Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights: Ch. 25

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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.’