
inside. “Pray ride on! How can you deliberately get up such paltry
falsehoods? Miss Cathy, I’ll knock the lock off with a stone: you won’t
believe that vile nonsense. You can feel in yourself it is impossible
that a person should die for love of a stranger.”
“I was not aware there were eavesdroppers,” muttered the detected
villain. “Worthy Mrs. Dean, I like you, but I don’t like your
double-dealing,” he added aloud. “How could _you_ lie so glaringly as
to affirm I hated the ‘poor child’? and invent bugbear stories to
terrify her from my door-stones? Catherine Linton (the very name warms
me), my bonny lass, I shall be from home all this week; go and see if
have not spoken truth: do, there’s a darling! Just imagine your father
in my place, and Linton in yours; then think how you would value your
careless lover if he refused to stir a step to comfort you, when your
father himself entreated him; and don’t, from pure stupidity, fall into
the same error. I swear, on my salvation, he’s going to his grave, and
none but you can save him!”
The lock gave way and I issued out.
“I swear Linton is dying,” repeated Heathcliff, looking hard at me.
“And grief and disappointment are hastening his death. Nelly, if you
won’t let her go, you can walk over yourself. But I shall not return
till this time next week; and I think your master himself would
scarcely object to her visiting her cousin.”
“Come in,” said I, taking Cathy by the arm and half forcing her to
re-enter; for she lingered, viewing with troubled eyes the features of
the speaker, too stern to express his inward deceit.
He pushed his horse close, and, bending down, observed—“Miss Catherine,
I’ll own to you that I have little patience with Linton; and Hareton
and Joseph have less. I’ll own that he’s with a harsh set. He pines for
kindness, as well as love; and a kind word from you would be his best
medicine. Don’t mind Mrs. Dean’s cruel cautions; but be generous, and
contrive to see him. He dreams of you day and night, and cannot be
persuaded that you don’t hate him, since you neither write nor call.”
I closed the door, and rolled a stone to assist the loosened lock in
holding it; and spreading my umbrella, I drew my charge underneath: for
the rain began to drive through the moaning branches of the trees, and
warned us to avoid delay. Our hurry prevented any comment on the
encounter with Heathcliff, as we stretched towards home; but I divined
instinctively that Catherine’s heart was clouded now in double
darkness. Her features were so sad, they did not seem hers: she
evidently regarded what she had heard as every syllable true.
The master had retired to rest before we came in. Cathy stole to his
room to inquire how he was; he had fallen asleep. She returned, and
asked me to sit with her in the library. We took our tea together; and
afterwards she lay down on the rug, and told me not to talk, for she
was weary. I got a book, and pretended to read. As soon as she supposed
me absorbed in my occupation, she recommenced her silent weeping: it
appeared, at present, her favourite diversion. I suffered her to enjoy
it a while; then I expostulated: deriding and ridiculing all Mr.
Heathcliff’s assertions about his son, as if I were certain she would
coincide. Alas! I hadn’t skill to counteract the effect his account had
produced: it was just what he intended.
“You may be right, Ellen,” she answered; “but I shall never feel at
ease till I know. And I must tell Linton it is not my fault that I
don’t write, and convince him that I shall not change.”
What use were anger and protestations against her silly credulity? We
parted that night—hostile; but next day beheld me on the road to
Wuthering Heights, by the side of my wilful young mistress’s pony. I
couldn’t bear to witness her sorrow: to see her pale, dejected
countenance, and heavy eyes: and I yielded, in the faint hope that
Linton himself might prove, by his reception of us, how little of the
tale was founded on fact.
CHAPTER XXIII
The rainy night had ushered in a misty morning—half frost, half
drizzle—and temporary brooks crossed our path—gurgling from the
uplands. My feet were thoroughly wetted; I was cross and low; exactly
the humour suited for making the most of these disagreeable things. We
entered the farm-house by the kitchen way, to ascertain whether Mr.
Heathcliff were really absent: because I put slight faith in his own
affirmation.
Joseph seemed sitting in a sort of elysium alone, beside a roaring
fire; a quart of ale on the table near him, bristling with large pieces
of toasted oat-cake; and his black, short pipe in his mouth. Catherine
ran to the hearth to warm herself. I asked if the master was in? My
question remained so long unanswered, that I thought the old man had
grown deaf, and repeated it louder.
“Na—ay!” he snarled, or rather screamed through his nose. “Na—ay! yah
muh goa back whear yah coom frough.”
“Joseph!” cried a peevish voice, simultaneously with me, from the inner
room. “How often am I to call you? There are only a few red ashes now.
Joseph! come this moment.”
Vigorous puffs, and a resolute stare into the grate, declared he had no
ear for this appeal. The housekeeper and Hareton were invisible; one
gone on an errand, and the other at his work, probably. We knew
Linton’s tones, and entered.
“Oh, I hope you’ll die in a garret, starved to death!” said the boy,
mistaking our approach for that of his negligent attendant.
He stopped on observing his error: his cousin flew to him.
“Is that you, Miss Linton?” he said, raising his head from the arm of
the great chair, in which he reclined. “No—don’t kiss me: it takes my
breath. Dear me! Papa said you would call,” continued he, after
recovering a little from Catherine’s embrace; while she stood by
looking very contrite. “Will you shut the door, if you please? you left
it open; and those—those _detestable_ creatures won’t bring coals to
the fire. It’s so cold!”
I stirred up the cinders, and fetched a scuttleful myself. The invalid
complained of being covered with ashes; but he had a tiresome cough,
and looked feverish and ill, so I did not rebuke his temper.
“Well, Linton,” murmured Catherine, when his corrugated brow relaxed,
“are you glad to see me? Can I do you any good?”
“Why didn’t you come before?” he asked. “You should have come, instead
of writing. It tired me dreadfully writing those long letters. I’d far
rather have talked to you. Now, I can neither bear to talk, nor
anything else. I wonder where Zillah is! Will you” (looking at me)
“step into the kitchen and see?”
I had received no thanks for my other service; and being unwilling to
run to and fro at his behest, I replied—“Nobody is out there but
Joseph.”
“I want to drink,” he exclaimed fretfully, turning away. “Zillah is
constantly gadding off to Gimmerton since papa went: it’s miserable!
And I’m obliged to come down here—they resolved never to hear me
upstairs.”
“Is your father attentive to you, Master Heathcliff?” I asked,
perceiving Catherine to be checked in her friendly advances.
“Attentive? He makes them a little more attentive at least,” he cried.
“The wretches! Do you know, Miss Linton, that brute Hareton laughs at
me! I hate him! indeed, I hate them all: they are odious beings.”
Cathy began searching for some water; she lighted on a pitcher in the
dresser, filled a tumbler, and brought it. He bid her add a spoonful of
wine from a bottle on the table; and having swallowed a small portion,
appeared more tranquil, and said she was very kind.
“And are you glad to see me?” asked she, reiterating her former
question and pleased to detect the faint dawn of a smile.
“Yes, I am. It’s something new to hear a voice like yours!” he replied.
“But I have been vexed, because you wouldn’t come. And papa swore it
was owing to me: he called me a pitiful, shuffling, worthless thing;
and said you despised me; and if he had been in my place, he would be
more the master of the Grange than your father by this time. But you
don’t despise me, do you, Miss—?”
“I wish you would say Catherine, or Cathy,” interrupted my young lady.
“Despise you? No! Next to papa and Ellen, I love you better than
anybody living. I don’t love Mr. Heathcliff, though; and I dare not
come when he returns: will he stay away many days?”
“Not many,” answered Linton; “but he goes on to the moors frequently,
since the shooting season commenced; and you might spend an hour or two
with me in his absence. Do say you will. I think I should not be
peevish with you: you’d not provoke me, and you’d always be ready to
help me, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Catherine, stroking his long soft hair: “if I could only
get papa’s consent, I’d spend half my time with you. Pretty Linton! I
wish you were my brother.”
“And then you would like me as well as your father?” observed he, more
cheerfully. “But papa says you would love me better than him and all
the world, if you were my wife; so I’d rather you were that.”
“No, I should never love anybody better than papa,” she returned
gravely. “And people hate their wives, sometimes; but not their sisters
and brothers: and if you were the latter, you would live with us, and
papa would be as fond of you as he is of me.”
Linton denied that people ever hated their wives; but Cathy affirmed
they did, and, in her wisdom, instanced his own father’s aversion to
her aunt. I endeavoured to stop her thoughtless tongue. I couldn’t
succeed till everything she knew was out. Master Heathcliff, much
irritated, asserted her relation was false.
“Papa told me; and papa does not tell falsehoods,” she answered pertly.
“_My_ papa scorns yours!” cried Linton. “He calls him a sneaking fool.”
“Yours is a wicked man,” retorted Catherine; “and you are very naughty
to dare to repeat what he says. He must be wicked to have made Aunt
Isabella leave him as she did.”
“She didn’t leave him,” said the boy; “you sha’n’t contradict me.”
“She did,” cried my young lady.
“Well, I’ll tell you something!” said Linton. “Your mother hated your
father: now then.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Catherine, too enraged to continue.
“And she loved mine,” added he.
“You little liar! I hate you now!” she panted, and her face grew red
with passion.
“She did! she did!” sang Linton, sinking into the recess of his chair,
and leaning back his head to enjoy the agitation of the other
disputant, who stood behind.
“Hush, Master Heathcliff!” I said; “that’s your father’s tale, too, I
suppose.”
“It isn’t: you hold your tongue!” he answered. “She did, she did,
Catherine! she did, she did!”
Cathy, beside herself, gave the chair a violent push, and caused him to
fall against one arm. He was immediately seized by a suffocating cough
that soon ended his triumph. It lasted so long that it frightened even
me. As to his cousin, she wept with all her might, aghast at the
mischief she had done: though she said nothing. I held him till the fit
exhausted itself. Then he thrust me away, and leant his head down
silently. Catherine quelled her lamentations also, took a seat
opposite, and looked solemnly into the fire.
“How do you feel now, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired, after waiting ten
minutes.
“I wish _she_ felt as I do,” he replied: “spiteful, cruel thing!
Hareton never touches me: he never struck me in his life. And I was
better to-day: and there—” his voice died in a whimper.
“_I_ didn’t strike you!” muttered Cathy, chewing her lip to prevent
another burst of emotion.
He sighed and moaned like one under great suffering, and kept it up for
a quarter of an hour; on purpose to distress his cousin apparently, for
whenever he caught a stifled sob from her he put renewed pain and
pathos into the inflexions of his voice.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Linton,” she said at length, racked beyond
endurance. “But I couldn’t have been hurt by that little push, and I
had no idea that you could, either: you’re not much, are you, Linton?
Don’t let me go home thinking I’ve done you harm. Answer! speak to me.”
“I can’t speak to you,” he murmured; “you’ve hurt me so that I shall
lie awake all night choking with this cough. If you had it you’d know
what it was; but _you’ll_ be comfortably asleep while I’m in agony, and
nobody near me. I wonder how you would like to pass those fearful
nights!” And he began to wail aloud, for very pity of himself.
“Since you are in the habit of passing dreadful nights,” I said, “it
won’t be Miss who spoils your ease: you’d be the same had she never
come. However, she shall not disturb you again; and perhaps you’ll get
quieter when we leave you.”
“Must I go?” asked Catherine dolefully, bending over him. “Do you want
me to go, Linton?”
“You can’t alter what you’ve done,” he replied pettishly, shrinking
from her, “unless you alter it for the worse by teasing me into a
fever.”
“Well, then, I must go?” she repeated.
“Let me alone, at least,” said he; “I can’t bear your talking.”
She lingered, and resisted my persuasions to departure a tiresome
while; but as he neither looked up nor spoke, she finally made a
movement to the door, and I followed. We were recalled by a scream.
Linton had slid from his seat on to the hearthstone, and lay writhing
in the mere perverseness of an indulged plague of a child, determined
to be as grievous and harassing as it can. I thoroughly gauged his
disposition from his behaviour, and saw at once it would be folly to
attempt humouring him. Not so my companion: she ran back in terror,
knelt down, and cried, and soothed, and entreated, till he grew quiet
from lack of breath: by no means from compunction at distressing her.
“I shall lift him on to the settle,” I said, “and he may roll about as
he pleases: we can’t stop to watch him. I hope you are satisfied, Miss
Cathy, that you are not the person to benefit him; and that his
condition of health is not occasioned by attachment to you. Now, then,
there he is! Come away: as soon as he knows there is nobody by to care
for his nonsense, he’ll be glad to lie still.”
She placed a cushion under his head, and offered him some water; he
rejected the latter, and tossed uneasily on the former, as if it were a
stone or a block of wood. She tried to put it more comfortably.
“I can’t do with that,” he said; “it’s not high enough.”
Catherine brought another to lay above it.
“That’s too high,” murmured the provoking thing.
“How must I arrange it, then?” she asked despairingly.
He twined himself up to her, as she half knelt by the settle, and
converted her shoulder into a support.
“No, that won’t do,” I said. “You’ll be content with the cushion,
Master Heathcliff. Miss has wasted too much time on you already: we
cannot remain five minutes longer.”
“Yes, yes, we can!” replied Cathy. “He’s good and patient now. He’s
beginning to think I shall have far greater misery than he will
to-night, if I believe he is the worse for my visit: and then I dare
not come again. Tell the truth about it, Linton; for I musn’t come, if
I have hurt you.”
“You must come, to cure me,” he answered. “You ought to come, because
you have hurt me: you know you have extremely! I was not as ill when
you entered as I am at present—was I?”
“But you’ve made yourself ill by crying and being in a passion.—I
didn’t do it all,” said his cousin. “However, we’ll be friends now. And
you want me: you would wish to see me sometimes, really?”
“I told you I did,” he replied impatiently. “Sit on the settle and let
me lean on your knee. That’s as mamma used to do, whole afternoons
together. Sit quite still and don’t talk: but you may sing a song, if
you can sing; or you may say a nice long interesting ballad—one of
those you promised to teach me; or a story. I’d rather have a ballad,
though: begin.”
Catherine repeated the longest she could remember. The employment
pleased both mightily. Linton would have another, and after that
another, notwithstanding my strenuous objections; and so they went on
until the clock struck twelve, and we heard Hareton in the court,
returning for his dinner.
“And to-morrow, Catherine, will you be here to-morrow?” asked young
Heathcliff, holding her frock as she rose reluctantly.
“No,” I answered, “nor next day neither.” She, however, gave a
different response evidently, for his forehead cleared as she stooped
and whispered in his ear.
“You won’t go to-morrow, recollect, Miss!” I commenced, when we were
out of the house. “You are not dreaming of it, are you?”
She smiled.
“Oh, I’ll take good care,” I continued: “I’ll have that lock mended,
and you can escape by no way else.”
“I can get over the wall,” she said laughing. “The Grange is not a
prison, Ellen, and you are not my gaoler. And besides, I’m almost
seventeen: I’m a woman. And I’m certain Linton would recover quickly if
he had me to look after him. I’m older than he is, you know, and wiser:
less childish, am I not? And he’ll soon do as I direct him, with some
slight coaxing. He’s a pretty little darling when he’s good. I’d make
such a pet of him, if he were mine. We should never quarrel, should we
after we were used to each other? Don’t you like him, Ellen?”
“Like him!” I exclaimed. “The worst-tempered bit of a sickly slip that
ever struggled into its teens. Happily, as Mr. Heathcliff conjectured,
he’ll not win twenty. I doubt whether he’ll see spring, indeed. And
small loss to his family whenever he drops off. And lucky it is for us
that his father took him: the kinder he was treated, the more tedious
and selfish he’d be. I’m glad you have no chance of having him for a
husband, Miss Catherine.”
My companion waxed serious at hearing this speech. To speak of his
death so regardlessly wounded her feelings.
“He’s younger than I,” she answered, after a protracted pause of
meditation, “and he ought to live the longest: he will—he must live as
long as I do. He’s as strong now as when he first came into the north;
I’m positive of that. It’s only a cold that ails him, the same as papa
has. You say papa will get better, and why shouldn’t he?”
“Well, well,” I cried, “after all, we needn’t trouble ourselves; for
listen, Miss,—and mind, I’ll keep my word,—if you attempt going to
Wuthering Heights again, with or without me, I shall inform Mr. Linton,
and, unless he allow it, the intimacy with your cousin must not be
revived.”
“It has been revived,” muttered Cathy, sulkily.
“Must not be continued, then,” I said.
“We’ll see,” was her reply, and she set off at a gallop, leaving me to
toil in the rear.
We both reached home before our dinner-time; my master supposed we had
been wandering through the park, and therefore he demanded no
explanation of our absence. As soon as I entered I hastened to change
my soaked shoes and stockings; but sitting such a while at the Heights
had done the mischief. On the succeeding morning I was laid up, and
during three weeks I remained incapacitated for attending to my duties:
a calamity never experienced prior to that period, and never, I am
thankful to say, since.
My little mistress behaved like an angel in coming to wait on me, and
cheer my solitude; the confinement brought me exceedingly low. It is
wearisome, to a stirring active body: but few have slighter reasons for
complaint than I had. The moment Catherine left Mr. Linton’s room she
appeared at my bedside. Her day was divided between us; no amusement
usurped a minute: she neglected her meals, her studies, and her play;
and she was the fondest nurse that ever watched. She must have had a
warm heart, when she loved her father so, to give so much to me. I said
her days were divided between us; but the master retired early, and I
generally needed nothing after six o’clock, thus the evening was her
own. Poor thing! I never considered what she did with herself after
tea. And though frequently, when she looked in to bid me good-night, I
remarked a fresh colour in her cheeks and a pinkness over her slender
fingers, instead of fancying the hue borrowed from a cold ride across
the moors, I laid it to the charge of a hot fire in the library.
CHAPTER XXIV
At the close of three weeks I was able to quit my chamber and move
about the house. And on the first occasion of my sitting up in the
evening I asked Catherine to read to me, because my eyes were weak. We
were in the library, the master having gone to bed: she consented,
rather unwillingly, I fancied; and imagining my sort of books did not
suit her, I bid her please herself in the choice of what she perused.
She selected one of her own favourites, and got forward steadily about
an hour; then came frequent questions.
“Ellen, are not you tired? Hadn’t you better lie down now? You’ll be
sick, keeping up so long, Ellen.”
“No, no, dear, I’m not tired,” I returned, continually.
Perceiving me immovable, she essayed another method of showing her
disrelish for her occupation. It changed to yawning, and stretching,
and—
“Ellen, I’m tired.”
“Give over then and talk,” I answered.
That was worse: she fretted and sighed, and looked at her watch till
eight, and finally went to her room, completely overdone with sleep;
judging by her peevish, heavy look, and the constant rubbing she
inflicted on her eyes. The following night she seemed more impatient
still; and on the third from recovering my company she complained of a
headache, and left me. I thought her conduct odd; and having remained
alone a long while, I resolved on going and inquiring whether she were
better, and asking her to come and lie on the sofa, instead of upstairs
in the dark. No Catherine could I discover upstairs, and none below.
The servants affirmed they had not seen her. I listened at Mr. Edgar’s
door; all was silence. I returned to her apartment, extinguished my
candle, and seated myself in the window.
The moon shone bright; a sprinkling of snow covered the ground, and I
reflected that she might, possibly, have taken it into her head to walk
about the garden, for refreshment. I did detect a figure creeping along
the inner fence of the park; but it was not my young mistress: on its
emerging into the light, I recognised one of the grooms. He stood a
considerable period, viewing the carriage-road through the grounds;
then started off at a brisk pace, as if he had detected something, and
reappeared presently, leading Miss’s pony; and there she was, just
dismounted, and walking by its side. The man took his charge stealthily
across the grass towards the stable. Cathy entered by the
casement-window of the drawing-room, and glided noiselessly up to where
I awaited her. She put the door gently too, slipped off her snowy
shoes, untied her hat, and was proceeding, unconscious of my espionage,
to lay aside her mantle, when I suddenly rose and revealed myself. The
surprise petrified her an instant: she uttered an inarticulate
exclamation, and stood fixed.
“My dear Miss Catherine,” I began, too vividly impressed by her recent
kindness to break into a scold, “where have you been riding out at this
hour? And why should you try to deceive me by telling a tale? Where
have you been? Speak!”
“To the bottom of the park,” she stammered. “I didn’t tell a tale.”
“And nowhere else?” I demanded.
“No,” was the muttered reply.
“Oh, Catherine!” I cried, sorrowfully. “You know you have been doing
wrong, or you wouldn’t be driven to uttering an untruth to me. That
does grieve me. I’d rather be three months ill, than hear you frame a
deliberate lie.”
She sprang forward, and bursting into tears, threw her arms round my
neck.
“Well, Ellen, I’m so afraid of you being angry,” she said. “Promise not
to be angry, and you shall know the very truth: I hate to hide it.”
We sat down in the window-seat; I assured her I would not scold,
whatever her secret might be, and I guessed it, of course; so she
commenced—
“I’ve been to Wuthering Heights, Ellen, and I’ve never missed going a
day since you fell ill; except thrice before, and twice after you left
your room. I gave Michael books and pictures to prepare Minny every
evening, and to put her back in the stable: you mustn’t scold him
either, mind. I was at the Heights by half-past six, and generally
stayed till half-past eight, and then galloped home. It was not to
amuse myself that I went: I was often wretched all the time. Now and
then I was happy: once in a week perhaps. At first, I expected there
would be sad work persuading you to let me keep my word to Linton: for
I had engaged to call again next day, when we quitted him; but, as you
stayed upstairs on the morrow, I escaped that trouble. While Michael
was refastening the lock of the park door in the afternoon, I got
possession of the key, and told him how my cousin wished me to visit
him, because he was sick, and couldn’t come to the Grange; and how papa
would object to my going: and then I negotiated with him about the
pony. He is fond of reading, and he thinks of leaving soon to get
married; so he offered, if I would lend him books out of the library,
to do what I wished: but I preferred giving him my own, and that
satisfied him better.
“On my second visit Linton seemed in lively spirits; and Zillah (that
is their housekeeper) made us a clean room and a good fire, and told us
that, as Joseph was out at a prayer-meeting and Hareton Earnshaw was
off with his dogs—robbing our woods of pheasants, as I heard
afterwards—we might do what we liked. She brought me some warm wine and
gingerbread, and appeared exceedingly good-natured, and Linton sat in
the arm-chair, and I in the little rocking chair on the hearth-stone,
and we laughed and talked so merrily, and found so much to say: we
planned where we would go, and what we would do in summer. I needn’t
repeat that, because you would call it silly.
“One time, however, we were near quarrelling. He said the pleasantest
manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening
on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming
dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead,
and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly. That
was his most perfect idea of heaven’s happiness: mine was rocking in a
rustling green tree, with a west wind blowing, and bright white clouds
flitting rapidly above; and not only larks, but throstles, and
blackbirds, and linnets, and cuckoos pouring out music on every side,
and the moors seen at a distance, broken into cool dusky dells; but
close by great swells of long grass undulating in waves to the breeze;
and woods and sounding water, and the whole world awake and wild with
joy. He wanted all to lie in an ecstasy of peace; I wanted all to
sparkle and dance in a glorious jubilee. I said his heaven would be
only half alive; and he said mine would be drunk: I said I should fall
asleep in his; and he said he could not breathe in mine, and began to
grow very snappish. At last, we agreed to try both, as soon as the
right weather came; and then we kissed each other and were friends.
“After sitting still an hour, I looked at the great room with its
smooth uncarpeted floor, and thought how nice it would be to play in,
if we removed the table; and I asked Linton to call Zillah in to help
us, and we’d have a game at blindman’s-buff; she should try to catch
us: you used to, you know, Ellen. He wouldn’t: there was no pleasure in
it, he said; but he consented to play at ball with me. We found two in
a cupboard, among a heap of old toys, tops, and hoops, and battledores
and shuttlecocks. One was marked C., and the other H.; I wished to have
the C., because that stood for Catherine, and the H. might be for
Heathcliff, his name; but the bran came out of H., and Linton didn’t
like it. I beat him constantly: and he got cross again, and coughed,
and returned to his chair. That night, though, he easily recovered his
good humour: he was charmed with two or three pretty songs—_your_
songs, Ellen; and when I was obliged to go, he begged and entreated me
to come the following evening; and I promised. Minny and I went flying
home as light as air; and I dreamt of Wuthering Heights and my sweet,
darling cousin, till morning.
“On the morrow I was sad; partly because you were poorly, and partly
that I wished my father knew, and approved of my excursions: but it was
beautiful moonlight after tea; and, as I rode on, the gloom cleared. I
shall have another happy evening, I thought to myself; and what
delights me more, my pretty Linton will. I trotted up their garden, and
was turning round to the back, when that fellow Earnshaw met me, took
my bridle, and bid me go in by the front entrance. He patted Minny’s
neck, and said she was a bonny beast, and appeared as if he wanted me
to speak to him. I only told him to leave my horse alone, or else it
would kick him. He answered in his vulgar accent, ‘It wouldn’t do mitch
hurt if it did;’ and surveyed its legs with a smile. I was half
inclined to make it try; however, he moved off to open the door, and,
as he raised the latch, he looked up to the inscription above, and
said, with a stupid mixture of awkwardness and elation: ‘Miss
Catherine! I can read yon, now.’
“‘Wonderful,’ I exclaimed. ‘Pray let us hear you—you _are_ grown
clever!’
“He spelt, and drawled over by syllables, the name—‘Hareton Earnshaw.’
“‘And the figures?’ I cried, encouragingly, perceiving that he came to
a dead halt.
“‘I cannot tell them yet,’ he answered.
“‘Oh, you dunce!’ I said, laughing heartily at his failure.
“The fool stared, with a grin hovering about his lips, and a scowl
gathering over his eyes, as if uncertain whether he might not join in
my mirth: whether it were not pleasant familiarity, or what it really
was, contempt. I settled his doubts, by suddenly retrieving my gravity
and desiring him to walk away, for I came to see Linton, not him. He
reddened—I saw that by the moonlight—dropped his hand from the latch,
and skulked off, a picture of mortified vanity. He imagined himself to
be as accomplished as Linton, I suppose, because he could spell his own
name; and was marvellously discomfited that I didn’t think the same.”
“Stop, Miss Catherine, dear!”—I interrupted. “I shall not scold, but I
don’t like your conduct there. If you had remembered that Hareton was
your cousin as much as Master Heathcliff, you would have felt how
improper it was to behave in that way. At least, it was praiseworthy
ambition for him to desire to be as accomplished as Linton; and
probably he did not learn merely to show off: you had made him ashamed
of his ignorance before, I have no doubt; and he wished to remedy it
and please you. To sneer at his imperfect attempt was very bad
breeding. Had you been brought up in his circumstances, would you be
less rude? He was as quick and as intelligent a child as ever you were;
and I’m hurt that he should be despised now, because that base
Heathcliff has treated him so unjustly.”
“Well, Ellen, you won’t cry about it, will you?” she exclaimed,
surprised at my earnestness. “But wait, and you shall hear if he conned
his A B C to please me; and if it were worth while being civil to the
brute. I entered; Linton was lying on the settle, and half got up to
welcome me.
“‘I’m ill to-night, Catherine, love,’ he said; ‘and you must have all
the talk, and let me listen. Come, and sit by me. I was sure you
wouldn’t break your word, and I’ll make you promise again, before you
go.’
“I knew now that I mustn’t tease him, as he was ill; and I spoke softly
and put no questions, and avoided irritating him in any way. I had
brought some of my nicest books for him: he asked me to read a little
of one, and I was about to comply, when Earnshaw burst the door open:
having gathered venom with reflection. He advanced direct to us, seized
Linton by the arm, and swung him off the seat.
“‘Get to thy own room!’ he said, in a voice almost inarticulate with
passion; and his face looked swelled and furious. ‘Take her there if
she comes to see thee: thou shalln’t keep me out of this. Begone wi’ ye
both!’
“He swore at us, and left Linton no time to answer, nearly throwing him
into the kitchen; and he clenched his fist as I followed, seemingly
longing to knock me down. I was afraid for a moment, and I let one
volume fall; he kicked it after me, and shut us out. I heard a
malignant, crackly laugh by the fire, and turning, beheld that odious
Joseph standing rubbing his bony hands, and quivering.
“‘I wer sure he’d sarve ye out! He’s a grand lad! He’s getten t’ raight
sperrit in him! _He_ knaws—ay, he knaws, as weel as I do, who sud be t’
maister yonder—Ech, ech, ech! He made ye skift properly! Ech, ech,
ech!’
“‘Where must we go?’ I asked of my cousin, disregarding the old
wretch’s mockery.
“Linton was white and trembling. He was not pretty then, Ellen: oh, no!
he looked frightful; for his thin face and large eyes were wrought into
an expression of frantic, powerless fury. He grasped the handle of the
door, and shook it: it was fastened inside.
“‘If you don’t let me in, I’ll kill you!—If you don’t let me in, I’ll
kill you!’ he rather shrieked than said. ‘Devil! devil!—I’ll kill
you—I’ll kill you!’
Joseph uttered his croaking laugh again.
“‘Thear, that’s t’ father!’ he cried. ‘That’s father! We’ve allas
summut o’ either side in us. Niver heed, Hareton, lad—dunnut be
’feard—he cannot get at thee!’
“I took hold of Linton’s hands, and tried to pull him away; but he
shrieked so shockingly that I dared not proceed. At last his cries were
choked by a dreadful fit of coughing; blood gushed from his mouth, and
he fell on the ground. I ran into the yard, sick with terror; and
called for Zillah, as loud as I could. She soon heard me: she was
milking the cows in a shed behind the barn, and hurrying from her work,
she inquired what there was to do? I hadn’t breath to explain; dragging
her in, I looked about for Linton. Earnshaw had come out to examine the
mischief he had caused, and he was then conveying the poor thing
upstairs. Zillah and I ascended after him; but he stopped me at the top
of the steps, and said I shouldn’t go in: I must go home. I exclaimed
that he had killed Linton, and I _would_ enter. Joseph locked the door,
and declared I should do ‘no sich stuff,’ and asked me whether I were
‘bahn to be as mad as him.’ I stood crying till the housekeeper
reappeared. She affirmed he would be better in a bit, but he couldn’t
do with that shrieking and din; and she took me, and nearly carried me
into the house.
“Ellen, I was ready to tear my hair off my head! I sobbed and wept so
that my eyes were almost blind; and the ruffian you have such sympathy
with stood opposite: presuming every now and then to bid me ‘wisht,’
and denying that it was his fault; and, finally, frightened by my
assertions that I would tell papa, and that he should be put in prison
and hanged, he commenced blubbering himself, and hurried out to hide
his cowardly agitation. Still, I was not rid of him: when at length
they compelled me to depart, and I had got some hundred yards off the
premises, he suddenly issued from the shadow of the road-side, and
checked Minny and took hold of me.
“‘Miss Catherine, I’m ill grieved,’ he began, ‘but it’s rayther too
bad—’
“I gave him a cut with my whip, thinking perhaps he would murder me. He
let go, thundering one of his horrid curses, and I galloped home more
than half out of my senses.
“I didn’t bid you good-night that evening, and I didn’t go to Wuthering
Heights the next: I wished to go exceedingly; but I was strangely
excited, and dreaded to hear that Linton was dead, sometimes; and
sometimes shuddered at the thought of encountering Hareton. On the
third day I took courage: at least, I couldn’t bear longer suspense,
and stole off once more. I went at five o’clock, and walked; fancying I
might manage to creep into the house, and up to Linton’s room,
unobserved. However, the dogs gave notice of my approach. Zillah
received me, and saying ‘the lad was mending nicely,’ showed me into a
small, tidy, carpeted apartment, where, to my inexpressible joy, I
beheld Linton laid on a little sofa, reading one of my books. But he
would neither speak to me nor look at me, through a whole hour, Ellen:
he has such an unhappy temper. And what quite confounded me, when he
did open his mouth, it was to utter the falsehood that I had occasioned
the uproar, and Hareton was not to blame! Unable to reply, except
passionately, I got up and walked from the room. He sent after me a
faint ‘Catherine!’ He did not reckon on being answered so: but I
wouldn’t turn back; and the morrow was the second day on which I stayed
at home, nearly determined to visit him no more. But it was so
miserable going to bed and getting up, and never hearing anything about
him, that my resolution melted into air before it was properly formed.
It had appeared wrong to take the journey once; now it seemed wrong to
refrain. Michael came to ask if he must saddle Minny; I said ‘Yes,’ and
considered myself doing a duty as she bore me over the hills. I was
forced to pass the front windows to get to the court: it was no use
trying to conceal my presence.
“‘Young master is in the house,’ said Zillah, as she saw me making for
the parlour. I went in; Earnshaw was there also, but he quitted the
room directly. Linton sat in the great arm-chair half asleep; walking
up to the fire, I began in a serious tone, partly meaning it to be
true—
“‘As you don’t like me, Linton, and as you think I come on purpose to
hurt you, and pretend that I do so every time, this is our last
meeting: let us say good-bye; and tell Mr. Heathcliff that you have no
wish to see me, and that he mustn’t invent any more falsehoods on the
subject.’
“‘Sit down and take your hat off, Catherine,’ he answered. ‘You are so
much happier than I am, you ought to be better. Papa talks enough of my
defects, and shows enough scorn of me, to make it natural I should
doubt myself. I doubt whether I am not altogether as worthless as he
calls me, frequently; and then I feel so cross and bitter, I hate
everybody! I am worthless, and bad in temper, and bad in spirit, almost
always; and, if you choose, you may say good-bye: you’ll get rid of an
annoyance. Only, Catherine, do me this justice: believe that if I might
be as sweet, and as kind, and as good as you are, I would be; as
willingly, and more so, than as happy and as healthy. And believe that
your kindness has made me love you deeper than if I deserved your love:
and though I couldn’t, and cannot help showing my nature to you, I
regret it and repent it; and shall regret and repent it till I die!’
“I felt he spoke the truth; and I felt I must forgive him: and, though
we should quarrel the next moment, I must forgive him again. We were
reconciled; but we cried, both of us, the whole time I stayed: not
entirely for sorrow; yet I _was_ sorry Linton had that distorted
nature. He’ll never let his friends be at ease, and he’ll never be at
ease himself! I have always gone to his little parlour, since that
night; because his father returned the day after.
“About three times, I think, we have been merry and hopeful, as we were
the first evening; the rest of my visits were dreary and troubled: now
with his selfishness and spite, and now with his sufferings: but I’ve
learned to endure the former with nearly as little resentment as the
latter. Mr. Heathcliff purposely avoids me: I have hardly seen him at
all. Last Sunday, indeed, coming earlier than usual, I heard him
abusing poor Linton cruelly for his conduct of the night before. I
can’t tell how he knew of it, unless he listened. Linton had certainly
behaved provokingly: however, it was the business of nobody but me, and
I interrupted Mr. Heathcliff’s lecture by entering and telling him so.
He burst into a laugh, and went away, saying he was glad I took that
view of the matter. Since then, I’ve told Linton he must whisper his
bitter things. Now, Ellen, you have heard all. I can’t be prevented
from going to Wuthering Heights, except by inflicting misery on two
people; whereas, if you’ll only not tell papa, my going need disturb
the tranquillity of none. You’ll not tell, will you? It will be very
heartless, if you do.”
“I’ll make up my mind on that point by to-morrow, Miss Catherine,” I
replied. “It requires some study; and so I’ll leave you to your rest,
and go think it over.”
I thought it over aloud, in my master’s presence; walking straight from
her room to his, and relating the whole story: with the exception of
her conversations with her cousin, and any mention of Hareton. Mr.
Linton was alarmed and distressed, more than he would acknowledge to
me. In the morning, Catherine learnt my betrayal of her confidence, and
she learnt also that her secret visits were to end. In vain she wept
and writhed against the interdict, and implored her father to have pity
on Linton: all she got to comfort her was a promise that he would write
and give him leave to come to the Grange when he pleased; but
explaining that he must no longer expect to see Catherine at Wuthering
Heights. Perhaps, had he been aware of his nephew’s disposition and
state of health, he would have seen fit to withhold even that slight
consolation.
CHAPTER XXV
“These things happened last winter, sir,” said Mrs. Dean; “hardly more
than a year ago. Last winter, I did not think, at another twelve
months’ end, I should be amusing a stranger to the family with relating
them! Yet, who knows how long you’ll be a stranger? You’re too young to
rest always contented, living by yourself; and I some way fancy no one
could see Catherine Linton and not love her. You smile; but why do you
look so lively and interested when I talk about her? and why have you
asked me to hang her picture over your fireplace? and why—?”
“Stop, my good friend!” I cried. “It may be very possible that _I_
should love her; but would she love me? I doubt it too much to venture
my tranquillity by running into temptation: and then my home is not
here. I’m of the busy world, and to its arms I must return. Go on. Was
Catherine obedient to her father’s commands?”
“She was,” continued the housekeeper. “Her affection for him was still
the chief sentiment in her heart; and he spoke without anger: he spoke
in the deep tenderness of one about to leave his treasure amid perils
and foes, where his remembered words would be the only aid that he
could bequeath to guide her. He said to me, a few days afterwards, ‘I
wish my nephew would write, Ellen, or call. Tell me, sincerely, what
you think of him: is he changed for the better, or is there a prospect
of improvement, as he grows a man?’
“‘He’s very delicate, sir,’ I replied; ‘and scarcely likely to reach
manhood: but this I can say, he does not resemble his father; and if
Miss Catherine had the misfortune to marry him, he would not be beyond
her control: unless she were extremely and foolishly indulgent.
However, master, you’ll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him
and see whether he would suit her: it wants four years and more to his
being of age.’”
Edgar sighed; and, walking to the window, looked out towards Gimmerton
Kirk. It was a misty afternoon, but the February sun shone dimly, and
we could just distinguish the two fir-trees in the yard, and the
sparely-scattered gravestones.
“I’ve prayed often,” he half soliloquised, “for the approach of what is
coming; and now I begin to shrink, and fear it. I thought the memory of
the hour I came down that glen a bridegroom would be less sweet than
the anticipation that I was soon, in a few months, or, possibly, weeks,
to be carried up, and laid in its lonely hollow! Ellen, I’ve been very
happy with my little Cathy: through winter nights and summer days she
was a living hope at my side. But I’ve been as happy musing by myself
among those stones, under that old church: lying, through the long June
evenings, on the green mound of her mother’s grave, and
wishing—yearning for the time when I might lie beneath it. What can I
do for Cathy? How must I quit her? I’d not care one moment for Linton
being Heathcliff’s son; nor for his taking her from me, if he could
console her for my loss. I’d not care that Heathcliff gained his ends,
and triumphed in robbing me of my last blessing! But should Linton be
unworthy—only a feeble tool to his father—I cannot abandon her to him!
And, hard though it be to crush her buoyant spirit, I must persevere in
making her sad while I live, and leaving her solitary when I die.
Darling! I’d rather resign her to God, and lay her in the earth before
me.”
“Resign her to God as it is, sir,” I answered, “and if we should lose
you—which may He forbid—under His providence, I’ll stand her friend and
counsellor to the last. Miss Catherine is a good girl: I don’t fear
that she will go wilfully wrong; and people who do their duty are
always finally rewarded.”
Spring advanced; yet my master gathered no real strength, though he
resumed his walks in the grounds with his daughter. To her
inexperienced notions, this itself was a sign of convalescence; and
then his cheek was often flushed, and his eyes were bright; she felt
sure of his recovering. On her seventeenth birthday, he did not visit
the churchyard: it was raining, and I observed—“You’ll surely not go
out to-night, sir?”
He answered,—“No, I’ll defer it this year a little longer.” He wrote
again to Linton, expressing his great desire to see him; and, had the
invalid been presentable, I’ve no doubt his father would have permitted
him to come. As it was, being instructed, he returned an answer,
intimating that Mr. Heathcliff objected to his calling at the Grange;
but his uncle’s kind remembrance delighted him, and he hoped to meet
him sometimes in his rambles, and personally to petition that his
cousin and he might not remain long so utterly divided.
That part of his letter was simple, and probably his own. Heathcliff
knew he could plead eloquently for Catherine’s company, then.
“I do not ask,” he said, “that she may visit here; but am I never to
see her, because my father forbids me to go to her home, and you forbid
her to come to mine? Do, now and then, ride with her towards the
Heights; and let us exchange a few words, in your presence! We have
done nothing to deserve this separation; and you are not angry with me:
you have no reason to dislike me, you allow, yourself. Dear uncle! send
me a kind note to-morrow, and leave to join you anywhere you please,
except at Thrushcross Grange. I believe an interview would convince you
that my father’s character is not mine: he affirms I am more your
nephew than his son; and though I have faults which render me unworthy
of Catherine, she has excused them, and for her sake, you should also.
You inquire after my health—it is better; but while I remain cut off
from all hope, and doomed to solitude, or the society of those who
never did and never will like me, how can I be cheerful and well?”
Edgar, though he felt for the boy, could not consent to grant his
request; because he could not accompany Catherine. He said, in summer,
perhaps, they might meet: meantime, he wished him to continue writing
at intervals, and engaged to give him what advice and comfort he was
able by letter; being well aware of his hard position in his family.
Linton complied; and had he been unrestrained, would probably have
spoiled all by filling his epistles with complaints and lamentations:
but his father kept a sharp watch over him; and, of course, insisted on
every line that my master sent being shown; so, instead of penning his
peculiar personal sufferings and distresses, the themes constantly
uppermost in his thoughts, he harped on the cruel obligation of being
held asunder from his friend and love; and gently intimated that Mr.
Linton must allow an interview soon, or he should fear he was purposely
deceiving him with empty promises.
Cathy was a powerful ally at home; and between them they at length
persuaded my master to acquiesce in their having a ride or a walk
together about once a week, under my guardianship, and on the moors
nearest the Grange: for June found him still declining. Though he had
set aside yearly a portion of his income for my young lady’s fortune,
he had a natural desire that she might retain—or at least return in a
short time to—the house of her ancestors; and he considered her only
prospect of doing that was by a union with his heir; he had no idea
that the latter was failing almost as fast as himself; nor had any one,
I believe: no doctor visited the Heights, and no one saw Master
Heathcliff to make report of his condition among us. I, for my part,
began to fancy my forebodings were false, and that he must be actually
rallying, when he mentioned riding and walking on the moors, and seemed
so earnest in pursuing his object. I could not picture a father
treating a dying child as tyrannically and wickedly as I afterwards
learned Heathcliff had treated him, to compel this apparent eagerness:
his efforts redoubling the more imminently his avaricious and unfeeling
plans were threatened with defeat by death.
CHAPTER XXVI
Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his
assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first
ride to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of
sunshine, but with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our
place of meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads.
On arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a
messenger, told us that,—“Maister Linton wer just o’ this side th’
Heights: and he’d be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.”
“Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,” I
observed: “he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at
once.”
“Well, we’ll turn our horses’ heads round when we reach him,” answered
my companion; “our excursion shall lie towards home.”
But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from
his own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,
and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach,
and did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so
feebly, and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,—“Why, Master
Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill
you do look!”
Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the
ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation
on their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were
worse than usual?
“No—better—better!” he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if
he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over
her; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the
languid expression they once possessed.
“But you have been worse,” persisted his cousin; “worse than when I saw
you last; you are thinner, and—”
“I’m tired,” he interrupted, hurriedly. “It is too hot for walking, let
us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick—papa says I grow
so fast.”
Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.
“This is something like your paradise,” said she, making an effort at
cheerfulness. “You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the
place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only
there are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer
than sunshine. Next week, if you can, we’ll ride down to the Grange
Park, and try mine.”
Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of and he had
evidently great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His
lack of interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity
to contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not
conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his
whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into
fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the
peevish temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be
soothed, and more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed
invalid, repelling consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured
mirth of others as an insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did,
that he held it rather a punishment, than a gratification, to endure
our company; and she made no scruple of proposing, presently, to
depart. That proposal, unexpectedly, roused Linton from his lethargy,
and threw him into a strange state of agitation. He glanced fearfully
towards the Heights, begging she would remain another half-hour, at
least.
“But I think,” said Cathy, “you’d be more comfortable at home than
sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and
songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months;
you have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse
you, I’d willingly stay.”
“Stay to rest yourself,” he replied. “And, Catherine, don’t think or
say that I’m _very_ unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make
me dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell
uncle I’m in tolerable health, will you?”
“I’ll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton. I couldn’t affirm that you
are,” observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion
of what was evidently an untruth.
“And be here again next Thursday,” continued he, shunning her puzzled
gaze. “And give him my thanks for permitting you to come—my best
thanks, Catherine. And—and, if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked
you about me, don’t lead him to suppose that I’ve been extremely silent
and stupid: don’t look sad and downcast, as you are doing—he’ll be
angry.”
“I care nothing for his anger,” exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be
its object.
“But I do,” said her cousin, shuddering. “_Don’t_ provoke him against
me, Catherine, for he is very hard.”
“Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?” I inquired. “Has he grown
weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?”
Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by
his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on
his breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of
exhaustion or pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for
bilberries, and sharing the produce of her researches with me: she did
not offer them to him, for she saw further notice would only weary and
annoy.
“Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?” she whispered in my ear, at last. “I
can’t tell why we should stay. He’s asleep, and papa will be wanting us
back.”
“Well, we must not leave him asleep,” I answered; “wait till he wakes,
and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to
see poor Linton has soon evaporated!”
“Why did _he_ wish to see me?” returned Catherine. “In his crossest
humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious
mood. It’s just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform—this
interview—for fear his father should scold him. But I’m hardly going to
come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for
ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I’m glad he’s
better in health, I’m sorry he’s so much less pleasant, and so much
less affectionate to me.”
“You think _he is_ better in health, then?” I said.
“Yes,” she answered; “because he always made such a great deal of his
sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell
papa; but he’s better, very likely.”
“There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,” I remarked; “I should
conjecture him to be far worse.”
Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if
any one had called his name.
“No,” said Catherine; “unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you
manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.”
“I thought I heard my father,” he gasped, glancing up to the frowning
nab above us. “You are sure nobody spoke?”
“Quite sure,” replied his cousin. “Only Ellen and I were disputing
concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we
separated in winter? If you be, I’m certain one thing is not
stronger—your regard for me: speak,—are you?”
The tears gushed from Linton’s eyes as he answered, “Yes, yes, I am!”
And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up
and down to detect its owner.
Cathy rose. “For to-day we must part,” she said. “And I won’t conceal
that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I’ll
mention it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr.
Heathcliff.”
“Hush,” murmured Linton; “for God’s sake, hush! He’s coming.” And he
clung to Catherine’s arm, striving to detain her; but at that
announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who
obeyed her like a dog.
“I’ll be here next Thursday,” she cried, springing to the saddle.
“Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!”
And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed
was he in anticipating his father’s approach.
Before we reached home, Catherine’s displeasure softened into a
perplexed sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague,
uneasy doubts about Linton’s actual circumstances, physical and social:
in which I partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a
second journey would make us better judges. My master requested an
account of our ongoings. His nephew’s offering of thanks was duly
delivered, Miss Cathy gently touching on the rest: I also threw little
light on his inquiries, for I hardly knew what to hide and what to
reveal.
CHAPTER XXVII
Seven days glided away, every one marking its course by the henceforth
rapid alteration of Edgar Linton’s state. The havoc that months had
previously wrought was now emulated by the inroads of hours. Catherine
we would fain have deluded yet; but her own quick spirit refused to
delude her: it divined in secret, and brooded on the dreadful
probability, gradually ripening into certainty. She had not the heart
to mention her ride, when Thursday came round; I mentioned it for her,
and obtained permission to order her out of doors: for the library,
where her father stopped a short time daily—the brief period he could
bear to sit up—and his chamber, had become her whole world. She grudged
each moment that did not find her bending over his pillow, or seated by
his side. Her countenance grew wan with watching and sorrow, and my
master gladly dismissed her to what he flattered himself would be a
happy change of scene and society; drawing comfort from the hope that
she would not now be left entirely alone after his death.
He had a fixed idea, I guessed by several observations he let fall,
that, as his nephew resembled him in person, he would resemble him in
mind; for Linton’s letters bore few or no indications of his defective
character. And I, through pardonable weakness, refrained from
correcting the error; asking myself what good there would be in
disturbing his last moments with information that he had neither power
nor opportunity to turn to account.
We deferred our excursion till the afternoon; a golden afternoon of
August: every breath from the hills so full of life, that it seemed
whoever respired it, though dying, might revive. Catherine’s face was
just like the landscape—shadows and sunshine flitting over it in rapid
succession; but the shadows rested longer, and the sunshine was more
transient; and her poor little heart reproached itself for even that
passing forgetfulness of its cares.
We discerned Linton watching at the same spot he had selected before.
My young mistress alighted, and told me that, as she was resolved to
stay a very little while, I had better hold the pony and remain on
horseback; but I dissented: I wouldn’t risk losing sight of the charge
committed to me a minute; so we climbed the slope of heath together.
Master Heathcliff received us with greater animation on this occasion:
not the animation of high spirits though, nor yet of joy; it looked
more like fear.
“It is late!” he said, speaking short and with difficulty. “Is not your
father very ill? I thought you wouldn’t come.”
“_Why_ won’t you be candid?” cried Catherine, swallowing her greeting.
“Why cannot you say at once you don’t want me? It is strange, Linton,
that for the second time you have brought me here on purpose,
apparently to distress us both, and for no reason besides!”
Linton shivered, and glanced at her, half supplicating, half ashamed;
but his cousin’s patience was not sufficient to endure this enigmatical
behaviour.
“My father _is_ very ill,” she said; “and why am I called from his
bedside? Why didn’t you send to absolve me from my promise, when you
wished I wouldn’t keep it? Come! I desire an explanation: playing and
trifling are completely banished out of my mind; and I can’t dance
attendance on your affectations now!”
“My affectations!” he murmured; “what are they? For heaven’s sake,
Catherine, don’t look so angry! Despise me as much as you please; I am
a worthless, cowardly wretch: I can’t be scorned enough; but I’m too
mean for your anger. Hate my father, and spare me for contempt.”
“Nonsense!” cried Catherine in a passion. “Foolish, silly boy! And
there! he trembles: as if I were really going to touch him! You needn’t
bespeak contempt, Linton: anybody will have it spontaneously at your
service. Get off! I shall return home: it is folly dragging you from
the hearth-stone, and pretending—what do we pretend? Let go my frock!
If I pitied you for crying and looking so very frightened, you should
spurn such pity. Ellen, tell him how disgraceful this conduct is. Rise,
and don’t degrade yourself into an abject reptile—_don’t_!”
With streaming face and an expression of agony, Linton had thrown his
nerveless frame along the ground: he seemed convulsed with exquisite
terror.
“Oh!” he sobbed, “I cannot bear it! Catherine, Catherine, I’m a
traitor, too, and I dare not tell you! But leave me, and I shall be
killed! _Dear_ Catherine, my life is in your hands: and you have said
you loved me, and if you did, it wouldn’t harm you. You’ll not go,
then? kind, sweet, good Catherine! And perhaps you _will_ consent—and
he’ll let me die with you!”
My young lady, on witnessing his intense anguish, stooped to raise him.
The old feeling of indulgent tenderness overcame her vexation, and she
grew thoroughly moved and alarmed.
“Consent to what?” she asked. “To stay! tell me the meaning of this
strange talk, and I will. You contradict your own words, and distract
me! Be calm and frank, and confess at once all that weighs on your
heart. You wouldn’t injure me, Linton, would you? You wouldn’t let any
enemy hurt me, if you could prevent it? I’ll believe you are a coward,
for yourself, but not a cowardly betrayer of your best friend.”
“But my father threatened me,” gasped the boy, clasping his attenuated
fingers, “and I dread him—I dread him! I _dare_ not tell!”
“Oh, well!” said Catherine, with scornful compassion, “keep your
secret: _I’m_ no coward. Save yourself: I’m not afraid!”
Her magnanimity provoked his tears: he wept wildly, kissing her
supporting hands, and yet could not summon courage to speak out. I was
cogitating what the mystery might be, and determined Catherine should
never suffer to benefit him or any one else, by my good will; when,
hearing a rustle among the ling, I looked up and saw Mr. Heathcliff
almost close upon us, descending the Heights. He didn’t cast a glance
towards my companions, though they were sufficiently near for Linton’s
sobs to be audible; but hailing me in the almost hearty tone he assumed
to none besides, and the sincerity of which I couldn’t avoid doubting,
he said—
“It is something to see you so near to my house, Nelly. How are you at
the Grange? Let us hear. The rumour goes,” he added, in a lower tone,
“that Edgar Linton is on his death-bed: perhaps they exaggerate his
illness?”
“No; my master is dying,” I replied: “it is true enough. A sad thing it
will be for us all, but a blessing for him!”
“How long will he last, do you think?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Because,” he continued, looking at the two young people, who were
fixed under his eye—Linton appeared as if he could not venture to stir
or raise his head, and Catherine could not move, on his
account—“because that lad yonder seems determined to beat me; and I’d
thank his uncle to be quick, and go before him! Hallo! has the whelp
been playing that game long? I _did_ give him some lessons about
snivelling. Is he pretty lively with Miss Linton generally?”
“Lively? no—he has shown the greatest distress,” I answered. “To see
him, I should say, that instead of rambling with his sweetheart on the
hills, he ought to be in bed, under the hands of a doctor.”
“He shall be, in a day or two,” muttered Heathcliff. “But first—get up,
Linton! Get up!” he shouted. “Don’t grovel on the ground there: up,
this moment!”
Linton had sunk prostrate again in another paroxysm of helpless fear,
caused by his father’s glance towards him, I suppose: there was nothing
else to produce such humiliation. He made several efforts to obey, but
his little strength was annihilated for the time, and he fell back
again with a moan. Mr. Heathcliff advanced, and lifted him to lean
against a ridge of turf.
“Now,” said he, with curbed ferocity, “I’m getting angry and if you
don’t command that paltry spirit of yours—_damn_ you! get up directly!”
“I will, father,” he panted. “Only, let me alone, or I shall faint.
I’ve done as you wished, I’m sure. Catherine will tell you that I—that
I—have been cheerful. Ah! keep by me, Catherine; give me your hand.”
“Take mine,” said his father; “stand on your feet. There now—she’ll
lend you her arm: that’s right, look at her. You would imagine I was
the devil himself, Miss Linton, to excite such horror. Be so kind as to
walk home with him, will you? He shudders if I touch him.”
“Linton dear!” whispered Catherine, “I can’t go to Wuthering Heights:
papa has forbidden me. He’ll not harm you: why are you so afraid?”
“I can never re-enter that house,” he answered. “I’m _not_ to re-enter
it without you!”
“Stop!” cried his father. “We’ll respect Catherine’s filial scruples.
Nelly, take him in, and I’ll follow your advice concerning the doctor,
without delay.”
“You’ll do well,” replied I. “But I must remain with my mistress: to
mind your son is not my business.”
“You are very stiff,” said Heathcliff, “I know that: but you’ll force
me to pinch the baby and make it scream before it moves your charity.
Come, then, my hero. Are you willing to return, escorted by me?”
He approached once more, and made as if he would seize the fragile
being; but, shrinking back, Linton clung to his cousin, and implored
her to accompany him, with a frantic importunity that admitted no
denial. However I disapproved, I couldn’t hinder her: indeed, how could
she have refused him herself? What was filling him with dread we had no
means of discerning; but there he was, powerless under its grip, and
any addition seemed capable of shocking him into idiocy. We reached the
threshold; Catherine walked in, and I stood waiting till she had
conducted the invalid to a chair, expecting her out immediately; when
Mr. Heathcliff, pushing me forward, exclaimed—“My house is not stricken
with the plague, Nelly; and I have a mind to be hospitable to-day: sit
down, and allow me to shut the door.”
He shut and locked it also. I started.
“You shall have tea before you go home,” he added. “I am by myself.
Hareton is gone with some cattle to the Lees, and Zillah and Joseph are
off on a journey of pleasure; and, though I’m used to being alone, I’d
rather have some interesting company, if I can get it. Miss Linton,
take your seat by _him_. I give you what I have: the present is hardly
worth accepting; but I have nothing else to offer. It is Linton, I
mean. How she does stare! It’s odd what a savage feeling I have to
anything that seems afraid of me! Had I been born where laws are less
strict and tastes less dainty, I should treat myself to a slow
vivisection of those two, as an evening’s amusement.”
He drew in his breath, struck the table, and swore to himself, “By
hell! I hate them.”
“I am not afraid of you!” exclaimed Catherine, who could not hear the
latter part of his speech. She stepped close up; her black eyes
flashing with passion and resolution. “Give me that key: I will have
it!” she said. “I wouldn’t eat or drink here, if I were starving.”
Heathcliff had the key in his hand that remained on the table. He
looked up, seized with a sort of surprise at her boldness; or,
possibly, reminded, by her voice and glance, of the person from whom
she inherited it. She snatched at the instrument, and half succeeded in
getting it out of his loosened fingers: but her action recalled him to
the present; he recovered it speedily.
“Now, Catherine Linton,” he said, “stand off, or I shall knock you
down; and, that will make Mrs. Dean mad.”
Regardless of this warning, she captured his closed hand and its
contents again. “We _will_ go!” she repeated, exerting her utmost
efforts to cause the iron muscles to relax; and finding that her nails
made no impression, she applied her teeth pretty sharply. Heathcliff
glanced at me a glance that kept me from interfering a moment.
Catherine was too intent on his fingers to notice his face. He opened
them suddenly, and resigned the object of dispute; but, ere she had
well secured it, he seized her with the liberated hand, and, pulling
her on his knee, administered with the other a shower of terrific slaps
on both sides of the head, each sufficient to have fulfilled his
threat, had she been able to fall.
At this diabolical violence I rushed on him furiously. “You villain!” I
began to cry, “you villain!” A touch on the chest silenced me: I am
stout, and soon put out of breath; and, what with that and the rage, I
staggered dizzily back and felt ready to suffocate, or to burst a
blood-vessel. The scene was over in two minutes; Catherine, released,
put her two hands to her temples, and looked just as if she were not
sure whether her ears were off or on. She trembled like a reed, poor
thing, and leant against the table perfectly bewildered.
“I know how to chastise children, you see,” said the scoundrel, grimly,
as he stooped to repossess himself of the key, which had dropped to the
floor. “Go to Linton now, as I told you; and cry at your ease! I shall
be your father, to-morrow—all the father you’ll have in a few days—and
you shall have plenty of that. You can bear plenty; you’re no weakling:
you shall have a daily taste, if I catch such a devil of a temper in
your eyes again!”
Cathy ran to me instead of Linton, and knelt down and put her burning
cheek on my lap, weeping aloud. Her cousin had shrunk into a corner of
the settle, as quiet as a mouse, congratulating himself, I dare say,
that the correction had alighted on another than him. Mr. Heathcliff,
perceiving us all confounded, rose, and expeditiously made the tea
himself. The cups and saucers were laid ready. He poured it out, and
handed me a cup.
“Wash away your spleen,” he said. “And help your own naughty pet and
mine. It is not poisoned, though I prepared it. I’m going out to seek
your horses.”
Our first thought, on his departure, was to force an exit somewhere. We
tried the kitchen door, but that was fastened outside: we looked at the
windows—they were too narrow for even Cathy’s little figure.
“Master Linton,” I cried, seeing we were regularly imprisoned, “you
know what your diabolical father is after, and you shall tell us, or
I’ll box your ears, as he has done your cousin’s.”
“Yes, Linton, you must tell,” said Catherine. “It was for your sake I
came; and it will be wickedly ungrateful if you refuse.”
“Give me some tea, I’m thirsty, and then I’ll tell you,” he answered.
“Mrs. Dean, go away. I don’t like you standing over me. Now, Catherine,
you are letting your tears fall into my cup. I won’t drink that. Give
me another.” Catherine pushed another to him, and wiped her face. I
felt disgusted at the little wretch’s composure, since he was no longer
in terror for himself. The anguish he had exhibited on the moor
subsided as soon as ever he entered Wuthering Heights; so I guessed he
had been menaced with an awful visitation of wrath if he failed in
decoying us there; and, that accomplished, he had no further immediate
fears.
“Papa wants us to be married,” he continued, after sipping some of the
liquid. “And he knows your papa wouldn’t let us marry now; and he’s
afraid of my dying if we wait; so we are to be married in the morning,
and you are to stay here all night; and, if you do as he wishes, you
shall return home next day, and take me with you.”
“Take you with her, pitiful changeling!” I exclaimed. “_You_ marry?
Why, the man is mad! or he thinks us fools, every one. And do you
imagine that beautiful young lady, that healthy, hearty girl, will tie
herself to a little perishing monkey like you? Are you cherishing the
notion that anybody, let alone Miss Catherine Linton, would have you
for a husband? You want whipping for bringing us in here at all, with
your dastardly puling tricks: and—don’t look so silly, now! I’ve a very
good mind to shake you severely, for your contemptible treachery, and
your imbecile conceit.”
I did give him a slight shaking; but it brought on the cough, and he
took to his ordinary resource of moaning and weeping, and Catherine
rebuked me.
“Stay all night? No,” she said, looking slowly round. “Ellen, I’ll burn
that door down but I’ll get out.”
And she would have commenced the execution of her threat directly, but
Linton was up in alarm for his dear self again. He clasped her in his
two feeble arms sobbing:—“Won’t you have me, and save me? not let me
come to the Grange? Oh, darling Catherine! you mustn’t go and leave,
after all. You _must_ obey my father—you _must_!”
“I must obey my own,” she replied, “and relieve him from this cruel
suspense. The whole night! What would he think? He’ll be distressed
already. I’ll either break or burn a way out of the house. Be quiet!
You’re in no danger; but if you hinder me—Linton, I love papa better
than you!” The mortal terror he felt of Mr. Heathcliff’s anger restored
to the boy his coward’s eloquence. Catherine was near distraught:
still, she persisted that she must go home, and tried entreaty in her
turn, persuading him to subdue his selfish agony. While they were thus
occupied, our jailor re-entered.
“Your beasts have trotted off,” he said, “and—now Linton! snivelling
again? What has she been doing to you? Come, come—have done, and get to
bed. In a month or two, my lad, you’ll be able to pay her back her
present tyrannies with a vigorous hand. You’re pining for pure love,
are you not? nothing else in the world: and she shall have you! There,
to bed! Zillah won’t be here to-night; you must undress yourself. Hush!
hold your noise! Once in your own room, I’ll not come near you: you
needn’t fear. By chance, you’ve managed tolerably. I’ll look to the
rest.”
He spoke these words, holding the door open for his son to pass, and
the latter achieved his exit exactly as a spaniel might which suspected
the person who attended on it of designing a spiteful squeeze. The lock
was re-secured. Heathcliff approached the fire, where my mistress and I
stood silent. Catherine looked up, and instinctively raised her hand to
her cheek: his neighbourhood revived a painful sensation. Anybody else
would have been incapable of regarding the childish act with sternness,
but he scowled on her and muttered—“Oh! you are not afraid of me? Your
courage is well disguised: you seem damnably afraid!”
“I _am_ afraid now,” she replied, “because, if I stay, papa will be
miserable: and how can I endure making him miserable—when he—when
he—Mr. Heathcliff, let _me_ go home! I promise to marry Linton: papa
would like me to: and I love him. Why should you wish to force me to do
what I’ll willingly do of myself?”
“Let him dare to force you,” I cried. “There’s law in the land, thank
God! there is; though we be in an out-of-the-way place. I’d inform if
he were my own son: and it’s felony without benefit of clergy!”
“Silence!” said the ruffian. “To the devil with your clamour! I don’t
want _you_ to speak. Miss Linton, I shall enjoy myself remarkably in
thinking your father will be miserable: I shall not sleep for
satisfaction. You could have hit on no surer way of fixing your
residence under my roof for the next twenty-four hours than informing
me that such an event would follow. As to your promise to marry Linton,
I’ll take care you shall keep it; for you shall not quit this place
till it is fulfilled.”
“Send Ellen, then, to let papa know I’m safe!” exclaimed Catherine,
weeping bitterly. “Or marry me now. Poor papa! Ellen, he’ll think we’re
lost. What shall we do?”
“Not he! He’ll think you are tired of waiting on him, and run off for a
little amusement,” answered Heathcliff. “You cannot deny that you
entered my house of your own accord, in contempt of his injunctions to
the contrary. And it is quite natural that you should desire amusement
at your age; and that you would weary of nursing a sick man, and that
man _only_ your father. Catherine, his happiest days were over when
your days began. He cursed you, I dare say, for coming into the world
(I did, at least); and it would just do if he cursed you as _he_ went
out of it. I’d join him. I don’t love you! How should I? Weep away. As
far as I can see, it will be your chief diversion hereafter; unless
Linton make amends for other losses: and your provident parent appears
to fancy he may. His letters of advice and consolation entertained me
vastly. In his last he recommended my jewel to be careful of his; and
kind to her when he got her. Careful and kind—that’s paternal. But
Linton requires his whole stock of care and kindness for himself.
Linton can play the little tyrant well. He’ll undertake to torture any
number of cats, if their teeth be drawn and their claws pared. You’ll
be able to tell his uncle fine tales of his _kindness_, when you get
home again, I assure you.”
“You’re right there!” I said; “explain your son’s character. Show his
resemblance to yourself: and then, I hope, Miss Cathy will think twice
before she takes the cockatrice!”
“I don’t much mind speaking of his amiable qualities now,” he answered;
“because she must either accept him or remain a prisoner, and you along
with her, till your master dies. I can detain you both, quite
concealed, here. If you doubt, encourage her to retract her word, and
you’ll have an opportunity of judging!”
“I’ll not retract my word,” said Catherine. “I’ll marry him within this
hour, if I may go to Thrushcross Grange afterwards. Mr. Heathcliff,
you’re a cruel man, but you’re not a fiend; and you won’t, from _mere_
malice, destroy irrevocably all my happiness. If papa thought I had
left him on purpose, and if he died before I returned, could I bear to
live? I’ve given over crying: but I’m going to kneel here, at your
knee; and I’ll not get up, and I’ll not take my eyes from your face
till you look back at me! No, don’t turn away! _do look_! you’ll see
nothing to provoke you. I don’t hate you. I’m not angry that you struck
me. Have you never loved _anybody_ in all your life, uncle? _never_?
Ah! you must look once. I’m so wretched, you can’t help being sorry and
pitying me.”
“Keep your eft’s fingers off; and move, or I’ll kick you!” cried
Heathcliff, brutally repulsing her. “I’d rather be hugged by a snake.
How the devil can you dream of fawning on me? I _detest_ you!”
He shrugged his shoulders: shook himself, indeed, as if his flesh crept
with aversion; and thrust back his chair; while I got up, and opened my
mouth, to commence a downright torrent of abuse. But I was rendered
dumb in the middle of the first sentence, by a threat that I should be
shown into a room by myself the very next syllable I uttered. It was
growing dark—we heard a sound of voices at the garden-gate. Our host
hurried out instantly: _he_ had his wits about him; _we_ had not. There
was a talk of two or three minutes, and he returned alone.
“I thought it had been your cousin Hareton,” I observed to Catherine.
“I wish he would arrive! Who knows but he might take our part?”
“It was three servants sent to seek you from the Grange,” said
Heathcliff, overhearing me. “You should have opened a lattice and
called out: but I could swear that chit is glad you didn’t. She’s glad
to be obliged to stay, I’m certain.”
At learning the chance we had missed, we both gave vent to our grief
without control; and he allowed us to wail on till nine o’clock. Then
he bid us go upstairs, through the kitchen, to Zillah’s chamber; and I
whispered my companion to obey: perhaps we might contrive to get
through the window there, or into a garret, and out by its skylight.
The window, however, was narrow, like those below, and the garret trap
was safe from our attempts; for we were fastened in as before. We
neither of us lay down: Catherine took her station by the lattice, and
watched anxiously for morning; a deep sigh being the only answer I
could obtain to my frequent entreaties that she would try to rest. I
seated myself in a chair, and rocked to and fro, passing harsh judgment
on my many derelictions of duty; from which, it struck me then, all the
misfortunes of my employers sprang. It was not the case, in reality, I
am aware; but it was, in my imagination, that dismal night; and I
thought Heathcliff himself less guilty than I.
At seven o’clock he came, and inquired if Miss Linton had risen. She
ran to the door immediately, and answered, “Yes.” “Here, then,” he
said, opening it, and pulling her out. I rose to follow, but he turned
the lock again. I demanded my release.
“Be patient,” he replied; “I’ll send up your breakfast in a while.”
I thumped on the panels, and rattled the latch angrily and Catherine
asked why I was still shut up? He answered, I must try to endure it
another hour, and they went away. I endured it two or three hours; at
length, I heard a footstep: not Heathcliff’s.
“I’ve brought you something to eat,” said a voice; “oppen t’ door!”
Complying eagerly, I beheld Hareton, laden with food enough to last me
all day.
“Tak’ it,” he added, thrusting the tray into my hand.
“Stay one minute,” I began.
“Nay,” cried he, and retired, regardless of any prayers I could pour
forth to detain him.
And there I remained enclosed the whole day, and the whole of the next
night; and another, and another. Five nights and four days I remained,
altogether, seeing nobody but Hareton once every morning; and he was a
model of a jailor: surly, and dumb, and deaf to every attempt at moving
his sense of justice or compassion.
CHAPTER XXVIII
On the fifth morning, or rather afternoon, a different step
approached—lighter and shorter; and, this time, the person entered the
room. It was Zillah; donned in her scarlet shawl, with a black silk
bonnet on her head, and a willow-basket swung to her arm.
“Eh, dear! Mrs. Dean!” she exclaimed. “Well! there is a talk about you
at Gimmerton. I never thought but you were sunk in the Blackhorse
marsh, and missy with you, till master told me you’d been found, and
he’d lodged you here! What! and you must have got on an island, sure?
And how long were you in the hole? Did master save you, Mrs. Dean? But
you’re not so thin—you’ve not been so poorly, have you?”
“Your master is a true scoundrel!” I replied. “But he shall answer for
it. He needn’t have raised that tale: it shall all be laid bare!”
“What do you mean?” asked Zillah. “It’s not his tale: they tell that in
the village—about your being lost in the marsh; and I calls to
Earnshaw, when I come in—‘Eh, they’s queer things, Mr. Hareton,
happened since I went off. It’s a sad pity of that likely young lass,
and cant Nelly Dean.’ He stared. I thought he had not heard aught, so I
told him the rumour. The master listened, and he just smiled to
himself, and said, ‘If they have been in the marsh, they are out now,
Zillah. Nelly Dean is lodged, at this minute, in your room. You can
tell her to flit, when you go up; here is the key. The bog-water got
into her head, and she would have run home quite flighty; but I fixed
her till she came round to her senses. You can bid her go to the Grange
at once, if she be able, and carry a message from me, that her young
lady will follow in time to attend the squire’s funeral.’”
“Mr. Edgar is not dead?” I gasped. “Oh! Zillah, Zillah!”
“No, no; sit you down, my good mistress,” she replied; “you’re right
sickly yet. He’s not dead; Doctor Kenneth thinks he may last another
day. I met him on the road and asked.”
Instead of sitting down, I snatched my outdoor things, and hastened
below, for the way was free. On entering the house, I looked about for
some one to give information of Catherine. The place was filled with
sunshine, and the door stood wide open; but nobody seemed at hand. As I
hesitated whether to go off at once, or return and seek my mistress, a
slight cough drew my attention to the hearth. Linton lay on the settle,
sole tenant, sucking a stick of sugar-candy, and pursuing my movements
with apathetic eyes. “Where is Miss Catherine?” I demanded sternly,
supposing I could frighten him into giving intelligence, by catching
him thus, alone. He sucked on like an innocent.
“Is she gone?” I said.
“No,” he replied; “she’s upstairs: she’s not to go; we won’t let her.”
“You won’t let her, little idiot!” I exclaimed. “Direct me to her room
immediately, or I’ll make you sing out sharply.”
“Papa would make you sing out, if you attempted to get there,” he
answered. “He says I’m not to be soft with Catherine: she’s my wife,
and it’s shameful that she should wish to leave me. He says she hates
me and wants me to die, that she may have my money; but she shan’t have
it: and she shan’t go home! She never shall!—she may cry, and be sick
as much as she pleases!”
He resumed his former occupation, closing his lids, as if he meant to
drop asleep.
“Master Heathcliff,” I resumed, “have you forgotten all Catherine’s
kindness to you last winter, when you affirmed you loved her, and when
she brought you books and sung you songs, and came many a time through
wind and snow to see you? She wept to miss one evening, because you
would be disappointed; and you felt then that she was a hundred times
too good to you: and now you believe the lies your father tells, though
you know he detests you both. And you join him against her. That’s fine
gratitude, is it not?”
The corner of Linton’s mouth fell, and he took the sugar-candy from his
lips.
“Did she come to Wuthering Heights because she hated you?” I continued.
“Think for yourself! As to your money, she does not even know that you
will have any. And you say she’s sick; and yet you leave her alone, up
there in a strange house! You who have felt what it is to be so
neglected! You could pity your own sufferings; and she pitied them,
too; but you won’t pity hers! I shed tears, Master Heathcliff, you
see—an elderly woman, and a servant merely—and you, after pretending
such affection, and having reason to worship her almost, store every
tear you have for yourself, and lie there quite at ease. Ah! you’re a
heartless, selfish boy!”
“I can’t stay with her,” he answered crossly. “I’ll not stay by myself.
She cries so I can’t bear it. And she won’t give over, though I say
I’ll call my father. I did call him once, and he threatened to strangle
her if she was not quiet; but she began again the instant he left the
room, moaning and grieving all night long, though I screamed for
vexation that I couldn’t sleep.”
“Is Mr. Heathcliff out?” I inquired, perceiving that the wretched
creature had no power to sympathize with his cousin’s mental tortures.
“He’s in the court,” he replied, “talking to Doctor Kenneth; who says
uncle is dying, truly, at last. I’m glad, for I shall be master of the
Grange after him. Catherine always spoke of it as her house. It isn’t
hers! It’s mine: papa says everything she has is mine. All her nice
books are mine; she offered to give me them, and her pretty birds, and
her pony Minny, if I would get the key of our room, and let her out;
but I told her she had nothing to give, they were all, all mine. And
then she cried, and took a little picture from her neck, and said I
should have that; two pictures in a gold case, on one side her mother,
and on the other uncle, when they were young. That was yesterday—I said
they were mine, too; and tried to get them from her. The spiteful thing
wouldn’t let me: she pushed me off, and hurt me. I shrieked out—that
frightens her—she heard papa coming, and she broke the hinges and
divided the case, and gave me her mother’s portrait; the other she
attempted to hide: but papa asked what was the matter, and I explained
it. He took the one I had away, and ordered her to resign hers to me;
she refused, and he—he struck her down, and wrenched it off the chain,
and crushed it with his foot.”
“And were you pleased to see her struck?” I asked: having my designs in
encouraging his talk.
“I winked,” he answered: “I wink to see my father strike a dog or a
horse, he does it so hard. Yet I was glad at first—she deserved
punishing for pushing me: but when papa was gone, she made me come to
the window and showed me her cheek cut on the inside, against her
teeth, and her mouth filling with blood; and then she gathered up the
bits of the picture, and went and sat down with her face to the wall,
and she has never spoken to me since: and I sometimes think she can’t
speak for pain. I don’t like to think so; but she’s a naughty thing for
crying continually; and she looks so pale and wild, I’m afraid of her.”
“And you can get the key if you choose?” I said.
“Yes, when I am upstairs,” he answered; “but I can’t walk upstairs
now.”
“In what apartment is it?” I asked.
“Oh,” he cried, “I shan’t tell _you_ where it is. It is our secret.
Nobody, neither Hareton nor Zillah, is to know. There! you’ve tired
me—go away, go away!” And he turned his face on to his arm, and shut
his eyes again.
I considered it best to depart without seeing Mr. Heathcliff, and bring
a rescue for my young lady from the Grange. On reaching it, the
astonishment of my fellow-servants to see me, and their joy also, was
intense; and when they heard that their little mistress was safe, two
or three were about to hurry up and shout the news at Mr. Edgar’s door:
but I bespoke the announcement of it myself. How changed I found him,
even in those few days! He lay an image of sadness and resignation
awaiting his death. Very young he looked: though his actual age was
thirty-nine, one would have called him ten years younger, at least. He
thought of Catherine; for he murmured her name. I touched his hand, and
spoke.
“Catherine is coming, dear master!” I whispered; “she is alive and
well; and will be here, I hope, to-night.”
I trembled at the first effects of this intelligence: he half rose up,
looked eagerly round the apartment, and then sank back in a swoon. As
soon as he recovered, I related our compulsory visit, and detention at
the Heights. I said Heathcliff forced me to go in: which was not quite
true. I uttered as little as possible against Linton; nor did I
describe all his father’s brutal conduct—my intentions being to add no
bitterness, if I could help it, to his already over-flowing cup.
He divined that one of his enemy’s purposes was to secure the personal
property, as well as the estate, to his son: or rather himself; yet why
he did not wait till his decease was a puzzle to my master, because
ignorant how nearly he and his nephew would quit the world together.
However, he felt that his will had better be altered: instead of
leaving Catherine’s fortune at her own disposal, he determined to put
it in the hands of trustees for her use during life, and for her
children, if she had any, after her. By that means, it could not fall
to Mr. Heathcliff should Linton die.
Having received his orders, I despatched a man to fetch the attorney,
and four more, provided with serviceable weapons, to demand my young
lady of her jailor. Both parties were delayed very late. The single
servant returned first. He said Mr. Green, the lawyer, was out when he
arrived at his house, and he had to wait two hours for his re-entrance;
and then Mr. Green told him he had a little business in the village
that must be done; but he would be at Thrushcross Grange before
morning. The four men came back unaccompanied also. They brought word
that Catherine was ill: too ill to quit her room; and Heathcliff would
not suffer them to see her. I scolded the stupid fellows well for
listening to that tale, which I would not carry to my master; resolving
to take a whole bevy up to the Heights, at day-light, and storm it
literally, unless the prisoner were quietly surrendered to us. Her
father _shall_ see her, I vowed, and vowed again, if that devil be
killed on his own doorstones in trying to prevent it!
Happily, I was spared the journey and the trouble. I had gone
downstairs at three o’clock to fetch a jug of water; and was passing
through the hall with it in my hand, when a sharp knock at the front
door made me jump. “Oh! it is Green,” I said, recollecting myself—“only
Green,” and I went on, intending to send somebody else to open it; but
the knock was repeated: not loud, and still importunately. I put the
jug on the banister and hastened to admit him myself. The harvest moon
shone clear outside. It was not the attorney. My own sweet little
mistress sprang on my neck sobbing, “Ellen, Ellen! Is papa alive?”
“Yes,” I cried: “yes, my angel, he is, God be thanked, you are safe
with us again!”
She wanted to run, breathless as she was, upstairs to Mr. Linton’s
room; but I compelled her to sit down on a chair, and made her drink,
and washed her pale face, chafing it into a faint colour with my apron.
Then I said I must go first, and tell of her arrival; imploring her to
say, she should be happy with young Heathcliff. She stared, but soon
comprehending why I counselled her to utter the falsehood, she assured
me she would not complain.
I couldn’t abide to be present at their meeting. I stood outside the
chamber-door a quarter of an hour, and hardly ventured near the bed,
then. All was composed, however: Catherine’s despair was as silent as
her father’s joy. She supported him calmly, in appearance; and he fixed
on her features his raised eyes that seemed dilating with ecstasy.
He died blissfully, Mr. Lockwood: he died so. Kissing her cheek, he
murmured,—“I am going to her; and you, darling child, shall come to
us!” and never stirred or spoke again; but continued that rapt, radiant
gaze, till his pulse imperceptibly stopped and his soul departed. None
could have noticed the exact minute of his death, it was so entirely
without a struggle.
Whether Catherine had spent her tears, or whether the grief were too
weighty to let them flow, she sat there dry-eyed till the sun rose: she
sat till noon, and would still have remained brooding over that
deathbed, but I insisted on her coming away and taking some repose. It
was well I succeeded in removing her, for at dinner-time appeared the
lawyer, having called at Wuthering Heights to get his instructions how
to behave. He had sold himself to Mr. Heathcliff: that was the cause of
his delay in obeying my master’s summons. Fortunately, no thought of
worldly affairs crossed the latter’s mind, to disturb him, after his
daughter’s arrival.
Mr. Green took upon himself to order everything and everybody about the
place. He gave all the servants but me, notice to quit. He would have
carried his delegated authority to the point of insisting that Edgar
Linton should not be buried beside his wife, but in the chapel, with
his family. There was the will, however, to hinder that, and my loud
protestations against any infringement of its directions. The funeral
was hurried over; Catherine, Mrs. Linton Heathcliff now, was suffered
to stay at the Grange till her father’s corpse had quitted it.
She told me that her anguish had at last spurred Linton to incur the
risk of liberating her. She heard the men I sent disputing at the door,
and she gathered the sense of Heathcliff’s answer. It drove her
desperate. Linton who had been conveyed up to the little parlour soon
after I left, was terrified into fetching the key before his father
re-ascended. He had the cunning to unlock and re-lock the door, without
shutting it; and when he should have gone to bed, he begged to sleep
with Hareton, and his petition was granted for once. Catherine stole
out before break of day. She dared not try the doors lest the dogs
should raise an alarm; she visited the empty chambers and examined
their windows; and, luckily, lighting on her mother’s, she got easily
out of its lattice, and on to the ground, by means of the fir-tree
close by. Her accomplice suffered for his share in the escape,
notwithstanding his timid contrivances.
CHAPTER XXIX
The evening after the funeral, my young lady and I were seated in the
library; now musing mournfully—one of us despairingly—on our loss, now
venturing conjectures as to the gloomy future.
We had just agreed the best destiny which could await Catherine would
be a permission to continue resident at the Grange; at least during
Linton’s life: he being allowed to join her there, and I to remain as
housekeeper. That seemed rather too favourable an arrangement to be
hoped for; and yet I did hope, and began to cheer up under the prospect
of retaining my home and my employment, and, above all, my beloved
young mistress; when a servant—one of the discarded ones, not yet
departed—rushed hastily in, and said “that devil Heathcliff” was coming
through the court: should he fasten the door in his face?
If we had been mad enough to order that proceeding, we had not time. He
made no ceremony of knocking or announcing his name: he was master, and
availed himself of the master’s privilege to walk straight in, without
saying a word. The sound of our informant’s voice directed him to the
library; he entered and motioning him out, shut the door.
It was the same room into which he had been ushered, as a guest,
eighteen years before: the same moon shone through the window; and the
same autumn landscape lay outside. We had not yet lighted a candle, but
all the apartment was visible, even to the portraits on the wall: the
splendid head of Mrs. Linton, and the graceful one of her husband.
Heathcliff advanced to the hearth. Time had little altered his person
either. There was the same man: his dark face rather sallower and more
composed, his frame a stone or two heavier, perhaps, and no other
difference. Catherine had risen with an impulse to dash out, when she
saw him.
“Stop!” he said, arresting her by the arm. “No more runnings away!
Where would you go? I’m come to fetch you home; and I hope you’ll be a
dutiful daughter and not encourage my son to further disobedience. I
was embarrassed how to punish him when I discovered his part in the
business: he’s such a cobweb, a pinch would annihilate him; but you’ll
see by his look that he has received his due! I brought him down one
evening, the day before yesterday, and just set him in a chair, and
never touched him afterwards. I sent Hareton out, and we had the room
to ourselves. In two hours, I called Joseph to carry him up again; and
since then my presence is as potent on his nerves as a ghost; and I
fancy he sees me often, though I am not near. Hareton says he wakes and
shrieks in the night by the hour together, and calls you to protect him
from me; and, whether you like your precious mate, or not, you must
come: he’s your concern now; I yield all my interest in him to you.”
“Why not let Catherine continue here,” I pleaded, “and send Master
Linton to her? As you hate them both, you’d not miss them: they can
only be a daily plague to your unnatural heart.”
“I’m seeking a tenant for the Grange,” he answered; “and I want my
children about me, to be sure. Besides, that lass owes me her services
for her bread. I’m not going to nurture her in luxury and idleness
after Linton is gone. Make haste and get ready, now; and don’t oblige
me to compel you.”
“I shall,” said Catherine. “Linton is all I have to love in the world,
and though you have done what you could to make him hateful to me, and
me to him, you cannot make us hate each other. And I defy you to hurt
him when I am by, and I defy you to frighten me!”
“You are a boastful champion,” replied Heathcliff; “but I don’t like
you well enough to hurt him: you shall get the full benefit of the
torment, as long as it lasts. It is not I who will make him hateful to
you—it is his own sweet spirit. He’s as bitter as gall at your
desertion and its consequences: don’t expect thanks for this noble
devotion. I heard him draw a pleasant picture to Zillah of what he
would do if he were as strong as I: the inclination is there, and his
very weakness will sharpen his wits to find a substitute for strength.”
“I know he has a bad nature,” said Catherine: “he’s your son. But I’m
glad I’ve a better, to forgive it; and I know he loves me, and for that
reason I love him. Mr. Heathcliff _you_ have _nobody_ to love you; and,
however miserable you make us, we shall still have the revenge of
thinking that your cruelty arises from your greater misery. You _are_
miserable, are you not? Lonely, like the devil, and envious like him?
_Nobody_ loves you—_nobody_ will cry for you when you die! I wouldn’t
be you!”
Catherine spoke with a kind of dreary triumph: she seemed to have made
up her mind to enter into the spirit of her future family, and draw
pleasure from the griefs of her enemies.
“You shall be sorry to be yourself presently,” said her father-in-law,
“if you stand there another minute. Begone, witch, and get your
things!”
She scornfully withdrew. In her absence I began to beg for Zillah’s
place at the Heights, offering to resign mine to her; but he would
suffer it on no account. He bid me be silent; and then, for the first
time, allowed himself a glance round the room and a look at the
pictures. Having studied Mrs. Linton’s, he said—“I shall have that
home. Not because I need it, but—” He turned abruptly to the fire, and
continued, with what, for lack of a better word, I must call a
smile—“I’ll tell you what I did yesterday! I got the sexton, who was
digging Linton’s grave, to remove the earth off her coffin lid, and I
opened it. I thought, once, I would have stayed there: when I saw her
face again—it is hers yet!—he had hard work to stir me; but he said it
would change if the air blew on it, and so I struck one side of the
coffin loose, and covered it up: not Linton’s side, damn him! I wish
he’d been soldered in lead. And I bribed the sexton to pull it away
when I’m laid there, and slide mine out too; I’ll have it made so: and
then by the time Linton gets to us he’ll not know which is which!”
“You were very wicked, Mr. Heathcliff!” I exclaimed; “were you not
ashamed to disturb the dead?”
“I disturbed nobody, Nelly,” he replied; “and I gave some ease to
myself. I shall be a great deal more comfortable now; and you’ll have a
better chance of keeping me underground, when I get there. Disturbed
her? No! she has disturbed me, night and day, through eighteen
years—incessantly—remorselessly—till yesternight; and yesternight I was
tranquil. I dreamt I was sleeping the last sleep by that sleeper, with
my heart stopped and my cheek frozen against hers.”
“And if she had been dissolved into earth, or worse, what would you
have dreamt of then?” I said.
“Of dissolving with her, and being more happy still!” he answered. “Do
you suppose I dread any change of that sort? I expected such a
transformation on raising the lid—but I’m better pleased that it should
not commence till I share it. Besides, unless I had received a distinct
impression of her passionless features, that strange feeling would
hardly have been removed. It began oddly. You know I was wild after she
died; and eternally, from dawn to dawn, praying her to return to me her
spirit! I have a strong faith in ghosts: I have a conviction that they
can, and do, exist among us! The day she was buried, there came a fall
of snow. In the evening I went to the churchyard. It blew bleak as
winter—all round was solitary. I didn’t fear that her fool of a husband
would wander up the glen so late; and no one else had business to bring
them there. Being alone, and conscious two yards of loose earth was the
sole barrier between us, I said to myself—‘I’ll have her in my arms
again! If she be cold, I’ll think it is this north wind that chills
_me_; and if she be motionless, it is sleep.’ I got a spade from the
tool-house, and began to delve with all my might—it scraped the coffin;
I fell to work with my hands; the wood commenced cracking about the
screws; I was on the point of attaining my object, when it seemed that
I heard a sigh from some one above, close at the edge of the grave, and
bending down. ‘If I can only get this off,’ I muttered, ‘I wish they
may shovel in the earth over us both!’ and I wrenched at it more
desperately still. There was another sigh, close at my ear. I appeared
to feel the warm breath of it displacing the sleet-laden wind. I knew
no living thing in flesh and blood was by; but, as certainly as you
perceive the approach to some substantial body in the dark, though it
cannot be discerned, so certainly I felt that Cathy was there: not
under me, but on the earth. A sudden sense of relief flowed from my
heart through every limb. I relinquished my labour of agony, and turned
consoled at once: unspeakably consoled. Her presence was with me: it
remained while I re-filled the grave, and led me home. You may laugh,
if you will; but I was sure I should see her there. I was sure she was
with me, and I could not help talking to her. Having reached the
Heights, I rushed eagerly to the door. It was fastened; and, I
remember, that accursed Earnshaw and my wife opposed my entrance. I
remember stopping to kick the breath out of him, and then hurrying
upstairs, to my room and hers. I looked round impatiently—I felt her by
me—I could _almost_ see her, and yet I _could not_! I ought to have
sweat blood then, from the anguish of my yearning—from the fervour of
my supplications to have but one glimpse! I had not one. She showed
herself, as she often was in life, a devil to me! And, since then,
sometimes more and sometimes less, I’ve been the sport of that
intolerable torture! Infernal! keeping my nerves at such a stretch
that, if they had not resembled catgut, they would long ago have
relaxed to the feebleness of Linton’s. When I sat in the house with
Hareton, it seemed that on going out I should meet her; when I walked
on the moors I should meet her coming in. When I went from home I
hastened to return; she _must_ be somewhere at the Heights, I was
certain! And when I slept in her chamber—I was beaten out of that. I
couldn’t lie there; for the moment I closed my eyes, she was either
outside the window, or sliding back the panels, or entering the room,
or even resting her darling head on the same pillow as she did when a
child; and I must open my lids to see. And so I opened and closed them
a hundred times a night—to be always disappointed! It racked me! I’ve
often groaned aloud, till that old rascal Joseph no doubt believed that
my conscience was playing the fiend inside of me. Now, since I’ve seen
her, I’m pacified—a little. It was a strange way of killing: not by
inches, but by fractions of hairbreadths, to beguile me with the
spectre of a hope through eighteen years!”
Mr. Heathcliff paused and wiped his forehead; his hair clung to it, wet
with perspiration; his eyes were fixed on the red embers of the fire,
the brows not contracted, but raised next the temples; diminishing the
grim aspect of his countenance, but imparting a peculiar look of
trouble, and a painful appearance of mental tension towards one
absorbing subject. He only half addressed me, and I maintained silence.
I didn’t like to hear him talk! After a short period he resumed his
meditation on the picture, took it down and leant it against the sofa
to contemplate it at better advantage; and while so occupied Catherine
entered, announcing that she was ready, when her pony should be
saddled.
“Send that over to-morrow,” said Heathcliff to me; then turning to her,
he added: “You may do without your pony: it is a fine evening, and
you’ll need no ponies at Wuthering Heights; for what journeys you take,
your own feet will serve you. Come along.”
“Good-bye, Ellen!” whispered my dear little mistress.
As she kissed me, her lips felt like ice. “Come and see me, Ellen;
don’t forget.”
“Take care you do no such thing, Mrs. Dean!” said her new father. “When
I wish to speak to you I’ll come here. I want none of your prying at my
house!”
He signed her to precede him; and casting back a look that cut my
heart, she obeyed. I watched them, from the window, walk down the
garden. Heathcliff fixed Catherine’s arm under his: though she disputed
the act at first evidently; and with rapid strides he hurried her into
the alley, whose trees concealed them.
CHAPTER XXX
I have paid a visit to the Heights, but I have not seen her since she
left: Joseph held the door in his hand when I called to ask after her,
and wouldn’t let me pass. He said Mrs. Linton was “thrang,” and the
master was not in. Zillah has told me something of the way they go on,
otherwise I should hardly know who was dead and who living. She thinks
Catherine haughty, and does not like her, I can guess by her talk. My
young lady asked some aid of her when she first came; but Mr.
Heathcliff told her to follow her own business, and let his
daughter-in-law look after herself; and Zillah willingly acquiesced,
being a narrow-minded, selfish woman. Catherine evinced a child’s
annoyance at this neglect; repaid it with contempt, and thus enlisted
my informant among her enemies, as securely as if she had done her some
great wrong. I had a long talk with Zillah about six weeks ago, a
little before you came, one day when we foregathered on the moor; and
this is what she told me.
“The first thing Mrs. Linton did,” she said, “on her arrival at the
Heights, was to run upstairs, without even wishing good-evening to me
and Joseph; she shut herself into Linton’s room, and remained till
morning. Then, while the master and Earnshaw were at breakfast, she
entered the house, and asked all in a quiver if the doctor might be
sent for? her cousin was very ill.
“‘We know that!’ answered Heathcliff; ‘but his life is not worth a
farthing, and I won’t spend a farthing on him.’
“‘But I cannot tell how to do,’ she said; ‘and if nobody will help me,
he’ll die!’
“‘Walk out of the room,’ cried the master, ‘and let me never hear a
word more about him! None here care what becomes of him; if you do, act
the nurse; if you do not, lock him up and leave him.’
“Then she began to bother me, and I said I’d had enough plague with the
tiresome thing; we each had our tasks, and hers was to wait on Linton:
Mr. Heathcliff bid me leave that labour to her.
“How they managed together, I can’t tell. I fancy he fretted a great
deal, and moaned hisseln night and day; and she had precious little
rest: one could guess by her white face and heavy eyes. She sometimes
came into the kitchen all wildered like, and looked as if she would
fain beg assistance; but I was not going to disobey the master: I never
dare disobey him, Mrs. Dean; and, though I thought it wrong that
Kenneth should not be sent for, it was no concern of mine either to
advise or complain, and I always refused to meddle. Once or twice,
after we had gone to bed, I’ve happened to open my door again and seen
her sitting crying on the stairs’-top; and then I’ve shut myself in
quick, for fear of being moved to interfere. I did pity her then, I’m
sure: still I didn’t wish to lose my place, you know.
“At last, one night she came boldly into my chamber, and frightened me
out of my wits, by saying, ‘Tell Mr. Heathcliff that his son is
dying—I’m sure he is, this time. Get up, instantly, and tell him.’
“Having uttered this speech, she vanished again. I lay a quarter of an
hour listening and trembling. Nothing stirred—the house was quiet.
“She’s mistaken, I said to myself. He’s got over it. I needn’t disturb
them; and I began to doze. But my sleep was marred a second time by a
sharp ringing of the bell—the only bell we have, put up on purpose for
Linton; and the master called to me to see what was the matter, and
inform them that he wouldn’t have that noise repeated.
“I delivered Catherine’s message. He cursed to himself, and in a few
minutes came out with a lighted candle, and proceeded to their room. I
followed. Mrs. Heathcliff was seated by the bedside, with her hands
folded on her knees. Her father-in-law went up, held the light to
Linton’s face, looked at him, and touched him; afterwards he turned to
her.
“‘Now—Catherine,’ he said, ‘how do you feel?’
“She was dumb.
“‘How do you feel, Catherine?’ he repeated.
“‘He’s safe, and I’m free,’ she answered: ‘I should feel well—but,’ she
continued, with a bitterness she couldn’t conceal, ‘you have left me so
long to struggle against death alone, that I feel and see only death! I
feel like death!’
“And she looked like it, too! I gave her a little wine. Hareton and
Joseph, who had been wakened by the ringing and the sound of feet, and
heard our talk from outside, now entered. Joseph was fain, I believe,
of the lad’s removal; Hareton seemed a thought bothered: though he was
more taken up with staring at Catherine than thinking of Linton. But
the master bid him get off to bed again: we didn’t want his help. He
afterwards made Joseph remove the body to his chamber, and told me to
return to mine, and Mrs. Heathcliff remained by herself.
“In the morning, he sent me to tell her she must come down to
breakfast: she had undressed, and appeared going to sleep, and said she
was ill; at which I hardly wondered. I informed Mr. Heathcliff, and he
replied,—‘Well, let her be till after the funeral; and go up now and
then to get her what is needful; and, as soon as she seems better, tell
me.’”
Cathy stayed upstairs a fortnight, according to Zillah; who visited her
twice a day, and would have been rather more friendly, but her attempts
at increasing kindness were proudly and promptly repelled.
Heathcliff went up once, to show her Linton’s will. He had bequeathed
the whole of his, and what had been her, moveable property, to his
father: the poor creature was threatened, or coaxed, into that act
during her week’s absence, when his uncle died. The lands, being a
minor, he could not meddle with. However, Mr. Heathcliff has claimed
and kept them in his wife’s right and his also: I suppose legally; at
any rate, Catherine, destitute of cash and friends, cannot disturb his
possession.
“Nobody,” said Zillah, “ever approached her door, except that once, but
I; and nobody asked anything about her. The first occasion of her
coming down into the house was on a Sunday afternoon. She had cried
out, when I carried up her dinner, that she couldn’t bear any longer
being in the cold; and I told her the master was going to Thrushcross
Grange, and Earnshaw and I needn’t hinder her from descending; so, as
soon as she heard Heathcliff’s horse trot off, she made her appearance,
donned in black, and her yellow curls combed back behind her ears as
plain as a Quaker: she couldn’t comb them out.
“Joseph and I generally go to chapel on Sundays:” the kirk, you know,
has no minister now, explained Mrs. Dean; and they call the Methodists’
or Baptists’ place (I can’t say which it is) at Gimmerton, a chapel.
“Joseph had gone,” she continued, “but I thought proper to bide at
home. Young folks are always the better for an elder’s over-looking;
and Hareton, with all his bashfulness, isn’t a model of nice behaviour.
I let him know that his cousin would very likely sit with us, and she
had been always used to see the Sabbath respected; so he had as good
leave his guns and bits of indoor work alone, while she stayed. He
coloured up at the news, and cast his eyes over his hands and clothes.
The train-oil and gunpowder were shoved out of sight in a minute. I saw
he meant to give her his company; and I guessed, by his way, he wanted
to be presentable; so, laughing, as I durst not laugh when the master
is by, I offered to help him, if he would, and joked at his confusion.
He grew sullen, and began to swear.
“Now, Mrs. Dean,” Zillah went on, seeing me not pleased by her manner,
“you happen think your young lady too fine for Mr. Hareton; and happen
you’re right: but I own I should love well to bring her pride a peg
lower. And what will all her learning and her daintiness do for her,
now? She’s as poor as you or I: poorer, I’ll be bound: you’re saying,
and I’m doing my little all that road.”
Hareton allowed Zillah to give him her aid; and she flattered him into
a good humour; so, when Catherine came, half forgetting her former
insults, he tried to make himself agreeable, by the housekeeper’s
account.
“Missis walked in,” she said, “as chill as an icicle, and as high as a
princess. I got up and offered her my seat in the arm-chair. No, she
turned up her nose at my civility. Earnshaw rose, too, and bid her come
to the settle, and sit close by the fire: he was sure she was starved.
“‘I’ve been starved a month and more,’ she answered, resting on the
word as scornful as she could.
“And she got a chair for herself, and placed it at a distance from both
of us. Having sat till she was warm, she began to look round, and
discovered a number of books on the dresser; she was instantly upon her
feet again, stretching to reach them: but they were too high up. Her
cousin, after watching her endeavours a while, at last summoned courage
to help her; she held her frock, and he filled it with the first that
came to hand.
“That was a great advance for the lad. She didn’t thank him; still, he
felt gratified that she had accepted his assistance, and ventured to
stand behind as she examined them, and even to stoop and point out what
struck his fancy in certain old pictures which they contained; nor was
he daunted by the saucy style in which she jerked the page from his
finger: he contented himself with going a bit farther back and looking
at her instead of the book. She continued reading, or seeking for
something to read. His attention became, by degrees, quite centred in
the study of her thick silky curls: her face he couldn’t see, and she
couldn’t see him. And, perhaps, not quite awake to what he did, but
attracted like a child to a candle, at last he proceeded from staring
to touching; he put out his hand and stroked one curl, as gently as if
it were a bird. He might have stuck a knife into her neck, she started
round in such a taking.
“‘Get away this moment! How dare you touch me? Why are you stopping
there?’ she cried, in a tone of disgust. ‘I can’t endure you! I’ll go
upstairs again, if you come near me.’
“Mr. Hareton recoiled, looking as foolish as he could do: he sat down
in the settle very quiet, and she continued turning over her volumes
another half hour; finally, Earnshaw crossed over, and whispered to me.
“‘Will you ask her to read to us, Zillah? I’m stalled of doing naught;
and I do like—I could like to hear her! Dunnot say I wanted it, but ask
of yourseln.’
“‘Mr. Hareton wishes you would read to us, ma’am,’ I said, immediately.
‘He’d take it very kind—he’d be much obliged.’
“She frowned; and looking up, answered—
“‘Mr. Hareton, and the whole set of you, will be good enough to
understand that I reject any pretence at kindness you have the
hypocrisy to offer! I despise you, and will have nothing to say to any
of you! When I would have given my life for one kind word, even to see
one of your faces, you all kept off. But I won’t complain to you! I’m
driven down here by the cold; not either to amuse you or enjoy your
society.’
“‘What could I ha’ done?’ began Earnshaw. ‘How was I to blame?’
“‘Oh! you are an exception,’ answered Mrs. Heathcliff. ‘I never missed
such a concern as you.’
“‘But I offered more than once, and asked,’ he said, kindling up at her
pertness, ‘I asked Mr. Heathcliff to let me wake for you—’
“‘Be silent! I’ll go out of doors, or anywhere, rather than have your
disagreeable voice in my ear!’ said my lady.
“Hareton muttered she might go to hell, for him! and unslinging his
gun, restrained himself from his Sunday occupations no longer. He
talked now, freely enough; and she presently saw fit to retreat to her
solitude: but the frost had set in, and, in spite of her pride, she was
forced to condescend to our company, more and more. However, I took
care there should be no further scorning at my good nature: ever since,
I’ve been as stiff as herself; and she has no lover or liker among us:
and she does not deserve one; for, let them say the least word to her,
and she’ll curl back without respect of any one. She’ll snap at the
master himself, and as good as dares him to thrash her; and the more
hurt she gets, the more venomous she grows.”
At first, on hearing this account from Zillah, I determined to leave my
situation, take a cottage, and get Catherine to come and live with me:
but Mr. Heathcliff would as soon permit that as he would set up Hareton
in an independent house; and I can see no remedy, at present, unless
she could marry again; and that scheme it does not come within my
province to arrange.
* * * * *
Thus ended Mrs. Dean’s story. Notwithstanding the doctor’s prophecy, I
am rapidly recovering strength; and though it be only the second week
in January, I propose getting out on horseback in a day or two, and
riding over to Wuthering Heights, to inform my landlord that I shall
spend the next six months in London; and, if he likes, he may look out
for another tenant to take the place after October. I would not pass
another winter here for much.
CHAPTER XXXI
Yesterday was bright, calm, and frosty. I went to the Heights as I
proposed: my housekeeper entreated me to bear a little note from her to
her young lady, and I did not refuse, for the worthy woman was not
conscious of anything odd in her request. The front door stood open,
but the jealous gate was fastened, as at my last visit; I knocked and
invoked Earnshaw from among the garden-beds; he unchained it, and I
entered. The fellow is as handsome a rustic as need be seen. I took
particular notice of him this time; but then he does his best
apparently to make the least of his advantages.
I asked if Mr. Heathcliff were at home? He answered, No; but he would
be in at dinner-time. It was eleven o’clock, and I announced my
intention of going in and waiting for him; at which he immediately
flung down his tools and accompanied me, in the office of watchdog, not
as a substitute for the host.
We entered together; Catherine was there, making herself useful in
preparing some vegetables for the approaching meal; she looked more
sulky and less spirited than when I had seen her first. She hardly
raised her eyes to notice me, and continued her employment with the
same disregard to common forms of politeness as before; never returning
my bow and good-morning by the slightest acknowledgment.
“She does not seem so amiable,” I thought, “as Mrs. Dean would persuade
me to believe. She’s a beauty, it is true; but not an angel.”
Earnshaw surlily bid her remove her things to the kitchen. “Remove them
yourself,” she said, pushing them from her as soon as she had done; and
retiring to a stool by the window, where she began to carve figures of
birds and beasts out of the turnip-parings in her lap. I approached
her, pretending to desire a view of the garden; and, as I fancied,
adroitly dropped Mrs. Dean’s note on to her knee, unnoticed by
Hareton—but she asked aloud, “What is that?” And chucked it off.
“A letter from your old acquaintance, the housekeeper at the Grange,” I
answered; annoyed at her exposing my kind deed, and fearful lest it
should be imagined a missive of my own. She would gladly have gathered
it up at this information, but Hareton beat her; he seized and put it
in his waistcoat, saying Mr. Heathcliff should look at it first.
Thereat, Catherine silently turned her face from us, and, very
stealthily, drew out her pocket-handkerchief and applied it to her
eyes; and her cousin, after struggling awhile to keep down his softer
feelings, pulled out the letter and flung it on the floor beside her,
as ungraciously as he could. Catherine caught and perused it eagerly;
then she put a few questions to me concerning the inmates, rational and
irrational, of her former home; and gazing towards the hills, murmured
in soliloquy:
“I should like to be riding Minny down there! I should like to be
climbing up there! Oh! I’m tired—I’m _stalled_, Hareton!” And she leant
her pretty head back against the sill, with half a yawn and half a
sigh, and lapsed into an aspect of abstracted sadness: neither caring
nor knowing whether we remarked her.
“Mrs. Heathcliff,” I said, after sitting some time mute, “you are not
aware that I am an acquaintance of yours? so intimate that I think it
strange you won’t come and speak to me. My housekeeper never wearies of
talking about and praising you; and she’ll be greatly disappointed if I
return with no news of or from you, except that you received her letter
and said nothing!”
She appeared to wonder at this speech, and asked,—
“Does Ellen like you?”
“Yes, very well,” I replied, hesitatingly.
“You must tell her,” she continued, “that I would answer her letter,
but I have no materials for writing: not even a book from which I might
tear a leaf.”
“No books!” I exclaimed. “How do you contrive to live here without
them? if I may take the liberty to inquire. Though provided with a
large library, I’m frequently very dull at the Grange; take my books
away, and I should be desperate!”
“I was always reading, when I had them,” said Catherine; “and Mr.
Heathcliff never reads; so he took it into his head to destroy my
books. I have not had a glimpse of one for weeks. Only once, I searched
through Joseph’s store of theology, to his great irritation; and once,
Hareton, I came upon a secret stock in your room—some Latin and Greek,
and some tales and poetry: all old friends. I brought the last here—and
you gathered them, as a magpie gathers silver spoons, for the mere love
of stealing! They are of no use to you; or else you concealed them in
the bad spirit that, as you cannot enjoy them, nobody else shall.
Perhaps _your_ envy counselled Mr. Heathcliff to rob me of my
treasures? But I’ve most of them written on my brain and printed in my
heart, and you cannot deprive me of those!”
Earnshaw blushed crimson when his cousin made this revelation of his
private literary accumulations, and stammered an indignant denial of
her accusations.
“Mr. Hareton is desirous of increasing his amount of knowledge,” I
said, coming to his rescue. “He is not _envious_, but _emulous_ of your
attainments. He’ll be a clever scholar in a few years.”
“And he wants me to sink into a dunce, meantime,” answered Catherine.
“Yes, I hear him trying to spell and read to himself, and pretty
blunders he makes! I wish you would repeat Chevy Chase as you did
yesterday: it was extremely funny. I heard you; and I heard you turning
over the dictionary to seek out the hard words, and then cursing
because you couldn’t read their explanations!”
The young man evidently thought it too bad that he should be laughed at
for his ignorance, and then laughed at for trying to remove it. I had a
similar notion; and, remembering Mrs. Dean’s anecdote of his first
attempt at enlightening the darkness in which he had been reared, I
observed,—“But, Mrs. Heathcliff, we have each had a commencement, and
each stumbled and tottered on the threshold; had our teachers scorned
instead of aiding us, we should stumble and totter yet.”
“Oh!” she replied, “I don’t wish to limit his acquirements: still, he
has no right to appropriate what is mine, and make it ridiculous to me
with his vile mistakes and mispronunciations! Those books, both prose
and verse, are consecrated to me by other associations; and I hate to
have them debased and profaned in his mouth! Besides, of all, he has
selected my favourite pieces that I love the most to repeat, as if out
of deliberate malice.”
Hareton’s chest heaved in silence a minute: he laboured under a severe
sense of mortification and wrath, which it was no easy task to
suppress. I rose, and, from a gentlemanly idea of relieving his
embarrassment, took up my station in the doorway, surveying the
external prospect as I stood. He followed my example, and left the
room; but presently reappeared, bearing half a dozen volumes in his
hands, which he threw into Catherine’s lap, exclaiming,—“Take them! I
never want to hear, or read, or think of them again!”
“I won’t have them now,” she answered. “I shall connect them with you,
and hate them.”
She opened one that had obviously been often turned over, and read a
portion in the drawling tone of a beginner; then laughed, and threw it
from her. “And listen,” she continued, provokingly, commencing a verse
of an old ballad in the same fashion.
But his self-love would endure no further torment: I heard, and not
altogether disapprovingly, a manual check given to her saucy tongue.
The little wretch had done her utmost to hurt her cousin’s sensitive
though uncultivated feelings, and a physical argument was the only mode
he had of balancing the account, and repaying its effects on the
inflictor. He afterwards gathered the books and hurled them on the
fire. I read in his countenance what anguish it was to offer that
sacrifice to spleen. I fancied that as they consumed, he recalled the
pleasure they had already imparted, and the triumph and ever-increasing
pleasure he had anticipated from them; and I fancied I guessed the
incitement to his secret studies also. He had been content with daily
labour and rough animal enjoyments, till Catherine crossed his path.
Shame at her scorn, and hope of her approval, were his first prompters
to higher pursuits; and instead of guarding him from one and winning
him to the other, his endeavours to raise himself had produced just the
contrary result.
“Yes that’s all the good that such a brute as you can get from them!”
cried Catherine, sucking her damaged lip, and watching the
conflagration with indignant eyes.
“You’d _better_ hold your tongue, now,” he answered fiercely.
And his agitation precluded further speech; he advanced hastily to the
entrance, where I made way for him to pass. But ere he had crossed the
door-stones, Mr. Heathcliff, coming up the causeway, encountered him,
and laying hold of his shoulder asked,—“What’s to do now, my lad?”
“Naught, naught,” he said, and broke away to enjoy his grief and anger
in solitude.
Heathcliff gazed after him, and sighed.
“It will be odd if I thwart myself,” he muttered, unconscious that I
was behind him. “But when I look for his father in his face, I find
_her_ every day more! How the devil is he so like? I can hardly bear to
see him.”
He bent his eyes to the ground, and walked moodily in. There was a
restless, anxious expression in his countenance. I had never remarked
there before; and he looked sparer in person. His daughter-in-law, on
perceiving him through the window, immediately escaped to the kitchen,
so that I remained alone.
“I’m glad to see you out of doors again, Mr. Lockwood,” he said, in
reply to my greeting; “from selfish motives partly: I don’t think I
could readily supply your loss in this desolation. I’ve wondered more
than once what brought you here.”
“An idle whim, I fear, sir,” was my answer; “or else an idle whim is
going to spirit me away. I shall set out for London next week; and I
must give you warning that I feel no disposition to retain Thrushcross
Grange beyond the twelve months I agreed to rent it. I believe I shall
not live there any more.”
“Oh, indeed; you’re tired of being banished from the world, are you?”
he said. “But if you be coming to plead off paying for a place you
won’t occupy, your journey is useless: I never relent in exacting my
due from any one.”
“I’m coming to plead off nothing about it,” I exclaimed, considerably
irritated. “Should you wish it, I’ll settle with you now,” and I drew
my note-book from my pocket.
“No, no,” he replied, coolly; “you’ll leave sufficient behind to cover
your debts, if you fail to return: I’m not in such a hurry. Sit down
and take your dinner with us; a guest that is safe from repeating his
visit can generally be made welcome. Catherine! bring the things in:
where are you?”
Catherine reappeared, bearing a tray of knives and forks.
“You may get your dinner with Joseph,” muttered Heathcliff, aside, “and
remain in the kitchen till he is gone.”
She obeyed his directions very punctually: perhaps she had no
temptation to transgress. Living among clowns and misanthropists, she
probably cannot appreciate a better class of people when she meets
them.
With Mr. Heathcliff, grim and saturnine, on the one hand, and Hareton,
absolutely dumb, on the other, I made a somewhat cheerless meal, and
bade adieu early. I would have departed by the back way, to get a last
glimpse of Catherine and annoy old Joseph; but Hareton received orders
to lead up my horse, and my host himself escorted me to the door, so I
could not fulfil my wish.
“How dreary life gets over in that house!” I reflected, while riding
down the road. “What a realisation of something more romantic than a
fairy tale it would have been for Mrs. Linton Heathcliff, had she and I
struck up an attachment, as her good nurse desired, and migrated
together into the stirring atmosphere of the town!”
CHAPTER XXXII
1802.—This September I was invited to devastate the moors of a friend
in the north, and on my journey to his abode, I unexpectedly came
within fifteen miles of Gimmerton. The ostler at a roadside
public-house was holding a pail of water to refresh my horses, when a
cart of very green oats, newly reaped, passed by, and he
remarked,—“Yon’s frough Gimmerton, nah! They’re allas three wick’ after
other folk wi’ ther harvest.”
“Gimmerton?” I repeated—my residence in that locality had already grown
dim and dreamy. “Ah! I know. How far is it from this?”
“Happen fourteen mile o’er th’ hills; and a rough road,” he answered.
A sudden impulse seized me to visit Thrushcross Grange. It was scarcely
noon, and I conceived that I might as well pass the night under my own
roof as in an inn. Besides, I could spare a day easily to arrange
matters with my landlord, and thus save myself the trouble of invading
the neighbourhood again. Having rested awhile, I directed my servant to
inquire the way to the village; and, with great fatigue to our beasts,
we managed the distance in some three hours.
I left him there, and proceeded down the valley alone. The grey church
looked greyer, and the lonely churchyard lonelier. I distinguished a
moor-sheep cropping the short turf on the graves. It was sweet, warm
weather—too warm for travelling; but the heat did not hinder me from
enjoying the delightful scenery above and below: had I seen it nearer
August, I’m sure it would have tempted me to waste a month among its
solitudes. In winter nothing more dreary, in summer nothing more
divine, than those glens shut in by hills, and those bluff, bold swells
of heath.
I reached the Grange before sunset, and knocked for admittance; but the
family had retreated into the back premises, I judged, by one thin,
blue wreath, curling from the kitchen chimney, and they did not hear. I
rode into the court. Under the porch, a girl of nine or ten sat
knitting, and an old woman reclined on the housesteps, smoking a
meditative pipe.
“Is Mrs. Dean within?” I demanded of the dame.
“Mistress Dean? Nay!” she answered, “she doesn’t bide here: shoo’s up
at th’ Heights.”
“Are you the housekeeper, then?” I continued.
“Eea, aw keep th’ hause,” she replied.
“Well, I’m Mr. Lockwood, the master. Are there any rooms to lodge me
in, I wonder? I wish to stay all night.”
“T’ maister!” she cried in astonishment. “Whet, whoiver knew yah wur
coming? Yah sud ha’ send word. They’s nowt norther dry nor mensful
abaht t’ place: nowt there isn’t!”
She threw down her pipe and bustled in, the girl followed, and I
entered too; soon perceiving that her report was true, and, moreover,
that I had almost upset her wits by my unwelcome apparition, I bade her
be composed. I would go out for a walk; and, meantime she must try to
prepare a corner of a sitting-room for me to sup in, and a bedroom to
sleep in. No sweeping and dusting, only good fire and dry sheets were
necessary. She seemed willing to do her best; though she thrust the
hearth-brush into the grates in mistake for the poker, and
malappropriated several other articles of her craft: but I retired,
confiding in her energy for a resting-place against my return.
Wuthering Heights was the goal of my proposed excursion. An
afterthought brought me back, when I had quitted the court.
“All well at the Heights?” I inquired of the woman.
“Eea, f’r owt ee knaw!” she answered, skurrying away with a pan of hot
cinders.
I would have asked why Mrs. Dean had deserted the Grange, but it was
impossible to delay her at such a crisis, so I turned away and made my
exit, rambling leisurely along, with the glow of a sinking sun behind,
and the mild glory of a rising moon in front—one fading, and the other
brightening—as I quitted the park, and climbed the stony by-road
branching off to Mr. Heathcliff’s dwelling. Before I arrived in sight
of it, all that remained of day was a beamless amber light along the
west: but I could see every pebble on the path, and every blade of
grass, by that splendid moon. I had neither to climb the gate nor to
knock—it yielded to my hand. That is an improvement, I thought. And I
noticed another, by the aid of my nostrils; a fragrance of stocks and
wallflowers wafted on the air from amongst the homely fruit-trees.
Both doors and lattices were open; and yet, as is usually the case in a
coal-district, a fine red fire illumined the chimney: the comfort which
the eye derives from it renders the extra heat endurable. But the house
of Wuthering Heights is so large that the inmates have plenty of space
for withdrawing out of its influence; and accordingly what inmates
there were had stationed themselves not far from one of the windows. I
could both see them and hear them talk before I entered, and looked and
listened in consequence; being moved thereto by a mingled sense of
curiosity and envy, that grew as I lingered.
“Con-_trary_!” said a voice as sweet as a silver bell. “That for the
third time, you dunce! I’m not going to tell you again. Recollect, or
I’ll pull your hair!”
“Contrary, then,” answered another, in deep but softened tones. “And
now, kiss me, for minding so well.”
“No, read it over first correctly, without a single mistake.”
The male speaker began to read: he was a young man, respectably dressed
and seated at a table, having a book before him. His handsome features
glowed with pleasure, and his eyes kept impatiently wandering from the
page to a small white hand over his shoulder, which recalled him by a
smart slap on the cheek, whenever its owner detected such signs of
inattention. Its owner stood behind; her light, shining ringlets
blending, at intervals, with his brown looks, as she bent to
superintend his studies; and her face—it was lucky he could not see her
face, or he would never have been so steady. I could; and I bit my lip
in spite, at having thrown away the chance I might have had of doing
something besides staring at its smiting beauty.
The task was done, not free from further blunders; but the pupil
claimed a reward, and received at least five kisses; which, however, he
generously returned. Then they came to the door, and from their
conversation I judged they were about to issue out and have a walk on
the moors. I supposed I should be condemned in Hareton Earnshaw’s
heart, if not by his mouth, to the lowest pit in the infernal regions
if I showed my unfortunate person in his neighbourhood then; and
feeling very mean and malignant, I skulked round to seek refuge in the
kitchen. There was unobstructed admittance on that side also; and at
the door sat my old friend Nelly Dean, sewing and singing a song; which
was often interrupted from within by harsh words of scorn and
intolerance, uttered in far from musical accents.
“I’d rayther, by th’ haulf, hev’ ’em swearing i’ my lugs fro’h morn to
neeght, nor hearken ye hahsiver!” said the tenant of the kitchen, in
answer to an unheard speech of Nelly’s. “It’s a blazing shame, that I
cannot oppen t’ blessed Book, but yah set up them glories to sattan,
and all t’ flaysome wickednesses that iver were born into th’ warld!
Oh! ye’re a raight nowt; and shoo’s another; and that poor lad ’ll be
lost atween ye. Poor lad!” he added, with a groan; “he’s witched: I’m
sartin on’t. Oh, Lord, judge ’em, for there’s norther law nor justice
among wer rullers!”
“No! or we should be sitting in flaming fagots, I suppose,” retorted
the singer. “But wisht, old man, and read your Bible like a Christian,
and never mind me. This is ‘Fairy Annie’s Wedding’—a bonny tune—it goes
to a dance.”
Mrs. Dean was about to recommence, when I advanced; and recognising me
directly, she jumped to her feet, crying—“Why, bless you, Mr. Lockwood!
How could you think of returning in this way? All’s shut up at
Thrushcross Grange. You should have given us notice!”
“I’ve arranged to be accommodated there, for as long as I shall stay,”
I answered. “I depart again to-morrow. And how are you transplanted
here, Mrs. Dean? tell me that.”
“Zillah left, and Mr. Heathcliff wished me to come, soon after you went
to London, and stay till you returned. But, step in, pray! Have you
walked from Gimmerton this evening?”
“From the Grange,” I replied; “and while they make me lodging room
there, I want to finish my business with your master; because I don’t
think of having another opportunity in a hurry.”
“What business, sir?” said Nelly, conducting me into the house. “He’s
gone out at present, and won’t return soon.”
“About the rent,” I answered.
“Oh! then it is with Mrs. Heathcliff you must settle,” she observed;
“or rather with me. She has not learnt to manage her affairs yet, and I
act for her: there’s nobody else.”
I looked surprised.
“Ah! you have not heard of Heathcliff’s death, I see,” she continued.
“Heathcliff dead!” I exclaimed, astonished. “How long ago?”
“Three months since: but sit down, and let me take your hat, and I’ll
tell you all about it. Stop, you have had nothing to eat, have you?”
“I want nothing: I have ordered supper at home. You sit down too. I
never dreamt of his dying! Let me hear how it came to pass. You say you
don’t expect them back for some time—the young people?”
“No—I have to scold them every evening for their late rambles: but they
don’t care for me. At least, have a drink of our old ale; it will do
you good: you seem weary.”
She hastened to fetch it before I could refuse, and I heard Joseph
asking whether “it warn’t a crying scandal that she should have
followers at her time of life? And then, to get them jocks out o’ t’
maister’s cellar! He fair shaamed to ’bide still and see it.”
She did not stay to retaliate, but re-entered in a minute, bearing a
reaming silver pint, whose contents I lauded with becoming earnestness.
And afterwards she furnished me with the sequel of Heathcliff’s
history. He had a “queer” end, as she expressed it.
I was summoned to Wuthering Heights, within a fortnight of your leaving
us, she said; and I obeyed joyfully, for Catherine’s sake. My first
interview with her grieved and shocked me: she had altered so much
since our separation. Mr. Heathcliff did not explain his reasons for
taking a new mind about my coming here; he only told me he wanted me,
and he was tired of seeing Catherine: I must make the little parlour my
sitting-room, and keep her with me. It was enough if he were obliged to
see her once or twice a day. She seemed pleased at this arrangement;
and, by degrees, I smuggled over a great number of books, and other
articles, that had formed her amusement at the Grange; and flattered
myself we should get on in tolerable comfort. The delusion did not last
long. Catherine, contented at first, in a brief space grew irritable
and restless. For one thing, she was forbidden to move out of the
garden, and it fretted her sadly to be confined to its narrow bounds as
spring drew on; for another, in following the house, I was forced to
quit her frequently, and she complained of loneliness: she preferred
quarrelling with Joseph in the kitchen to sitting at peace in her
solitude. I did not mind their skirmishes: but Hareton was often
obliged to seek the kitchen also, when the master wanted to have the
house to himself! and though in the beginning she either left it at his
approach, or quietly joined in my occupations, and shunned remarking or
addressing him—and though he was always as sullen and silent as
possible—after a while, she changed her behaviour, and became incapable
of letting him alone: talking at him; commenting on his stupidity and
idleness; expressing her wonder how he could endure the life he
lived—how he could sit a whole evening staring into the fire, and
dozing.
“He’s just like a dog, is he not, Ellen?” she once observed, “or a
cart-horse? He does his work, eats his food, and sleeps eternally! What
a blank, dreary mind he must have! Do you ever dream, Hareton? And, if
you do, what is it about? But you can’t speak to me!”
Then she looked at him; but he would neither open his mouth nor look
again.
“He’s, perhaps, dreaming now,” she continued. “He twitched his shoulder
as Juno twitches hers. Ask him, Ellen.”
“Mr. Hareton will ask the master to send you upstairs, if you don’t
behave!” I said. He had not only twitched his shoulder but clenched his
fist, as if tempted to use it.
“I know why Hareton never speaks, when I am in the kitchen,” she
exclaimed, on another occasion. “He is afraid I shall laugh at him.
Ellen, what do you think? He began to teach himself to read once; and,
because I laughed, he burned his books, and dropped it: was he not a
fool?”
“Were not you naughty?” I said; “answer me that.”
“Perhaps I was,” she went on; “but I did not expect him to be so silly.
Hareton, if I gave you a book, would you take it now? I’ll try!”
She placed one she had been perusing on his hand; he flung it off, and
muttered, if she did not give over, he would break her neck.
“Well, I shall put it here,” she said, “in the table-drawer; and I’m
going to bed.”
Then she whispered me to watch whether he touched it, and departed. But
he would not come near it; and so I informed her in the morning, to her
great disappointment. I saw she was sorry for his persevering sulkiness
and indolence: her conscience reproved her for frightening him off
improving himself: she had done it effectually. But her ingenuity was
at work to remedy the injury: while I ironed, or pursued other such
stationary employments as I could not well do in the parlour, she would
bring some pleasant volume and read it aloud to me. When Hareton was
there, she generally paused in an interesting part, and left the book
lying about: that she did repeatedly; but he was as obstinate as a
mule, and, instead of snatching at her bait, in wet weather he took to
smoking with Joseph; and they sat like automatons, one on each side of
the fire, the elder happily too deaf to understand her wicked nonsense,
as he would have called it, the younger doing his best to seem to
disregard it. On fine evenings the latter followed his shooting
expeditions, and Catherine yawned and sighed, and teased me to talk to
her, and ran off into the court or garden the moment I began; and, as a
last resource, cried, and said she was tired of living: her life was
useless.
Mr. Heathcliff, who grew more and more disinclined to society, had
almost banished Earnshaw from his apartment. Owing to an accident at
the commencement of March, he became for some days a fixture in the
kitchen. His gun burst while out on the hills by himself; a splinter
cut his arm, and he lost a good deal of blood before he could reach
home. The consequence was that, perforce, he was condemned to the
fireside and tranquillity, till he made it up again. It suited
Catherine to have him there: at any rate, it made her hate her room
upstairs more than ever: and she would compel me to find out business
below, that she might accompany me.
On Easter Monday, Joseph went to Gimmerton fair with some cattle; and,
in the afternoon, I was busy getting up linen in the kitchen. Earnshaw
sat, morose as usual, at the chimney corner, and my little mistress was
beguiling an idle hour with drawing pictures on the window-panes,
varying her amusement by smothered bursts of songs, and whispered
ejaculations, and quick glances of annoyance and impatience in the
direction of her cousin, who steadfastly smoked, and looked into the
grate. At a notice that I could do with her no longer intercepting my
light, she removed to the hearthstone. I bestowed little attention on
her proceedings, but, presently, I heard her begin—“I’ve found out,
Hareton, that I want—that I’m glad—that I should like you to be my
cousin now, if you had not grown so cross to me, and so rough.”
Hareton returned no answer.
“Hareton, Hareton, Hareton! do you hear?” she continued.
“Get off wi’ ye!” he growled, with uncompromising gruffness.
“Let me take that pipe,” she said, cautiously advancing her hand and
abstracting it from his mouth.
Before he could attempt to recover it, it was broken, and behind the
fire. He swore at her and seized another.
“Stop,” she cried, “you must listen to me first; and I can’t speak
while those clouds are floating in my face.”
“Will you go to the devil!” he exclaimed, ferociously, “and let me be!”
“No,” she persisted, “I won’t: I can’t tell what to do to make you talk
to me; and you are determined not to understand. When I call you
stupid, I don’t mean anything: I don’t mean that I despise you. Come,
you shall take notice of me, Hareton: you are my cousin, and you shall
own me.”
“I shall have naught to do wi’ you and your mucky pride, and your
damned mocking tricks!” he answered. “I’ll go to hell, body and soul,
before I look sideways after you again. Side out o’ t’ gate, now, this
minute!”
Catherine frowned, and retreated to the window-seat chewing her lip,
and endeavouring, by humming an eccentric tune, to conceal a growing
tendency to sob.
“You should be friends with your cousin, Mr. Hareton,” I interrupted,
“since she repents of her sauciness. It would do you a great deal of
good: it would make you another man to have her for a companion.”
“A companion!” he cried; “when she hates me, and does not think me fit
to wipe her shoon! Nay, if it made me a king, I’d not be scorned for
seeking her good-will any more.”
“It is not I who hate you, it is you who hate me!” wept Cathy, no
longer disguising her trouble. “You hate me as much as Mr. Heathcliff
does, and more.”
“You’re a damned liar,” began Earnshaw: “why have I made him angry, by
taking your part, then, a hundred times? and that when you sneered at
and despised me, and—Go on plaguing me, and I’ll step in yonder, and
say you worried me out of the kitchen!”
“I didn’t know you took my part,” she answered, drying her eyes; “and I
was miserable and bitter at everybody; but now I thank you, and beg you
to forgive me: what can I do besides?”
She returned to the hearth, and frankly extended her hand. He blackened
and scowled like a thunder-cloud, and kept his fists resolutely
clenched, and his gaze fixed on the ground. Catherine, by instinct,
must have divined it was obdurate perversity, and not dislike, that
prompted this dogged conduct; for, after remaining an instant
undecided, she stooped and impressed on his cheek a gentle kiss. The
little rogue thought I had not seen her, and, drawing back, she took
her former station by the window, quite demurely. I shook my head
reprovingly, and then she blushed and whispered—“Well! what should I
have done, Ellen? He wouldn’t shake hands, and he wouldn’t look: I must
show him some way that I like him—that I want to be friends.”
Whether the kiss convinced Hareton, I cannot tell: he was very careful,
for some minutes, that his face should not be seen, and when he did
raise it, he was sadly puzzled where to turn his eyes.
Catherine employed herself in wrapping a handsome book neatly in white
paper, and having tied it with a bit of ribbon, and addressed it to
“Mr. Hareton Earnshaw,” she desired me to be her ambassadress, and
convey the present to its destined recipient.
“And tell him, if he’ll take it, I’ll come and teach him to read it
right,” she said; “and, if he refuse it, I’ll go upstairs, and never
tease him again.”
I carried it, and repeated the message; anxiously watched by my
employer. Hareton would not open his fingers, so I laid it on his knee.
He did not strike it off, either. I returned to my work. Catherine
leaned her head and arms on the table, till she heard the slight rustle
of the covering being removed; then she stole away, and quietly seated
herself beside her cousin. He trembled, and his face glowed: all his
rudeness and all his surly harshness had deserted him: he could not
summon courage, at first, to utter a syllable in reply to her
questioning look, and her murmured petition.
“Say you forgive me, Hareton, do. You can make me so happy by speaking
that little word.”
He muttered something inaudible.
“And you’ll be my friend?” added Catherine, interrogatively.
“Nay, you’ll be ashamed of me every day of your life,” he answered;
“and the more ashamed, the more you know me; and I cannot bide it.”
“So you won’t be my friend?” she said, smiling as sweet as honey, and
creeping close up.
I overheard no further distinguishable talk, but, on looking round
again, I perceived two such radiant countenances bent over the page of
the accepted book, that I did not doubt the treaty had been ratified on
both sides; and the enemies were, thenceforth, sworn allies.
The work they studied was full of costly pictures; and those and their
position had charm enough to keep them unmoved till Joseph came home.
He, poor man, was perfectly aghast at the spectacle of Catherine seated
on the same bench with Hareton Earnshaw, leaning her hand on his
shoulder; and confounded at his favourite’s endurance of her proximity:
it affected him too deeply to allow an observation on the subject that
night. His emotion was only revealed by the immense sighs he drew, as
he solemnly spread his large Bible on the table, and overlaid it with
dirty bank-notes from his pocket-book, the produce of the day’s
transactions. At length he summoned Hareton from his seat.
“Tak’ these in to t’ maister, lad,” he said, “and bide there. I’s gang
up to my own rahm. This hoile’s neither mensful nor seemly for us: we
mun side out and seearch another.”
“Come, Catherine,” I said, “we must ‘side out’ too: I’ve done my
ironing. Are you ready to go?”
“It is not eight o’clock!” she answered, rising unwillingly.
“Hareton, I’ll leave this book upon the chimney-piece, and I’ll bring
some more to-morrow.”
“Ony books that yah leave, I shall tak’ into th’ hahse,” said Joseph,
“and it’ll be mitch if yah find ’em agean; soa, yah may plase yerseln!”
Cathy threatened that his library should pay for hers; and, smiling as
she passed Hareton, went singing upstairs: lighter of heart, I venture
to say, than ever she had been under that roof before; except, perhaps,
during her earliest visits to Linton.
The intimacy thus commenced grew rapidly; though it encountered
temporary interruptions. Earnshaw was not to be civilized with a wish,
and my young lady was no philosopher, and no paragon of patience; but
both their minds tending to the same point—one loving and desiring to
esteem, and the other loving and desiring to be esteemed—they contrived
in the end to reach it.
You see, Mr. Lockwood, it was easy enough to win Mrs. Heathcliff’s
heart. But now, I’m glad you did not try. The crown of all my wishes
will be the union of those two. I shall envy no one on their wedding
day: there won’t be a happier woman than myself in England!
CHAPTER XXXIII
On the morrow of that Monday, Earnshaw being still unable to follow his
ordinary employments, and therefore remaining about the house, I
speedily found it would be impracticable to retain my charge beside me,
as heretofore. She got downstairs before me, and out into the garden,
where she had seen her cousin performing some easy work; and when I
went to bid them come to breakfast, I saw she had persuaded him to
clear a large space of ground from currant and gooseberry bushes, and
they were busy planning together an importation of plants from the
Grange.
I was terrified at the devastation which had been accomplished in a
brief half-hour; the black-currant trees were the apple of Joseph’s
eye, and she had just fixed her choice of a flower-bed in the midst of
them.
“There! That will be all shown to the master,” I exclaimed, “the minute
it is discovered. And what excuse have you to offer for taking such
liberties with the garden? We shall have a fine explosion on the head
of it: see if we don’t! Mr. Hareton, I wonder you should have no more
wit than to go and make that mess at her bidding!”
“I’d forgotten they were Joseph’s,” answered Earnshaw, rather puzzled;
“but I’ll tell him I did it.”
We always ate our meals with Mr. Heathcliff. I held the mistress’s post
in making tea and carving; so I was indispensable at table. Catherine
usually sat by me, but to-day she stole nearer to Hareton; and I
presently saw she would have no more discretion in her friendship than
she had in her hostility.
“Now, mind you don’t talk with and notice your cousin too much,” were
my whispered instructions as we entered the room. “It will certainly
annoy Mr. Heathcliff, and he’ll be mad at you both.”
“I’m not going to,” she answered.
The minute after, she had sidled to him, and was sticking primroses in
his plate of porridge.
He dared not speak to her there: he dared hardly look; and yet she went
on teasing, till he was twice on the point of being provoked to laugh.
I frowned, and then she glanced towards the master: whose mind was
occupied on other subjects than his company, as his countenance
evinced; and she grew serious for an instant, scrutinizing him with
deep gravity. Afterwards she turned, and recommenced her nonsense; at
last, Hareton uttered a smothered laugh. Mr. Heathcliff started; his
eye rapidly surveyed our faces, Catherine met it with her accustomed
look of nervousness and yet defiance, which he abhorred.
“It is well you are out of my reach,” he exclaimed. “What fiend
possesses you to stare back at me, continually, with those infernal
eyes? Down with them! and don’t remind me of your existence again. I
thought I had cured you of laughing.”
“It was me,” muttered Hareton.
“What do you say?” demanded the master.
Hareton looked at his plate, and did not repeat the confession. Mr.
Heathcliff looked at him a bit, and then silently resumed his breakfast
and his interrupted musing. We had nearly finished, and the two young
people prudently shifted wider asunder, so I anticipated no further
disturbance during that sitting: when Joseph appeared at the door,
revealing by his quivering lip and furious eyes that the outrage
committed on his precious shrubs was detected. He must have seen Cathy
and her cousin about the spot before he examined it, for while his jaws
worked like those of a cow chewing its cud, and rendered his speech
difficult to understand, he began:—
“I mun hev’ my wage, and I mun goa! I _hed_ aimed to dee wheare I’d
sarved fur sixty year; and I thowt I’d lug my books up into t’ garret,
and all my bits o’ stuff, and they sud hev’ t’ kitchen to theirseln;
for t’ sake o’ quietness. It wur hard to gie up my awn hearthstun, but
I thowt I _could_ do that! But nah, shoo’s taan my garden fro’ me, and
by th’ heart, maister, I cannot stand it! Yah may bend to th’ yoak an
ye will—I noan used to ’t, and an old man doesn’t sooin get used to new
barthens. I’d rayther arn my bite an’ my sup wi’ a hammer in th’ road!”
“Now, now, idiot!” interrupted Heathcliff, “cut it short! What’s your
grievance? I’ll interfere in no quarrels between you and Nelly. She may
thrust you into the coal-hole for anything I care.”
“It’s noan Nelly!” answered Joseph. “I sudn’t shift for Nelly—nasty ill
nowt as shoo is. Thank God! _shoo_ cannot stale t’ sowl o’ nob’dy! Shoo
wer niver soa handsome, but what a body mud look at her ’bout winking.
It’s yon flaysome, graceless quean, that’s witched our lad, wi’ her
bold een and her forrard ways—till—Nay! it fair brusts my heart! He’s
forgotten all I’ve done for him, and made on him, and goan and riven up
a whole row o’ t’ grandest currant-trees i’ t’ garden!” and here he
lamented outright; unmanned by a sense of his bitter injuries, and
Earnshaw’s ingratitude and dangerous condition.
“Is the fool drunk?” asked Mr. Heathcliff. “Hareton, is it you he’s
finding fault with?”
“I’ve pulled up two or three bushes,” replied the young man; “but I’m
going to set ’em again.”
“And why have you pulled them up?” said the master.
Catherine wisely put in her tongue.
“We wanted to plant some flowers there,” she cried. “I’m the only
person to blame, for I wished him to do it.”
“And who the devil gave _you_ leave to touch a stick about the place?”
demanded her father-in-law, much surprised. “And who ordered _you_ to
obey her?” he added, turning to Hareton.
The latter was speechless; his cousin replied—“You shouldn’t grudge a
few yards of earth for me to ornament, when you have taken all my
land!”
“Your land, insolent slut! You never had any,” said Heathcliff.
“And my money,” she continued; returning his angry glare, and meantime
biting a piece of crust, the remnant of her breakfast.
“Silence!” he exclaimed. “Get done, and begone!”
“And Hareton’s land, and his money,” pursued the reckless thing.
“Hareton and I are friends now; and I shall tell him all about you!”
The master seemed confounded a moment: he grew pale, and rose up,
eyeing her all the while, with an expression of mortal hate.
“If you strike me, Hareton will strike you,” she said; “so you may as
well sit down.”
“If Hareton does not turn you out of the room, I’ll strike him to
hell,” thundered Heathcliff. “Damnable witch! dare you pretend to rouse
him against me? Off with her! Do you hear? Fling her into the kitchen!
I’ll kill her, Ellen Dean, if you let her come into my sight again!”
Hareton tried, under his breath, to persuade her to go.
“Drag her away!” he cried, savagely. “Are you staying to talk?” And he
approached to execute his own command.
“He’ll not obey you, wicked man, any more,” said Catherine; “and he’ll
soon detest you as much as I do.”
“Wisht! wisht!” muttered the young man, reproachfully; “I will not hear
you speak so to him. Have done.”
“But you won’t let him strike me?” she cried.
“Come, then,” he whispered earnestly.
It was too late: Heathcliff had caught hold of her.
“Now, _you_ go!” he said to Earnshaw. “Accursed witch! this time she
has provoked me when I could not bear it; and I’ll make her repent it
for ever!”
He had his hand in her hair; Hareton attempted to release her locks,
entreating him not to hurt her that once. Heathcliff’s black eyes
flashed; he seemed ready to tear Catherine in pieces, and I was just
worked up to risk coming to the rescue, when of a sudden his fingers
relaxed; he shifted his grasp from her head to her arm, and gazed
intently in her face. Then he drew his hand over his eyes, stood a
moment to collect himself apparently, and turning anew to Catherine,
said, with assumed calmness—“You must learn to avoid putting me in a
passion, or I shall really murder you some time! Go with Mrs. Dean, and
keep with her; and confine your insolence to her ears. As to Hareton
Earnshaw, if I see him listen to you, I’ll send him seeking his bread
where he can get it! Your love will make him an outcast and a beggar.
Nelly, take her; and leave me, all of you! Leave me!”
I led my young lady out: she was too glad of her escape to resist; the
other followed, and Mr. Heathcliff had the room to himself till dinner.
I had counselled Catherine to dine upstairs; but, as soon as he
perceived her vacant seat, he sent me to call her. He spoke to none of
us, ate very little, and went out directly afterwards, intimating that
he should not return before evening.
The two new friends established themselves in the house during his
absence; where I heard Hareton sternly check his cousin, on her
offering a revelation of her father-in-law’s conduct to his father. He
said he wouldn’t suffer a word to be uttered in his disparagement: if
he were the devil, it didn’t signify; he would stand by him; and he’d
rather she would abuse himself, as she used to, than begin on Mr.
Heathcliff. Catherine was waxing cross at this; but he found means to
make her hold her tongue, by asking how she would like _him_ to speak
ill of her father? Then she comprehended that Earnshaw took the
master’s reputation home to himself; and was attached by ties stronger
than reason could break—chains, forged by habit, which it would be
cruel to attempt to loosen. She showed a good heart, thenceforth, in
avoiding both complaints and expressions of antipathy concerning
Heathcliff; and confessed to me her sorrow that she had endeavoured to
raise a bad spirit between him and Hareton: indeed, I don’t believe she
has ever breathed a syllable, in the latter’s hearing, against her
oppressor since.
When this slight disagreement was over, they were friends again, and as
busy as possible in their several occupations of pupil and teacher. I
came in to sit with them, after I had done my work; and I felt so
soothed and comforted to watch them, that I did not notice how time got
on. You know, they both appeared in a measure my children: I had long
been proud of one; and now, I was sure, the other would be a source of
equal satisfaction. His honest, warm, and intelligent nature shook off
rapidly the clouds of ignorance and degradation in which it had been
bred; and Catherine’s sincere commendations acted as a spur to his
industry. His brightening mind brightened his features, and added
spirit and nobility to their aspect: I could hardly fancy it the same
individual I had beheld on the day I discovered my little lady at
Wuthering Heights, after her expedition to the Crags. While I admired
and they laboured, dusk drew on, and with it returned the master. He
came upon us quite unexpectedly, entering by the front way, and had a
full view of the whole three, ere we could raise our heads to glance at
him. Well, I reflected, there was never a pleasanter, or more harmless
sight; and it will be a burning shame to scold them. The red fire-light
glowed on their two bonny heads, and revealed their faces animated with
the eager interest of children; for, though he was twenty-three and she
eighteen, each had so much of novelty to feel and learn, that neither
experienced nor evinced the sentiments of sober disenchanted maturity.
They lifted their eyes together, to encounter Mr. Heathcliff: perhaps
you have never remarked that their eyes are precisely similar, and they
are those of Catherine Earnshaw. The present Catherine has no other
likeness to her, except a breadth of forehead, and a certain arch of
the nostril that makes her appear rather haughty, whether she will or
not. With Hareton the resemblance is carried farther: it is singular at
all times, _then_ it was particularly striking; because his senses were
alert, and his mental faculties wakened to unwonted activity. I suppose
this resemblance disarmed Mr. Heathcliff: he walked to the hearth in
evident agitation; but it quickly subsided as he looked at the young
man: or, I should say, altered its character; for it was there yet. He
took the book from his hand, and glanced at the open page, then
returned it without any observation; merely signing Catherine away: her
companion lingered very little behind her, and I was about to depart
also, but he bid me sit still.
“It is a poor conclusion, is it not?” he observed, having brooded
awhile on the scene he had just witnessed: “an absurd termination to my
violent exertions? I get levers and mattocks to demolish the two
houses, and train myself to be capable of working like Hercules, and
when everything is ready and in my power, I find the will to lift a
slate off either roof has vanished! My old enemies have not beaten me;
now would be the precise time to revenge myself on their
representatives: I could do it; and none could hinder me. But where is
the use? I don’t care for striking: I can’t take the trouble to raise
my hand! That sounds as if I had been labouring the whole time only to
exhibit a fine trait of magnanimity. It is far from being the case: I
have lost the faculty of enjoying their destruction, and I am too idle
to destroy for nothing.
“Nelly, there is a strange change approaching; I’m in its shadow at
present. I take so little interest in my daily life that I hardly
remember to eat and drink. Those two who have left the room are the
only objects which retain a distinct material appearance to me; and
that appearance causes me pain, amounting to agony. About _her_ I won’t
speak; and I don’t desire to think; but I earnestly wish she were
invisible: her presence invokes only maddening sensations. _He_ moves
me differently: and yet if I could do it without seeming insane, I’d
never see him again! You’ll perhaps think me rather inclined to become
so,” he added, making an effort to smile, “if I try to describe the
thousand forms of past associations and ideas he awakens or embodies.
But you’ll not talk of what I tell you; and my mind is so eternally
secluded in itself, it is tempting at last to turn it out to another.
“Five minutes ago Hareton seemed a personification of my youth, not a
human being; I felt to him in such a variety of ways, that it would
have been impossible to have accosted him rationally. In the first
place, his startling likeness to Catherine connected him fearfully with
her. That, however, which you may suppose the most potent to arrest my
imagination, is actually the least: for what is not connected with her
to me? and what does not recall her? I cannot look down to this floor,
but her features are shaped in the flags! In every cloud, in every
tree—filling the air at night, and caught by glimpses in every object
by day—I am surrounded with her image! The most ordinary faces of men
and women—my own features—mock me with a resemblance. The entire world
is a dreadful collection of memoranda that she did exist, and that I
have lost her! Well, Hareton’s aspect was the ghost of my immortal
love; of my wild endeavours to hold my right; my degradation, my pride,
my happiness, and my anguish—
“But it is frenzy to repeat these thoughts to you: only it will let you
know why, with a reluctance to be always alone, his society is no
benefit; rather an aggravation of the constant torment I suffer: and it
partly contributes to render me regardless how he and his cousin go on
together. I can give them no attention any more.”
“But what do you mean by a _change_, Mr. Heathcliff?” I said, alarmed
at his manner: though he was neither in danger of losing his senses,
nor dying, according to my judgment: he was quite strong and healthy;
and, as to his reason, from childhood he had a delight in dwelling on
dark things, and entertaining odd fancies. He might have had a
monomania on the subject of his departed idol; but on every other point
his wits were as sound as mine.
“I shall not know that till it comes,” he said; “I’m only half
conscious of it now.”
“You have no feeling of illness, have you?” I asked.
“No, Nelly, I have not,” he answered.
“Then you are not afraid of death?” I pursued.
“Afraid? No!” he replied. “I have neither a fear, nor a presentiment,
nor a hope of death. Why should I? With my hard constitution and
temperate mode of living, and unperilous occupations, I ought to, and
probably _shall_, remain above ground till there is scarcely a black
hair on my head. And yet I cannot continue in this condition! I have to
remind myself to breathe—almost to remind my heart to beat! And it is
like bending back a stiff spring: it is by compulsion that I do the
slightest act not prompted by one thought; and by compulsion that I
notice anything alive or dead, which is not associated with one
universal idea. I have a single wish, and my whole being and faculties
are yearning to attain it. They have yearned towards it so long, and so
unwaveringly, that I’m convinced it will be reached—and soon—because it
has devoured my existence: I am swallowed up in the anticipation of its
fulfilment. My confessions have not relieved me; but they may account
for some otherwise unaccountable phases of humour which I show. O God!
It is a long fight; I wish it were over!”
He began to pace the room, muttering terrible things to himself, till I
was inclined to believe, as he said Joseph did, that conscience had
turned his heart to an earthly hell. I wondered greatly how it would
end. Though he seldom before had revealed this state of mind, even by
looks, it was his habitual mood, I had no doubt: he asserted it
himself; but not a soul, from his general bearing, would have
conjectured the fact. You did not when you saw him, Mr. Lockwood: and
at the period of which I speak, he was just the same as then; only
fonder of continued solitude, and perhaps still more laconic in
company.
CHAPTER XXXIV
For some days after that evening Mr. Heathcliff shunned meeting us at
meals; yet he would not consent formally to exclude Hareton and Cathy.
He had an aversion to yielding so completely to his feelings, choosing
rather to absent himself; and eating once in twenty-four hours seemed
sufficient sustenance for him.
One night, after the family were in bed, I heard him go downstairs, and
out at the front door. I did not hear him re-enter, and in the morning
I found he was still away. We were in April then: the weather was sweet
and warm, the grass as green as showers and sun could make it, and the
two dwarf apple-trees near the southern wall in full bloom. After
breakfast, Catherine insisted on my bringing a chair and sitting with
my work under the fir-trees at the end of the house; and she beguiled
Hareton, who had perfectly recovered from his accident, to dig and
arrange her little garden, which was shifted to that corner by the
influence of Joseph’s complaints. I was comfortably revelling in the
spring fragrance around, and the beautiful soft blue overhead, when my
young lady, who had run down near the gate to procure some primrose
roots for a border, returned only half laden, and informed us that Mr.
Heathcliff was coming in. “And he spoke to me,” she added, with a
perplexed countenance.
“What did he say?” asked Hareton.
“He told me to begone as fast as I could,” she answered. “But he looked
so different from his usual look that I stopped a moment to stare at
him.”
“How?” he inquired.
“Why, almost bright and cheerful. No, _almost_ nothing—_very much_
excited, and wild, and glad!” she replied.
“Night-walking amuses him, then,” I remarked, affecting a careless
manner: in reality as surprised as she was, and anxious to ascertain
the truth of her statement; for to see the master looking glad would
not be an every-day spectacle. I framed an excuse to go in. Heathcliff
stood at the open door; he was pale, and he trembled: yet, certainly,
he had a strange joyful glitter in his eyes, that altered the aspect of
his whole face.
“Will you have some breakfast?” I said. “You must be hungry, rambling
about all night!” I wanted to discover where he had been, but I did not
like to ask directly.
“No, I’m not hungry,” he answered, averting his head, and speaking
rather contemptuously, as if he guessed I was trying to divine the
occasion of his good humour.
I felt perplexed: I didn’t know whether it were not a proper
opportunity to offer a bit of admonition.
“I don’t think it right to wander out of doors,” I observed, “instead
of being in bed: it is not wise, at any rate this moist season. I
daresay you’ll catch a bad cold or a fever: you have something the
matter with you now!”
“Nothing but what I can bear,” he replied; “and with the greatest
pleasure, provided you’ll leave me alone: get in, and don’t annoy me.”
I obeyed: and, in passing, I noticed he breathed as fast as a cat.
“Yes!” I reflected to myself, “we shall have a fit of illness. I cannot
conceive what he has been doing.”
That noon he sat down to dinner with us, and received a heaped-up plate
from my hands, as if he intended to make amends for previous fasting.
“I’ve neither cold nor fever, Nelly,” he remarked, in allusion to my
morning’s speech; “and I’m ready to do justice to the food you give
me.”
He took his knife and fork, and was going to commence eating, when the
inclination appeared to become suddenly extinct. He laid them on the
table, looked eagerly towards the window, then rose and went out. We
saw him walking to and fro in the garden while we concluded our meal,
and Earnshaw said he’d go and ask why he would not dine: he thought we
had grieved him some way.
“Well, is he coming?” cried Catherine, when her cousin returned.
“Nay,” he answered; “but he’s not angry: he seemed rarely pleased
indeed; only I made him impatient by speaking to him twice; and then he
bid me be off to you: he wondered how I could want the company of
anybody else.”
I set his plate to keep warm on the fender; and after an hour or two he
re-entered, when the room was clear, in no degree calmer: the same
unnatural—it was unnatural—appearance of joy under his black brows; the
same bloodless hue, and his teeth visible, now and then, in a kind of
smile; his frame shivering, not as one shivers with chill or weakness,
but as a tight-stretched cord vibrates—a strong thrilling, rather than
trembling.
I will ask what is the matter, I thought; or who should? And I
exclaimed—“Have you heard any good news, Mr. Heathcliff? You look
uncommonly animated.”
“Where should good news come from to me?” he said. “I’m animated with
hunger; and, seemingly, I must not eat.”
“Your dinner is here,” I returned; “why won’t you get it?”
“I don’t want it now,” he muttered, hastily: “I’ll wait till supper.
And, Nelly, once for all, let me beg you to warn Hareton and the other
away from me. I wish to be troubled by nobody: I wish to have this
place to myself.”
“Is there some new reason for this banishment?” I inquired. “Tell me
why you are so queer, Mr. Heathcliff? Where were you last night? I’m
not putting the question through idle curiosity, but—”
“You are putting the question through very idle curiosity,” he
interrupted, with a laugh. “Yet I’ll answer it. Last night I was on the
threshold of hell. To-day, I am within sight of my heaven. I have my
eyes on it: hardly three feet to sever me! And now you’d better go!
You’ll neither see nor hear anything to frighten you, if you refrain
from prying.”
Having swept the hearth and wiped the table, I departed; more perplexed
than ever.
He did not quit the house again that afternoon, and no one intruded on
his solitude; till, at eight o’clock, I deemed it proper, though
unsummoned, to carry a candle and his supper to him. He was leaning
against the ledge of an open lattice, but not looking out: his face was
turned to the interior gloom. The fire had smouldered to ashes; the
room was filled with the damp, mild air of the cloudy evening; and so
still, that not only the murmur of the beck down Gimmerton was
distinguishable, but its ripples and its gurgling over the pebbles, or
through the large stones which it could not cover. I uttered an
ejaculation of discontent at seeing the dismal grate, and commenced
shutting the casements, one after another, till I came to his.
“Must I close this?” I asked, in order to rouse him; for he would not
stir.
The light flashed on his features as I spoke. Oh, Mr. Lockwood, I
cannot express what a terrible start I got by the momentary view! Those
deep black eyes! That smile, and ghastly paleness! It appeared to me,
not Mr. Heathcliff, but a goblin; and, in my terror, I let the candle
bend towards the wall, and it left me in darkness.
“Yes, close it,” he replied, in his familiar voice. “There, that is
pure awkwardness! Why did you hold the candle horizontally? Be quick,
and bring another.”
I hurried out in a foolish state of dread, and said to Joseph—“The
master wishes you to take him a light and rekindle the fire.” For I
dared not go in myself again just then.
Joseph rattled some fire into the shovel, and went: but he brought it
back immediately, with the supper-tray in his other hand, explaining
that Mr. Heathcliff was going to bed, and he wanted nothing to eat till
morning. We heard him mount the stairs directly; he did not proceed to
his ordinary chamber, but turned into that with the panelled bed: its
window, as I mentioned before, is wide enough for anybody to get
through; and it struck me that he plotted another midnight excursion,
of which he had rather we had no suspicion.
“Is he a ghoul or a vampire?” I mused. I had read of such hideous
incarnate demons. And then I set myself to reflect how I had tended him
in infancy, and watched him grow to youth, and followed him almost
through his whole course; and what absurd nonsense it was to yield to
that sense of horror. “But where did he come from, the little dark
thing, harboured by a good man to his bane?” muttered Superstition, as
I dozed into unconsciousness. And I began, half dreaming, to weary
myself with imagining some fit parentage for him; and, repeating my
waking meditations, I tracked his existence over again, with grim
variations; at last, picturing his death and funeral: of which, all I
can remember is, being exceedingly vexed at having the task of
dictating an inscription for his monument, and consulting the sexton
about it; and, as he had no surname, and we could not tell his age, we
were obliged to content ourselves with the single word, “Heathcliff.”
That came true: we were. If you enter the kirkyard, you’ll read, on his
headstone, only that, and the date of his death.
Dawn restored me to common sense. I rose, and went into the garden, as
soon as I could see, to ascertain if there were any footmarks under his
window. There were none. “He has stayed at home,” I thought, “and he’ll
be all right to-day.” I prepared breakfast for the household, as was my
usual custom, but told Hareton and Catherine to get theirs ere the
master came down, for he lay late. They preferred taking it out of
doors, under the trees, and I set a little table to accommodate them.
On my re-entrance, I found Mr. Heathcliff below. He and Joseph were
conversing about some farming business; he gave clear, minute
directions concerning the matter discussed, but he spoke rapidly, and
turned his head continually aside, and had the same excited expression,
even more exaggerated. When Joseph quitted the room he took his seat in
the place he generally chose, and I put a basin of coffee before him.
He drew it nearer, and then rested his arms on the table, and looked at
the opposite wall, as I supposed, surveying one particular portion, up
and down, with glittering, restless eyes, and with such eager interest
that he stopped breathing during half a minute together.
“Come now,” I exclaimed, pushing some bread against his hand, “eat and
drink that, while it is hot: it has been waiting near an hour.”
He didn’t notice me, and yet he smiled. I’d rather have seen him gnash
his teeth than smile so.
“Mr. Heathcliff! master!” I cried, “don’t, for God’s sake, stare as if
you saw an unearthly vision.”
“Don’t, for God’s sake, shout so loud,” he replied. “Turn round, and
tell me, are we by ourselves?”
“Of course,” was my answer; “of course we are.”
Still, I involuntarily obeyed him, as if I was not quite sure. With a
sweep of his hand he cleared a vacant space in front among the
breakfast things, and leant forward to gaze more at his ease.
Now, I perceived he was not looking at the wall; for when I regarded
him alone, it seemed exactly that he gazed at something within two
yards’ distance. And whatever it was, it communicated, apparently, both
pleasure and pain in exquisite extremes: at least the anguished, yet
raptured, expression of his countenance suggested that idea. The
fancied object was not fixed, either: his eyes pursued it with
unwearied diligence, and, even in speaking to me, were never weaned
away. I vainly reminded him of his protracted abstinence from food: if
he stirred to touch anything in compliance with my entreaties, if he
stretched his hand out to get a piece of bread, his fingers clenched
before they reached it, and remained on the table, forgetful of their
aim.
I sat, a model of patience, trying to attract his absorbed attention
from its engrossing speculation; till he grew irritable, and got up,
asking why I would not allow him to have his own time in taking his
meals? and saying that on the next occasion I needn’t wait: I might set
the things down and go. Having uttered these words he left the house,
slowly sauntered down the garden path, and disappeared through the
gate.
The hours crept anxiously by: another evening came. I did not retire to
rest till late, and when I did, I could not sleep. He returned after
midnight, and, instead of going to bed, shut himself into the room
beneath. I listened, and tossed about, and, finally, dressed and
descended. It was too irksome to lie there, harassing my brain with a
hundred idle misgivings.
I distinguished Mr. Heathcliff’s step, restlessly measuring the floor,
and he frequently broke the silence by a deep inspiration, resembling a
groan. He muttered detached words also; the only one I could catch was
the name of Catherine, coupled with some wild term of endearment or
suffering; and spoken as one would speak to a person present; low and
earnest, and wrung from the depth of his soul. I had not courage to
walk straight into the apartment; but I desired to divert him from his
reverie, and therefore fell foul of the kitchen fire, stirred it, and
began to scrape the cinders. It drew him forth sooner than I expected.
He opened the door immediately, and said—“Nelly, come here—is it
morning? Come in with your light.”
“It is striking four,” I answered. “You want a candle to take upstairs:
you might have lit one at this fire.”
“No, I don’t wish to go upstairs,” he said. “Come in, and kindle _me_ a
fire, and do anything there is to do about the room.”
“I must blow the coals red first, before I can carry any,” I replied,
getting a chair and the bellows.
He roamed to and fro, meantime, in a state approaching distraction; his
heavy sighs succeeding each other so thick as to leave no space for
common breathing between.
“When day breaks I’ll send for Green,” he said; “I wish to make some
legal inquiries of him while I can bestow a thought on those matters,
and while I can act calmly. I have not written my will yet; and how to
leave my property I cannot determine. I wish I could annihilate it from
the face of the earth.”
“I would not talk so, Mr. Heathcliff,” I interposed. “Let your will be
a while: you’ll be spared to repent of your many injustices yet! I
never expected that your nerves would be disordered: they are, at
present, marvellously so, however; and almost entirely through your own
fault. The way you’ve passed these three last days might knock up a
Titan. Do take some food, and some repose. You need only look at
yourself in a glass to see how you require both. Your cheeks are
hollow, and your eyes blood-shot, like a person starving with hunger
and going blind with loss of sleep.”
“It is not my fault that I cannot eat or rest,” he replied. “I assure
you it is through no settled designs. I’ll do both, as soon as I
possibly can. But you might as well bid a man struggling in the water
rest within arms’ length of the shore! I must reach it first, and then
I’ll rest. Well, never mind Mr. Green: as to repenting of my
injustices, I’ve done no injustice, and I repent of nothing. I’m too
happy; and yet I’m not happy enough. My soul’s bliss kills my body, but
does not satisfy itself.”
“Happy, master?” I cried. “Strange happiness! If you would hear me
without being angry, I might offer some advice that would make you
happier.”
“What is that?” he asked. “Give it.”
“You are aware, Mr. Heathcliff,” I said, “that from the time you were
thirteen years old you have lived a selfish, unchristian life; and
probably hardly had a Bible in your hands during all that period. You
must have forgotten the contents of the book, and you may not have
space to search it now. Could it be hurtful to send for some one—some
minister of any denomination, it does not matter which—to explain it,
and show you how very far you have erred from its precepts; and how
unfit you will be for its heaven, unless a change takes place before
you die?”
“I’m rather obliged than angry, Nelly,” he said, “for you remind me of
the manner in which I desire to be buried. It is to be carried to the
churchyard in the evening. You and Hareton may, if you please,
accompany me: and mind, particularly, to notice that the sexton obeys
my directions concerning the two coffins! No minister need come; nor
need anything be said over me.—I tell you I have nearly attained _my_
heaven; and that of others is altogether unvalued and uncoveted by me.”
“And supposing you persevered in your obstinate fast, and died by that
means, and they refused to bury you in the precincts of the kirk?” I
said, shocked at his godless indifference. “How would you like it?”
“They won’t do that,” he replied: “if they did, you must have me
removed secretly; and if you neglect it you shall prove, practically,
that the dead are not annihilated!”
As soon as he heard the other members of the family stirring he retired
to his den, and I breathed freer. But in the afternoon, while Joseph
and Hareton were at their work, he came into the kitchen again, and,
with a wild look, bid me come and sit in the house: he wanted somebody
with him. I declined; telling him plainly that his strange talk and
manner frightened me, and I had neither the nerve nor the will to be
his companion alone.
“I believe you think me a fiend,” he said, with his dismal laugh:
“something too horrible to live under a decent roof.” Then turning to
Catherine, who was there, and who drew behind me at his approach, he
added, half sneeringly,—“Will _you_ come, chuck? I’ll not hurt you. No!
to you I’ve made myself worse than the devil. Well, there is _one_ who
won’t shrink from my company! By God! she’s relentless. Oh, damn it!
It’s unutterably too much for flesh and blood to bear—even mine.”
He solicited the society of no one more. At dusk he went into his
chamber. Through the whole night, and far into the morning, we heard
him groaning and murmuring to himself. Hareton was anxious to enter;
but I bid him fetch Mr. Kenneth, and he should go in and see him. When
he came, and I requested admittance and tried to open the door, I found
it locked; and Heathcliff bid us be damned. He was better, and would be
left alone; so the doctor went away.
The following evening was very wet: indeed, it poured down till
day-dawn; and, as I took my morning walk round the house, I observed
the master’s window swinging open, and the rain driving straight in. He
cannot be in bed, I thought: those showers would drench him through. He
must either be up or out. But I’ll make no more ado, I’ll go boldly and
look.”
Having succeeded in obtaining entrance with another key, I ran to
unclose the panels, for the chamber was vacant; quickly pushing them
aside, I peeped in. Mr. Heathcliff was there—laid on his back. His eyes
met mine so keen and fierce, I started; and then he seemed to smile. I
could not think him dead: but his face and throat were washed with
rain; the bed-clothes dripped, and he was perfectly still. The lattice,
flapping to and fro, had grazed one hand that rested on the sill; no
blood trickled from the broken skin, and when I put my fingers to it, I
could doubt no more: he was dead and stark!
I hasped the window; I combed his black long hair from his forehead; I
tried to close his eyes: to extinguish, if possible, that frightful,
life-like gaze of exultation before any one else beheld it. They would
not shut: they seemed to sneer at my attempts; and his parted lips and
sharp white teeth sneered too! Taken with another fit of cowardice, I
cried out for Joseph. Joseph shuffled up and made a noise, but
resolutely refused to meddle with him.
“Th’ divil’s harried off his soul,” he cried, “and he may hev’ his
carcass into t’ bargin, for aught I care! Ech! what a wicked ’un he
looks, girning at death!” and the old sinner grinned in mockery. I
thought he intended to cut a caper round the bed; but suddenly
composing himself, he fell on his knees, and raised his hands, and
returned thanks that the lawful master and the ancient stock were
restored to their rights.
I felt stunned by the awful event; and my memory unavoidably recurred
to former times with a sort of oppressive sadness. But poor Hareton,
the most wronged, was the only one who really suffered much. He sat by
the corpse all night, weeping in bitter earnest. He pressed its hand,
and kissed the sarcastic, savage face that every one else shrank from
contemplating; and bemoaned him with that strong grief which springs
naturally from a generous heart, though it be tough as tempered steel.
Mr. Kenneth was perplexed to pronounce of what disorder the master
died. I concealed the fact of his having swallowed nothing for four
days, fearing it might lead to trouble, and then, I am persuaded, he
did not abstain on purpose: it was the consequence of his strange
illness, not the cause.
We buried him, to the scandal of the whole neighbourhood, as he wished.
Earnshaw and I, the sexton, and six men to carry the coffin,
comprehended the whole attendance. The six men departed when they had
let it down into the grave: we stayed to see it covered. Hareton, with
a streaming face, dug green sods, and laid them over the brown mould
himself: at present it is as smooth and verdant as its companion
mounds—and I hope its tenant sleeps as soundly. But the country folks,
if you ask them, would swear on the Bible that he _walks_: there are
those who speak to having met him near the church, and on the moor, and
even within this house. Idle tales, you’ll say, and so say I. Yet that
old man by the kitchen fire affirms he has seen two on ’em looking out
of his chamber window on every rainy night since his death:—and an odd
thing happened to me about a month ago. I was going to the Grange one
evening—a dark evening, threatening thunder—and, just at the turn of
the Heights, I encountered a little boy with a sheep and two lambs
before him; he was crying terribly; and I supposed the lambs were
skittish, and would not be guided.
“What is the matter, my little man?” I asked.
“There’s Heathcliff and a woman yonder, under t’ nab,” he blubbered,
“un’ I darnut pass ’em.”
I saw nothing; but neither the sheep nor he would go on so I bid him
take the road lower down. He probably raised the phantoms from
thinking, as he traversed the moors alone, on the nonsense he had heard
his parents and companions repeat. Yet, still, I don’t like being out
in the dark now; and I don’t like being left by myself in this grim
house: I cannot help it; I shall be glad when they leave it, and shift
to the Grange.
“They are going to the Grange, then?” I said.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Dean, “as soon as they are married, and that will
be on New Year’s Day.”
“And who will live here then?”
“Why, Joseph will take care of the house, and, perhaps, a lad to keep
him company. They will live in the kitchen, and the rest will be shut
up.”
“For the use of such ghosts as choose to inhabit it?” I observed.
“No, Mr. Lockwood,” said Nelly, shaking her head. “I believe the dead
are at peace: but it is not right to speak of them with levity.”
At that moment the garden gate swung to; the ramblers were returning.
“_They_ are afraid of nothing,” I grumbled, watching their approach
through the window. “Together, they would brave Satan and all his
legions.”
As they stepped on to the door-stones, and halted to take a last look
at the moon—or, more correctly, at each other by her light—I felt
irresistibly impelled to escape them again; and, pressing a remembrance
into the hand of Mrs. Dean, and disregarding her expostulations at my
rudeness, I vanished through the kitchen as they opened the house-door;
and so should have confirmed Joseph in his opinion of his
fellow-servant’s gay indiscretions, had he not fortunately recognised
me for a respectable character by the sweet ring of a sovereign at his
feet.
My walk home was lengthened by a diversion in the direction of the
kirk. When beneath its walls, I perceived decay had made progress, even
in seven months: many a window showed black gaps deprived of glass; and
slates jutted off here and there, beyond the right line of the roof, to
be gradually worked off in coming autumn storms.
I sought, and soon discovered, the three headstones on the slope next
the moor: the middle one grey, and half buried in the heath; Edgar
Linton’s only harmonized by the turf and moss creeping up its foot;
Heathcliff’s still bare.
I lingered round them, under that benign sky: watched the moths
fluttering among the heath and harebells, listened to the soft wind
breathing through the grass, and wondered how any one could ever
imagine unquiet slumbers for the sleepers in that quiet earth.
The Tenant of Wildfell Hall
by Anne Brontë
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY MRS HUMPHREY WARD
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1920
Contents
This Table of Contents contains the original chapter headings that were present
in the first printed edition of 1848. These headings were removed in later
(one-volume) editions of the text, after Anne Brontë’s death in 1849.
I. A Discovery
II. An Interview
III. A Controversy
IV. The Party
V. The Studio
VI. Progression
VII. The Excursion
VIII. The Present
IX. A Snake in the Grass
X. A Contract and a Quarrel
XI. The Vicar Again
XII. A Tête-à-Tête and a Discovery
XIII. A Return to Duty
XIV. An Assault
XV. An Encounter and its Consequences
XVI. The Warnings of Experience
XVII. Further Warnings
XVIII. The Miniature
XIX. An Incident
XX. Persistence
XXI. Opinions
XXII. Traits of Friendship
XXIII. First Weeks of Matrimony
XXIV. First Quarrel
XXV. First Absence
XXVI. The Guests
XXVII. A Misdemeanour
XXVIII. Parental Feelings
XXIX. The Neighbour
XXX. Domestic Scenes
XXXI. Social Virtues
XXXII. Comparisons: Information Rejected
XXXIII. Two Evenings
XXXIV. Concealment
XXXV. Provocations
XXXVI. Dual Solitude
XXXVII. The Neighbour Again
XXXVIII. The Injured Man
XXXIX. A Scheme of Escape
XL. A Misadventure
XLI. “Hope Springs Eternal in the Human Breast”
XLII. A Reformation
XLIII. The Boundary Past
XLIV. The Retreat
XLV. Reconciliation
XLVI. Friendly Counsels
XLVII. Startling Intelligence
XLVIII. Further Intelligence
XLIX.
L. Doubts and Disappointments
LI. An Unexpected Occurrence
LII. Fluctuations
LIII. Conclusion
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Portrait of Anne Brontë
Moorland Scene, Haworth
Moorland scene (with water): Haworth
Moorland scene (with cottage), Haworth
Blake Hall—The Approach (Grassdale Manor)
Blake Hall—Front (Grassdale Manor)
Blake Hall—Side (Grassdale Manor)
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
Anne Brontë serves a twofold purpose in the study of what the Brontës
wrote and were. In the first place, her gentle and delicate presence,
her sad, short story, her hard life and early death, enter deeply into
the poetry and tragedy that have always been entwined with the memory
of the Brontës, as women and as writers; in the second, the books and
poems that she wrote serve as matter of comparison by which to test the
greatness of her two sisters. She is the measure of their genius—like
them, yet not with them.
Many years after Anne’s death her brother-in-law protested against a
supposed portrait of her, as giving a totally wrong impression of the
“dear, gentle Anne Brontë.” “Dear” and “gentle” indeed she seems to
have been through life, the youngest and prettiest of the sisters, with
a delicate complexion, a slender neck, and small, pleasant features.
Notwithstanding, she possessed in full the Brontë seriousness, the
Brontë strength of will. When her father asked her at four years old
what a little child like her wanted most, the tiny creature replied—if
it were not a Brontë it would be incredible!—“Age and experience.” When
the three children started their “Island Plays” together in 1827, Anne,
who was then eight, chose Guernsey for her imaginary island, and
peopled it with “Michael Sadler, Lord Bentinck, and Sir Henry Halford.”
She and Emily were constant companions, and there is evidence that they
shared a common world of fancy from very early days to mature
womanhood. “The Gondal Chronicles” seem to have amused them for many
years, and to have branched out into innumerable books, written in the
“tiny writing” of which Mr. Clement Shorter has given us facsimiles. “I
am now engaged in writing the fourth volume of Solala Vernon’s Life,”
says Anne at twenty-one. And four years later Emily says, “The Gondals
still flourish bright as ever. I am at present writing a work on the
First War. Anne has been writing some articles on this and a book by
Henry Sophona. We intend sticking firm by the rascals as long as they
delight us, which I am glad to say they do at present.”
That the author of “Wildfell Hall” should ever have delighted in the
Gondals, should ever have written the story of Solala Vernon or Henry
Sophona, is pleasant to know. Then, for her too, as for her sisters,
there was a moment when the power of “making out” could turn loneliness
and disappointment into riches and content. For a time at least, and
before a hard and degrading experience had broken the spring of her
youth, and replaced the disinterested and spontaneous pleasure that is
to be got from the life and play of imagination, by a sad sense of
duty, and an inexorable consciousness of moral and religious mission,
Anne Brontë wrote stories for her own amusement, and loved the
“rascals” she created.
But already in 1841, when we first hear of the Gondals and Solala
Vernon, the material for quite other books was in poor Anne’s mind. She
was then teaching in the family at Thorpe Green, where Branwell joined
her as tutor in 1843, and where, owing to events that are still a
mystery, she seems to have passed through an ordeal that left her
shattered in health and nerve, with nothing gained but those melancholy
and repulsive memories that she was afterwards to embody in “Wildfell
Hall.” She seems, indeed, to have been partly the victim of Branwell’s
morbid imagination, the imagination of an opium-eater and a drunkard.
That he was neither the conqueror nor the villain that he made his
sisters believe, all the evidence that has been gathered since Mrs.
Gaskell wrote goes to show. But poor Anne believed his account of
himself, and no doubt saw enough evidence of vicious character in
Branwell’s daily life to make the worst enormities credible. She seems
to have passed the last months of her stay at Thorpe Green under a
cloud of dread and miserable suspicion, and was thankful to escape from
her situation in the summer of 1845. At the same moment Branwell was
summarily dismissed from his tutorship, his employer, Mr. Robinson,
writing a stern letter of complaint to Branwell’s father, concerned no
doubt with the young man’s disorderly and intemperate habits. Mrs.
Gaskell says: “The premature deaths of two at least of the sisters—all
the great possibilities of their earthly lives snapped short—may be
dated from Midsummer 1845.” The facts as we now know them hardly bear
out so strong a judgment. There is nothing to show that Branwell’s
conduct was responsible in any way for Emily’s illness and death, and
Anne, in the contemporary fragment recovered by Mr. Shorter, gives a
less tragic account of the matter. “During my stay (at Thorpe Green),”
she writes on July 31, 1845, “I have had some very unpleasant and
undreamt-of experience of human nature. . . . Branwell has . . . been a
tutor at Thorpe Green, and had much tribulation and ill-health. . . .
We hope he will be better and do better in future.” And at the end of
the paper she says, sadly, forecasting the coming years, “I for my part
cannot well be flatter or older in mind than I am now.” This is the
language of disappointment and anxiety; but it hardly fits the tragic
story that Mrs. Gaskell believed.
That story was, no doubt, the elaboration of Branwell’s diseased fancy
during the three years which elapsed between his dismissal from Thorpe
Green and his death. He imagined a guilty romance with himself and his
employer’s wife for characters, and he imposed the horrid story upon
his sisters. Opium and drink are the sufficient explanations; and no
time need now be wasted upon unravelling the sordid mystery. But the
vices of the brother, real or imaginary, have a certain importance in
literature, because of the effect they produced upon his sisters. There
can be no question that Branwell’s opium madness, his bouts of
drunkenness at the Black Bull, his violence at home, his free and
coarse talk, and his perpetual boast of guilty secrets, influenced the
imagination of his wholly pure and inexperienced sisters. Much of
“Wuthering Heights,” and all of “Wildfell Hall,” show Branwell’s mark,
and there are many passages in Charlotte’s books also where those who
know the history of the parsonage can hear the voice of those sharp
moral repulsions, those dismal moral questionings, to which Branwell’s
misconduct and ruin gave rise. Their brother’s fate was an element in
the genius of Emily and Charlotte which they were strong enough to
assimilate, which may have done them some harm, and weakened in them
certain delicate or sane perceptions, but was ultimately, by the
strange alchemy of talent, far more profitable than hurtful, inasmuch
as it troubled the waters of the soul, and brought them near to the
more desperate realities of our “frail, fall’n humankind.”
But Anne was not strong enough, her gift was not vigorous enough, to
enable her thus to transmute experience and grief. The probability is
that when she left Thorpe Green in 1845 she was already suffering from
that religious melancholy of which Charlotte discovered such piteous
evidence among her papers after death. It did not much affect the
writing of “Agnes Grey,” which was completed in 1846, and reflected the
minor pains and discomforts of her teaching experience, but it combined
with the spectacle of Branwell’s increasing moral and physical decay to
produce that bitter mandate of conscience under which she wrote “The
Tenant of Wildfell Hall.”
“Hers was naturally a sensitive, reserved, and dejected nature. She
hated her work, but would pursue it. It was written as a warning,”—so
said Charlotte when, in the pathetic Preface of 1850, she was
endeavouring to explain to the public how a creature so gentle and so
good as Acton Bell should have written such a book as “Wildfell Hall.”
And in the second edition of “Wildfell Hall,” which appeared in 1848,
Anne Brontë herself justified her novel in a Preface which is reprinted
in this volume for the first time. The little Preface is a curious
document. It has the same determined didactic tone which pervades the
book itself, the same narrowness of view, and inflation of expression,
an inflation which is really due not to any personal egotism in the
writer, but rather to that very gentleness and inexperience which must
yet nerve itself under the stimulus of religion to its disagreeable and
repulsive task. “I knew that such characters”—as Huntingdon and his
companions—“do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from
following in their steps the book has not been written in vain.” If the
story has given more pain than pleasure to “any honest reader,” the
writer “craves his pardon, for such was far from my intention.” But at
the same time she cannot promise to limit her ambition to the giving of
innocent pleasure, or to the production of “a perfect work of art.”
“Time and talent so spent I should consider wasted and misapplied.” God
has given her unpalatable truths to speak, and she must speak them.
The measure of misconstruction and abuse, therefore, which her book
brought upon her she bore, says her sister, “as it was her custom to
bear whatever was unpleasant, with mild, steady patience. She was a
very sincere and practical Christian, but the tinge of religious
melancholy communicated a sad shade to her brief, blameless life.”
In spite of misconstruction and abuse, however, “Wildfell Hall” seems
to have attained more immediate success than anything else written by
the sisters before 1848, except “Jane Eyre.” It went into a second
edition within a very short time of its publication, and Messrs. Newby
informed the American publishers with whom they were negotiating that
it was the work of the same hand which had produced “Jane Eyre,” and
superior to either “Jane Eyre” or “Wuthering Heights”! It was, indeed,
the sharp practice connected with this astonishing judgment which led
to the sisters’ hurried journey to London in 1848—the famous journey
when the two little ladies in black revealed themselves to Mr. Smith,
and proved to him that they were not one Currer Bell, but two Miss
Brontës. It was Anne’s sole journey to London—her only contact with a
world that was not Haworth, except that supplied by her school-life at
Roehead and her two teaching engagements.
And there was and is a considerable narrative ability, a sheer moral
energy in “Wildfell Hall,” which would not be enough, indeed, to keep
it alive if it were not the work of a Brontë, but still betray its
kinship and source. The scenes of Huntingdon’s wickedness are less
interesting but less improbable than the country-house scenes of “Jane
Eyre”; the story of his death has many true and touching passages; the
last love-scene is well, even in parts admirably, written. But the
book’s truth, so far as it is true, is scarcely the truth of
imagination; it is rather the truth of a tract or a report. There can
be little doubt that many of the pages are close transcripts from
Branwell’s conduct and language,—so far as Anne’s slighter personality
enabled her to render her brother’s temperament, which was more akin to
Emily’s than to her own. The same material might have been used by
Emily or Charlotte; Emily, as we know, did make use of it in “Wuthering
Heights”; but only after it had passed through that ineffable
transformation, that mysterious, incommunicable heightening which makes
and gives rank in literature. Some subtle, innate correspondence
between eye and brain, between brain and hand, was present in Emily and
Charlotte, and absent in Anne. There is no other account to be given of
this or any other case of difference between serviceable talent and the
high gifts of “Delos” and Patara’s own “Apollo.”
The same world of difference appears between her poems and those of her
playfellow and comrade, Emily. If ever our descendants should establish
the schools for writers which are even now threatened or attempted,
they will hardly know perhaps any better than we what genius is, nor
how it can be produced. But if they try to teach by example, then Anne
and Emily Brontë are ready to their hand. Take the verses written by
Emily at Roehead which contain the lovely lines which I have already
quoted in an earlier “Introduction.”[1] Just before those lines there
are two or three verses which it is worth while to compare with a poem
of Anne’s called “Home.” Emily was sixteen at the time of writing; Anne
about twenty-one or twenty-two. Both sisters take for their motive the
exile’s longing thought of home. Emily’s lines are full of faults, but
they have the indefinable quality—here, no doubt, only in the bud, only
as a matter of promise—which Anne’s are entirely without. From the
twilight schoolroom at Roehead, Emily turns in thought to the distant
upland of Haworth and the little stone-built house upon its crest:—
There is a spot, ’mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.
The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight’s dome,
But what on earth is half so dear—
So longed for—as the hearth of home?
The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn-trees gaunt, the walks o’ergrown,
I love them—how I love them all!
Anne’s verses, written from one of the houses where she was a
governess, express precisely the same feeling, and movement of mind.
But notice the instinctive rightness and swiftness of Emily’s, the
blurred weakness of Anne’s!—
For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks, and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between—
Restore to me that little spot,
With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.
Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within—
Oh, give me back my Home!
A similar parallel lies between Anne’s lines “Domestic Peace,”—a sad
and true reflection of the terrible times with Branwell in 1846—and
Emily’s “Wanderer from the Fold”; while in Emily’s “Last Lines,” the
daring spirit of the sister to whom the magic gift was granted
separates itself for ever from the gentle and accustomed piety of the
sister to whom it was denied. Yet Anne’s “Last Lines”—“I hoped that
with the brave and strong”—have sweetness and sincerity; they have
gained and kept a place in English religious verse, and they must
always appeal to those who love the Brontës because, in the language of
Christian faith and submission, they record the death of Emily and the
passionate affection which her sisters bore her.
And so we are brought back to the point from which we started. It is
not as the writer of “Wildfell Hall,” but as the sister of Charlotte
and Emily Brontë, that Anne Brontë escapes oblivion—as the frail
“little one,” upon whom the other two lavished a tender and protecting
care, who was a witness of Emily’s death, and herself, within a few
minutes of her own farewell to life, bade Charlotte “take courage.”
“When my thoughts turn to Anne,” said Charlotte many years earlier,
“they always see her as a patient, persecuted stranger,—more lonely,
less gifted with the power of making friends even than I am.” Later on,
however, this power of making friends seems to have belonged to Anne in
greater measure than to the others. Her gentleness conquered; she was
not set apart, as they were, by the lonely and self-sufficing
activities of great powers; her Christianity, though sad and timid, was
of a kind which those around her could understand; she made no grim
fight with suffering and death as did Emily. Emily was “torn” from life
“conscious, panting, reluctant,” to use Charlotte’s own words; Anne’s
“sufferings were mild,” her mind “generally serene,” and at the last
“she thanked God that death was come, and come so gently.” When
Charlotte returned to the desolate house at Haworth, Emily’s large
house-dog and Anne’s little spaniel welcomed her in “a strange,
heart-touching way,” she writes to Mr. Williams. She alone was left,
heir to all the memories and tragedies of the house. She took up again
the task of life and labour. She cared for her father; she returned to
the writing of “Shirley”; and when she herself passed away, four years
later, she had so turned those years to account that not only all she
did but all she loved had passed silently into the keeping of fame.
Mrs. Gaskell’s touching and delightful task was ready for her, and
Anne, no less than Charlotte and Emily, was sure of England’s
remembrance.
MARY A. WARD.
AUTHOR’S PREFACE[2]
TO THE SECOND EDITION
While I acknowledge the success of the present work to have been
greater than I anticipated, and the praises it has elicited from a few
kind critics to have been greater than it deserved, I must also admit
that from some other quarters it has been censured with an asperity
which I was as little prepared to expect, and which my judgment, as
well as my feelings, assures me is more bitter than just. It is
scarcely the province of an author to refute the arguments of his
censors and vindicate his own productions; but I may be allowed to make
here a few observations with which I would have prefaced the first
edition, had I foreseen the necessity of such precautions against the
misapprehensions of those who would read it with a prejudiced mind or
be content to judge it by a hasty glance.
My object in writing the following pages was not simply to amuse the
Reader; neither was it to gratify my own taste, nor yet to ingratiate
myself with the Press and the Public: I wished to tell the truth, for
truth always conveys its own moral to those who are able to receive it.
But as the priceless treasure too frequently hides at the bottom of a
well, it needs some courage to dive for it, especially as he that does
so will be likely to incur more scorn and obloquy for the mud and water
into which he has ventured to plunge, than thanks for the jewel he
procures; as, in like manner, she who undertakes the cleansing of a
careless bachelor’s apartment will be liable to more abuse for the dust
she raises than commendation for the clearance she effects. Let it not
be imagined, however, that I consider myself competent to reform the
errors and abuses of society, but only that I would fain contribute my
humble quota towards so good an aim; and if I can gain the public ear
at all, I would rather whisper a few wholesome truths therein than much
soft nonsense.
As the story of “Agnes Grey” was accused of extravagant over-colouring
in those very parts that were carefully copied from the life, with a
most scrupulous avoidance of all exaggeration, so, in the present work,
I find myself censured for depicting _con amore_, with “a morbid love
of the coarse, if not of the brutal,” those scenes which, I will
venture to say, have not been more painful for the most fastidious of
my critics to read than they were for me to describe. I may have gone
too far; in which case I shall be careful not to trouble myself or my
readers in the same way again; but when we have to do with vice and
vicious characters, I maintain it is better to depict them as they
really are than as they would wish to appear. To represent a bad thing
in its least offensive light is, doubtless, the most agreeable course
for a writer of fiction to pursue; but is it the most honest, or the
safest? Is it better to reveal the snares and pitfalls of life to the
young and thoughtless traveller, or to cover them with branches and
flowers? Oh, reader! if there were less of this delicate concealment of
facts—this whispering, “Peace, peace,” when there is no peace, there
would be less of sin and misery to the young of both sexes who are left
to wring their bitter knowledge from experience.
I would not be understood to suppose that the proceedings of the
unhappy scapegrace, with his few profligate companions I have here
introduced, are a specimen of the common practices of society—the case
is an extreme one, as I trusted none would fail to perceive; but I know
that such characters do exist, and if I have warned one rash youth from
following in their steps, or prevented one thoughtless girl from
falling into the very natural error of my heroine, the book has not
been written in vain. But, at the same time, if any honest reader shall
have derived more pain than pleasure from its perusal, and have closed
the last volume with a disagreeable impression on his mind, I humbly
crave his pardon, for such was far from my intention; and I will
endeavour to do better another time, for I love to give innocent
pleasure. Yet, be it understood, I shall not limit my ambition to
this—or even to producing “a perfect work of art”: time and talents so
spent, I should consider wasted and misapplied. Such humble talents as
God has given me I will endeavour to put to their greatest use; if I am
able to amuse, I will try to benefit too; and when I feel it my duty to
speak an unpalatable truth, with the help of God, I _will_ speak it,
though it be to the prejudice of my name and to the detriment of my
reader’s immediate pleasure as well as my own.
One word more, and I have done. Respecting the author’s identity, I
would have it to be distinctly understood that Acton Bell is neither
Currer nor Ellis Bell, and therefore let not his faults be attributed
to them. As to whether the name be real or fictitious, it cannot
greatly signify to those who know him only by his works. As little, I
should think, can it matter whether the writer so designated is a man,
or a woman, as one or two of my critics profess to have discovered. I
take the imputation in good part, as a compliment to the just
delineation of my female characters; and though I am bound to attribute
much of the severity of my censors to this suspicion, I make no effort
to refute it, because, in my own mind, I am satisfied that if a book is
a good one, it is so whatever the sex of the author may be. All novels
are, or should be, written for both men and women to read, and I am at
a loss to conceive how a man should permit himself to write anything
that would be really disgraceful to a woman, or why a woman should be
censured for writing anything that would be proper and becoming for a
man.
_July_ 22_nd_, 1848.
CHAPTER I
You must go back with me to the autumn of 1827.
My father, as you know, was a sort of gentleman farmer in ——shire; and
I, by his express desire, succeeded him in the same quiet occupation,
not very willingly, for ambition urged me to higher aims, and
self-conceit assured me that, in disregarding its voice, I was burying
my talent in the earth, and hiding my light under a bushel. My mother
had done her utmost to persuade me that I was capable of great
achievements; but my father, who thought ambition was the surest road
to ruin, and change but another word for destruction, would listen to
no scheme for bettering either my own condition, or that of my fellow
mortals. He assured me it was all rubbish, and exhorted me, with his
dying breath, to continue in the good old way, to follow his steps, and
those of his father before him, and let my highest ambition be to walk
honestly through the world, looking neither to the right hand nor to
the left, and to transmit the paternal acres to my children in, at
least, as flourishing a condition as he left them to me.
“Well!—an honest and industrious farmer is one of the most useful
members of society; and if I devote my talents to the cultivation of my
farm, and the improvement of agriculture in general, I shall thereby
benefit, not only my own immediate connections and dependants, but, in
some degree, mankind at large:—hence I shall not have lived in vain.”
With such reflections as these I was endeavouring to console myself, as
I plodded home from the fields, one cold, damp, cloudy evening towards
the close of October. But the gleam of a bright red fire through the
parlour window had more effect in cheering my spirits, and rebuking my
thankless repinings, than all the sage reflections and good resolutions
I had forced my mind to frame;—for I was young then, remember—only
four-and-twenty—and had not acquired half the rule over my own spirit
that I now possess—trifling as that may be.
However, that haven of bliss must not be entered till I had exchanged
my miry boots for a clean pair of shoes, and my rough surtout for a
respectable coat, and made myself generally presentable before decent
society; for my mother, with all her kindness, was vastly particular on
certain points.
In ascending to my room I was met upon the stairs by a smart, pretty
girl of nineteen, with a tidy, dumpy figure, a round face, bright,
blooming cheeks, glossy, clustering curls, and little merry brown eyes.
I need not tell you this was my sister Rose. She is, I know, a comely
matron still, and, doubtless, no less lovely—in _your_ eyes—than on the
happy day you first beheld her. Nothing told me then that she, a few
years hence, would be the wife of one entirely unknown to me as yet,
but destined hereafter to become a closer friend than even herself,
more intimate than that unmannerly lad of seventeen, by whom I was
collared in the passage, on coming down, and well-nigh jerked off my
equilibrium, and who, in correction for his impudence, received a
resounding whack over the sconce, which, however, sustained no serious
injury from the infliction; as, besides being more than commonly thick,
it was protected by a redundant shock of short, reddish curls, that my
mother called auburn.
On entering the parlour we found that honoured lady seated in her
arm-chair at the fireside, working away at her knitting, according to
her usual custom, when she had nothing else to do. She had swept the
hearth, and made a bright blazing fire for our reception; the servant
had just brought in the tea-tray; and Rose was producing the
sugar-basin and tea-caddy from the cupboard in the black oak
side-board, that shone like polished ebony, in the cheerful parlour
twilight.
“Well! here they both are,” cried my mother, looking round upon us
without retarding the motion of her nimble fingers and glittering
needles. “Now shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rose gets the
tea ready; I’m sure you must be starved;—and tell me what you’ve been
about all day;—I like to know what my children have been about.”
“I’ve been breaking in the grey colt—no easy business that—directing
the ploughing of the last wheat stubble—for the ploughboy has not the
sense to direct himself—and carrying out a plan for the extensive and
efficient draining of the low meadowlands.”
“That’s my brave boy!—and Fergus, what have you been doing?”
“Badger-baiting.”
And here he proceeded to give a particular account of his sport, and
the respective traits of prowess evinced by the badger and the dogs; my
mother pretending to listen with deep attention, and watching his
animated countenance with a degree of maternal admiration I thought
highly disproportioned to its object.
“It’s time you should be doing something else, Fergus,” said I, as soon
as a momentary pause in his narration allowed me to get in a word.
“What _can_ I do?” replied he; “my mother won’t let me go to sea or
enter the army; and I’m determined to do nothing else—except make
myself such a nuisance to you all, that you will be thankful to get rid
of me on any terms.”
Our parent soothingly stroked his stiff, short curls. He growled, and
tried to look sulky, and then we all took our seats at the table, in
obedience to the thrice-repeated summons of Rose.
“Now take your tea,” said she; “and I’ll tell you what _I’ve_ been
doing. I’ve been to call on the Wilsons; and it’s a _thousand_ pities
you didn’t go with me, Gilbert, for Eliza Millward was there!”
“Well! what of her?”
“Oh, nothing!—I’m not going to tell you about her;—only that she’s a
nice, amusing little thing, when she is in a merry humour, and I
shouldn’t mind calling her—”
“Hush, hush, my dear! your brother has no such idea!” whispered my
mother earnestly, holding up her finger.
“Well,” resumed Rose; “I was going to tell you an important piece of
news I heard there—I have been bursting with it ever since. You know it
was reported a month ago, that somebody was going to take Wildfell
Hall—and—what do you think? It has actually been inhabited above a
week!—and we never knew!”
“Impossible!” cried my mother.
“Preposterous!!!” shrieked Fergus.
“It has indeed!—and by a single lady!”
“Good gracious, my dear! The place is in ruins!”
“She has had two or three rooms made habitable; and there she lives,
all alone—except an old woman for a servant!”
“Oh, dear! that spoils it—I’d hoped she was a witch,” observed Fergus,
while carving his inch-thick slice of bread and butter. “Nonsense,
Fergus! But isn’t it strange, mamma?”
“Strange! I can hardly believe it.”
“But you may believe it; for Jane Wilson has seen her. She went with
her mother, who, of course, when she heard of a stranger being in the
neighbourhood, would be on pins and needles till she had seen her and
got all she could out of her. She is called Mrs. Graham, and she is in
mourning—not widow’s weeds, but slightish mourning—and she is quite
young, they say,—not above five or six and twenty,—but _so_ reserved!
They tried all they could to find out who she was and where she came
from, and, all about her, but neither Mrs. Wilson, with her
pertinacious and impertinent home-thrusts, nor Miss Wilson, with her
skilful manœuvring, could manage to elicit a single satisfactory
answer, or even a casual remark, or chance expression calculated to
allay their curiosity, or throw the faintest ray of light upon her
history, circumstances, or connections. Moreover, she was barely civil
to them, and evidently better pleased to say “good-by,” than “how do
you do.” But Eliza Millward says her father intends to call upon her
soon, to offer some pastoral advice, which he fears she needs, as,
though she is known to have entered the neighbourhood early last week,
she did not make her appearance at church on Sunday; and she—Eliza,
that is—will beg to accompany him, and is sure _she_ can succeed in
wheedling something out of her—you know, Gilbert, _she_ can do
anything. And _we_ should call some time, mamma; it’s only proper, you
know.”
“Of course, my dear. Poor thing! How lonely she must feel!”
“And pray, be quick about it; and mind you bring me word how much sugar
she puts in her tea, and what sort of caps and aprons she wears, and
all about it; for I don’t know how I can live till I know,” said
Fergus, very gravely.
But if he intended the speech to be hailed as a master-stroke of wit,
he signally failed, for nobody laughed. However, he was not much
disconcerted at that; for when he had taken a mouthful of bread and
butter and was about to swallow a gulp of tea, the humour of the thing
burst upon him with such irresistible force, that he was obliged to
jump up from the table, and rush snorting and choking from the room;
and a minute after, was heard screaming in fearful agony in the garden.
As for me, I was hungry, and contented myself with silently demolishing
the tea, ham, and toast, while my mother and sister went on talking,
and continued to discuss the apparent or non-apparent circumstances,
and probable or improbable history of the mysterious lady; but I must
confess that, after my brother’s misadventure, I once or twice raised
the cup to my lips, and put it down again without daring to taste the
contents, lest I should injure my dignity by a similar explosion.
The next day my mother and Rose hastened to pay their compliments to
the fair recluse; and came back but little wiser than they went; though
my mother declared she did not regret the journey, for if she had not
gained much good, she flattered herself she had imparted some, and that
was better: she had given some useful advice, which, she hoped, would
not be thrown away; for Mrs. Graham, though she said little to any
purpose, and appeared somewhat self-opinionated, seemed not incapable
of reflection,—though she did not know where she had been all her life,
poor thing, for she betrayed a lamentable ignorance on certain points,
and had not even the sense to be ashamed of it.
“On what points, mother?” asked I.
“On household matters, and all the little niceties of cookery, and such
things, that every lady ought to be familiar with, whether she be
required to make a practical use of her knowledge or not. I gave her
some useful pieces of information, however, and several excellent
receipts, the value of which she evidently could not appreciate, for
she begged I would not trouble myself, as she lived in such a plain,
quiet way, that she was sure she should never make use of them. ‘No
matter, my dear,’ said I; ‘it is what every respectable female ought to
know;—and besides, though you are alone now, you will not be always so;
you _have_ been married, and probably—I might say almost certainly—will
be again.’ ‘You are mistaken there, ma’am,’ said she, almost haughtily;
‘I am certain I never shall.’—But I told her _I_ knew better.”
“Some romantic young widow, I suppose,” said I, “come there to end her
days in solitude, and mourn in secret for the dear departed—but it
won’t last long.”
“No, I think not,” observed Rose; “for she didn’t seem _very_
disconsolate after all; and she’s excessively pretty—handsome
rather—you must see her, Gilbert; you will call her a perfect beauty,
though you could hardly pretend to discover a resemblance between her
and Eliza Millward.”
“Well, I can imagine many faces more beautiful than Eliza’s, though not
more charming. I allow she has small claims to perfection; but then, I
maintain that, if she were more perfect, she would be less
interesting.”
“And so you prefer her faults to other people’s perfections?”
“Just so—saving my mother’s presence.”
“Oh, my dear Gilbert, what nonsense you talk!—I know you don’t mean it;
it’s quite out of the question,” said my mother, getting up, and
bustling out of the room, under pretence of household business, in
order to escape the contradiction that was trembling on my tongue.
After that Rose favoured me with further particulars respecting Mrs.
Graham. Her appearance, manners, and dress, and the very furniture of
the room she inhabited, were all set before me, with rather more
clearness and precision than I cared to see them; but, as I was not a
very attentive listener, I could not repeat the description if I would.
The next day was Saturday; and, on Sunday, everybody wondered whether
or not the fair unknown would profit by the vicar’s remonstrance, and
come to church. I confess I looked with some interest myself towards
the old family pew, appertaining to Wildfell Hall, where the faded
crimson cushions and lining had been unpressed and unrenewed so many
years, and the grim escutcheons, with their lugubrious borders of rusty
black cloth, frowned so sternly from the wall above.
And there I beheld a tall, lady-like figure, clad in black. Her face
was towards me, and there was something in it which, once seen, invited
me to look again. Her hair was raven black, and disposed in long glossy
ringlets, a style of coiffure rather unusual in those days, but always
graceful and becoming; her complexion was clear and pale; her eyes I
could not see, for, being bent upon her prayer-book, they were
concealed by their drooping lids and long black lashes, but the brows
above were expressive and well defined; the forehead was lofty and
intellectual, the nose, a perfect aquiline and the features, in
general, unexceptionable—only there was a slight hollowness about the
cheeks and eyes, and the lips, though finely formed, were a little too
thin, a little too firmly compressed, and had something about them that
betokened, I thought, no very soft or amiable temper; and I said in my
heart—“I would rather admire you from this distance, fair lady, than be
the partner of your home.”
Just then she happened to raise her eyes, and they met mine; I did not
choose to withdraw my gaze, and she turned again to her book, but with
a momentary, indefinable expression of quiet scorn, that was
inexpressibly provoking to me.
“She thinks me an impudent puppy,” thought I. “Humph!—she shall change
her mind before long, if I think it worth while.”
But then it flashed upon me that these were very improper thoughts for
a place of worship, and that my behaviour, on the present occasion, was
anything but what it ought to be. Previous, however, to directing my
mind to the service, I glanced round the church to see if any one had
been observing me;—but no,—all, who were not attending to their
prayer-books, were attending to the strange lady,—my good mother and
sister among the rest, and Mrs. Wilson and her daughter; and even Eliza
Millward was slily glancing from the corners of her eyes towards the
object of general attraction. Then she glanced at me, simpered a
little, and blushed, modestly looked at her prayer-book, and
endeavoured to compose her features.
Here I was transgressing again; and this time I was made sensible of it
by a sudden dig in the ribs, from the elbow of my pert brother. For the
present, I could only resent the insult by pressing my foot upon his
toes, deferring further vengeance till we got out of church.
Now, Halford, before I close this letter, I’ll tell you who Eliza
Millward was: she was the vicar’s younger daughter, and a very engaging
little creature, for whom I felt no small degree of partiality;—and she
knew it, though I had never come to any direct explanation, and had no
definite intention of so doing, for my mother, who maintained there was
no one good enough for me within twenty miles round, could not bear the
thoughts of my marrying that insignificant little thing, who, in
addition to her numerous other disqualifications, had not twenty pounds
to call her own. Eliza’s figure was at once slight and plump, her face
small, and nearly as round as my sister’s,—complexion, something
similar to hers, but more delicate and less decidedly blooming,—nose,
_retroussé_,—features, generally irregular; and, altogether, she was
rather charming than pretty. But her eyes—I must not forget those
remarkable features, for therein her chief attraction lay—in outward
aspect at least;—they were long and narrow in shape, the irids black,
or very dark brown, the expression various, and ever changing, but
always either preternaturally—I had almost said _diabolically_—wicked,
or irresistibly bewitching—often both. Her voice was gentle and
childish, her tread light and soft as that of a cat:—but her manners
more frequently resembled those of a pretty playful kitten, that is now
pert and roguish, now timid and demure, according to its own sweet
will.
Her sister, Mary, was several years older, several inches taller, and
of a larger, coarser build—a plain, quiet, sensible girl, who had
patiently nursed their mother, through her last long, tedious illness,
and been the housekeeper, and family drudge, from thence to the present
time. She was trusted and valued by her father, loved and courted by
all dogs, cats, children, and poor people, and slighted and neglected
by everybody else.
The Reverend Michael Millward himself was a tall, ponderous elderly
gentleman, who placed a shovel hat above his large, square,
massive-featured face, carried a stout walking-stick in his hand, and
incased his still powerful limbs in knee-breeches and gaiters,—or black
silk stockings on state occasions. He was a man of fixed principles,
strong prejudices, and regular habits, intolerant of dissent in any
shape, acting under a firm conviction that _his_ opinions were always
right, and whoever differed from them must be either most deplorably
ignorant, or wilfully blind.
In childhood, I had always been accustomed to regard him with a feeling
of reverential awe—but lately, even now, surmounted, for, though he had
a fatherly kindness for the well-behaved, he was a strict
disciplinarian, and had often sternly reproved our juvenile failings
and peccadilloes; and moreover, in those days, whenever he called upon
our parents, we had to stand up before him, and say our catechism, or
repeat, “How doth the little busy bee,” or some other hymn, or—worse
than all—be questioned about his last text, and the heads of the
discourse, which we never could remember. Sometimes, the worthy
gentleman would reprove my mother for being over-indulgent to her sons,
with a reference to old Eli, or David and Absalom, which was
particularly galling to her feelings; and, very highly as she respected
him, and all his sayings, I once heard her exclaim, “I wish to goodness
he had a son himself! He wouldn’t be so ready with his advice to other
people then;—he’d see what it is to have a couple of boys to keep in
order.”
He had a laudable care for his own bodily health—kept very early hours,
regularly took a walk before breakfast, was vastly particular about
warm and dry clothing, had never been known to preach a sermon without
previously swallowing a raw egg—albeit he was gifted with good lungs
and a powerful voice,—and was, generally, extremely particular about
what he ate and drank, though by no means abstemious, and having a mode
of dietary peculiar to himself,—being a great despiser of tea and such
slops, and a patron of malt liquors, bacon and eggs, ham, hung beef,
and other strong meats, which agreed well enough with his digestive
organs, and therefore were maintained by him to be good and wholesome
for everybody, and confidently recommended to the most delicate
convalescents or dyspeptics, who, if they failed to derive the promised
benefit from his prescriptions, were told it was because they had not
persevered, and if they complained of inconvenient results therefrom,
were assured it was all fancy.
I will just touch upon two other persons whom I have mentioned, and
then bring this long letter to a close. These are Mrs. Wilson and her
daughter. The former was the widow of a substantial farmer, a
narrow-minded, tattling old gossip, whose character is not worth
describing. She had two sons, Robert, a rough countrified farmer, and
Richard, a retiring, studious young man, who was studying the classics
with the vicar’s assistance, preparing for college, with a view to
enter the church.
Their sister Jane was a young lady of some talents, and more ambition.
She had, at her own desire, received a regular boarding-school
education, superior to what any member of the family had obtained
before. She had taken the polish well, acquired considerable elegance
of manners, quite lost her provincial accent, and could boast of more
accomplishments than the vicar’s daughters. She was considered a beauty
besides; but never for a moment could she number me amongst her
admirers. She was about six and twenty, rather tall and very slender,
her hair was neither chestnut nor auburn, but a most decided bright,
light red; her complexion was remarkably fair and brilliant, her head
small, neck long, chin well turned, but very short, lips thin and red,
eyes clear hazel, quick, and penetrating, but entirely destitute of
poetry or feeling. She had, or might have had, many suitors in her own
rank of life, but scornfully repulsed or rejected them all; for none
but a gentleman could please her refined taste, and none but a rich one
could satisfy her soaring ambition. One gentleman there was, from whom
she had lately received some rather pointed attentions, and upon whose
heart, name, and fortune, it was whispered, she had serious designs.
This was Mr. Lawrence, the young squire, whose family had formerly
occupied Wildfell Hall, but had deserted it, some fifteen years ago,
for a more modern and commodious mansion in the neighbouring parish.
Now, Halford, I bid you adieu for the present. This is the first
instalment of my debt. If the coin suits you, tell me so, and I’ll send
you the rest at my leisure: if you would rather remain my creditor than
stuff your purse with such ungainly, heavy pieces,—tell me still, and
I’ll pardon your bad taste, and willingly keep the treasure to myself.
Yours immutably,
GILBERT MARKHAM.
CHAPTER II
I perceive, with joy, my most valued friend, that the cloud of your
displeasure has passed away; the light of your countenance blesses me
once more, and you desire the continuation of my story: therefore,
without more ado, you shall have it.
I think the day I last mentioned was a certain Sunday, the latest in
the October of 1827. On the following Tuesday I was out with my dog and
gun, in pursuit of such game as I could find within the territory of
Linden-Car; but finding none at all, I turned my arms against the hawks
and carrion crows, whose depredations, as I suspected, had deprived me
of better prey. To this end I left the more frequented regions, the
wooded valleys, the corn-fields, and the meadow-lands, and proceeded to
mount the steep acclivity of Wildfell, the wildest and the loftiest
eminence in our neighbourhood, where, as you ascend, the hedges, as
well as the trees, become scanty and stunted, the former, at length,
giving place to rough stone fences, partly greened over with ivy and
moss, the latter to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated
blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit for
the plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle;
the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out
from the grassy hillocks; bilberry-plants and heather—relics of more
savage wildness—grew under the walls; and in many of the enclosures,
ragweeds and rushes usurped supremacy over the scanty herbage; but
these were not _my_ property.
Near the top of this hill, about two miles from Linden-Car, stood
Wildfell Hall, a superannuated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of
dark grey stone, venerable and picturesque to look at, but doubtless,
cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its thick stone mullions and
little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely,
too unsheltered situation,—only shielded from the war of wind and
weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with
storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the Hall itself. Behind it
lay a few desolate fields, and then the brown heath-clad summit of the
hill; before it (enclosed by stone walls, and entered by an iron gate,
with large balls of grey granite—similar to those which decorated the
roof and gables—surmounting the gate-posts) was a garden,—once stocked
with such hard plants and flowers as could best brook the soil and
climate, and such trees and shrubs as could best endure the gardener’s
torturing shears, and most readily assume the shapes he chose to give
them,—now, having been left so many years untilled and untrimmed,
abandoned to the weeds and the grass, to the frost and the wind, the
rain and the drought, it presented a very singular appearance indeed.
The close green walls of privet, that had bordered the principal walk,
were two-thirds withered away, and the rest grown beyond all reasonable
bounds; the old boxwood swan, that sat beside the scraper, had lost its
neck and half its body: the castellated towers of laurel in the middle
of the garden, the gigantic warrior that stood on one side of the