Nelly Dean

by Alison Case

  I took hold of his hand, and held it hard in both of mine, though he tried to tug it away.

  ‘Promise me,’ I said fiercely, ‘if you have ever owed me any gratitude for the past, or if you hope for any favour in future, promise me that you will not harm that boy, nor stand by to see him harmed.’ Before I finished, Heathcliff twisted his arm up and over, and wrenched it out of my grasp. But instead of being angry, he gave me a grim smile.

  ‘I will promise you that, Nelly,’ he said, ‘as regards bodily harm – though not out of any gratitude to you for once saving my sorry life, nor because I expect to require any generosity from you in future. Seeing Hareton injured in that way has no place in my plans.’

  ‘What are your plans, then?’

  ‘That is none of your business.’

  ‘But you swear that you mean him no harm?’

  ‘I mean to do all I can to ensure that he is healthy and sound of limb, and lives a long life.’ I searched his face. There was something about his words that I did not quite like the sound of.

  ‘Will you swear it? Swear it by—’ I thought for a moment, rapidly discarding both the Bible and the Devil. ‘By your love for Cathy.’

  ‘Not by that,’ he said bitterly. ‘My love has undergone some rather violent changes lately. I will swear it by something much steadier: by my hatred for Hindley.’ I opened my mouth to remonstrate with him, but he turned away and strode off, and I was obliged to be content with what I had got.

  Not long after this, Bodkin informed me that, not only had Heathcliff driven away the curate, but that he himself had been obliged to give up his visits.

  ‘Why? Heathcliff bears you no enmity, surely?’

  ‘None to me personally, as far as I know, but he always seeks to draw Hindley ever deeper into dissipation, and he has noticed that I am no friend to that project. Besides that, since he came I cannot win at cards any more, and am in danger of losing more than I can afford. I call myself a skilful player, but Heathcliff is something of a different order.’

  ‘Do you think he cheats?’

  ‘Either that or he is preternaturally lucky in his cards, or at least in the timing of them. For perhaps four hands out of five, he will seem to be more unlucky than otherwise, but no sooner do his opponents gain confidence, and begin raising the stakes, than his luck suddenly turns, and he sweeps the table.’

  ‘Are the other men losing too? I wonder that they keep coming.’

  ‘Heathcliff plays them like a trout on thin line. One or another of them usually comes away a little ahead by the end of the evening. But never me – and even if I did, Hindley’s losses grow so deep now, I cannot in good conscience take further part in his fleecing. I am very sorry for it, though, Nelly, for I know I promised you I would keep an eye on the lad.’

  ‘You must do as you think best,’ I said sadly. ‘I am most grateful for all you have done until now. But tell me, how does Heathcliff behave towards Hareton?’

  ‘You will scarcely credit it, but he is actually kind to the boy, and makes a point of protecting him, whenever his father grows rough. Hareton adores him, and seeks to imitate him in all things, although—’ Here Bodkin hesitated, and flushed.

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘Well, let’s just say that Heathcliff doesn’t make the best use of his influence. He has acquired the manners and habits of a gentleman himself, as you can see, but that’s not what he shows Hareton, nor encourages in him. It’s as if he wants him to grow up rude and uncultivated.’

  I nodded. ‘I think that is just what he wants. It’s of a piece with some things he has said to me.’

  ‘You seem less worried than I expected, Nelly,’ he said, looking puzzled. ‘I thought we should have a storm, for sure.’

  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it?’ I said. ‘I worry more about everyone else since Heathcliff came, but less about Hareton. Do you know how sometimes you listen to someone speaking fair of a person they mean to like, and yet you hear through it all that they hate him, and wish him ill?’

  Bodkin nodded. ‘I know just what you mean.’

  ‘Well, it is just the opposite of that with Heathcliff and Hareton. When I hear him speak of Hindley, I know his hatred and his ill wishes are real. But when he speaks of Hareton, there is something else – a kind of softening of his whole face, an unbidden smile quickly suppressed. Did I ever tell you, that once, when Hareton was only a baby – it was the very night Hindley tried to drown you in the bog, in fact – Hindley dropped him from the top of the stairs? It was an accident – he was drunk, and Hareton was struggling to get free – and he would have been killed for sure, but that Heathcliff just chanced to be passing underneath at the same time, and caught him. Heathcliff looked as if he would like to undo the act, right after, but in that moment, when he caught him, there was something – a gentleness, an instinctive care in the way he took hold of him, and dipped his knees to ease the child’s landing – that I had never seen in him before. The next day, Hareton followed after him like a lamb. If anyone was by, he would scowl and tell him to be off, but when he thought no one was looking, he smiled at him. It was only a few days after that that he ran off, so I forgot all about it, but now …’

  ‘I’m not sure that Heathcliff’s affection is much more of a boon than his hatred. It has certainly done little good to Mrs Linton.’

  ‘No,’ I sighed, ‘but my hopes are so far reduced these days, his mere bodily safety seems enough to be grateful for, though he sacrifice his education to get it.’

  All the rest of that weary, sad time – of the strife Heathcliff sowed amongst us, of Catherine’s illness and Isabelle’s elopement – I have told you already. And then my little Cathy was born, who was to bring us such a long spell of peace and happiness at the Grange.

  Yes, I nursed her too, in secret, but it was no such dark and difficult thing as it had been with Hareton. As soon as I heard her cry, the ache in my breasts told me the milk would come. Mr Linton was willing to hire a wet nurse, but I told him that I had raised Hareton by hand without difficulty, and recited for him some of the cautionary stories of Dr Perkins, and he soon agreed to let me do as I thought best. As she was left entirely in my care, I had no difficulty in keeping the secret, and then, as I mentioned before, she weaned herself before she was a year old.

  It was when the milk came for Cathy, all unbidden, that I lost my superstitious fears about what sort of bargain I had made with Hareton that night at Pennistone Crag. The Devil’s dealings are obscure, to be sure, but he does not give away his wares for free, like a baker tossing in a sweet bun with the purchase of a loaf, for mere goodwill.

  I did see Hindley once more before his death. It was about four months after little Cathy was born, in the height of the summer. During those first months, I had had her with me nearly always when she was awake, and even when she slept I was scarcely ever more than a few steps from her side. But the intervals between her feedings had now stretched to where I felt I could safely leave her in the care of a maid for a few hours, and venture to Gimmerton on some long-deferred errands. The day was fair and warm, and, much as I loved my bonnie nurseling, and cherished my time with her, it felt sweet to be alone and unencumbered for the space of a bright afternoon, so I did not hurry. My errands took me from shop to shop, and on the way I encountered a number of acquaintances, who were all eager for news of the family, for, as I told you before, Mr Linton had shut himself up since his wife’s death, neither visiting nor receiving visitors. And so my errands stretched themselves out, until I saw I must be on my way.

  Just as I was passing the inn, my foot slipped on a loose cobble, my ankle turned, and down I went, face forward, with a thump and a cry, and my basket spilled packages in all directions. I had just got onto my knees, and was beginning to collect my things and trying to ascertain if I was injured, when I felt myself being supported up by a strong arm, and heard a familiar voice.

  ‘There you are, Nelly, come, let me help you stand—’

  ‘Hindle
y!’ I cried. I was so addled with the pain and shock just then, and so relieved to see a familiar face, that I greeted him like an old friend. Then consciousness returned, and I began stuttering, ‘I mean, ah, Mr Earnshaw, how kind …’

  ‘Oh, leave that alone,’ he said with a grin. ‘I’m not your master any more. Is it your ankle that’s hurt? Here, put your arm over my shoulder, and we’ll get you inside that way, and see what’s amiss. And don’t worry about your parcels: Arthur the pot-boy is picking them all up, see? He’ll bring them after you.’ He helped me hobble into the inn to a seat, and called for the landlord to bring me a glass of wine. I accepted it gratefully, for my heart was pounding and my nerves jangling. A few sips calmed me, and I began to catch my breath a little. Then Arthur brought my things, and I occupied myself with checking over my parcels and replacing them in the basket, so I would not have to look at Hindley, but I chattered to him as I worked, expressing relief at each undamaged purchase, and thanking him again and again for his help.

  ‘How is that ankle, now?’ he asked when I was done. ‘Shall I fetch Kenneth?’ I turned my foot about a few times and pressed it against the floor. It hurt a little, but the pain was fading already.

  ‘No harm done, I think,’ I told him.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it,’ he said, ‘but let me at least arrange a cart or a donkey for you, to get you home safely.’

  ‘No, no,’ I said, ‘that won’t be necessary at all. It’s only a little distance, and the pain will go off with walking, I’m sure. Coddling it will only make it go stiff, you know.’

  ‘Ah, that’s the spirit. Nelly. Living at Thrushcross Grange hasn’t softened you up too much, I’m glad to see.’

  ‘No.’

  An awkward silence followed.

  ‘And how are you, Hindley?’ I ventured at last.

  ‘Oh, you know me, going to the Devil as fast as ever I can,’ he said, with forced heartiness. I glanced at his face, which I had not ventured to do before. He looked awful: his eyes bloodshot and watery, his nose puffy and red, and his skin blotched with ugly eruptions. I looked away.

  ‘And Hareton?’ I forced myself to keep my voice light. ‘Is he going to the Devil too?’

  Hindley snorted. ‘Long gone,’ he said, ‘but to a different Devil from mine. That black bastard, Heathcliff, has him in thrall. He’s taught him to hate his own father – he’ll not be sorry when I’m gone.’ He paused. ‘No one will.’

  ‘I will be,’ I said firmly. I looked at him again, and held his eyes this time. I could not resist a final attempt. ‘Hindley, surely it’s not too—’

  ‘Stop,’ he said harshly, but his eyes were soft, and did not leave my face. ‘Don’t try to save me, Nelly. Just don’t. I am like a man running down a steep slope, faster every minute. If I try to pull up now, I will only tumble arse over teakettle, and land at the bottom just as surely. Let me at least finish as I began, with my legs under me, and the wind in my face.’

  I could not speak, and my eyes were streaming, but I nodded. I could give him that. I took a final sip of my wine, and gathered my things.

  ‘Farewell, Hindley,’ I said at last.

  ‘Why fare-thee-well thaself, Nelly lass,’ he said lightly, and turned away.

  I headed home. The ankle was painful, but it would bear my weight, and I was not sorry for something to distract from the tumult of my feelings. I was about halfway home when I heard a shout, and turned to find Hindley running after me. I stopped and waited, thinking I must have left something behind, but he stopped about a dozen yards short of me.

  ‘Hey, Nelly,’ he cried, ‘remember this?’ Then he stretched his face into a solemn scowl and began sawing at an imaginary fiddle while his legs danced wildly beneath him, as he had done on that long-ago night. I laughed and clapped.

  ‘Always!’ I called. Then he swept me a deep bow, turned on his heel, and danced back up the road, fiddling as he went. I watched him for a time, until the ache in my breasts reminded me that I had been too long gone already, and I turned to hurry on my way.

  I never saw him again. Two months later, he was dead, and I grieved for him with all my heart.

  *

  As Mr Linton became a recluse, the household shrank a little, and its strict orders and divisions softened. I was nearly always with Cathy when she was little, and he liked her company as well, so he would often have us both sit with him, of an evening. On one of these occasions – it would have been when Cathy was about three years old – my little lady chanced to stub her toe on a piece of furniture, and began to wail. Her father, who was nearest to her, ran to her to comfort her, and she accepted his embrace willingly enough, but at the first opportunity she wriggled out of it again and ran to me. She climbed into my lap and nestled in my arms, while I exclaimed over her injury and kissed it better. Then she nodded off to sleep, and I sat with her a while longer, till she should be deep enough in slumber for me to carry her upstairs. The silence was broken by Mr Linton.

  ‘I wronged you, Nelly,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Wronged me, sir? When would that be? I’m sure you have always been a just and kind master.’

  ‘When I took you from Hareton. I look at you now with Cathy, and I cannot imagine how I ever thought it right to separate you from him so casually as I did.’

  I opened my mouth to reply, but my throat closed, and it was a minute or two before I could speak.

  ‘I am sure you meant no harm, sir,’ I said at last. ‘You were young, and did not know any better.’ A long silence greeted this. He seemed to be waiting for something.

  ‘If there is anything to forgive, I have long since forgiven it,’ I said at last.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  We never spoke of it again.

  When Cathy was eight, Mrs Phillips announced that she was retiring to live with her sister by the coast, and it seemed natural that I should step into her place as housekeeper. She seemed pleased at the prospect.

  ‘Well, Nelly, I thought you a poor enough choice when you first came here,’ she said in her usual blunt manner, ‘but you have proved your worth since. I shall be easier knowing I have left Mr Linton in your hands.’

  I thanked her, and then, on a sudden impulse, added, ‘I have long wished to thank you too, for your help in my first illness here – and especially for bringing me the lamb to raise.’ Mrs Phillips looked a little uncomfortable at this, but I ploughed on. ‘I know it was not for your convenience that you brought her to me, but for my comfort. It was a kind thought, and a wise one, and I have always honoured you for it.’

  ‘Aye, it did do a good deal to bring you round,’ she said, ‘but I may as well tell you, it wasn’t my idea at all. Dr Kenneth told me to do it. A puppy or a ewe lamb he said you must have, and if we couldn’t find one we must buy one, but not to tell you it was done for you, or that he had ordered it. I thought it a foolish indulgence, and said so, but he was adamant – he said you might die without it. And right he was – not about the dying, of course, for we can’t know that, but certainly that lamb set you up again, better than his powders and my syrups.’

  ‘And all this time …’

  ‘All this time you’ve thought me wiser and kinder than I was,’ she laughed. ‘Well, I suppose it did no harm, for it made you behave more respectfully to me, and that made me like you better, and on the whole we got on better than we otherwise might.’

  ‘I’m sure you have earned my respect, many times over, since then.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, but still and all, I’m glad to leave without that undeserved credit on my conscience.’

  And that brings me to the end of my secrets, Mr Lockwood. The rest of my story you know. This final sheet will rest on the stack, and I will wrap it up in paper, and tie it with string, and … then what? Not send it to you, that much is certain. You are only a name – I have known that for a long time. So why did I write it?

  I told you once that at the wedding of Cathy and Hareton, I would be the happiest woman in
England, and so I ought to have been and so I believed I should certainly be. But after the wedding, instead of happiness, a great weariness fell upon me. I could scarcely drag myself from bed in the morning, and when I did, I would sit over my morning cup of tea, running my mind over the various tasks that needed doing, and finding not one that could motivate me to action. Yet when I turned to amusements instead, they were no better. Even books could not hold me. I told myself that I was worn out from all the preparations, and allowed myself a few days of rest, but instead of becoming more refreshed by my idleness, I seemed only to grow wearier. At last I grew concerned, and sent for the doctor.

  Bodkin questioned me closely, and examined me, and then he sat back, his face solemn.

  ‘You are suffering from atlasiensis,’ he announced.

  ‘What on earth is that?’ I asked, frightened. ‘It sounds dreadful.’

  ‘It is the disease that afflicts those, like Atlas, who carry the world on their shoulders. As long as they are carrying it, they go on well enough, but as soon as the weight is off their shoulders, all the weariness catches up with them.’

  ‘I don’t think I have carried the world, or anything like it. I have done no more than my duties.’

  ‘Yes, your duties as housekeeper to two houses, mother of the bride, mother of the groom, and manager of two estates. That makes at least six people whose duties you are doing, and doubtless I am missing some.’

  I smiled. ‘It is really not so much as all that. Many of those duties overlap, you know, and sometimes it is easier to manage things yourself than to hire others to do it – there is less time spent consulting and giving instructions.’

  ‘Very true, and for that reason I suggest that you also take over as mayor of Gimmerton, and perhaps curate as well. Clearly, the more roles you take on, the less you will have to do.’

  ‘But it is no use telling me I have too many duties. The truth is that for almost a week now I have neglected them all, and yet I only seem to grow wearier.’