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

gripe, 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 farmhouse, 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 brocken 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 Churstmas, flinging t’ precious

gifts uh 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 allas 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.