CHAPTER II

Yesterday afternoon set in misty and cold. I had half a mind to spend it by my study fire, instead of wading through heath and mud to Wuthering Heights. On coming up from dinner, however, (N.B.—I dine between twelve and one o’clock; the housekeeper, a matronly (like a mature married woman) lady, taken as a fixture along with the house, could not, or would not, comprehend my request that I might be served at five)—on mounting the stairs with this lazy intention, and stepping into the room, I saw a servant-girl (a maidservant) on her knees surrounded by brushes and coal-scuttles (buckets for coal), and raising an infernal (hellish; devilish) dust as she extinguished (put out) the flames with heaps of cinders (a glowing coal). This spectacle drove me back immediately; I took my hat, and, after a four-miles’ walk, arrived at Heathcliff (the dark foundling brought home to the Heights, who grows into its fierce master)’s garden-gate (the gate of a garden) just in time to escape the first feathery (covered in feathers; light as feathers) flakes of a snow shower.

On that bleak hill top the earth was hard with a black frost, and the air made me shiver through every limb. Being unable to remove the chain, I jumped over, and, running up the flagged causeway bordered with straggling (to trail behind in disorder) gooseberry-bushes (bushes bearing gooseberries), knocked vainly (in vain) for admittance (leave to enter), till my knuckles tingled and the dogs howled.

“Wretched inmates!” I ejaculated, mentally, “you deserve perpetual isolation from your species for your churlish (rude and sour-tempered) inhospitality. At least, I would not keep my doors barred in the day-time. I don’t care—I will get in!” So resolved, I grasped the latch and shook it vehemently (with hot force). Vinegar-faced (sour-faced) Joseph projected his head from a round window of the barn.

“What are ye for?” he shouted. “T’ maister (Yorkshire for master)’s down i’ t’ fowld (Yorkshire for fold, the sheep pen). Go round by th’ end o’ t’ laith (a barn — a northern word), if ye went to spake (Yorkshire for speak) to him.”

“Is there nobody inside to open the door?” I hallooed (to shout to call attention), responsively (in answer).

“There’s nobbut (Yorkshire for nothing but; only) t’ missis (the wife); and shoo (Yorkshire for she)’ll not oppen (Yorkshire for open) ’t an ye mak (Yorkshire for make)’ yer flaysome (Yorkshire for frightful) dins till neeght (Yorkshire for night).”

“Why? Cannot you tell her whom I am, eh, Joseph?”

“Nor-ne me! I’ll hae (Yorkshire for have) no hend (Yorkshire for hand) wi’t,” muttered the head, vanishing.

The snow began to drive thickly. I seized the handle to essay another trial; when a young man without coat, and shouldering a pitchfork, appeared in the yard behind. He hailed me to follow him, and, after marching through a wash-house (the room where washing is done), and a paved area containing a coal-shed, pump, and pigeon-cot (a pigeon house), we at length arrived in the huge, warm, cheerful apartment where I was formerly received. It glowed delightfully in the radiance (shining light) of an immense fire, compounded of coal, peat, and wood; and near the table, laid for a plentiful evening meal, I was pleased to observe the “missis,” an individual whose existence I had never previously suspected. I bowed and waited, thinking she would bid me take a seat. She looked at me, leaning back in her chair, and remained motionless and mute.

“Rough weather!” I remarked. “I’m afraid, Mrs. Heathcliff, the door must bear the consequence of your servants’ leisure attendance: I had hard work to make them hear me.”

She never opened her mouth. I stared—she stared also: at any rate, she kept her eyes on me in a cool, regardless manner, exceedingly embarrassing and disagreeable.

“Sit down,” said the young man, gruffly (roughly; in a harsh voice). “He’ll be in soon.”

I obeyed; and hemmed, and called the villain Juno (Juno, a dog at the Heights), who deigned (to lower oneself to grant), at this second interview, to move the extreme tip of her tail, in token of owning my acquaintance.

“A beautiful animal!” I commenced again. “Do you intend parting with the little ones, madam?”

“They are not mine,” said the amiable hostess, more repellingly (forbiddingly) than Heathcliff himself could have replied.

“Ah, your favourites are among these?” I continued, turning to an obscure cushion full of something like cats.

“A strange choice of favourites!” she observed scornfully (with scorn).

Unluckily (by ill luck), it was a heap of dead rabbits. I hemmed once more, and drew closer to the hearth, repeating my comment on the wildness (a wild look) of the evening.

“You should not have come out,” she said, rising and reaching from the chimney-piece (the frame round a fireplace) two of the painted canisters.

Her position before was sheltered from the light; now, I had a distinct view of her whole figure and countenance. She was slender, and apparently scarcely past girlhood (the years of being a girl): an admirable form, and the most exquisite little face that I have ever had the pleasure of beholding; small features, very fair; flaxen (pale yellow) ringlets (a curl of hair), or rather golden, hanging loose on her delicate neck; and eyes, had they been agreeable in expression, that would have been irresistible: fortunately for my susceptible heart, the only sentiment they evinced (to show; give sign of) hovered between scorn (proud contempt) and a kind of desperation, singularly unnatural to be detected there. The canisters were almost out of her reach; I made a motion to aid her; she turned upon me as a miser might turn if any one attempted to assist him in counting his gold.

“I don’t want your help,” she snapped; “I can get them for myself.”

“I beg your pardon!” I hastened to reply.

“Were you asked to tea?” she demanded, tying an apron over her neat black frock (a girl's or woman's dress), and standing with a spoonful (as much as a spoon holds) of the leaf poised over the pot.

“I shall be glad to have a cup,” I answered.

“Were you asked?” she repeated.

“No,” I said, half smiling. “You are the proper person to ask me.”

She flung the tea back, spoon and all, and resumed her chair in a pet; her forehead corrugated (corrugated: ridged), and her red under-lip (the lower lip) pushed out, like a child’s ready to cry.

Meanwhile, the young man had slung on to his person a decidedly shabby upper garment, and, erecting himself before the blaze, looked down on me from the corner of his eyes, for all the world as if there were some mortal (mortal: human — the old sense here) feud unavenged (unavenged: not avenged) between us. I began to doubt whether he were a servant or not: his dress and speech were both rude, entirely devoid of the superiority observable (able to be seen) in Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff; his thick brown curls were rough and uncultivated (wild; untended), his whiskers (hair on the cheeks) encroached (encroaching: creeping onto) bearishly (roughly, like a bear) over his cheeks, and his hands were embrowned (embrowned: made brown) like those of a common labourer: still his bearing was free, almost haughty (coldly proud), and he showed none of a domestic’s assiduity (steady, careful effort) in attending on the lady of the house. In the absence of clear proofs of his condition (condition: social rank — the old sense here), I deemed it best to abstain (to hold back from) from noticing his curious conduct; and, five minutes afterwards, the entrance of Heathcliff relieved me, in some measure, from my uncomfortable state (state: ceremony; pomp — the old sense here).

“You see, sir, I am come, according to promise!” I exclaimed (to cry out), assuming the cheerful; “and I fear I shall be weather-bound (kept in by weather) for half an hour, if you can afford me shelter during that space.”

“Half an hour?” he said, shaking the white flakes from his clothes; “I wonder you should select the thick of a snow-storm to ramble (a walk for pleasure) about in. Do you know that you run a risk of being lost in the marshes? People familiar with these moors often miss their road on such evenings; and I can tell you there is no chance of a change at present.”

“Perhaps I can get a guide among your lads, and he might stay at the Grange (Thrushcross Grange, the Lintons' house) till morning—could you spare me one?”

“No, I could not.”

“Oh, indeed! Well, then, I must trust to my own sagacity (shrewd wisdom).”

“Umph!”

“Are you going to mak’ the tea?” demanded he of the shabby coat, shifting his ferocious gaze from me to the young lady.

“Is he to have any?” she asked, appealing to Heathcliff.

“Get it ready, will you?” was the answer, uttered so savagely that I started. The tone in which the words were said revealed a genuine bad nature. I no longer felt inclined to call Heathcliff a capital fellow. When the preparations were finished, he invited me with—“Now, sir, bring forward your chair.” And we all, including the rustic youth, drew round the table: an austere (stern and severe) silence prevailing while we discussed our meal.

I thought, if I had caused the cloud, it was my duty to make an effort to dispel (driven away) it. They could not every day sit so grim and taciturn; and it was impossible, however ill-tempered (bad-tempered) they might be, that the universal scowl (to frown darkly) they wore was their every-day countenance (the face; composure).

“It is strange,” I began, in the interval of swallowing one cup of tea and receiving another—“it is strange how custom can mould our tastes and ideas: many could not imagine the existence of happiness in a life of such complete exile from the world as you spend, Mr. Heathcliff; yet, I’ll venture to say, that, surrounded by your family, and with your amiable lady as the presiding genius over your home and heart—”

“My amiable lady!” he interrupted, with an almost diabolical (devilish) sneer (a scornful curl of the lip) on his face. “Where is she—my amiable lady?”

“Mrs. Heathcliff, your wife, I mean.”

“Well, yes—oh, you would intimate that her spirit has taken the post of ministering angel, and guards the fortunes of Wuthering Heights (the Earnshaws' farmhouse on the moor), even when her body is gone. Is that it?”

Perceiving myself in a blunder (to stumble into mistakes), I attempted to correct it. I might have seen there was too great a disparity between the ages of the parties to make it likely that they were man and wife. One was about forty: a period of mental vigour (strength and force) at which men seldom cherish the delusion of being married for love by girls: that dream is reserved for the solace of our declining years. The other did not look seventeen.

Then it flashed upon me—“The clown at my elbow, who is drinking his tea out of a basin and eating his bread with unwashed hands, may be her husband: Heathcliff junior, of course. Here is the consequence of being buried alive: she has thrown herself away upon that boor (a rough clownish man) from sheer ignorance that better individuals existed! A sad pity—I must beware how I cause her to regret her choice.” The last reflection may seem conceited (too proud of oneself); it was not. My neighbour struck me as bordering on repulsive (disgusting); I knew, through experience, that I was tolerably (fairly; reasonably) attractive.

“Mrs. Heathcliff is my daughter-in-law (a son's wife),” said Heathcliff, corroborating (to confirm as true) my surmise (a guess). He turned, as he spoke, a peculiar (peculiar: its own; particular — the old sense here) look in her direction: a look of hatred; unless he has a most perverse set of facial muscles that will not, like those of other people, interpret the language of his soul.

“Ah, certainly—I see now: you are the favoured possessor (the owner) of the beneficent (doing good) fairy,” I remarked, turning to my neighbour.

This was worse than before: the youth grew crimson, and clenched (to close tight) his fist, with every appearance of a meditated (planned) assault. But he seemed to recollect himself presently, and smothered (choked; buried) the storm in a brutal curse, muttered (to speak low in the throat) on my behalf: which, however, I took care not to notice.

“Unhappy in your conjectures, sir,” observed my host; “we neither of us have the privilege of owning your good fairy; her mate is dead. I said she was my daughter-in-law: therefore, she must have married my son.”

“And this young man is—”

“Not my son, assuredly.”

Heathcliff smiled again, as if it were rather too bold a jest (a joke) to attribute the paternity of that bear to him.

“My name is Hareton Earnshaw (Hindley's son, brought up rough at the Heights),” growled the other; “and I’d counsel (counsel: the lawyer who speaks in court — the old sense here) you to respect it!”

“I’ve shown no disrespect,” was my reply, laughing internally at the dignity with which he announced himself.

He fixed his eye on me longer than I cared to return the stare, for fear I might be tempted either to box his ears or render my hilarity (loud laughing fun) audible. I began to feel unmistakably (beyond mistaking) out of place in that pleasant family circle. The dismal spiritual atmosphere overcame, and more than neutralised (neutralised: cancelled out), the glowing physical comforts round me; and I resolved to be cautious how I ventured under those rafters a third time.

The business of eating being concluded, and no one uttering a word of sociable conversation, I approached a window to examine the weather. A sorrowful (full of sorrow) sight I saw: dark night coming down prematurely, and sky and hills mingled in one bitter whirl (to spin fast) of wind and suffocating (to choke for air) snow.

“I don’t think it possible for me to get home now without a guide,” I could not help exclaiming. “The roads will be buried already; and, if they were bare, I could scarcely distinguish a foot in advance.”

“Hareton, drive those dozen sheep into the barn porch. They’ll be covered if left in the fold all night: and put a plank before them,” said Heathcliff.

“How must I do?” I continued, with rising irritation.

There was no reply to my question; and on looking round I saw only Joseph bringing in a pail (a bucket) of porridge for the dogs, and Mrs. Heathcliff leaning over the fire, diverting herself with burning a bundle of matches which had fallen from the chimney-piece as she restored the tea-canister (a box for tea) to its place. The former, when he had deposited his burden, took a critical survey of the room, and in cracked tones grated (with thanks; thankfully) out—“Aw wonder how yah can faishion (Yorkshire for fashion; bring oneself) to stand thear (Yorkshire for there) i’ idleness (doing nothing) un war, when all on ’ems goan (Yorkshire for going) out! Bud yah’re a nowt (Yorkshire for nothing; a nobody), and it’s no use (use: habit; custom — the old sense here) talking—yah’ll niver (Yorkshire for never) mend o’yer ill ways, but goa raight (Yorkshire for right) to t’ divil (Yorkshire for devil), like yer mother afore (before — dialect) ye!”

I imagined, for a moment, that this piece of eloquence (moving power of speech) was addressed to me; and, sufficiently enraged, stepped towards the aged rascal (a dishonest rogue) with an intention of kicking him out of the door. Mrs. Heathcliff, however, checked me by her answer.

“You scandalous old hypocrite!” she replied. “Are you not afraid of being carried away bodily, whenever you mention the devil’s name? I warn you to refrain from provoking me, or I’ll ask your abduction as a special favour! Stop! look here, Joseph,” she continued, taking a long, dark book from a shelf; “I’ll show you how far I’ve progressed in the Black Art: I shall soon be competent to make a clear house of it. The red cow didn’t die by chance; and your rheumatism (aching stiffness of the joints) can hardly be reckoned among providential (sent by providence) visitations!”

“Oh, wicked, wicked!” gasped the elder; “may the Lord deliver us from evil!”

“No, reprobate (reprobated: condemned)! you are a castaway—be off, or I’ll hurt you seriously! I’ll have you all modelled in wax and clay! and the first who passes the limits I fix shall—I’ll not say what he shall be done to—but, you’ll see! Go, I’m looking at you!”

The little witch put a mock malignity (bitter, harmful hatred) into her beautiful eyes, and Joseph, trembling with sincere horror, hurried out, praying, and ejaculating “wicked” as he went. I thought her conduct must be prompted by a species of dreary (gloomy and dull) fun; and, now that we were alone, I endeavoured to interest her in my distress.

“Mrs. Heathcliff,” I said earnestly, “you must excuse me for troubling you. I presume, because, with that face, I’m sure you cannot help being good-hearted (kind). Do point out some landmarks by which I may know my way home: I have no more idea how to get there than you would have how to get to London!”

“Take the road you came,” she answered, ensconcing (ensconced: settled in comfortably) herself in a chair, with a candle, and the long book open before her. “It is brief advice, but as sound as I can give.”

“Then, if you hear of me being discovered dead in a bog or a pit full of snow, your conscience won’t whisper that it is partly your fault?”

“How so? I cannot escort you. They wouldn (would — wouldn't: would not)’t let me go to the end of the garden wall.”

“You! I should be sorry to ask you to cross the threshold, for my convenience, on such a night,” I cried. “I want you to tell me my way, not to show it: or else to persuade Mr. Heathcliff to give me a guide.”

“Who? There is himself, Earnshaw (the Earnshaws, the old family of Wuthering Heights), Zillah (Zillah, the housekeeper at the Heights in later years), Joseph and I. Which would you have?”

“Are there no boys at the farm?”

“No; those are all.”

“Then, it follows that I am compelled to stay.”

“That you may settle with your host. I have nothing to do with it.”

“I hope it will be a lesson to you to make no more rash journeys on these hills,” cried Heathcliff’s stern voice from the kitchen entrance. “As to staying here, I don’t keep accommodations for visitors: you must share a bed with Hareton or Joseph, if you do.”

“I can sleep on a chair in this room,” I replied.

“No, no! A stranger is a stranger, be he rich or poor: it will not suit me to permit any one the range of the place while I am off guard!” said the unmannerly (rude) wretch (a miserable creature).

With this insult my patience was at an end. I uttered an expression of disgust, and pushed past him into the yard, running against Earnshaw in my haste. It was so dark that I could not see the means of exit; and, as I wandered round, I heard another specimen of their civil behaviour amongst each other. At first the young man appeared about to befriend (to act as a friend to) me.

“I’ll go with him as far as the park,” he said.

“You’ll go with him to hell!” exclaimed his master, or whatever relation he bore. “And who is to look after the horses, eh?”

“A man’s life is of more consequence than one evening’s neglect of the horses: somebody must go,” murmured (to speak in a low soft flow) Mrs. Heathcliff, more kindly than I expected.

“Not at your command!” retorted (to answer back sharply) Hareton. “If you set store on him, you’d better be quiet.”

“Then I hope his ghost will haunt you; and I hope Mr. Heathcliff will never get another tenant till the Grange is a ruin,” she answered, sharply.

“Hearken (to listen; heed), hearken, shoo (Yorkshire for she)’s cursing on ’em!” muttered Joseph, towards whom I had been steering.

He sat within earshot, milking the cows by the light of a lantern, which I seized unceremoniously (without ceremony), and, calling out that I would send it back on the morrow, rushed to the nearest postern (a small back gate).

“Maister (Yorkshire for master), maister, he’s staling (Yorkshire for stealing) t’ lanthern (lantern, in Yorkshire speech)!” shouted the ancient, pursuing my retreat. “Hey, Gnasher (Gnasher, a dog at the Heights)! Hey, dog! Hey Wolf, holld (Yorkshire for hold) him, holld him!”

On opening the little door, two hairy monsters flew at my throat, bearing me down, and extinguishing (put out) the light; while a mingled guffaw (a loud burst of laughter) from Heathcliff and Hareton put the copestone (the finishing stone) on my rage and humiliation. Fortunately, the beasts seemed more bent on stretching their paws, and yawning (gaping with tiredness), and flourishing their tails, than devouring (devouring: eating up fast and greedy) me alive; but they would suffer no resurrection, and I was forced to lie till their malignant masters pleased to deliver me: then, hatless (without a hat) and trembling with wrath, I ordered the miscreants (a wicked person; a villain) to let me out—on their peril to keep me one minute longer—with several incoherent threats of retaliation that, in their indefinite depth of virulency (bitter violence), smacked of King Lear.

The vehemence of my agitation (troubled excitement) brought on a copious (plentiful) bleeding at the nose, and still Heathcliff laughed, and still I scolded (to find fault angrily). I don’t know what would have concluded the scene, had there not been one person at hand rather more rational than myself, and more benevolent than my entertainer. This was Zillah, the stout housewife; who at length issued forth to inquire into the nature of the uproar (a loud confused noise). She thought that some of them had been laying violent hands on me; and, not daring to attack her master, she turned her vocal artillery against the younger scoundrel (a shameless villain).

“Well, Mr. Earnshaw,” she cried, “I wonder what you’ll have agait (Yorkshire for going on; afoot) next? Are we going to murder folk on our very door-stones (the stone steps at a door)? I see this house will never do for me—look at t’ poor lad, he’s fair choking! Wisht (Yorkshire for hush), wisht; you mun (Yorkshire for must)’n’t go on so. Come in, and I’ll cure that: there now, hold ye still.”

With these words she suddenly splashed a pint of icy water down my neck, and pulled me into the kitchen. Mr. Heathcliff followed, his accidental merriment (merry fun) expiring quickly in his habitual (usual by habit) moroseness.

I was sick exceedingly, and dizzy, and faint; and thus compelled perforce (of necessity) to accept lodgings under his roof. He told Zillah to give me a glass of brandy, and then passed on to the inner room; while she condoled (condoled: expressed sympathy) with me on my sorry predicament, and having obeyed his orders, whereby I was somewhat revived, ushered me to bed.