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And he had earthly consolation and affections also.  For a few days, I said, he seemed regardless of the puny successor to the departed: that coldness melted as fast as snow in April, and ere the tiny thing could stammer a word or totter a step it wielded a despot’s sceptre in his heart.  It was named Catherine; but he never called it the name in full, as he had never called the first Catherine short: probably because Heathcliff had a habit of doing so.  The little one was always Cathy: it formed to him a distinction from the mother, and yet a connection with her; and his attachment sprang from its relation to her, far more than from its being his own.

I used to draw a comparison between him and Hindley Earnshaw, and perplex myself to explain satisfactorily why their conduct was so opposite in similar circumstances.  They had both been fond husbands, and were both attached to their children; and I could not see how they shouldn’t both have taken the same road, for good or evil.  But, I thought in my mind, Hindley, with apparently the stronger head, has shown himself sadly the worse and the weaker man.  When his ship struck, the captain abandoned his post; and the crew, instead of trying to save her, rushed into riot and confusion, leaving no hope for their luckless vessel.  Linton, on the contrary, displayed the true courage of a loyal and faithful soul: he trusted God; and God comforted him.  One hoped, and the other despaired: they chose their own lots, and were righteously doomed to endure them.  But you’ll not want to hear my moralising, Mr. Lockwood; you’ll judge, as well as I can, all these things: at least, you’ll think you will, and that’s the same.  The end of Earnshaw was what might have been expected; it followed fast on his sister’s: there were scarcely six months between them.  We, at the Grange, never got a very succinct account of his state preceding it; all that I did learn was on occasion of going to aid in the preparations for the funeral.  Mr. Kenneth came to announce the event to my master.

‘Well, Nelly,’ said he, riding into the yard one morning, too early not to alarm me with an instant presentiment of bad news, ‘it’s yours and my turn to go into mourning at present.  Who’s given us the slip now, do you think?’

‘Who?’ I asked in a flurry.

‘Why, guess!’ he returned, dismounting, and slinging his bridle on a hook by the door.  ‘And nip up the corner of your apron: I’m certain you’ll need it.’

‘Not Mr. Heathcliff, surely?’ I exclaimed.

‘What! would you have tears for him?’ said the doctor.  ‘No, Heathcliff’s a tough young fellow: he looks blooming to-day.  I’ve just seen him.  He’s rapidly regaining flesh since he lost his better half.’

‘Who is it, then, Mr. Kenneth?’ I repeated impatiently.

‘Hindley Earnshaw!  Your old friend Hindley,’ he replied, ‘and my wicked gossip: though he’s been too wild for me this long while.  There!  I said we should draw water.  But cheer up!  He died true to his character: drunk as a lord.  Poor lad!  I’m sorry, too.  One can’t help missing an old companion: though he had the worst tricks with him that ever man imagined, and has done me many a rascally turn.  He’s barely twenty-seven, it seems; that’s your own age: who would have thought you were born in one year?’

I confess this blow was greater to me than the shock of Mrs. Linton’s death: ancient associations lingered round my heart; I sat down in the porch and wept as for a blood relation, desiring Mr. Kenneth to get another servant to introduce him to the master.  I could not hinder myself from pondering on the question—‘Had he had fair play?’  Whatever I did, that idea would bother me: it was so tiresomely pertinacious that I resolved on requesting leave to go to Wuthering Heights, and assist in the last duties to the dead.  Mr. Linton was extremely reluctant to consent, but I pleaded eloquently for the friendless condition in which he lay; and I said my old master and foster-brother had a claim on my services as strong as his own.  Besides, I reminded him that the child Hareton was his wife’s nephew, and, in the absence of nearer kin, he ought to act as its guardian; and he ought to and must inquire how the property was left, and look over the concerns of his brother-in-law.  He was unfit for attending to such matters then, but he bid me speak to his lawyer; and at length permitted me to go.  His lawyer had been Earnshaw’s also: I called at the village, and asked him to accompany me.  He shook his head, and advised that Heathcliff should be let alone; affirming, if the truth were known, Hareton would be found little else than a beggar.

‘His father died in debt,’ he said; ‘the whole property is mortgaged, and the sole chance for the natural heir is to allow him an opportunity of creating some interest in the creditor’s heart, that he may be inclined to deal leniently towards him.’

When I reached the Heights, I explained that I had come to see everything carried on decently; and Joseph, who appeared in sufficient distress, expressed satisfaction at my presence.  Mr. Heathcliff said he did not perceive that I was wanted; but I might stay and order the arrangements for the funeral, if I chose.

‘Correctly,’ he remarked, ‘that fool’s body should be buried at the cross-roads, without ceremony of any kind.  I happened to leave him ten minutes yesterday afternoon, and in that interval he fastened the two doors of the house against me, and he has spent the night in drinking himself to death deliberately!  We broke in this morning, for we heard him sporting like a horse; and there he was, laid over the settle: flaying and scalping would not have wakened him.  I sent for Kenneth, and he came; but not till the beast had changed into carrion: he was both dead and cold, and stark; and so you’ll allow it was useless making more stir about him!’

The old servant confirmed this statement, but muttered:

‘I’d rayther he’d goan hisseln for t’ doctor!  I sud ha’ taen tent o’ t’ maister better nor him—and he warn’t deead when I left, naught o’ t’ soart!’

I insisted on the funeral being respectable.  Mr. Heathcliff said I might have my own way there too: only, he desired me to remember that the money for the whole affair came out of his pocket.  He maintained a hard, careless deportment, indicative of neither joy nor sorrow: if anything, it expressed a flinty gratification at a piece of difficult work successfully executed.  I observed once, indeed, something like exultation in his aspect: it was just when the people were bearing the coffin from the house.  He had the hypocrisy to represent a mourner: and previous to following with Hareton, he lifted the unfortunate child on to the table and muttered, with peculiar gusto, ‘Now, my bonny lad, you are mine!  And we’ll see if one tree won’t grow as crooked as another, with the same wind to twist it!’  The unsuspecting thing was pleased at this speech: he played with Heathcliff’s whiskers, and stroked his cheek; but I divined its meaning, and observed tartly, ‘That boy must go back with me to Thrushcross Grange, sir.  There is nothing in the world less yours than he is!’

‘Does Linton say so?’ he demanded.

‘Of course—he has ordered me to take him,’ I replied.