“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?”