Читать книгу Wuthering Bites - Sarah Gray - Страница 9

What vain fools we are! Determined to be content with my own company and scorn social interaction, I settled in a remote place. But, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and solitude, I was finally compelled to summon Mrs. Dean, for I was frightfully bored. I hoped she would prove a regular gossip while I ate the supper she brought me, and either rouse my interest or lull me to sleep by her talk.

“You have lived here a considerable time,” I commenced. “Did you not say sixteen years?”

“Eighteen, sir. I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her. After she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper.”

“Indeed.”

She paused and I feared she was not a gossip. Unless about her own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. What I wished to know was what history rested upon Wuthering Heights and the odd crew who lived there under the stern hand of my landlord.

However, she studied me for a moment and then, with a fist on either knee and a thoughtful look on her weathered face, she spoke. “Ah, times are greatly changed since then!”

“Yes,” I remarked. “Those early days must have been peaceful and quiet, before the vampire infestation. You’ve seen a good many changes, I suppose?”

“I have. And troubles, too,” she said.

Oh, I’ll turn the talk on my landlord’s family now! I thought to myself. A good subject to start—and that pretty girl-widow, I would like to know her history. With this intention, I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff left Thrushcross Grange and preferred living in a situation and residence so much inferior. “Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good order?” I inquired.

“Rich, indeed!” she returned. “He has nobody knows what money, and every year it increases. Yes, yes, he’s rich enough to live in a finer house than this.”

“He had a son, it seems?”

“Yes, he had one—he is dead.”

“And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?”

“Yes.”

“Where did she come from originally?”

“Why, sir, she is my late master’s daughter; Catherine Linton was her maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I wish Mr. Heathcliff would have come here and then we might have been together again, she and I.”

“Catherine Linton?” I exclaimed, astonished. Surely not the ghostly Catherine. A chill skittered down my spine. If only I could tell this good woman what I had seen…. “Then my predecessor’s name was Linton?”

“It was.”

“And who is that Earnshaw, Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr. Heathcliff?”

“He is the late Mrs. Linton’s nephew.”

“The young lady’s cousin, then?”

“Yes. Heathcliff married Mr. Linton’s sister.”

“I saw the house at Wuthering Heights has ‘Earnshaw’ carved over the front door. Are they an old family?”

“Very old, sir, and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is of us—I mean the Lintons.”

“What of the cloaked figures carved over the door? They could not possibly be vampires, could they? Not with a date so long ago. The bloodsuckers have only come to England in the last, what, forty years?”

“I can give you no explanation of the carvings,” she said, tight-lipped. But then her manner changed. “So you have been to Wuthering Heights? I beg your pardon for asking, but I should like to hear how she is.”

“Mrs. Heathcliff looked very well, and very handsome, yet, I think, not very happy.”

“Oh dear, I don’t wonder!” She narrowed her gaze. “And how did you like the master?”

“A rather rough fellow, Mrs. Dean.”

“Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with him, the better.”

“He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl.” I thought about the rumors of him being vampire. Of his aversion to the garlic tea we had partaken. But I didn’t dare ask outright. Maybe because I didn’t want to learn the truth, or maybe because I was enjoying too greatly the unraveling of the mysteries of Wuthering Heights and my surrounding countryside. “Do you know anything of his history?”

“I know all about it, except where he was born, and who were his parents. No one knows that but the devil, I think.”

“Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my neighbors, so be good enough to sit and chat an hour.”

“Oh, certainly, sir! I’ll just fetch a little sewing, and then I’ll sit as long as you please.”

The woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire. My head felt hot, and the rest of me cold, but I was excited by the prospect of hearing the sad tale of Wuthering Heights and its occupants.

The housekeeper returned, bringing a basket of work, and drew in her seat, evidently pleased to find me so companionable.

“Before I came to live here,” she commenced—waiting for no further invitation to her story—“I was almost always at Wuthering Heights. My mother had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton’s father, and I got used to playing with the children. I ran errands, too, and helped to make hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me to. Those were good days, before the beasties set upon us.

One fine summer morning Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came downstairs dressed for a journey. After he had told Joseph what was to be done during the day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me—for I sat eating my porridge with them—and he said, speaking to his son,

‘Now, my bonny man, I’m going to Liverpool today. What shall I bring you? You may choose what you like, only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back. It’s sixty miles each way and a long spell!’

Hindley named a fiddle, and then he asked Miss Cathy. She was hardly six years old, but she could ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip.

He did not forget me, for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed his children, said good-bye, and set off.

It seemed a long while to us all—the three days of his absence—and little Cathy often asked when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour after hour. There were no signs of his coming, however, and at last the children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew dark and she would have put them to bed, but they begged to be allowed to stay up. Just about eleven o’clock, the door latch raised quietly and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair, laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly killed. He said he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.

‘I was near frightened to death!’ he exclaimed. ‘It’s true, the rumors. The vampires have set upon our country. Twice, no, three times, I encountered them on my way home, and it was only by my luck and the bad luck of others that I was not attacked.’

‘My dear husband, you must tell me what happened!’ cried the lady of the house.

‘Not here. Not now.’ He eyed the children. ‘Later.’ Then he opened his great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms.

We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy’s head I had a peep at a dirty, ragged, pale, black-haired child, big enough both to walk and talk. His face looked older than Catherine’s, yet when he was set on his feet, he only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready to fling him out of doors. She demanded of Mr. Earnshaw how he could bring that gypsy brat into the house when they had their own bairns to feed and fend for? Those were the days before it was widely known that the best vampire slayers were gypsies and that the gypsies had some sort of powers over the vampires.

Mrs. Dean held up a gnarled finger. “But Mr. Earnshaw, he was a wise man. A learned man he was, and he read books about the blood-seeking creatures and the threat they posed in various regions. He knew what was coming.

“The master tried to explain the matter without frightening his wife with tales of vampires, I think, but he was really half dead with fatigue and did not have the patience for her. All that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale of his seeing the boy starving and houseless in the streets of Liverpool. Not a soul knew to whom he belonged, he said, and both his money and time being limited, he thought it better to take the child home with him at once.

The conclusion was that my mistress grumbled herself calm, and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash the boy, give him clean things, and let him sleep with the children.

Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till peace was restored, then both began searching their father’s pockets for the presents he had promised them. Hindley was a boy of fourteen, but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the great-coat, he blubbered. And Cathy, when she learned the master had lost her whip in attending to the stranger, showed her humor by spitting at the little boy. That bit of nasty behavior earned a sound blow from her father. ‘Rather you should love him,’ said the master. ‘For it was his warning that saved me. While traveling home, our traveling party was ambushed. Together, he and I hid in a haystack until the fiends had sucked the life’s blood from my other companions.’

Mrs. Dean looked at me earnestly. “I remember clearly, sir, as if it had only just happened. The master believed the boy had saved his life and that it was the great spilling of blood that kept the vampires from sniffing them out. They say the beasties smell the way they hear, with supernatural powers!”

“Really?” I asked, enthralled with the tale. “Master Earnshaw believed the gypsy had saved him? Shouldn’t that have changed his wife and family’s opinion of the foundling?”

“Should and would are often far apart,” she replied philosophically as she began to stitch a nightcap, drawing her needle in and out as she continued her story.

“The Earnshaw children entirely refused to have the gypsy boy in bed with them or even in their room, so I put him on the landing of the stairs, hoping he might be gone on the morrow. Instead, he crawled into Mr. Earnshaw’s bedchamber and was found at the foot of the bed when daylight came.

They christened him ‘Heathcliff.’ It was the name of a son who died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian and surname.

Miss Cathy and he became very thick, but Hindley hated him, and to say the truth I did the same. In those days, we didn’t realize how badly the moors would become infested with the vampires, or how greatly we would need the slayers.”

“So the boy was of slayer stock?” I exclaimed. “I knew it!” I wanted to ask how the rumor could have started that he was a vampire, if all knew he was a gypsy, but I didn’t dare.

“No one knew for sure what he was, except us, below-stairs.” She looked up at me. “A matter of speech, you understand, sir, for no one could abide long in the cellars of Wuthering Heights. There are dark tunnels there, you see, and a great, dark hole covered with an iron slab. Some say the hole leads to hell.” She began to stitch again. “Not that I’m superstitious, you understand, but some do say it.”

“Well, it certainly makes sense. The gypsy orphan knowing to hide in the haystack whilst the others were slain,” I agreed. As for the entrance to hell she described, I was unsure what I thought, but I was too eager to have her continue to allow her to digress too far. “Tell me more about the child Heathcliff,” I urged, sliding up in my comfortable chair.

He seemed a sullen, patient child who had an aversion to the few sunny days we saw on these moors. He was hardened, perhaps, to the ways of his people, we would guess later. He would stand Hindley’s blows without winking or shedding a tear, as if he had hurt himself by accident and nobody was to blame.

This endurance made old Earnshaw furious when he discovered his son was persecuting the poor, fatherless child. He took to Heathcliff strangely, believing all he said. There seemed some bond between them we did not understand.

So, from the very beginning, Heathcliff bred bad feelings in the house. At Mrs. Earnshaw’s death two years later, the young master had learnt to regard his father as an oppressor rather than a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his father’s affections, and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries.

I sympathized awhile, but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I had to tend them, I changed my idea of Heathcliff. He was dangerously sick; however, I will say this, he was the quietest child that I ever watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly; he was as uncomplaining as a lamb, though hardness, not gentleness, made him give little trouble.” She knotted her thread, threaded her needle once more, and began to hem the lace around the outside of the cap. “It made me certain he was a gypsy brat. They aren’t like us, sir. Not even human, perhaps.”

“But he recovered,” I prompted, wanting to hear more facts firsthand.

“He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing to me, and praised me for my care. I softened toward Heathcliff, and thus Hindley lost his last ally. Still, I couldn’t dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy, who never, to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He was not insolent to his benefactor; he was simply unfeeling, but he had only to speak and Mr. Earnshaw would bend to his wishes.

As an instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw and the children once met upon a band of gypsies at a parish fair. The gypsies noticed young Heathcliff at once and it came about that they knew him and they knew his poor dead mother. The tale told was that the boy became lost in Liverpool from the others and was thought dead. When Heathcliff learned the tale, he begged that he should go with the gypsies to meet his relations and, at first, Mr. Earnshaw forbid it.

‘Gypsy!’ taunted Hindley, cuffing him heartily when his father walked away. ‘Orphan, gypsy.’

‘Tell him to let me go with them,’ Heathcliff insisted, allowing himself to be pummeled again and again, ‘or I will speak of these blows and you’ll get them from your father with interest.’

‘Off with you, dog!’ cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron weight used for weighing potatoes and hay in one of the market stalls.

‘Throw it,’ Heathcliff replied, standing still, ‘and then I’ll tell how you boasted that you will turn me out of doors as soon as he dies, and see whether he will not turn you out directly.’

Hindley threw it, hitting Heathcliff on the breast. The boy fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white. The master did come along at that very moment and, taking pity, sent young Earnshaw home and allowed Heathcliff to catch up to the gypsies and go along.

I do not know what the boy did that day and night with the gypsies, but I can tell you he returned a different boy. He somehow seemed darker, but carried a confidence I sometimes found frightening. As he entered the barn upon his return, Hindley demanded to know where he had been and what the gypsies had told him of his parentage. When Heathcliff did ignore the request, Hindley knocked him off his feet. I was surprised to witness how coolly the child gathered himself and sat down on a bundle of hay to overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, before he entered the house to announce his return. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises on a new horse purchased only the day before at the fair: he minded little what tale was told since he had gotten what he wanted in going with the strangers. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these with Hindley that I really thought him not vindictive.”

Again, Mrs. Dean met my gaze. “I was deceived completely, as you will later hear.”