Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights: Abridged

CHAPTER 5

  Over time Mr. Earnshaw began to fail. He had been active and healthy, yet his strength left him suddenly; and he grew irritable. Any suspected slights of his authority nearly threw him into fits. This happened especially if any one attempted to impose upon his favourite: he seemed to think that, because he liked Heathcliff, we all hated him. It was a disadvantage to the lad; for the kinder among us humoured the master, nourishing the child’s pride and black tempers. But twice or thrice, Hindley’s scorn roused the old man to a fury: he seized his stick to strike him, and shook with rage because he could not do it.

  At last, our curate advised that Hindley should be sent to college; and Mr. Earnshaw agreed, though with a heavy spirit, for he said ‘Hindley was nought, and would never thrive.’

  I hoped we should have peace now. I fancied the master’s discontent arose from his family disagreements; but really, you know, sir, it was his age and sinking frame. Still, we might have got on well enough, but for two people – Miss Cathy, and Joseph, the servant. He was the most wearisome self-righteous Pharisee that ever ransacked a Bible to take the promises to himself and fling the curses to his neighbours. His sermonising made a great impression on Mr. Earnshaw; and the more feeble the master became, the more influence Joseph gained. He worried him relentlessly about his soul, and about ruling his children. He encouraged him to regard Hindley as a sinner; and, night after night, he grumbled out a long string of tales against Heathcliff and Catherine: always remembering to heap the heaviest blame on the latter.

  Certainly she put us past our patience fifty times a day. From day-break to bed-time, she was in mischief. Her spirits were always high, her tongue always going – singing, laughing, and plaguing everybody. A wild, wicked slip she was – but she had the bonniest eye, the sweetest smile, and lightest foot in the parish: and, after all, I believe she meant no harm; for when she made you cry, she would cry too, and ask you to comfort her.

  She was much too fond of Heathcliff. The greatest punishment we could invent was to keep her separate from him: yet she got chided more than any of us on his account. In play, she liked to command, but I would not bear her slapping and ordering me; and so I let her know.

  Now, Mr. Earnshaw had always been strict and grave with his children; and Catherine had no idea why her father should be crosser and less patient than he used to be. His peevish reproofs wakened in her a naughty delight to provoke him: she was never so happy as when we were all scolding her, and she defying us with her bold, saucy look, ridiculing Joseph’s religious curses, and showing how she had more power over Heathcliff than her father had. The boy would do her bidding in anything. After behaving badly all day, she sometimes came fondling to make it up with her father at night.

  ‘Nay, Cathy,’ the old man would say, ‘I cannot love thee, thou’rt worse than thy brother. Go, say thy prayers, child, and ask God’s pardon!’ That made her cry, at first; but then being continually repulsed hardened her, and she laughed if I told her to say she was sorry.

  But the hour came, at last, that ended Mr. Earnshaw’s troubles on earth. He died quietly in his chair one October evening, seated by the fire-side. A high wind blustered round the house, and roared in the chimney. We were all together – I busy at my knitting, and Joseph reading his Bible.

  Miss Cathy had been sick, and that made her still; she leant against her father’s knee, and Heathcliff was lying on the floor with his head in her lap. I remember the master stroking her bonny hair and saying, ‘Why canst thou not always be a good lass, Cathy?’ And she turned her face up to his, and laughed, and answered, ‘Why cannot you always be a good man, father?’

  But when she saw him vexed again, she kissed his hand, and said she would sing him to sleep. She began singing very low, till his fingers dropped from hers, and his head sank on his breast. Then I told her to hush, and not stir, for fear she should wake him.

  We all kept as mute as mice a full half-hour; then Joseph got up and said that he must rouse the master for prayers and bed. He called him by name, and touched his shoulder; but he would not move: so he took the candle and looked at him. I thought there was something wrong as he set down the light; and seizing the children, he whispered to them to ‘go upstairs, and make little din – they might pray alone that evening – he had something to do.’

  ‘I shall bid father good-night first,’ said Catherine, putting her arms round his neck. At once she screamed out, ‘Oh, he’s dead, Heathcliff! he’s dead!’ And they both set up a heart-breaking cry.

  I joined my wail to theirs, but Joseph told me to run to Gimmerton for the doctor and the parson. I could not guess what use either would be. However, I went, through wind and rain, and brought the doctor back with me; the parson said he would come in the morning.

  When I went to the children’s room, I saw they had never lain down, though it was past midnight; but they were calmer, and did not need me to console them. The little souls were comforting each other with better thoughts than I could have hit on. No parson in the world ever pictured heaven so beautifully as they did, in their innocent talk; and, while I sobbed and listened, I could not help wishing we were all there safe together.