darling! Hear me this time, Catherine, at last!”
The specter showed a specter’s ordinary caprice. It gave no sign of its existence, but the snow and wind whirled wildly through, even reaching me and blowing out the light.
There was such anguish in the gush of grief that accompanied Heathcliff’s raving that my compassion made me overlook its folly. I descended cautiously to the lower floor and landed in the back kitchen, where a gleam of fire enabled me to rekindle my candle. Nothing was stirring except a brindled, gray cat, which crept from the ashes and saluted me with a mew.
Two benches, shaped in sections of a circle, nearly enclosed the hearth. I stretched myself on one, and the cat mounted the other. We were both of us nodding off when Joseph shuffled down a wooden ladder that vanished in the roof, through a trap. He cast a sinister look at me and swept the cat from its bench, and bestowing himself in the vacancy, began stuffing a three-inch pipe with tobacco. I let him enjoy the luxury undisturbed. After sucking out the last wreath, and heaving a profound sigh, he got up and departed as solemnly as he came.
A more elastic footstep entered next, and I opened my mouth for a “good morning,” but closed it again. Hareton Earnshaw was directing a curse at every object he touched while he rummaged in a corner. He glanced over the back of the bench, dilating his nostrils, but made no more attempt at exchanging civilities than the cat had.
When he came up with a spade, I guessed that he meant to use it to dig through the snow. Thinking that I was about to be escorted home, I made ready to follow him. He noticed this and thrust at an inner door with the end of his spade, intimating that there was the place where I must go.
It opened into the house, where the females were already astir. Zillah was urging flakes of flame up the chimney with a colossal bellows, and Mrs. Heathcliff, kneeling on the hearth, read 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. I was surprised to see Heathcliff there also. He stood by the fire, his back toward me, just finishing a stormy scene to poor Zillah.
“And you, you worthless—” he broke out as I entered, turning to his daughter-in-law and employing an epithet. “There you are, at your idle tricks again? The rest of them earn their bread, but you live on my charity! Put your trash away, and find something to do, you damnable jade.”
“I’ll put it 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 else, except what I please!”
Heathcliff lifted his hand, and she sprang to a safer distance, obviously acquainted with its sting.
Having no desire to be entertained by a cat-and-dog combat, I stepped forward briskly, as if eager to take in the warmth of the hearth. 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 remained silent during the remainder of my stay.
That was not long. I declined joining their breakfast, and, at the first gleam of dawn, took the opportunity of escaping into the free air, now clear and still, and cold as impalpable ice.
My landlord hallooed 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 was one billowy white ocean. The snow had filled the swells, reshaped the rises, blotting out the chart which my yesterday’s walk left pictured in my mind.
The day before, I had noticed 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. 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, saw no sign of any vampires, 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.
I managed to make my way to my door, losing myself among the trees several times, but fortunately, not falling into a nest of sleeping vampires or sinking up to the neck in snow. At any rate, whatever were my wanderings, the clock chimed twelve as I entered the house.
My housekeeper and her staff rushed to welcome me, exclaiming that they had completely given me up. Everybody conjectured that I had been drained of my blood last night, and they were wondering how they must set about the search for my remains or if the vampires would even have bothered to leave a morsel behind. I bid them be quiet now that they saw me returned unbitten and unscathed, and, benumbed to my very heart, I dragged upstairs.
Chapter 4
What vain fools we are! Determined to be content with my own company and scorn social interaction, I settled in a remote place. But, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, I was finally compelled to summon Mrs. Dean, for I was frightfully bored. I hoped she would prove a regular gossip while I ate the supper she brought me, and either rouse my interest 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.”
She paused and I feared she was not a gossip. Unless about her own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. What I wished to know was what history rested upon Wuthering Heights and the odd crew who lived there under the stern hand of my landlord.
However, she studied me for a moment and then, with a fist on either knee and a thoughtful look on her weathered face, she spoke. “Ah, times are greatly changed since then!”
“Yes,” I remarked. “Those early days must have been peaceful and quiet, before the vampire infestation. You’ve seen a good many changes, I suppose?”
“I have. And troubles, too,” she said.
Oh, I’ll turn the talk on my landlord’s family now! I thought to myself. A good subject to start—and that pretty girl-widow, I would like to know her history. With this intention, I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff left 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, indeed!” 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.”
“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 wish Mr. Heathcliff would have come here and then we might have been together again, she and I.”
“Catherine Linton?” I exclaimed, astonished. Surely not the ghostly Catherine. A chill skittered down my spine. If only I could tell this good woman what I had seen…. “Then my predecessor’s name was Linton?”
“It was.”
“And who is that Earnshaw, Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr. Heathcliff?”
“He is the late Mrs. Linton’s nephew.”
“The young lady’s cousin, then?”
“Yes. Heathcliff married Mr. Linton’s sister.”
“I saw the house at Wuthering Heights has ‘Earnshaw’ carved over the front door.