CHAPTER 19
A letter, edged with black, came from my master. Isabella was dead; and Edgar was returning with his youthful nephew. Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and looked forward to seeing her ‘real’ cousin. On the evening of their expected arrival, she persuaded me to walk with her through the grounds to meet them.
‘Linton is just six months younger than I am,’ she chattered, as we strolled under the trees. ‘How delightful it will be to have him for a playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was lighter than mine. I’ve often thought what a pleasure it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy – and dear papa! Come, Ellen, let us run!’
She ran to the gate, and then sat on the grassy bank beside the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible.
‘How long they are!’ she exclaimed. ‘Ah, I see some dust on the road – they are coming!’
The travelling carriage rolled into sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms as soon as she saw her father’s face looking from the window. Edgar descended, and while they exchanged caresses I took a peep in at Linton. He was asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for my master’s younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had.
Mr Linton saw me looking; and advised me not to disturb him; for the journey had fatigued him.
‘Now, darling,’ he said to his daughter, ‘your cousin is not so strong or so merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember; so don’t expect him to play and run about with you. Let him be quiet this evening, at least.’
Edgar and Cathy walked up to the house, while the carriage was driven round to the steps. There he roused Linton and lifted him out.
‘This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,’ he said, putting their little hands together. ‘She’s fond of you already; and mind you don’t grieve her by crying. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end, and you can rest and amuse yourself as you please.’
‘Let me go to bed, then,’ answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine, and starting to weep.
‘Come, come, there’s a good child,’ I whispered, leading him in. ‘You’ll make her weep too – see how sorry she is for you!’
Certainly, his cousin looked as sad as he did. All three went to the library, where tea was laid ready. I removed Linton’s cap and cloak, and placed him on a chair by the table; but he began to cry afresh. My master inquired what was the matter.
‘I can’t sit on a chair,’ sobbed the boy.
‘Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,’ answered his uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried during the journey, I felt convinced, by his fretful, ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed off, and lay down, and Cathy carried a footstool to his side. At first she sat silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her little cousin; and she commenced stroking his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer, like a baby. This pleased him: he dried his eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
‘Oh, he’ll do very well,’ said the master to me, watching them. ‘Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child of his own age will give him new spirit.’
‘Ay, if we can keep him!’ I mused to myself; I felt that there was little hope of that. I thought, how ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights, with Heathcliff and Hareton? what playmates and instructors they’ll be.
Our doubts were soon decided. I had just taken the children upstairs to bed, and had come back down, when a maid informed me that Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with the master.
‘It is an unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the instant they have returned from a long journey,’ I said. ‘I don’t think the master can see him.’
However, Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now presented himself in his Sunday clothes, with his most sanctimonious and sourest face.
‘Good-evening, Joseph,’ I said, coldly. ‘What brings you here tonight?’
‘It’s Master Linton I must speak to,’ he answered, waving me disdainfully aside.
‘Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say, I’m sure he won’t hear it now,’ I continued. ‘You had better entrust your message to me.’
‘Which is his room?’ he pursued, surveying the range of closed doors.
Reluctantly I went to the library, and announced him. But Joseph followed close at my heels, and, pushing into the room, began in a high tone, as if anticipating opposition:
‘Heathcliff has sent me for his lad, and I mustn’t go back without him.’
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; sorrow overcast his features. Recalling Isabella’s anxious wishes for her son, he grieved bitterly at the prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be avoided. No plan offered itself: there was nothing left but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him from his sleep.
‘Tell Mr. Heathcliff,’ he answered calmly, ‘that his son shall come to Wuthering Heights tomorrow. He is in bed, and too tired to travel now. You may also tell him that Linton’s mother desired him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very precarious.’
‘No!’ said Joseph. ‘Heathcliff makes no account o’ the mother; he’ll have his lad; and I must take him – so now yah know!’
‘Not tonight!’ answered Linton decisively. ‘Walk downstairs at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him down. Go!’
And, aiding the indignant elder with his arm, he rid the room of him and closed the door.
‘Very weell!’ shouted Joseph as he left. ‘To-morn, he’ll come hisself; and thrust him out, if yah dare!’