Nelly Dean

by Alison Case

  ‘But that was not for a long time, surely? You were both near forty, when Hindley and I were born, were you not?’

  ‘Yes indeed, but Hindley was not her first, not by a long way.’

  ‘There was the boy Heathcliff was called after, who died young, is that right?’

  ‘Heathcliff was the first, but there were many others after who were miscarried, or stillborn, or died before they could be christened. Poor Helen! In those years it seemed she was nearly always with child, or grieving the loss of another one.’

  ‘And where were you?’

  ‘After my father died, about two years after Helen married, we had to leave the farm. Mother wished to keep it, with my help, until my brothers should be old enough to take it over, and really it would have been little more than we had been doing already, but Mr Linton did not believe in letting widows hold farms – he said it never turned out well, and nothing we could say would dissuade him. Mother had a brother in America who was settled on a large farm in New York. He offered to take the boys, as he had no sons of his own, and even sent the passage-money for them, and it was too good a chance for them to miss, there being little opportunity for them in England. But Mother was too old to uproot herself, she said, and my uncle had no use for girls, so she and I took lodgings in Gimmerton. She set up a little dame school there, and for a time I helped her with that, but we could not make enough to support ourselves, and so I went into service.’

  ‘At Wuthering Heights?’

  ‘Goodness, no. That would have been too much for my pride, then, and Mother needed me nearer by. I found a place with a wine merchant’s family in Gimmerton, and soon became housekeeper there.’

  ‘Did you see Mrs Earnshaw often?’

  ‘Whenever she came to town, which was often at first, but as the years went by her duties and her health made it harder for her to come. I spent most of my days off looking after my mother, but every now and then I would make time to walk out to the Heights and look in on her.’

  ‘So how did you come to work here?’

  ‘That was a little while after Mother died, which would be, what, seven years after we came to Gimmerton.’ Her face grew still. ‘That was hard for me. Only eight years before we had been a family of six, and happy on the whole, though we had our troubles, and now I was all alone. But those years had taken their toll on Mrs Earnshaw as well. She had never been able to manage the housekeeping at the Heights as well as she was expected to, and that made her anxious and fretful. And then all the miscarriages and stillbirths, coming one after another, were a strain on mind and body both, and at last she fell really ill. Then Mr Earnshaw saw she must have help, and who better than myself to give it?’

  ‘And your pride?’

  ‘Long gone. At any rate, I was coming in as a housekeeper, which is not quite the same as a servant. And by then I was just glad to go where I was loved and needed. But oh, the mess the housekeeping was in when I got here!’ My mother laughed and shook her head. ‘It took me three months to get everything running in proper order, and as it was I had to replace half the servants, who had got too set in their slovenly ways to change. Mr Earnshaw a little grudged my wages, at first, but he soon saw that I more than earned my pay through good management, and he had the comfort, too, of seeing his wife return to something of her old health and spirits under my care, and so I became a fixture here – until I left to be married, anyway.’

  ‘But you came back to nurse Hindley.’

  ‘Yes, I did. But no more talk tonight, Nelly. We must both be up early tomorrow. Let me light you a candle, and you can be off to bed.’

  EIGHT

  The good effect of my mother’s nursing did not pass off, exactly: the mistress remained calmer, and happier, and brighter, somehow, than she had been before. Yet over the next few weeks her strength continued to ebb, like water dribbling from a cracked pot. We all knew she was dying – even the children had been told by then what was coming, though Hindley refused to acknowledge it at first, and railed against the rest of us, his mother included, for ‘giving way’ too readily. He had the decency to keep it out of her hearing, though, and in a week even he stopped fighting the truth. It was an oddly peaceful time for all of us: we no longer feared for her health, and by tacit consent we pushed aside any fears for what would follow on her death. I have often seen it since – at the death watch of a loved one, if nowhere else, we can live only for today, and accept that ‘sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof’.

  One scene only stands out to my memory from those weeks. Hindley and I happened both to be in the mistress’s room at once, to visit with her, as we liked to do when she was awake. The wind was ‘wuthering’ with great force outside, and rain beat against the window, but there was a good fire in the grate for the mistress’s sake, and candles lit against the gloom, though it was yet day, and the room seemed a haven of warmth and light against the storm outside, or the chillier gloom downstairs. Mrs Earnshaw was awake, and propped up by pillows, my mother by the bed as she nearly always was, when the mistress’s face suddenly brightened with an idea, and she held out her hands to the two of us.

  ‘Hindley, Nelly, both of you, come here.’ We came and each took one of her hands, grasping each other’s at the same time, so that we formed a small circle.

  ‘Did I ever tell you both, how Nelly saved Hindley’s life, when you were both tiny babes?’

  ‘Helen, no,’ my mother interjected, with a forcefulness that startled me.

  ‘Whisht, Mary, why shouldn’t I tell them? It’s a pretty story.’ My mother opened her mouth to reply, but evidently thought better of it, and turned away to busy herself at a table nearby, her face flushed and her lips tight. The mistress turned to look at her when she got no response, but seeing only her broad back, chose to take silence as consent.

  ‘Well, Nelly, you know that when you were born, your mother was not at Wuthering Heights any more, but living with your father in their cottage. And so busy she was with you and her new household there, that I scarcely ever saw her’ – a snort from my mother, whose back was still turned to us, indicated some dissent from this remark – ‘and so we had to hire another woman to help me, for I was less than two months from my own confinement, and Dr Kenneth had ordered me to bed. When Hindley came, he was as likely a child as I had ever borne – ah, you were such a beauty, Hindley, big and strong, red as a beet, and kicking like a mule.’ She smiled fondly at the memory, but Hindley blushed and looked down, perhaps finding this description less than flattering.

  ‘I was sure that this time, at last, I had a child who would live. For the first week or so you did well enough, squalling, nursing, and sleeping by turns, like any newborn babe, but then you began to change. You were hungry all the time, cried even at the breast, and seemed never satisfied. I thought perhaps my milk was not enough for you, so we got out the bottle and teat we used for the orphan lambs, and tried giving you extra milk from that. When you spat that up, we tried sheep’s milk, and then arrowroot, and sago, and some other concoctions suggested by Dr Kenneth, but none of it would you keep down. Then I said we must get you a wet nurse, and Dr Kenneth agreed, but your fath—’ Here she was interrupted by the clatter and crash of a dropped saucer, over where my mother was.

  ‘Dear me,’ my mother said hurriedly, ‘that’s broken into bits, and past mending. I’m so sorry, Helen.’

  ‘Never mind, Mary, it’s only a saucer, after all,’ said Mrs Earnshaw, but she paused in her story, and looked concerned. Perhaps she was recollecting why she had never told us this story before. But we were still there, hands clasped as before, and looking expectantly for her to continue, so she hurried on.

  ‘Your father, for very good reasons, was unwilling to bring a wet nurse into the house, for they are often dirty, and not of good character, and some people say they do more harm than good. He was sure my milk would come in stronger in time, and he thought that the best food for you. Dr Kenneth did not wholly agree, but he was not strongly again
st it, and we decided to go on a few more days at least, to see if matters improved. Well, the next day who should come to visit but your mother, Nelly, with you in her arms, and oh, you were so fat and pink and lively, and you smiled, and crowed, and grasped at my finger so tightly, it was a wonder to see. But Hindley looked so pale and weak and little in comparison, it frightened me more than ever, and I cried and told your mother I was afraid we would lose you like all the rest. You were crying too, Hindley; not the lusty yells of a healthy hungry infant, but a sad, hopeless whimper you would keep up for hours. Your mother, Nelly, she handed you to me, and took up Hindley and put him to her breast. He fussed at first, but then fell to nursing in earnest, for a long time, until finally he dropped off satisfied, and fell into a deep peaceful sleep. I knew, then, that that was what Hindley needed to get well, and I begged your mother to come back to stay with us, and you with her, Nelly, of course, so that she might nurse both children together. Your mother said she must talk it over with Tom, your father, and that I must ask Mr Earnshaw’s leave, too. She was going to return home, but I begged her to stay that evening at least, that Hindley might nurse again when he woke up, and at last she agreed. We sent a lad with a note and some money for Tom, to tell him she would not be back, and to get his dinner at the inn. Then I slept as I had not slept in days, knowing my babe was safe at last.’

  ‘And that is how it all came about,’ said my mother briskly. ‘I moved back to the Heights until Hindley was old enough to be weaned, and poor Tom moved back into lodgings in the village, except when he came to take dinner with us here.’

  ‘No, but Mary, you are leaving out the best part!’

  ‘If you will but think, Helen, you will recall that there is nothing more worth telling.’ But now Hindley’s curiosity was roused (as was mine, but I knew better than to cross my mother) and he insisted on knowing the rest.

  Mrs Earnshaw looked helplessly from one to the other of them, as if to say, ‘How am I to satisfy you both?’ At last my mother shook her head and turned away again, so Mrs Earnshaw continued.

  ‘When Tom got the note, he did not go to the inn, but came straight here, to see his wife home through the gloaming, he said. By then Mr Earnshaw was home as well, so we had to spring our plan upon them both together. Tom looked to the master to speak first, as was right, but as soon as Mr Earnshaw said he was against it, Tom said he wouldn’t have it either. Well, we tried to argue, but the two of them, united in their refusal as they were, were like a wall of stone. I don’t know what I might have done; I felt so frantic I thought I must scream, or faint, but then your mother, Nelly, she got up and walked slowly across the room and put you down in the cradle next to Hindley – you were both sleeping soundly – then she came back and took me by the hand, and led me to stand with her in front of our husbands. Then she knelt on the ground before Tom. I knelt too, when I saw what she was doing, but it was your mother who did all the talking, Nell, and oh, if you could have heard her! It was like something from a play.

  ‘She spoke to Tom first, and told him how she and I had grown up together, and that I was more than a sister to her, and all the family she had left in the world before she married him. She said that she would obey him as her husband, but that he must know that if he made her deny me this, it would tear her heart in two, and she would never rest easy after. Then, without waiting for his answer, she turned to your father, Hindley. She reminded him how many times I had been with child, and had nothing to show for my pains but another tiny corpse. She said – I will never forget her words – “To a father, his child is not real until it squalls and squirms in his arms, but to a mother, it is real the moment she feels it quicken in her womb. She clothes it and feeds it in her own flesh and blood, before she ever sees its face, and if she must bury it at last, it is not as a lost hope merely, as it is to you, but as a piece of her own being. It may be that your son would thrive without my aid, sir, but he has not been thriving, and your wife and I have seen my nursing change that. If you deny her this, and if the babe dies after – even if this be not the cause – how will she ever find it in her heart to forgive you?”

  ‘I had my head down, sobbing, as she spoke, but when she finished I looked up into their faces, our two stern husbands, and saw them both wet with tears. What could they do then, but lift us up, and embrace us, and tell us all should be as we wished?’ The mistress dabbed at her eyes, which were brimming with tears, and Hindley professed to sneeze, so as to wipe his own. Then the mistress gave our hands another squeeze. ‘And that, my dears, is how Nelly came to save Hindley’s life.’

  It would have been fairer to say that it was my mother who saved him, I thought, but I was moved by the story. It seemed to give a deeper meaning to the master’s words, that I was born to be the salvation of the family.

  The whole time the mistress was speaking, my mother had never turned round, and as soon as the story finished she hurried out of the room. Mrs Earnshaw looked worn out by her efforts, and said she wished to sleep, so Hindley and I left too. I found my mother in the kitchen starting supper for the family. That was my task, normally, so I offered to take it over.

  ‘No Nelly, I would rather be busy just now, if you don’t mind, and not in Mrs Earnshaw’s room.’ Her eyes were dry, but a little reddened, and her voice was thick, but she seemed more angry than sad.

  ‘Why did you not wish the mistress to tell that story?’ I asked. She turned round to face me.

  ‘Please, Nelly, you are not such a fool as that,’ she snapped. ‘What good will it do Hindley, now that he is about to lose one parent, to believe that the other would have been content to sign his death warrant before he was a month old? A pretty story indeed! It doesn’t seem pretty to him, you may be sure. But there was no stopping her once she got underway, the poor fool.’

  ‘Is that really true, about the master?’

  ‘Oh, Heaven knows what he was thinking. He was mad for a son, that much is sure, and very pleased to get one at last. No, of course he didn’t wish Hindley to die. He had scruples, about wet-nursing, and other things. He often did have strange scruples, that he didn’t always care to explain. That’s how he is – we saw that with his taking in Heathcliff. But Hindley won’t see it that way. You go on and find him, Nelly, and see what you can do. I’ll make supper for you.’

  I did not think Hindley would go outside in this weather – only Heathcliff and Cathy were wild enough for that – and sure enough, I found him in his room, hunched into a ball on his bed, with his arms wrapped around his knees, and his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. His face was buried behind his knees, and his breath came in hard snorts that rocked his whole body back and forth on the bed. I slipped in and shut the door. Hindley did not look up, but the rocking stopped.

  ‘Mother says your father was mad for a son, and pleased as anything to get you. It was only that he had some queer scruples about wet-nursing, and, truly, he didn’t believe you were in any danger.’

  ‘Do you think I give a damn what my father thought of me when I was a squalling brat?’ said Hindley angrily, uncurling himself a little. ‘But that he could make my mother kneel to him, when she is ten times better than he is – it makes my blood boil!’

  ‘He didn’t make her kneel,’ I objected, ‘that was my mother’s idea. Probably she knew he couldn’t bear to see it, any more than you could.’

  ‘No,’ said Hindley, ‘he made her beg, by denying her what she needed for her peace of mind. And for that I will never forgive him.’

  I sighed, feeling baulked. ‘We all of us do wrong sometimes, Hindley,’ I said at last, ‘and must forgive each other, as we hope to be forgiven ourselves. Isn’t that what we pray, every night?’

  ‘If Mother dies, I will never pray again,’ said Hindley. Then, curling himself up, he told me in no uncertain terms to go away and stop bothering him. I obeyed, not knowing what else to do, but reported the conversation to my mother, and asked her advice.

  ‘Poor Nell,’ she said. ‘Talking
sense to Hindley right now feels like spitting into the wind, I’m sure. But you did right to try, and who knows? It may do some good, in time. As for his threats, don’t take them too much to heart. I suspect he is only trying to shock you, and perhaps himself too.’

  During that time, I often thought about what the mistress’s last words to us might be. In my imagination, I put many touching sentiments into her mouth, viz, that as we all loved her, so should we love each other after she was gone, or she would not rest easy in her grave. What effect these words or others like them might have had, I do not know, for they were never spoken. About a week later, I was awoken from a light sleep by the sound of a door creaking and footsteps further down the hall. I sat up, straining my ears to listen. There was a light knocking at a door (not my own), and then my mother spoke in a low voice.

  ‘Henry, come now. It is time.’

  I waited until the further sounds of footsteps and door hinges were gone, then crept out into the passageway and down towards the mistress’s room. The door was slightly ajar, and showed me the mistress asleep on her back, mouth open to aid in the breaths that came with increasing difficulty. Mr Earnshaw knelt by one side of the bed, her hand clasped in both of his, and his face buried in the bedclothes. My mother was seated on the other side, holding the mistress’s other hand, but not too absorbed to spot me at the door. She made no motion to bar me, so I crept further in.

  ‘Nelly, go and wake the children,’ she said in a low whisper.

  ‘No,’ said the master, his voice choked.

  ‘It’s best for them to be here, Henry,’ she said gently. ‘How would you feel if I had waited until morning and then told you she was gone?’ He made no answer, only moaned faintly, and she nodded to me to go ahead.

  I woke the children as quietly as I could, telling them only that they were wanted in the mistress’s room – I think they had little doubt what for, though. We all came in and ranged ourselves around the bottom of the bed. Hindley and Cathy clasped hands. I took Hindley’s other hand, and Heathcliff Cathy’s, and we all stood there, wide-eyed and silent, listening to the breaths that came each more laboured than the last. At last came an intake of breath that seemed to stop halfway, and then a little sigh, and then silence. We all stopped breathing with her, I think, so still was the room for a few seconds after. Then the master let out a harsh sob, and that opened the gates. Hindley dropped my hand, flung himself on the bed and wailed; Cathy and Heathcliff clutched each other and began crying also. My mother buried her face in her hands, and rocked back and forth in silent grief. My own eyes were streaming too, of course, but I felt strangely abandoned, and out of place. I tried to put an arm around Hindley where he lay, but he shrugged me off. I put a hand on my mother’s shoulder, but she would not look up. The master was so racked with choking sobs I dared not approach, and Cathy and Heathcliff were totally absorbed in comforting each other. At last I crept out and back to my room, to cry in my bed, as much from loneliness as grief, and in that state I drifted off to sleep.