What fickle creatures we are! I, who had resolved to be independent of all social interaction and thanked my stars that I had finally found a place where it was nearly impossible, was a weak wretch after all. After struggling with low spirits and solitude until dusk, I finally gave in. Under the pretext of asking about the household's needs, I invited Mrs. Dean to sit with me while I ate my supper. I sincerely hoped she would be a natural gossip, capable of either cheering me up or lulling me to sleep with her stories.
“You have lived here a considerable time,” I began. “Did you say sixteen years?”
“Eighteen, sir. I came when the mistress was married to wait on her, and after she passed away, the master kept me as his housekeeper.”
A silence followed. I feared she was not a talker unless the subject was her own life, which hardly interested me. However, after a moment of meditation, her ruddy face clouded over and she remarked, “Ah, times have changed greatly since then!”
“Yes,” I noted, “I suppose you’ve seen many alterations?”
“I have, and plenty of trouble, too,” she replied.
I decided to turn the conversation toward my landlord’s family. It was a fascinating subject, especially that beautiful young widow. I wanted to know her history—whether she was a local or an outsider who the grumpy locals refused to accept. I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff chose to rent out Thrushcross Grange and live in a house as inferior as Wuthering Heights. “Is he not wealthy enough to maintain the estate?” I inquired.
“Wealthy, sir!” she exclaimed. “No one knows how much money he has, and it increases every year. He is certainly rich enough to live in a much finer house than that. But he is extremely stingy. Even if he had intended to move to the Grange, he couldn't have resisted the chance to make a few hundred pounds more by renting it to a good tenant. It’s strange that people can be so greedy when they are alone in the world.”
“He had a son, I believe?”
“Yes, he had one—but he is dead.”
“And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she come from originally?”
“She is my late master’s daughter,” Mrs. Dean explained. “Catherine Linton was her maiden name. I nursed her when she was a baby. I truly wish Mr. Heathcliff would move here so we could be together again.”
“Catherine Linton?” I repeated, astonished. However, a moment’s thought convinced me this was not the ghost from my dream. “Then my predecessor’s name was Linton?”
“It was.”
“And who is Hareton Earnshaw? Are they related?”
“No. He is the late Mrs. Linton’s nephew—the young lady’s cousin. Her husband was also her cousin. Heathcliff married Mr. Linton’s sister.”
“I noticed the name ‘Earnshaw’ carved over the front door at Wuthering Heights,” I said. “Are they an old family?”
“Very old, sir. Hareton is the last of them, just as Miss Cathy is the last of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? How did she look?”
“Mrs. Heathcliff? She looked handsome and healthy, though not particularly happy.”
“I’m not surprised! And what did you think of the master?”
“He’s a rough fellow, Mrs. Dean. That seems to be his character.”
“As rough as a saw and as hard as stone! The less you have to do with him, the better.”
“He must have had a difficult life to become such a churl,” I remarked. “Do you know his history?”
“It’s a cuckoo’s story, sir,” she said. “I know everything about it, except where he was born or how he first got his money. Poor Hareton has been cast aside like a bird pushed from its nest. The unfortunate lad is the only one in the parish who doesn't realize how he’s been cheated.”
“Well, Mrs. Dean,” I said, “it would be a kindness to tell me about my neighbors. I feel I won’t be able to sleep, so please, sit and talk for an hour.”
The worthy woman agreed and soon returned with her knitting and a bowl of hot soup to help me with my cold. She seemed pleased to have a companion.
“Before I came to live here,” she began, “I was almost always at Wuthering Heights. My mother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw—Hareton’s father—and I grew up playing with the children. One fine summer morning, the old master, Mr. Earnshaw, prepared for a journey to Liverpool. He asked the children what he should bring them. Hindley, who was fourteen, asked for a fiddle. Little Cathy, who was only six but could already ride any horse in the stable, chose a whip. He even promised me a pocketful of fruit. Then he set off on the sixty-mile walk.”
During the three days he was gone, Cathy asked constantly when he would return. On the third night, we waited up until eleven o'clock. Finally, the door opened and the master stepped in, exhausted and groaning.
“See here, wife!” he said, opening his greatcoat. “I’ve never been so tired in my life. But you must take this as a gift from God, though it looks as dark as if it came from the devil.”
We crowded around and saw a dirty, ragged, black-haired child. He looked older than Catherine, yet he only stared and spoke a strange language that no one could understand. Mrs. Earnshaw was furious, asking why he would bring a "gypsy child" into the house when they had their own children to feed. The master explained that he had found the boy starving and homeless in the streets of Liverpool. Since no one claimed him, he decided to bring him home rather than leave him to die. My mistress eventually calmed down, and I was told to wash the boy and let him sleep with the children.
Hindley and Cathy were disappointed, however. When Hindley looked for his fiddle, he found it had been crushed to pieces in his father's coat. Cathy discovered her father had lost her whip while taking care of the stranger. Consequently, they both hated the boy from the start. They refused to let him stay in their room, so I put him on the landing, hoping he would be gone by morning. But he stayed, and I was temporarily sent away as punishment for my unkindness.
This was Heathcliff’s introduction to the family. He was named after a son who had died in childhood, and "Heathcliff" became both his first and last name. Cathy and he soon became very close, but Hindley treated him with pure hatred. To be honest, I did the same. We teased and bullied him shamefully because the mistress never defended him.
Heathcliff was a sullen, patient child. He seemed hardened to ill-treatment; he would endure Hindley’s blows without a single tear. This silent endurance made old Mr. Earnshaw furious at his own son. He grew strangely fond of Heathcliff, preferring him over his own children.
Consequently, Heathcliff's presence created a bitter atmosphere. When Mrs. Earnshaw died two years later, Hindley had learned to see his father as an oppressor and Heathcliff as a usurper who had stolen his father's love. I eventually began to feel sorry for the boy when he fell dangerously ill with the measles. He was the quietest, most uncomplaining patient I ever cared for. Unlike Cathy and Hindley, who were difficult and demanding, Heathcliff never complained.
He recovered, and though I grew more sympathetic toward him, I still couldn't love him. He never showed any gratitude for the master’s kindness. He wasn't rude; he was simply indifferent, though he knew perfectly well how much power he had over Mr. Earnshaw’s heart.
I remember once when Mr. Earnshaw bought two colts. Heathcliff chose the handsomest one, but it soon went lame. He went to Hindley and demanded an exchange.
“You must trade with me,” Heathcliff said. “If you don't, I shall tell your father about the three times you’ve beaten me this week and show him my bruises.”
Hindley cursed him and struck him, but Heathcliff stood his ground. “You’d better do it,” he persisted. “If I speak, you’ll be punished with interest.”
In a fit of rage, Hindley threw an iron weight at him, hitting him in the chest. Heathcliff fell but got up immediately, pale and breathless. He threatened to tell the master that Hindley had vowed to kick him out of the house the moment his father died.
“Take the horse, then, you beggarly interloper!” Hindley shouted, terrified of his father's reaction. “I hope he breaks your neck!”
I was surprised by how coolly Heathcliff handled the situation. He simply exchanged the saddles and sat down to recover from the blow before entering the house. He rarely complained of such incidents, which led me to believe he wasn't vengeful. I was completely deceived, as you will soon find out.