Wuthering Heights

haste.
“Goodbye, Nelly,” said she, her lips like ice. “Come and see me.”
    ‘So there and then I went
and saw her. Joseph held the front door in his hand. When he let go, it fell
off and he was off to Somalia again. Heathcliff forebade me to see Cathy,
handing me a blindfold.
    ‘But in the village I met
Zillah. She told me how Cathy used to come downstairs to say that her husband
and his cough were very ill. “We know that,” Heathcliff had told her. “His life
is not worth a farthing.” “Nonsense,” Cathy had told him. “A good loss adjuster
quoted his value as ten pounds.” “Ha, ha,” Heathcliff had retorted. “Hur, Hur
Hur,” Hareton had echoed. “No one cares what becomes of him.” “I’ll tell you
what will become of him,” Cathy had said. “A corpse!” “Hur Hur Hur,” Hareton
had scoffed.
    ‘Zillah went on, “I don’t
know how Linton and Cathy managed together, I think she managed together and he
managed together. He and his cough managed together all night. She never got
any rest. It was the honeymoon and he never stopped only to cough. You’d find
her asleep in the bath, on top of the cupboard, in a tree, anywhere to get away
from him. One night, shattered by shagging she came to my chamber. ‘Tell Mr
Heathcliff his son has stopped doing it and is dying.’ I delivered the message.
He took a candle to Linton’s room, setting the curtains alight. Cathy sat by
the bed, her hands folded over her knees. ‘He’s dead,’ said Heathcliff. Cathy,
nearly deranged, lifted up her night gown. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Look what he’s
missing.’ So Heathcliff looked at what he was missing. I gave Cathy some wine,
Chateau Latour 1839, a very good year. It was a full-bodied claret, with plenty
of fruit and acidity, matured in oak casks. Joseph carried the stiff into
another room. He was going to take him to Somalia till we stopped him. Cathy
remained by herself, toute seule. 27 In the morning we told Cathy to come down
from her tree for breakfast. She arrived down and fell asleep in the porridge.
Joseph stood by to take it to Somalia. ‘Der, sum one’s bin sleeping in my
porridge,’ said Hareton.”
    ‘Next day they buried
Linton, he wouldn’t keep any longer. The priest sprinkled cough mixture on his
coffin.
    ‘ “One Sunday evening,”
Zillah continued, “Cathy came down to the kitchen. She wore black ( noir 28 ). ‘I see you are
wearing black noir,’ I said to her. ‘Joseph and I generally go the
Chapel of a Sunday.’
    ‘Then bloody well go to
chapel,’ she said. Then Hareton came in to give her his company, a pity his
company had just gone bankrupt. As she read a haddock-stretching manual by the
fire, the oaf crept up behind her and stroked her hair. Cathy recoiled with
fury, he recoiled without it. ‘How dare you touch me. If you dare come
near me I’ll go out somewhere else like Lee-on-Sea.’
    ‘I’m zorry,’ said the oaf.
‘That’s no good,’ she snapped. ‘Go to bloody chapel!’ ”
    ‘I myself was shocked at
what I had heard. Time and again I tried to gain ingress into Wuthering
Heights, but failed, so I waited.’

Envoi
    ----------
     
     
     
    HUS ENDED Mrs Nelly Dean’s story to me. She
asked for it in cash. Notwithstanding the doctor, I am rapidly recovering
strength. I can sit up and cough and play the banjo on my own soon. I propose
getting on horseback and coughing there in memory of Linton. I went to the
Heights bearing a note from Mrs Dean to Cathy.
    The front door was open,
but the jealous gate 28 was fastened. I knocked and Hareton came and unchained the gate. It took him
two hours, but he does his best, apparently, to make the least of his
advantages. Was Heathcliff at home? No. I announced I would come in and wait.
At this Hareton dropped his shovel full of shit and accompanied me in. We
entered together so got jammed in the doorway. Cathy was there preparing eel and
mushroom pie and chips for the approaching meal. I looked in all directions but
couldn’t see a meal approaching. Cathy hardly raised her eyes to notice me,
even though I ahem’ed several times. I dismounted my horse and had him led
away. She did not return my bow, but Hareton said, pointing at me, ‘Hur hur,
look at him.’
    At an appropriate moment, I
dropped Mrs Dean’s note on Cathy’s knee.
    She asked aloud, ‘What’s
that?’
    ‘A knee,’ I said, and she
knocked it off. It had been some time since she had knocked it off. ‘It’s a
letter from your