CHAPTER XXXIV

cutacaperroundthebedbutsuddenlycomposinghimself,hefellonhisknees,andraisedhishands,andreturnedthanksthatthelawfulmasterandtheancientstockwererestoredtotheirrights. Ifeltstunnedbytheawfuleventandmymemoryunavoidablyrecurredtoformertimeswithasortofoppressivesadness.ButpoorHareton,themostwronged,wastheonlyonewhoreallysufferedmuch.Hesatbythecorpseallnight,weepinginbitterearnest.Hepresseditshand,andkissedthesarcastic,savagefacethateveryoneelseshrankfromcontemplatingandbemoanedhimwiththatstronggriefwhichspringsnaturallyfromagenerousheart,thoughitbetoughastemperedsteel. Mr.Kennethwasperplexedtopronounceofwhatdisorderthemasterdied.Iconcealedthefactofhishavingswallowednothingforfourdays,fearingitmightleadtotrouble,andthen,Iampersuaded,hedidnotabstainonpurpose:itwastheconsequenceofhisstrangeillness,notthecause. Weburiedhim,tothescandalofthewholeneighbourhood,ashewished.EarnshawandI,thesexton,andsixmentocarrythecoffin,comprehendedthewholeattendance.Thesixmendepartedwhentheyhadletitdownintothegrave:westayedtoseeitcovered.Hareton,withastreamingface,duggreensods,andlaidthemoverthebrownmouldhimself:atpresentitisassmoothandverdantasitscompanionmounds—andIhopeitstenantsleepsassoundly.Butthecountryfolks,ifyouaskthem,wouldswearontheBiblethathewalks:therearethosewhospeaktohavingmethimnearthechurch,andonthemoor,andevenwithinthishouse.Idletales,you’llsay,andsosayI.Yetthatoldmanbythekitchenfireaffirmshehasseentwoon’emlookingoutofhischamberwindowoneveryrainynightsincehisdeath:—andanoddthinghappenedtomeaboutamonthago.IwasgoingtotheGrangeoneevening—adarkevening,threateningthunder—and,justattheturnoftheHeights,IencounteredalittleboywithasheepandtwolambsbeforehimhewascryingterriblyandIsupposedthelambswereskittish,andwouldnotbeguided. “Whatisthematter,mylittleman?”Iasked. “There’sHeathcliffandawomanyonder,undert’nab,”heblubbered,“un’Idarnutpass’em.” Isawnothingbutneitherthesheepnorhewouldgoon,soIbidhimtaketheroadlowerdown.Heprobablyraisedthephantomsfromthinking,ashetraversedthemoorsalone,onthenonsensehehadheardhisparentsandcompanionsrepeat.Yet,still,Idon’tlikebeingoutinthedarknowandIdon’tlikebeingleftbymyselfinthisgrimhouse:IcannothelpitIshallbegladwhentheyleaveit,andshifttotheGrange. “TheyaregoingtotheGrange,then?”Isaid. “Yes,”answeredMrs.Dean,“assoonastheyaremarried,andthatwillbeonNewYear’sDay.” “Andwhowillliveherethen?” “Why,Josephwilltakecareofthehouse,and,perhaps,aladtokeephimcompany.Theywillliveinthekitchen,andtherestwillbeshutup.” “Fortheuseofsuchghostsaschoosetoinhabitit?”Iobserved. “No,Mr.Lockwood,”saidNelly,shakingherhead.“Ibelievethedeadareatpeace:butitisnotrighttospeakofthemwithlevity.” Atthatmomentthegardengateswungtotheramblerswerereturning. “Theyareafraidofnothing,”Igrumbled,watchingtheirapproachthroughthewindow.“Together,theywouldbraveSatanandallhislegions.” Astheysteppedontothedoor-stones,andhaltedtotakealastlookatthemoon—or,morecorrectly,ateachotherbyherlight—Ifeltirresistiblyimpelledtoescapethemagainand,pressingaremembranceintothehandofMrs.Dean,anddisregardingherexpostulationsatmyrudeness,Ivanishedthroughthekitchenastheyopenedthehouse-doorandsoshouldhaveconfirmedJosephinhisopinionofhisfellow-servant’sgayindiscretions,hadhenotfortunatelyrecognisedmeforarespectablecharacterbythesweetringofasovereignathisfeet. Mywalkhomewaslengthenedbyadiversioninthedirectionofthekirk.Whenbeneathitswalls,Iperceiveddecayhadmadeprogress,eveninsevenmonths:manyawindowshowedblackgapsdeprivedofglassandslatesjuttedoff,hereandthere,beyondtherightlineoftheroof,tobegraduallyworkedoffincomingautumnstorms. Isought,andsoondiscovered,thethreeheadstonesontheslopenextthemoor:themiddleonegrey,andhalfburiedinheathEdgarLinton’sonlyharmonizedbytheturfandmosscreepingupitsfootHeathcliff’sstillbare. Ilingeredroundthem,underthatbenignsky:watchedthemothsflutteringamongtheheathandharebells,listenedtothesoftwindbreathingthroughthegrass,andwonderedhowanyonecouldeverimagineunquietslumbersforthesleepersinthatquietearth.